Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96206 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96206 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
She’d been a fool to believe she could play him. She’d strutted in with her guns, her bravado, and her scheme, doing her best to convince him that she knew how to game the cartel. He’d bested her instead, pretending to be her partner, saying he no longer cared about owning her body. He’d merely placated her for the bargaining chip she’d sworn she had. Once she’d opened her mouth and proven herself an amateur, he’d seized control of the situation—and her. He would use both to his satisfaction.
She had made her bed; now she had to lie in it. But Trees…
He lay sprawled in the street, a puddle of blood forming around his body. She saw no sign of Matt. A few townsfolk stood around with wary eyes, staring at his unmoving form but not daring to help.
Suddenly, Gustavo Pastrana strode from the office and toward the cluster of observers with a cocky swagger. They parted to make a path for him. He passed each by, approaching Trees with purpose.
Then he held up a blowtorch, and his grin turned evil.
Laila tried to scream, hoping someone kind would help the man she loved, but Victor slapped his sweaty palm over her mouth and dragged her inside the warehouse just as the mechanic lit the flame on his device.
She tried to dig in her heels, but it didn’t matter. Victor shoved her across the hot, musty interior, toward the truck. He only released his vicious hold on her long enough to hoist her up through the driver’s-side door and shove her into the cab. Laila scrambled across the bench seat, reaching for the passenger door so she could flee and help Trees.
Victor merely seized her hair again, his fist at her nape, and yanked her into her seat. “You’re not going anywhere. Buckle up. Don’t try anything else or there will be a price.”
There always was. But maybe she could use his greed for her to Trees’s advantage.
“I will give you every part of me without a single protest for as long as you wish if you let me find him medical attention and get him to safety,” she offered earnestly, reaching for the buttons of her blouse.
Victor cut her a nasty glance. “Gustavo is tending to him now, so it’s too late. Besides, you will give me all of you for as long as I wish, regardless. Now shut up.”
Grief sent her tears pooling and plunging down her face. Bartering her body for her bed and her food would be next, no doubt. She hadn’t taken her guns into town, and he would soon seize her phone so she would be helpless again. But she no longer cared what happened to her. Trees’s death was her fault. If she hadn’t recklessly believed she could outsmart Victor, she might still be with him. Now the man she loved had paid with his life.
Victor turned the engine over, then stuck his hand out the window, gesturing to a boy working in the warehouse. The kid opened the door, and Victor gunned the truck, taking a right out of the giant, dilapidated building. Laila tried to peer through the back window for a glimpse of Trees—hoping against all odds that someone had saved him—but she only saw a cadre of well-armed men racing down the street, pointing in their direction, then hopping into a beat-up sedan, gunning their engines in pursuit, and pointing what looked like machine guns out their windows.
Shock swallowed her gasp. Were they Montilla’s sicarios?
“Victor!” she warned him. “Behind us.”
He floored it, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Montilla is on my tail. At least you weren’t lying about that, puta. Where is your phone?”
She patted her skirt pocket. Empty. “It must have fallen out of my pocket during the commotion.”
With a curse, he fumbled in his pocket and thrust his phone at her. “Call Estevan. Tell him we need a new truck and men to cover us right now. Tell him to meet us at…” He scowled, obviously thinking. “Fuck, I don’t know. Tell him to start driving north. We’ll head south and meet along the way.”
That would never work. The assassins would catch up to them too quickly. But she didn’t correct Victor, simply took the phone from him dutifully while shoving back her worry and sorrow. “Passcode?”
Victor scowled.
“I cannot dial anyone without it.”
He spit out a six-digit number, focused on rumbling the top-heavy vehicle down twisting dirt roads without toppling over. Behind them, the little blue sedan closed in.
After the fourth ring, voicemail picked up. She relayed Victor’s message, then hung up. “Should I try someone else?”
“My brother would have had my back.” He turned another sharp corner at insane speeds, and the truck teetered on two wheels. Sweat rolled down his brow.
If Montilla’s men didn’t kill her, Victor’s driving probably would. With Trees gone, she almost didn’t care.