by Logan Fox
“She won’t,” Javier said. “Eleodora was born with a golden spoon in her mouth.”
“Silver,” Lars muttered under his breath, and Javier threw him a brief, scathing glare.
“You think she wants a target on her back her entire life?” Finn asked. “Why would anyone want to live like that?”
“Because it’s worth it.” A flick of Javier’s hand took in the villa, the pool where Ana and two men frolicked, apparently in a game of tag—fuck the thirty-minute rule—and the massive stretch of land behind them.
“No, it’s not.” Finn began to stand, but Javier’s voice halted him.
“She doesn’t have a choice.” That previously warm voice, oozing with courtesy, turned hard. “Antonio’s seat is empty. And she’s next in line—”
“For the throne?” Lars cut in with a laugh. His smiling green eyes met Finn’s, lips turned up in a grin as if he could just imagine Queen Cora and the thought made him want to roll on the floor laughing.
“To sit at my right hand,” Javier said.
Was he fucking joking? Finn’s forehead crumpled, despite how he tried to keep a neutral expression.
“And do what?” he asked slowly.
“She’ll do what her father did.” Javier put his head to the side. “Which is cartel business, and none of yours.”
Finn opened his mouth to tell him exactly how much it was his business when Javier held up a finger.
“But…” He tapped Lars on the knee, and then pointed casually toward Finn. “I have an offer. For both of you fine gentlemen.”
Finn could see Lars forming a question, but spoke before he could. “No.”
Javier gave him a smile. “But you have not heard my proposal yet.”
“I don’t get into bed with snakes,” Finn said.
“Just with Eleodora?”
And there it was. Finn shifted on his chair, drawing a breath deep enough to stretch his lungs to their limit. Javier had known all along.
“Just like cartel business, that’s none of yours,” Lars said.
Always so quick of tongue, was Lars. Finn hated it most times, but there were times when it saved him the effort of speaking. Like now, when he was concentrating on keeping his creaking fists well away from Javier’s smug fucking face.
“Oh, but it is most certainly my business.” Javier sat forward with a grim smile, lacing his hands and letting them dangle between his knees. “That is my goddaughter you two are fucking.”
39
How far Mexico?
Lars leaned back in the bench, letting a low whistle escape between his teeth. This weird hold Javier had on Cora was slowly starting to make sense. This was why they had to bring her here, instead of to some random safe house set up by her father.
“That doesn’t give you any right to dictate her future,” Milo said.
“It gives me every right,” Javier murmured. “And her father was specific in his instructions.”
“His instructions?” Lars said. “What, that you shackle her to her bed until she died of old age? Did chastity belts figure into the equation at all?”
For a moment, Javier looked thrown by the comment. His black eyes flickered to Lars, a tiny frown creasing the dark skin between his brows. Then he smiled, and turned to Finn. Studiously ignoring the comment.
Perhaps, for all his schooling, Javier Martin didn’t know what the hell a chastity belt was.
“My offer,” Javier said deliberately, “is for your skills. Eleodora will become an even greater target in the next few weeks, and I need to know she is being protected, every minute of every day.”
“Why?” he said with a laugh. “I mean, if something happens to her—” he immediately held out a hand to Milo, who’d straightened his shoulders as if he planned to launch himself at Lars “—god forbid, but if she were to become…incapacitated…Doesn’t that mean you get to run this sweet money maker of a cartel all by yourself? More profit. Less stress. I mean, in my mind—”
“Do you know what happens when the head of a cartel is disposed of?” Javier’s eyes fixed so hard on him that he sat back on the bench before he could stop himself. “If a cartel is built on traditional structures—” Javier held up a single finger and made a wide circle with his wrist “—one Capo, overseeing everyone…?”
Lars remained quiet. The man knew he didn’t have a fucking clue how these things worked. Who would, except someone embroiled in a cartel?
