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His weight shifted. The padding and the springs pressed tight against her hip. Ouch.
No big deal. No big deal.
If they caught her, well she’d heard that Mexicans love redheads.
Is that racist?
Gracie, stop overthinking.
He didn’t register her beneath him. Phew. Then again, if this had been a shoddy place to hide, she never would’ve gotten into it. Petite body didn’t mean petite mind.
The door shut with a slam. She exhaled. Thank the universe, Allah, Dr. Phil, and baby Jesus.
Someone got into the front, started the car, backed it up, drove it a short distance, and parked. The car door creaked open and slammed closed.
“Justice—” she whispered.
“Fuck. They parked the car outside the compound. You’re like twenty feet from the fucking guard tower.”
Fudge. She needed to be inside the gate to turn off the security. Ok. Stay calm. “Don’t worry, J. I’ve got this. I’ll find a way in and turn off the electric fence for you.”
Honestly. The very last time I do this.
* * *
Guarding the front gate of a ten-thousand-acre cattle ranch turned bad guy’s hideout, Leif “Dusty” McAllister couldn’t help but wonder if he had the luck of an ’80s action-adventure star. John McClane’s brand of bad luck.
That Die-Harder could be scarfing down burgers at a Shake-n-Steak and still run into a shit show.
Not that he was currently anywhere near that fabulous testament to American culinary prowess. And if he went—God’s honest—he’d have to admit he’d been asking for it. Going undercover in Mexico to catch a family of American vigilantes wasn’t exactly staying out of the line of fire.
Sure had raised a few eyebrows at the bureau. Uptight, shoe-polish divas. If you couldn’t stomach a little cow patty on your boots, you shouldn’t stomp around with the bulls. He’d spent months cultivating his relationship with Tony Parish, so when he’d offered Dusty a part in this operation, he’d gone all in. Tony was the reason he was in Mexico, pretending to work for that psycho sex-trafficker Walid.
Dusty motioned the Latino guy with the sparkly G-string and Tony, who wore a similar getup and a belt weighted with BDSM tools—leather hand- and ankle-cuffs, leash, gag, nipple clamps—to stand still while he frisked them.
Tony was tense and clearly less comfortable in his G-string than his partner. Dusty frisked him. Tony shifted from foot to foot. “Dusty.”
Even though it was barely a whisper, Dusty froze. Guy was gonna call him by name? Here? Pretty stupid. Or desperate.
Dusty leaned down as he checked Tony’s tools of the trade. Those and his steel-toed boots had set off the metal detector wand. Dusty got to a knee. “Take off your boots.”
Tony bent down, took off his shoes, leaned next to Dusty’s ear. “Gracie in back of car. Can you get her to security?”
Tony’s sister was in the back of that car?
This wasn’t the original plan. How the hell was he going to get her inside without his men starting to suspect Tony and his pal?
Dusty stood and nodded. “Put your boots back on.”
He moved to frisk Victor. The guy winked at him. “Take your time, big guy.”
Was he serious? Walid was probably watching this whole exchange. Dusty pointed at his shoes. “Take ’em off.”
Dusty checked the guy’s shoes, ducked his head, hid his mouth, and murmured, “Justice?”
Inches from him, the guy retied his shoes. “Hillside. Scope.”
Definitely not the original plan. His heart started to pick up its pace. She had a scope on them?
This last-minute bullshit must’ve been sparked when Walid captured Sandesh, Justice’s boyfriend. Damn. Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve were lining up at the pasture gate in his mind.
He ran through the possibilities. Tony was going after Walid, so Gracie and Justice must be after Sandesh.
He motioned to the golf cart waiting nearby. “Good to go.”
Without another word, Tony and his pal walked toward the cart that would take them to the villa. Just as well. Couldn’t afford to keep talking with his men looking on. Sure they trusted him, hard not to after months here, but they weren’t total idiots. Poorly trained. Yes. Go-lucky. Yes. Total idiots. No.
Now he had to get Gracie Parish inside the compound without raising suspicion, keep that hothead Justice from shooting anyone, and sacrifice one sadistic sex-slaver to the cause. Hopefully then he’d gain an invite into the Parish family.
An invite he sorely needed to get the evidence to take down the Parish matriarch and vigilante extraordinaire, Mukta Parish.
He cast his eyes to the sky and whatever heavenly power broker might happen to own stock in this shit show. Please. No more surprises.
In answer, the alarm blared from the speakers perched on posts throughout the compound.
Thanks a lot.
The two-way on Dusty’s belt sparked to life, security telling him the alarm had started in the dungeon—the old mine where they took prisoners. Looked like Sandesh had gotten restless.
Dusty motioned his men back from Tony and his pal, who had climbed into the golf cart. He did not want to set Justice off. The alarm had to be playing as much havoc with her nerves as his.
He absolutely had to do something, because Walid—a raging loon since his brother’s murder—was surely watching.
Adrenaline brushed its chemical magic across his blood, and the entire scene slowed, snapped into bright, glaring focus.
He ordered Tony and Victor out of the golf cart and onto their knees. Best to make it look good.
One of his guards, a recent hire, misunderstood. Deciding the alarm and these two arriving weren’t coincidence, he got in Tony’s face.
Newbie.
With a calm voice, Dusty spoke to the guy in Spanish. But the newbie bent down, grabbed Tony, hoisted him to standing.
And then the idiot reached for his gun. Dusty put up a hand. “No. Para—”
Pop. Blood splattered from a bullet h
ole in newbie’s head. Tony wrestled out of his dead grasp and ran toward Walid’s villa, with Victor a hot step behind.
Bullets started flying. Dusty ducked and ran for cover in the other direction, toward the car and the woman hidden there.
Yep. John McClane’s luck. They were gonna die so friggin’ hard today. All of them.
Chapter 2
There was no way Gracie could stay trapped inside this sweaty can of a space for one more fudgin’ minute.
Justice’s voice came through her headset again. “Gracie. They’re in. They’re—”
An alarm sounded. Her heart sped up—way up. She needed out of this hidey-hole now.
Her sweaty, numb fingers flip-flapped against the metal escape lever like a fish on the deck of a ship.
The pop, pop, pop of Justice’s gun came through her headset before it clicked off. Why was Justice shooting?
Crud.
This never would’ve happened if she’d still been with John. She’d probably be a soccer mom, have a garden and soft moments.
Okay, stop, Gracie. Focus on squeezing that metal between your fingers. Not regret. Not the man you lost thanks to Momma and the League.
Easier said—thought, and repeated again and again—than done.
Stay calm. Her fingers cramped, her wrist angled back, she grasped at the latch, pulled. The spring gave with a dull click.
Breathing heavily, she pushed against the padding. The seat cracked open then stopped dead. Fudge buckets.
More shots. Close. Someone fired from behind the car. Someone used the car for cover. Someone fired at her sister. At Justice. Whoever was shooting at her sister was so dead.
She angled her knee to aid her pushing hand. The seat began to give way.
Let’s hope whoever was firing was too interested in shooting Justice to peer through the heavily tinted windows at the car’s interior.
The car door opened. “Let me help you there, Gracie.”
