by Elle Kennedy
“I don’t like you,” he said bluntly.
“Gee, and here I thought we were going to be BFFs.”
“Do you want to know why I don’t like you, Abby?”
She sighed. “Sure, D, go ahead and tell me.”
“You’re a loose fucking cannon.”
Offense prickled her skin. A loose cannon? She was a professional, for God’s sake. Cool under pressure, able to infiltrate any organization with careful planning and canny thinking. “I disagree,” she said coldly.
He bared his teeth in a cheerless smile. “Oh, I know you’re a pro,” he said, as if reading her mind. “You’re a warrior, aren’t you, Abby?”
Wary, she waited for him to continue.
“But deep down…” He shrugged, the snake tattoo around his neck flexing ominously. “Deep down, you’re just that scared little girl who got raped by her foster daddies.”
“How—” She stopped abruptly, her voice too shaky to continue.
“How do I know?” he said, filling in the rest of her sentence. “Because I see it inside you. That ice-cold anger. The need for revenge.”
“I got my revenge a long time ago,” she murmured.
“No. You just got rid of your demon, Abby.” He chuckled. “But you couldn’t get rid of all the demons, could you? All the sick fucks out there victimizing young girls and young boys, getting away with whatever sick crimes they’re committing.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to help,” she whispered. Steadying her voice, she met his eyes. “You’re right. I was raped. Repeatedly, and for years. But I got over it. And if my own experience has made me determined to prevent it from happening to others, what the hell’s wrong with that?”
D was quiet for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I was like you, you know. Once.” His voice softened. “Idealistic, driven, ready to dive headfirst into battle, any battle, as long as the bad guys lost and I won. Wanna know what happened?”
“What happened?” she echoed dully.
“I woke the fuck up. If I threw myself into every damn battle out there, I’d be fighting for the rest of my life. It became more practical to pick and choose. Fight when it was advantageous to me. You can’t save the world, Abby. Want to know why?”
“I can’t wait.”
“Because as much as you want to save it, there will always be someone else who wants to destroy it. Better to back off. Pick your fights. And those girls in the bunker? They’re not your fight.” His face went hard. “And they’re not our fight either.”
“I take it that’s your way of saying you won’t help.”
“Oh, I’ll help,” he said viciously. “Because somehow you managed to convince Kane to support your foolish crusade. And if Kane’s on board, the others will follow like sheep. Which leaves me to make sure you don’t get my fucking guys killed.”
His words inspired a flicker of guilt. She quickly brushed it off. “Kane and the others are grown men. They know the risk, yet obviously they’ve decided it’s worth it.”
“Whatever.” Cursing under his breath, he stood up, reverting back to his cold, impassive self. “I’m going to be watching you, Abby. If you do anything to endanger Kane, or any of the others, I will break your neck. Understand?”
“Perfectly,” she replied, equally cool.
He marched toward the door.
“Who raped you, D?” she called after him.
He froze.
“Your father?” she guessed. “Mother? Both?”
Slowly, he turned to face her, his eyes flashing with fury.
“I see it in you too,” she answered, with only a touch of sarcasm. “What is it they say? It takes one to know one.”
Without a word, D left the room.
Abby stared after him. Was he right? Was this a battle better left unfought?
No. No, it couldn’t be. It wasn’t idealistic to want to save a bunch of innocent girls who were about to be sold off to rich, sadistic perverts, not if a successful rescue could be planned.
How could D—how could anyone—fault her for wanting to help?
“You have to eat, Sylvie.” Lucia Alvaro spoke in a hushed, encouraging voice, but the small black-haired girl sitting beside her didn’t even lift her head. In the doorway, the guard glanced over at the two girls in annoyance. She called him halcón—hawk—because he had a long beak of a nose. He also had the eyes of a hawk—sharp and cold—and he was always watching them.
“Please,” Lucia urged in Spanish. “You heard what Señor Blanco said would happen if we didn’t eat.”