“He is killed—murdered—the cartel collapses. But it rises up again—” he brought up a second finger, and then a third “—and becomes two, three new cartels. Those that didn’t agree with the rules and structures put in place by their Capo. Those that want to run things differently.”
“And if there are two Capos, the one simply takes the place of the other,” Finn put in.
Javier smiled wide and got to his feet. “You understand.”
“So use someone else,” Lars said. “Why her? She’s a child.”
“A child?” Javier twisted to him, mock surprise etched deep in his features. “So…” he said, drawing out the word, “you fuck children?”
Lars’s shoulders went tight. No wonder Finn looked like he wanted to punch the guy. This arrogant prick needed more than just a fist to the face. He needed a gut shot, and a kick in the balls, and perhaps his head slammed through a nice, thick window pane.
“Choose. Someone. Else,” Finn said through his teeth. His voice had dropped dangerously low.
But Javier just smiled, brushed his hands free of invisible dust, and took the first step down the gazebo before turning back to them.
“The money is excellent,” he said. “You will have free reign of my estate—” another wide extension of his arms, as if they’d been struck blind and somehow couldn’t see the villa towering behind him “—and you will have full say in the safety of little Elle.” The last of that statement he aimed directly at Lars.
“I told you—” Finn began in a rasp.
“If not you, then I must choose others. And who knows where their loyalty will lie? If they could be as…professional as the two of you.” Javier glanced over his shoulder at Cora, who’d come to stand in the full sun, shading her eyes as she stared over at the gazebo. Wondering what the hell they were talking about, no doubt.
Tension drew his muscles taut. Lars rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. Standing there, so isolated, a bright, cheery smudge on the day, Cora really did look like a child. A lost, anxious child in a strange new world.
For the first time, an invisible hand squeezed at Lars’s heart.
“And she’s such a lovely girl, isn’t she?” Javier’s voice dripped with insinuation. “I’m sure any man would find it difficult to keep his hands off her. I just want her to be safe…don’t you?”
“Man, are you sure this is the right thing to do?” Lars mumbled.
“You sound like a stuck record.” Finn gripped the steering wheel even tighter. Lines of red appeared in the whites of his knuckles.
“You heard what he said. What’ll happen if—”
“He’s playing us, you idiot. Manipulating us.”
“Well he’s fucking good at it,” Lars said sulkily. “I’m gonna be wondering for days what the fuck—”
“He won’t let anything happen to her. It’s obvious she’s important to him.”
“I don’t get that,” Lars said, sitting forward.
Grass chafed the bottom of the truck’s chassis. They both had their windows open a crack, despite the dust that tunneled into the car. The dirt road stretched infinitely ahead of them. It felt like they’d been driving for days, not an hour. And every time his eyes went to the rearview mirror, all he could see was a dust cloud. Those prison-towers had been blocked out at least forty minutes ago.
Cora’s prison.
He pushed away the thought and focused on keeping the SUV Javier had given them to ride out of the compound on the two-track dirt road.
“I mean, why not replace her fat
her with someone else from inside the cartel? Someone with experience. She doesn’t exactly strike me as someone who knows the intimate inner workings of a cartel.”
Finn thought back to Cora’s recitation of the day her father had been dragged into the manor with two slugs still buried in his body.
“She knows some,” Finn said. And then raised a hand to cut off Lars’s argument. “But not enough. And I don’t know why that prick’s doing what he’s doing.” He shrugged his shoulder into the seat, as much to scratch an itch on his shoulder blade as to rid himself of that feeling of being watched. “Luckily for us, we’re not in it anymore.”
He glanced across at Lars, who had his chin on his knuckles, staring out the window.
“We did the right thing. Fuck it, I thought you’d be glad we’re out of there. You were badgering me from day one about—”
“Why wouldn’t I be glad?” But Lars sounded anything but happy about the situation. He turned his attention back to the road, still looking sulky. Because of leaving the villa…or something else? They’d have to speak about what happened last night, and he’d have preferred it happened once he’d had chance to decompress, but they still had a long road ahead.
