Dark Hunter (A Zeta Cartel Novel Book 4)

by AJ Adams

  Other women would have blushed or protested, but the three Zeta witches just stared at me. I shrugged and eyeballed them right back.

  Arturo was on my side, and while I had no doubt these women mattered, he needed me. I was his pipeline to getting that new territory. I was worth millions to him, so there was no way he’d want to compromise our deal. Also, he’d promised an hour ago that Morgan was mine.

  That’s what I told myself as I went inside and made tea, but in my heart, I knew those damn women would fuck me up. Not only would I lose Morgan, but without her presence I had no doubts that the Zetas would go off me in a big way. Then I’d have to move on again.

  I looked out of the window, seeing Morgan talk to Solitaire. From the way they were smiling, they were getting on famously. Yes, this was the end. She’d spill her guts, Solitaire would cause a fuss, and I’d be cast out of paradise.

  “I should’ve followed my instincts and chucked her back in the damn river the second I saw her,” I said out loud.

  But I couldn’t regret it because Morgan had shown me a glimpse of something I thought I’d lost forever—my humanity.

  Chapter Eighteen: Morgan

  “Asking you if I’m abusing you will be easier if I’m not here,” Rip said sarcastically. Then, having dissed Arturo Vazquez’s girlfriend in front of her posse, he went to make tea as if nothing was wrong.

  “He’s a laugh, isn’t he?” Chloe said easily.

  Nats, the heavily pregnant girl, nodded and smiled at me. “How are you, love?”

  “We were worried about you,” Solitaire said briskly.

  I had to stare: these women all had the same accent as Rip. “I’m good.” But to my annoyance, my voice was shaky, just from hearing these were Arturo Vazquez’s people. Arturo’s a common name, so when Rip had made his calls, it never even occurred to me that he was talking to the infamous Zeta cartel boss.

  Of all the Zeta cartel clans I might have fallen into, this was the one people feared most. Don Valentine was a kitten compared to these people.

  “We came to help you,” Solitaire was all efficiency. “Step into my car right now, and I’ll take you home.”

  She meant well but her offer paralysed me. “I can’t go back.”

  “You don’t need a passport. I’ll fix it.”

  Jesus, this was one powerful woman. “Thank you, but it wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  “We can warn off your ex.”

  I shuddered at the thought of her finding out who my ex was, and me. “Please, I’d rather not go home.”

  “How about we set you up with a job? You could be independent.” Nats was being kind. “What do you do?”

  Mechanic to the cartel didn’t seem a good answer. I was kicking myself. Why couldn’t I have been a schoolteacher or a librarian? Why had I picked a job where I stood out like a sore thumb? I was the only female mechanic in Dawson Heights, and in the years I’d worked for Roberto, I’d never met another.

  “We can find you work,” Solitaire assured me.

  And Don Valentine would find me in two seconds, even if I changed my name and dyed my hair.

  “I have no skills,” I lied.

  At which point Rip came back, carrying a tray. Ohmigod, Rip and his tea. Two sugars and milk, sweet and strong. I’d never liked it, but his had grown on me. Also, that stupid guardian angel fantasy was surging through me again. Just having him there gave me courage.

  “Shall I vanish? Go up in a puff of black smoke?” He spoke lightly, mocking Solitaire and her friends, but I saw past the bravado and noted the tension. He was lashing out because he was expecting trouble. It was a revelation.

  Rip was a killer, and he had no issues with blackmail or threats either. But when I’d hit bottom, he’d wrapped me in tenderness, and it meant a lot to me. It still blew me away as well that he’d drugged me rather than let me suffer, even though it meant he had to nurse me.

  Also, he’d promised to protect me. And with Solitaire sitting there, threatening to take me to Arturo Vazquez, I needed him.

  “Stay,” I said impulsively.

  At that, everyone looked startled.

  “Thank you,” I said to the girls. “I really appreciate you came to check on me. I’m fine.”

  They didn’t believe me. That was patently obvious.

  “Isn’t there anyone you want to call?” Nats asked. “Someone must be missing you.”

  I was dying to call home, but it would give the Zetas a direct lead to my name. They’d kill me, but worse, any contact would kill Emma, Lucy, Tim, Jake, and Roberto.

