Their Cartel Princess: The Complete Series: A Dark Reverse Harem Box Set Page 35

  It would have been suicide for him to show his face. He’d left all his weapons back on that rise; most Milo had chucked unceremoniously into his duffel bag not an hour ago.

  So he cowered there in the dirt, smelling his own blood and sweat as Milo’s wide eyes mocked him. And, minutes later, when the sound of his thumping heart had died down, he could hear the wind again.

  This time, it sung to him. And it sounded like Milo’s deep, melodious voice saying, “Run.”

  Over and over again.

  Run…run like the coward you are.

  17

  Angel’s place

  It was a tradition at Zachary’s ranch that everyone present at dinner time would share a meal in the dining room. Sometimes, there wasn’t enough space at the polished oak dining table. But even then, members of the Plata o Plomo cartel would pull up chairs from other areas of the house and sit against the walls, plates on their laps, eating whatever Nikita had made for dinner. And the cook always made sure to cook more than enough food to feed everyone. Tonight, the dining table groaned under the weight of a thick and fragrant Asada de Bodas - a red chile pork stew.

  Zachary sat in his usual seat at the head of the table, with Lady to the one side and Blue to the other. They’d receive the occasional scrap of pork from his plate, but only once he’d sucked off the spicy sauce.

  Seated on either side were Ailin and Rodrigo. Further down the table, the hierarchy of his sicarios became apparent. Except for the seat opposite him.

  Angel sat slumped in his chair, eyes downcast. He wore fresh clothes, but there were smudges under his eyes. As Nikita came around the table ladling stew into everyone’s bowls from a massive pot one of her underlings carried for her, Angel didn’t look up.

  Tonight, there were just enough men to fill the table. And all but Ailin and Rodrigo had given Angel a curious look when they’d filed into the dining room a few minutes earlier.

  Zachary took a sip of his ‘94 pinot noir. Ailin did all the wine pairing when he was at the ranch; he had experience as a server in an upper-class American restaurant where he’d been expected to know the best vintage to pair with each entree. It was only when his brother was gunned down in a cartel-related shooting that he’d joined Plata o Plomo seeking revenge.

  Zachary had long since granted him that revenge. But Ailin had stayed, seemingly satisfied with the perks of his new position.

  “Buen provecho,” Zachary said, when Nikita had served everyone.

  Voices murmured, “Gracias,” and “Thank you.”

  Angel didn’t move. From what he’d been told, Angel hadn’t eaten a thing since Ailin had brought him back from the barn.

  Zachary drew deep on the cumin and cinnamon scented fog steaming up from his plate. He took a tortilla from the pile closest to him—accompaniments to tonight’s dish were scattered all along the center of the long dining table—and heaped some of the thick stew in the middle.

  Around him, his sicarios discussed anything that wasn’t business—the weather, how the horses were favoring those that gambled, gossip from their hometowns.

  Rodrigo slapped stew into a tortilla, heaped a few pinto beans on top, and rolled it into a messy burrito. Half slid out before he could bring it to his mouth.

  “Are you in a hurry, Rodrigo?” Zachary asked coolly, taking another sip of his wine. Rosa had done an outstanding job with tonight’s meal. The chile stung his tongue just the right amount, complimenting the piquant flavors infused into the cubes of succulent pork.

  Rodrigo froze, and slowly put his tortilla down. It fell apart, and he watched it sadly for a few seconds before lifting his eyes to Zachary. “Lo siento.” The man took a long swallow of his wine, his eyes flashing down the table and settling on Angel. They went back to his plate, and he began eating again, slower this time.

  The man was bursting to be gone from the table and return to tracking down Eleodora Swan. He’d reported back to Zachary not an hour ago that one of his falcons had picked up a new lead in New Mexico. A stolen vehicle reported to the police, and its owner mentioning that the lowjack installed in the car put the Jeep somewhere in the mountains above Silver City. Someone matching Cora’s description had been seen in the area a few minutes before the theft. It seemed she was accompanied by someone—not her bodyguard, obviously, but perhaps the replacement Rivera had arranged last minute.

