I switch on the radio to keep myself sharp, and some rock singer starts wailing about getting his dick sucked. The night is clear and warm. The slit of a moon reminds me of a part of her I want swollen, glistening and laid open for me.
I’m a mile out from Santa Perdida, traveling on a road that’s more ditch than dirt, when a red Renault goes flying past me pushing all the limits, forcing me to swerve out of the way, my tires skidding on the loose stones.
“Godammit!” I roar, flicking my middle finger at the dark-haired driver, but she’s long gone. “Son of a fucking bitch!”
Five minutes later, I’m rolling into a small village that’s more night than houses, and parking up next to a small bar with a cracked window and a neon Coca-Cola sign that’s flickering on and off.
I can tell something’s off right away. Call it the sudden surge of ice in my veins, or the fact that the village’s entire population is standing outside their houses in various states of undress and staring at me.
Hitting reverse, I park a hundred yards away and grab my gun, tucking it into the back of my jeans as I exit the vehicle.
I can't see shit through the windows of the bar. The blinds are down and the door is locked, but the whole situation stinks of wrong.
“What happened here?” I reel off in Spanish to a man lurking nearby. He ducks his head and disappears back into his home like a frightened animal.
“Is there another entrance?” I snarl at another. He nods and points to a small pathway that’s dividing two tiny houses like a dirty black tributary.
The pathway loops around to a small yard. The back door is wide open. Pulling out my gun, I approach cautiously, the hairs on the back of my neck sticking up like needles.
I smell the bodies before I see them. Three. One still has his dick hanging out of his pants, which turns my body an even paler shade of blue.
Where the fuck is Anna?
I kick the casualty lying closest to me, and his head rolls sideways. The left side is all mashed up and bloody. White bone. Gray matter. Someone shot the bastard, point-blank range, but I still recognize him. Alberto Fernandez. Alejandro Fernandez’s son… Jesus Christ. Whoever pulled the trigger here just started a fucking cartel war.
The corpse is still warm. I need to get out of here and fast. I’m standing in a bar with a gun that may as well be smoking with three dead cartel boys lying at my feet.
I’m halfway back to the car when the night air comes alive with the sound of engines. I curse and break into a run, reaching for the door as the first bullets pepper the side panel.
“I’m not your fucking target, assholes!” I yell, but the assholes aren’t listening, judging by all the screams of “colgó los guayos” and “dead man” painting the streets. They’re of the ‘kill now, ask questions later’ persuasion, and I’m not hanging around to change their minds.
“Fuck!” I slam the shifter into drive as a couple more bullets caress the front windshield. Fortunately, Gomez had the foresight to lend me a bulletproof vehicle so the metal and glass are still holding together as I half-donut to get the hell out of the village.
My horizon is a wall of Jeeps, automatic weapons and unforgiving faces.
I slam the brakes on and hit reverse, the jarring cobblestones doing jack-all to calm my nerves as another round of bullets scratch the paintwork. I keep going though, hitting the end of the street and swinging a tight one-eighty to the sounds of running footsteps and shouting as the car suddenly stalls.
“Motherfucker,” I roar, turning over the engine as a face appears at my window. I watch his expression drop in shock and recognizion as I slam my hand down on the lock system and hit the gas, his lips still curling around the name that haunts me:
El Asesino
Double fuck.
I exit the village a hell of a lot quicker than how I entered it, managing to circumnavigate a route that requires dodging stray livestock before I’m flying over the fucking potholes again with a trail of angry engines a couple of hundred yards behind. Thanking God I’m driving a decent car and not a….
Renault.
Jesus.
Christ.
Was that her?
I’m pushing ninety as I fly out onto the main road and stay that way until I spot a couple of lone farmhouses up on my right. Killing the headlights, I turn into the courtyard of one and wait a couple of minutes for the cavalry to pass, and then I’m rolling backward and heading in the opposite direction.
I have Gomez on the phone before I’m hitting top speed.
“What make of car does she drive?” I demand.
“Who?”
“The Martinez girl. What car?”
“Hang on…” The line goes dead for a moment. “Red Renault. Why?”
Fuuuuuck.
“Get a call out to every bent cop and sicario you know. Check motels, bars, gas stations, hospitals… I want it located. Start with a forty-minute radius from Santa Perdito and work outward.”
“You gonna tell me what’s going on, Señor?” Gomez sounds pissed, but I’m about to make his day a whole lot worse. Alejandro Fernandez is going to be screaming for both our heads.
“We have a big problem,” I tell him grimly. “Hold that thought while I get Santiago on the line.”
16
Anna
My world is upside down. Nothing new to me there... Still, I’m used to my head and my heart feeling the spin, not so much the rest of me.
I blink, and then blink again, trying to make sense of my crumpled metal box. We must have flipped over. My head is wedged against what’s left of the door panel and the seatbelt is cutting off the circulation in my shoulder and chest.
Outside, the night is eerily quiet, save the hissing of a dead engine leaking oil and gas all over the asphalt that’s inches away from my face.
How long was I out for?
