Their Cartel Princess: The Complete Series: A Dark Reverse Harem Box Set Page 57

  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.

  56

  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.

  57

  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.

  Her fear, her panic…it snuffed out instantly, as if her mind couldn’t process anything anymore. Like it was shutting down in the wake of the obvious brutality her father had suffered. She hurriedly tugged down his shirt and pressed her palm against the wound, trying to stem the blood.

  “Te amo, Papá,” she whispered, bending to plant a kiss on his forehead as she used her free hand to tag away his gag.

  “Mi corazón,” her father rasped in a voice that could have belonged to a poltergeist. She stroked his cheek, and then gently laid his head back on the concrete, folding up the burlap sack for a makeshift pillow.

  Then she got to her feet.

  Blinked.

  Looked around at everyone.

  The Mexican had Angel by the throat while the man struggled. There was a bullet wound in Angel’s leg, although she couldn’t remember hearing a third shot go off.

  El Lobo was smiling now. Smiling at her. As if pleased that she’d discovered the terrible things he’d done to her father. Someone called her name. Loud, panicked. But it was background noise as she ran at El Lobo, intent on strangling him until she’d forced that pleased grin from his lips.

  Obviously, no one in the room thought she was a threat. No gunshot went off to stop her reaching Zachary.

  She went at him like a feral cat. Fingers clawed, teeth showing in a vicious snarl, making an angry sound that could have doubled for a feline hiss.

  He caught her wrists, twisted, and forced her to her knees. She would have cried out in pain, had it not been so agonizing that all she could do was draw in a ragged gasp.

  Because she’d charged him without thinking. Bailey would have spat at her feet and stormed off in disgust. She had given Zachary every advantage. She might as well have crawled to him on her hands and knees.

  El Lobo twisted harder. Her left knee issued wave upon wave of near blinding agony, but it almost matched the strain on the tendons in her arm. They went numb in warning, as if another quarter inch of a twist would break both her arms.

  The man stared down at her with that same fascination he’d had earlier. “You’ve grown since I’ve last seen you, little Eleodora,” he murmured. “Do you still remember me?”

  She managed a breathless, “No!” He was crazy. Insane. What he’d done to her father, and now he—

  He released her wrists. She collapsed with a wail, head almost flush with her knees as she nursed her arms against her. They felt too loose, like he’d twisted her muscles to twice their length. A dull ache throbbed in them, working its way up her arms to her neck.

  A hand fisted in her hair. Forced her head up. She blinked back tears of pain as Zachary lifted a gloved hand to his mouth, nipped the tip of one finger, and slowly drew his hand out.

  More pain now as she jerked and kicked and screamed on the end of his hand. She could feel her hair pulling out, but she didn’t care. Her left leg had gone lame under her, but it didn’t stop her scrambling to her feet in an attempt to get away from him.

  El Lobo.

  Don Zachary.

  No—the fucking English man.

  58

  Remember me?

  Finn forced his arm to steady. It had been trembling ever so slightly, perhaps caught in the stream of contradicting thoughts spilling into his mind. He knew he had to shoot Zachary West. If this thing was an animal, West was the brain. The heart. The nervous system. Everyone else was just a limb.

  But Cora was a struggling mess, and every time she moved, she blocked out a different part of El Lobo.

  He could try and take out the man’s henchmen so long. But what was to say he wouldn’t pull her closer and strangle her to death before Finn had a chance to take more than one guy down?

  “Easy,” Lars said from a few feet behind him. “Let’s think this through.”

  They stood to the side of the hangar. They’d drawn a Mexican man’s aim, but he seemed content to keep his sights on them and nothing more. A tall red-headed man had Angel in a choke hold, and it seemed the kid was destined to pass out any second now.

  And West had Cora by the hair, seeming pleased at how she struggled to break free from that single grip. He’d taken off his glove, and at first Finn couldn’t figure out why he’d waste the time. And then he saw the marbled flesh from what had to have been a third-degree burn.

  And then Cora had gone fucking ape-shit.

  Now, even if he wanted to put a bullet through West, he’d risk it going through Cora first.

  “Think he’s dead?” Lars murmured.

  Like he could give a shit about Swan right now. There was blood under him, more slowly pooling out like it had all fucking day, but his concern was Swan’s daughter.

  “Let’s go,” Lars said, and stepped forward.

  So much for fucking thinking it through.

  But he was right behind Lars, the snapping and whining of his beast as much to blame for his impatience as his own thumping heart.

  It took everything she had for Cora not to slip into a faint like a Victorian woman with a too-tight corset. As it was, those shadows she’d seen before came racing back, caressing Zachary like he was a god to them.

  Which he was. He was the god of death and suffering. Of the four horsemen, he was pestilence because everything he touched decayed.

  “Please,” she whispered, and hated herself for that pitiful plea.

  It seemed to please Zachary. But then his face switched off, curiosity and pleasure vanishing. “Where are the archives?” he whispered.

  She should have resisted. She should have spat in his face or tried stomping on his feet. But her spine had turned into wet string, and the only thing keeping her on her feet was the hand in her hair. She fumbled in her pocket.

  But El Lobo was an impatient man. His lips smoothed into a line, that twisted hand darting out and knocking her fingers away. He shoved his hand in her pocket, not once losing eye contact as he d
ug deeper, deeper, deeper.

  Her skin coursed with goosebumps at the thought of that disfigured skin touching her. Nausea welled up, and for a second she thought she’d puke all over him. Perhaps she should. It would—

  But then he jerked his hand out, holding the Santa Muerte pendent in his fingers. Studying the saint as intently as he had Cora just a few minutes ago.

  “Join us, Michael,” Zachary said, his eyes flashing to Cora’s.

  A man emerged from the shipping container behind them. He held a laptop balanced on his palm, and adjusted a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles as he stepped into the hangar. He paused when he took in the scene, and then seemed almost incapable of moving.

  Zachary’s Mexican lieutenant backed up, keeping his pistol aimed somewhere behind Cora. Then he grabbed Michael’s sleeve and drew the man forward with him, until Michael stood a few feet away from Zachary.

  Zachary handed him the thumb drive, and the man pushed it into the side slot of the machine with a shuddering hand.

  El Lobo’s gaze darted to the side, tracking movement across the hangar. He used his arm to twist Cora around, and then there was a gun against her head again.

  She was getting decidedly fed up with that feeling.

  Then she caught sight of Finn and Lars, and her stomach twisted. They were inside the hangar, guns out, looking as serious as stage three cancer. But they weren’t shooting anyone. They weren’t charging in. They were waiting…because they didn’t want her to get hurt.

  Fuck!

  “Shoot him!” she yelled.

  Zachary shook her, and the jarring motion sent a new wave of pain through her leg. She swallowed hard, forcing herself not to mewl in pain as Zachary slowly began backing up.