Hearts On Fire (The Santiago Trilogy Book 3)

by Catherine Wiltcher

  We’re joined by a couple of others, while one sits a little way off in the corner, eyes glued to the camera security feeds on his laptop.

  “Have you heard any word from the team?” I ask Mateo.

  He shakes his head. “Not expecting to. We will know soon enough.”

  I strain my ears for the sound of distant sirens, anything that might point to his presence, but we’re in the middle of nowhere out here. There’s silence and isolation, and then there’s this place.

  “What else do you know about Manuel?” I ask him.

  Mateo shrugs. “There are some rumours that he is the half-brother of the jefe but I’m a soldier, señora. It is more than my life’s worth to spin stories.”

  “Manuel was Dante’s brother?” I nearly drop my plate in shock. “Does he know this?”

  “It is just a rumour, señora. You should ask your husband for the truth.”

  Just then the light above our head starts to flicker, accompanied by the hiss and spit of a defective current. The men are on their feet immediately, shouting in Spanish and crowding around the laptop to check on the security feeds.

  “What’s going on?” I say, rooted to my chair with fear. The light seems to right itself again but it’s a single moment suspended in hope. A second later the whole house is plunged into blackness. There’s a hum as the back-up generator kicks into action and then an angry whine as that fails too.

  The shouting increases all around me. By the light of the laptop, I can see the men loading their weapons and stuffing spare ammo into their back pockets.

  “Is there someone out there?” I cry at no one in particular but a high-pitched beeping drowns the last of my voice out.

  “The perimeter fence has been breached,” yells Mateo, grabbing my arm. “We need to move, señora!”

  Oh my god, this can't be happening again. All of a sudden I’m back in Africa, running for my life with Manuel and Sofía; hiding like animals in his secret bunker.

  “I need to call Dante!” I scream at him.

  “There’s no time for that!”

  That’s when I hear the sound of an approaching helicopter. Within seconds the noise is deafening. The light of the moon is temporarily blocked out as it hovers over the house and there’s a thud as something heavy lands on the roof.

  “They’re bypassing the infrared sensor guns on the gates and the porch,” yells a voice to my left. Next, I hear the chink of broken glass upstairs.

  “Back door. Now,” growls Mateo in my ear. “We’ll be safer in the forest. The men will cover us.”

  “Okay,” I whisper, blocking out every terrible thought that’s filling up my mind right now.

  “Can you shoot?”

  I nod, teeth chattering.

  “Good.” A handgun is thrust into my palm. “It’s fully loaded. There’s a way out through the basement. Let's go.”

  By the time we’re halfway down the steps, the first rounds of gunfire are starting. Mateo checks his phone as we stumble through a maze of storage boxes to reach the backdoor. I can see he has the security feed linked up to it.

  “There’s a camera right outside,” he explains hurriedly. “So far it’s clear. You need to head straight for the trees. Don’t stop, just keep on running, no matter what.” He forces a brief smile. “Good luck, señora. I will be right behind you.”

  Oh God, Dante, where are you? “Please don’t let them shoot me,” I whisper, clutching at his thick forearm. “I’m pregnant. I can’t lose this baby.” I can’t lose my life.

  Mateo squeezes my hand gently. “I will not let you down, señora. Trust me like you did Manuel. Can you do that?”

  I nod faintly. There’s something about this man that makes his words ring true. He’d lay down his life to protect me but I’m so done with men dying on my behalf.

  “Then let’s do this.” He inches the door open a fraction as the second act of gunfire plays out for us in the floors above. “Go,” he murmurs. “Remember, head straight for the trees.”

  “Thank you, Mateo.”

  It’s pitch-black without the light of his phone and we’re running blind for the first hundred yards. I’m too scared to look back at a house that’s currently being ripped apart by firepower but the cries of wounded men reverberate around my head. I can hear Mateo right behind me, his laboured breathing concurrent with my frightened gasps, and we hit the first line of trees at a full-on sprint, plunging headfirst into the forest. Sharp pine needles and branches scrape at my skin. I stumble and reach blindly in the dark for support, smacking the gun in my hand against a random tree trunk

  “Faster señora,” I hear him grunt. “Don't stop. Never stop.”

