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  There was a clank from downstairs—Lars moving around the living room. Tidying? Making food? Getting ready for their trip? Her stomach tightened at the thought. What would it be like to meet Tío without her father there? Would he be happy to see her?

  “Get some rest.” Finn left, glancing back at her without expression before pulling the door closed behind him.

  When she lay down again, her eyes slid closed of their own accord. As sleep grasped at her mind, her memory served her another snapshot from the past. Her father, propped up by silk-covered pillows. The sheets had done such a terrible job of hiding the bandages around his chest.

  He handed her a gift box. Bright pink, wrapped in a white satin ribbon. After the police lineup of cartel members she’d just gone through, she was too numb to thank him as she took it from his hands. The lid fell to the floor. Someone might have picked it up later in the day. She stared at the pistol nestled inside, fully assembled.

  As she took the Taurus from its box, her hands shook as much as her father’s had when he’d shown her those photos. The inscription caught her eye when she turned the gun over in her palm.

  Creo en ti, mi corazón.

  Her father’s fingers were ice-cold and dry as dust when he wrapped them over hers, trapping the gun between them. “I can’t always be there, mi corazón. I can’t always protect you. This can. It doesn’t leave your side. Yes?”

  Her voice had been a whisper. “Yes, Papá.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise, Papá.”

  He’d been quiet for a moment, and then his voice had become diamond-hard.

  “Sangre por sangre, mi corazón.”

  Blood for blood. The creed of El Calacas Vivo. Biblical in its connotation. An eye for an eye. Tooth for a tooth. Blood for blood.

  “¿Lo prometes, Elle?”

  Do you promise?

  “Lo prometo, Papá. Sangre por sangre.”

  I promise, Papá. Blood for blood.

  “We’ll have to leave first thing in the morning,” Lars said as soon as Finn cleared the staircase. He had his feet up on the coffee table, the bottle of brandy balancing on one thigh.

  “On one snowmobile?” Finn asked.

  “I’ll go back into town, pick up my truck.”

  “Or we could see if the Jeep starts.”

  “Jeep?”

  “You think we walked here?” Finn went into the kitchen and began making himself a cup of coffee. When Lars glanced back and saw what he was doing, he sprang off the couch and hurried over. The bottle of brandy thumped on the kitchen counter.

  “This round’s on me,” Lars said with a wide grin.

  “No, I’ve already—” Finn began, lifting his hand.

  “Already what?” Lars asked, eyes wide with innocence.

  “Christ, you know I shouldn’t,” he muttered.

  “All I know is we’re stuck in a blizzard, there’s a roaring fire, and I haven’t seen you close on a week. One drink. Come on.”

  Finn drew a deep breath, and pushed the cup of coffee to the side. He held up a finger. “One.”

  Lars grinned at him. “That’s my boy.”

  They moved to the sofa, Lars pouring them both a stiff measure of the brandy. Finn glared at him, but decided not to refuse it. Cora was asleep, after all; she’d be safe. And Lars knew how to defend himself.

  He let out a quiet laugh, and Lars turned to him. “Dollar for your thoughts?”

  “A penny,” Finn murmured.

  “You can thank inflation.”

  He laughed again, and tipped the mug against his lips. The brandy had stopped burning his throat, but his stomach was growing warmer after each sip. His thoughts foggier. And his beast stirred as if from a deep sleep, stretching its limbs in the basement of his mind.

  “So…you two seem real cozy,” Lars said quietly.

  Finn harrumphed.

  “Didn’t know my clothes could look that sexy. Certainly don’t have that effect when I wear them.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut and tried desperately to shove down the wave of irritation threatening to wash over him. “Lars—”

  “No, I mean kudos, champ. That’d definitely be a notch in any guy’s belt. Bedding a capo’s daughter?” Lars let out a huff.

  Finn’s fingers tightened around the mug, but he forced himself not to reply. He knew Lars liked to wheedle him, but he was too fucking exhausted to be a good sport about it tonight.

  “She looks a tad inexperienced, though. Or is that part of the appeal, huh? Teaching her the ropes?” Lars cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “Shut it.”

