by Logan Fox
Finn barked a laugh the same time Lars pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a massive sigh. “That’s the worst idea I ever—” Lars began.
“You said we’d be outnumbered,” Cora said. “Let Angel have a gun. He takes me in, says he brought me by himself. I give Zachary the necklace, and I take Papá and leave.” She slipped the pendant over her neck and dusted her hands. “Easy as that.”
“God, you’re so fucking naive, it makes my balls ache,” Lars muttered. “Why would he let any of you live once he has the files?”
“We’re not a threat,” Cora said. “Papá—”
“He’ll definitely kill your father,” Finn said, and then added, “You have to understand that’s what’s going to happen, Cora. Why would he let the capo of a rival cartel—”
“Because my father isn’t part of the cartel anymore.” Cora straightened her spine, giving Finn and Lars as insistent a stare as she could.
“You just tap your heels and wrinkle your nose, and he’s not capo anymore?” Lars asked dryly. He turned in his seat, resting his chin on the back of his hand. “You a magical bunny?”
His sarcasm made her want to slap him again. But she quickly closed her twitching hand into a fist and tried to stare him down.
It would have helped if his eyes weren’t so damn intense.
She swallowed hard, squeezing the pendant.
Lars cocked an eyebrow at her, and Finn’s gaze flashed to the mirror.
“My father isn’t capo anymore,” Cora said. “I am.”
52
Utterly fucked off
It was quarter past five in the afternoon when they stopped at a small strip mall that looked as isolated as the few cars parked in the lot. Lars went inside the shop while Finn leaned forward in his seat, hands draped on the steering wheel, and began scouting for a new vehicle for them.
The inside of the car reeked of dust and sweat, despite everyone opening their windows. If there’d been time, he’d have found a motel or something where they could all take a shower and at least get something to eat.
But there wasn’t.
“Finn.”
He glanced back at Cora, then straightened again. It was easier to stay calm when he couldn’t see her bright eyes watching him so intently. “What?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?” Finn asked. “Pissing off Javier?”
Cora sat forward, just like she’d done that first night they’d met. When she’d been trying to engage him in some inane conversation. Curious about the scar on his neck.
That felt like a fucking lifetime ago.
“For agreeing to let me do this,” she murmured, soft and intently enough that the hackles on the back of his neck rose in a flurry.
He shifted in his seat, but didn’t look at her. He was supposed to be looking for a car they could steal. One that wouldn’t be too difficult to hot wire, and that wouldn’t draw attention.
Why the fuck was Lars taking so long?
“Fuck knows why you have this suicidal urge in you, all of a sudden,” he said. “Who am I to stand in the way of idiocy?”
“We’re going to make it through this.”
And then he did look at her, because her voice had changed timbre. Her eyes weren’t flickering and uneasy any more. Come to think of it, they hadn’t been that way for a while.
Since last night.
Jesus Christ, why’d he have to go and think of that? He shifted again, itching to be out of the car and away from her voice. “You stick to the plan,” he snapped. “You give him the docs, you grab your father, you get the fuck out of there.”
Cora grabbed him by the shoulder of his shirt, tugged him a little to the side. “Stop worrying. I’ll be fine.”
Her ears brushed his lobe when she spoke. He didn’t like that one fucking bit. Especially when his body began reacting to her like she was a drug and he was just some stoned junkie. He closed his eyes, hoping that would help. It didn’t. It just made it easier for his sick mind to superimpose an image of Cora, naked, on the back of his eyelids. Flickering, like one of those old projectors. She stood in front of him, legs splayed. The shape behind her stroking her until she moaned. Lars, a dutiful entertainer as always, putting Cora though the hoops for his one-man audience.
“Okay?” Cora whispered.
Reality bloomed when he forced his eyes open again. He turned his head, leaning back so he could focus on her face.
He grabbed the back of her head, crushed her mouth against his, and kissed her until they were both breathless. When he pulled back, reluctantly, she still had a fist twisted in his shirt and a dazed look on her face.
Then that fog cleared, and her gaze sharpened. “What was that?” she demanded.
He swiped his thumb over her lips. “That was me kissing you whenever the fuck I want.”
Lars slammed the car door, making everyone inside the car jump. Cora hurriedly sat back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest and making a point of looking away from him.
She could pout all she wanted, he was still pissed at her.
He rummaged in the bag he’d brought back from the convenience store, and handed out bottles of water and snack bars to everyone, tossing Cora’s and Angel’s into the backseat like he was at a zoo and they were in the primate cage.
Cora glared at him when the snack bar hit her shoulder, and didn’t make a move to pick it up from her lap.
“Fine,” he said. “Starve. See if I care.”
She thumped the back of his seat with her bare foot. And then looked surprised when he dumped a pair of sneakers in her lap. Despite having taken the longest time going through the aisles trying to judge the right size for her feet, he now hoped they’d be too big. Clown big, even. So he could have a reason to laugh when she slapped around in them.
Then he tossed another pair at Angel, who picked them up from the footwell with a frown.
“Gracias,” Angel murmured, and began untying the laces.
