Mission road - By Rick Riordan Page 0,79

meant, but Hernandez’s jaw tightened. “You think like Ana, Miss Lee. I’m afraid that’s why you need to die first.”

He raised the gun toward Maia’s heart and I charged, knowing I would die.

Fifteen feet. No chance.

But Ralph was a lot closer.

He tackled Hernandez and both men slammed against the hood of the BMW. The .357 exploded—a thunderclap in the cold morning air.

I crashed into them, tearing Hernandez away from Ralph, shoving the lieutenant to the ground. I slammed my fist into his nose and the Magnum skittered across the asphalt.

“Tres!” I heard Maia scream.

I turned around. Ralph stumbled backward. He collapsed against the barbed wire fence, pulled his knees up to his chest. Maia screamed again.

A shriek of tires. A black sedan fishtailed to a stop behind us.

Kelsey and a young plainclothes officer got out.

The younger guy drew his piece, aimed it at me. “Step away from the lieutenant!”

I was too dazed to wonder what they were doing here. I was too dazed to move.

“Now!” The young guy’s hands turned white on the handle of his gun.

Kelsey scanned the scene. He took in Ralph, Maia, the Magnum in the middle of the street.

“Stand down,” he ordered his companion. “Call an ambulance.”

“Sir?”

“Do it!” Kelsey barked. He marched toward us, grabbed the lieutenant and pulled him into a sitting position.

Hernandez’s nose was broken. There was a lightning bolt of blood under his left nostril.

“Kelsey? How—”

“Madeleine White,” Kelsey said tightly. “She called with an interesting story, suggested you might be here.”

“You believed her. You came with no SWAT team.”

“No, sir. I was hoping—”

“You could resolve things without force.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Full of surprises.”

Kelsey looked back at his colleague. “Bring me some handcuffs.” He looked at me grimly. “You, take care of your friend.”

“What?”

“Now, goddamn it,” Kelsey growled. “The ambulance is coming.”

Only then did I come out of my shock enough to realize what had happened.

Maia was kneeling next to Ralph. His face was coated with sweat. He was holding his gut. There was blood between the cracks of his fingers.

I rushed over to him, reached instinctively to move his hands, but Maia said, “Don’t, Tres.”

“Vato—”

“Damn it, Ralph,” I said, my voice cracking. “Why did you do that?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Qué más?”

What else?

I imagined we were back at graduation night, sitting in the Brackenridge Park Skyride, Ralph trying to convince Frankie and me that anything was possible, trying to sell us on his crazy dreams as we balanced precariously a hundred feet in the air.

“Vato, tell Ana . . .”

“Don’t talk,” I said.

I heard a distant siren, or maybe it was just my desire to hear one. The ice on the road melted against my jeans, soaking into the denim.

“Remember what you promised,” he croaked.

“You’re going to get better,” I told him. “And when you do, I’m going to kick your ass, you hear me?”

He gazed at the bare branches overhead. He seemed to be looking for something. Behind us, I heard Kelsey snapping plastic cuffs on his superior officer, reading Hernandez his rights.

I put my hand on Ralph’s forehead. His skin was cool and damp.

By the time I was sure I heard a siren in the distance, Ralph’s eyes seemed to have found something to focus on—something small and bright and remarkable, far above us.

A WEEK LATER, MAIA SAT IN ANA’S HOSPITAL ROOM, WATCHING Lucia Jr. sleep against her mother’s breast. Tres sat next to her while Ralph’s relatives buzzed around, trying to make Ana more comfortable. Ralph’s niece fussed with the flower arrangements, which had been arriving by the crateful. Ralph’s sister was sure Ana needed more pillows. Ralph’s cousin tried to convince Ana she was ready for the tamales he’d brought.

“Thank you, José,” Ana said weakly. “But it’s a little soon for venison.”

Every time her focus started to drift, the bustle of the relatives increased. Ana’s attention was immediately needed. Which sympathy cards to keep? Which toys for the baby’s stocking? Which outfit would Ana wear home?

Maia understood this approach to tragedy, so much like her own family’s. Grief was a crack to be filled, a stain to be scrubbed out. Don’t think about it. Don’t talk about it. Keep busy. Keep working.

Somehow the baby slept through the commotion, which Maia found reassuring. The baby would have enough to contend with. She’d have years of commotion and grief ahead. It was good that she was a sound sleeper.

Tres reached out and stroked the baby’s hair.

His face was sallow. He’d lost too much weight in the last week. He looked like he was