Crown of Solana

by Susan Sheehey

  Gemma had steeled her nerves and left through the back door. She forced herself not to look at the blackened rubble of the barn, the final resting place of the horses she loved. Sniper, Bluebonnet, Trixie, DynoJack, and her own mare, Buttercup. She swallowed down their names, holding her breath to keep from smelling the ash and horror of that night.

  He will pay for what he did.

  When the barn’s remains were out of sight, she took a deep breath. White honeysuckle bushes and juniper trees lined the road, calming her mind. About a mile to the west was the tank she loved, a large pond that she swam in almost every day. The last night she was there, she and André—or Miguel back then—had the most passionate night of sex she’d ever known. The memories of that tryst on the quilt under the pecan tree heated her cheeks. But her mind was heavy. She’d save a visit to the tank for tomorrow.

  Right now, she had an appointment with an old, full-size mattress.

  She rounded a bend, and there it was. Relief flooded her tense muscles.

  The quaint wooden cabin nestled among five tall pecan trees like a cocoon. The overgrown weeds climbed up the front porch, and the windows desperately needed a cleaning, but otherwise, it appeared just as she left it.

  She climbed the three steps to the door and pushed it open.

  Home sweet home.

  Simple décor for a simple life.

  There was less furniture in her entire cabin than in the master closet of the apartments that André had given her in the palace.

  The musty rooms needed an airing, and the rugs a good beating. All work for tomorrow. She dumped her duffel bag, which contained Lil’ Pete, on the floor by the living room and moved to the kitchen to turn on the water heater.

  When she grabbed the handle, a beefy hand gripped her neck and pulled back. Instinct kicked in, and she elbowed the shadow behind her right in the solar plexus. But a well-padded Kevlar vest deflected the blow. She slammed the heel of her boot into the man’s foot, but it didn’t do a damn thing. Steel-toed shoes. Everything around her slowed as she was pushed against the counter and her throat squeezed shut by a gigantic fist. Then he pulled on her hair so hard, tears pricked her eyes.

  “That’s right. Fight me, Gemma.”

  The Devil. Vasco’s voice had plagued her thoughts for weeks.

  “I knew you’d come back here, puta.”

  Before she could wheeze out a curse, the vicious assassin who’d murdered her horses, slammed her head on the counter. An instant, piercing migraine blinded her, and her body dropped. Black spots flickered in her vision and the world went quiet.

  For how long, she couldn’t tell. But something low and muffled broke through the screaming pain. A voice.

  “Mpthmm thank you for tssskskking out Bendetto frmmmee. Saved me from looking oommy shoulder while that bastardo tried to finish me off. He had no intention of paying me for André’s head.”

  Gemma rolled, anything to get away. Get her bearings. But everything still wouldn’t focus. She couldn’t tell what room she was in. But one thing was certain: the asshole had gotten the drop on her. It hadn’t even occurred to her that he’d be here before she arrived.

  Stupid, Gemma!

  She crawled forward.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Something bit into her shoulder, ripping through her bullet wound. She screamed at the stabbing pain. That’s a boot. The prick is stomping on me. “I see the cartel general got a piece of you. We’ll have matching scars. Shame I didn’t give you that one. Don’t worry. I’ll give you plenty more.”

  She lifted upright and Vasco’s hot, putrid breath filled her face. Like tuna and whiskey. She almost gagged. Her feet tried to find the floor, but they only dangled.

  “Focus, Gemma.”

  She couldn’t. The pounding in her head, the dizziness, the haze kept her from seeing his face. She didn’t want to.

  “Look at me, bitch!”

  Something slapped across her cheek and reopened the wave of spears stabbing through her brain. Warm, coppery fluid filled her mouth, and she spit it out.

  “So, this is the glorious savior of a country?” Vasco chuckled. “Single handedly took down Bendetto and saved Prince André. That’s almost funny. I wouldn’t believe it, if it weren’t for that one shot you took at me.”

  The bastard leaned forward and licked her chin, up her lip, and along her cheek. This time, she reared back and gagged.

