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“We’ll be there to back you up as soon as we can.”
“No fucking way, Alexei. I’m getting her out of there now.” It was a race against time to rescue Celina before Del Roca or one of his henchmen arrived.
~~o0o~~
I’m dressed to kill, Celina concluded tensely as she studied her reflection in the flyblown mirror propped up behind the rusty tray in her “dressing room.” The gang was excitedly waiting for the arrival of Del Roca’s helicopter, while she was putting on a bright red Spandex bandage dress that barely covered her naked crotch. The slavers had thought of everything, including providing dresses for their stock to wear once they were sold. Celina had chosen the least suggestive of these, and it still wouldn’t have looked out of place in a whorehouse. The last time she’d thought the phrase “dressed to kill” had been on Diego’s balcony, she remembered, when she’d been staring down at him at his party in Spain.
Missing him was like a sharp physical pain. The shock and grief of losing Marissa only made the risk to Diego’s life seem that much greater. If he had followed her, she’d put him in danger. And she’d done her very best to lure him here with her gizmos and trackers, together with her misguided impression that she could take on the world. If she could have persuaded Marissa to leave the school when she went back for her, the young teaching assistant might still be alive. How many more deaths did Celina want on her conscience before she could accept that she wasn’t a one-man army, holding the fort until the cavalry arrived, as the gang boss had so eloquently put it?
Another pang of longing and fear for Diego hit her hard. The one thing she hadn’t counted on when she came up with this plan was falling in love with him.
She turned as the old woman barged into the room.
“What are you doing in here?” the crone demanded, staring around suspiciously.
“I’m dressing as you instructed,” Celina replied politely.
“Here—put on some of this makeup so you’re pretty for your n
ew owner.” The crone waved a rusty tin full of well-used powder and paint in front of Celina’s nose.
“Thank you.”
She had been so good at hiding her feelings up to now, but as she held the container with its jumble of cheap makeup, it was as if all the ghosts of the other women who’d gone before had returned to beg her to stop any more of them falling victim to the slavers. Just holding the tin sent shivers down her spine and renewed her determination to smash the gang.
“Behave when you leave here,” the crone cautioned, “or that pretty dress will become your shroud.” She rubbed her bony hands together as Celina stepped back from the mirror. “Are you ready to face your new owner?”
“Could I just…” Squeezing her legs together, Celina grimaced.
“Use the bucket,” the crone agreed, “but be quick. And don’t splash that dress.”
“I won’t.”
Shutting the door, Celina counted slowly to ten. Then, kicking off her heels, she used the upturned bucket as a step and heaved herself onto the ledge below the small, grime-coated window. She’d read somewhere that if she could get her head through a space, the rest would follow. It had better be true.
Chapter Eleven
“Del Roca’s not coming,” Alexei rapped in Diego’s earpiece.
“Fill me in.” Gun raised, Diego was speaking into his mic as he skirted the edge of the barn.
“He’s sending one of his trusted henchmen to pick her up instead.”
“He’s got wind of us,” Diego said, calmly rejigging his plan.
“Almost certainly. He’s got spies everywhere, which is why we haven’t caught him yet.”
Del Roca never stayed in one place long enough to be caught. He either killed or replaced his henchmen with predictable ferocity. His tentacles reached into every corner of the globe, which was why the mobster had proved to be their most effective enemy. “I’m speeding things up here,” he informed Alexei.
“I didn’t think you’d wait for us,” Alexei agreed. “But you should—”
Diego cut the line. His timing couldn’t have been better. All hell broke loose as he came around the back of the barn. The charges he’d set went off. Goons barrelled out of the building, shooting wildly, while a small black helicopter that had been buzzing overhead, turned tail and flew away. That was one less thing to worry about. Then a female voice raised in anger seared his brain. Ducking low, he ran in the direction of the commotion. It was a relief to hear Celina not only alive but cursing fluently. She had quite a vocabulary. Slamming into the side of the barn, he shot a quick look around the corner. An old woman had run out of a side door, and Celina, who had squeezed her top half out of a small window, was directing a flurry of punches at her as she tried to drag Celina to the ground.
Prioritize ripped through his brain. Evaluating the available cover and the firepower of the thugs, he decided that whatever the odds against him, Celina was his priority every time.
He had to admire her. She did half the job for him. Landing a blow on the old woman’s head, she knocked her to the ground. Grabbing hold of Celina, he dragged her the rest of the way out of the window. As he shoved her behind him, he took out two of the gang, then turned, picked her up, threw her over his shoulder, and ran for cover.
“Put me down,” she yelled, pummeling his back.