“Look, Lars.” Finn could hear the discomfort in his own voice, and it irked him more than what he was trying to get out of his reluctant throat. “About last night—”
“Something’s coming,” Lars said, deadpan.
Finn let out an irritated sigh. “She’s as safe as she—”
“You fucking numbskull—” Lars pointed through the windshield. “Something’s coming.”
His eyes snapped back to the road. Far ahead, what could have been a dust cloud stained the sky pale brown.
“Another car,” Finn said absently, but his beast began pacing in eager anticipation, picking up on something in the air. Violence, or the threat thereof. And happy that something would sate its urges today.
“Coming pretty damn fast,” Lars muttered. He took his pistol out of his holster, but kept it dangling in a casual hand. Javier had been more than happy to return their weapons, even taking a moment to admire Lars’s Glock with that wide, fake smile of his.
Ahead, dust boiled into the sky. Their truck was going forty already, so the oncoming vehicle must have been going at least fifty. Suicidally fast, for this terrible road.
“Maybe it’s our rental,” Finn said, knowing it wasn’t. “Martin said someone would meet us with—”
“Doesn’t feel right.” Lars cocked his Glock, his arm now stiffer than before. Ready to aim and shoot in a second.
They crested a low rise and, less than a mile ahead, saw a massive, dented Ford F250 barreling down the road towards them. Almost as soon as their vehicle went over the rise, the Ford slammed on brakes. It bounced over the ridge in the middle of the dirt road as it swerved to block the road.
“Fuck,” Finn spat.
His pistol was in his hands. He shifted his left leg, keeping the steering wheel in place as their truck slowly decelerated so he could aim through the windshield at the stopped Ford ahead.
“We rolling out?” Lars asked quietly.
“Yeah.”
He put his hand on the door handle, ready to throw it open and jump from the truck. Better out and mobile than trapped inside. Last he checked, the windshield glass didn’t look thick enough to be bulletproof. One good shot, and Lars would be sitting beside a fucking corpse.
Ahead, the back door of the Ford flew open. From the corner of his eye, Finn saw Lars shift his aim. He kept his pistol straight at the driver’s side window. If he saw movement there, he’d shoot.
Something long and floppy was thrown from the backseat. A rolled-up carpet?
“Fuck,” he said again, and Lars was a second behind with a breathless, “Jesus.”
The Ford kicked up dust as it swerved to face back the way it came, and then sped away.
Finn brought their truck to a gradual halt several yards away from what could only have been a trussed-up body. There was a second of silence in the cab, and then Finn blinked hard, leaning forward and squinting through the windshield.
“Did it just move?” he asked, but Lars was already out the passenger door. “Christ, be careful!” he hollered after Lars, but the man had obviously been struck deaf.
Bomb.
The word echoed through his skull like a message straight from God. Finn tore open his door and ran after Lars. “Wait, Lars! It could be a—”
A dark head wormed its way out of the carpet. It turned left and right, hair mussed and eyes wide. Tracks down either cheek could have been tears or sweat.
Lars went to his knees and rolled the carpet over in the dirt and dried grass, despite a string of Spanish from the guy stuck inside. When Finn arrived, the whole thing had been unfurled. A Latino boy, no older than seventeen, pushed himself to a sit, and then tried to stand. His legs caved an instant later, but he did his best to kick away from them, yelling blue murder.
Not in fear, but anger. Those brown eyes blazed with something infernal, his face near white with fury.
A young face. Strikingly good looking.
“Shit, Finn. Say something Mexican to calm him down.”
“I don’t know—” but then he cut off, because he knew at least a handful of phrases. More now, since he’d met Cora.
“Por favor,” he called out, raising his hands. The guy was obviously unarmed—if he had been carrying, he’d already have shot Finn and Lars. Or the people who’d brought him here.
Finn’s eyes dashed up, but there were no vehicles in sight. No bomb, either, unless it had been hidden up the guy’s ass.
