by Karin Harlow
“Selena!” Juju snapped. “Get your head out of your ass. El patrón awaits!”
Selena glared at her friend, but her brain kicked into overdrive. “Send him in.”
“You will not go to him?” Juju asked, her brown eyes bugging as wide as hubcaps.
Of course, Juju was right. Selena swallowed hard and walked stiffly toward the door. Obviously, el patrón knew of her failure, and because he was so furious, he could not wait for their meeting later that day. Instead, he had come to personally exact punishment. So be it. She would accept whatever measure of wrath he chose to mete out. After what she’d done, she deserved it. But that didn’t change that she’d do it again if she had to. That’s just the way Johnny affected her. He always had.
The aromatic fragrance of fine tobacco and Napoleon brandy preceded him.
Selena stepped back as she opened the front door. Ignoring the dozen blacked-out bodyguards circled around him, she forced a nervous smile. His dark eyes stared unwaveringly at her.
Roberto Estefan Montoya-Balderama, head of Los Cuatro, was of modest height but was an impressive man. Dressed in an impeccably tailored Italian suit, he carried himself as if he were royalty, his deportment quietly and clearly stating, I am all-powerful, I will not show you how powerful, yet if you challenge me, you will pay for it with your life.
“Patrón,” Selena said, nodding her head in respect. She waited until he extended his hand to her.
“Cazadora,” he said, his voice deep and reverberating.
Selena smiled easier at the term, and a small amount of tension left her, loosening her shoulders. He called her Huntress. He had saved her life the day Johnny tried to take it. He knew all her secrets but two: what she really was, and that she had a daughter. But despite their close-knit history, and her mother’s work with Señor, Selena was always a little in awe of him.
“Come in,” she offered, taking his hand. As he stepped across the threshold, Selena was reminded of the power this man held. He carried himself as if he were the king of the world, and as far as the Latino world was concerned, he was God. Although most Latin nations in the New World were unaware of his existence and of Los Cuatro, hundreds of thousands of their citizens lived because of his existence.
Balderama had created Los Cuatro, a quiet but powerful organization that represented the best interests of all Latin countries. It was composed of one representative from the richest country, one from the poorest country, one from the most populated country, and one from the least populated country. The Four was its own Latino UN, one that doggedly challenged the drug trade that had infected all of Latin America, and, by doing so, kept each country accountable to her people. Only because of Los Cuatro had the majority of countries not been completely overrun by the likes of Colombian drug czar Pablo Escobar and his successors.
Los Cuatro had maneuvered Escobar’s ultimate surrender, then finally his death.
Los Cuatro had backed the bloody underworld war against the infestation of drug cartels in Mexico.
And Los Cuatro was quietly setting the stage to oust Venezuelan dictator Hugo Chávez.
Fate had intervened. Not only was Selena hell-bent on tracking down and taking possession of the cask, but so was Los Cuatro. Thanks to el presidente Chávez’s fixation with nuclear weapons, she had been called upon to go to Kyrgyzstan, with a personal side trip to Russia, where she had seen to several serum extractions. Her Los Cuatro mission was clear—follow Chávez’s men, who would lead her to the cask, track it to its final destination, then hijack it. But she’d failed. Now it seemed both Chávez and the daemon king still had a chance to get their hands on the goods.
Balderama was not going to like what she had to report. “Let us talk privately in my office.”
As the door closed behind them, Selena said, “I’m afraid, Señor Patrón, I have bad news.”
Balderama moved past her, sat down behind her desk, and steepled his big hands. She knew from experience his hands were firm, yet warm. His appeal didn’t come from classic good looks, but more from his demeanor: powerful, yet compassionate. His skin was the lighter side of café au lait. His dark eyes carried a hint of blue, maybe from a distant European ancestor? His spicy cologne wafted around her nose; his dark brows butted together in a fierce frown. “Tell me everything. Do not leave out one detail.”