  The gunfire seems louder suddenly. It’s outside and gaining on us. I push my calf muscles as hard as I can, encouraging speed when I’m already spent. My lungs are burning pits of fire, and there’s a wetness on my face to match the tang of blood in my mouth. A loud thud sounds somewhere behind me but I keep on running. See Dante? I can obey instructions.

  My eyes are adjusting to the lack of light and the moon is allowing scraps of silver to penetrate the treetops, but it isn’t enough. My shins collide with something hard and immovable and I somersault to the ground with a cry. My face hits the forest floor first and an earthy taste intermingles with the blood as I lay on my side, gasping for breath.

  Splaying my hands out, I feel around for my gun, cursing with relief when my fingers close around the cold, hard steel. My joy turns to horror when I realize I’m all alone. Where’s Mateo?

  Silent tears start to marble my cheeks, streaking clean trails through the dirt. I don’t need or want them but they keep coming anyway. That memory is tapping at my door again.

  White room.

  Red light.

  Him.

  No! I shake my head and try to focus, feeling around with my fingertips again. There’s a tree trunk lying on the ground next to me. I must have tripped over it. I hunker down as close as I can and rub my throbbing ankle. It’s not broken but I definitely sprained it when I fell. The sounds of gunfire are distant and mingling with the noise of the forest now. An owl hoots above my shoulder. Something rustles the leaves next to me. I can't believe I left my iPhone on my nightstand. What the hell was I thinking?

  Pulling Dante’s sweater closer to me, I start carving out great chunks of dirt and pines needles from the damp ground. I can't run anymore. My ankle’s screwed. The best I can hope for is a decent hiding place.

  Minutes pass. I never knew I could feel this cold. I wrap my free hand around my belly, giving all my spare warmth to the life growing inside me.

  Has Dante been double-crossed again?

  Is he alive or dead?

  Did Sevastien win?

  I must have drifted off for a few moments before the rustle of footsteps jolt me awake. They’re close by. Adrenaline streaks like wildfire through my veins and I burrow deeper into my shallow ditch, tucking my knees into my chest and trying not to whimper when I knock my swollen ankle against the tree trunk.

  A couple of meters out, the footsteps stop. There’s a cough and a clearing of the throat that somehow filters through to my senses. I know that sound… It’s strangely comforting. It makes me think of Christmas dinners and birthday parties, of dancing in the rain, cotton candy and laughter. And then his deep voice cuts through the darkness.

  “Evie? Are you out there, sweetheart? Evie, we need to talk, and I’m not leaving here without you. You’ve been fed lies, baby girl. So many lies. But I’m here to put them straight. Just come out and we’ll talk.”

  I clamp my hand across my mouth, fighting an inner battle with myself not to scream out and reveal my hiding place to him. I never expected to feel this way. I was prepared to go to my grave and never see or speak to him again. I made my choice and he made his.

  I saw the photos. I know what he’s done.

  I hate him.

  But I love him too – a deep-rooted affection that’s been pounded into my soul and hel
d into place with spikes and cement. And why wouldn't I?

  He’s my father, after all.

  18

  Joseph

  Shit’s about to get real and Dante’s not a player in the game anymore. He’s lost focus. His head is all over the place. Something went down between him and Petrov but the Russian is being evasive as hell about it and he won't meet my eye. Every time I bring it up with Dante, he takes another swing at me.

  He’s like a robot going through the motions, standing there cool as fuck, outlining an ambitious Kill Rescue plan to two hundred men, but I know different. Outwardly, he’s the same savage uncompromising bastard that he’s always been, but there’s a misfire in his movements and damage in his eyes. I thought nothing could touch this man. I was wrong.

