by Ophelia Bell
The taxi drops me off by the side of the road in the dark. By the time it occurs to me to call my brother back, there’s no signal, so I shove my phone back into my pocket to wait. All I see is a billboard advertising tours of Chichén Itzá, and a sign pointing to a village down a pothole-infested asphalt road amid the lush palms. A fat, cold raindrop splats on my forehead and I glare up at the dark sky.
“Fucking seriously?”
This was where he said to wait, so I wait, and about fifteen minutes later, headlights approach. My pulse quickens and I step closer to the road just as the rain lets loose, spilling buckets of chilly water over my head and making me wish I’d thought to bring a jacket. I was too intent on simply getting here to think straight, but I need to be as clear-headed as possible from here on out if I don’t want to fuck this up. Toni needs me.
A black Range Rover slows to a stop and the passenger window rolls down. A bearded face peers at me from the shadows on the driver’s side.
“Sam Santos?” the man asks, and I recognize the voice from the phone call, but staring in at him now, I’m sure my brain must be playing tricks on me, because I’m almost positive I know that face.
“Yeah.”
“Just making sure.”
“Where is she?” I ask, peering through the windows.
“Not here. You didn’t think we wouldn’t secure her before coming back to get you, did you? She’s on her way to the boss.”
“If you hurt her . . .”
He snorts. “Don’t take this the wrong way, kid, but your hero act isn’t as intimidating as you think.”
Another SUV pulls up as I reach for the door handle, but before I can grab it, someone rushes me from behind, grabs my arms, and slams my face against the side of the vehicle. Plasticuffs tighten around my wrists and a hood is shoved over my head.
I let out a yell and try to twist away, but the two sets of hands holding me are rough and unrelenting. They slam me against the side of the car again and I hear the driver yell a complaint. The next blow strikes me squarely in the gut and I double over, coughing as I’m bodily dragged toward the rear of the car and thrown into the back. We’re in motion again before I have a chance to process what just happened.
“What the fuck?” I yell. A low laugh from the front answers me.
“You didn’t think it’d be easy, did you? We’re going somewhere quiet so you can fill me in on everything you think you know. If I like it, maybe I’ll throw you in the cell with your little girlfriend and let the boss sort out whether you’re worth it to him. If I don’t, I’ll probably just feed you to the fish.”
“Where’s Toni? Is she okay?”
“That’s a fucking loaded question. She’s a live one, put up a hell of a fight when we got to her, so she might’ve wound up with a bruise or busted lip. But she’s alive. She’s no good to Amador dead, at any rate. You, on the other hand . . . whether you’re useful or not remains to be seen. So if you start talking now, I can take you straight to the compound and get on with my night. Or you can be a cagey idiot, which means you and I are both in for one long-ass night. Just between you and me, the first option is easiest for us both.”
Something hard and cold is jabbing me in the back and I shift, only to have something else poke me painfully in the freshly inked skin covering my shoulder. It feels like I’m lying on top of razorblades, but when I curl my fingers beneath my back, I realize it’s a coiled length of chain. My mind spins and my breathing quickens, but all I get for my excitement is a lungful of musty fabric. My instinct is to fight despite knowing it’ll only keep him from taking me to Toni if I do.
I force myself to still and take a deep breath. I’m no good to her if I freak out. Whoever this guy is, he at least sounds reasonable enough to have a conversation, though I wish I could remember where I’ve seen his face. Maybe the beard is what’s throwing me off, so I envision his eyes and nose instead, forcing my memory to strip away everything else.
Blue eyes; wide, square jaw; long, straight nose; dark blond beard and wavy blond hair; features so stereotypical of any pretty-boy jock they’re almost commonplace. But the only person I know who’s a pretty blonde is Mason’s fiancée Callie, with her bow-like mouth and girl-next-door charm.
The memory of the shape of her mouth and jaw is what makes it click. He has the same fucking mouth, only bigger and surrounded by a beard.
