I'D SEEN MARTINEZ ONCE BEFORE, SEVERAL months ago, but only at night and from a distance. He'd been wearing a suit then and my impression was of a large, thick-bodied man. Not my impression now. Martinez has lost weight-a lot of it. His scarecrow frame is clad in an open-neck polo shirt hanging loose over jeans. He's barefoot. His dark hair is unkempt, longer than I remembered, curling around the collar of his shirt. It's limp with the oily texture of hair that hasn't been washed in a while.
And it frames a face ravaged by sorrow and madness.
I've seen the look before. On a vampire, not a human. But the effect is the same. I feel my muscles tense, constrict as a rush of adrenaline prepares for a fight.
But Martinez doesn't attack. He doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge Foley's presence.
He stares at me, eyes hollow and devoid of life. His hands hang at his sides, one holds a small black box. A light blinks red. Some kind of detonator? He's so utterly still, it's unnerving. I'm relieved when Foley breaks the intolerable silence.
"Well," he says. "Here she is. When can I get out of here?"
His voice sparks light in Martinez' eyes, drags him back from whatever pit he'd lost himself in. He places the box on the floor beside the door and the red light blinks to green. He glances at Foley with a look that reminds me of the flicker of a snake's tongue before a strike-quick, decisive, deadly. If I were Foley, I'd be getting out now.
But, of course, Foley is not that smart.
"I did what you told me to. She's alive. I'd like my money now. I've got to make plans. The San Diego PD will be on my trail. Can't go back across the border. Your pilot can take me to Mexico City, though, right? I've got a fake passport. I'll go south from there ..."
He's rambling on, nervously, just now understanding what he sees on Martinez' face, a man teetering on the knife-edge of reason. Foley backs toward the doorway, hands outstretched in front of him, a vain attempt to ward off whatever Martinez might hurl at him.
Martinez' right hand moves slowly. Foley watches as if mesmerized as it drifts toward the small of his back, reaches beneath the shirt and produces a small gun. Only when the gun is pointed at him does Foley react.
He grabs me and swings me around to shield his own body. "Go ahead," he says. "Shoot. But Max isn't here to watch, is he? Wasn't that the object of this stupid setup? Make Max suffer the way you did? Make him watch while you torture the woman he loves? If you still want that, you're going to have to let me walk out of here. Give me my money and arrange for the pilot to fly me out. Anna will be with me until we get to the chopper. Then I'll let her go and you can have your fun. Do we have a deal?"
All the while he's talking, I'm trying to look behind Martinez, to see if I can spot where Max might be hidden. There are two more doors, one on each side of a narrow hall, but they are both closed. The good thing is that there doesn't seem to be any other guards. I can easily take care of Martinez and Foley. The hard part will be getting Max past that woman downstairs if he's hurt and unable to walk. I have a feeling she knows how to use those guns.
All this passes through my head while Foley is trying to manhandle me backward toward the stairs. Martinez still hasn't said a word. He has the gun pointed at my midsection. It won't kill me if he shoots, but it will hurt. Better to let him take care of Foley, one less bad guy I have to worry about.
I slump forward, letting my body go limp. Foley tries to lower himself with me, scrambling to regain a hold and hoist me up. He can't. My dead weight is too much. He lets me go and stands up, surrendering with upturned hands.
Martinez doesn't hesitate. He fires once. A neat round hole blooms in Foley's forehead.