Page 13 of How Much For A Broken Heart?

Diaz chuckled, dark and low, he was a true servant of the cartel—evil and twisted—and there was no evidence he was anything but loyal, and he knew it. I waited, loose and ready to move, because if I’d been compromised, I was going to take down as many of these fuckers as I could. By this time, Amos had backed right up and vanished into the building as fast as his stumbling cowardice could take him, hands over his ears.

“Shoot him in the leg; we want him alive!” he cried as he disappeared, and Dumb and Dumber lifted their weapons, pointing them at me.

“Me?” I asked as if I didn’t have a care in the world, all the time, my brain turning over what the fuck was happening here. Dumb flicked a glance to my left and then my right, and I saw him focus back on me, even as his finger tensed on the trigger. I had the unmistakable sensation of being outnumbered and outmaneuvered. The voices behind me were harsh, a cacophony of threats and malice, but my training kicked in.

With a deep breath, I dropped into a crouch and spun away, a move so practiced, so ingrained in my muscle memory that it required no thought. My hand went to my weapon, drawing it in one fluid, seamless motion.

Time seemed to slow down as I turned. I could see the surprised faces of my assailants, their reactions just a beat too slow. I didn’t hesitate. I squeezed the trigger, my gun roaring to life, each shot a precise, calculated decision, kill shots between the eyes.

The chamber rattled as I fired, my aim deadly accurate. Years of training guided each decision. The gun in my hand was an extension of myself, a tool I wielded with lethal efficiency, even as the others tried to swarm me.

I got Diaz in my sights, he had his weapon drawn, but he grabbed one of his own crew, yanking the unsuspecting man in front of him as my bullet met the wrong person.

One by one, some of the assholes fell—one bullet, one man. I was methodical, each shot bringing down another threat, until the chamber clicked empty.

And I couldn’t avoid the swarm any more.

I struggled and cursed, and kicked, and used my head to batter at least one person who had me in their hold, but with the clarity of what I’d done, I knew there were still people standing. I fought my hardest, but even I couldn’t fight back against this many, and all too soon, I was in a room, my wrists tied, suspended from the ceiling, my toes barely touching the floor. Diaz was in front of me, and for the first time since I’d started this journey, fear coursed through me, the cold reality of my situation setting in with Annie in this complex. My mind raced with questions, the most pressing one being whether they had discovered my connection to Annie. Was this why I was here, bound, and helpless?

The thought of them using Annie against me was unbearable, a nightmare scenario I had always dreaded. I’d been trained to handle torture, to withstand physical and mental strain, but the idea of my enemies using James’s daughter as leverage was a different kind of torture altogether.

I struggled against my restraints as Diaz considered me with narrowed eyes. The ropes bit into my wrists, a reminder of my powerlessness. My gaze fixed on him, looking for any clue, any indication of what he knew and what the cartel’s plans might be. Why wasn’t I dead already? He pulled a knife from his belt, and I stared at him, impassive.

“Who do you work for?” Diaz asked.

“He sent you to do his dirty work, then?” I said, referring to whomever the fuck was in charge.

He ignored the question, “I always knew there was something wrong about you,” he said, as if we were sitting there with beers and chatting.

“Pot, kettle, black,” I murmured and got a fist to the gut. The action swung my body back, I hit the wall, and I tensed the right muscles to soften the impact. He’d have to try a lot harder than that to take me down.

He crossed to me, placed the blade at my throat. “FBI?”

I snorted a laugh, and he ran the blade up my cheek, deep enough to draw blood.

“CIA?”

This time, I rolled my eyes and got a matching cut on the other side, along with a couple more gut punches. He’d worked up a sweat from this alone, so what he thought his lazy ass could achieve here, I didn’t know.

“ATF?” He ripped at my shirt, then poked the blade into my side, shoved it deep enough for me to know it was there. Two more punches, this time to the center of my chest.

“ABC? XYZ? Is this a game of letters?” I smirked back in his face. Rule one of being tortured, don’t antagonize the enemy, and boy was he on a short leash. Still, I needed him distracted, my back pressed against the wall.

He shoved the blade through my shoulder, as if he were pinning me to the concrete like a bug—I didn’t feel a thing when it went in, but I sure felt it as the blade twisted and he yanked it back out.

“Who do you work for?” he asked, and when I just stared at him, he punched me again, and again, until every molecule of my skin burned.

“Fuck you.” I grinned and spat blood at him, hitting him dead in the face. He growled and cursed, hit me twice more as I swung into him, and then, he took a step too far. As I swung back, I lifted my legs and caught him square in the face with my feet. He flew back into the opposite wall, stunned—trying to get up, but disoriented, blood pouring from his broken nose. Score one for the good guy.

“Enough,” Dumber said from the doorway, holding Diaz back even as Diaz tried to dive for me. “Boss is coming down.”

Diaz stood, shaking with anger, wiping blood with the back of his sleeve, darting around Dumber and getting in one last swipe of the knife, but it was done from a distance and did nothing more than carve a line across my chin. Dumber hustled him out, yanking the door shut, and I took the opportunity to rest where I could, not slumping, otherwise my shoulders would take too much of the strain. The room felt smaller with each passing second, the walls closing in on me, and I breathed through every throb of pain, cataloging what I had.

An empty room.

Rope.

No purchase on the floor.

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