  Hanging back from the crowd, my mind flits to Eve. Is this something to do with what happened at the safe house? Does he know about the baby? We all heard her screaming. By the time I reached their bedroom door, she’d collapsed in his arms. It’s the first and only time I’ve ever seen Dante hesitate. It was just a flash, but it was there.

  “Grayson.” His sharpness cuts through my thoughts. “Transportation. All set?”

  “Twelve vehicles out back,” I reel off quickly. “If the streets are too hot, we’ve choppers standing by. The canals are narrow but we have boats if necessary. The jets are fuelled and ready to go.”

  “How much leeway do we have with the authorities?”

  “I’ve been assured thirty minutes from the first report of a disturbance,” says Petrov. “My contacts will scramble the signal.” He’s standing a little off to one side letting Dante direct the operation – a pocket-sized glitch next to all the six-footer Bratva, Americans and Colombians. He’s the second most ruthless man in the room, though.

  “T-minus thirty,” announces Dante. “Radios on. I need everyone in position.” He motions me over to him. “We’re walking in first. Reece can hang back with the car.”

  “And Petrov?”

  “He’ll enter the club ten minutes later with two of his men. If everything goes to plan, we’ll have twenty undercovers in there with us, fifty in and on the surrounding buildings, and the rest in the street behind. Exit’s fucked so we’ll just have to shoot our way out.”

  “Why change the habit of a lifetime,” I drawl, ending with a grimace.

  “Don't get smart with me, Grayson. I need you on the ball. You’re the best man I have.”

  I’ve never seen him this wired. Is he high? I can sense Petrov watching us so I shrug my shoulders and keep it simple. “Whatever you need. I’ll be there. ”

  Does he know I saw him chucking his guts up earlier? This man doesn’t do fear so something else caused it. I could live a hundred lives and never figure him out.

  “Let’s go,” he says, moving toward the warehouse doors.

  We change into regular clothes. Nothing fancy – jeans, shirts and jackets – and slip our weapons into waistbands and ankle straps. Reece drives us as close as he can to the address but the entrance is located on a pedestrian street so we’re forced to park up at one end to scope it out. It’s a strip club on the edge of De Wallen, Amsterdam’s Red Light District – an explosion of neon and vice that’s intersected with dirty canals and seedy punters. A stag party staggers past the vehicle, banging on the front hood and shouting crap at us through the window. Dante doesn’t even notice. He’s staring off into the distance again.

  “Do something for me, Joseph,” he says suddenly, still gazing out of the window. “If things go tits-up, look after Eve.”

  “Is there some dark premonition I should know about?” I drawl, while screaming fuck, fuck, fuck at the top of my lungs inside. If Dante has a bad feeling, we’re all screwed. Whatever happens, we need to get Anna out. That’s if she’s still alive… It’s a fifty-fifty, as far as I’m concerned.

  “Contingency,” he says tersely. “There’s also this.” He produces a brown envelope from his jacket, leans into the front seat and stuffs it into the glove compartment, slamming the door with a bang. “Make sure she gets it. She’ll know what to do.”

  “What the shitting fuck?” I exclaim, exhaling in a rush. “We stopped writing those kind of front-line letters in the military.”

  “Stop bugging me. It’s not what you think.”

  “I put my life on the line for you every single day, Santiago, so don’t give me the brush off like I’m one of your ex-whores.” I’m fucking furious with him now. If he loses concentration, we’re all dead. “What did Petrov say to you?”

  He turns to face me, eyes running dark and wild. Challenging me to push him further so he’ll have the excuse to pound my head into the window. “He found my daughter.”

  Oh shit.

  “Where?”

  “Bucharest. That club we raided. I was slitting that cunt’s throat and all the while I was stood twenty feet from her body.”

  Double fucking shit.

  “Dante–”

  “Just shut up and listen,” he says, interrupting me. “As soon as we step into that club tonight I won't be able to contain it. I won't stop until they’re all dead. I won't have any control anymore. Do you understand?” He looks away again, breathing hard.

