Without Redemption (The Border Series, #3) by David Griffith

Author:David Griffith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: drug cartels, cowboy, rodeo, adventure, Intelligence, assassin
Publisher: David Griffith
Published: 2017-11-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

Paolo struggled to regain consciousness. Tortured blackness seductively beckoned, but the agony in his body would not allow it and he was vaulted unwillingly into the present. At least one rib was broken, because just breathing made him grit his teeth. Through pain-glazed eyes, he viewed Chapo’s face. It obscured a good part of the blue sky above him, and somewhere in the fog of semi-consciousness Paolo heard him yell up the hill toward where the Indian must have gone. He was too groggy to make out the words, but they sounded threatening. If he hadn’t hurt so bad and been retching the vile contents of last night’s supper, he might have laughed with the realization that Chapo still did not understand who they were following. The man they followed would be contemptuous of threats. They would be lucky if the Indian didn’t circle around and kill every one of them.

Paolo wiped the vomit off the corners of his lips and struggled to his knees. They should cut their losses and run, far away from this throwback to a people who had survived untold hardship, ancient warriors who killed their enemies with only crude knives and flint-tipped arrows. Like elite warriors everywhere, this was a man to be reckoned with—and avoided. So far, he’d made fools of elite soldiers armed with the best and most modern combat weapons money could buy.

“And me,” he thought. “I’m not doing too well against him either.” Instantly, a white-hot anger replaced the swirling onslaught of speculation. He pushed himself to a sitting position then tried to stand. If someone hadn’t caught him, he would have fallen. Two of Chapo’s men steadied him until he regained some semblance of equilibrium. As his head cleared, the anger died—simply because he knew it was useless. He tottered over and fingered the blunted pegs in the tree. This didn’t make sense. He should have been dead. The Indian had beaten him, and yet . . . he had let him survive. Was he that confident and contemptuous of those who followed that he played with them—refused to kill them until he tired of the game? Or was he as Chapo thought; weak, unable to finish the job? He fingered the skillfully woven vine the Indian had used as a snare. No, there was more, something he didn’t understand. Nevertheless, this stranger he followed had made a grievous mistake. He would not have a second chance. He would now kill this man who dared to laugh at him. He would do it alone, and before it happened, the Indian would watch his woman and niño die.

Paolo turned away from the tree, fighting through the pain. His eyes fell on the expensive sniper rifle in Chapo’s hands. What if . . .? As the thought took shape, it became more appealing. Chapo was angry that he’d not been able to deliver the Indian, and unless he produced something very soon, his career as part of Chapo’s security squad would end.

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