Page 16 of Stilettos & Whiskey (Deputy Gemma Stone)

I brought the dirt bike to a stop at the top of a rocky, cactus-strewn hillside and raised my binoculars.

The coordinates led me to a long-abandoned ranch. A few skeletal trees surrounded the crumbling adobe walls of what had once been someone’s home. The only structure still standing was a weather-beaten barn that a good wind could blow down.

Jim Bob’s Cadillac was parked under a mesquite tree. I didn’t see him or Papa Garza.

Grandpa’s cold voice sounded in my earpiece. “We are in position.”

“Copy.” God, this had to work. My cellphone rang. The same blocked number popped up. “I’m not moving until I have proof of life,” I snapped.

Mopping his face with a handkerchief, Jim Bob stepped out of the minimal shade of a half dead ironwood tree and banged on the barn door.

The door swung open revealing a big, mountain of a man in body armor. With a smug grin, he stepped aside, and I saw Dad.

I drew in an angry breath. His face was a battered mess and the look in his eyes promised retribution.

Papa Garza stood next to Dad wearing enough gold to make a rapper jealous. He was way too old to be wearing his baseball cap sideways, and his baggy jeans were in danger of falling off his thin hips. If he tried to make a run for it, he wouldn’t get very far.

“You have your proof of life,” Jim Bob said. “Now, remove all your weapons and walk down to me, slowly, and with your hands raised.”

I did as he asked. Sweat trickled down my back and burned my eyes. Hopefully, Jim Bob wouldn’t notice the cloud of flies crawling all over me. I just needed to get a little bit closer.

Jim Bob frowned. “Stop!”

I stopped and eyed Papa Garza. What the hell? Was he holding a flamethrower? Fear slithered down my spine. Shit, he was.

“Pull your shirt up and turn around. I want to see the back of your jeans,” Jim Bob instructed.

There was an edge to Jim Bob’s voice I didn’t like. The man was close to losing it. “Yes, sir.” I very carefully pulled my shirt up just enough so he wouldn’t notice the knife strapped to my upper back.

“Four hostiles have been eliminated,” Lucas’s voice advised in my earpiece.

The color suddenly drained from Jim Bob’s face, and he gagged. “What’s that awful smell?”

“Dunno.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “Could be a dead rabbit or something. Sure is drawing in the flies.” I brushed them off my face.

The big, mountain of a man suddenly puked all over the back of Jim Bob’s immaculate white suit.

“What the fuck, George?” Jim Bob yanked his jacket off. “Have you lost your mind? This is a ten-thousand-dollar suit.”

George threw up on his fancy alligator boots. “Like I care.”

Jim Bob pulled a gun and shot him.

Shit! I backed away. Hadn’t seen that one coming.

Making a funny gurgling noise, Jim Bob began vomiting violently.

“What have you done?” Papa Garza demanded.

Shit! He wasn’t showing any reaction to the smell. “You’ve been infected with the Armageddon virus. Let my dad go and I’ll give you the antidote.”

Papa Garza laughed. “I have three months left to live and before I die, I will have my vengeance. He squeezed the flamethrowers handle and a six-foot stream of fire shot out.

I watched in horror as the barn door burst into flames. “No! Stop!”

“Can you save him in time?” Papa Garza gloated as the fire raced across the dry wood.

Dad struggled to free himself.

“Or will he die like your parents, screaming in agony and begging for help?” Papa Garza directed a spray of fire at me.

I somersaulted out of the way and a mesquite tree became a raging inferno. “Why did you kill my parents? I have the right to know.”

“I needed fifty thousand dollars and my selfish son refused to sell his precious house to help me.” Papa Garza’s harsh voice was filled with a savage rage. “But he paid. He paid and now you owe me.”

“I owe you nothing,” I spat.

“You sent me to hell and now I’m gonna send you there too.” He pointed the flame thrower at me.

Jim Bob jumped in his Cadillac and tore off.

“Come back here, you fucking coward,” Papa Garza screamed, firing the flamethrower at the car.

Another tree caught fire.

The crack of a sniper rifle sounded. Ten seconds later, Papa Garza crumpled to the ground with a bullet hole between his eyes.

“Hold your position, Julie,” Grandpa barked. “We’re two minutes out.”

“Dad doesn’t have two minutes. This time Raul Garza isn’t winning.” Taking a deep breath, I ran into the burning barn. The fire seemed to roar its hunger. Flames spewed like dragon’s breath from the walls. The heat was unbearable. The acrid smoke stung my nostrils and made breathing difficult.

“Leave me,” Dad rasped.

“Like hell.” Everything seemed to go into slow motion as I unsheathed my knife and cut the ropes binding him. I felt no fear, only a fierce determination to beat the monstrous flames. It wasn’t taking any more of my family from me.

When the last rope fell away, Dad grabbed my hand, and we literally ran for our lives. The thick black smoke swirling around us made it difficult to see. Were we going the right way? God, I hoped so.

“Julie!” Lucas shouted.

“Here!”

As if conjured, Lucas and Grandpa appeared out of the smoke and helped us outside.

Gulping in lungfuls of air, we watched the barn burn to the ground.

“That was too damned close,” Lucas said, his arms wrapped tightly around me.

Patrol cars, fire trucks, ATV’s and dune buggies descended on the ranch.

“My God, do you stink,” Dad gasped.

Lucas threw back his head and roared with laughter. “We all do, Dad. We all do.”