One-Mile pretended to caress his way down her arm before he planted his hand on her hip. “I’m not telling you anything.”
“I did not expect you to. I-I have begun sleeping with one of my brother-in-law’s thugs, and I have been able to use his phone while he sleeps to sneak coded messages to my sister through a message board. I told her where we are and that Emilo is keeping you hostage. She said she would pass the information to the men who rescued her. Last night, she wrote back to say that a rescue mission is in place.”
His heart started revving. He wanted to grill her. Hell, he was even half tempted to shake her by the shoulders and demand to know if she was telling the truth. But she glanced at the camera in the corner, then brushed her lips up his chest. Yeah, they were watching. So he caressed his way down her ass and nuzzled her neck. “When?”
She sent him a come-hither smile and sidled closer. “Tonight. About an hour.”
That damn organ in his chest started chugging even harder. “Got a plan?”
There had to be a few dozen gunmen here, not to mention Emilo himself, who was fucking evil with the whip. Unless the Edgingtons and Muñoz were dropping in with some of Uncle Sam’s boys, they were going to be incredibly outnumbered.
Her flirtation suddenly looked far more like a grimace. “You should pretend to attack me. I will scream. Emilo’s men will come to my rescue…I think.”
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“I am worth nothing to them. But Emilo wants Valeria back.”
“Because he loves his wife?”
Laila scoffed. “No. He does not want her back as a lover. Why should he when he has so many whores willing to take his cock and his money? He flaunted them in my sister’s face while she lived with him. He is a pig.”
One-Mile didn’t disagree. In fact, Laila had phrased things much nicer than he was inclined to.
“But he suspected Valeria was pregnant when she escaped, and he refuses to let his child go.”
“What will he do if he manages to find her and the kid?”
“Punish her, make an example of her. He will kill her. She knows too much about his operations, and he fears she is already telling your government.”
Probably.
“The child… If she gave birth to a son, Emilo will groom him to take his place in the organization. Perhaps if he is ruthless enough, he will survive. If she gave birth to a daughter, she will be raised a princess, then married off to another drug pusher who can increase Emilo’s standing in the cartel. After that, she will have a miserable existence of sexual servitude and fear.”
Laila was a realist, if nothing else.
He fisted his hands in her hair and sent her what the watching goons would interpret as a leer. “And you think Emilo is keeping you alive and well so he can use you as leverage against your sister?”
“Yes.”
“You understand that if I attack you and they come to your rescue, we’ll be separated. They’ll beat the shit out of me, and I won’t be in any position to help you.”
She nodded, dragging her palms down his chest with what probably appeared to be a seductive scratch of her nails. “But quarters are cramped here, so they will take you outside to do it.”
Where the rescue party could actually reach him…provided Emilo and his men didn’t kill him first.
As plans went, it sucked. And it was a long shot. But any chance at freedom was better than no chance at all. “All right. What’s your idea?”
She gave him a blank stare. “I have not thought beyond that.”
One-Mile wasn’t surprised. She was barely more than a girl. She wasn’t a soldier, much less a tactician.
He reached for the bottle of shampoo and lathered his hair, while Laila grabbed the bar of soap and gave him a thorough scrub. “Any suggestions on how we kill the next forty-five minutes? Just a guess, but you don’t want to fuck any more than I do.”
“Emilo allowed one of his underlings to first rape me when I was fourteen. Sex is not something I do for enjoyment.”
Every time she spoke, he hated Montilla and his violent band of assholes even more. “If I can do anything to make sure you get out alive, I will.”
“Thank you.” Her lips trembled.
He nodded. “How about you play along?”
“Of course. I am willing to try anything.”
Yeah, he was, too—even getting the shit beat out of him again.
They lingered in the shower, pretending flirtation and sexual interest. Finally, he cut off the spray, dried them off with a towel, then carried Laila back to the cot, faking some sweet nothings in her ear.
