Disclaim (Deliver #3)

by Pam Godwin

  “Sure.” She sweetened her tone. “Just tell me who you work for.”

  He dropped his head back and fell still. Gaze-locked-on-the-ceiling still. Something seemed to settle over him, the tension in his body draining away. Resignation? The motherfucker better not be giving up.

  “Whatever you do to me,” he said, eerily calm, “his retaliation will be tenfold. You have no idea who you’re fucking with, you stupid cunt.”

  Tenfold? Maybe so. Whomever he worked for would probably go after his family.

  “I’m going to put maggots on this.” She traced a finger around the rotted cavern in his arm. “Move along the whole zombie thing you’ve got going on.”

  Tate grimaced, looking as nauseated as she felt. Liv somehow managed a bored expression.

  “Do it.” Larry closed his eyes. “I don’t fucking care.”

  Okay, forget the maggots. She jabbed the needle into the root of his dick.

  His back flew off the table, the rest of him restrained by straps as he screamed and flailed.

  Holding onto the syringe, she hovered her thumb over the plunger and waited for him to calm down. “When and where is the girl supposed to be dropped? Give me that, and I won’t rot off your junk.”

  He shook against a full-body spasm, his eyes bulging as he stared at the needle stuck in his delicate flesh. “Ten at night.” He spat out a month, a day, and GPS coordinates.

  Oh, thank fuck. It was only two days away, but she was ready, having tracked and hunted this operation for four years. Her veins sizzled with the need to finish this.

  As Tate left the garage to shout the coordinates to Van, she removed the syringe.

  Larry cried out in relief then glared at her with bloodshot eyes. “He’s going to kill you. You’ll beg for it before he’s done.”

  She tried not to let that threat worm its way inside her, but it penetrated her resolve and formed ice in the marrow of her bones.

  Shaking off the dread, she turned and found Liv drifting along the wall where dozens of dolls and mannequins hung from hooks. Van’s garage was a workshop. His little shop of glassy-eyed horrors.

  She took a step toward Liv then thought better of it. “Hey, Liv? You okay?”

  Liv stiffened, her hand lifting to smooth down her straight, black hair. “I used to hate these things. Part of me always will, you know?”

  When Van collected slaves, he also collected freaky plastic people. Now he made dolls out of leather and gave them to homeless kids.

  Still fucking creepy.

  Liv relaxed her posture and strode back to the table, her graceful legs encased in black denim. Her moods were difficult to follow, switching on and off like the masks she used to wear.

  “Did he tell you why he has a fascination with dolls?” Liv asked, tone silky soft.

  Camila shook her head. She and Van didn’t have a let’s-share-stories kind of relationship.

  Sadness etched Liv’s slender face. “Maybe he’ll tell you some day. It puts all of this”—she gestured at the wall of leather bodies—“into perspective.”

  Curiosity itched beneath her skin, but Van’s doll fetish would have to wait. Liv held out another syringe, this one with a thicker needle, the tube filled with Pentobarbital stolen from a vet clinic.

  As Camila reached for it, Liv pulled it back, her voice low. “Let me do this for you.”

  Liv had killed slave buyers with blades, bullets, and even her bare hands. She certainly had the stomach for it. But Camila had helped with some of them. She could do this.

  “Thank you.” She held out her hand. “This is nothing compared to what I have to do next.”

  “What are you planning, Camila?” Liv released the syringe, her expression a cold mask.

  A shiver rippled through her. That had been the tone Liv used when she held a whip, posed to strike. When Camila’s world had been confined to four windowless walls in a soundproof attic.

  Deep breath. She was here because she didn’t want other girls to end up in chains, where they would learn how to beg for an orgasm, how to stroke a man’s cock, and how to relax into the bone-rattling bite of a whip.

  She forced her attention on Larry, his eyes closed and breathing even. Passed out. Maybe already on his way to death.

  Aiming the syringe over his heart, she slammed it down and drove hard and fast. When his eyes flashed open, she depressed the plunger and held a finger over the pulse in his throat until his eyes closed and his heart stopped.