  Perhaps Antonio Rivera wasn’t as naive as he’d first suspected. Something had to have made the man decide that Bailey, Cora’s former bodyguard, wasn’t trustworthy enough to escort her from their safehouse in Phoenix. That had been the reason Rodrigo and Ailin were scrambling falcons from around the country to try to locate her. They’d even greased a few hands at Arizona’s local law enforcement office to have a news station broadcast a report on Eleodora’s disappearance. One tip had already put them within arm’s distance of the girl back in Payson…before she’d miraculously escaped. Hopefully there would be more.

  Zachary touched a napkin to his mouth, and sat back in his chair. “Go,” he said, waving at Rodrigo. “I don’t want to see you again until you’ve found her.”

  Rodrigo ducked his head, already scraping back his chair. He turned to the other sicarios seated around the table, giving them a flustered, “Gracias,” before hurrying out the room.

  From the corner of his eyes, Zachary could see Ailin sitting up straight. He’d been eating at a measured pace, but with the determined bites of a man intent on getting his food down as quickly—and furtively—as possible. He’d almost consumed an entire burrito.

  Zachary sighed. “Go with him.”

  Ailin didn’t even bother to excuse himself. Zachary watched the man’s broad back as he hurried from the room, and gave his head a rueful shake. They were incorrigible, those two. Patient, trusting, utterly dependable. And as loyal as the two pit bulls sitting like Sphinxes to either side of him.

  “Angel,” Zachary called out, with a wave toward the other side of the table. “Come sit here.”

  Conversation lulled for a few seconds. The men around the table all looked across at Angel, who lifted his head as if it was too heavy for his neck to support. “Señor?” The young man’s voice was leaden.

  Zachary waved a hand to Ailin’s empty seat. “Come.”

  Two dozen eyes watched Angel as he got to his feet and moved to the head of the table to take Ailin’s seat.

  Conversation picked up, but it was sporadic and low, as if every ear strained to hear Zachary while trying to keep up the appearance of conversation.

  “You must eat something,” Zachary said, pushing away Ailin’s plate and putting down an unused side plate from the stack a foot away. He made up a burrito for Angel, perfectly folded, and nudged the plate closer to him.

  “I feel sick,” Angel murmured. And indeed, the boy turned a shade paler at the sight of the food.

  “Is your body sick, or your mind?” Zachary asked quietly. “I have medicine for your body. And your mind will heal itself in time.”

  Angel turned his head. Where his coffee-colored skin had been ashen, it now burned with spots of color. “It sickens me, what I have done.” The boy’s English deteriorated the more animated his voice became. “That man—how he deserved it? Even if he is capo. I am no one to him. He is no one to me. Why—”

  Silence fell over the table like a shroud. Angel cut off, glancing at the line of men down either side of the table. Spots of anger became a blush, as if he’d just become aware of his audience.

  “Por favor, Don Zachary,” came his unsteady voice. “I—”

  “It is good to be angry.” Zachary scooped some pinto beans onto a fork and chewed them for a few seconds before swallowing them down with wine. “Anger is a tool you can use. Fuel for a fire that can burn forever. It is when that fuel runs out that you must start to worry about your future.”

  Angel’s brows drew together, his lips parting. He gave his head a shake and shoved away the plate of food as if the smell of it was making him nauseous. �
��Where is my brother?”

  “He is safe.”

  “Where?”

  A garrote could have sliced the thickening silence like a knife through gelatin.

  “I have sent him to scout the road you assume leads to Javier Martin’s compound,” Zachary said. A few of the sicario’s eyes widened, confusion flashing over more than a handful of faces.

  He could understand why; he’d never explained himself to anyone before. His word was law—and questioning it was a capital offense. He liked to decorate bridges with the headless bodies of those that dared to defy him.

  Angel sat up straight, clenching his fists on the table. “Alone?” he said, voice low and thick with anger.

  The atmosphere in the room became tainted with wary anticipation, as if the men could sense violence approaching like a thunderstorm.