  “There must be someone,” Chloe said gently.

  If Don Valentine heard I was reaching out to my friends, they’d be dead. The cartel boss wouldn’t want the trouble of an investigation into my disappearance.

  Mitch would be on the watch as well. It’s a curious thing, but while the cartel will con anyone at any time, everyone is straight with the boss. To lie is to be disrespectful. Mitch had lied about me dissing Don Valentine, and that meant trouble if he was ever found out. And I knew how Mitch dealt with trouble.

  The thought made me feel sick. So I sucked it up. I had made this mess, and there was no damn way I was going to risk the people I loved.

  “No, there’s nobody.” I said it firmly, to discourage them, and then I was all weepy. I know! How useless is that, right?

  Rip put an arm around me. “Leave Morgan alone. She’s had enough.”

  Solitaire stiffened, and the huge violet eyes turned hard. “Enough of you, I think.”

  To my horror, Rip was about to blast her. I grabbed his hand, hissing, “No!”

  His eyes were narrowed with anger, but thankfully he shut up. I didn’t know Solitaire, but I knew Arturo Vazquez’s reputation. Anyone who upset his girl was risking his life. Rip was being incredibly reckless.

  “Let’s not fight.” Chloe was speaking, and to my surprise Solitaire was listening to her intently. Chloe mattered. “Morgan knows where to come for help if she wants it.”

  Solitaire shrugged. “Okay, and we’ll see you for lunch on Sunday.”

  “No,” Rip said.

  “Yes, and thank you,” I contradicted him. My stomach was roiling at the mere idea of being in Zeta headquarters, but it was an unthinkable insult to turn down this invitation. Solitaire’s eyes were fire at the thought of having her hospitality rejected.

  Rip didn’t seem to understand that his attitude was inviting disaster, so I mended fences. “Rip’s worried it’s too much for me. Some of the meds have lingering effects. I get the creeps, and I cry for no reason.”

  “I wouldn’t say for no reason,” Solitaire snapped, giving Rip a nasty look.

  I could see Solitaire knew what Rip did for her boyfriend, but she didn’t want to say so openly. Amazingly, Rip was sitting there and saying nothing when he really should have pretended shock and horror at the unspoken accusation.

  I misunderstood her on purpose. “My ex tried to kill me. I got away by pure chance, but I was pretty beat up.”

  “Kyle was furious,” Chloe said.

  “Quique too,” Nats added.

  Dear lord! I realised then that Chloe was married to Kyle, the enforcer, and Nats to Quique, his number two. These were the most influential women in the Zeta cartel, and Rip was just sitting there, looking remote again.

  “Rip takes good care of me.” I said it because I was better off with him than with Arturo Vazquez’s people. “He saved my life, and I’m grateful.”

  As I said it, Rip snapped back into the present. He gazed at me, considerably startled, and then he smiled. Then it was my turn to be surprised. The smile brought some life to his eyes. For a moment, Rip looked thoroughly human.

  “Come on Sunday,” Chloe said calmly, “but I’d rethink the pink unicorn. A horse with a gigantic horn is awfully… Freudian.”

  She took my hand, and to my surprise, I saw it was pitted with old burns, the same as those on my arm.

  “Look,” Chloe said gently, “whoev
er you are, and whatever trouble you’re in, we can help. When you need it, just ask.”

  “Thank you.” She meant it, and I was getting teary again. If she weren’t a Zeta, I could like her very much. Solitaire and Nats too. These women had come running to my aid, and I was a stranger. It was overwhelming. “I’m sorry if I seem—” But it was watering time again.

  “It’s okay,” Chloe assured me. “We’ll see you Sunday.”

  But having seen me cry, Solitaire was uncertain. “Really?” she said to Chloe.

  “Absolutely.” Chloe was smiling. “Rip won’t hurt her.”

  Rip turned to Solitaire and finally said what he should have said at the very start. “We’d love to come on Sunday. What do you want me to bring?”

  “Just Morgan,” she replied.

  “And cabrito,” Chloe added. “Pedro Rojo won’t stop talking about the dinner you gave him.”

  I got three hugs, and then they were off, with Solitaire saying audibly, “Chloe, are you sure we can leave her here with him?”

