by Pam Godwin
Contents
Copyright
Disclaimer
Part 1
1
2
3
4
5
6
Part 2
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
Part 3
30
31
32
33
34
35
Other Books by Pam Godwin
Knotted Chapter 1
Other Books by Pam Godwin
Acknowledgments
About Pam Godwin
Copyright © 2019 by Pam Godwin
All rights reserved.
Editor: Fairest Reviews Editing Services
Proofreader: Lesa Godwin
Cover Designer: Pam Godwin
Interior Designer: Pam Godwin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review or article, without written permission from the author.
Visit my website at pamgodwin.com
The books in the DELIVER series are stand-alones,
but they should be read in order.
DELIVER (#1)
VANQUISH (#2)
DISCLAIM (#3)
DEVASTATE (#4)
TAKE (#5)
MANIPULATE (#6)
UNSHACKLE (#7)
DOMINATE (#8)
COMPLICATE (#9)
Ciudad Hueca, Mexico
Two years ago
What a suck ass day.
To think, it started out so lovely and perfect.
Since Tula Gomez didn’t have to go into work, she’d decided to make it a bra-less, drink-wine-at-noon, binge-on-Hellraiser-movies, and masturbate-more-than-once kind of day.
Until her phone rang.
She should’ve sent her sister’s call to voicemail.
She should’ve let Vera ruin someone else’s day.
But she didn’t.
She answered the damn phone and surrendered to Vera’s demands.
Instead of slumming in her pajamas on the couch, she spent the past six hours on the road, driving toward the last city on Earth she wanted to visit.
When she crossed the New Mexico-Texas border two-hundred-miles back, her mood had spiraled past annoyance and straight into pissed-off.
She eased her Jeep Wrangler forward in the stop-start traffic, trying not to ride the old clutch. If the manual transmission decided to go out, today would be the fucking day.
Wavy lines of heat rose from the scorched asphalt. Horns blared, and some idiot a few cars back blasted his bass so loud it rattled the frame of her poor Jeep.
She grabbed her phone and redialed her sister. “Come on, Vera. Pick up.”
As it rang, she inched along with hundreds of other border-crossing commuters lined up at the Mexico port of entry.
The phone continued to ring. And ring. Why wasn’t Vera answering her calls?
“Dammit!” Tula gritted her teeth at the sound of the voicemail greeting. “This is bullshit.”
She disconnected and gripped the steering wheel, vacillating between turning back home and speeding toward hell.
Home was a one-bedroom apartment two states away in Phoenix, Arizona, where everything in her world was safe, normal, orderly, and stress-free.
Hell was her childhood colonia in Ciudad Hueca, Mexico, where Vera still lived. Her younger sister thrived in chaos, drama, and danger—all the things Tula had run away from when she moved to the states.
Her visits to Mexico were infrequent and made only out of obligation to Vera.
She didn’t shun her Mexican roots, but it had taken her a long damn time to go through the naturalization process to become a U.S. citizen. She was a proud American and a law-abiding taxpayer, who worked nine to five as a high school Spanish teacher.
Her peaceful, boring life suited her just fine. If she never stepped foot across the border again, she would be just fine with that, too.
But Vera was family. Her only living relative. And her sister needed her.
God only knew what sort of mess Vera had landed in this time. When she called this morning, the shitty connection had chopped up the short conversation into a few staticky words.
Some trouble.
Need you.
Come now.
Bring money.
When the connection had cut off, Tula called back, again and again, with no luck. None of her questions had been answered, and she had very little to go on.
Except Vera’s track record.
Last time Vera called, she needed help kicking her thieving loser boyfriend to the curb. The time before that, she’d been abandoned a day’s drive from home without money or a ride back. There were dozens of other situations over the years, and Tula always, begrudgingly, came to the rescue.
It wasn’t a secret Vera hung out with the wrong people. Living in Ciudad Hueca, it was easy to become entangled with cartels.
Tula’s nagging pleas to stay away from them fell on deaf ears, and their relationship became resentful and strained. But at the end of the day, all they had was each other.
She attempted several more phone calls while trudging along in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Rows of cars pressed in on all sides, filled with people whose frustration rivaled her own. Road rage simmered like the summer heat, all of it weighing on her with each passing minute.
An hour later, she made it through the port of entry and took the safest route toward her childhood home.
Not that there was a safe route. Ciudad Hueca was going through a volatile time. As a border city, it was perfectly located for drug distribution throughout the United States. This made it extremely valuable to cartels, turning it into one of the most fought-over territories in the country.
Since Vera refused to move to the states, Tula stayed abreast of the local news and crime here. Two violent drug cartels battled for dominance, street by street, to control the lucrative drug-trafficking routes.
Driving through her hometown, alone and unarmed, was dangerous as hell.