Together, they fell into a naked heap on the cot with a forced laugh. He reached for the beer. She drank it while he held her on his lap, caressing her back and thighs.
“You’re feeling drunk, aren’t you?” he suggested in a low, almost unrecognizable mumble.
She pretended a giddy smile. “Maybe a little. Why does it matter? Are you thinking of taking advantage of me? I am far too small to fight off a big man like you.”
Did that turn some guys on? Disgusting. “I have something else in mind. You’re not going to fight me, are you?”
“Should I?” She batted her lashes. Fear gleamed in her eyes.
His gut cramped. They were both risking their lives. He didn’t have any choice except to keep playing his part and push until the bad guys barged in to shut him down.
One-Mile dragged Laila closer, then reached behind her to grab the needle off the tray. “Someone else besides me should be high on this shit. And if I stick this into your veins, it won’t be in me.”
Her dark eyes flared, and he saw the exact moment she wondered if she’d made a mistake in trusting him. “That is enough to kill me.”
“Oh, well,” he quipped as he grabbed her arm. “Better you than me.”
Then her fighting turned real—or if it wasn’t, it was damn convincing. One-Mile didn’t point out that if he’d really wanted to pump her full of drugs, he would have already done it, and she couldn’t possibly have escaped him. Instead, he let her beat against him and empty the syringe into the air during the scuffle. After he ducked her attempt to punch him, she tried to knee him in the balls and kick his shins. He growled and snarled and pushed her against the wall, shaking her hard enough to jar her teeth as he growled empty threats her way.
She screamed. The tears came. She sent a pleading stare at the security camera. He let that last a few good seconds before he picked her up, tossed her on the cot, then climbed on top of her.
Shouldn’t be long now…
Right on cue, a group of underlings with automatic weapons and attitude lifted him off of her and hauled him to his feet, shouting things in Spanish he didn’t understand. Then again, he didn’t need to know the words to grasp that they wanted the pleasure of killing him.
Laila wrapped herself in the blanket on his cot and glared at him with accusing eyes as the goons prodded him into his filthy jeans, up the stairs, and out into the breezy desert night. Emilo Montilla was waiting, whip in one hand, crowbar in the other as they clapped him into the shackles drilled deep into the concrete wall of the bunker.
Fuck, this was going to hurt.
“You have been a pain in my ass. It is time we reminded you that you should play nice because I am in charge. But I will spare you if you tell me where to find my wife.”
“Are you just stupid or is your memory that bad? I’ve already said a hundred times that I’m not telling you a fucking thing.”
Emilo snarled, then opened his back again with a single lash of the whip. Fire burst across One-Mile’s skin. He hissed and arched, but nothing stopped the agony until the drug lord backhanded the side of his face with the crowbar.
An instant after pain exploded in his head, One-Mile’s world went black. If he ever opened his eyes again, he hoped he would be anywhere but here.
Chapter Nine
A blast jolted him back to consciousness with a gasp. Gunfire. Pops of it reso
unded all around him, along with scuffling and shouting. One-Mile lifted his cheek from the wall and tried to open his eyes. A floodlight beamed down into his face, blinding him. He flinched but couldn’t escape.
What was happening, some fucking apocalypse? Maybe that meant the end was coming so his fuck ton of pain would finally stop.
Every bit of his body hurt as if someone had set him on fire. His jaw throbbed. His back sizzled. Something warm and liquid ran down his arms. He couldn’t fucking move. With his remaining strength, he tried to rise from his knees, which felt as if someone had driven stakes through them. But he was shackled. He smelled blood.
He was pretty sure it was his own.
“Over here!”
The voice was male. American. Familiar. One-Mile’s head hurt too damn much to place it. Friend or foe?
Did it matter anymore? Either way, he was going to die.
He slumped forward, pressing his overheated cheek against the cool wall, and closed his eyes.
A pair of amber eyes haunted him.
Brea.
“Find ’em?” asked that familiar voice again, this time closer. “Toss them to me.” No sooner did a metal clink fill his ears than the man shouted, “Fuck!”