  “Do you think your brother is incapable of doing anything without you by his side?” Zachary asked calmly, taking a long, slow swallow of his wine as he studied the young man over the rim of the wine glass.

  “No, I—” Angel cut off, his mouth thinning in a furious line. “I want to be with him, not here. Not doing—”

  He ended the sentence with a moan that issued from somewhere in the back of his throat. Moisture flooded his eyes, the boy blinking rapidly. “Por favor, Don—”

  “Your place is with me. Here.” He lifted his knife, toying with it as Angel watched him barely suppressed fury. “Unless you prefer going back over the border.”

  For a moment, it looked as if the young man was considering the option. It didn’t hold enough weight to sway him though—his shoulders sagged and he looked away, fixing on Lady. The dog’s tail swished softly against the floor; the only sound in the room.

  Zachary looked up at the men. “Is there something wrong with your food?” he asked, voice dripping acid.

  The men bent their heads and began eating, but conversation didn’t resume. Zachary dipped his voice low, and leaned in to Angel. “There is so much potential in you, Angel. All that pain…if I can teach you to channel it in aid of the cartel, your success will be limitless.”

  Angel quivered, and hurriedly looked away. Even his fists began to shake, as if it took everything he had not launch himself across the triangle of table separating him from Zachary.

  “Do you want to punch me?” Zachary lay his hand over the boy’s, squeezing hard. Angel’s shivers traveled up his arm, despite how hard he tried to still that hand. “Strangle me?”

  He slid his knife across the table, turned it so that the blade pointed at his abdomen, and forced open the young man’s fingers. Angel fought him, muscles cording the tanned flesh of his arm, but then reluctantly relaxed his fist. Zachary wrapped Angel’s fingers around the knife. Then he sat forward in a rush and brought the tip of that silver tooth flush with his shirt at a point just above his navel.

  “Do you dream of gutting me, Angel? Letting my innards spool onto the floor where my dogs can lick clean my blood?”

  Angel’s eyes squeezed closed, a bead of moisture springing into the corner of each. The tip of the knife described a ragged line across Zachary’s stomach as he fought his quivering arm.

  “If that is your dream, then do it now. Because this is the last chance you’ll ever get.”

  Angel looked up at him then. His black eyes glittered like polished obsidian, his delicate face carved in an expression of trepidation. Then that cleared, and there was only a blank mask.

  “Gracias, Don Zachary.”

  He saw the young man’s intention flicker in his eyes before his muscles could propel the knife forward. Zachary twisted, hissing when the blade scraped over his abdominal muscles. Cloth ripped, and the knife thudded into the back of his chair. It twanged as he tore Angel’s hand off it.

  Angel yelled out when he slammed the boy’s hand onto the table. Zachary snatched Rodrigo’s knife from where he’d left it beside his plate, and stabbed it into Angel’s palm. Angel screamed, tugged at his hand, and screamed again.

  His face had gone the color of coffee with too much creamer. Tears trickled down his face, his mouth working as he stared aghast at where Zachary had pinned his hand to the oak table. Blood began pooling in his palm. His fingers trembled as he brought his other hand up, hesitating above the protruding handle.

  Zachary laid his flattened hand on the top of the knife’s handle, warding off Angel’s attempts at pulling it out. He leaned close enough that his lips touched the young man’s ear, and whispered, “You could have been a fantastic asset, Angel.”

  He rose in a rush, his chair skittering over the flagstone behind him. Both his dogs were on their paws in an instant, hackles raised. He jerked the knife free, watching impassively as Angel sobbed and drew his ruined hand into his stomach, folding over it as he began to cry.

  Zachary held the blade to the side. Blue stepped forward and licked clean one side of the blade. Zachary switched hands, and let Lady clean the other side. Then he tossed the sliver of metal back onto the table, downed the rest of his wine, and looked up at the rapt expressions of his sicarios.

  “Eat,” he said quietly, and left the dining room. Blue and Lady trailed him, the tip-tap of their nails on the tiles the only sound in the room besides Angel’s muffled sobs.