Sylvie shook her head ferociously. Her hands were wrapped around her bare knees, her long hair falling onto her dirt-covered face like a curtain. She was the youngest of the thirteen girls—only eleven. She had barely moved an inch since the halcón and the other guard, the one with the red scar next to his mouth, had thrown her into the cold, damp room.
Lucia didn’t have an appetite either, but Señor Blanco’s threat had scared her.
Sensing that all wasn’t well, the halcón moved across the stone floor toward Lucia and Sylvie. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” Lucia said quickly. “We’re… we’re eating. See?” She lifted her fork to her mouth and bit into a piece of spicy chicken, hoping the sight of her chewing would distract him from the fact that Sylvie’s plate still contained the rice, chicken, and vegetables it had entered the room with.
To her anguish, his black eyes didn’t miss anything. “Why aren’t you eating?” he barked.
Sylvie pressed her face to her knees. Tears squeezed out from the corners of her eyes like two fat raindrops, leaving streaks in the brown dirt clinging to her bare legs. Across the room, Adalia and Nita cowered against the wall, their eyes huge with fear. Lucia knew them from the village; they used to have picnic lunches by the creek while the village boys played in the water and tried to show off for the girls.
Lucia didn’t know Sylvie. She’d met her only three days ago, when the halcón threw her into the room. She didn’t know the others either, but the girls had begun to form a bond since they’d been locked up here together. Consuela and Valencia had become the leaders of the group, and it was Valencia who stood up now, her head held high.
“She’s not hungry,” Valencia said insolently. Valencia was fifteen years old, two years older than Lucia, and she had long brown hair and a thin body underneath her shabby clothes. She came from a village near Lucia’s, but the girls had never met until now.
The halcón’s hand whipped out, striking Valencia’s cheek. She stumbled a little, but didn’t back down. “Please, her stomach isn’t well. She—”
“She will eat when she’s ordered to!” he snapped.
Lucia cringed at the vicious note in his voice. She bent her head toward Sylvie. “Please, eat the food, Sylvie, just—”
The halcón yanked Sylvie up to her feet. She gasped with fear, then moaned as the large hand that had just silenced Valencia came crashing down on her jaw. Blood spurted out of the corner of her mouth. “No!” she screamed. “Please, don’t hurt me!”
Lucia tried not to look at the tears streaming down Sylvie’s cheeks. Valencia was slowly moving away from them, sinking back onto the floor next to Consuela, looking small and defeated.
“You will eat,” the halcón spat out, “or you will be punished.”
The young girl screamed as the guard shoved his hand between her legs.
Sylvie cried. She let out an anguished, horrified wail, then sobbed, “Okay, I will eat. Please, just don’t… don’t…”
The guard pushed her away. He looked bored and annoyed, but Lucia had no doubt that he would have followed through on the threat. Unconsciously, she squeezed her legs together, a shiver of fear crawling up her spine. Was he going to do that to all of them?
Mamá, where are you?
The silent plea went unanswered. Lucia’s mother had been visiting Aunt Maria in the city when the guards stormed their small house and threw Lu
cia in the back of their truck. Were her parents looking for her?
Would they find her before…
Before Señor Blanco did whatever it was he planned to do with them.
“That’s a good puta,” the guard rasped as Sylvie bent over her plate and shoveled food into her mouth. “Don’t give me trouble again. You will not like the consequences.”
The halcón stalked to the doorway. He glanced back once more to make sure Sylvie was still eating, then marched out the door. The girls all heard the lock clicking into place.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Valencia hissed when he was gone. “You’re going to get all of us killed, you stupid brat!”
“Valencia,” Lucia started.
Beside her, Sylvie was crying again, but still eating fervently.
“No!” Valencia said angrily. “You know I’m right! She’s making everything worse!”
As Valencia continued to hiss at Sylvie, Lucia wrapped her arms around her knees and lowered her head.
Mamá, where are you?
Chapter 8
Isabel Roma got off the small airplane and into the beat-up taxi waiting at the edge of the private airfield. She wasn’t surprised when the driver spun around with a look of shock and awe as she settled into the backseat. She still wore the trashy outfit she’d had on while tailing her target in Paris, a man whose tastes ran toward seedy strip joints. She hadn’t had time to change her clothes before hopping onto the plane in France and then boarding the connecting flight in California. Noelle hadn’t given her much notice, simply ordered her to get on a plane to Mexico. And Isabel had done it.