More gunfire filled the air with a rapid rat-tat-tat. One-Mile lifted a lid to find a shadow standing over him, clutching an automatic weapon, wearing an angel-of-death glower, and spraying bullets into the darkness beyond.
“Get him now. We’ve got to get the hell out of here!” another American voice called, even more familiar. “I’ll cover you.”
An Edgington?
“On it!” said the first man as he blocked the blinding light and jerked at his imprisoning shackles.
One-Mile squinted up to see who had come to his rescue.
Cutter.
What the fuck?
“We’re going to get you out of here,” Bryant vowed grimly.
Why? Sure, they were teammates, but why would Brea’s boyfriend rescue him?
“Can’t move. Leave me.”
“I promised Brea I’d bring you home, and I’m going to live up to my word.”
Suddenly, his wrists were free. He tried to steady himself and use the wall to stagger upright. But agony gouged his knees. And his left shoulder. Dizziness turned his pounding head around and upside down.
One-Mile slumped to the ground.
Was this where he’d die, face down in the mud, when he’d been on the verge of safety?
Fuck no. Not if Brea wanted him back. For her, he’d fight.
One-Mile planted a hand in the mud and grimaced as he mustered the last of his strength to climb to his knees, then cling to the wall and stumble to his feet.
Cutter was right there. “Let’s go. You’re in no fucking shape to walk.” He shoved the automatic in One-Mile’s hands. “Keep our backs clear.”
Before he could figure out what Bryant had in mind, Cutter hoisted him onto his back. Then Logan was beside them, taking down Montilla’s lackies and thugs, clearing a path forward.
More goons gave chase. Every fucking bone in One-Mile’s body hurt, but the opportunity for some payback was too good to pass up. He saw one of Montilla’s heavies grab Laila by the hair and toss her to the ground.
Fuck that. She’d suffered enough.
His hands were shaking. Seeing double would totally affect his aim, but he’d seen Laila’s expression. She’d rather be dead than stay another minute in this hellhole.
But One-Mile didn’t intend to miss.
He pulled the trigger. The kickback was a bitch, but the thug jerked and stumbled. Laila screamed.
The asshole fell to the ground.
Josiah was there to scoop her up and wrap her protectively against his chest. Hunter, weapon in hand, flanked his back, signaling everyone with a wave of his arm to get the hell out now.
The team made a mad dash into the desert for freedom. Cutter’s every pounding footfall against the hard soil jarred him. He clutched the weapon and, through sheer will, watched as the floodlight he’d once been pinned under grew fainter and fainter in the distance.
He heard the whir of chopper blades nearby. Another undertow of dizziness threatened to pull him under. His strength gave out.
With suddenly limp fingers, he let go of the weapon. It clattered to the dirt.
Hunter scooped it up again, barking instructions. The cacophony scrambled his head; he couldn’t hear a word. But Cutter flung him down inside the cockpit. One-Mile caught a glimpse of the rivets in the domed top before his vision blurred over and blackness closed in.
His last conscious thought was that he hoped he’d regain consciousness, and that he’d be looking into a pair of soft amber eyes if he did.
* * *
Friday, September 12
Louisiana
When her phone chirped with the ringtone she had assigned Cutter, Brea lurched up in bed. She glanced at the digital clock as she grabbed her cell off the nightstand. Three thirty-four a.m. At that hour, she didn’t bother with hello. “Did you find Pierce?”
“Yeah.” Cutter’s voice sounded rough, grim. “It’s not good, Bre-bee.”
She shut her eyes as dread washed over her. She was almost afraid to ask what the cartel had done to Pierce. He’d been so big and vital, so larger-than-life. She couldn’t imagine him any other way. Brea didn’t want to harbor hate in her heart, but it festered and snarled for these savage people who pushed drugs on children and destroyed a man fighting for right.
But she dredged for her courage and asked what she was afraid to hear. “Is he still alive?”
