Saint Death (John Milton, Book 2)
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John Milton has been off the grid for six months. He surfaces in Ciudad
Juárez, Mexico, and immediately finds himself drawn into a vicious
battle with the narco-gangs that control the borderlands.He
saves the life of an idealistic young journalist who has been targeted
for execution. The only way to keep her safe is to smuggle her into
Texas. Working with the only untouchable cops in the city, and a bounty
hunter whose motives are unclear, Milton must keep her safe until the
crossing can be made.But when the man looking for her is the legendary assassin Santa Muerta - Saint Death - that's a lot easier said than done.
information with which she could start filtering. Dozens of algorithms would analyse the data that her search pulled back, comparing it against historical patterns and returning probability matches. “John Milton” alone would generate an infinitesimally small likelihood rate, so small as to be eliminated without the need for human qualification. Adding his age might nudge the percentage up a fraction. Nationality another fraction. Adding his blood group might be worth a whole percentage point. The
Plato asked. “There should’ve been––” “No-one else.” Plato’s face twisted with anxiety. “Is she alright?” “You better check.” Milton walked quickly, and then broke into a jog, passing through the busying triage area to the lobby beyond. The elevator was on the first floor and so he couldn’t have taken that. He pushed the bar to open the door to the stairs and looked up and then down. There was no sign of Martinez anywhere. He quickly climbed to the seventh floor but, as he opened the door
Springfield’s barrel pressed against his spine. Thirteen shots in the clip, one in the chamber. He hoped they would be enough. Beau and González got up. Milton moved to the entrance. There was a bench next to the door, an advertisement for a law firm on the backrest. He sat down behind a newspaper he found on the floor, the Springfield hidden in his lap. Beau came out first, González behind him. Milton let them pass, folded the newspaper over the arm of the bench and took the gun. He followed.
“I’ve heard of you. Where’s the girl?” “In a minute. I don’t know your name. What shall I call you?” “John.” “Hello, John. You are the Englishman from the restaurant?” “That’s right.” “You have caused me some––awkwardness.” “I’m just getting started. Where’s the girl?” “She’s here. Safe and sound. Where is my son?” “With me.” “He is––?” “He’s fine.” “We seem to be at an impasse.” “Seems so. What do you want to do about that?” Felipe paused. Milton knew he was trying to sweat him.
letters tapped out, one by one, slow and uncertain: “How could you know?” “I’ve spoken to other girls. Not many, but a few. You are not the first.” “Did they tell you they could describe them, too?” “They couldn’t.” “Then the stakes are much higher for me.” “I accept that.” “What would I have to do?” “Just talk.” “And my name?” “Everything is anonymous.” “I don’t know.” “You’re right to be scared. I’m scared, too. These men are dangerous. But you can trust me.” The cursor blinked on