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My eyes flick to Delia. The assholes are tall, lean, nasty-looking men.
Proper cartel minions, or else the kind of slimy street urchins men like Joaquin hire on the side to hunt girls and snatch them when it’s convenient.
Thing Two, the young fuck, must’ve had his hand on her throat a second ago. He’s got her dark lace panties in the other, staring at me like he can’t decide if I’m real.
They move fast, but they’ve got nothing on a SEAL.
The next five seconds are a blur.
Nothing matters besides dispatching them, ripping them away from my girl, washing away the tears I saw streaming down her cheeks with their filthy fucking blood.
My girl.
I don’t even have time to process my own movements.
There’s too many limbs falling, bones snapping under my savage kicks, my limbs working in a murderous rage.
They barely get a chance to realize I’ve shattered their ribs with the roundhouse kicks that put them on the floor with a satisfying crunch of vertebrae.
I’d love to hurt them more—so much more—but snuffing their evil asses out is the best option.
I need them neutralized, especially when the older man gets his wits and pulls a gun.
He never tries to pull the trigger.
Nope.
The asshole yelps before I drive my blade through his skull, and then I give his friend the same gift, silencing them forever.
I know I’m supposed to play it nice and legal.
I should have disarmed them, broken them, held them for the police or the Feds.
Trouble is, they lost the right to mercy the moment they fucked with my girl.
Everything melts into this timeless gasp of blood and sweat and terror, the confusion every soldier experiences in the heat of battle.
It’s over just as abruptly, too.
I don’t have to check any pulses to know they’re dead. Both men are out cold in the grimy, dark bathroom with their lives deserting them.
Before I turn my back on their carcasses, something catches my eye. The thick metal rings on their hands, eerily familiar and damn near identical, each sporting that self-devouring snake I’ve come to loath.
I lean down, yanking the rings off and pocketing them for evidence. Not normal crime fighting protocol, but with the cartel’s tendrils everywhere, I’m not taking a gamble on a corrupt insider disappearing with this proof.
Delia makes a sputtering sound like she’s choking from her crumpled heap on the floor. When I reach her, she doesn’t move.
She won’t even look at me until I gently grab her chin and tilt her face up.
“Fuck, baby. I wish you didn’t have to see that.” I drop the knife.
It hits the floor with a clatter and I get my first good look at what they’ve done to her.
Goddamn.
I wish I could slaughter those thugs all over again for screwing up her dress, darkening her brain forever with this sick, fucked up memory.
I realize my hands are smudged with their blood.