“For now.”
“Where is he?”
“New Orleans, at Tulane Medical Center. The entire team went in to retrieve Walker. We’re all a little banged up, but we’ll be walking out this afternoon. If he makes it the next twenty-four hours, he’ll be down for a while.”
Brea bit her lip, but nothing held in her tears. The arm she curled around herself didn’t give her any comfort. She’d prayed and worried constantly since she’d learned he had been taken prisoner, but during the days and weeks before, when she hadn’t reached out, contacted him, begged God to save him… Those ate at her. The guilt consumed her.
“I’m coming there.”
But how could she do that? Her dad was recovering from another successful bypass surgery, which should keep his heart functioning for years to come, God willing. But he hadn’t been home long. He still needed nearly round-the-clock care. She owed it to him to make sure he got his meds and ate healthy meals, to see to his responsibilities at the church and his comfort…
“Why?”
Cutter wanted to know the reason she’d traipse across the state to show mercy to her rapist. Brea wasn’t wasting the time or energy to cut through his pigheadedness now. He wasn’t ready to hear that she’d fallen for Pierce. He might be her best friend…but he didn’t always understand her heart.
“He saved your life. For that alone, I’ll be eternally grateful. And he has no one else.” She defaulted to arguments he would understand. “And I show everyone Christian charity. It’s not my place to judge who deserves it and who doesn’t.”
“But I know you.” He sighed. “You won’t want to see another human being nearly beaten to death.”
Cutter’s description made her catch her breath. She had to go to Pierce. Her father was getting stronger every day. If the remorse she felt for not reaching out to Pierce since she’d last seen him ate her up, how much worse would her regret be if he didn’t pull through? Devastating. She needed to tell him that he’d touched her heart, that she would never forget him, and if God deemed it necessary, she would mourn him, bury him, and find some way to say goodbye.
“Please don’t treat me like I’m fragile. He’s endured this ordeal and fighting through all the resulting pain. It’s nothing for me to come to him, hold his hand, and pray.”
Cutter hesitated. “All right. Some of the others are heading up to Lafayette soon, but I’ll wait
for you here.”
“I’ll…call Jennifer. Hopefully, she’ll be willing to come watch over Daddy.”
“I have no doubt she will,” he said wryly. “Ring me from the road. It’ll be dark for most of your drive.”
“I will.”
Brea hesitated ending the call. Once she did, she would be severing the only line of information between her and Pierce. That scared her. The thought of him enduring such agony made her physically ache.
So often, she swallowed back tears in times of tumult or tragedy because she had to be the stalwart one. She almost always filled the role of someone’s prayer partner, helpmate, or rock. Today, she couldn’t hold in her sobs.
“Bre-bee…”
She sniffled and tried to quiet her tears. Between her father’s relapse and Pierce’s shocking captivity, she felt as if she’d been weepy all week. Knowing the man she’d fallen for might die was simply too much.
“I’ll be fine. I promise.” She hated lying to Cutter.
“You don’t have to come here. Really.”
“I do.” She needed to be with Pierce. “I’ll see you soon. Bye.”
Brea ended the conversation before he tried to talk her out of coming again.
In under twenty minutes, she called Mrs. Collins, dressed, threw a few things in a bag—just in case—promised to call later, and hopped in her car. As she pulled out of the driveway, she waved at the widow who’d vowed to take excellent care of her father.
Then she sped down the road.
Brea hated driving in the middle of the night. Some of Louisiana’s highways were a little narrow and a tad scary. A lot of it was over water, and she always had visions of accidentally driving off a bridge and into a swamp to become gator food. But now, she refused to let any of those fears stop her.
She would reach Pierce before dawn.
By the time she hit Lafayette’s southern outskirts, her phone was ringing. She and Cutter chatted off and on for the next two hours. No change in Pierce’s condition that Cutter knew of. He was in ICU. They were running tests. What he’d heard so far didn’t sound promising.
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