by Cora Kenborn
A strangled sob spilled out as I crawled in a daze toward my purse. It took four tries to pull out my phone and dial the number I knew by heart.
“Lil’ Bit? It’s late. Are you okay?” My brother sounded sleepy. Part of me immediately regretted calling him, so I said nothing. I couldn’t. Once I spoke the words, they were real.
“Leighton?” he repeated, this time sharper and more alert. “Leighton, answer me.”
“He’s dead.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Who’s dead?”
“My boyfriend. I killed him.” The words came so easily I wondered if I’d really said them. “I’m at his apartment. He...he was going to hurt me.”
“Fuck.”
Static filled the line, or maybe it was the static in my head. Whichever it was, a long pause sent my pulse racing. “Brody?”
He cursed again. “Are you on your own phone?”
“Yes.”
“Have you called the police?”
“No.”
“Good, don’t. Listen very carefully. Don’t touch anything. I need you to get anything out of there that’s yours or that has your information on it. Anything, Leighton. Pack your bags and come to Houston now. I’ll take care of it.”
Warning lit every nerve ending. Brody was always the rational one of the two of us. He was my calming voice of reason in the eye of a storm. We had a process—I fucked up, and he fixed me. Our process couldn’t fail me now. But what he was suggesting…
“The police...”
“Leighton!” he yelled. “I’m going to protect you, but you’ve got to keep your head clear. Understand?”
I nodded, as if he could see it.
“I need you to say the words.”
I smiled in spite of the situation. “I understand.”
I never questioned him again as he barked a few more instructions and hung up, announcing he had to make another call.
But maybe I should have.
Doing exactly as he told me, I bagged up what I could find, wiped down what I’d touched, and threw on one of Luis’s hoodies. As I drove away, I realized it should’ve bothered me that the assistant district attorney of Harris County encouraged me to leave the scene of a crime. My brother’s calm response to my admission of murder should’ve been a bright red flag.
Two
Mateo
Mexico City, Mexico
I tapped the tip of my boot on the concrete floor as muffled curses came from the other side of the steel door. I fought a smile and traced the skull design on my pocket knife.
“Last chance, pendejo,” I offered. “Apologize, and we’ll just mostly kill you.”
Not that I expected an answer from the man dangling from a hook in the far corner of the room, but I gave him a chance anyway. As anticipated, he lolled his head to the side and spat on the floor.
Well, as best he could with his chin halfway up his cheek.
I had to give the man credit. He’d been hanging like a side of beef from an overhead pipe after our sicario hitmen had worked him over, and he still had some fight left in him.
Good. He’d need it.
I stared at the glob of saliva and sighed. “Not your best move.”
“Go to hell.” His chest rattled as blood trickled from the corners of his mouth.
I leaned forward and grinned. “You first.” Giving his knee a hard kick, I sent him swinging. He looked like a bungee jumper waiting to be rescued. Only these cords were steel, and no one was coming for him.
“Asshole,” he wheezed.
“I can’t decide if you’re brave or just really fucking stupid, Lopez.” Rolling my eyes, I flipped the knife over in my palm before standing and releasing the blade. I wasn’t fond of this part of my job. Whereas most men’s dicks in my cartel hardened at the mention of drawing blood, it was a simple means of survival to me.
Guilt wasn’t an emotion I lost any sleep over. Innocence never landed these men here. However, the culero cowering in the corner had earned the rare misfortune of facing someone far worse than me.
As if on cue, the steel door slammed open, and Valentin Carrera, head of the Carrera Cartel and the one man above me, charged into the room. His normally slicked back black hair was in disarray, and from the fire blazing in his eyes, I half expected him to pull out his gun and put a bullet in this guy’s head. Instead, he circled around him, a layer of sweat beading across his forehead.
“Lopez, you stupid motherfucker, you ignored my wife’s orders and then tried to enlist one of my sicarios to hurt her?” The words hissed from his clenched teeth.
I could tell he was coming unhinged, and I’d intervene if I gave a shit about Lopez.
Which I didn’t.
Val wrapped a scarred hand around Lopez’s neck and squeezed. Unfortunately, Lopez chose that moment to say the wrong thing.
“I don’t answer to a gringa. This is a cartel, Valentin, not an American whorehouse.”
I shook my head. I’d never understand the need to antagonize men like Valentin Carrera. A man should just take his punishment with dignity and move on.
Or die. Whatever.
I closed my eyes and rolled my neck. In a couple steps, I stood beside Val and ran the tip of my blade from Lopez’s bobbing throat down to his stomach. “Do we slit his throat or gut him like a fish?”
Lopez’s eyes widened as Val took out his own knife from the pocket of his pressed slacks. “Both,” he announced, forcing the open blade against Lopez’s throat. “I’m going to cut his tongue out and shove it down his throat.”
Shrugging, I ran my thumb along the blunt side of my knife to close it. “Knock yourself out.”
A smile spread across his face as he swung one arm across my chest while removing his expensive jacket from the other. “While you cut off his balls for thinking they were big enough to disrespect my wife.”
I glared at him. “I’ll pass.”