That’s when the image pops into my head from one of the dozens upon dozens of videos and snapshots on my brother’s godforsaken flash drive. It’s as if I’m seeing it again for the first time: A video of a naked man in cuffs being dragged through the dirt and tossed into the back of a truck. The camera pans around him, jostling as the holder walks to get a closeup of his face. On the way I catch a snippet of a tattoo of what looks like a rampant lion on one bicep. Then the camera lands on his face, a smear of blood down one cheek and over his scruffy upper lip. But it’s unmistakably the same guy.
“What’s your name, asshole? If I’m going to spill my secrets, I’d at least like to know who I’m talking to. You ex-military? How’d you wind up in this gig?”
The SUV bumps over an unpaved road, splashing through puddles. He doesn’t immediately answer. Listening intently, all I hear is the rain beating down at the windows and on the roof overhead, the windshield wipers smacking frantically on the glass up front. We’re the only ones in the car, which means the guys who grabbed me must’ve gotten back in the other vehicle. Are they still following?
Finally he says, “Logan. Name’s Cal Logan.” We pull to a stop and the keys jingle. The door latch clicks, but he pauses. “This is your last chance, kid. From here on out, it gets all manner of painful.”
Wow, he wasn’t even creative enough to change his initials. “Sorry, did you say Longo? This fucking bag over my head makes it hard to hear. You said your name’s Chris Longo, right?”
23
Sam
The tailgate opens and rough hands grab my upper arms and haul me out into the frigid rain. The next thing I know, I’m slammed back against the SUV and the musty bag is blessedly ripped off my head. Rain splashes down on my face as angry blue eyes glare into mine.
“Where the fuck did you hear that name?” my captor hisses.
I sneer. “Your sister, asshole.”
He slams me against the side of the SUV again. “Bullshit. You don’t know a goddamn thing.”
“It’s you, isn’t it? That’s why you’re so fucking pissed.” I glance around at the rainswept area. We’re in the middle of the jungle, and a single floodlight illuminates a rusted-out Quonset several yards away—likely where they plan to torture any intel out of me before burying me in the weeds. But I know I’ve hit a nerve, so I’m going to milk this newfound info for all it’s worth.
He glances over his shoulder where the headlights from another vehicle slowly approach. The road is treacherous, so it’ll be a little longer before they reach us.
“Your friends don’t even know, do they? But I’m not wrong. You’re Chris Longo, former DEA agent, believed killed by the Amador Cartel while you were investigating his opium sources in Colombia. Did you fucking turn, or have you been undercover all this time?”
His fist connects with my cheek from out of nowhere and I blink rapidly through the jolt of pain, trying to regain my bearings. Blood hits my tastebuds and I gingerly nudge my split lip with my tongue.
Jabbing his finger in my face, he grits, “Don’t you fucking say another goddamn word, you hear me? I’ve worked too hard to get where I am with this motherfucking cartel to have it ruined by some asshat kid who fancies himself a hero.”
“Jesus, dude. We’re practically family. But I guess you’ve lost touch with yours, seeing as how they think you’re dead. If you checked in, you’d know your sister’s engaged to my brother.”
“My sister . . .” His eyes go wide and a wash of pain flashes by. “Callie’s engaged?”
Bingo.
“Yeah. To a guy who used to be where you a
re, believe it or not. I thought my brother was dead for three years, but it turned out he was just pretending to be a fucking cartel soldier for Zavala.”
He lets out a snort. “No shit?” Swiping rain off his face, he shoots a wary look at the other vehicle, which rolls to a stop. Then he looks at me and says, “Follow my lead if you want my help. Also, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for wha—”
His fist lands hard in my gut, forcing all the air out of my lungs and bruising my liver for the second time. I double over, coughing, and only have a view of five pairs of muddy boots when he barks, “Take him inside and tie him to a chair. I’ll handle it from there.”
Two big hands hook beneath my armpits and I’m practically dragged into the building. They cut the plastic cuffs from my wrists, only to replace them with ropes as they bind me to a metal chair in the middle of an empty room. This building is nothing more than a corrugated steel shelter with a single bare bulb illuminating the interior. The windows are just open squares at either end of the structure, allowing the rain to blow in.