It’s still nighttime—that great pretender with its air of calmness and its false crescent moon. The road is still empty. The only light is coming from a vehicle parked behind the total wreckage that used to be Vi’s car.
Vi.
“Hey,” I whisper urgently, trying to turn my head to shake her awake, but my body’s too twisted up. “Vi, talk to me. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” comes an answering croak, followed by a muffled thud as she releases her seatbelt and falls to a heap on the roof-stroke-floor. “Hijueputa! You’re a worse driver than I am, Anna.”
“Was it them? Did they hit us from behind?” I brace myself as she reaches for my seatbelt fastening too. “Crap!” A second later, I’m making my own crumpled heap beside her, landing awkwardly on what’s left of the steering wheel and bruising my lower ribs. Right away, my stomach starts roiling from the stench of gas fumes.
Nothing’s broken. I can tell that much. But there’s a nasty gash on my arm and it’s turning everything around me wet and red.
“Shhh,” hisses Vi. “Someone’s out there.”
She’s right. There’s a man’s voice. He’s speaking in rapid Spanish and it’s coming from close-by. Two shoes appear next to the broken passenger seat window of our topsy-turvy car, but he doesn’t bend down to check on us.
Bastard.
“He’s not cartel,” she tells me as he moves away again, sliding onto her side with a soft groan. “He’s a nobody. Probably a drunk... He’s calling the cops right now.”
We don't have much time.
“Grab the gun,” I tell her, attempting to roll onto my front, but there’s no room to move and everything is covered in broken glass.
She passes it to me without a word. “You going kill him too, parcera?”
I catch the gleam in her eye and it scares me a little. Tonight, we’re standing on the wrong side of a line that good girls don’t cross, but I’m guessing neither of us has been one of them for a while. It’s how far we venture into the dark, dark wood beyond that’s the defining question.
“Not this time,” I whisper, taking it loosely in my rig
ht hand and ignoring the blinding pain in my arm. “But our ride got busted up, and we have a Colombian cartel on our tail, so I’m figuring we might just need his car.”
17
Joseph
The motel gleams white in the darkness; a cruise ship lost at sea with nothing on its horizon. It’s miles from anywhere, set between the cities of Cali and Neiva, and it’s the only building I’ve come across in the last twenty minutes of driving. The half-dozen or so cars parked out front are like life raft vessels already deployed for the eager to escape. Judging by the state of the place, you’d have to be pretty fucking desperate to stay.
I pull into a spot near reception and sit there, engine idling, scoping the scene out with practiced eyes. The car that they stole isn’t hard to spot. It’s parked at the end of the row, angled away from the road to shield the plates. I know the tricks… I’ve been in this game a hell of a lot longer than they have.
She’s here. I can feel it in my veins. My dick is a fucking barometer to her presence, and I’m hard as stone. First, I want answers, and not just about the three dead bodies that Dante Santiago’s going ape-shit over a thousand miles away.
As I watch, their motel door swings open, and a woman with long dark hair emerges. She’s young, attractive…beaten. Even from twenty yards away, I can make out her swollen eye socket. She glances up and down the parking lot, and then she’s heading toward the vending machine.
Exiting the vehicle, I prowl toward her, keeping in the shadows where I belong. I’m only a meter out when she turns, her senses kicking into action. Moving swiftly, I clamp my hand across her mouth and push her into a dark corner away from the view of reception and the rest of the motel.
Her eyes are wide with shock, her breathing rapid like a frightened animal’s against my skin. For a moment, I swear we’ve met before, but I push that supposition from my mind. It’s not my job to care three shits about who or what she is. My job is to keep her alive.
“Don't scream,” I murmur. “I know you speak English, so don’t give me any of that no comprendo, no entiendo crap. It’s been a long night and my temper is close to the fucking edge. Nod if you understand.”
She does as she’s told, her movements jerky despite the two dark fireballs being directed at me. This woman is a hellcat. How the fuck did she and my broken doll fall so far into trouble together? I see her glance at the tattoo on my left bicep, and the fireballs grow even wider.
Interesting.
“You were born in Colombia, Miss Martinez, so you know that tattoo. I’m guessing by the state of you, you’ve already figured out who I am, am I right?”
She nods again, and I can feel her chest rising and falling against my forearm in a frantic motion. And so it fucking should. My time spent serving the devil in his country has been scored in bloody welts across my back. Everyone knows my name.
“Is she in the room?”
This produces the first faint whimper from her.
I press my hand further into her mouth. “I’m taking that as a yes. Is she hurt?”
Her dark brows furrow. I’ve caught her off guard with my concern.
“Is she hurt?” I grit out, repeating my words with more than a hint of impatience.
This time she shakes her head, and I feel like Hercules on a timeout as the weight slips from my shoulders. I reach into my left jacket pocket, my hand closing around the needle I’ve already prepped.
“Don’t take this personally, sweetheart,” I say, pressing the sharp point against the soft crease of her neck, subduing her struggles easily as I slide the needle home. “But me and Anna have some serious shit to sort out, and you’re cramping my style.”
