The Savage Dead by Joe McKinney Page B

She opened it and found a credit card–style pass key that was supposed to open every door on the ship; a small plastic envelope containing two remote omnidirectional listening devices that looked a lot like lithium watch batteries, but were in fact sensitive enough to pick up even whispered conversations all the way on the other side of a stateroom; and, of course, the small white paper sack she’d been promised. She took a deep breath that didn’t make her feel any easier. This was real. This was actually happening. She’d done major operations for Ramon Medina before, many of them, in fact. She’d killed perhaps as many as a hundred men and maybe a dozen women, simply because he’d asked her to. But this was the biggest thing she’d ever had a hand in, and the idea that it was all coming together left her with a mix of dread and excitement that caused her stomach to turn like it hadn’t done since those early days back in Ciudad Juarez. She was about to murder 7,000 men, women, and children in the grisliest display of terror the world had ever seen, and for a second, she nearly ran to the bathroom to vomit from the enormity of it.
    She forced herself to calm down. She couldn’t function like this, and she was running out of time. Pilar closed her eyes, took in and released a few deep breaths, and then opened her eyes. Calmer now, she put the paper sack into her purse, scooped up her big floppy hat and sunglasses and pass key, then made her way to the senator’s stateroom on Deck 7.
    It was time to get busy.

C H A PTER 7
    Tess was up late the night before, talking with Juan. And she was up early that morning to meet Paul Godwin and the senator and her husband for the trip down to Galveston. She was exhausted, and her first-class seat on the plane was so deep and comfortable she felt like she might melt into it. She’d been looking forward to sleeping a little on the ride down, because planes always put her to sleep. Instead, she’d been forced to listen to Sutton and her husband argue.
    It started when he asked the flight attendant for the best single malt scotch she had.
    Rachel Sutton had said, “Are you nuts? It’s not even six a.m.”
    He’d said, “Okay, fine. A Bloody Mary then.”
    And from there the argument had gone round and round some invisible point in their past that was both a part of whatever this tension between them was and more than that. Things between them were complicated, Tess could tell.
    â€œIt’s not his drinking,” Paul said to her.
    She looked at him.
    â€œIf that’s what you’re thinking, it’s not that.”
    He was leaning in close to her, whispering.
    â€œI wasn’t trying to spy,” she said, embarrassed.
    â€œNo, of course not. They can be kind of hard to ignore sometimes.”
    She nodded, and waited a moment for him to say more, but he didn’t. She went back to looking out the window. The sun was coming up and she wondered where they were. There was a river down there, snaking its way through a brown landscape. Tracing its course out to the horizon made her think of how tired she was. Maybe she could sleep, even with them arguing.
    â€œHe was drinking pretty heavy when I first met them,” Paul said suddenly. “That was during her first term.”
    â€œHow long ago was that?”
    â€œOh, about thirteen years ago. I was right out of law school, all gung ho for the Democratic Party. I was gonna make a difference, you know?”
    â€œHave you?”
    He shrugged. “I guess it depends on how you measure it.”
    â€œSo, you’re world-weary now, is that it?”
    He smiled.
    â€œSo what changed?” she asked.
    â€œWith me?”
    â€œNo.” She hooked a thumb toward the seats behind them, where Rachel Sutton and her husband were doing their best to stare off in opposite directions. “With them.”
    â€œAh.” His smile softened a