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  “Stay where you are,” Zachary said calmly. “I will honor my agreement. If the files are on there, you get Antonio Rivera.” The English man laughed in her ear. The sound made every hair on her body stand up. “What’s left of him.”

  Her father. Cora’s eyes flashed down. But he was dead. He had to be. He’d lost too much blood. The pool under his body was wide and glassy, reflecting that one stray bullet-hole ray of sun.

  “It needs a password,” Michael whispered tremulously.

  Zachary slid his withered hand around her stomach and squeezed. “What’s the password, little Eleodora?” he murmured into her ear.

  She convulsed when his lips brushed skin. And then tried starting up her breathing again. “I don’t know,” she said.

  He shook her again, hard enough that her teeth clacked together. “Password. Now!”

  “I don’t know!” She squeezed her eyes shut, so she couldn’t see Finn’s pale face, or the unhappy curve of Lars’s mouth. “Papá…” and then her voice broke, and sobs she hadn’t realized she’d been keeping back jerked out of her.

  “Ssh,” Zachary murmured. “He’s already dead, little one. Crying’s not going to help. Now give me the password, or I’ll kill both your bodyguards. Do you really want their blood on your hands too?”

  Her eyes snapped up. Finn wore his grimmest look yet, and gave a small shake of his head. Lars laughed and gave Zachary a mirthless smile.

  “You really think she gives a fuck about us?” he asked. “We’re just here for the money, man. We bring her back to Javier alive, we’re getting us a damn fine paycheck.”

  Even through her body’s agony, through the despair that tore at her like a raven’s claws, she could feel the sting of his words.

  The smell of the man’s cologne came to her then. Something fresh and woody, almost like pine. But it wasn’t strong enough to override the smell of blood and sweat coming off her own body.

  Zachary’s muscles moved as if he was shrugging. “Only one way to find out.”

  But she would never find out what it felt like to lose one of them. Because if Finn or Lars died, if they left her stranded in this fucked up world, she’d have nothing left to live for.

  As soon as that now-warm muzzle left the side of her temple, Cora drove her elbow back as hard as she could. Zachary huffed out a single breath, and then tried to aim the pistol back at her. But she knocked away his hand, spinning in his grip despite the agony this brought her leg, and shoved him away from her with all her might.

  He tottered, caught off balance, but his Mexican lieutenant was at his side in an instant to catch him.

  Two shots rang out in close succession.

  The man with the laptop yelled and dove to the ground. The machine crashed down a few feet away, the splinter of plastic audible over the heartbeat’s length of silence that followed.

  Then gun fire spat out from all sides.

  Cora dropped to hands and knees, and put her arms over her head. She had to get closer to Finn and Lars, but they were spreading apart, both their right arms straight and squeezing their triggers in unison.

  Angel lay in a heap on the floor—his attacker had turned his attention to Lars. A familiar shape drew her eye; the pistol Angel had been pressing to her head. It lay half-obscured under his motionless body.

  She scrambled for it. A hand caught at her bare leg, slid down as she wriggled away, snagged her ankle. But gloves did a poor job of grabbing anything and she slipped free with a hard yank on her leg.

  Then she had the pistol.

  She swung around, intent on aiming it at Zachary. But as the sight moved across the room, she saw the red-haired man lifting his gun and aiming it straight at Lars.

  Lars didn’t see. He was trying to cover Finn so he could get behind the side of the shipping container.

  Cora aimed, blew out a slow breath, and squeezed the trigger.

  59

  Great duress

  Finn managed a shot to the Mexican’s shoulder, but that hardly slowed the man down. He was trying to keep his eyes on Cora, but he could only hope she’d keep her fucking head down until he and Lars had dealt with the danger. If he or Lars could get a critical hit on one of West’s henchmen, it would be game over. But they moved like well-trained mercenaries, sidling to the sparse cover the hangar provided while laying down covering fire for each other.

  He caught sight of the ginger from the corner of his eye. Pistol raised, pointed at Lars. But Lars only had eyes for the Mexican.

