Page 19 of Fixed Asset

I dipped my chin to indicate it was her turn.

“The Angel of Death,” she muttered.

“You’ve heard of her?” Pete asked.

“No. I mean, yes, I’ve heard of her. She’s why I’m here.”

And . . . fuck again.

“What does the CIA want with Berta?” Fallon joined.

“Nothing. I’m here to give her intel.”

Pete blew out a frustrated breath and leaned back in his chair.

“What’s the intel?” Mason inquired.

“Why do you want her?” Cat volleyed.

“Oh, no, friend, Jack went first last time. Your turn to give up the goods first.”

Catarina raised a brow and remained silent.

It was then that something hit me square in the chest. Cat had no idea where Berta was. She could’ve been in the city waiting on word of a location like we were. But the CIA had no idea where Berta was or they would’ve sent Cat directly to her or sent a local source to deliver a message.

The Agency needed Cat to find the Angel of Death.

And there was a way to get Berta’s attention.

“You were going to use yourself as bait,” I ground out.

Cat’s gaze slowly glided around the table before finally landing on me with a defiant lift of her jaw.

Motherfucker.

“Have you lost your fucking mind, woman?”

“I believe you’ve already asked that. And we established—”

“The only thing we’ve established is that you’re goddamn insane,” I growled, and pushed back from the table, taking to my feet but bending forward to plant my palms on the tabletop. “You’re in a country where nearly four hundred woman are murdered every year. That’s one a day, sometimes two or more. And you’re setting yourself up to be taken in hopes Berta gets word an American woman was taken, and she herself swoops in to save you or she sends her people. The problem with that is, hope isn’t a fucking plan. Hope doesn’t mean shit when those animals can violate you in ways you’d wish they’d killed you. And they can do that within minutes of your abduction. They could do that shit to you in broad daylight on the sidewalk, and as you’ve seen, no one would come rolling to your rescue.”

Catarina calmly sat there with a mask of bland interest on her gorgeous face. A hundred different horrific scenarios sped through my mind, each worse than the one before. All of the foul ways her beautiful body could be violated. All the ways I would kill any man who dared to touch her, harm her, take her against her will.

Fuck this.

I pushed up from the table, glanced over at Pete, and as soon as he gave me a dip of his chin, I made my way across the room. I stopped at the archway and turned back to Catarina.

“You were wrong,” I told her.

“What was I wrong about?” she snottily asked.

“About no one caring enough to pay your ransom.” I poked my chest with a finger. “I care. I’d pay it. And just so we’re clear, I’ll lose my goddamn mind if you continue with this bullshit.”

There was no heat or attitude when she probed, “More than you are now?”

“Baby, this is me keeping my cool. You’ll watch the world burn before I stand by and watch you pull this shit for a second time. Vegas was careless; this is lunacy.”

The woman didn’t know when to quit—her shoulders squared, her jaw lifted, exposing more of her delicate throat. I watched her swallow, then heard her lie. “I had it covered.”