lifted on tiptoes. With half an eye, he shot the behemoth in the shoulder then retreated. Ryan circled around in the opposite direction, keeping away from the building and staying on the grass.
The screaming had quieted, but when he stepped from behind the jail the bus erupted in cries and high-pitched squeals. The gunman turned, but it was too late. Ryan’s bullet caught him in the temple. With a weary eye on the bus, Ryan advanced on the SUV. He checked the bodies. Counted his dead seven. Counted five from the other Escalade.
He wanted to go to her, but had to check the bus or he could get them both killed, if he missed a guard or impersonator among the hostages. Ryan scanned the house, surrounding area, and the jailhouse as he made his way toward the cheese as he and his sister used to call the yellow buses.
When he stepped onboard the occupants sucked the air out of the cylindrical tube with their collective gasp. Most of the women cowering in the seats were no more than eighteen. A few older. A couple far, far too young. Keeping his pistol up, Ryan removed his left hand and presented his palm. He spoke in Spanish.
“I am sorry you had to witness the violence. My name is Ryan. I will not hurt you. I am not part of any cartel. I am here to make sure you are reunited with your families.” Some women straightened from their huddles. A few shrank deeper into the seat as he advanced one step at a time to the head of the aisle. “For your safety and mine, if anyone on this bus works for the Sinaloa or is loyal to “El Chapo” Guzmán Loera, you need to stand slowly with your hands in the air.”
They became statues, the creepy pictures in haunted houses where nothing moved but the eyes. As if in choreographed unison, every gaze traveled toward the back of the bus. Every gaze except three. Two belonged to twin girls balled together on the second row on the right. The third gaze stared unblinking and fake shrinking from the back row. Yes, the woman hugged herself—which displayed thick biceps and powerful forearms. Yes, the woman’s lower lip quivered. Combined with the searing hatred radiating from her eyes, it only made her false emotion more pronounced.
Ryan let his pistol drop to his side. He smiled at the ladies. Not the full-on wattage, but an I’m sorry and everything’s going to be okay curve of the mouth. He walked casually as he talked.
“Please remain calm and in your seats. Is anyone hurt? Injured in any way?” Again no one moved. “I am trained in first aid and can help you, if you let me.”
While he walked, his gaze swept one side to the next, always keeping the woman in the back in his sight. A brunette with graying temples, who sat six seats up from the faker, raised her hand.
“Sí, Señora?” Ryan bowed.
“Señor, as far as I am aware no one is hurt, but we have not eaten in many hours. Maybe an entire day now. We are thirsty too,” she whispered.
“Thank you for telling me. There are supplies in the house we can use before we leave.” Ryan assured her and the others, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. He took another step toward the back. The brunette grabbed his hand, pulling him up short.
“Thank you, angel. Thank you for saving us. We are saved.” She kissed the back of his hand. When she released him, she clapped and raised her hands to the heavens. Others joined in, creating a cacophony of sound in the metal enclosure. More cheers erupted for their good fortune.
All except the woman at the back.
Ryan holstered his gun, regained his lost step, took another. Two seats from the back, the woman with long black hair and a darker attitude launched toward him. The knife blade glinted in the licking flames from the burning garage. She rushed hard, aiming right for his gut. He concaved his belly and snatched her wrist. With a twist, Ryan raised her hand into the air and rotated another fifteen degrees.
“You killed my Dante.” Her scream rattled his eardrum and quieted
The screaming had quieted, but when he stepped from behind the jail the bus erupted in cries and high-pitched squeals. The gunman turned, but it was too late. Ryan’s bullet caught him in the temple. With a weary eye on the bus, Ryan advanced on the SUV. He checked the bodies. Counted his dead seven. Counted five from the other Escalade.
He wanted to go to her, but had to check the bus or he could get them both killed, if he missed a guard or impersonator among the hostages. Ryan scanned the house, surrounding area, and the jailhouse as he made his way toward the cheese as he and his sister used to call the yellow buses.
When he stepped onboard the occupants sucked the air out of the cylindrical tube with their collective gasp. Most of the women cowering in the seats were no more than eighteen. A few older. A couple far, far too young. Keeping his pistol up, Ryan removed his left hand and presented his palm. He spoke in Spanish.
“I am sorry you had to witness the violence. My name is Ryan. I will not hurt you. I am not part of any cartel. I am here to make sure you are reunited with your families.” Some women straightened from their huddles. A few shrank deeper into the seat as he advanced one step at a time to the head of the aisle. “For your safety and mine, if anyone on this bus works for the Sinaloa or is loyal to “El Chapo” Guzmán Loera, you need to stand slowly with your hands in the air.”
They became statues, the creepy pictures in haunted houses where nothing moved but the eyes. As if in choreographed unison, every gaze traveled toward the back of the bus. Every gaze except three. Two belonged to twin girls balled together on the second row on the right. The third gaze stared unblinking and fake shrinking from the back row. Yes, the woman hugged herself—which displayed thick biceps and powerful forearms. Yes, the woman’s lower lip quivered. Combined with the searing hatred radiating from her eyes, it only made her false emotion more pronounced.
Ryan let his pistol drop to his side. He smiled at the ladies. Not the full-on wattage, but an I’m sorry and everything’s going to be okay curve of the mouth. He walked casually as he talked.
“Please remain calm and in your seats. Is anyone hurt? Injured in any way?” Again no one moved. “I am trained in first aid and can help you, if you let me.”
While he walked, his gaze swept one side to the next, always keeping the woman in the back in his sight. A brunette with graying temples, who sat six seats up from the faker, raised her hand.
“Sí, Señora?” Ryan bowed.
“Señor, as far as I am aware no one is hurt, but we have not eaten in many hours. Maybe an entire day now. We are thirsty too,” she whispered.
“Thank you for telling me. There are supplies in the house we can use before we leave.” Ryan assured her and the others, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. He took another step toward the back. The brunette grabbed his hand, pulling him up short.
“Thank you, angel. Thank you for saving us. We are saved.” She kissed the back of his hand. When she released him, she clapped and raised her hands to the heavens. Others joined in, creating a cacophony of sound in the metal enclosure. More cheers erupted for their good fortune.
All except the woman at the back.
Ryan holstered his gun, regained his lost step, took another. Two seats from the back, the woman with long black hair and a darker attitude launched toward him. The knife blade glinted in the licking flames from the burning garage. She rushed hard, aiming right for his gut. He concaved his belly and snatched her wrist. With a twist, Ryan raised her hand into the air and rotated another fifteen degrees.
“You killed my Dante.” Her scream rattled his eardrum and quieted
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