  Finn opened his mouth to yell, to warn Lars, his own pistol swinging wide to take aim at the red-head’s determined face.

  A single shot went off.

  The ginger reeled back and slammed into the hangar’s corrugated iron wall. The metal pinged and warbled for a minute with the force with which his body had struck it, and then quietened down as he slid to the floor.

  “No!” came a furious shout.

  Finn spun. The Mexican’s face was contorted in a grimace as he barreled across the hangar. Not heading for Finn or Lars…but for Cora. Who was staring shell-shocked at the red-haired man like she couldn’t believe her bullet had struck home.

  At that range, in these conditions? It was a fucking miracle.

  Finn surged forward. He tackled the Mexican with a deep-throated roar, taking them both down. Finn managed a pistol whip to the man’s sombrero, but all that seemed to accomplish was knocking the hat from his head. He heard a gunshot go off, but if it had been Lars aiming for his attacker, he’d probably missed.

  He tried throwing the man from him, but he must have set some kind of animal free in him, because the Mexican fought like a cornered tiger.

  So Finn unleashed the foaming beast he kept cornered day in, day out.

  His forehead slammed into his opponent’s face, where he felt the nose break. The man fell away with a yell, and Finn went with him, shoving him onto his back so hard that his head slammed into the concrete.

  The yell cut off, but then he was grappling Finn. The Mexican got a hold of his shirt and tried dragging him closer, perhaps so he could head butt him in return.

  Finn drove his fist into the man’s jaw. His head snapped to the side, but he straightened it instantly and grabbed Finn’s jaw. His fingers scraped skin from his face as he tried to claw his fingers up to Finn’s eyes.

  With a twist of his head, Finn caught the man’s fingers in his mouth. Bit down. And spat out the blood and bone and flesh he’d lopped off.

  The Mexican didn’t seem to notice at first. And then, with a scream that echoed in every corner of the hangar, he pulled away his ruined hand and stared at it in morbid fascination as it pumped blood into the air.

  Once, twice. Finn punched him again. The man went slack under him, perhaps admitting defeat.

  Inside his mind, Finn’s beast roared in triumph. And then set about tearing his foe limb from limb.

  Another punch.

  He grabbed the man’s hair, and slammed the back of his head into the concrete.

  Again.

  Again.

  There was a puddle under the dark head now. The snap-crackle of disintegrating bone whenever his skull made contact with it.

  Again.

  A voice; someone saying his name.

  Again. He felt the man’s skull weakening.

  “…Milo.”

  Again.

  Hair stayed behind in his fingers, and he tried to grip more, but everything was too wet with blood. Too slippery. The man wore a rictus grin, face distorted now that his skull was no longer the same shape.

  “Milo, stop!”

  He lifted that ruined head, his beast panting and slathering for more blood, and then heard someone retching.

  When he blinked, all he saw was red. It took him a few seconds to realize that was from the blood that had sprayed into his eyes. Hands closed around his shoulders. More untangled his fingers from the hair he still clung to.

  He was guided to his feet. And then turned away into the eerie
gloom of twilight.

  “Fuck my life,” came the trembling voice at his side. “Fuck my fucking life.”

  His beast slunk back into its corner. Then, purring smugly, it curled up and began licking its paws, as if cleaning them of blood.

  The pistol felt cold and heavy in her hand. She almost dropped it, but then the Mexican charged for her. She squeezed the trigger, but nothing happened. No bullets? How many rounds had Angel shot? She dropped the gun and kicked back.

  Then Finn collided with the man, both men sprawling to the concrete.

  Papá.

  But when she turned her head to look for him, her eyes found the Santa Muerte pendant instead. It had been thrown from the laptop, perhaps jarred free on impact, and lay a few feet away between her and Zachary. A ray of light made it gleam like some long-lost treasure, freshly unearthed. A ray of sun beaming down from the bullet Angel had sent ricocheting through the roof.

