But only Arturo was required to sleep inside as a last layer of defense for Boones.
Pacing to the covered windows, he peered through the slit of one and probed the shadows.
The cars sat where expected. Stillness stretched to the horizon. Too dark. He couldn’t see shit from this position. He would have to go out there to investigate.
He slipped into the kitchen on silent feet and grabbed the largest knife from the butcher block. Then he headed to the hall and made a beeline to Boones’ room.
The door stood ajar. He stepped in.
The faint sound of snoring drifted from the bed, but it wasn’t enough to calm his nerves. He needed to see Boones alive and free from harm.
He approached the bed and crouched beside it, straining his eyes in the dark until he could make out sheared gray hair, black skin over sharp bones, and the rise and fall of a scarred chest.
He exhaled a sigh of relief.
The snoring stopped.
“What’s wrong?” Boones asked in his native tongue.
He lowered the butcher knife out of view. His scalp tingled, his senses telling him a tendril of unrest was creeping toward the house.
Or, most likely, it was just his overactive paranoia taking shape in imaginary noises.
“Just checking on you.” He rested a hand over the welts on Boones’ sternum, finding sanctuary in the thumps of a strong heartbeat. “If you die in your sleep, I’ll have to find someone else to make breakfast in the morning.”
“I spit in your eggs.” Boones smacked him away, a smile in his voice. “Shut the door on your way out.”
He did more than that. As he slipped into the hall, he turned the handle and engaged the lock from the inside without sounding the click and worrying Boones.
A hard kick would break the door, but it would take an extra second or two to bust in.
In the front room, he returned to the gap in the window. Outside, the landscape was a black tarp of empty silence.
Nothing moved. No guards in sight, which meant they were stationed where they were supposed to be, spread out around the property, watching the perimeter from every angle.
Still, he couldn’t shake the tingling along his nape. His senses hummed on high-alert, the hilt of the knife hot in his hand.
He prowled through the front room, listening, waiting, second-guessing the foreboding feeling in his gut.
“Jefe?”
He turned toward the sound of Arturo’s gruff voice and squinted at the silhouette sitting on the mattress. “Who’s on watch right now?”
“Blueballs, Iliana, and Samuel.” Arturo rose to his feet and said in Spanish, “Or maybe it’s Alonso, not Iliana. I don’t know. They switched up the schedule last night.” A pause. “Juan was in here when I dozed off.”
Alarm spiked his heart rate, hardening his body into battle mode.
“The guys rarely sleep in here.” Arturo scratched his whiskers, wearing only a pair of boxers. “The desert is making them restless.”
Tiago strode into the kitchen and removed all the bottom drawers in the cabinets. Behind each one waited a stash of weaponry and ammo. He grabbed a .40 cal pistol, two loaded magazines, and glanced down at his pants.
No pockets. No shoes. No shirt. He wasn’t dressed for combat.
Tension stifled the muggy room as he loaded the magazine in the gun and set the extra one aside. Then he grabbed the knife, both hands armed.
Silence buzzed in his ears, a haze of muted light shining down from the ceiling. His skin itched, sticky with sweat, his pulse thick in his throat.
“What is it?” Arturo approached, zipping up the fly of his jeans. Eyes wide and alert, he loaded his own weapon. “You hear something?”
“Not sure. I’m going to take a walk outside. I need you to stay here with—”
The boom of gunfire sounded in the distance.
He froze, blinked, and in a blur of sharpness, he sped in the direction of the stairs.
Except Boones was down the hall.
His footsteps faltered, skidded.
Kate or Boones.
Kate or Boones.
Indecision cost him half a second.
He swung toward Arturo, pointing the knife. “Go to Boones. No matter what happens to me, you’ll protect him with your life. Don’t let him out, and do not leave his door. Swear to God, Arturo, if any harm comes to him, I will haunt you long after I’m dead.”
The hard edge of his voice sent Arturo running toward the hall, carrying an armful of artillery.
He swiveled back toward the stairs.
Kate.
Flying into a sprint, he made it halfway through the front room before the windows exploded in a shower of glass and lead.
He shielded his face with an arm and ran into the shrapnel, hunching low to avoid a wayward bullet.
The front door crashed open, followed by a stampede of boots. Then the rapid firing of popped rounds and ear-splitting, disorientating chaos.
His military training kicked in, revving his pulse, sharpening his awareness, and focusing his mind on one objective.