Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“Who is that?” Kate shifted toward the office.
A slender figure emerged in the doorway. Short black hair. Seductive mouth. Iliana.
Why was she in that room and not fighting alongside the others? Was she hiding?
Iliana spotted Tiago and ran toward him. “Jefe, oh my God! You made it!”
He gave Kate’s hand a squeeze and prowled ahead, toward the approaching woman, slowly, stiffly, letting the machete hang from his lolling fingers.
Was he tilting a little to the side?
Blood covered him from head to toe. His clothes were an utter mess and would need to be burned, but there weren’t any concentrated stains. Nothing to indicate the blood was coming from him.
As she studied his gait, he seemed steady. Strong. He’d taken a helluva beating and was probably in a world of hurt.
“I was so afraid they got you.” Iliana raced toward him and raised her arms, as if to embrace him.
Two steps away, he stopped, flexed his hand. Then he ran the blade of the machete through her stomach and out the back.
Her mouth gaped, eyes wide with shock as she doubled over the hilt.
He twisted it, gave it a hard shove, and yanked it free.
Kate cupped a hand over her mouth to smother a whimper. What the unholy fuck?
When Iliana hit the floor, he wiped the blade on her shirt and jeans until it was clean. That done, he rose and stalked toward Kate.
Her heart pounded as she shuffled back. “Why?”
“She betrayed me.” He strode past her, grabbed her hand, and hauled her with him. “She took you from me.”
“How do you know?”
“Why do you think she tried so hard to get in my bed?” He veered toward a row of motorcycles, his gaze sweeping over each one. “She was feeding information to the cartel.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Money. Protection. Who knows? Maybe they were holding something over her.” He punched something into his phone and pocketed it.
“That’s how they found you in the desert.”
“And how they knew you were important to me.”
Her chest constricted. “You knew she was a traitor all this time?”
“No.” He paused beside the biggest, meanest-looking bike and inserted the key from his pocket. “I’m suspicious in nature. Never trusted her. When she vanished after you were taken, I knew.”
So he killed her.
There was a time, not too long ago, when he would’ve run that blade through Kate.
He removed the backpack from his shoulders, stored the machete in it, and strapped it onto her back.
“Arturo!” he shouted across the garage. “You good?”
“Never been better.” The guard strode toward the open garage door, his face a mask of blood as he took off in the direction of lingering gunfire.
Tiago mounted the motorcycle and fired up the engine. “Hop on.”
“Helmets?”
“Afraid not.”
“Shouldn’t we take one of the sports cars, instead?”
“If we’re chased, this is the best option.” His eyes turned flinty. “I’m getting impatient.”
Grateful he’d brought her a pair of shorts and shoes, she swung a leg over the huge hunk of steel and scooted in behind him.
The handcuff on her wrist caught against his leather jacket as she wrapped her arms around his chest.
He tensed and adjusted her hold to squeeze him lower around his abs. Then he zoomed out of the garage, polluting the air with a hard rev of the engine.
Turning in the opposite direction of the gunfight, he hit the narrow streets at a speed that stole her breath.
Her hair whipped around her head, her body bending with his as he ducked low, his face protected by the small windshield.
She tucked in tight against his back and squinted her eyes away from the blasts of air. The sun sat just over the horizon, the humidity clinging to her pores despite the constant lashing of wind.
He didn’t slow. Not through stop signs or intersections. He raced out of the small, concrete town scattered with sagging buildings and minimal traffic and arrowed into a thick copse of trees.
The winding road snaked through a jungle-like terrain. Twenty minutes in, asphalt turned to dirt, and civilization faded behind her.
Did he know where he was going?
She clenched her arms around his waist, blinking through the windblown tangles of her hair.
Another twenty minutes zipped by, taking them deeper into the tropical wilderness of massive trees and hanging vines.
He’d stopped maintaining a constant speed. The motorcycle slowed, sped up, teetered a little, and thrust forward again.
Why did he feel so rigid in her arms?
Slipping a hand under his zipped jacket, she followed the grooves of his hard stomach to his chest. He felt really cold and sweaty through the shirt. His breaths heaved shallowly, erratically against her palm.
Then her fingers encountered wetness.
She yanked her hand back and held it up.
Blood.
“Tiago!” She grabbed his arm. “Stop the bike.”
“Almost there.”
“How far?” she shouted into the gust.
“Two hours.”
“You’ll be dead by then!”
He hit the gas, refusing to stop. The next mile blurred by. And another. Then the bike wobbled.