Chris enters and the men wander toward him. “You want backup? He’s big, but he don’t seem like a fighter,” one of them says.
“Nah, we’ve got his girl. He’ll behave. Let the boss know I’m coming in with another captive as soon as I beat whatever he knows out of him.”
He paces back and forth, hands on his hips. He’s in camo fatigues, black boots, and a black T-shirt with a tactical vest and thigh holsters, both sporting pistols. All the other men are in variations of the same gear, a couple of them carrying AR-15s slung over their shoulders. Members of Amador’s private army. How high does Longo rank? He must be up there, if they’re taking orders from him.
The other vehicle leaves and Chris pulls up a second chair, swings it around, and straddles it backwards, then fixes his eyes on me. “First, tell me exactly how you know who I am.”
I see no sense beating around the bush at this point, so I explain my brother’s absence and piece together what I know about the intel he was tasked to retrieve from Zavala. Then his eventual decision to keep copies of it for insurance and share it with the rest of my brothers and my sister.
Chris shakes his head. “He could’ve signed your death warrant by giving you all that, you know? Risky fucking move.”
“He gave it to us for reasons just like this one, I think. If Amador takes us, we know enough to bargain with.”
“You also know enough for him to kill you over.”
“Well, all I know is it worked. I remembered your face and here you are, not killing me.”
“I guess that wins me man of the year, huh? You’re fucking lucky. I usually don’t get sent on these jobs. I’m only here because Delgado’s out of town. He’s a lot less cuddly.”
“Trust me, I know. My family and Delgado go way back.”
“I’ve heard some rumors, but the man’s pretty tight-lipped about his history. All I know is that he used to be Flores’ right-hand man, but switched sides a few years back. I’m betting you know more about that story, don’t you? Care to fill me in? Any chink I can find in Amador’s armor is worth exploiting. My gut tells me Delgado’s the key, but I haven’t been able to figure out how to use him yet.”
“I wish I knew, honestly.” I shrug and wince as the fabric of my shirt pulls at the raw skin on my back.
“I didn’t hit you that hard, kid. You don’t strike me as someone who bruises easily.”
“It’s nothing. Fresh tattoo.” I tilt my head back over my shoulder.
“Right. You were at that convention with your girl.”
“Where is she? Please don’t fuck with me this time.”
“On her way to the compound. It’s another hour’s drive from here. They’ll keep her in one piece.”
“What does Amador want with her?”
Chris shakes his head. “Ammo to hurt Flores. Break him down, get him to make a trade. Get him to give up a secret. But one illegitimate daughter isn’t going to be enough based on past behavior. Wait . . .” He narrows his eyes. “Santos . . . You don’t have a sister by any chance, do you?”
My glare and straining arms are enough of an answer.
“Fuuuck. This just got interesting. Hope Papá Flores has some tough guard dogs on his other daughter. If Amador gets them both, say bye-bye to the LA you know.”
“He has three daughters, or can’t you count?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “That what he claims? Because Amador would argue the first one isn’t even Arturo’s. He wants what’s his, or so he says. He wants Celeste, and he wants to destroy Flores and take over LA.”
I frown and shake my head. “That’s not possible. Why the hell would he believe Celeste is his daughter?”
“Looks like there are some secrets you don’t know after all. I got lucky enough to be let in a little more than most. When he’s relaxed, Amador talks. No more than reminiscing, mind you, but enough for me to figure out the bad blood between those two runs a lot fucking deeper than business. They shared a lover back in the day, and evidently were still together when she got pregnant. Naturally the man is a little psycho about his bloodline. If he can’t have his daughter, he plans to take Arturo’s.”
“She isn’t his. Trust me.”
“You got a paternity test locked away up in there?” He taps the side of my head.
“No, but even if I did, all you have to do is see the three of them standing side by side to know they’re all sisters. Half-sisters. There’s no fucking mistake, unless Amador somehow has the same crazy hazel eyes as Flores.”