  “Mmm. Fear is just as delicious as that lady’s pot roast. She left a fully stocked freezer for me. Like she knew I’d be back.”

  He gripped her neck again, tighter. She wheezed desperately for air, just as his hideous face came into focus. Only a few inches from her nose.

  Black eyes.

  Crooked nose, and scruffy square jaw as thick as his neck and shoulders. The vine tattoo peeked out at the top of his shirt, with thorns circling his throat.

  “I want a rematch, pendeja.”

  She reached forward and dug her thumb into his shoulder, twisting as hard as she could, right where she’d shot him the week before.

  He bellowed in agony and dropped her.

  She struggled to stay upright. Staggering back, she put up her fists, ready to defend herself. But the asshole kept shifting in and out of focus, and the room tilted around her.

  “There you are,” he snarled. “There’s the fighter.”

  Gemma squinted through her throbbing headache.

  “Show me what you’ve got, savior.”

  Where’s Lil’ Pete? I don’t stand a chance like this.

  But she’d dropped her bag in the other room. Still unloaded. A raging spear sliced through her brain. She ducked from the onslaught. Focusing was impossible.

  The son of a bitch started to laugh. Cold and heartless.

  She opened her eyes, just in time to see a colossal black boot careening toward her chest.

  Shit.

  The impact purged all the air from her lungs, and the force clacked between her ears. Thrown backward, she couldn’t even catch her breath to scream from the agony.

  “Ooh, cracked some ribs on that one, prize fighter.” She could hear the grin in his voice, but she was more focused on trying to inhale.

  Breathe. Regroup. Think!

  Weapons. She’d hidden a pistol in her nightstand, but that was too far. A shotgun in pantry was closer. If it was still there. She braced her hands on the floor to stand, and her finger jammed into the leg of the entry table.

  The drawer of the entry table.

  When she reached her knees, muscle memory took over and she grabbed the 9mm in the drawer. She aimed and fired. Only to have it kicked out of her hand, and the bullet shattered a kitchen window.

  “You’re sneaky,” he chided. “How did I miss that one? I found half a dozen others around this house. A little paranoid out here on the edge of this dusty wasteland, are you?”

  He backhanded her, and more blood filled her mouth. The room faded in and out of darkness.

  “But you were supposed to bring that pansy boyfriend of yours. Tsk, tsk. I can think of one eager cartel boss who would pay a shitload to get his hands on you. Leverage against André, and one sweet payday for me.” His voice filled the hazy swell between her ears. He was getting closer, but she couldn’t breathe, let alone fight back.

  “But no one gets a piece of me and lives. So I’m not going to share you with Lozano.” His footsteps reverberated in the planks under her hands and echoed across the nearly empty room. Each one closer, louder, and jacking her heart rate. “I have a better idea. You’re all mine.”

  She forced herself to crawl forward. Find the pistol. Kill this fucker.

  “Get ready for round two, duchess. We’re going all night.”

  “WE’VE BEEN AT THIS ALL night.” André dragged his hand down his face. He’d removed his jacket and tie hours into the private meeting with the heads of the seven provinces on Solana, with no end in sight. Well, six heads. Representative Macias of the mountain province never showed.
<
br />   André’s legs were shaky and sore from the sparring session. And the last minute poker game wasn’t nearly as therapeutic as he’d anticipated. Flynn had wiped his wallet clean, and then ruined the rest of the night with his unwelcome criticism. It didn’t help that he was right. But another problem plagued him more. The thrill of being all-in with a hand never came. Nothing would heal his wounded heart.

  “These defense agreements are necessary to ensure our safety—our survival—if the cartel were to attack again,” Representative Haani barked for the billionth time that night. “Relinquishing the ammephire export rights to the United States is a stiff price, but what’s the alternative?” His province—the lagoon province—took the worst of the destruction from the mercenaries. Half of all victims were from his district when Bendetto took over. Haani had more than earned his gray hair and wrinkled face.

