by Pam Godwin
Her insides turned to ice as her mind spun, quickly forming an idea and weaving a bogus story.
“I’ve been waiting for you guys.” She met the eyes of the man with the knife.
He arched a brow.
“Do you speak English?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Take me to the comandante.” Her bladder threatened to release beneath the force of her almighty fear.
“I am the comandante.”
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
With a deep breath, she raised her chin above the knife. “I work for Matias Restrepo. Do you know—?”
“Everyone knows Restrepo.” His gaze pulsed with interest.
“He planted me inside Tiago Badell’s organization. The assignment was to grow close to Badell, become his lover, and wait for your infiltration. Matias Restrepo knew you would capture me, and that you would feel inclined to…uh…” Her teeth chattered. “To send my head to Badell.”
The man grinned with yellow teeth. “Go on.”
“Restrepo wants you to contact him.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I have information. Intel I’ve been gathering on Badell. And because you just extracted me from the hands of Restrepo’s enemy, he’s now in your debt.” She hardened her jaw. “Call him. Tell him you have Kate, and you’ll be generously rewarded.”
It was a risk. He could just as easily torture her for the intel she boasted about. Of course, she didn’t know shit about Tiago’s business dealings, so it would be a slow, bloody, horrifically gruesome way to die. Much worse than getting her head sawed off.
But she was offering the comandante an opportunity to join forces with Matias Restrepo, an offer no one ever received. She didn’t know who this man was in the underground world, but she hoped her bullshit story carried some weight.
If only for a little while.
She just needed to buy some time until Tiago arrived.
Swallowing against the blade, she held the comandante’s oily gaze. After an eternity of wordless torment, he lowered the knife.
It took everything she had not to pass out in relief.
He rose to his feet and barked a string of Spanish words. The room erupted in a scurry of squeaky boots. Everyone evacuated except the man fisting her hair.
His hand tightened, yanking her forward. She fell with a yelp, her cheek pressed against the cement as he unlocked the shackle on one of her wrists.
Oh, thank fuck.
She rolled her stiff shoulders, started to rise, and heard the clicking sound of handcuffs latching onto something.
“You just saved your head.” The comandante lingered in the doorway, staring down at her. “Until I reach Restrepo, you are ours to enjoy.”
He slipped into the hall, and her stomach turned inside out. She scrambled away from the other man, but the snap of her arm yanked her back.
The son of a bitch had handcuffed her to his wrist.
“This is a mistake.” She scooted on her back and stretched her free arm out to the side, floundering for something to grip, a heavy piece of steel, something sharp, anything she could brandish as a weapon. “Restrepo will kill you if you rape me.”
Her fingers gripped the leg of a steel shelving unit. She pulled, and he pulled her back by her leg, dragging her across the floor.
At the center of the room, he dropped her feet near the door, dove on top of her, and ripped off her panties with a violating fist.
“No!” She thrashed beneath him, smacking at his greasy face and kicking her legs. “No! Stop! Get off me! You’ll regret this.”
He was thinner, smaller than Tiago, but still twice her size. She couldn’t get leverage, and even if she did, she was fucking handcuffed to his arm. Where would she go?
Didn’t stop her from putting up the biggest fight of her life. She went crazy, bucking, screaming, scratching, and biting. She lost her mind, flailing in a fog of desperation and horror.
Seconds felt like hours, and her body started to give out, draining energy fast.
He forced her thighs apart with his knees and unzipped his pants. She released a blood-curdling roar, and his hand clapped over her mouth as his other fisted his swollen dick.
She sank her teeth into his fingers. He bellowed, face red, and reared back his arm.
Her heart slammed. She saw it coming and instinctively closed her eyes, knowing she couldn’t dodge the impact.
He made a choking sound, and a hot wet drizzle dripped across her thigh.
She opened her eyes to a sharp object protruding from his chest.
Her brain couldn’t make sense of it, and he seemed to share her confusion as he stared down at the serrated steel edge that stuck out several inches beneath his breastbone.
Then it moved, slicking upward in a vertical line, cutting his torso from bottom to top.
Blood poured in a bright red stream from the wound, from his mouth, bubbling down his chin.
She gulped, gulped, gulped, with no sound. No air. Her pulse throbbed so loudly it created a vacuum in her ears.
The blade pulled free. Life leaked from the man’s eyes as he tipped to the side and hit the floor, unblocking her view of the door.
Tiago stood over her, glaring at the dead body before leveling her with force of his terrifyingly potent presence.
A machete dangled from his hand, magnifying the fury and testosterone pouring off him. Brown eyes darkened into hues of feral. Speckles of red splattered the shadows on his face. God, that strikingly beautiful face, all brutal angles, sculpted lines, and dangerous scars.
The air left her lungs in trembling gasps.
He’d abducted her, fucked her, pissed on her, scarred her.
And saved her.
She squeezed her legs together and shook beneath the press of his power. The most arresting kind of power—lawless, savage, protective.
He wore a black leather jacket and jeans, both stained in blood. No telling how many people he’d slaughtered on his way here.
