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He shrugged. “I can arrange that.” The man hauled back his arm and backhanded me so hard, I fell backward and slammed my head against the concrete floor. Already suffering a head wound, I turned to my side and heaved, vomiting nothing but bile. My vision blurred, wavering in and out as images blackened around the edges.
Raoul cleared his throat and interrupted our little reunion.
“It’s time. You’re coming with me.” Raoul turned to his guest. “And you need to get out of here.”
“Until next time, bitch,” I heard the other man say through the fog. There was a vague sense of someone leaving the room, only… was someone just here? What happened? My thoughts were like sludge, muddying their way though my brain, pieces left behind here and there leaving the memories incomplete.
My stomach heaved when Raoul reached for my arm and despite the head full of quicksand, my instincts kicked in. I kicked and screamed and struck out with my fists, or at least, I thought I did. Weak as I was, I would do anything to keep the big Mexican from getting his hands on me. Somehow, just by flailing, I landed a lucky blow right between his legs. Raoul groaned in pain and buckled to one knee, clutching his family jewels. Seeing my chance, I attempted to sprint toward the door. My head rebelled and the room tilted. I fell sideways and landed in the arms of the tall, muscular guard with no name.
The man easily overpowered me, dulled senses or not, and had my wrists trapped in one big hand while he gripped my throat with the other. He increased the pressure on my neck, digging his thumb into one side of my throat and his index finger in the other. There was no way out of his hold. I began to feel even weaker and the lights dimmed further around the edges of my hazy vision. The guard was pinching my carotid arteries to keep blood from reaching my already traumatized brain. Before I could panic, I slipped away.
* * *
I woke to someone slapping my face. When I tried to pull away from the sharp sting, I realized I couldn’t move. My hands were tied behind my back, my torso bound to a chair, and my ankles to the sturdy wooden legs.
Another harsh blow rocked my damaged head. It felt as if my brain were bouncing around inside my skull. The multiple head injuries I’d sustained throbbed, my memories unclear. That damn persistent nausea returned with a vengeance and I was about to throw up, but there was a cloth tied around my mouth. If I puked, I’d end up choking on it. As my stomach lurched, I focused on breathing though my nose in an attempt to squelch the urge to vomit.
Once I calmed enough to be eighty percent certain I wouldn’t lose the contents of my stomach, I took a blurry look at my surroundings. This could only be El Cuchillo’s house. The living area was expensively decorated, large and open, with comfortable leather furniture and tasteful art on the walls. And there were windows. The sun shone bright beyond the gauzy curtains, making my eyeballs ache. Daytime. For some reason, knowing whether it was night or day made me feel better. Until another blow sent my head reeling, my brain rattling around in my skull once more. If I got out of here, I’d be lucky to escape without permanent brain damage.
I swore into the gag and was rewarded with a low chuckle.
“Sit still, puta. You are about to be on camera. You want to look your best, do you not?”
My stomach betrayed me and heaved once more. I closed my eyes and concentrated on fighting the nausea until it passed, ignoring the way the room spun. Once the sensation was gone, I wrenched my neck to make eye contact with my captor. El Cuchillo was grinning from ear to ear, his beady brown eyes alight with anticipation like a kid on Christmas morning.
Sick piece of shit.
I tried to tell him what I thought of him, but all that came out was a muffled shout accompanied by a string of drool that dripped around the gag and down my chin.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” He leaned close and gently wiped the saliva with a crisp folded handkerchief. “We can’t have you covered in spit.” He laughed. “Unless, of course, it’s my spit. Then you would look like the whore that you are. Should I spit on you, puta barata?”
I didn’t move, afraid of what he would do if I fought. I definitely did not want anything from his mouth on any part of my body. If he spit on me, there was no doubt I’d puke. Then I’d end up choking to death on it and that was not how I was going to die. El Cuchillo waited a moment, watching for a response.
“I didn’t think so. Okay.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them gleefully. “It is time for our little show. Raoul.”
Raoul stepped into my line of vision, set a laptop on a table, and aimed its tiny camera in my direction. I could see myself on the screen—hollow eyed, bruised, and deathly pale. The skin on both of my cheeks was glowing from the harsh slaps, my mouth pried open by the bright red cloth gag clenched between my teeth, and my hair was a frizzy and knotted mess, blood matted on one side. Did I hit my head again? I couldn’t remember. It was as if the memory was right behind a curtain, yet I didn’t have the strength to push it open and expose the truth. One thing was certain, I was filthy and looked like I was already halfway dead.
Raoul pressed a button and a red light came on. I stared at the screen, uneasy over what would happen next. Without warning, Cuchillo was behind me, his hand snaked around my throat. He put pressure on my windpipe and I began to cough. I heard his voice but had no idea what he was saying to the camera because all I could do was focus on pulling in my next breath of air as he gradually cut off my supply.
Oh god. He was going to kill me on camera and send it to Jag. A single tear leaked from my eye and made its way down my cheek. This was going to wreck him.
The hand began to tighten.
I’m so sorry, Jag.
Jag
Sarge and I spent days holed up in my study. I thought I would go insane from staring at the same four goddamn walls. Fuck that. I was determined to hammer out a plan to not only find Miri, but catch the soon to be dead bastard that leaked her existence to my enemies. By evening on the third day, I thought I’d be numb, but no. I was tired, hungry, and my fucking head hurt like someone punted it through the uprights despite taking a handful of Advil and holding an icepack to my temple all afternoon.
Dividing up my men to scrutinize every potential traitor in my operation was easy. Figuring out how to watch the group I sent to look for traitors—I had to make sure they weren’t the ones who betrayed me—that was the hard part. Who to trust, who not to trust, who to fucking listen to or who to beat the shit out of, was challenging and frankly, pissed me off. I trusted my men with my life, my business, my money—to think one of them might take part in bringing me down, hurting sweet, innocent Miri to do it, enraged me beyond all normal human limits. I wanted to kill the fucker with my bare hands, and for once, the thought of blood didn’t bother me in the least. In fact, the more blood, the better.
But when I thought about it, isn’t that exactly what I did when I killed my predecessor? Worked my way from street dealer to area head, to underboss/lieutenant just so I could get close enough to sink the blade into the bastard’s neck myself. Someone was trying to take me out from the inside like I did to Ochoa.
Fuck. It was too much. The fact that one of my own men was trying to kill me.
“This way makes the most sense, Boss
.” Sarge stabbed a piece of paper with his finger, names and places scrawled in two even rows. He pointed at one list. “These guys will approach our various outside contacts and look for any word of Miri.” He moved his finger to the second list. “These guys will follow the men on the first list and see if anything seems off. Then, we’ll switch.”