  I’m left staring at the back of his head. Men like us don’t offer consolation, it’s not in our DNA. Anyway, what would I say? What could possibly make it better? The pain of losing a child is the kind of raw that never heals, but the pain of losing one in these circumstances...?

  “What about the living?” I say, grabbing his arm. “I’m not telling Eve that her husband of two days is in a morgue because he went fucking psycho on me.”

  “Tell her what you want,” he grits out, pushing me away, but I know, despite all his words to the contrary, that it’s hurting him to say it. “I’m not backing down now.”

  “No one is asking you to back down, Dante. Every mofo in that place is six feet under already. All I’m saying is don’t get reckless in there. You owe Eve as well.”

  “Not tonight I don’t.”

  “Wait here,” I yell at Reece as Dante explodes from the SUV. The recruit shifts his eyes to the rear view mirror and nods. “And keep the engine running.” I re-check my weapon again, slamming the clip back in before taking a breath. “Amsterdam’s about to get a reckoning.”

  19

  Dante

  Mercy is for the weak. I should have killed her nineteen years ago in my father’s kitchen. I should have smothered her face with that rag and walked away like I’d planned. What difference would it have made? My soul was compromised already. I could have saved her ten years of misery without even realizing it.

  We’re nearly at the club’s entrance. Each step I take draws me back to my past and further away from Eve. Twenty...twenty-one…twenty-two… She’s my moon, but a total eclipse of my darkness is blocking her light out again. I thought the worst was over. I thought I could control it. The future was a shifting possibility, yet it was ours for the molding…

  Everything went to hell the moment Petrov slapped his envelope down on the table. His words are the only ones reverberating around my head now.

  I tell myself that she’ll understand if I die here tonight in a blaze of vengeance. That she’ll forgive me if I get her friend out first. I know I’m fooling myself. Even if I survive, the man who returns to her bed will be very different to the one who left it.

  Large display windows framed with pink neon occupy the front of the club. Four semi-naked women are incarcerated inside, screaming oppression with their eyes and sex with their bodies. They bang on the glass to get our business and I mouth one word to them as we pass.

  “Run.”

  Their faces pale in comprehension beneath their heavy make-up, and a grim smile touches my lips. That's right, ladies, you should be scared. I’m about to blow the whole place sky high.

  It’s too easy. The men on the door barely look at us. If we didn't know the whole thing was a set-up from the get-go, we would have sme
lt a rat at the first pass.

  We give the names that Marco instructed us to and some hostess with her tits hanging out directs us away from the main stripper stage and up two flights of stairs. Here, the hallway opens up into a massive loft conversion, spanning the length of several buildings. The CCTV cameras on the walls follow our every movement as we bleed seamlessly into the crowd.

  “Can I get you a drink gentlemen,” purrs another hostess, eyeing me up with interest.

  “Bourbon,” I snap. “Make it quick.”

  “What is this, a fucking drinks party?” mutters Joseph, looking around at all the well-dressed patrons, many of whom are in suits and ties.

  There’s no carnival of neon up here. The seediness of the club seems to be confined to the lower floors only. It’s like a goddamn art gallery, and I can't be doing with that shit. Bi-focal doors spanning the length of one wall offer up the space to the Amsterdam skyline. The rest of the room comprises of exposed brickwork and crystal chandeliers. It’s more Manhattan than De Wallen… No trafficked women in here. Then I look right and see the cages, and my blood turns to fire and ice.

  There are seven in total, all suspended from the ceiling and just big enough to hold the broken birds inside them. Joseph follows my gaze and goes very still.

  Eve’s friend occupies the one in the middle, and she’s not in good shape. All her clothes are missing with the exception of her underwear, and her stomach, arms and thighs are studded with dirt and bruises. Forced to stand for God knows how long, her face is tilted forward, her matted blond hair falling in dejection, and her eyes shut tight to the horror unfolding all around her. She’s doing her damndest to cover her naked chest but her arm keeps slipping from exhaustion. All the girls are in the same pathetic state.