Not impossible, but unlikely. They’d all have been blown to bits already.
The guy paused, but only long enough to try and get his legs under him again. He fell down, sobbed, and slumped onto his stomach.
“Por favor,” Finn said again, knowing he was getting the phrase at least partly right.
He looked up, trembling. “What now? You kill me?”
Finn shook his head. “No.” He lifted a hand, waved it. “No killing.”
The guy gave an exaggerated shrug. “So now?”
“What’s your name?” Lars said slowly.
The guy looked over at him, as if he was considering what the point was in replying. Then he squinted briefly up at the sun, gave his head a shake, and muttered, “Angel.”
“Angel,” Lars said. “Who were those men?”
The guy spat again, but it looked like he didn’t really have the saliva to spare. “Pedazo de mierda,” he murmured, and then as if realizing they didn’t know what he meant, said, “Piece of shit.”
“Okay,” Finn said. He came closer, and crouched about three feet away from Angel. “You hurt?”
Angel shook his head. That anger was back in his eyes but, judging from the dark circles under them and the way his body shook, it was perhaps the only thing keeping him alive.
Lars tugged at Finn’s sleeve. He looked up at the man, and followed him a few feet away. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Lars whispered, eyes darting meaningfully to Angel before turning back to Finn.
“We should take him to Martin.”
“What, we suddenly working for that prick?” Lars snapped.
Finn put his head to the side. “This is cartel business. It has to be.”
“Which is none of our fucking business, remember?”
He opened his mouth to argue, but Lars was already striding away. He crouched beside Angel again, who looked ready to try and get to his feet again, and asked, “Where’s your home?”
Angel laughed bitterly. For someone so young, the acerbity of that sound scraped fingernails down Finn’s spine. “Home?” Another laugh, this one in real mirth. The guy flung up his hands and then let them fall into the dust. “Okay, gringo. You take me home.”
Finn got to his feet, and put out his hand. Angel looked at it suspiciously and then took it, letting Finn help him to his feet. He didn’t bother du
sting himself off, but he did run a shaky hand through his hair. The other was limp at his side and wound with a filthy, blood-stained bandage.
“How far is it?” Finn asked as he began leading Angel back to the SUV.
“Hmm…”
Detecting something—sarcasm, condescension, who the fuck knew?— in the guy’s voice, Finn turned back to him.
“How far Mexico?” He pronounced the X like an H, and gave Finn a bleak, jaded smile to go with the question.
“Jesus,” Lars muttered as he passed the pair. “Still keen on your good deed of the day?”
“Let’s just take him to Martin, then. Javier can—”
“Javier Martin?” Angel’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Si, Javier Martin.”
Lars glared at Finn.
“Cartel business,” Finn said, and gave Lars a humorless smile.
“Then let him walk. It’s just a few miles.”
“So the tower guards can gun him down? Last time I checked, they didn’t like surprise visits.”
“Fuck,” Lars muttered, spinning away and swiping a hand through his hair. Finn caught something like, “…fucking Grimm story we got ourselves mixed up in, I don’t…”
Angel’s black eyes swarmed with hatred. He reached under his shirt, to the waistband of his dusty jeans, and Finn knew Lars would have a pistol trained on the side of his head before his eyes flashed up.
The guy’s hand slowed. “No gun!” He sounded irritated now. “Message. Message for El Guapo.”
A message boy trussed up in a carpet like a dead body? His beast was snapping and whining at the end of its tether, wanting to rip out the lies from this guy’s warm, still beating heart. But Angel didn’t look like he was lying. He looked dehydrated, scared as hell, and exhausted. And, under all of that, the kind of sad as if he’d lost someone he cared deeply for.
He drew out a sweat-stained envelope.
There was no name on it. It could have been addressed to anyone. Who would know it was him that opened—
Lars snatched the envelope from Angel’s fingers, hesitated, and then lifted the tab and carefully tore apart the seal. He drew out a note, folded once.
