Taking Fire Page 22

  Salvatore went over everything in his mind. No, he would get off on those charges. He would not be going back to Florence and locked away in prison for the rest of his life. He’d bought the best defense attorney available, Barth Groening. The man couldn’t be touched when it came to defending clients who had been charged with money laundering, murder, and other crimes in high-profile cases.

  Barth had shown a convincing argument that Salvatore was an innocent man who had been unaware he had used tainted money in various transactions. The defense argued Salvatore had believed the cash used in buying and selling real estate, as well as restoring vintage cars, had been clean and not tainted from blood and drugs as a result of murder and trafficking in Mexico.

  Yes, Barth had been doing his job well, proving his worth. Relaxed and satisfied, Salvatore smiled. All would go his way.

  Everyone in the courtroom rose as the district court judge walked in. Once Judge Matthew Berry had seated himself, he indicated everyone should sit.

  The white-haired older-than-shit judge didn’t fuck around. Salvatore could tell Berry didn’t like him. But the old bastard would have to go with the jury’s decision.

  Salvatore let his gaze drift over the twelve jurors. A few homely women were on the jury, something in Salvatore’s favor. Women loved him and his handsome appearance. He easily gave the impression of a man innocent of these terrible crimes unfairly leveled at him.

  The fact one of the men had been bought off would make this even easier.

  The jurors focused on Judge Berry as he studied a sheet of paper handed to him. The judge nodded as if to himself before turning his attention to the AUSA. “Call your last witness.”

  Salvatore snapped his attention to his attorney, who wore a surprised expression.

  Barth stood, his knuckles on the table. “Your honor, we are not aware of any other individuals testifying.”

  The judge stared over his half-moon glasses directly at Barth. “Have a seat, Mr. Groening.”

  Barth clamped his mouth shut and sat.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Salvatore whispered to Barth, who shook his head once.

  The crowd murmured. Everyone knew the last witness had been murdered and today would be closing arguments.

  Judge Barry banged his gavel on its block. “I’ll have order in my court.”

  The courtroom went silent.

  Salvatore’s throat grew dry. Something was wrong and he didn’t know what the fuck it could be.

  Claudia Duplantis, the AUSA, stood. The faint play of a smile touched the woman’s lips. “We call to the stand, Christine Ann Simpson.”

  The room exploded in an uproar.

  The judge pounded his gavel, calling the court to order again. “I will have order in this court or I will incarcerate every damned one of you.”

  “Holy fuck.” Barth stared straight at the AUSA and didn’t look at Salvatore.

  Salvatore felt like he’d been punched in the gut when he heard Christie’s name. “It can’t be.” He said the words in a hoarse voice. “She’s dead.”

  But he couldn’t deny the vision walking into the court between two U.S. Marshals. The sick sensation in his midsection magnified.

  Salvatore could only stare at Christie. She’d cut off her long beautiful hair and now it barely reached her chin. Even without the hair he had prized so much, his wife was beyond beautiful. His memories had paled in comparison to the woman stepping into the witness stand.

  He had almost forgotten what her presence meant to his own life now that she had returned from the dead.

  Everything came crashing down on him like the roof had caved in. A fog surrounded his brain and he stared as she put her hand on the Bible and swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. So help her, God.

  Somehow God had helped her. She was here and she was alive.

  How had she beaten death time and time again over the past few days? Had God been working in her corner while forsaking Salvatore?

  He dragged his attention from Christie to his defense attorney. “What now?”

  “We’ll get her on cross-examination.” Barth’s voice hardened. “She won’t know what hit her.”

  Christie looked right at Salvatore when asked to identify him. Her gaze seared him as if she had burned a hole right through his flesh. Panic rushed through him like he had never felt in his life. She turned her attention back to the AUSA.

  Fury chased away the flames of fear Christie had left behind with her expression. Salvatore wanted to rush the stand and break her neck like he had intended to do long ago, before the federal agents had saved her.