  18

  Balancing the scales

  The cab driver seemed pissed off that he had to come so far up the mountains for a fare. Lars gave the poor man a grin as the three of them clambered into the back, but it didn’t seem to help matters much.

  “Where to?” the cabbie grumbled.

  “Silver City proper.” Lars swung his arms along the back of the car seats.

  Just as he’d expected, Finn sat forward in a rush to avoid his touch. Cora, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice. She stared out the window, face cupped in a hand, as if wishing she was anywhere but here.

  He just didn’t get it. This girl wasn’t Milo’s type. Milo preferred hellcats full of fire and brimstone. Not naive innocents like Swan who wouldn’t say boo to a goose…if she even knew what one looked like when it wasn’t being served up to her on a golden platter with a swirl of some unpronounceable gourmet reduction.

  Maybe he’d gotten cabin fever, closeted up with this cartel chick for close to a week. It would make him think strange thoughts. Do strange things.

  Lars gave Cora a light shove. “Why so quiet, bunny?”

  She turned to him, and looked past at Milo. “What did they do to you?” she asked.

  Shit, was the girl still stuck on that? Admittedly, he’d ended on a cliffhanger. Some folks didn’t like that. But it was up to Milo if he wanted to talk about his time with the Syrians. After all, Lars couldn’t corroborate anything he said.

  Didn’t want to, either.

  “He can tell you when—” Lars began, but Milo cut him off with a lifted hand.

  His fingertips brushed the scar over his throat, just visible above the neckline of his sweater. “You wanted to know where I got this?”

  Lars looked at Cora. She watched Milo with dread, a slow horror building on her face. “Did they—”

  “Among other things,” Milo said, glib as always. But there’d been times when he hadn’t been casual about recounting the days he’d spent being tortured in the desert. Times when it was all Lars could do to calm him down before he went on a rampage.

  Sometimes, he didn’t succeed.

  Hunting helped some. There was something about the shedding of blood that seemed to calm the man. As if he was trying to rebalance the scales of blood shed by his own body with those of grouse, deer…sometimes men.

  Lars couldn’t always be there to stop him.

  “They let you go?” Cora asked quietly.

  Milo let out a rough laugh. “Why the fuck would they do that?”

  “You escaped?”

  Lars felt Milo’s gaze move to him, and he tried keeping his face from twitching. “He escaped,” Lars said, trying for a jolly tone and probably coming closer to hysterical.
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br />   He’d gone back for him, of course. He’d been able to track the Syrians all the way to their fucking secret lair in the foothills of a dry, dusty mountain. And there he’d waited, trying to figure out their routine so he could formulate a plan to spring Milo.

  Except…the same day he’d planned to go in after the mysterious stranger who’d given up his freedom for Lars…that same day someone staggered from the dark slit that led into the mountainside.

  Someone covered in blood.

  He’d thought his mind was playing tricks on him. That he hallucinated the vivid red splashed on those white robes.

  But then the Syrian man collapsed in the dust and didn’t get up. And a few seconds later, Milo emerged from the cave. Lars had been too shocked to move. Frozen in place like prey spotting a predator. Because that was what it had felt like.

  Milo caked in blood and dirt like a foal birthed into mud. Naked, erect, and as crazed as a rabid dog. He’d gone after the Syrian and torn off his blood-soaked robes, covering himself as if the animal inside him could sense Lars hiding nearby.

  And then he’d looked straight at him, a pained resignation in his eyes as he slowly sank to his knees.

  When Lars had reached him, Milo was shuddering. Blood dripped from the rag wound tight around his neck, the dry earth drinking it down like rain.

  He’d knelt beside Milo, hesitated, and then touched his shoulder. “It’s over, man,” he’d said. “It’s over.”

  Milo had shaken off his touch like an irritated hound. And then, in a growl that in no way resembled the deep, pleasant bass of before, he’d said, “It’ll never be over. It’ll never be enough.”

  Lars blinked away the reverie. “And we all lived happily ever after,” he said, his voice sounding leaden to his own ears. “The end.”

  19

  Worst case scenario