  Mathis Arias leaned over the table, the once pudgy parliament member of the northern province now thinning with loose skin around his face. Stress had taken its toll on him as well. On everyone. “Giving away those ammephire export rights is one step away from giving them our country and being absorbed into the United States, relinquishing our identity and culture. Just like with Hawaii and Guam. Is that what you want?”

  “What I want is to survive.” Haani’s piercing gray eyes were hard to overlook. “To never bury another family with five children.” His eyes watered, and he swallowed hard. “No, I don’t want to be annexed by the United States, but at least we would live. At least then, the carnage would end.”

  “Stop talking about annexation,” André cut in. His gaze fell on Alanna, who stood by the floor-length windows overlooking the bay.

  Her crossed arms and pursed lips revealed that her thoughts were troubled, yet she’d chosen not to share them. A silent storm brewed inside her.

  André continued. “I won’t agree to their terms as it stands. I’ve made that clear. What we need to determine is with how much we’re willing to counter.”

  “What price do you place on the people’s lives?” Haani asked solemnly, disapproval all over his face.

  André braced his hands on the table and met his gaze full on. “The same price I put on remembering their legacy and preserving it.”

  “You mean your legacy.” Prime Minister Barilla snuffed out remnants of his chewed-up cigar in an ashtray.

  His words felt like a punch to the sac. “What are you implying, sir?”

  “Tell me, Your Highness. Are you not considering their deal because you feel the price is too high, or you refuse to give up your pride?”

  “Pride? That’s what you think I’m coveting? My ego?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Fire burned his eyes, and the urge to lift the prime minister off his feet and throw him across the table was too great. He forced himself to grip its wooden edge instead. “Is it my pride in question here, or yours?”

  I’ve lost most of my family, nearly a hundred of my father’s people, my head bodyguard, and the love of my life. I have no pride left to salvage.

  “If you won’t consider all options for Solana’s security,” he stood and donned his jacket, “then perhaps we should put someone in place who will.”

  “Meaning?” Alanna asked, her glare and warning tone directed at Barilla.

  “Perhaps this entire incident is merely the first step in accepting a new age. After all, you two haven’t decided who inherits the throne. We are leaderless.”

  “There’s been no precedent for this situation,” Alanna countered harshly. “The legality of who ascends must be absolute.”

  “I agree, no precedent. Between the eldest, exiled with clearly no desire to assume his birthright, and the youngest, who is barely old enough to vote.”

  Every man stared at André, waiting to see his reaction to the veiled threat. Don’t lose your cool. That’s what he wants. How much like my father am I? “Who ascends the throne is not your decision.”

  Alanna’s cheeks pinked, and he could tell she was trying hard not to open her mouth and fire back a rancorous response.

  “This threat against Solana still exists, no matter what title you call the leader,” André continued. “King or queen.” He raised an emphatic brow. “Prime minister or president. What would change is the very identity of the country you are trying to save.”

  Everyone shifted in their seats, except Barilla, who never blinked. Alanna slowly moved to the table and placed her fingertips on it, her chin high, watching.

  “What message would that send to the world?” André asked. “That a cartel, barely 500 strong, was able to scare the million people of our proud country into giving up their very identities?”

  “Are you calling me a coward?” Barilla’s tone turned dangerous. “I was at home the night those monsters attacked. Not thousands of miles away, drinking and gambling in a five-star hotel.” His face turned red. “I fought one of them back out of my house, after he set the next hacienda on fire, with my neighbor inside. I can still hear his screams in my head. I’ve been here the whole time, defending my country. Where were you? Hiding.” By the time he finished, his voice had turned hoarse from yelling.

  “Lower your voice, Prime Minister,” Alanna seethed. “You’re addressing a member of the royal family. You are not the only one to have suffered the cartel’s atrocities.”

  Hiding. André took a deep breath, simmering the heat rising in his face. Calling me a coward. “Where was I that night?” he hissed. It took all his strength not to wrap his hands around the man’s neck. “You’re blaming me for the cartel attacking? For killing my family?”

