If Delvecchio had been one of Nashs operatives, hed have trained him better than that. Hell. If hed been one of Nashs undercover operatives, hed probably still be dead. Just like the other embedded agents whose covers had been blown.
Glancing over at the still figure crumpled on the floor between storage racks, Nash felt his gut twist with anger and remorse. Damn it, Tommy. Told you I didnt need backup. All hed asked for was cash and a new ID to be sent to a PO box. He hadnt needed a personal delivery. He hadnt wanted the kid to come all the way to K.C. You should have stayed at the office.
You cant risk hiding out for more than forty-eight hours, boss. And you said you cant trust anyone in the field. You need someone who isnt part of the Graciela-Vargas turf war to do this for you. Nash could imagine Agent Delvecchio rising to attention beside his computer, eager to get on the next flight to KCI and prove himself. Im not a field agent. They dont know me. I can help.
Smart kid. Good logic. Still dead. Just like Torres and Richter back in Harlingen and Houston. Nashs team was another man down, he had no ID on the traitor whod marked them as cops, and he was on his own in this nightmare.
Pushing aside the distracting emotions that could get him killed, too, Nash quickly evaluated his options. The stinging smell of sulfur in the air told him the three shootersdown to two nowhad used up a lot of their bullets coming after him and Delvecchio. But that didnt give him the advantage it should have.
He kicked out the magazine from his Smith & Wesson and checked his own ammo supply before reloading the clip. Three bullets left. The rest of the ammunition and backup weaponry he needed were in the go bag lying on the floor beside Delvecchio. The only chance of a getaway was his truck, parked a good thirty yards from his position. And as far as he could tell, there were still two of Berto Gracielas thugs in the warehouse with him.
Unless these were Santiago Vargass men. Vargas had been loyal to Bertos older brother, Diego. Ever since Diegos death two years earlier, the two had been vying for power within the organization. What did a few cops mean to either of them? Just collateral damage in a war to control a drug-trafficking pipeline that funneled cocaine, pot and an assortment of designer concoctions across the borderor straight into the U.S. at import traffic hubs like Houston, K.C. and Chicago.
But Nashs team had been making progress. Theyd fed the DEA precious intel, helping the agency shut down some key distribution centers. Now Nash and his men were dying.
How had they found him here in Kansas City? Who had found him? He was over ten hours away from his last encounter with Gracielas men in Houston. Had they followed the kid? If so, how had they connected computer geek Thomas Delvecchio to him? Was there a hidden tracking device on his Ford F-250 hed missed? Unlikely. Hed gone over the thing with a fine-tooth comb at a truck stop in Tulsa, Oklahoma, the last time hed checked in with his captain in the Houston office and made the arrangements with Delvecchio.
There had to be a leak somewhere in the system. One of the DEAs confidential informants wasnt keeping things so confidential. Torres or Richter had let something slip in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or worst-case scenario? One of Gracielas or Vargass men had infiltrated the Houston office and Nashs men were at the mercy of a double agent.
That had to be the answer. A team didnt lose three agents in a week unless someone was leaking inside information.
Youre outnumbered, Señor Nash! one of the thugs taunted, his accent rolling his Rs and making the gibe sound like a joke instead of a promise of death. You are the mouse and we are the gatos. When you come out of your hole, well be waiting to pounce.
So at least one man had taken up position near the open garage door.
Time to stop speculating about who had betrayed him and deal with the threat at hand. Nash craned his neck to peer through a stack of sports car bumpers to gauge the distance and amount of open ground hed have to cover before reaching his truck.
On a good day, he could do it in a matter of seconds. But this was far from a good day. And he didnt have a location on the second shooter.
Time to go old school.
After slipping off the black felt Stetson that the years had shaped so perfectly to his head, he kissed the crown and set it on the shelf beside him, nudging it into clear view near the end of the row. Then he pushed to his feet and pulled down the pile of bumpers, creating a noisy diversion while he ducked into the next aisle and ran for his truck.
Boom. His hat flew off the shelf, giving him a twenty on Thug Three. The angle of that last shot told Nash the man was running parallel through the stacks with him.
Well, running was a relative term. Thug Three was an overweight man who moved with the grace of a lumbering buffalo, while Nash was hobbled by the wound on his leg.
But Nash was still faster.
Sorry, kid. I owe you one. He scooped up the heavy nylon go bag from the floor beside Delvecchio and limped toward the open garage area with a galloping gait. Twenty yards. Fifteen. He could feel the blood running down his leg and filling his left boot. Thank God the shot hadnt taken out his knee or ankle.
Ten yards.
The damp wind and flakes of blowing snow pelted his face as he broke into the open garage area.
Ah, hell.
Thug Two stepped out from behind a rolling toolbox and shot at him. Either the guy had piss-poor aim or Nash was lurching on his gimpy leg more than he thought. One bullet smacked into the side of the truck bed, punching a hole through the black metal. The second shot went wide and shattered the drivers-side window.
Nash raised his gun and squeezed the trigger.
Thug Two didnt get off a third shot.
Nash swore when Thug Three stumbled out from shelves near the dead body by the garage door. Couldnt a guy catch a break? Nash swept the broken glass off his seat, tossed the bag into the truck and climbed in behind the wheel. The big man silhouetted against the sunny glare of the snow outside was panting hard. But he wasnt relying on perfect aim to stop Nash. He pulled out a second handgun and fired both in a smoky barrage of sparks and firepower.
Nash started the engine and stuck his left hand out the broken window. Bracing his wrist on the mirror to steady his aim, he pulled the trigger. With a flurry of Spanish curses, Thug Three dropped one of his weapons and shook his fingers. Lucky shot. Nash must have hit the gun and stung his hand.
But two shots and he was done. No way could he reach his bag on the floorboards across the truck and reload in time. Dropping the gun into his lap, Nash shifted the truck into Drive. Hed only irritated Thug Three. The big man clasped both hands around his remaining weapon and fired.
Nash stomped on the accelerator. A bullet smacked the windshield on the passenger side, splintering the glass into a web of cracks. The wheels spun until they found traction on the smooth concrete. A second bullet took out his side mirror. The truck lurched forward and barreled toward the exit. A third bullet found the open window and ripped through his left shoulder, spinning downward through the muscle, oblivious to the protective vest he wore.
The explosion of pain in his shoulder and back was instant and intense. Damn lucky shot robbed him of breath and jerked his grip on the wheel, sending the truck into a sideways skid. Squeezing his elbow to his side, Nash collapsed into the steering wheel, hugging his right arm around itregaining control of the truck and making himself a smaller target. He was close enough to see the yellowed teeth of Thug Threes smile as the man steadied the gun and took aim at Nashs head.