  Again, Rip didn’t even try to mend fences. He just waved as they drove off, as if they’d not crossed swords.

  The second they were out of sight, Rip sighed, “That could have gone worse.”

  “Are you nuts? You could’ve gotten us killed!” I was having nightmare visions of the cartel jefe and his senior enforcers coming down on us, pissed for dissing their wives. “Why the hell did you talk to them that way?”

  Rip gazed at me and then turned abruptly and walked off. He was so good at making connections, and yet he’d handled his boss’s girl with astonishing ineptitude. I couldn’t understand it.

  Curious, I went to look for him. He was sitting on the sofa, just staring into space. I left him to it and went to examine the Cayenne. As I’d suspected, it was in need of a service too. Between it, the boat, and the bikes, I had plenty to occupy me. I was grateful because I needed to think.

  Knowing where I was made a difference. I had been worried about coming to the attention of Don Valentine, but now my priority had shifted: it was far too dangerous to live in Arturo Vazquez’s backyard. I had to get out and quick. The question was, how?

  An hour later, just as I was inventorying the tools and still getting nowhere worrying, Rip turned up.

  “What do I take to the Sunday lunch?” he asked.

  “Cabrito, enough for a dozen people, and six bottles of very good wine.”

  I wasn’t even thinking; that kind of thing is standard.

  Rip nodded. “Flowers for Solitaire? A dozen red roses?”

  “No, unless it’s cuttings from your garden and you give them to Chloe and Nats too.”

  Rip looked blank. He really didn’t know the jealous vibes he might stir up by giving Arturo’s girlfriend a romantic bouquet.

  “Only lovers give flowers. But gardeners can gift plants.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Rip was filing away the information. He was holding his car keys. “I’m going to the market. I can buy you clothes if you want, but it’s better if you pick them yourself. Come with me.”

  I looked down at the unicorn. It was sniggering. “Okay.” Jeans, a tee, shoes, and then I’d make a run for it. If I crossed Mexico and got myself to Tijuana, I could find an American tourist, beg for help, and hopefully make it back over the border before anyone found out.

  Once back in the US, I’d go north to the Dakotas or Michigan. Somewhere quiet and remote. I would stay away from anything that would identify me. I could waitress for a living. In a nice, anonymous diner.

  “No arguments about being a kept woman?” Rip asked cheerfully.

  “The pink’s subverting my feminist instincts.”

  Rip laughed. “Come on, then.”

  He turned his back on me, and for a second I was tempted. My evil self was whispering that if I were going to run, I’d have a better chance if I whacked him on the head and took the SuperLow. But weeks of care stood between us. I just couldn’t do it. I’d go into town, slip away, and trust I’d make it.

  “Here,” Rip was handing me loafers. “You can’t go with bare feet.”

  Rip hadn’t recognised the Cayenne, but he drove it smoothly, expertly avoiding potholes and chickens on the rural road, and pulling up at a busy street lined with shops as well as a busy market.

  A gang of kids appeared immediately, calling, “Señor Reep!”

  To my surprise, Rip grinned. “Hello, hooligans! Who’s jefe today?”

  One kid stepped up, “Me.”

  Rip handed him a dollar. “A down-payment.”

  They shook hands, the mini jefe appointed a guard, and Rip walked round and opened my door. “Let’s shop.”

  I slopped out in his spare shoes, way too big, and every eye was on my pink PJs. I was aware of my weird hair too.

  “Dresses,” Rip mused. “And overalls?”

  “Panties, bra, tee and jeans,” I said firmly. To my horror, I felt awfully guilty. Ungrateful and treacherous. I pushed the feelings away. This was a matter of survival.

  “This place is popular,” Rip was leading me to a fancy boutique.

  “It looks expensive.” Remorse was overwhelming me. “Let’s try the market stalls.”

  Rip shook his head. “They have no fitting rooms.”

  So there I was, being measured for Mexican sizes. The first pair of jeans fit straight off, and so did the most gorgeous silk panties and bra, but then he and the sales girl conspired to make me try every blouse, tee, and dress in North America.

  “I just need jeans,” I argued.

  “And a party dress for Sunday,” Rip shot back.