Selena drew in a shallow breath and exhaled. “After nearly a week of shadowing Chávez’s men, I was able to get the rendezvous information. On my way, I came across a group of five Americans, CIA I think, backed by a dozen Kyrg commandos, who were waiting for the cask seventeen miles southeast of the rendezvous location.
“I assumed their intention was the same as ours. Why, and for whom, I have no clue, but the takedown didn’t happen. The trailer was loaded with armed mercs. With the help of the double-crossing Kyrgs, they took out the American contingent, then headed down the mountain and turned west toward Osh. I followed. The semi met up with a convoy. The cask was moved from the original transport into another. Still heading west, the convoy drove onto an airstrip two hours out, and into a hangar. Thirty minutes later, one trailer exited. I followed it, stopped it several miles out, and cannot tell you how royally pissed I was to find the trailer empty.”
El patrón had not said one word or indicated by the slightest facial movement his feelings on the matter. “The driver?”
Selena smiled. “I have him downstairs.”
Señor Balderama smiled, showing a row of strong white teeth. “Then, shall we have a chat with him?”
“I’ve had several since my return. He hasn’t been very forthcoming, and he has a rather high pain threshold. I’ve been letting him stew. I think he might be about done now.” Selena walked to a black-lacquered panel on the wall next to her desk and pressed a recessed button. The panel quietly popped, then slid to the side, exposing a door. Selena opened it and turned on the light, revealing a steep stairway. “Let’s go stick a fork in him.”
Señor Balderama silently followed as she stepped down the concrete stairway. The door at the bottom opened to reveal a small hallway and several doors. Selena opened the first one to the right and flipped the light switch. Harsh light rained down on the lone figure sitting defiantly in a chair, his mouth covered with duct tape, his hands bound behind his back, and his legs bound at the ankles. His right arm was hooked up to an IV.
“Patrón, may I introduce Señor No Name, No Rank, No Serial Number. Which I suppose is irrelevant. Because I do know the important facts. From my own recon, I know this man was part of a group of Venezuelans who were engaged in the procurement of a lead cask housing reprocessed enriched uranium, which if strapped to a ton of TNT and detonated could kill or contaminate millions of innocent people. He seems to have no recollection of his nefarious activities and less of who his superiors are and how to contact them.” Selena looked at the uncomfortable man tied to the chair, then to Señor Balderama. “You of all people know I am no fool. He doesn’t have amnesia, he’s just being stubborn. I, for one, am willing to stop playing nice and”—she tilted her head sideways, hoping her casual conversation with el patrón would give Señor Silencio the push he needed to cough up the information she wanted—“use more extreme measures to acquire that information.”
Balderama’s compassionate gaze swept the man from head to foot before focusing on Selena. She wasn’t fooled, even if her guest pleaded silently with Balderama for help. El patrón was no fool either. Her guest just didn’t know it. Yet.
El patrón looked down at the man and gave him a reassuring smile before he looked sharply over at Selena. “How hard did you work for this information? There isn’t a mark on him.”
Selena smiled tightly. “I prefer more subtle methods of interrogation, Patrón. Fists to face, tooth extraction, pistol whippings, it’s all so uncivilized, no?”
Selena not only refused to touch her guests, but she didn’t have to. She just had to get into their heads. But this guy had proven to be a challenge. He’d been so
brainwashed with fear by Chávez’s watchdogs, his mind was closed. But she had other methods.
She reached past Balderama and retrieved a long syringe from a stainless steel tray in the corner. She held it up and pushed slightly on the plunger. An arc of fluid shot up into the air. She smiled down at the gagged man, who strained at his bindings. “Amigo, do you know what’s in this syringe?”
Vehemently he shook his head.
She bent closer and practically cooed in his face, “It’s concentrated E. coli. Enough to kill every living organism in Caracas.” His dark eyes widened. “Do you have family in Caracas?” He nodded, grunting against the tape. “I hope you said good-bye to them.” Selena stuck the needle into the IV and slowly pushed the plunger. The man screamed, the sound nothing but a muffle. “The symptoms of E. coli poisoning present quickly.” She pressed the plunger farther. “Severe cramping comes first, followed by bloody diarrhea, then vomiting. With a dosage this virulent, death will come quickly but very painfully.” She reached over him and grabbed another syringe. “Do you know what I have here?”