  The AUSA took her time, question after question. Christie answered everything firmly and confidently. She had changed over the past year. He had preferred her quiet, cowed even. He didn’t like this new version of the Christie he had known since high school.

  Every time Salvatore glanced at the jury, he could see their rapt attention on Christie’s testimony. Even with her newfound presence, Christie came across sweet and likeable, strong yet soft, confident and personable. Everything Salvatore was not.

  She told the story of things she had overheard and seen. She had overheard Salvatore order the murder of her surviving friends of the Circle of Seven. Salvatore had told her not only had he arranged for the deaths of her friends, but claimed responsibility for the attempted murder of a another who’d barely survived and had spent the past year going through extensive recovery.

  Christie had also witnessed Salvatore murder a man.

  Salvatore had raped Christie more than once after he had caught her overhearing him giving the order to murder the rest of her friends. After he’d used her, he had been ready to break her neck, but federal agents had ruined that plan.

  Finally, after all of the damning testimony from Christie, the AUSA turned to Barth and said, “Your witness, Mr. Groening.”

  Barth paused a moment before standing and buttoning his suit jacket. Without looking back at Salvatore, Barth strode to the witness stand.

  He shot question after question at Christie, attempting to tear down everything she’d explained to the AUSA. He worked at destroying her character but could find nothing to destroy.

  Christie never varied from her story. She didn’t fall apart like Salvatore had expected her to, should she live to make it to the stand. She didn’t cry, she didn’t get angry, she didn’t appear beaten down. She appeared reserved but personable and Salvatore could see the spark of anger in her eyes, even if her expression didn’t show it. He’d known her for so long, and so well, he recognized what no one else would have in the room. She was pissed.

  At times, Barth’s cross-examination tripped her up and flustered her, but she gathered her strength so that she again handled herself coolly and calmly and never changed her story.

  When Barth had no more questions for Christie, Judge Berry called a recess for lunch. Closing arguments would be given after the break. U.S. Marshals whisked Christie away and Salvatore could only see her back.

  He watched the jurors as they filed out to lunch. They didn’t meet his eyes.

  “We’re fucked.” Barth pushed himself up from the table. “Good and fucked.”

  Salvatore was almost too stunned to think as they walked out of the courtroom. He paused and gripped Barth by the upper arm and brought him to a stop. “I want to take the AUSA’s offer and turn state’s evidence against key members in the Jimenez Cartel.” He gripped his attorney’s arm harder. “I want immunity from prosecution. I want to go into the Witness Security Program.”

  Barth stared at Salvatore’s hand. Salvatore released Barth as the attorney gave him a scathing look.

  “That’s probably the smartest thing you’ve ever said or done.”

  “Fuck you.” Salvatore growled. “Now get the fucking AUSA.”

  Barth appeared disgusted with Salvatore but didn’t answer. A moment later, Claudia Duplantis walked out of the courtroom.

  “We need to talk.” Barth stoppe
d in front of the AUSA. “My client wants to accept your deal.”

  “We offered that deal before Christie’s testimony.”

  Duplantis ignored Salvatore and the rage building inside him threatened to explode. He wanted to kill the AUSA bitch almost as much as he wanted to kill Christie.

  The AUSA continued, “However, we can talk and perhaps come up with something. In ten minutes, meet me in the same conference room we used the last time we talked.”

  Salvatore and Barth parted from the AUSA who turned to her assistant. Salvatore walked with his attorney down a hallway then out into the open in the direction of the conference room.

  He came to a stop as he saw the scarred face of the Angel of Death.

  No sound came to him as Ángel pulled his jacket to the side just enough that Salvatore saw the gun.

  Screaming pain tore through Salvatore as a gunshot echoed through the building. He clutched his hands to his chest.

  With unbelieving horror, he stared down at his pressed white shirt and saw a blood stain spreading rapidly across it. Blood coated his hands.