  “Look, the mere fact that you’re not denying it—”

  Finn slammed his empty mug down. Lars stiffened, mouth pursed to take a sip from his brandy. Just his eyes shifted to Finn, and that familiar Cheshire cat grin of his bloomed on his lips.

  “Was it good?”

  “What are you, fucking twelve?”

  Lars barked out a laugh, and drained the rest of his mug, setting it down beside Finn’s.

  “Well. Go to her.”

  “What?” Finn said, a laugh in his voice.

  Lars shrugged, not making eye contact with Finn as he shooed him off the couch. “Ain’t room for the both of us down here. Not unless you’re up for some spooning.” There was a wicked glint in those green eyes now.

  Finn looked away, massaging his eyelids with thumb and forefinger. “I could sleep on the floor.”

  “We’re all adults,” Lars said. “She is, isn’t she?”

  Finn trudged up the stairs, not looking back at Lars. He heard the man making himself a bed on the sofa—springs creaking and blankets whisking—but then he was in the bedroom. The lamp was still on; it cast a soft light over Cora’s body.

  Fast asleep.

  He moved quietly across the floor. When his hand was on his belt to undo it, he paused. That night at the inn, they’d been side by side. Innocent, like this. Until she’d turned to him in a moment of terror.

  What if that happened again?

  Third time’s the charm, purred a voice in his head.

  Lars sat up when he came downstairs again. The man watched him silently as he dumped one of the blankets he’d taken from the bedroom closet on the floor. A pillow thumped down above it.

  “Not a word,” he muttered.

  He expected a string of words, even a laugh. Instead, Lars just watched him silently and, for once, without a hint of a smile on his face.

  Finn turned on his side, his back to Lars, and faced the fire. It was dying out, but there was still some warmth eking from the coals.

  A foot nudged his leg. He moved it away.

  “She give you head for your birthday, at least?”

  Finn swung around, punching Lars on the thigh. The man let out a laugh and jerked his leg away when Finn tried to get a second punch in. “Jesus, fine! I’ll quit.”

  He fell asleep listening to the wind pelting the cabin with snow.

  Lars woke Finn with a cup of coffee and a pinch on his arm. He sat up in a rush, groaning when his muscles complained. He massaged the back of his neck, took the coffee from Lars, and gave him a quick once over.

  The man’s hair was as unruly as always, but he looked as fresh as a fucking daisy.

  “So, about that Jeep,” Lars said before taking a sip of coffee. “Might be the fuck ton of snow around, but I don’t see one anywhere. Think it got buried?”

  “It’s a mile or so down the road.”

  “Went for the scenic route, yeah?”

  “Hit a deer.”

  “Fuck. What the deer do to deserve that?”

  “It ran in front of the fucking Jeep.”

  “Life’s lottery,” Lars sighed, and took another noisy sip of his coffee.

  “Let me take a leak, finish my coffee, then we’ll go see if it’ll start.”

  “Sure we should leave Sleeping Beauty by herself?”

  “She’s fine,” Finn said. “Trust me.”

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p; Lars’s eyebrows pricked up. “I’m sensing friction.”

  “She has a gun.”

  “An empty one,” Lars said through a laugh.

  Finn paused with one foot on the stairs. “It was that obvious?”

  “Only so many times someone can threaten to shoot before they actually fucking shoot.” Lars drew a line around his face. “And she has to work on her poker face.”

  Finn snorted and went upstairs. He’d closed the bedroom door last night, but opened it a crack to make sure Cora was still asleep. Her back was to the door, but she didn’t move when the door creaked. He pulled it closed again, used the bathroom, and went back downstairs. Tossing back the last of his coffee, he sat on the sofa to pull on the pair of snow boots he’d snagged from a downstairs cupboard. “Let’s go.”

  Lars flung open the door and took a dramatic draft of air through his mouth. “God, it’s fucking beautiful out here.”

  The crunch of snow underfoot followed them through the powdery landscape. It had stopped snowing in the night, but thick clouds blocked out the sky, promising a heavy snowfall in the next few hours. Their breath misted the air as they walked.