He shook his head, beads of his perspiration flinging onto her clothes. “This is the antidote.” She pressed the plunger and liquid shot into the air. “If it’s administered within minutes of contamination, recovery is immediate.”
She locked gazes with his. “Now. Are you ready to answer my questions and go home? Or do you wish to die here, in a foreign land?”
Her guest’s body contorted against the duct tape. Selena smiled and ripped the wide strip from his mouth. “Did you say you would answer my questions?”
“Sí,” he gushed. “Give me the antidote now!”
Selena stepped back and tsked. “No, no, señor. You tell me what I want to know first. If I’m satisfied, then I give it to you.”
“You will bring my family here?”
When word got out he’d talked, his entire bloodline would be destroyed. “I give you my word.” She meant it.
“My name is Eduardo Perez, I work for Capitán Juan Perot, who is el presidente Chávez’s nuclear man. A deal was brokered with the Russians for the cask, but they double-crossed us!”
“Who else wants it?”
He looked at the syringe in her hand, then up at her. “I don’t know.”
Selena stepped back.
“I swear on my daughter’s life!” he screamed. “But—I heard talk of an auction. The Russian, Noslov, would have that information.”
“Where is the cask now?”
“On its way to Russia via Kazakhstan.”
“Impossible,” el patrón scoffed.
“It’s true,” Perez insisted. “There are tunnels. Hundreds of miles of tunnels beneath the borders.”
Selena tapped the syringe thoughtfully against her open palm. She knew about the tunnels, but the man’s willingness to tell her about them meant he was probably being honest about the rest. She looked over to Balderama. “Patrón, do you have a question?”
“What is the name of your captain’s contact?” he asked the driver.
“I don’t know his name.”
“How do you know he exists then?”
“I—I—for a little insurance, I followed him several times. I never got close enough to hear anything, but I was close enough that if I saw him again, I would recognize him.”
“Who else knows of this?”
“No one. I swear. Only me.”
El patrón reached over and took the syringe with the antidote in it from Selena. She stiffened when he pushed the plunger, sending the entire contents spewing onto the floor.
Perez screamed. “I gave you what you wanted!” Balderama smiled tightly. “You betrayed your country. You cannot be trusted.”
The doomed man looked to Selena, his eyes pleading for her intervention. She looked calmly to Balderama and said, “Patrón, I injected him with saline solution. It’s harmless.” She pointed to the empty syringe in his hand. “That was the same thing but with some food coloring.”
“That is unfortunate,” Balderama softly said, and stepped closer to the driver. “Once a traitor, always a traitor.” In a quick, expert move, Balderama snapped Perez’s neck. Selena gasped and stepped back. She had not been expecting such a vicious act. Not from this quiet diplomat. But then, had he not once told her he had seen the ugliest of what man could do to man?
“Patrón?” she breathed.
Balderama turned fiery eyes on her. “There is no room in our business to coddle traitors, on either side.”
Selena stood back and nodded. He was right, of course. Too much was at stake to give a known traitor a second chance.
Balderama pressed his hand to her chin, raised it, and looked deeply into her soul. “Trust no one, mija. No one.”
Once more, she thought of Johnny. The man who had trusted her and been sorry for it. Balderama stepped back, releasing her. “Our eyes and ears will track down this Noslov. When we have a location, I want you to approach the Russian and convince him to have his auction here.”
“In Miami?”
“Sí, in Lost Souls. It is paramount I know who is in the market for such a deadly product. Our world is changing every day, mija. To protect our culture, we must broaden not only our horizons but also our borders, so to speak. And now more than ever, we must adopt a strategy American football coaches call prevent offense. We get them before they get us.”