  She scrambled up, gritted her teeth through the pain that brought, and dove for it. Her fingers closed around the pendant a split second before a silver-tooled cowboy boot thumped down on her hand.

  Screaming, she tried to drag her hand free. But that just brought more pain. Zachary twisted his heel, and she threw her head back, begging him to release her with her eyes as she drew a breath for another desperate yell.

  “What’s the password?” he asked calmly, as if there wasn’t a gunfight raging around them. Then he crouched, putting even more of his weight on her hand. The edges of her vision blackened before sparkling with coruscating light.

  “I. Don’t. Know,” she whispered urgently. “Papá. Didn’t. Say.” Every word was a tribulation, every breath after just fuel for another wail.

  “You know it,” Zachary said, tapping a temple that felt bruised from all the muzzles it had been contact with today. “Somewhere in there, you know.”

  “Please!” came her breathless plea. “Please, I can’t—”

  The pain was too much. Her body had run out of its own painkillers, or couldn’t supply enough to all the areas of her that stung, ached, throbbed, or burned. That darkness crept closer, oozing from El Lobo again. It wrapped around her arm and began crawling over her neck, up to her face.

  She turned her head, feeling a pull as insubstantial as mist, but as fervent as a hurricane.

  Her father watched her from a few feet away. One arm lay outstretched toward her, fingers curled toward the hangar’s ceiling. A finger twitched, and her eyes shot to her father’s face. His eyes were open, but they looked lifeless.

  Until he blinked.

  His mouth moved. And some inane understanding came over her. Perhaps it was just that she’d seen him say that same phrase so many times, or perhaps there was a spirit in the room. Maybe Santa Muerte had finally come to her aide.

  “Mi corazon,” she whispered.

  Zachary bent down, finally taking his boot from her bruised and torn hand. He grabbed her chin, tipping her face up until her neck strained at the angle. “Again,” he commanded.

  His brown eyes were the color of mud. Something malicious gleamed in their depths, and she knew in that moment that she would never, ever survive finding out what it was.

  “Mi. Corazon.” She enunciated each word as perfectly as she could. She tried to swallow, couldn’t and began, “M—I—C—”

  Zachary cut her off with a murmured, “My heart. Muchos gracias.” He ran the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip.

  She spat at him then, and wished she’d done it sooner. He watched her for a moment, and used that same thumb to rub that gob of spit off his face.

  Then he sucked it off with such a look of pleasure that her stomach turned and threatened to empty itself again.

  “We shall meet again, my heart,” Zachary murmured. “In the place where Santa Muerte sends her sheep.” He hoisted the Santa Muerte pendant, twiddling it from side to side.

  “You serve the devil!” she yelled. “La Flaca would never allow you to worship her.”

  Zachary laughed, giving his thumb another suck as he rose to his feet. “I am the devil, mi corazon.” Then his expression became that vapid mask again. “Santa Muerte serves me.”

  Zachary towered over her. Pendant in hand, he turned at the sound of three successive gunshots. That marble-like mask of his crumbled the same instant someone yelled, “No!”

  A snarl contorted his face.

  He looked back at her, red spots on his cheeks and his lips white.

  “You’ve just started a war, mi corazon,” Zachary whispered furiously. “Tell El Guapo he’s no longer safe in his little nest.”

  And then a gleaming cowboy boot came swinging for her face. She turned her head, tried lifting her arm, but her body was slow and weak. The boot brushed aside her arm and its sharp tip crashed into the side of her face.

  El Lobo’s darkness swarmed over her, consuming everything that she was.

  And, in the distance, a robed figure watched. Unmoving. Offering no aide.

  So he was the devil. Why else would Santa Muerte just stand aside?

  60

  Three bloody teeth

  Angel was down. Cora had taken care of the red-head with a shot that seemed to have surprised everyone in the hangar. And now Finn was beating seven shades of shit out of the Latino guy.

  Lars turned his gun on El Lobo.

  Zachary must have realized the odds weren’t in his favor anymore, because he was backing up toward the back of the hangar, a snarl on his face.