She kept pepper spray in her Jeep just for these visits. But no guns. Given her inexperience with weapons, she’d end up shooting herself during an attack.
As a precaution, she’d topped off the gas tank in Texas to avoid an extra stop in Mexico. No lingering. No shortcuts.
The five-hundred dollars in cash she’d stuffed in her purse would have to be enough to fix Vera’s mess. Tula planned to stay three hours tops, confirm Vera’s well-being with her own eyes, and return to the U.S. before nightfall.
Around three in the afternoon, she arrived at her childhood colonia on the outskirts of the city. Rundown businesses, rugged streets, and a few trees encircled the tiny, concrete-block house where she and Vera were raised.
Between the two of them, Vera had been closer to their mother. When they lost their only parent to heart disease five years ago, Vera kept the house.
That was about the time Vera started her downward spiral into trouble.
Tula parked in front of her childhood home and leaned over the steering wheel, inspecting the empty street and surrounding h
ouses. No one lingered around the property. No gunfire nearby or in the distance.
It hadn’t always been this unsafe. She left home at age eighteen, and in the ten years she’d been in the states, Ciudad Hueca had grown chaotically. Its tax revenue went to Mexico City, and not much came back. Law enforcement rationed gasoline and bullets. Basic infrastructure—schools, roads, sewers, parks—went to shit.
The city was in a state of disrepair, much like the sagging roof of her childhood home.
She grabbed the pepper spray, her purse, and the house key she still kept on her keyring. Then she bolted to the front door.
The key turned the lock, and she stepped in without knocking. “Hello? Vera?”
Silence hit her, along with the usual weight of nostalgia.
Good times. Bad times. No major tragedy. Just the usual poverty and a mother who was anxious to get Tula grown up and moved out. One less mouth to feed.
She made a quick sweep through the sitting room, kitchen, and two bedrooms before confirming what she already knew.
Her sister wasn’t home.
Despite Vera’s haphazard approach to life, she maintained a tidy, clutter-free house. Not a single dirty dish in the sink. No dust on the furniture or cobwebs in the corners. Nothing lying around to indicate where she was.
With a sigh, Tula called her again.
No answer.
“Shit.” She stared at the front door, tapping the phone against her chin.
Vera usually had a job, but never a steady one. She bounced through employers as fast as she went through boyfriends. If she was at work, Tula didn’t know where that was.
Over the next ten minutes, she dared a walk outside, knocking on neighboring houses. Three doors opened for her, and all the responses were consistent.
No one had seen Vera in weeks.
Panic set in.
Why would she tell Tula to drive here, if she wasn’t home? Where the fuck did she go?
Indecision sent her pacing through the house, rifling through drawers, and digging in closets. The hunt for clues led nowhere.
“Fuck!” She lowered to the couch and squeezed her fingers around the phone.
Should she leave? What if Vera was on her way here? Maybe she was staying with a new boyfriend and lost her phone after the call dropped this morning?
“Damn you, Vera.” Tula slumped deeper into the couch and waited.
And waited.
Three hours later, the sun dipped low on the horizon, signaling the darkness to come.
Vera still wasn’t answering the phone. Tula must’ve left over fifty voicemail messages.
She couldn’t risk being caught in the city after nightfall.
Time to go.
Nervous energy trembled through her as she opened the freezer in the kitchen and hid some money in a carton of ice cream. Vera would eventually call, and Tula would tell her where to find the cash.
She kept two-hundred dollars, stuffing the bills into her back pocket, in case she needed it on the drive home.
Then she left.
Taking the shortest route to the U.S. border, she itched to hit the gas and speed as fast as the Jeep would go. But she forced herself to drive the speed limit and keep a low profile through the rougher parts of the city.
Signs of violence and strife haunted every corner. Roadside memorials, flowers, and lit candles marked sites of death. Young men gathered under awnings, buying and selling drugs. Girls, too young to be out after dark, solicited sex on every street.
These people were survivors. She didn’t judge them, but she also didn’t trust them.
She didn’t trust the local police, either.
The Mexican military had been brought in to put a stop to the cartels and the drug war. But they were all part of the corruption.
Everyone and anyone could’ve been a target. If a police officer decided to pull her over, she would be at his mercy.
As she drove through the heart of the city, she spotted a sedan with tinted windows in the rear-view mirror a few cars back.
Was that the same sedan that was behind her when she left Vera’s house? Her pulse sprinted into a gallop.
Stop it. You’re just paranoid.
Following the GPS on her phone, she veered down a side street.
The sedan turned with her.
Her heart thrashed in her ears, and a hot lump formed in her throat.
Why would anyone trail her? She was a nobody schoolteacher from Phoenix, driving a worthless hunk of metal.
She turned down another road to see if the sedan would follow. When it didn’t, she released a heavy breath.