“I’ve never been more happy to see you.” She pulled her feet under her but couldn’t stand. Not with her arm handcuffed to the dead body.
Tiago knelt between her legs and trapped her fingers between his and the floor. Then he swung the machete, cutting off the man’s hand.
Bile hit her throat. The sight and aroma of so much gore numbed her brain and chilled her from the base of her skull to the tips of her toes.
Wriggling the handcuff from the severed limb, he circled the rotating arm all the way around, which left it unlocked and hanging from her wrist.
“I’ll remove this later.” He gripped the cuff still attached to her.
“With a key, I hope.”
A big hand lifted to cradle the side of her face, commanding her gaze to his.
“I almost lost you.” He swallowed hard.
The jog in his strong, muscular throat reminded her this brutal, hardcore criminal was human.
She’d been taken from him, nearly beheaded and raped, and the starkness in his eyes told her he knew. He knew exactly the sort of horrors she’d just evaded.
“You weren’t too late or too slow.” She touched her forehead to his, replaying the words he said about his wife’s death. “You don’t need to put me back together. You didn’t fail.”
Tilting her chin back with his finger, he scanned her face with a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. There and gone in a flash, his handsome Venezuelan features went from gentle to stony.
“I killed the man who hit you.” He prodded a thumb around the cut near her eye. “Got him on my way in.”
“How do you even know—?”
“Did he have a crucifix tattooed on his neck?”
Yeah, he sure did. Tiago must’ve identified him while she was transported out of the house.
“Don’t we need to go?” she asked.
“Arturo,” he called over his shoulder.
The burly guard poked his head into the room, held up a finger, and retu
rned to the hall.
“We’re waiting.” He slid off the backpack that hung from his shoulder and removed a pair of shorts and running shoes. “Put these on.”
“Waiting for what?” She pulled on the shorts, sans underwear.
As she shoved on the sneakers, his hand wandered to her thigh, smoothing over the bandage where he’d cut her.
“There’s a gunfight outside.” He withdrew his touch and glanced at the door. “Not taking you out there until the numbers have dwindled.”
“Gunfight?” She listened for a moment and was met with silence.
“We’re deep within the warehouse.” He grabbed her hand and stood, lifting her with him. “One of their chop shops.”
“Cartel?”
“Yes.”
“The comandante—”
“Killed him, too.”
Before or after the man called Matias Restrepo? Didn’t matter at this point. Matias might’ve been in route here, but he’d still be hours away.
“Hold onto my waistband.” He pulled out two handguns and swung the backpack behind him. “We’re going to run into some resistance on our way out. Stick to me like glue until I tell you otherwise. Understand?”
“I want a gun.”
“No.” He turned toward the door.
“Why not?”
“Because you have me,” he growled.
“But—”
“If you shoot me in the back, accidentally or deliberately, your chances of escape drop to zero.”
Well, shit. She didn’t like it, but she understood. Those were his guys out there, fighting and dying under his command. They were loyal to him, not her. If he died, she was fucked, with or without a gun.
“We’re not returning to the desert, are we?” she asked.
“No.”
“Is Tate—?”
“Jefe.” Arturo appeared in the doorway and lowered a phone from his ear. “It’s time.”
“Tate is safe.” Tiago gave her his back and adjusted his grip on the pistols. “Hands on my belt.”
She curled her fingers around his belt loops, registering the small gun between his tailbone and waistband. Multiple knives strapped to his hips, legs, and boots. Loaded magazines filled every pocket and holster. He was a walking armory.
“Let’s go.” He charged into the hall.
She did her best to keep up with his long-legged strides. Arturo stepped in behind her, pacing backward to cover the rear.
Her breathing sped up, tripping in her throat as Tiago navigated a maze of never-ceasing turns and stairs.
The muffled report of gunfire alerted her they were getting close, and she silently thanked him for coming for her.
His body felt like steel beneath her hands, shifting and flexing through a seamless glide of muscle. Her gaze traced the sinewy cords in his thick neck, taking in the strength of it, the harsh cut of his rigid jaw, and the profile of a face chiseled in stone.
He was such a devastatingly sexy man. If he were normal and this was normal, she might’ve told him he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
The boom of guns came in bursts, slowing between each report but growing louder as he crept to a doorway. It opened to a massive garage crammed with more luxury cars and motorcycles than she could count.
Armed men patrolled the space. Just outside the wall of garage doors waited more men, who fired off sporadic rounds and shouted at one another.
“This is the only way out,” he whispered so low she had to strain her ears. “I need to clear the room.”
Before she could draw a breath, he was on the move. Arms stretched out before him, he trained the pistols and sidled along the back wall, using his body as a shield in front of her.
The men in the garage didn’t spot him creeping amid the shadows. Arturo veered off in the opposite direction, rifle raised, headed toward the huge garage doors.
Her pulse pommeled, her stomach a block of ice, as her fingers dug into Tiago’s hips.
He reached a wall covered with small hooks holding keys. Flicking his gaze over it, he examined each one.
What was the plan? Would he steal a car?