“Hey, we wear socks in America,” Lars said, and tossed him a pair of socks. “Be civilized.” The guy caught them out of the air without looking up, and muttered another “Gracias.” This one didn’t sound as grateful.
“Mine?” Cora asked.
“They were all out of pink.” And then he faced forward, forcing the sight of her pretty pout from his head. There was a pair of scissors in the bag too, but he’d deal with that fact later.
He tore open his candy bar and bit into it, scanning the lot. “You pick one yet?” he asked through a mouthful of chocolate and granola.
Milo pointed to a Toyota parked closer to the end of the lot, under cover of a one of three trees in the parking area. A normal shopper would have chosen one of the many open spots in front of the building, but that tree would provide shade all day, making the car less of an oven for its owner to step into at the end of their shift. Even from where they sat, he could see the passenger side window was open a crack.
“Good catch,” Lars muttered, and bit off another chunk of his candy bar. “Go. I’ll hoot if I see someone.”
Milo climbed out the car and ambled across the parking lot. A casual observer wouldn’t have noticed, but he did a thorough sweep of the area as he feigned a sore muscle in his neck, and then slid into the tree’s shade. With his dark clothes, that almost made him invisible from anyone walking around the strip mall in the late afternoon sun.
Lars drummed his fingers on the dashboard as he watched Milo rock the window until it came off its tracks and then open the door and slide inside. His silhouette moved around animatedly for a few seconds as he checked all the usual spots where people hid a spare set of keys; center console, change tray, the glove compartment. His silhouette held up a hand which, Lars assumed, held a spare key. Milo slid over into the driver’s seat, and a second later the car’s engine turned.
Lars climbed over the SUV’s console and adjusted the seat for his long legs. “Buckle up, kids,” he said, swinging an arm over the back of the
passenger seat as he scanned the lot behind him so he could reverse the car out. “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”
He followed Milo out of the parking lot.
They ditched the SUV a few miles away, close to a culvert. Lars glanced askance at Cora, who watched the car plow through some scrub with zero emotion on her face. He’d handed her the scissors a little earlier in their drive and told her to cut off her other jean leg. They were a bit uneven, but should pass a casual inspection. The stretch of bandage on her injured leg was more noticeable, but he’d bought another roll and she’d wrapped it over her dust and blood-stained ones. Her hobble had gotten worse; she leaned against Angel as they waited for Milo to come back up the rise from where he’d been arranging a few branches around the back of the truck that still jutted into sight.
Milo slid into the passenger seat. The interior was half the size of the SUV—there was barely enough room for everyone’s elbows and legs.
“When this is done,” Lars said, twisting the rearview mirror so he could see Cora’s face in it. “You and me, we’re having a talk.”
Something flashed in her eyes, and her lips trembled as if they were on the edge of a smile.
53
The Wolf
Angel shoved Cora forward into the closest hangar, the only one with its massive doors standing open. It looked deserted, and smelled faintly of diesel when a dry wind rattled past them. A shipping container had been pushed against one wall, and a small table set in front of it, two chairs.
They reminded her of the chair and table down in that cold basement where Angel had kidnapped her.
A lot of this reminded her of that terrifying hour; the muzzle pressed to her temple, the way Angel smelled, the feel of his body hard against hers when he urged her forward with his hips. The way her leg refused to bend and made her gait uneven.
The gag in her mouth.
Except, this time, she knew he wasn’t going to kill her.
Angel was halfway across the floor when a man ducked out from the shipping container. A second followed close behind.
She expected more to stream out; an army of Plata o Plomo enforcers. But it was just a ginger-haired man and a Mexican, as disparate as two men could be. Both held assault rifles in their hands, a second gun on their hips.
“Where’s Zachary?” Angel asked, speaking in rough English.
So neither of these two were the leader of Plata o Plomo.
“Don Zachary,” the ginger-haired man corrected quietly. He had pale, dead eyes, and an unsmiling mouth. The few freckles on his nose seemed incongruous against a scar that cut into his top lip. His Mexican friend had pock-marked skin, and wore a sombrero even in the shade of the hangar. “The archives?”
The gun pressed hard against her skull.
“My brother first!” Angel’s chest vibrated with the force of his yell. “Or I kill her.”
Cora’s fingers went numb. His brother? What in the hell was he talking about?
Then cold realization struck her. Angel had planned this all along. He’d been blackmailed into capturing her and bringing her to Zachary in exchange for…his brother?
Finn and Lars were going to be so pissed off.
She tried saying Angel’s name, but the goddamn gag in her mouth made it come out in a whine.
Which probably made her all the more convincing; the red-haired man lifted his chin and disappeared inside the container.
He came out dragging someone behind him. Angel tensed, and Cora whipped her head around, trying to read the young man’s eyes.
It was like trying to read something in a moonless night sky.
The man was hooded, and struggled feebly. He wore dark clothes, but they were so filthy and torn that it was impossible to see what they’d once been.
And then another man walked out of the shipping container.