  “Where in Texas we going?” Lars paused, hands to hips, staring around at the deserted stretches of snow between the pines. They were both breathing hard from the twenty-minute trudge through the snow.

  “A drop-off point.”

  Lars took another few steps before coming to a halt. He turned to face Finn, eyes narrowed. “We’re just going to leave her beside the road somewhere?”

  “A hotel in Marfa.” Finn shrugged and started walking again. “I’m not happy about it, but what can I do?”

  “I could give less fucks,” Lars said, pursing his lips. “And so should you. Your contract’s up the second she reaches those GPS co-ords. What the hell do you care what happens after?” Lars glanced back at him and then stopped. “Hey, I don’t know where I’m going over here. You mind taking lead, big guy?”

  Finn inhaled a breath deep enough to push out his chest, and then worked his way through the snow, heading for the Jeep. They arrived a few minutes later and began clearing the snow from the hood. Lars inspected the damage with a low whistle, arms akimbo.

  When he went around to the driver’s side door and began shoveling snow away from it to open it, Finn called out, “Won’t open. Deer hit it.”

  “Jesus. Next time, maybe don’t aim for the wildlife?” Lars said as he clambered through the passenger side door.

  “I was—” He cut off when Lars popped the hood.

  “Still can’t take a joke, Milo?” Lars tried jumping the Jeep from the mess of wires dangling from the steering column. The engine gave a reluctant whine before cutting out. He climbed out again, coming around to peer under the hood beside Finn.

  “Hey, could you check if the shut off switch tripped?” Lars asked.

  Finn popped the trunk and went around to the back.

  “Switch trip?” Lars prompted a second later. And then stuck out his head from behind the hood when Finn remained silent.

  Obviously, his glare was answer enough.

  Lars gave him an easy smile. “Let’s try the battery.” He yanked at the clamps until they both came off, and then dusted snow off the engine block. “We don’t get this thing running—”

  “Then I’ll take her on the snowmobile.”

  “Abandoning me at the cabin?” Lars dusted his hands as he straightened. “No thanks. I’ll take her.”

  “We’ll flip for it.”

  Lars studied him for a second, and those pale green eyes flickered. Then came that incorrigible smile again. “Sure, Milo. Whatever you say.” Then he turned his head, scanning the snow. “We should grab that deer. I’ll skin it and keep it in the freezer.”

  Finn rolled his eyes, but began trudging to the spot where he and Cora had dragged the deer. Buried under three foot of snow, the animal was already frozen. He and Lars dragged it back to the jeep and wedged its stiff body in the back.

  When they reconnected the battery and Lars hopped in the driver’s seat, the engine started up with a roar. He kept his foot on the gas for a few seconds. Dark exhaust fumes tainted the white world behind the Jeep and Lars carefully released the gas. The engine purred, hiccupping every few seconds, but not cutting out.

  “Not sure—” Lars began.

  “We’ll risk it.”

  “No coin toss then?”

  Finn didn’t reply, climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the door behind him.

  11

  Flogging a dead horse

  Despite dawn’s glittering clarity, Zachary’s barn remained gloomy and cool. Rodrigo went inside first, Ailin taking up station outside with Lady and Blue. The dogs and his lieutenant tolerated each other like estranged siblings, wary but accepting of each other’s place alongside their master. When Zachary glanced at Lady, her tail swished just once through the dirt before stilling. She kept his gaze until he looked away, and then turned to scan the surrounding fields with a stare identical to that of Ailin.

  Angel had stopped on the threshold of the barn and it took a gentle shove to the small of his back before the boy moved forward into the grasping darkness beyond.

  The smell of unwashed flesh met them when they were halfway across the dusty, straw-littered floor. Animals hadn’t lived in the barn for a long time—years, possibly—but neither the farm’s previous owner nor Zachary had bothered to sweep in here.

  A shaft of light speared down from a large crack between two ill-fitting boards in a nearby wall. It illuminated a strip of the barn floor and an overturned votive candle, now dusty.

  Angel stopped again.

  Zachary wrapped his fingers around the back of the young man’s neck and drove him forward.