Selena nodded. She understood.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Gold Coast at midnight had come alive. Like a living, breathing rock star high on cocaine, it pulsated with vitality and energy unlike any other.
Nikko stood across the street from Lost Souls. Scents and sounds swirled around him, blending into an indistinguishable blob. But he didn’t need to be told Selena was inside. He could smell her. Exotic and sultry, her scent overrode all others. He had thought that learning she was alive, then seeing the proof positive in pictures, had elicited a strong reaction from him at the compound, but the reality of it now created an emotional maelstrom inside him. Longing, hate, and betrayal jockeyed for the top spot in his heart. Worming itself between all of those feelings was the unmitigated desire to hold her again, to make love to her—not the cold-blooded killer she was today, but the innocent girl he’d fallen in love with so long ago, before she—Nikko mentally shook himself. He allowed the hatred and his need for vengeance to take control. That would get him through this mission. Keep him sane as his body, his mind, and his soul continued to evolve into something and someone so foreign to him, he would admit only to himself that it terrified him. He was unpredictable even to himself. He battled impulses he had always had control of. His emotions raged. It was becoming unbearable, this thing inside him. He sneered, wanting to bend her to his will, to—he squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to acknowledge the visions of his taking her until she screamed for him to stop.
No, his desire wasn’t simply to fuck her again. Since his arrival in Miami that morning, a new hunger had taken root. For blood. Anyone’s would do, but he craved Selena’s blood most of all.
Nikko struggled for composure. He was Ice, damn it. He would not blow this mission apart. Put this team at risk. Or himself.
“You smell her?” Cross asked from Nikko’s left.
While Nikko did not have the nuances of a vampire that Cross possessed, he had enough of the primal part to make him dangerous. His senses were honed, his strength impressive, and now his desire for blood was driving the vampire in him. Once he had looked at Cross as a freak, one without feelings or humanity. Now, walking in his shoes, Nikko understood what drove him as a man and a vampire and was impressed at how Cross managed to maintain his iron control. Nikko was having extreme difficulty with that.
“Yeah.”
“Marcus and I will go in first and get the lay of the land,” Cassidy said from Nikko’s right.
He nodded, fighting the craving to get to Selena first. Get her alone. At his mercy. The things he wanted to do to her were inhuman. But hadn’t what
she’d done to him made her a monster? Nikko set his jaw. What he had done to her made him every bit as much a monster.
He had dived headfirst into love with Selena. Given her every part of him. Only to be betrayed in the most heinous way a woman could betray a man. He had reacted viciously. He had paid for it with his soul. Now his only regret was that she was still alive. How long that would continue was up to him, and he wasn’t feeling particularly generous at the moment.
“Cruz, I don’t like that look,” Cassidy said, staring up at him, her face wrinkled in consternation. “Plot your revenge later. After we get what we came for.”
Nikko set his jaw. His revenge would be slow, methodical—
“Cruz, if you give in to the bloodlust, it will destroy you,” Cross quietly said. “It’s like a drug. If you don’t control it, it will control you.”
Nikko closed his eyes and only saw red. “I just want to tear her apart.”
Cassidy touched his hand. He looked down into her serious but compassionate eyes. “I know you do, Nikko. I don’t blame you. But if you can’t get a handle on your emotions, millions of lives could be on the chopping block.”
Nikko exhaled. Cassidy was right. This mission was bigger, much bigger than his hatred for the woman who owned Lost Souls.
He calmed himself. “Go ahead,” he softly said. Nikko scowled when Cassidy looked up at Cross in a way that would melt a man’s heart. A blind man could see they were hot for each other and so in sync nothing could sever the bond. Nikko’s scowl deepened as he watched them, hand in hand and dressed to the nines, stride across the busy street, past the triple-deep line that wrapped around the corner of the building, to the two defensive-lineman-size goons at the door. Cross leaned into the closest one and touched him on the shoulder. Magically the bouncer stepped aside and the doors opened. They were in.