  She stood there for a moment, waiting to feel something. Like what? Killer’s remorse? Was that a thing? All she felt was purpose. It strengthened her backbone and energized her pulse.

  “Got to make a call.” She headed toward the door.

  Liv caught her arm and swung her back around. “What’s your next move, Camila?”

  That was the tricky part. Liv, Tate, none of her team would like it.

  “I’ll fill you in.” She pulled her arm from Liv’s grip. “But I have to deal with the body before it stinks up Amber’s garage.”

  Liv studied her face, probing too closely, too deeply. “You’re carrying a torch, girl. The damn flames are burning in your eyes. Someday soon, it’s going to devour you.” Liv’s expression softened. “You can’t save them all.”

  “I know.” But she could save a lot of them.

  In the kitchen, she grabbed a new burner phone from her bag on the counter and headed toward the front door.

  Van blocked her path, arms crossed over his chest. “Who do you call to deal with dead bodies?”

  “An old connection.” She trusted Van more than she ever thought possible, but she didn’t trust him with this.

  “What the fuck kind of connection? Liv said you did side jobs for some cartel. Are you bringing that shit to my front door?”

  She might’ve mentioned something along those lines at some point. She didn’t do anything for any cartel, but it was highly probable that her connection did. “I’ll move the body off the property. They won’t come anywhere near here.”

  His jaw stiffened. “The same thugs that were supposed to dispose of my body.”

  “Hey, man.” She held up her hands and met his frigid gray eyes. “I’m not the one who shot you.”

  His gaze turned inward. He scratched his shoulder—the old wound hidden beneath his shirt—and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Good thing Liv missed my heart.”

  Was that a good thing? Maybe so. If Liv had aimed true, Van wouldn’t have lived to help them in the most valuable way possible. Financially.

  “The thing I can’t figure out, though…” He narrowed his eyes. “How did you know I didn’t die? Liv says this guy, whoever you’re about to call, doesn’t have a way to contact you. If he didn’t tell you I wasn’t there…” He tipped his head to the side. “Were you watching the house?”

  “No, I…” Jesus fuck, this is an awkward conversation. “I went there to clean up the blood. Except you didn’t leave any behind, and your car was gone.”

  He nodded absently, seemingly absorbed in thought, so she slipped around him and opened the front door.

  “Camila.”

  Her breath caught. Christ, would she always flinch at the bark of Van’s voice?

  Standing behind her, he squeezed her shoulder and removed his touch. “I’m sorry.”

  For which part? Snatching her from her front yard? Tying her up? Spitting in her face? Shoving his cock in her mouth?

  “For everything.” His footsteps retreated, leaving her shaken and off-balance.

  Dammit, not the best frame of mind for the call she had to make.

  It had been four years since she’d spoken to Matias. Did his promise to always help her still hold true? What if his number was disconnected?

  Only one way to find out.

  Her heart hammered as she stepped into the chilly darkness and dialed.

  THE VIBRATION OF THE PHONE SHATTERED the chilly stillness in the SUV. Matias glanced at the screen, and a smirk pulled at his l
ips.

  There had been a time when a call from an unknown number had sent his heart rate into a frenzy. But that was years ago, before he’d invested in spies, surveillance, and drone technology.

  Parked on a barren road in the outskirts of rural Austin, he stretched out in the driver’s seat and met Nico’s gaze in the rear-view mirror.

  “You gonna answer that¸ careverga?” Nico dropped his head against the backseat and closed his eyes as if he didn’t give a fuck either way.

  The pompous ass had apathy down to an art. Nico could yawn through mass beheadings and play games on his phone during gunfights, but everything he did was calculated. His brutal intellect and mafia-style code of respect made him the most feared cartel capo in Colombia.

  Matias knew the man behind the reputation, though. He trusted Nico, not only with his life, but with Camila’s.