“His eyes are as black as his fucking soul.” He sighs and sits back. “Poor bastard.”
“No shit. Are you feeling sorry for him?”
Chris sits up straighter and scowls. “I didn’t get as close as I did by not acting like a human being. He has his moments, and it’s enough to exploit his trust. That’s all.”
He glances away and wipes his mouth with thumb and forefinger, his fingertips lingering on his lower lip for the briefest second. I narrow my eyes.
“You’re fucking him.”
He stiffens, his jaw flexing and his gaze turning wary.
I shake my head. “Hey, I’m not judging. At least not the sex part. Your choice of partner makes me question your sanity, though.”
He snorts. “I question my sanity every goddamn day, but there are only so many ways to get close to someone like him, and when I found out he was both broken-hearted and pining for a woman and a man, I felt like I was equipped to fill that void, so to speak. Let’s just say the inclination is in my wheelhouse. So far, it’s working.”
“Well, he definitely picked the wrong partner if he’s so nuts about his bloodline.”
Chris laughs. “You have a point, kid, I will give you that.” He stands and unsheathes a knife. I eye the gleaming blade with trepidation.
“This is for your own good. And mine, if I’m being honest. I can’t have it look like I’m going easy on you. You need to bleed a little more before I deliver you to the boss. Better a shallow cut than a broken bone, right?”
“Jesus, what the hell are you doing?” I jerk away from his reach, but there’s only so far I can go. He steps behind me, grabs the hair on the top of my head, and yanks back.
“I like you, but you need to give me something I can use or I can’t promise I can help you.”
I swallow hard, gritting my teeth as he makes a long cut across my hairline. Blood streams down over my face, coppery drops hitting my tongue as it drips off the end of my nose.
“That fucking stings.”
“No worse than the tattoo on your back though, yeah? Now out with it. Give me something.”
“How ‘bout there’s an op to take Amador down? I don’t know details, only that your mom came for a visit and I overheard them talk. They believe you might be alive, but I don’t think they have any clue what you’re really doing down here. If you let me and Toni go, I can get a message back. Figure out a way for you to c
oordinate from the inside.”
He grimaces. “Goddamnit, Mom. I knew she couldn’t leave well enough alone. But letting them know I’m alive only benefits me, and is more likely to blow that op, which I won’t do. Give me something I can take to Amador. Anything you know about Flores, his business, Celeste . . .”
“My brother has something on Gustavo. I don’t know what it is, but he claims it’s enough to protect our family. Something he brought back from Zavala maybe? I don’t fucking know. Wait . . . does Amador know Mason’s alive? Because that’d be pretty big news if he doesn’t.”
His eyes widen. “Mason, as in Mason Black? That’s your brother? Jesus fucking Christ. I knew that guy had to be playing some angle.” He stands up and paces the room again, staring into the distance as he processes that detail. I’m not sure why it’s significant until he laughs. “And the bastard is still alive. Please tell me he’s not the one engaged to Callie.”
“Ah . . . you know him?”
“Not personally. We’ve never met. But he still has a goddamn price on his head after the gun deal he stiffed Gustavo on three years ago. He’s legendary because Delgado hates him so fucking much. Amador reminds him of that fuck-up every chance he gets. So you’re telling me they’ve come face-to-face since, and Mason’s still not dead?”
“I just talked to him an hour ago. My phone’s in my pocket, if you want to call him yourself. Also . . . sorry to break it to you, but yes, he’s going to be your brother-in-law.”
He glances at my pocket, evidently tempted to go for my phone, then laughs and shakes his head. “Fuck, kid. You have no idea how lucky you are. Callie’s good?”
I nod, relaxing even though the ropes are biting into my elbows and wrists. But I can only imagine what Chris has been through, isolated from his entire family for the past six years, forced to pretend he’s someone else. Mason rarely shares that kind of thing. “Callie’s a neurosurgery resident. She saved my brother’s life a couple times.”
