Hector rolled back and dove through.
The shooter was down.
Alejandra dropped in beside him, so close it was hard not to just grab her. With a toe of her boot, she kicked the shooter over. He’d been hit both front and back. She’d always been good, but somewhere along the way, she’d gotten even better.
“Alvarado’s eldest. They were both really pissed when I wouldn’t marry him. His dad, Miguel, is not going to be happy about this.” She nudged a boot against him again, hard to believe he was finally dead.
“Good,” Hector offered her a smile. “You can tell Miguel yourself when he finds you in his bed tonight.”
“That’s part of your plan for…whatever?”
It wasn’t, but he’d forgotten how much fun it was to tease her. For a second he thought she might try aiming her rifle at him again and he was ready for that.
Instead she kicked him in the shins. Hard.
Chapter Three
Whatever Hector was into, Alejandra wasn’t interested.
But she was.
They scrounged lunch in the deserted first floor café while the gun battle finished dying off around them. They sat side by side in the cool darkness of the kitchen, their backs against the steel door of the walk-in refrigerator and good visibility of both approaches—each with their rifle across their lap. They’d found cold beer, but Hector had opted for water so she’d done the same.
“Where the hell did you go, Hector?”
“North.” The only thing north was the US.
“Why?”
His frown said he didn’t like that question. Not a bit.
She finished her empanada then nudged his ribs with the butt of her rifle.
“You told me to go. Said you’d kill me if you ever saw me again,” his face said that his second empanada tasted like bitter sand. He chucked it under the sink.
Alejandra thought back to the day he’d gone. She’d been furious with him for something, then he’d bugged out and she never had a chance to take it back. What was…
Marina! Her slut of a sister had bragged about taking down Hector.
“You weren’t supposed fuck my sister while you were with me.”
“Didn’t.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it again. One thing about Hector, he never lied. He might keep his trap shut, but he never lied.
“Pissed her off some that I wouldn’t.”
Whereas her little sister lied about everything—and Alejandra always fell for it. Big sisters were supposed to trust their little sisters. But she’d described certain things about Hector that only a lover would know…or someone who’d spied on him making love. “Shit! I’m gonna strangle the little bitch.”
Again Hector’s indifferent shrug.
“So I tell you to go and you just do? No argument?”
“You had a .357 revolver aimed at my crotch. I’m not gonna argue with that. I know how good a shot you are.”
“And you don’t even try to come back?”
Hector looked over at her with those sad, puppy-dog eyes of his. She’d never been able to resist those. Six foot of tough hombre was not supposed to have window-to-his-soul kind of eyes, but he always had. “Without you, I had nothing here.”
And he hadn’t. His family made hers look like all the good bits of a Thalía telenovela.
“Five years.” Somehow they’d lost five years. “Five goddamn years.”
Chapter Four
Hector leaned his head back against the refrigerator door and closed his eyes. Yeah, he’d abandoned her to this hell for five years. If she’d done it to him, he’d never forgive her. Shit.
Closing his eyes didn’t help.
Now he wasn’t seeing her long flow of softly curling black hair with just a hint of her grandmother’s dark gold, framing that perfect face. He couldn’t see the proud curves above her slender waist that he had so loved to bury his face in. But he could smell her: rich, dark, spicy—overlaid with drying mole sauce on her tight jeans. Like a mix of the lush bounty of the goddess Mayahuel and the fierce and deadly earth goddess Tlaltecuhtli. She had seemed that way ever since they’d sat side by side in primaria school desks and learned about the ancient Aztecs.
And she was still that even now, squatting in a darkened kitchen waiting out the stupid shit going on outside: lush, dangerous, and so goddamn good to look at.
He’d landed his fair share of bar babes over the years. His ugly excuse for a face drew in as many as it put off. Not a one had been worth even half of Alejandra Rosa Martinez.
He shouldn’t have tracked her down; it was just messing with his head. She wasn’t essential to the mission—though it was a better angle than the one he’d thought up while planning back at Fort Bragg. His assignment was to investigate and assess, then call for what assets he needed. If he shifted his plan to include Alejandra, he had all he needed right here.
Reading the profile on cartel boss Miguel Alvarado had brought up too many memories, too much anger. He shouldn’t have taken the assignment.
Missions can never be personal. The commanders of Delta Force had beat that into his head again and again. Yet this time it was. His hometown. His family that had been destroyed. And now, in a file handed to him like a random draw, he knew why.
But he had tracked her down.
He thumped his head back against the refrigerator door.
Just walk away, Hector. You did it to her before, you can do it again. It’s safer that way. Better for her. Sucks totally for you. But since when was that anything new?
Even knowing the right course of action, Hector knew he didn’t have the strength to do it again. She was all the past he had. There was no way she could fit into his current life—she wasn’t exactly the patient housewife sort—but there was no way he could stand to pry her back out of his heart now that he’d found her. Not that he’d ever been able to.
“So, what’s Alvarado up to this time—other than gunning down my meal ticket? And why you?” Even her voice—he’d even missed the sound of her voice. He remembered it like yesterday.
