his borrowed gun on the last guard. The man hadnât aimed the Python yet, but he hadnât set it down, either. His eyes flickered from his bossâs throat to Ray and back again.
J. T. Laney burst into the saloon, the two agents from the pickup behind him. The ATF agents stepped between Ray and the standing guard.
âFreeze! Nobody move! Noââ
No longer in Rayâs line of fire, the guard stepped forward and tucked the Python under J. T.âs jaw.
The agents from the pickup aimed at the guard, shouting â Down! Put it down! â almost drowning one another out. The guard pointed his weapon at their boss; the agents pointed their weapons at him. He made no move to obey their shouts.
The first guard lay on the floor, hands around his throat, gagging on his own blood. The second had crumpled to the fetal position under his stool. The third held his thigh, keening in misery. The men on the ground were the only ones moving.
âI have committed no crime here,â Carlos the War Dog said loudly and in English, feeling the battle knife against his throat. âWe were attacked. Shall we call the local police, ask them to clear up this misunderstanding?â
A beat, and the bartending agent said, âBoss?â
J. T. licked his suddenly bone-dry lips. âCarlos? I keep your men. Especially the fucker who drew on me. You walk.â
The guard increased the pressure of the barrel against J. T.âs jaw.
Still, nobody moved but the wounded.
âDariaâ¦?â J. T. let his eyes travel to hers without moving his head.
A beat, and she released her hold on Carlos. He took two steps away from her, turned, eyes burning with rage. He made fists but felt, more than heard, Ray step to his back.
Carlos looked around at the three downed men. He turned back to Daria, then to J. T. âDeal.â
The last guard let his Python swing on the fulcrum of his trigger finger, the handle falling, barrel rising to the ceiling. One of the agents from the pickup took it from him.
Carlos the War Dog Ramos adjusted his white suit, his open shirt collar. He nodded once to DariaââSeñora?ââand turned to the saloon door.
4
T HE EXPEDITIONARY UNIT OF the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives made three arrests in the small Mexican town and contacted its indigenous counteragency to handle the legal details. Three high-level soldiers of the Ramos cartel would be held at the nearest Mexican Army garrison: one man concussed, one leg wound, one uninjured. A fourth drug-runner bled to death on the scene.
The true objective of the sting operation, Carlos the War Dog Ramos, walked away.
In the dusty street outside the saloon, locals emerged from hidingâsome underground telegraph alerting them the gun fighting was over. At least for now.
J. T. Laney spoke on his cell phone with the unitâs headquarters in Tucson. He paced, his men and Ray Calabrese watching him, the men darting acid glances at the FBI agent who had donned sunglasses and leaned against the ATF pickup. After a mumbled conversation, J. T. hung up and turned to the FBI agent.
âYou screwed the pooch, you dumb son of a bitch! We worked this caseââ
He was cut off as Daria Gibron emerged fast from the saloon, stepped into the throng of federal agents, and stepped up to the young agent who had pretended to play pool.
âThat was amateur!â she spit. âYou could have gotten me killed!â
The young agent gave her a cocky grin. âDonât get your panties knotted, babe. You werenâtââ
Daria pivoted and delivered a roundhouse kick, boot heel as high as her head. It was not a ladylike strike in a miniskirt. Her heel connected with the now-stunned agent. The blow lifted his cowboy boots off the sidewalk. He was unconscious before he landed.
Daria rode the spin until she faced J. T. âRay didnât blow anything! That idiot did!â
She
J. T. Laney burst into the saloon, the two agents from the pickup behind him. The ATF agents stepped between Ray and the standing guard.
âFreeze! Nobody move! Noââ
No longer in Rayâs line of fire, the guard stepped forward and tucked the Python under J. T.âs jaw.
The agents from the pickup aimed at the guard, shouting â Down! Put it down! â almost drowning one another out. The guard pointed his weapon at their boss; the agents pointed their weapons at him. He made no move to obey their shouts.
The first guard lay on the floor, hands around his throat, gagging on his own blood. The second had crumpled to the fetal position under his stool. The third held his thigh, keening in misery. The men on the ground were the only ones moving.
âI have committed no crime here,â Carlos the War Dog said loudly and in English, feeling the battle knife against his throat. âWe were attacked. Shall we call the local police, ask them to clear up this misunderstanding?â
A beat, and the bartending agent said, âBoss?â
J. T. licked his suddenly bone-dry lips. âCarlos? I keep your men. Especially the fucker who drew on me. You walk.â
The guard increased the pressure of the barrel against J. T.âs jaw.
Still, nobody moved but the wounded.
âDariaâ¦?â J. T. let his eyes travel to hers without moving his head.
A beat, and she released her hold on Carlos. He took two steps away from her, turned, eyes burning with rage. He made fists but felt, more than heard, Ray step to his back.
Carlos looked around at the three downed men. He turned back to Daria, then to J. T. âDeal.â
The last guard let his Python swing on the fulcrum of his trigger finger, the handle falling, barrel rising to the ceiling. One of the agents from the pickup took it from him.
Carlos the War Dog Ramos adjusted his white suit, his open shirt collar. He nodded once to DariaââSeñora?ââand turned to the saloon door.
4
T HE EXPEDITIONARY UNIT OF the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives made three arrests in the small Mexican town and contacted its indigenous counteragency to handle the legal details. Three high-level soldiers of the Ramos cartel would be held at the nearest Mexican Army garrison: one man concussed, one leg wound, one uninjured. A fourth drug-runner bled to death on the scene.
The true objective of the sting operation, Carlos the War Dog Ramos, walked away.
In the dusty street outside the saloon, locals emerged from hidingâsome underground telegraph alerting them the gun fighting was over. At least for now.
J. T. Laney spoke on his cell phone with the unitâs headquarters in Tucson. He paced, his men and Ray Calabrese watching him, the men darting acid glances at the FBI agent who had donned sunglasses and leaned against the ATF pickup. After a mumbled conversation, J. T. hung up and turned to the FBI agent.
âYou screwed the pooch, you dumb son of a bitch! We worked this caseââ
He was cut off as Daria Gibron emerged fast from the saloon, stepped into the throng of federal agents, and stepped up to the young agent who had pretended to play pool.
âThat was amateur!â she spit. âYou could have gotten me killed!â
The young agent gave her a cocky grin. âDonât get your panties knotted, babe. You werenâtââ
Daria pivoted and delivered a roundhouse kick, boot heel as high as her head. It was not a ladylike strike in a miniskirt. Her heel connected with the now-stunned agent. The blow lifted his cowboy boots off the sidewalk. He was unconscious before he landed.
Daria rode the spin until she faced J. T. âRay didnât blow anything! That idiot did!â
She