He snatched a key, apparently the one he was looking for, given the glimmer in his eyes. Then he pivoted, gripped her arms, and shoved her into a nook between a workbench and concrete wall.
“Stay,” he mouthed.
She locked her legs as he spun and blitzed through the garage toward the enemy, his guns up and firing.
Two men went down. Others shot back. He found cover behind an engine block, but the shooters closed in, surrounding him.
On the far side, Arturo hoisted one of the rolling garage doors, letting in a flood of morning light.
The distraction allowed Tiago to fire off another kill shot. But more men flooded in, through the open door and from the other side of the garage.
Her heart pounded so hard it made her lightheaded. She felt helpless, useless, her hand clutching her throat as she watched without breath.
Arturo volleyed bullets from the shadows, taking down the men Tiago missed. But there were too many.
They were outnumbered.
Bullets pinged off steel casings and pelleted beautiful cars. Glass shattered. Dying groans sounded from fallen bodies.
Arturo let out an enraged shout, dropping beneath a flurry of fists and losing his gun. A moment later, he found his feet and launched into a bloody brawl with multiple men, punching and choking and spitting blood.
She searched the space around her and spotted a tire iron. Dropping to hands and knees, she crawled to it, curled her fingers around the cold metal, and waited with her heart in her stomach.
Tiago must’ve run out of ammo, because he chucked his last gun and reached back to free the machete from his backpack.
In a blur of incredible speed and strength, he ran through the half a dozen attackers, taking down the ones with guns.
The din of bullets fell silent, replaced by the panting grunts of hand-to-hand combat.
She trained her eyes on the open garage door and spotted a clear path.
Gripping the dangling handcuff against the tire iron so it wouldn’t rattle, she drew in a deep breath and ran.
The shadows along the back wall concealed her escape. No one noticed her. Those who were still alive were fighting to stay that way.
Twenty feet from the exit, Arturo bent over a man, pummeling his fists, over and over. Farther away, Tiago took on three others, slashing the machete with the skill of a professional assassin.
She reached the exit and peered outside.
Bodies scattered the parking lot. The gunfight had moved down the street, and the number of shooters seemed to have been drastically reduced.
Buildings lined the narrow roads. Plenty of places to hide and provide cover as she fled this nightmare.
This was it.
She could make a run for it and find a way to contact Matias.
Her hand slicked around the tire iron as she stepped into the parking lot and tasted the bright light of freedom.
Another step and the space between her shoulder blades itched.
He had come all this way for her. Protected her. Shielded her with his body. And she was bailing on him?
Her chest squeezed, and her throat closed.
Fuck!
She couldn’t leave. Not without looking back. Not without seeing him one more time.
CHAPTER 22
Twisting her neck, Kate scanned the garage behind her. As she honed in on the powerful body laid out on the floor, a sudden coldness hit her core.
She’d expected Tiago to be the only one standing, not face down in blood with a man pounding fist after fist into his ribs.
Her hand squeezed around the tire iron, clanking the handcuffs.
She needed to leave.
Right now.
Tiago stretched an arm toward the machete, but it lay too far out of reach.
Her shoes turned into blocks of cement.
Fucki
ng goddammit!
Across the garage, Arturo wrestled another man in and out of a choke hold. The rest were dead or too injured to move.
Tiago continued to lie there as that fucker pounded fists into his back and ribs. He just took it, his legs twitching as he absorbed every strike.
Her heart cried out, and her molars slammed together, grinding hard enough to break enamel.
Before her brain caught up, her legs were moving, carrying her toward him as fast as she could run.
She was neither stealthy nor strong. But she was quick, approaching the man’s back and smacking the tire iron into his head before he knew what hit him.
He toppled over, and she continued to swing, slamming the metal rod into his skull, again and again. She didn’t stop hitting until strong arms banded around her, yanking her back, pulling her away.
The weapon fell from her hands, and she turned, stunned so completely she felt as though she were floating outside of her body.
Lifting her head, she stared into Tiago’s impossibly gorgeous eyes and swayed. Or maybe the room was swaying.
No, it was him.
She grabbed his leather-clad arms and steadied him. “Are you okay?”
“I am now.” He tiptoed ice-cold fingers along her jaw, leaned in, and stopped before their lips made contact. “Got a lot to say and do to you, but we need to go.”
A scream sounded from an office-like room in the front of the garage. A woman’s scream.
His face tightened, and he bent down to snatch the machete from the floor.
On the other side of the room, Arturo snapped up his head, where he stepped through piles of carnage, stabbing anyone who still lived.
“Who is that?” Kate shifted toward the office.
A slender figure emerged in the doorway. Short black hair. Seductive mouth. Iliana.
Why was she in that room and not fighting alongside the others? Was she hiding?
Iliana spotted Tiago and ran toward him. “Jefe, oh my God! You made it!”
He gave Kate’s hand a squeeze and prowled ahead, toward the approaching woman, slowly, stiffly, letting the machete hang from his lolling fingers.
Was he tilting a little to the side?
Blood covered him from head to toe. His clothes were an utter mess and would need to be burned, but there weren’t any concentrated stains. Nothing to indicate the blood was coming from him.