Hector sighed. There was no way to resist having her by his side, so he should just give in. Even if it would only be on a mission.
“Miguel Alvarado is known for moving drugs and immigrants across the border. Pain in the ass, but the US has had plenty of bigger fish to fry.”
He could feel her shrug as a movement through the cool metal against his back.
“He’s gone a whole lot lower—human trafficking for the sex trade—and it’s time to shut his ass down.”
“Shit!” Her sound of utter disgust said that was news to her. “Why you?”
That was actually a hell of a good question. What he’d seen in the file back at Fort Bragg, intel and his commanders had certainly seen as well. His hometown—giving him the best knowledge on the ground. His family—he’d told the stories to the psychologists during induction testing into Delta. That had to be in his files. It didn’t take a genius to connect Alvarado and his own family. His family had worked as Miguel’s guns until they were picked off one by one. He’d probably have been in the family trade and dead by now too, if not for Alejandra threatening to shoot his balls off. Just him left now.
There was only one thing he’d never told the psychs about, one piece that had remained for him alone.
He opened his eyes and looked at her.
“Because, I’m the best bastard for the job.”
Chapter Five
The best bastard she’d ever known.
And now he was going to be a dead bastard if she ever got her hands back on him.
Tonight’s plan had sounded so simple as they’d hashed it out. No unconsidered twists and turns. Whatever training Hector had gotten in the US, Alejandra saw it shine out of him. He brought up scenarios and variables like it was fact, not guesswork. His easy confidence had made it comfortable to believe and trust him despite his five-year absence.
She tugged against the heavy ropes tied ar
ound her wrists, but all it did was abrade her already sore wrists. His plan had been great—right up to the moment she’d stepped off plan and everything had gone to hell.
“I was not supposed to end up in Miguel Alvarado’s bed, Hector. That was supposed to be a goddamn joke.” But she had. The bedroom in Alvarado’s hacienda was lush. Dark wallpaper, leather and mahogany furniture, a massive California king bed with satin sheets…and a tie-down ring at each corner.
She still had her clothes on, but it was a good bet that wasn’t going to last.
Hector had been careful not to say anything about his life in America, but she’d listened to what he hadn’t said. No mention of wife or kids. No mention of anything except “work”. That’s all he called it: work. Not like it took magic powers to figure out what that meant.
The US didn’t send Border Patrol hombres south of the line. They were tough bastards, but they were strictly by-the-book types. The US military didn’t invade friendly countries. He’d shrugged off Miguel Alvarado’s drug trafficking the way no DEA agent would and she suspected that if Hector was CIA, he’d feel creepier.
He didn’t. Hector cut a solid, steady hole in the world gone to shit.
US Special Operations Forces. Green Beret, Ranger…one of those types. Except they’d sent him in on his own. A true specialist. Now she knew how he shot the way he had. Delta Force. No one else operated alone, could do what he did, and made it look so goddamn easy.
He hadn’t just gotten out…he’d gotten way out and done good besides.
Alejandra fought back the burning in her eyes. For some brief fantasy moment, she’d thought there might suddenly be a way out for her as well.
She tugged at the rope, knowing it was futile.
Today had also offered a lousy as shit lesson about revenge.
Hector had gone for some supplies he’d stashed out of town—and she’d gone for Marina. If she’d laid low, like he’d said, she wouldn’t be here.
Instead, slamming open her sister’s door without knocking, Alejandra had found her with a man, of course. Except this one had Marina gagged and was holding a gun on her. The wide terror of her sister’s eyes had made Alejandra hesitate for the wrong second.
Someone grabbed her from behind, and before she could fight him off, Marina’s captor had simply cocked the hammer of his pistol and put the barrel against Marina’s temple. Then he’d smiled at Alejandra.
Hector had told her what Miguel Alvarado was now into, cross-border human trafficking for the sex trade. She wasn’t a damn bit pleased that she and her sister were getting to see that first hand.
The two of them had been herded into an underground holding area with two dozen others. By the light of the lone dim bulb, Alejandra could see enough of their coloring and features to tell that most were Guatemalan or Oaxacan—at least half were underage. Refugees no one would ever miss except for the families back home waiting for news that would never come. In the stuffy, crowded cell, Marina had told her that the man who had captured them had been a pissed off ex-lover, one of Alvarado’s men, who she’d dumped for being too rough.
They were the only locals waiting to be shipped off.
“My timing seriously sucks,” Alejandra looked once more at her reflection in the mirrored ceiling above the bed. Miguel Alvarado was a kinky bastard.
He’d come to survey his “cargo” earlier. He’d merely grunted when he spotted Marina. But when he’d seen Alejandra, his smile had gone evil. That was how she’d ended up tied to his bed.
So much for hope.
Now it was just a question of how awful the ending was going to be.
Any time in the last five years, death wasn’t that unexpected. She’d known her life expectancy in Mexico stank.
But for one brief afternoon, there’d been hope. The loss of that was now doubly devastating.