* * *
I carry Viviana Martinez to the car and lay her down gently across the back seat. I’ve given her enough desflurane to knock her out for a couple of hours, so I find a rug in the trunk and cover her bare legs in case the temperature drops. I grit my teeth as that annoying sense of familiarity creeps up on me again. Who the hell is this woman, Dante?
I slam the door and make my way toward their motel room, pausing outside to listen to the sound of running water. She’s in the shower. Hot. Wet. Naked. That thought alone does even wilder shit to my dick.
Her friend left the door unlocked. I flick the lights off as soon as I slip inside, using the torch on my cell to locate the first of the two double beds. I make myself comfortable, the worn springs objecting as they take my weight, dipping low and uneven like all cheap mattresses do.
The room smells of stale cigarette smoke and the faintest traces of orange blossom and vanilla.
Her.
My dick’s pulsing against the inside zipper of my jeans. The shower is still going strong, but any second now the water will shut off, a towel will slake the droplets from a body I’ve been lusting after for too long, and then she’ll be mine.
Finally.
I chuck my gun on the frayed brown quilt next to me, shrug my jacket off and lie back, my elbows taking all the weight. The seconds tick. Our roads meet. My anticipation is scratching up the back of my throat and making my jaw ache. My dead brother’s face flashes before my eyes, and I see his sun. I see his light. He never burned as brightly as she does, though.
I take a deep breath and I hear the roar of a Black Hawk in the whirring fan above my head. I take another, and I let the past lie still for once.
And then… Then I wait for my future to open the bathroom door.
18
Anna
The water burns like hell, but I find myself turning the faucet for even more heat. It’s like I’m trying to scour my sins away, and I continue like this until I’m gasping and spluttering beneath the liquid fire. I’m imagining those sins as a black liquid spiraling down the plughole instead of the pale pink streams gathering around my toes.
My arm won't stop bleeding. It's deep and sore. I need a couple of stitches, but Vi’s aunt’s place is still a three-hour drive away. We only stopped here to take in a couple of deep breaths and grab some food. She’s already assured me that her aunt has some medical training and is used to patching up her scrapes.
I’m trying not to read into that too much. I’ve boxed it up, along with the dangerous gleam in her eye earlier and the offer to kill Joseph. This night is a sheet wrapped tight around us. The more bad stuff we do, the more our pasts are ripping at the material and unveiling all our dirty little secrets to one another.
The yellow motel towel stinks of mildew. The brushed cotton is threadbare and worn. I use it sparingly, before dressing in my T-shirt and panties, and rubbing the worst of the wetness out of my hair with my good arm. Once done, I throw the disgusting towel back on the rack, wrap another around my wound, and open the door.
The pitch-black bedroom jumps out at me like a bad surprise.
“Vi?” I call out hesitantly. There’s no power outage because the bathroom lights are still working. “Hey, are you asleep—?”
I take a single step into the darkness, and that’s when the scent of musk and leather hits me.
No!
I spin back to the bathroom, but he grabs my good arm and throws me up against a nearby wall as his Colombian nickname rings out like an alarm bell in my head.
My killer.
My savior.
My shadow.
“How did you find me?” I gasp out, cringing against the crumbling plasterboard. My eyes won’t adjust to the dark quickly enough. I’m back in the alleyway again, sensing the outline of his anger before I see his face.
“You might be a rookie to this game, Luna,” he says, twisting his endearment from sweet to sour. “But some of us have been living this shit for a while.”
He lets go of me, caging me in with his words and his huge physique instead. Blue jeans. Black jacket. White T-shirt covered in red… With a start I realize he’s still wearing the same clothes from yesterday.
“Joseph—”
“Don’t.” I catch the movement of him shaking his head in the glow from t
he bathroom light. “I’ve traveled too long and too far to fall for your stupid tricks again. Did you think I wouldn't find you, Luna? Who the fuck do you think I am?”
He’s mad. Really mad. What the hell did I expect?
“Where’s Vi?” I croak.
“Your partner in crime?” His Texan drawl is in full, disdainful flow. “She’s safe.”
“Tell me where she is!” I try to spring away from the wall and go careering into a hard barrier of muscle instead. My whole body ignites from the connection. The damp spark that I’d thought was gone forever catches like wildfire, stealing all the thoughts from my head.
“You’ll find out soon enough. Are you going to tell me what went down in that bar in Santa Perdito, or am I going to have to fuck a confession out of you?”
My breath catches again. He knows what I’ve done.
“You don't fuck broken,” I counter, almost sounding disappointed as I take another stumbling step across that invisible line. He’s so close I could turn my head and kiss him if I wanted to. My nipples are pushing against the fabric of my T-shirt. The constriction of my panties is unbearable.
“You’re not so broken now though, Anna, are you?” he says, tempting me with his declaration. Daring me to believe it. “I notice you’re not flinching away from me anymore. Tell me, who has a bigger monopoly on sin, the bad guy or the bad girl?”
I go very still.
“Hazard a guess, sweetheart,” he prompts. “Fucking humor me, for old time’s sake.”
My mouth remains a tight line. My eyes finally adjust to see his gray-blues glinting at me like chips of ice.
Shadow Man: Grayson Duet: Book One Page 10