Abby’s in trouble.
That was all Noelle needed to say to convince Isabel. She was thirty-one years old, had no children, no husband, no official place of residence. But what she did have was family. Granted, it was a slightly dysfunctional one made up mostly of assassins, but after her father went to prison and her mother killed herself, Isabel had been left with nothing. Until she’d met Noelle. And then Abby. Then Juliet, Paige, and Bailey. The five women were all she had. They were her sisters. And Isabel had no intention of ignoring the distress call of a sister.
Figured that it would be Abby. Damn that woman. Noelle had seemed extremely annoyed when she’d told Isabel about Abby’s latest crusade. She’d called it a fool’s errand, and Isabel was inclined to agree with the boss. Abby had no business snooping around in the sex trade. It was too damn risky, too many sick perverts willing to kill to stay in business.
Not that Isabel was one to judge. Her undercover work for Noelle was as risky as it came.
“Are you visiting Tijuana for business or pleasure?” the taxi driver asked in heavily accented English, his tanned face exuding sincere curiosity.
“Pleasure, of course.” She flashed him a smile. “I’m here to surprise my boyfriend.”
“Sí. I understand.” He seemed to be fighting a laugh. “I am sure su novio will be muy surprised.”
She pictured Abby’s reaction when the cavalry arrived, and shrugged. “I hope so.”
The taxi ride lasted the better part of an hour, as the driver sped along the bumpy dirt roads taking them to the outskirts of the city. When the fence surrounding Jim Morgan’s compound finally came into view, Isabel was eager to get out of the car. The driver—Manuel, as he’d introduced himself—had been chattering on in both English and Spanish, his awkward tries at conversation hindering Isabel’s attempt at a much-needed catnap.
Nevertheless, she gave Manuel a big tip—it was rare to meet truly decent people these days—and hopped out of the taxi, her small travel duffel slung over her shoulder. The cab did a U-turn, then sped off on the red dirt road leading away from the compound. Isabel walked toward the electric fence. She jammed a manicured finger on the intercom button, and when a crackly voice barked at her to identify herself, she said the three magic words: “Noelle sent me.”
In less than five minutes she was walking up to the main house, admiring the beautiful Spanish-style architecture. She’d just climbed the wide front steps of the veranda when the front doors swung open and a very attractive man with suspicious green eyes stepped outside.
“Noelle sent you, huh?” he said, looking irritated.
“Yes. I’m—”
“Isabel!” came Abby’s surprisingly delighted voice. A second later, Abby appeared on the porch, her blue eyes—blue?—shining with gratitude.
Isabel sucked in a breath at the sight of Abby’s bruised face. “Shit. You look terrible,” she said sympathetically. “You okay, Abs?”
“I’m fine. Better now that you’re here.” Abby grinned. “I knew she wouldn’t make me do this alone.”
“Of course she wouldn’t. She told me you were in trouble and promptly ordered me to fly out here and help you out.”
Abby looked touched. “Thanks for coming, Izzy.”
“No problem.” She tilted her head. “You’re a redhead. It’s weird.”
Abby shrugged. “My natural color, if you’d believe it.”
Isabel hid her surprise. It was extremely rare getting tight-lipped Abby to reveal any details about herself. And this particular detail was an even bigger privilege. Isabel hadn’t had any idea what Abby’s true eye and hair color were. Abby had always been flippant about what she really looked like. Almost as if she wanted to forget the woman she’d been before coming to work for Noelle.
The man on the porch cleared his throat, drawing Isabel’s attention to his presence. “Sorry,” she said with a smile, sticking out her hand. “I didn’t properly introduce myself. I’m Isabel Roma.”
“Kane,” he said, leaning forward to take her hand.
His shake was firm, and the calluses on his palm told her he wasn’t a man who sat around in an office all day. So did his ridiculously toned body. She noticed Abby sneak a brief look in Kane’s direction, and resisted the urge to raise her eyebrows. Interesting.