Chapter Six
It had taken Hector six hours through the sweltering afternoon and until well past sunset to track Alejandra. He’d lost ten years off his life when someone had finally dared to tell him that she and her sister had been taken away—bound. That had cost him half the time, finding that first step.
No other Delta Force assets in the area, nor any that could be in place fast enough.
He got on the radio with the intel boys, but this wasn’t America—security cameras didn’t hover above every street corner. However, they had been tracking a pending shipment of women. The challenge was not only to rescue the shipment, but to nail Miguel Alvarado red-handed.
Hector’s plan had been to screw up the night’s logistics badly enough to force Miguel to take a personal and very visible hand. He was too well connected to turn him over to the Mexican authorities, but once across the border, there were other ways to deal with him. They needed him alive, at least long enough to reveal his whole network.
But now Alejandra was gone and the paths had all led here—the massive hacienda several miles out of town. He’d dumped his beater vehicle in a handy arroyo and run the last few miles overland. The adobe wall around the massive compound was topped with glass shard and razor wire. Miguel had always been a rich bastard, but clearly he’d reached new depths that he’d needed to turn his home into a fortress.
Hector slid into the compound, only having to leave two guards down for the count. No dogs, which was a mistake, though there were ways of dealing with them. Just made his job easier. Miguel used to keep pit bulls, until they’d mauled one of his sons.
Hard floodlights blinded guards and cast hard shadows.
The security cameras within Miguel’s compound weren’t well placed—there were plenty of blank spots where they could be avoided. But they acted as excellent signposts guiding him on which way to go—the more cameras, the more important the area was to Miguel.
Inside the garage, Hector found a trio of hot sports cars (all red)—including a Ferrari that looked like it would be an awesome ride. Further in were a half dozen heavy pickups and SUVs appropriate for transporting a personal militia, and a battered American school bus.
Even as he watched, he saw a line of women and children being led up to it from some underground cellar, but not onto it. Instead, hatches in the yellow sides were opened up and the women were made to crawl inside.
Everyone knew that school buses weren’t set up to carry luggage underneath like a Greyhound. To any but the most careful inspection, it would appear empty except for the driver who was bound to have some “legitimate” excuse for crossing the border.
They loaded the right side first. Just before she crawled into the rearmost compartment, he recognized Marina Martinez. The years had been far less kind to her than they had to her sister. There was still a beauty there, but now it looked hard and strained. She also looked terrified. He didn’t recognize anyone else.
When the guards finished and moved around to load the other side, he slipped up and unlocked the rear hatch.
“Where’s Alejandra?”
“Hector?”
He clasped a hand over her mouth to silence her, then repeated his question.
“Miguel took her,” she whispered carefully. “You have to save us. You must—”
“Shh. Too many guards here. I’ll come for you later.” Before she could protest, he lowered the hatch and relocked it.
And there wasn’t time to stop the shipment—he had another priority now.
A quick drop-and-roll beneath a black Chevy Suburban was all that saved him from discovery.
He had the beginnings of an idea and began putting it in place as he slipped deeper into the shadows.
Chapter Seven
Miguel seemed disappointed that she wouldn’t scream. His hard slaps only served to piss her off and make her jaw hurt. Fine, as long as he didn’t break it—so that she could chew off his face if she got the chance.
He made all sorts of threats and boasts—most having to do with fucking her to death just to teach her a lesson. Apparently rejecting his now-dead son, as well as his job offer to be
a shooter for Miguel’s illegal operations had really pissed him off. It was hard to tell which had made him angrier.
Too smart to risk freeing her hands or ankles, Miguel used a steak knife to slice away her clothes.
“First me. Then the knife,” he wielded it down near her waist. “Don’t worry, Alejandra. It will be fast. I have other business to see to tonight as well.”
He stripped and knelt above her. Alejandra braced herself for the worst. She wasn’t going to cry or beg, not for Miguel’s benefit. There had to be more horrid ways to die, she just couldn’t think of what they were. She wouldn’t cry for him, but inside, where her heart ached, she would cry for what she and Hector might have had.
She closed her eyes as his hot breath landed between her breasts.
“First, I’m going to—” then he squeaked.
Alejandra opened her eyes and couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing.
Miguel’s eyes were wide with shock.
In the mirror above the bed, she had a bird’s eye view of the baddest, angriest warrior she’d ever seen.
She’d thought Hector had looked heavily armed and badass this afternoon. Now he was something else. A pair of night-vision goggles had been pulled up onto his forehead. He wore a vest that hung with two pistols, dozens of magazines of ammo for both pistols and rifles, as well as grenades and flashbangs. His puppy-dog eyes now belonged to a full-grown Doberman—a really pissed one.
And she couldn’t see his rifle, not all of it anyway. The muzzle appeared to be jammed well into Miguel’s ass. The angle was such that if Hector fired, the round would miss her, traveling up through Miguel’s body and out the top of his head. She might get splattered with his brains.
She was fine with that.
“Lose the knife.”
She thought she knew all the moods of Hector Garcia, but she’d never seen him so angry, so focused in her entire life.
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