  How many times had he seen the same thing when he’d shot a man or ordered the death of some deserving individual?

  The overwhelming desire to cry hit Salvatore as Ángel walked away.

  As clear as crystal, Salvatore supposed these were his last moments on Earth. Instead of Christie dying, the cartel had sent the Angel of Death to end his life because he had failed to end hers. They’d known he would give up anyone in the cartel if it meant protecting himself.

  Vaguely, as he slumped to the floor, he heard one shout after another. “Salvatore Reyes has been shot,” from one person. From another, “Call an ambulance.” A third said, “We’ve got to stop the bleeding.” Someone added, “He’s wounded too badly.”

  Christie’s face filled Salvatore’s vision. She stood over him, her expression calm. A man had his arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him. Salvatore’s vision grew darker as he recognized the DHS agent who had helped save Christie’s life. His wife clearly loved this man and Salvatore could do nothing about it.

  He could do nothing at all.

  “It’s over, honey,” the agent said to Christie. “It’s over.”

  Blood filled Salvatore’s mouth and he vomited it onto the floor. He couldn’t breathe. He choked, every cough racking his body with excruciating pain.

  He was bleeding out as Christie stood over him and watched.

  A man blocked Salvatore’s vision as he started to convulse. He could no longer hear and soon he ceased to see.

  The last voice he heard said, “There’s no saving this son of a bitch.”

  A chill rolled through Christie as she caught sight of Ángel. He put a finger to his lips before moving his hand away and giving her an almost conspiratorial grin.

  She blinked and he was gone.

  He must have been the man who had shot Salvatore. Should she scream and call attention to the U.S. Marshals and police officers?

  If she did, would Ángel come and find her next?

  The sound of gurgling emanated from the circle of people standing around the place Salvatore had been shot.

  Trace called to her, but she barely heard as she moved her way through the small crowd until she stood at her ex-husband’s feet.

  She stared at Salvatore as blood covered his lips and dribbled from the corner of his mouth. His body was motionless, as if he was frozen. Only his eyes showed that someone was inside the shell of a man before her.

  Should she be consumed by anger and hate, or be weighed down with sorrow for him in some way?

  What she felt was…nothing. She felt nothing.

  He was an evil man who had committed horrific crimes, and she had thought he deserved to die. He lay bleeding out on the floor surrounded by a ring of onlookers, but she couldn’t get herself to care one way or another about what happened to him.

  Trace moved to her, putting his arm around her shoulders and drawing her close so that she could lean against him.

  His embrace comforted her as thoughts slipped through her mind.

  She’d known Salvatore all her adult life, but he wasn’t the man she’d thought he was. He’d been living a lie that had encompassed her life. In truth, this man was a stranger. The Salvatore she’d thought she knew and loved had never existed at all.

  Seeing him like this firmly closed a door in her past. Somehow, if Salvatore survived, Ángel would be back and end his life. Of this she had no doubts.

  A man moved in front of her, blocking her view of Salvatore. She tipped her head back and met Trace’s eyes.

  She leaned into him. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Trace hated to leave Christie for a moment, but he needed to do this alone. She’d traveled to Bisbee to stay with Dylan, Belle, and the baby, while Trace had gone back to Texas. Dylan would keep Christie safe, but Trace planned to go home to Arizona in a hurry.

  His boots clunked on the steps up to the porch of Aunt Barb and Brody’s Houston residence.

  Raised voices came from the other side of the door, then his aunt’s clear, “I’m leaving you, Brody. You’ll be getting the divorce documents from my lawyer.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, bitch,” Brody snarled. “I’m gonna fix you good this time.”

  Trace shoved open the front door in time to see Brody raising his fist. Trace didn’t stop to think. He moved in front of his aunt and the fist intended for Aunt Barb slammed into Trace’s jaw.

  He ignored the pain and the sparks in his vision as he tackled Brody and took him down to the floor. Air left Brody in an audible rush when his back hit the tile hard.