“How much did Noelle tell you?” Abby asked.
“Everything.”
Kane eyed her warily. “And she thought you could help?”
“She said the rescue is in Colombia.” Isabel smiled again. “And I happen to have an incredibly solid cover in that part of the world.”
Kane didn’t answer for a moment. Instead, he studied her with those dark green eyes, his expression revealing exactly what he thought of her current appearance. “Okay,” he finally said. “Come on in, then. Morgan just got here. So did Trev, and he happens to have a pretty good cover himself.”
He turned and strode inside, leaving the two women alone on the porch.
“You really do look terrible,” Isabel said softly, sweeping her gaze over Abby’s purple eye and cut lip. “Did Blanco do that to you?”
“Devlin, his second in command,” Abby said. She offered a small shrug. “I’m fine, Izzy, seriously. You know me—no one can keep me down for long. All I want to do now is rescue those girls.”
Isabel tried not to frown. Noelle had warned her that Abby was a little too intense about this plan of hers. Obsessed had been the word Noelle used. Isabel could figure out why. Over the years Abby had revealed a few details about her past, not many but enough for Isabel to deduce that she’d had it rough growing up. And no matter how tough she made herself out to be, Isabel knew that Abby was extremely fragile beneath the surface.
She wasn’t sure fragile and Colombian sex trade were a good combo. Noelle hadn’t been certain either, which was why she’d sent Isabel.
Shifting her duffel to her other shoulder, Isabel linked her arm through Abby’s and headed to the door. “He’s cute,” she murmured as they walked into the house.
“Who?”
Isabel rolled her eyes. “Kane. I saw the way you looked at him. You must be aware of his hotness, Abs. He’s sexy.”
“If you say so,” Abby said vaguely. She stopped in the massive front hall, shooting Isabel a suddenly amused look. “By the way, you don’t look too good yourself. How many bottles of hair spray d
id it take to get your hair like that?”
“Gosh, you’re funny. And here I thought you weren’t capable of making jokes.”
“I think there’d be something wrong with me if I didn’t joke about that hair. Seriously, it’s big.”
Isabel experienced a rare flicker of insecurity. “It’s not that big, is it?”
“It’s enormous.”
Great, and she was about to walk into a roomful of men who, judging by Kane’s appearance, were probably really hot.
The things she did for her surrogate sister.
Isabel Roma had the worst hairdresser on the planet. Not only that, but her sense of style left something to be desired, Kane thought uneasily as he snuck a look at the blonde sitting on their terrace. She wasn’t someone Kane would take a second or even third look at if he passed her on the street. Oh no. He’d look at her once, raise a brow at the hair, and dismiss her from his mind. He didn’t dismiss her now, though, because one, she’d been sent by Noelle, who still kind of terrified him, and two, Abby’s entire face had lit up in a joyful smile when Isabel Roma waltzed in.
What would it take, he wondered, for Abby to smile that way at him?
Probably quite a lot.
Pushing away his rueful thoughts, he glanced around the table, gauging everyone’s expressions. It was an interesting group. Abby, with her intense blue eyes. D, whose expression revealed that he wanted to be anywhere but there. Luke and Ethan, who simply looked curious. Morgan, who’d come back from reconnaissance at Blanco’s alone since Holden had gone home to his wife, all business as usual. And Isabel with that hair.
And Trevor, who looked absolutely ravaged.
Kane had been shocked when his old friend walked through the door. Trevor Callaghan was a different man from the one he remembered. The old Trevor had a buzz cut, a sharp sense of style, and a perpetual lopsided grin on his face. This Trevor looked… older. His hair had grown out, down to his collar. He wore a faded flannel shirt and pair of blue jeans with a hole in the knee. And sneakers on his feet. It was fucked up, seeing his friend dressed like a beach bum. Even more fucked was the complete emptiness in Trev’s dark eyes. He was a man who didn’t give a damn anymore, and it worried the hell out of Kane. This was the guy they were sending on a hazardous undercover op?