  “Stop,” Alanna whispered. “Both of you are engaging in a fight that cannot be won.”

  “I’m saying the royal family was unable to protect its own people from destruction.” Barilla swallowed a deep breath and adjusted his lapel. “Therefore, I have no choice but to allow the proposal to abolish the monarchy to the parliament floor. Perhaps then we can resume negotiations with the United States.”

  André’s heart collapsed in on itself, and the only thing holding up his weight were his hands on the table. Each parliament leader openly gawked, along with Alanna.

  Arias rose, his scowl as deep as his voice. “You don’t have the votes for that, Barilla. Nor does abolishing the monarchy solve the problem we’re facing.”

  The prime minister glared at him. “That’s your opinion.”

  “Without the royal family, who is in control? You?” Arias crossed his arms.

  Silence roared through the room, and Barilla pursed his lips. Clearly, that was what he wanted but didn’t have the guts to say it to the royal prince’s face.

  “Inform me, Prime Minister,” Arias challenged. “Inform all of the province leaders here, if you were in charge, how would you protect the people from another onslaught? What would you have done differently than the royal family?”

  Barilla inhaled deeply and kept his eyes on André, who returned the glare. “I would have already been on Solana, protecting my family and calling for every international defense force to intervene.”

  Alanna’s face turned lethal, and she whirled from the table. In a few strides, she was at the prime minister’s side and stuck her finger against his temple, much like a pistol. He flinched. “Try doing that with a gun to your head.” Her voice shook, and her brown eyes flared with rage. “With fifteen mercenaries surrounding you. Your wife sobbing, shielding your children against her chest. Screaming at you for help. The soldiers force you to your knees, barking at you to surrender.”

  Barilla frowned and refused to look her in the eye. Everyone else in the room was on their feet, watching in muted horror.

  “You refuse to surrender,” she continued. “You’re too proud. You’re the leader of a country and must show strength to keep everyone safe. The soldier shoots your wife in the head. Her brains splatter all over your children. They demand again, ‘surrender.’ But you refuse. Again. So, they kill your son, and his body drops at your feet
.”

  André’s stomach somersaulted, and he choked back the image. She was right there.

  “You double over on yourself, grasping the Crown Prince’s lifeless head. Before you have the chance to say anything, they drag your eleven-year-old grandson in front of you…” The tears behind her words increased the pitch of her voice. “A little boy, begging for help. You live just long enough to see them put a bullet between his eyes.”

  Alejandro, sweet Jesus. André could barely imagine the horror on his little nephew’s face. It ripped him in half. He forced himself to walk over to her, barely holding back the sob stuck in his throat.

  “You tell me, Barilla. At what point do you walk out of the room to go make phone calls to the international community?”

  Her tears had dried, and only anger remained on her face. André gently placed his hands on her shoulders, urging her to calm. She didn’t listen.

  “What would you have done that my father didn’t? What other sacrifice would it have taken against such blatant disrespect for human life?”

  “Alanna,” he soothed, trying to ease the rage oozing out of her.

  “Give me your campaign speech now, Prime Minister. As a new voter, I’m dying to hear it.”

  Barilla turned his head, looking down into her angelic face. The stone expression of his princess. But there was no apology in his posture.

  Alanna lowered her hand. The serious presence of their father filled her shoes, and the grace of their mother in her face. André could barely breathe.

  “After all of that, sir, witnessing such horror and knowing they were still there killing people, would you go back into your house? Even though you’d lost everything, to save the lives of others you’ve never met? Would you still risk your life? Because that’s what it takes.”

  It was a long, quiet moment before Barilla dared open his mouth. “My deepest condolences, Your Highness, for your loss and what you’ve witnessed.”

  Alanna took a deep breath and smoothed her blouse. “I suggest we adjourn this meeting to give everyone a chance to rest and think.”

  “Agreed, Your Highness.” Arias put on his jacket and placed his tie in his pocket. “Thank you for your hospitality and advice.”