He raised a dark eyebrow. “You’d rather chop off his dick and shove it up his ass? The option is on the table.”
“You’re a real shit sometimes, you know that?” I growled, pushing past him as his amused chuckle followed me.
When Val’s rage was satisfied, I called for lower-level cleaners to dispose of the body. We quickly changed clothes before heading back to the Carrera estate, and as usual, I drove while Val explained what had happened to the other half of the Carrera powerhouse—his wife, Eden. The one person most cartel members feared more than Val, although they’d never openly admit it.
I tuned them out, not minding the chance to decompress. Bloodshed always agitated Val, making him a bitch to deal with. If anyone could soothe him, it would be her.
Since their marriage, I’d become somewhat of a reluctant confidant to the first family of Mexico’s underground. I didn’t possess a college degree or a formal education of any kind but playing mediator between those two made me feel like I deserved honorary PhDs in sociology and criminal justice.
Maybe even psychiatry—because those two were batshit crazy.
As he ended the call, I snuck a glance out of the corner of my eye to find him smiling. With their first child due in a few months, he’d learned to unwind faster and tone down his irrationality. I made a mental note to thank Eden for whatever the hell she’d said.
And maybe send a fruit basket for getting knocked up in the first place.
Once we approached the ornate archway leading into the Carrera mansion, I opened the door and stepped back. Val nodded and walked inside, not bothering to wait and see if I’d followed. He didn’t have to. We were friends, but I still knew my role.
While Val headed straight for his fully-stocked bar, I decided on a quick nap before we headed back out for our nightly meeting. Flopping onto the couch, I pressed every button on the remote control until one of them sparked the eighty-inch flat screen television on the wall to life. The damn thing was obnoxious, and I couldn’t help but smirk. While Val’s father’s extravagant lifestyle initially repulsed him,
I laughed at how easily he’d become accustomed to the finer things in life since taking over. Not that I had any complaints. I spent more time here than I did at my own place.
I’d almost dozed off when Val came storming into the room, his footsteps heavy and fierce.
“¡Cálmate!” His eyes glazed with irritation as a voice shouted on the other end of the line. “I said, calm down, Brody. I can’t understand you for shit. Hold on.” Pulling the phone away from his ear, Val pressed a button, and the room filled with the incoherent ramblings of the second in command of Houston operations. “Okay, now you’re on speaker with Mateo and me.”
Brody cleared his throat. “Is anyone else there?”
We were trained to ignore emotion and react with logic, but from the first four words out of his mouth, Brody and logic weren’t even in the same state.
“What do you think?” Val growled, rolling his eyes toward me.
“I need a favor.”
“Of course you do.” Leaving the phone on the coffee table, he walked to another glass bar nestled in the corner of the room and refilled his stem of tequila.
The desperation coming from the other end of the line didn’t sit well with me. Brody hadn’t lived cartel life long enough to understand desperation. Staring down the barrel of a gun while one pressed to the back of your skull—that was desperation. However, something in his tone made me sit up and pay attention.
“Do you remember when Manuel Muñoz kidnapped Eden?”
Val’s face tightened at hearing the name of the man who’d almost killed us all. “Why would you bring that up?”
“You promised if I helped you find her you’d look after my sister.”
“That deal was made in the event that you didn’t make it out of that stash house.” Pausing for a drink, he raised the glass toward the phone. “Clearly, you’re very much alive.”
“Val, this is serious! Leighton is on her way to Houston, and she’s in trouble.”
Val drained the glass and slammed it on the table. “What the fuck have you done, Harcourt?”
Brody was a top lieutenant, trying cases as an assistant district attorney by day with cartel blood staining his hands by night. Bound by oath and code, he passed killers through the system because they were marked with Carrera ink.
“Technically, nothing.”
“What the fuck does ‘technically’ mean?” As Val paced, a vein in his forehead pulsed with rage. I had to take control, or we’d soon have a vacancy in the Houston hierarchy.
“What the hell is going on?” I asked calmly.
“Her boyfriend tried to kill her.”
“So, what, technically, you killed him and turned him into bait?”
“No, she did.”
Val’s eyebrows drew up to his hairline. “What was that?”
“The fucker pulled a gun on her. I guess he didn’t expect her to fight back. They struggled, and it went off. Leighton panicked and called me.”
Silence engulfed the room as Val pressed his palms together. “I see. Well, what we have here isn’t a Carrera problem. This isn’t even a Houston problem. This, my friend, is a Harcourt problem, and you need to take care of it.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” Brody insisted. “The guy she killed was one of ours.”
Shit. Job opening in Houston. Apply within.
“Hijo de su puta madre!” Son of a bitch.
“Val...” I tried to intervene as a storm brewed on his face.
Val’s nostrils flared. “Why was your sister fucking a Carrera sicario?”
“Whoa,” I interjected. “Brody is familia.”
For now.
“Your point?”
“That means his sister is familia. Whatever she’s done, remember your own code.”
Val’s face paled. It was a low blow, but his control issues were brewing a war I had no intention of fighting.
Val’s strict code against any member harming a woman was a hard pill to swallow for a cartel used to fifty years of indiscriminate brutality. Unfortunately, blood was blood in the eyes of the loyal followers of his father. It didn’t matter the gender of the vein from which it dripped.