  “She made me wait four fucking years.” He held the vibrating phone in one hand and a wide screen tablet in the other. “I want to watch her sweat.”

  Live video streamed on the tablet, transmitted from a drone that circled four-hundred feet above Van Quiso’s cabin. The quadcopter’s modified cameras, with high-powered lenses and night vision, provided a bird’s eye view of her position on the front porch while remaining outside of her range of hearing.

  His phone cycled through another burst of vibrations and fell quiet.

  “Well done.” Nico’s voice, while monotone to an irritating degree, held a tinge of amusement. “If she doesn’t call back, you’ll be an unbearable hijueputa.”

  “She’ll call back.” Matias tapped on the image of her head, initiating the drone’s active track feature.

  The small, self-flying aircraft adapted to its surroundings, using sonar detection to avoid anything in its path as it followed her movements through the yard. The aerial footage flickered between nebulous and grainy, but when he magnified the picture, he could make out the pixelated curve of a hand as it raked through her hair.

  Was she thinking about him? Wondering if he was dead or alive? Probably cursing him for not answering the phone. What would she do if she knew he was parked less than a mile away, watching her?

  She paced a circuit across the front lawn, activating perimeter lights that illuminated her slender frame. She stopped, kicked at something in the grass, and raised a hand to her ear.

  His phone buzzed again. Unknown number.

  He found Nico’s reflection in the mirror and arched a brow.

  “Don’t look so smug, ese.” Nico loosened the knot on his tie. “She’ll run the other way as soon as she learns what you’ve done.”

  Camila didn’t run from anything. Not even when they were kids. No, she would look him dead in the eye. Then she would kill him.

  He placed the phone on the dash, set the call on speaker, and answered the way she expected. “Who is this?”

  “Hey. It’s been awhile, huh?” Her voice was strong, confident, but in the video, she doubled over, a hand braced on her knee.

  His insides constricted in sympathy, stirring up years of anguish. Did she resent the time and distance between them as much as he did? Not likely. If she did, she would’ve fucking called.

  He seethed with the urgency to go to her, drag her into the night, and chain her to his bed.

  Just like Van Quiso. Only worse. He would never let her escape.

  She would seethe and snarl and fight every step of the way, and he would absorb her hatred because, in the end, it’d all be worth it.

  His skin warmed despite the cool air blowing from the A/C. Adjusting the vents toward his face, he wrapped his voice in silken tones. “It’s been four years, mi vida. Where are you?”

  “You first.” Her blurry image resumed pacing. “Where do you live, and who do you work for?”

  He caught Nico’s glare in the mirror, those notorious eyes sharp with warning. Don’t you dare.

  “Ask me something meaningful.” He flicked his attention back to the screen. “What do you really want to know?”

  “Hmmm.” The drone lost her image as she stepped beneath a large oak tree. A moment later, she appeared on the other side, headed toward the sedan parked in the gravel driveway. “Are you…okay?”

  His breath hung in his throat. It was an unexpected question, but one he could answer honestly. “I will be when you come to me.” Willingly.

  “How would that work? Would we meet at Starbucks, smile over the rims of our tintos, and take turns asking questions that go unanswered? Or would we skip the bullshit and jump right into fucking and fighting?”

  “No quiero café. I want your smiles, your fighting, and your fucking.” His cock jerked. “I want you.”

  “If you wanted me, you would’ve found me. Unless you stayed away because…” She hummed, a husky, feminine sound. “You want me too much.”

  “You think I’m protecting you from myself?”

  If only he were that selfless. His hands were bound. Not in the way he intended to bind hers, because dammit, she didn’t have an excuse for avoiding him.

  Outrage hardened his voice. “Why haven’t you contacted me?”

  “You tell me,” she said, acid dripping from every syllable. “I don’t know what you do, what you’re involved in. I know your voice, but that’s where it ends. You’re a stranger. Would I even recognize you if I passed you on the street? For all I know, you’re an undercover cop with a wife and kids in the suburbs.”

