Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 153571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 768(@200wpm)___ 614(@250wpm)___ 512(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 768(@200wpm)___ 614(@250wpm)___ 512(@300wpm)
"Future father-in-law or not, if you hurt Mila, I'll break your kneecaps. She's like a sister to me."
"Fair enough," I say with a smile. Not that I'd let him do it, but I'm fucking glad that he's protective of her. She deserves people like him and Tahani in her life, in her corner. He doesn't have to worry about me hurting her, though. I'd cut my own fucking heart out first. I protect what's mine.
When I'm done, no one will ever threaten her again.
"You sure about this?" Brady asks me, his eyes locked on the house across the street.
The Spanish villa is almost a mini-mansion, located miles from Guerrero's usual haunts. It's three stories of stucco and decorative arches under red tile. The yard is perfectly landscaped and clean, with a fucking fountain out front. A wrought iron security fence surrounds the property, keeping the curious out.
I don't know if Guerrero has any of his men inside, but we're about to find out.
"We're going in," I mutter to Brady. "Even if we have to shoot our way in."
"Fuckin' A," he says, a grim smile spreading across his face. He may have fucked up with the motherfucker who followed him home, but there's no one else I want inside with me if we end up in a fucking shoot-out. Brady is an artist with a gun. He hits exactly what he aims for, every damn time.
I loop my shield around my neck, leaving it outside my shirt so it's visible. If Guerrero has men inside, I want them to know who is coming for his girl. I want him to know who's coming for him. check over my Glock before holstering it with the holster clip unfastened to allow me to draw it quickly if need be.
Brady does the same with his and then grins at me. "Let's do this," he says, holding out his fist for me to bump it.
"Let's go," I mutter and bump his first before climbing from his Rover. I keep my eyes on the house as we jog across the street, but nothing moves. I scan the area anyway, looking for any signs that Guerrero has his people watching the house. Aside from a couple climbing into separate cars halfway down the block and three little girls skipping toward the bus stop at the corner, there's no one around.
Brady hits the buzzer on the gate as soon as we step up to it.
I position myself near a column in case we need to duck for cover.
The intercom buzzes.
"Can I help you?" a woman asks.
"My name is Brady Kaplan, and this is my partner Roman Gregory," Brady says. "We're with the ATF. We're here to speak to Selena Ortega."
The woman is silent for a brief moment. "Hold your badge up, please."
Brady lifts his up with a finger and turns in a circle.
"Now his, please."
I roll my eyes before doing the same thing Brady just did.
There's another brief silence, and then the gate clicks and slowly begins to open.
"I'll meet you at the door," the woman says softly, resignation heavy in her voice.
Brady and I wait until the gate fully opens and then step through. We keep our eyes peeled, watching for movement…for any signs that we're about to be ambushed. We make it to the door as a woman pulls it open, her long brown hair piled into a bun on top of her head. She's beautiful, elegant, with glowing olive skin and big, brown eyes. A simple black robe is cinched tight around her waist, stretching across her pregnant belly. It skims her wide hips, ending at her knees.
Her gaze hones in on our badges and flickers across them before she meets my gaze and then Brady's. She purses her lips like she isn't sure what to make of us. Her wary, unsurprised look makes it clear that she knows why we're here, though.
"Come in," she says quietly, holding the door open for us.
"Miss Ortega, I presume?" I step inside, quickly scanning the residence, but the foyer and living room beyond are empty. If there's anyone else inside, they're quiet and staying out of sight. Heavy oak furniture rests on porcelain tile, shining brightly in the early morning light. The house is nice and clean…not unexpected given the area, but still surprising.
How the fuck did someone who lives like this get mixed up with someone like Jose Guerrero?
"Yes. How can I help you?" she asks, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her head back to look up at me. Something like recognition flickers through her eyes before she quickly schools her expression. She knows exactly who I am, I think.
"We're here about Jose Guerrero."
She tenses when I say his name before relaxing again. Her gaze darts away and then right back to mine.
"You're pregnant with his kid," Brady states.