I pulled the gun from my pants and flicked off the safety. I slipped a silencer from my pocket and slowly twisted it into place. Our handlers did one thing right, I thought ruefully. At least they fucking armed us well.
I crept up the driveway, keeping low behind the car, and slipped along the wall toward the front door. I stopped just outside of it, straining to hear something.
There were voices inside, but not nearby. I guessed they were toward the back of the house, in the living room. I couldn’t make out any words, but they were hushed and insistent.
My heart thudding rough in my chest, I pushed open the front door and stepped inside, moving silently.
There was nobody in the front hall or within my sightline. I pushed the door closed behind me but left it slightly ajar again, making sure it made no noise to tip them off.
Where the fuck is Trip? I wondered. I needed some backup, especially considering I didn’t know what I was walking into. There was no way this should be happening, not with him watching the place.
And yet, as I got farther into the house, creeping along the hall, the voices became more distinct.
My mother was crying softly. Jeff kept saying something, over and over, and it sounded like he was trying to be reassuring.
And above all of that, most important of all, were two male voices, both speaking Spanish.
“Where the fuck is he?” the one man said.
“He’ll be back.”
“That fucker better be right.”
“He’ll come. He can’t stay away.”
I slowly, agonizingly slowly, looked around the corner and cringed at what I saw.
Jeff and my mom were sitting on the couch. Their hands were bound in front of them with duct tape. My mom was crying softly, and Jeff was doing his best to keep her calm, speaking quietly into her ear.
Standing in front of them, one looking at his phone and the other looking out the back window, were two Mexicans. I recognized both of them: muscle for El Tiburon. They weren’t particularly high up in the organization, and were definitely nowhere near my level, but two of them were a problem.
I took a deep breath and moved across the hall, getting into the kitchen. I needed a better angle on them if I was going to take them out without hurting Jeff and my mom. I waited for a minute as the one started talking on the phone, probably reporting back to the cartel. They didn’t seem to hear me, so I crept forward, crouched low behind the counters.
I slowly raised myself, gun held forward, hands braced on the countertop. I had a clear angle on the guy with the phone. Juan, I remembered suddenly as I lined up the shot. He was ten feet away, an easy distance for me. But I needed to be fast if I was going to get them both.
Just as I was about to squeeze the trigger, my mom looked up at me.
Her eyes were shocked. Jeff followed her gaze and looked equally surprised.
I fired, the bullet piercing Juan’s temple. He crumpled to the ground without another word, blood spraying onto the wall behind him.
The other guy moved fast. I lined up my next shot and fired, the gun jumping in my hand as the bullet exploded toward him. I missed my mark and hit him in the shoulder, spinning him backward toward the sliding glass door. I fired twice more, missing both.
“Mother fucker!” he yelled.
“Drop the gun, asshole,” I called back in Spanish.
He was suddenly firing back, the loud roar of his pistol filling the small space. I shot back, one bullet shattering the glass behind him. My mom and Jeff immediately dropped to the floor, my mom’s screams filling the short silences between gunshots.
I dropped down into cover, cursing. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Having a fucking shootout in a suburban house was pretty much the perfect way to get us all caught and fucking murdered. If the cops got me, I was going to get shanked in prison, and my family was going to get lynched not long after.
They couldn’t protect them from El Tiburon. Castillo had money and men everywhere. His reach was long and powerful. Only I could fix everything.
I came up again, firing. The guy was using the couch as cover but was shooting wildly, barely aiming. He must have been in pain because his shots all went way wide of their mark. I carefully put two bullets into the couch, right near his face, forcing him back and down.
And then three more shots rang out, and the shooting was finished.
Standing near the broken back, glass sliding door was Trip, his gun smoking.
“Clear,” he called out, coming into the room and sweeping the space.
I stood and came out from behind my cover.
“Where the fuck were you?” I yelled.
“I was taking a piss. I swear I wasn’t gone for more than a few minutes.”
I put the gun away, back into my waistband, and ran over to Jeff and my mom.
“Camden?” Mom said, her eyes wild. “What’s happening?”