Her entire body stiffened. El Lobo, for it could only have been him, walked in an aura of brutality. It clung to him like living shadows. She blinked hard. Were there still traces of drugs in her or something? Or was she so terrified that she was starting to hallucinate?
But no. Where Zachary West walked, the shadows around him lengthened and thickened like snakes.
She forced her eyes away from him, toward the hooded man instead.
“That’s not him!” Angel yelled. “Where is he?”
El Lobo didn’t seem to notice, or care, that Angel was addressing him. His eyes had locked on Cora. He didn’t glance down at her body. Didn’t take note of her injured leg, or the cuts and scrapes on her arms.
Just her eyes. He came to a stop several yards away, just behind where the hooded man was struggling to get to his knees.
“Eleodora.” Zachary said quietly. For such a nondescript man—brown hair, brown eyes, average height—his quiet voice was surprisingly cultured even though he spoke with a hint of a Mexican accent, which was strange because he was obviously American.
Cora shuddered and tried to force calm into her body. The hooded figure stiffened, and then swung toward Zachary’s voice. There was a muffled cry from under that hood, and the blind head swung back, as if trying to pierce its veil.
Suddenly, the way that hooded shape moved seemed familiar. The slim, long hands tied crudely behind his back. Even the shape of his feet.
“Papá!” she yelled. But all that came through that gag was a moan.
Angel jerked her back against him when she tried to struggle forward. She tried elbowing him, but he just gathered her up with his arms and held her tight.
He had a goddamn gun. He should have shot El Lobo in the head already. He could have taken out his bodyguards—
No, of course he couldn’t have. There were two guns on him. He’d only—maybe—get off one shot, and it would have to be a lucky one. And then he was dead. And his brother—whatever had happened to him—would be lost to him. Perhaps killed in retaliation.
“My brother,” Angel said, pressing his pistol so hard into Cora’s head that her neck bent.
“Where are the archives?” El Lobo asked. His voice never changed tone. He seemed neither angry nor dispassionate. Just slightly curious, with what could have been the start of a smile on his mouth. He wore gloves, and neat if unremarkable clothes. The only fancy things on him were his cowboy boots—which were tooled with elaborate silver designs—and his belt buckle. It was in the shape of a pouncing wolf or a ferocious dog; expertly handmade.
“You get nothing until I see Marco. You tell me he be here. That we make…that we trade.”
Her father looked so pitiful; quivering on his knees. Like they’d beaten every ounce of energy and resistance from him.
They’d beaten him.
“That’s not how this works, Angel. The trade was for the girl and the archives.”
“I want to see he’s alive.”
“He’s alive,” Don Zachary said.
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have a choice but to believe me,” said The Wolf.
54
A horrendous price
“I’m going in,” Milo hissed.
Lars barely caught the scruff of his neck before the man rose. “You’ll get her killed. Her or the guy I know we both assume is what’s left of her father.”
“It’s going wrong.”
“How?” Lars said through a sigh. “How could you possibly know what right would look like?”
Fin clamped his jaw shut, but his eyes were instantly back to the scene inside the hanger. He and Milo were crouched a distance away beside one of the empty hangars. They’d been watching the exchange since it began, but they were too far to hear anything.
From Angel and Cora’s body language, anything could be happening. He’d tried ad-libbing, but Milo had thrown him such a fierce scowl that he’d stopped in fear of his life.
Milo was right though—it was looking touch and go down there. Cora had started struggling, and kept trying to get Angel’s attention. But that pretty spic seemed so intent on the
man Lars assumed was Zachary West that he barely paid her any mind.
Until he did.
Angel ripped the gag from Cora’s mouth. Her lips moved furiously, with a quick glance back at Zachary and his men.
Lars tried grabbing Milo the same instant Angel threw Cora away from him like a toy he’d grown bored of. This time, Milo yanked himself free and went running in a low crouch for the side of the hangar.
He didn't have to see Milo’s face to know the man wore a determined grimace.
In about ten seconds, people were going to start dying.
“Fuck,” he spat, then ran after Milo.
The first shot to go off in the hangar that afternoon sounded like a whip crack. Cora stumbled away from Angel, almost found her balance, and then fell to the floor when her left leg gave way under her.
She spun around, scanning everyone to see who was reeling from the gunshot.
Her father lay on his side, unmoving.
“Papá, no!” her scream echoed just as much at the gunshot had. She pushed herself up, stumbling and falling to her father’s limp figure. A distant thought warned her that she’d be traveling straight into the line of fire, but she didn’t care.
They’d killed her father.
Angel yelled, and another gunshot went off. It pinged off something metallic, and a ray of light struck the hangar floor like an arrow straight from heaven.
As soon as she was in reach, she yanked the burlap sack off the unmoving shape. Her father squinted up at her with a face the same color as the concrete floor.
“Papá!” She drew his head into her lap, and hurriedly began touching his shirt. She found the bullet hole a second later when her fingers touched wet, warm blood where it had seeped through the fabric just below his ribs. She tugged up his shirt, hissing when she saw the gaping hole where blood pumped out in a constant, slow ebb. And then she saw the bruises, and the dirt, and the dried blood covering his skin.