“Fine,” he grumbled. Humility wasn’t an emotion he handled graciously. “How did Leslie get mixed up with one of our men?”
Brody spoke slowly, emphasizing every word. “Her. Name. Is. Leighton.” He let out a long sigh. “Muñoz tried to force me to turn against you by harassing her. After he died, I was still worried, so once I became a Carrera, I sent a soldier to San Marcos to watch over her.”
Val snorted. “Taking our oath doesn’t give you free rein, Harcourt.”
“We need a name, Brody,” I asked, trying to maintain control of the conversation.
“Luis Delgado.”
I scrubbed my hand over my mouth. “That’s one of Emilio’s men. I remember the name.”
Which complicated things even more. Emilio Reyes was the head of our Houston operations, the position Val held before his father’s death. Tensions had run high since Val had passed him over for underboss in favor of me.
“I assume you’ve called a cleaner,” Val conceded, the corners of his eyes pulled tight.
“Not yet. I wanted to get your approval first.”
He smirked. “Because that worked out so well for you in the first place.”
I took over before things escalated. “Your sister had no problem leaving a dead body lying around an apartment?”
“Leighton is innocent to all we do.” He paused as if saying the words out loud would taint her. “I told her I’d handle it, and she trusts me.”
Val shifted his gaze to me, but I avoided it. “But do you trust her?”
“What are you saying?”
“He’s saying we have bigger issues than your sister’s happy trigger finger,” Val blurted out. “Gunshots aren’t quiet. Someone knows what she did. If she gets picked up, your little phone call implicates you.”
For a moment, I thought Brody hung up, but then he sighed. “When I said she’s innocent, I meant it, but something isn’t adding up. The ‘why’ is bothering me.”
Val shrugged. “Innocent and evasive are a dangerous combination in any woman.”
This time, Brody interrupted. “Luis never struck me as the type to willingly violate our code. It’s why I chose him in the first place. That means—”
“He was involved in something outside this cartel.” Val finished for him, scrubbing a hand down his bearded face. Turning, he focused his attention on me. “Call for a cleaner then check out Delgado’s place. After that, I want you to go to Houston and keep an eye on Harcourt’s sister. I need someone I can trust.”
“Wait a minute, having Cortes on my sister wasn’t part of the deal,” Brody broke in. “I can take care of Leighton on my own.”
“You have no say in it for going outside of rank and sending Delgado to San Marcos in the first place,” Val growled. “Stay put and keep your mouth shut until Mateo gets there.”
After disconnecting the call, he slouched back onto the couch and stared at the vaulted ceiling. “Tread lightly with Emilio and try not to raise suspicion. Just tell him we’ve lost too many men, and you’re there to work with him to figure this out. Keep your cards close.”
“You don’t think one of our own is involved in this, do you?”
“I don’t think our men would be that stupid. However, I’m still alive because I assume everyone has a price.”
Standing, I gathered my keys as Val called for his private jet. “Not everyone.”
Three
Leighton
San Marcos, Texas
Brody said to leave in twenty minutes, but it was an hour later, and I’d scrubbed the bathroom sink in my apartment with bleach four times. It didn’t matter, a faint coppery stain still rimmed the drain from washing my bloody hands.
“Screw this.” Balling up the rag, I tossed it into the trash bag by my feet. It landed with a swish on top of my sweatshirt, Luis’s ho
odie, and the gun. I didn’t want any of it near me, but Brody’s instructions had been clear.
Do not leave any incriminating evidence behind.
Tying off the trash bag, I kicked it into the hallway and checked my principles at my bedroom door. The time for right or wrong was over. Everything depended on my ability to act quickly and without emotion.
Fear did irrational things to rational people. I’d never broken the law in my life. Now I stood over my bed stuffing handfuls of clothing and electronics into an oversized duffel bag, preparing to run.
Stopping to grab the trash bag, I slung my purse and the duffel bag over my shoulder and
dove for the doorknob. I gave it a hard jerk and fought for air. Only two steps until the safety of darkness.
But it wasn’t darkness I ran into.
“Miss Harcourt. Going somewhere?”
At first, I didn’t see him. I just felt his hard chest and heard his winded grunt as I fell into him. I reached for the lapels of his jacket, bags tumbling off my shoulder and onto the floor when I smelled it.
Coffee and cigarettes.
It can’t be.
His large hands closed over my shoulders and steadied me in a firm grasp. “Careful there. You rush around like that, someone’s going to get hurt.”
It wasn’t until I jerked out of his hold that I saw it. Same wrinkled gray suit. Same windblown salt and peppered hair. Same deep dimple in the center of his chin.
“You,” I breathed.
“We meet again.”
But it wasn’t just “we.” Two men flanked him, each one taller and more muscular than the other.
I jerked out of his hold, the awkward twist of my feet kicking open the trash bag and displaying its damning contents. Four pairs of eyes cast downward, and everyone stared at the sin buried inside, but no one said a word.
Well, no one except for me—the one who should’ve remained silent. “Stalking is against the law, you know.”