  He didn’t blame her for being paranoid. Her hellfire mission to take down a very specific kind of criminal had led her to commit felonies that were punishable by death. But did she honestly believe he would betray her?

  “You don’t trust me.” He squeezed the steering wheel.

  “I trust you enough to ask for help.”

  “I see. And here I thought you called because you missed me.” Except he knew she’d brought an unconscious man to Van’s cabin. “You have something for me to get rid of?”

  “Yep.”

  “But you won’t be there when I collect it?”

  Silence.

  “How is that trusting me?” He watched the screen, mesmerized.

  “I trust you with this.” She sat on the hood of the car and lowered her head. “To stand by your word and not leave my package where someone could stumble across it.”

  The Austin PD never closed the missing person case on Camila Dias. The last thing he wanted was them to find her now and charge her with capital murder.

  “Will the package be there this time?” he asked.

  “Yeah. The last one”—she glanced up at Van’s house—“was a slippery sucker.”

  Not that slippery. When he’d arrived to collect Van’s body, the bastard was driving away from the house, bleeding from a shoulder wound and clinging to the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

  The situation had presented two options. Shoot her kidnapper in the head as he drove by or follow him.

  Following Van had been the best decision he ever made. A few weeks later, Van had led him to Liv Reed, who unknowingly took him right to Camila’s front door.

  That was four years ago. Four years of monitoring her impressive operation. He had the patience of a goddamn saint, but his intentions were far from benevolent.

  He wanted her with a vehemence, but the timing was crucial. The agonizing wait was so very close to being over he could feel the adrenaline coursing through his system.

  “Where am I picking up the package?” He knew she wouldn’t send him to Van’s property.

  As she gave him an unfamiliar address, he mapped it on the tablet. Enclosed by farmland and dirt roads, the drop was only ten minutes away. Of course, she assumed he was out of town. Otherwise, she would’ve dumped the body before she called him.

  This was the point in the conversation where she expected him to ask her shit like, What are you involved in? Who did you kill this time? What have you been doing the past four years?

  He needed more from her. Something deep
er, vulnerable. “Are you afraid?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, but you answered too quickly. Have you forgotten I know when you’re lying?”

  Silence stretched, followed by her sigh. “Maybe I am.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Maybe. Sometimes…” She jerked her head up.

  Something moved at the edge of the screen. A man came into view, approaching her with a human-size bundle rolled up in a sheet. Terrible goddamn timing.

  The camera angle shifted as she slid off the car and walked toward the house. “I need to go.”

  “We’re not finished.” He tensed, unable to dampen the vitriol in his voice. “Do not disconnect.”

  “Slow your roll, sparkle. I’ll call you right back.” She hung up.

  He slammed a fist into the dash, cracking an air vent and shooting a jolt of pain up his arm.

  “Feel better?” Nico asked dryly.

  “Fuck off.” He glanced at the rear-view mirror and met Nico’s eyes. “Did you get the address?”

  Matias could make the call to have the body picked up, but the order carried more urgency when it came directly from the boss.

  “Sí, pendejo.” Nico opened the back door and stepped out, his black suit made darker against the backdrop of the surrounding woods. Turning, he leaned back in and nodded at the tablet. “You need to put a leash on that. Fuck her ass into submission.”

  Hard to argue when fantasies of destroying every hole in her body had kept him in a hyper state of arousal for over a decade.

  Nico shut the door and paced away from the SUV, his profile stark against the glow of the phone at his ear.

  Neither of them had time for this side trip to Austin. Not with the heroin shipment arriving in Orlando tomorrow and the operatives they were currently moving across the Chihuahuan Desert. Smuggling drugs and terrorists into the States was a lucrative business, but risky as hell, especially with federal agents sniffing around the compound in El Paso.

  Nico sure as fuck didn’t want their resources allocated to an unprofitable cause like Camila Dias. But the man owed his power, his wealth, and every phlegmatic beat of his heart to Matias. Nico might bitch and argue, but he wasn’t going to tell Matias no.