  Rivera didn’t stir. The man could have been dead, but then the stink of his rotting flesh would have filled this barn to bursting rather than just his stale sweat and bodily excretions. Close to the votive candle, plump maggots crawled through the remains of a ham and cheese sandwich.

  The man still hadn’t eaten since his capture.

  “Angel, this is Antonio Luis Rivera, capo of the El Calacas Vivo cartel.”

  Under his hand, Angel’s neck muscles stood proud. “Si, Don Zachary.”

  “He is a stubborn man,” he said, stepping closer to Angel. “He refuses to tell me what I wish to know. There are many ways to persuade a man to do your bidding. Pain. Humiliation. Degradation. Pain is the easiest to inflict, but sometimes the easiest to endure. We’ll start your lesson today with pain.”

  When he touched the young man’s belt, Angel stiffened and made a sound in the back of his throat. “Did your father ever hit you, Angel?”

  Angel let out a strangled, “Si,” as Zachary undid his belt and slid the strip of leather from his jeans.

  He took Angel’s hands, wrapped the belt around his palm, and urged the boy forward again. Angel stumbled, threw Zachary an incredulous look over his shoulder, and then straightened. He stalked closer to Rivera, watching the man as if he expected Rivera to jump up and attack him.

  “Antonio!” Zachary called out, making Angel jump. “Have you reconsidered your position since we last spoke?”

  Rivera stirred. With what looked like tremendous effort, the man lifted his blindfolded head. That strip of cloth and a pair of dirty trunks was the only thing Rivera wore; they’d long since stripped him of his Gucci suit, leaving only his Egyptian cotton underwear. There hadn’t been much fat on Rivera—he’d arrived at the barn as lithe as Angel—and after a week of starvation, his body had begun cannibalizing itself to survive. Pronounced knees and elbows, the hint of ribs beneath his purple-blue bruises, all spoke of his stubborn refusal to eat.

  “Take it off,” Zachary murmured, tilting his head toward Angel. The young man darted forward, ripping away the blindfold. Rivera’s head bobbed forward before the man could straighten his neck again. A gaunt face stared up at Zachary. It took several long moments for recognition to t
ouch those empty eyes, slitted against the meager light inside the barn.

  Rivera said nothing.

  Angel looked over at Zachary, concern etched in furrows above his black eyes. Zachary flicked his fingers and set his mouth in a line. Angel hesitated, lifted the looped belt above his head, and then paused.

  The young man’s chest rose and fell like he couldn’t catch his breath.

  “Por favor, Señor Rivera,” Angel murmured. “Tell Don Zachary—”

  Zachary’s warning hiss cut him off.

  Angel brought the belt down on Rivera’s hip. Rivera flinched, but didn’t make a sound.

  “He has a strong arm, Antonio. And enough motivation to light up the night sky.” Zachary came close enough to crouch in front of Rivera. The man opened eyes encrusted with dried tears and mucus, face contorting into disgust. He made a spitting sound, but he was obviously too dehydrated to produce saliva.

  “I want the names,” Zachary hissed. “Your inbetweeners. Your contacts. Tell me where the archives are, and this will all be over.”

  Rivera’s mouth worked. Eventually, those cracked, blood-stained lips parted. There was a murmur of sound, too low for Zachary to make out. He leaned in, fingertips resting on the dust beside Santa Muerte’s overturned votive candle for balance.

  “…Fuck…you…” Rivera whispered.

  Zachary rose in a rush, dusting his fingertips against his checkered shirt. His jaw bunched before he could force his teeth to unclench. He stepped back, inhaled a deep breath, and waved a hand at Angel.

  Angel hesitated, eyes drawing down in sympathy for Rivera.

  “Marco will thank you,” Zachary said quietly. “Lesson one. Pain.” He nodded at Rivera.

  This time, the boy didn’t hesitate.

  A dull crack sounded through the barn as the belt connected with Rivera’s hip. The man fell onto his side, his feeble breath barely disturbing the dust and straw in front of his mouth.

  Crack. Crack. Crack.

  Angel paused, glancing across at Zachary. But he didn’t look away from Rivera’s face and, a second later, Angel continued.