“Oh, thank fuck.” She wiped a clammy palm on her jeans. “Jesus, Tula. Way to get yourself all worked up over noth—”
A car flew out of the intersection in front of her and slammed on its brakes.
She skidded to a stop, narrowly avoiding a collision with it.
Blinking rapidly, she schooled her breathing and stared at the car.
Another black sedan with tinted windows.
Dread hardened her stomach, and a chill tingled across her scalp.
What the hell was going on?
The sedan blocked her path and didn’t attempt to move. The doors didn’t open, and the window tint concealed the occupants.
Alarms fired inside her, her instinct screaming to get the hell out of there and fast.
She shoved the Jeep into reverse just as a huge military truck appeared over the hill straight ahead.
Mexican soldiers in helmets, green uniforms, and sunglasses jogged alongside the armored vehicle. They gripped assault rifles and machine guns and headed directly toward her.
She gulped for air, her fingers frozen on the stick shift.
Had she driven into a battle zone? Or was something going down in one of the buildings behind her?
With the gear shift in reverse, she glanced at the rear-view mirror.
Another sedan pulled in behind her, barricading her.
No, no, no.
Her blood pressure careened toward detonation.
She eased out of reverse and dropped her phone into her purse. Hooking the strap over her shoulder, she gripped the pepper spray, prepared to run on foot.
Until the soldiers swept in around the Jeep and raised their rifles.
“Get out!” The man beside her door tapped his machine gun against the window. “Now!”
They were here for her? Why? What did she do wrong?
She dropped the pepper spray and held up her hands, her entire body trembling as she twisted toward him.
Apparently, she moved too slow. He yanked the door open and wrenched her out with his gun in her face.
In a blur of uniforms, she was pushed against the hood of the Jeep, face down with her feet kicked apart. They pawed through her pockets and dug through her purse while other soldiers held her in place.
Her palms slicked with sweat, and adrenaline coursed through her system, shutting down her ability to think clearly.
“What’s going on?” she asked in Spanish, her heart pounding painfully. “What do you want?”
“Petula Gomez?” A soldier shoved her passport in her face.
It took her a second because honestly, only her mother had called her Petula. “Yes.”
“Gomez?”
“Yes, that’s my passport.” Ice trickled down her spine. “Why are you asking?”
The man tossed her I.D. into her purse. “Arrest her!”
It happened so fast. One minute, she was bent over the hood of her Jeep. The next, she lay in the cargo hold of an armored vehicle with her arms handcuffed behind her.
Soldiers sat around her, guns in hands, faces stern, refusing to answer her questions.
Terror attacked her in waves, chattering her teeth and locking her joints. She couldn’t stop trembling, couldn’t catch her breath. She feared for her life.
The truck rumbled into motion, and her heart wanted to rush out of her chest. She’d been pulled into something re
ally nasty, and she had no clue where she was going or what would happen when she arrived.
She traveled five or ten minutes before the vehicle stopped. Cruel hands yanked her out of the truck. When she stumbled, a fist swung from behind and punched her across the face.
Stunned to the pit of her stomach, she gasped through the pain and swallowed down bile.
Another strike hit her tail bone, and she staggered forward, trying to remain upright with her wrists shackled.
Rather than letting her walk on her own, two soldiers dragged her by her arms and hair into an unmarked building.
“Why are you doing this? I didn’t do anything!” Her breathing came in frenzied bursts. “Where are you taking me?”
The butt of a gun rammed into her back, knocking the wind from her lungs and sending her to her knees.
She cried out and bit her tongue through the agony. “Please, just give me a second.”
She’d been speaking Spanish the whole time and knew they understood her. They just didn’t care.
Hoisted to her feet before she was ready, she tried to keep her legs beneath her as they ruthlessly hauled her down a dark hallway.
After a few dizzying turns, they wrenched her into a concrete room.
A man stood beside an old metal table with peeling paint. He wore the same green uniform as the soldiers, except his was decorated with colorful ribbons and gold medallions.
She didn’t need to see the merits to sense his superiority. It wafted from his stiff posture, raised chin, and hard brown eyes. A trim beard outlined his squared jaw and thin lips, accentuating his dominance.
A tremor skated through her, stealing her voice. This man was evil, his rottenness so thick it clotted the room.
One soldier removed her handcuffs while the other tossed her purse to the officer, along with her passport.
The officer studied the I.D. and gave her a clinical once-over. “Remove your clothes.”
“What?” Her stomach collapsed, and she clutched the neckline of her t-shirt, holding it tight. “Why?”
“Rápido!”
His explosive roar stopped her heart. She couldn’t make her hands move, every part of her frozen in fear.
Did they intend to strip search her? Where were the female soldiers? She didn’t remember the law well enough to understand her rights.