  Under my protests, he heaped me with clothes. Mexican dresses with frilly sleeves, cinched waists and flowing skirts followed by shifts with high and short hemlines, plain and frilly, with embroidery details, and without.

  “Rip, it’s okay.” My guilt was making me sweat. “Just the one dress.” And he could return it the second I took off.

  He just shrugged. “Don’t be silly, Morgan. Pick out the ones you like.”

  “I like this one,” I said touching the one I had on, and I did. It was sky blue with a fitted top and cinching tight around my waist before flowing into a full skirt. It was made from a silky material, and I could imagine myself dancing in it. Except, I reminded myself, I would be running off soon.

  I was appalled to see Rip setting aside every blouse and dress I’d tried on, as well as a stack of underwear. Before I could stop him, he handed a wad of cash to the girl who had a smile the size of Texas. “Haircut next,” he said.

  We marched across the street, me feeling absurdly strange in jeans and a lime coloured blouse instead of the jammies, and then Rip was piling me into a beauty salon.

  The girl had barely finished exclaiming at his uneven handiwork when Rip pushed a pile of peso notes into my hands. “I’ll go and take a look at the market. When you’re done, meet me in the cantina next door.”

  And that’s how easy it was. I couldn’t believe it. I looked at the shopping bags stacked by the door, at the money in my hand, and then I was wallowing in guilt. I couldn’t take the money. Tucking it into one of the shopping bags, I fended off the girl with the scissors, saying, “I feel sick. I need some air.” I ran out.

  I slid out of the shop and walked away quickly. Dipping into a side street, I upped the pace, practically jogging. My heart was banging away, and I was breathing like I was running a marathon.

  I burst into another road, and then, to my terror, I spotted a familiar looking bear paw.

  “Fuck me, but this place is great!” A big bushy black beard wearing a Los Osos cut was loud. “Let’s go in.”

  There were four of them, standing in front of a place called Heaven. From the gilded gate, bouncers and bikini-clad girls blowing kisses from the windows, it looked like a top-class brothel.

  “First we take care of business.” It was Neto, looking poisonous as ever. He was wearing a black leather jacket without a cut.

  Un-fucking-believable,
right? I was quietly backing away, back into the alley, when one of the gang said, “Oh come on! That bitch drowned.”

  “There was no report.” Neto’s voice came over clearly.

  I hid around the corner, listening in.

  “She hasn’t been seen anywhere.” One of them whined. “Not at the market, not in the shops, and not in any of the hostels.”

  “I want to be sure. We do one more walkabout.” Neto’s voice was hard. “And for chrissakes don’t be obvious about it. We’re looking for an old friend, remember?”

  “Why do we have to be covert?” the whiner asked. “Why can’t we just ask the Zetas?”

  “Because the second they find out we’re partnering with the Gulf, we’re fucking dead,” Neto snarled. “And they’re more clued in than Homeland Security, so they might already know. So take off that cut, asshole, and act civilian!”

  I was running back up that alley, sprinting for my life. Steaming round the corner, I went slap into a solid chest. Angry blue eyes, cold as ice, stared into mine. “What the fuck are you doing?” Rip, looking absolutely furious.

  “N-nothing!” I gasped. “I felt faint. I stepped out for air!”

  “And into an alley?”

  “I took a wrong turn, and erm—”

  He didn’t believe me. I’d run back to him out of fear of Los Osos, but now I was horribly aware that he was a killer. And from the look of him, I was his next victim.

  I put a hand on his shoulder. It was like clutching rock. “Look, I came back, right?”

  The angry eyes calmed visibly. “Maybe.”

  “I do feel sick, Rip.” Actually, my stomach was heaving at the knowledge that Neto was here and looking for me. If he saw me, I was dead. Sweat ran down my back.

  “Rip!” Quique, the Zeta enforcer, was crossing the street. “Hello!”

  In my head I was screaming. The world was closing in, with enemies surrounding me. I clung to Rip, wishing I’d stayed at his place, fixing the boat and the SuperLow, safe and anonymous. Running had been a stupid idea.

  Rip was tense but answered cheerily, “Quique! Good to see you again.”

  “Guapa, you look great.” Quique was grinning at Rip and then at me, exclaiming, “Love the new clothes.”