  The bastard struggled and tried to fight. Trace raised his fist and drove it into Brody’s nose and he had the satisfaction of breaking it. The man cried out as blood gushed over his face.

  “I’m going to kill you both,” Brody shouted, trying to break free.

  Trace slammed his fist into Brody’s face again. His knuckles stung, but he drew his arm back a third time.

  He almost did it, almost beat Brody senseless. He wanted to hurt the bastard in every way the man had hurt Aunt Barb.

  No, Trace told himself, lowering his fist. He had to do this the right way.

  He’d had a lot of practice taking down criminals, and within seconds, he’d flipped Brody face down, pulled a pair of flexicuffs from his belt and cuffed the man’s arms behind his back. He brought out another pair and secured Brody’s ankles.

  Trace pushed himself off the kicking and screaming son of a bitch. He got to his feet and stared down at the man he intended to help put away for a long time. The fact Brody had assaulted a federal agent, and had threatened both Trace and Barb with murder, would make closing the case even easier.

  He went to his aunt and carefully wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Thanks to Brody, her wrist was in a cast and she had to use a cane. Beneath her shirt her ribs were likely bandaged. Bruises on her jaw and around her eye were fading.

  His jaw ached. He’d stepped in front of a hard blow that had been intended for his aunt. He’d take a hit any day for someone he loved.

  “This time,” Trace said quietly.

  Aunt Barb nodded. “I’m never coming back,” she said. “I’m done. I know it’s taken me a long time to make this decision. Yes, this time, I’m gone.” She met his gaze. “I promised Sarah that I’d start therapy and also testify against Brody. I’m going to do just that.”

  Trace gave his aunt another hug. “I’ll be right by your side.”

  Brody continued to curse and shout in the background as Trace pulled out his cell phone and found the number for the local police.

  * * * *

  Trace sat in one of the early 1900s chairs in the lobby of the Copper Queen Hotel, waiting for Christie. He’d come early to take care of a few things for their evening together. Even though a month had passed since the trial, this would be their first time to be truly alone since the days in t
he cabin.

  Now that Salvatore was out of the picture, the cartel no longer had a reason to kill Christie. She didn’t have evidence against the cartel, just against Salvatore. They’d wanted to kill Christie to keep her ex-husband out of prison and because he was the cousin of the leader of the Jimenez Cartel.

  Trace and Dylan were working on using the evidence they’d found on Salvatore to go after key members of the cartel.

  Salvatore had survived, but the bullet had completely paralyzed him. He had to be fed through a tube and he couldn’t even wipe himself. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.

  But the doctors had said his mind was still there. The man had to spend the rest of his life watching the world pass by. Trace didn’t feel one bit sorry for the S.O.B.

  The FBI investigation was still underway, but the agency had learned how Salvatore had located Christie by hacking into her email. They had also found out more information on how the cartel had used drones to track her movements.

  Then there was the man named Ángel, who had escaped after shooting Salvatore. Christie had identified him when pictures had been taken from a video feed. More investigation turned up information that told them Ángel’s last name was Reyes and he was Salvatore Reyes’ cousin.

  Trace shifted in the antique chair, feeling itchy beneath the collar and oddly nervous. He’d asked Christie out on an honest-to-goodness date, their first since meeting.

  The frosted beveled glass and wood doors opened, a fresh March breeze chasing Christie into the hotel. The moment her gaze rested on him, a brilliant smile lit her face.

  She wore some kind of frothy black evening dress with sparkly jewelry and high heels. Her vivid red hair shone beneath the lighting and swayed beside her cheeks. She looked lovely and radiant.

  He got up to meet her and she rushed into his arms. He embraced her, breathing in the floral scent of her perfume and loving how she pressed her soft body against his.

  She tipped back her head and smiled at him. “I’ve missed you.”

  He gave a low chuckle. “Honey, I saw you just this morning.”