  And then Cora did the most idiotic thing he’d ever seen. She went after fucking El Lobo.

  “Fuck!” Lars took aim, and fired. But in that same instant, Zachary took a step forward, and his shot went wild.

  Turned out, Cora hadn’t been going for Mr. Fucking West. Oh no. She was after the pendant.

  But Zachary brought his hand down on Cora’s hand. Twisted it a little.

  Lars moved forward, sincerely hoping that Finn was keeping the Latino guy occupied so he wouldn’t get a shot to the back.

  He took aim. Fired.

  But, as if he’d had some kind of goddamn premonition, Zachary crouched. Lars’s bullet shot through the side of the hangar instead of Zachary’s face.

  “Motherfuck!” Lars yelled. But even that sound didn’t pull Zachary’s attention.

  He strode closer still, aimed, fired.

  Zachary stood, lips moving as if he was speaking to Cora.

  The man had a fucking guardian angel; his third shot went wild.

  His fourth shot never happened, because he’d run out of bullets.

  Grimacing, Lars surged forward.

  Let him dodge a fist in the face.

  That fancy fucking boot of Zachary’s came around and slammed into Cora’s head. She went down, laying there like a dead thing. He would have run to check her, but Zachary was backing up toward the shipping container.

  Was there a space portal in there or something? Lars sped up but, before he could reach him, Zachary threw open a small door built into the back of the hangar and a rectangle of light swallowed him. And then he closed the door behind, giving Lars a vaguely fascinated smile a second before that slit of light disappeared.

  Lars banged into the door, making that whole wall of the hangar reverberate. He slammed his palm against the door, and fumbled with the handle.

  But it refused to open.

  Not a space portal, but maybe a portal back to hell. Spinning around, Lars ran to Cora’s side. When he touched her, she jerked and came to with a gurgling moan. She turned to him, a shaking hand lifting to her face where Zachary had kicked her.

  Blood coated her chin. It dribbled down her throat and between her breasts as she struggled onto her ass.

  “You look like shit, bunny,” Lars murmured.

  Cora laughed, choked, and retched. But what came up wasn’t puke and stomach acid. She spat a mouthful of blood into her cupped palm, and when that had run through her quivering fingers and splatted on the floor, it left behind two blood-coated t
eeth.

  She laughed again, and the sound quickly turned hysterical.

  “Cora,” Lars said carefully, reaching for her.

  She didn’t seem to notice. She used her other hand to dig in her mouth, and when those blood-stained fingers came back, she was holding onto a third tooth.

  Lars got to his feet. Took a step back. And then tried to force the sound of Cora’s maniacal laughter from his mind as he turned to look for Milo.

  But that horrid sound chased him.

  Had she never lost a tooth before? Granted losing three at the same time had to hurt like hell, but she didn’t seem to be in pain, despite the fact she looked like she’d been halfway through a meat grinder before the person operating it realized she wasn’t a sheep.

  Milo was still busy slamming the Latino’s head into the concrete.

  “Milo.”

  No response.

  Lars hurried over and tried to get Milo off the dead guy with a yelled, “Milo, stop!”

  Cora retched again, and this time it sounded like she did empty her stomach. Lars glanced over his shoulder. She stared across the concrete at Milo, face too pale and jaw trembling.

  “Fuck my life,” Lars whispered unsteadily. “Fuck my fucking life.”

  Jesus, was he next to lose his fucking mind?

  He finally got Milo up. The man staggered away like a drunk, wiping at his face. He looked like Carrie had when they’d dumped that bucket of pig’s blood on her. Well, not quite as bad, but—

  From outside, came the growl of a car engine. Engines. Plenty of them. Revved to the max.

  Someone was in a hurry to get to them.

  “Go, go, go!” he yelled. He dragged Milo behind him, as much as he could with a guy weighing far north of two hundred, and managed to grab Cora by the back of her shirt as he passed.

  She fought him—because why the fuck not?—and tugged herself free. Then she half-crawled, half-scrambled to her father’s limp body.