The barn was big enough to be drafty. This early, it was still gloomy and cool inside. It hadn’t been used for livestock in a long time—the predominant miasma hanging in the air was that of dirt and sweat and blood. Zachary West stood for a moment, closing his eyes as he drew deep on that scent.

Dust motes swirled when his lieutenant, Ailin, closed the door behind him and Rodrigo. He didn’t need either of them at his side, but they followed him as loyally as his pitbulls, Lady and Blue. He’d left the dogs outside—a signal to anyone coming to seek him out that he was not to be disturbed.

Here, the shadows moved like living things.

A fluorescent light flickered on, slicing shadows into geometric shapes. The cold white light illuminated a dark, bowed head, drooping shoulders, and torn, once-fine clothing.

Antonio Luis Rivera—AKA Tony Swan—lifted his head at Zachary’s approach and watched him with guarded apprehension as he drew near. The man’s eyes were set in dark, sunken pools; a gaunt face streaked with dirt and dried blood. But still those black eyes flashed with anger and pride.

“They tell me you refuse to eat,” Zachary said as he came to a halt in front of Antonio.

Antonio didn’t refute the claim. As yet, the man hadn’t uttered a single word. Hadn’t let out more than sounds of pain—muted at that—while Ailin and Rodrigo had tried beating him into compliance.

Zachary had known that wouldn’t work. A man like Antonio would never break under torture. But the physical violence proved a different purpose. It showed ‘El Solitario’ that, to Zachary West, violence was at least one avenue he’d readily explore in order to extract information.

Antonio had to know this implicitly, if the next part of his plan was to work.

The man was on his knees, chained to one of the barn’s support beams. Those chains rattled as he forced himself straighter. He was obviously too weak to come to a stand as he had yesterday when Zachary came to see him.

“If you don’t eat, Mr. Rivera, you will grow too weak to tell me what I need to know.”

He crouched. Antonio had spat on him the last time he’d come down to the man’s level, but he doubted there was enough saliva in his mouth for a repeat performance. He not only refused to eat, but refused water too. He would force both down the man’s throat soon enough, but perhaps in his weakened state he would be more susceptible to negotiation.

“We are drawing near to her. Are you sure you won’t reconsider my offer?”

Antonio glared at him, but didn’t reply. He never did.

“Do you still remember what I promised the first day you arrived?”

Antonio’s only response was another glitter of bright and brittle anger.

“I recall being very explicit about what would happen if I laid my hands on your daughter before you give me the information I require. Do you remember?”

A flicker—not despair, but something close to it—extinguished that fire. A lesser man wouldn’t have seen either the anger or the despair, but Zachary had taught himself to read people a long time ago. It had been a survival trait back then—knowing when the person who held your life in their hands was sober, drunk, angry, depressed, or horny. He’d seen several emotions flooding Rivera’s eyes since he’d been trussed up in his barn. That flicker of despair hadn’t been the first, nor would it be the last.

Zachary reached into his pocket, but didn’t draw out his hand. Rivera’s gaze flickered almost imperceptibly to his pocket, no doubt wondering what was inside; a lock of his daughter’s hair? A photograph? Her finger?

“She left Sierra County yesterday.”

Rivera showed no surprise at the revelation. The capo had had a lot of time to think, down here between the floating dust motes. A lot of time to piece together events and reach his own conclusions.

Zachary drew out the votive candle he’d retrieved from Eleodora’s duffel bag, the one Noah had found at the inn where she’d briefly stayed. He set it on the floor between him and Rivera.

The man didn’t look down, but his gaze bore into Zachary as if he wished he could read his thoughts. Dried blood flaked from the stretch of skin between his nose and his top lip. More coated his chin.

“Seems she’s upholding cartel tradition,” Zachary murmured. “But how much longer will Santa Muerte protect her from me do you think? A day? A week?”

Zachary laid a gentle hand on Rivera’s shoulder. The man didn’t flinch, didn’t move away, but his eyes burned with venom.

“If you don’t eat, Mr. Rivera, then you won’t have the strength to defy me. To beg me to stop when I bring her here.” He lifted a hand, taking in the dingy barn. “When I have my men rip the clothes from her body and desecrate every inch of her skin.”

He tightened his hand, and Rivera dipped his shoulder to get rid of that touch. Zachary smiled, rose up, and dusted his hands as if he’d touched something foul. He overturned the votive candle with the tip of his cowboy boot. It rolled, coming to a rest against Rivera’s knees.

“I’ll leave you to pray to your Death Saint,” Zachary said, his voice heavy with disgust. “Perhaps she’ll grant you a last reprieve and take your life before I find your little Eleodora.”

He paused, body illuminated by a shaft of light.

When he glanced back at Rivera, the man was staring down at the votive candle, mouth trembling.

“Or, perhaps not,” Zachary murmured. “As I understand it, Santa Muerte is known to have a strange sense of humor.”

Rivera flinched, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Lady’s tail churned up dust when Zachary stepped into the sunlight, while Blue only gave him a look of solemn acknowledgment. Heat struck him like a warm wave after the chill and gloom of the barn. He paused to scratch Lady behind an ear, and then turned to Ailin. The man chewed a toothpick, but tugged it out of his mouth when he found Zachary staring at him.

“Have you found him yet?”

Ailin shrugged. “His men are loyal. They’re keeping their mouths shut.”

“Then force them open.” His voice grew hard. “Use pliers if you have to.”

Rodrigo hurried forward as they began walking back to the farmhouse. “They fear El Guapo’s wrath, Don Zachary.”

“Then make them fear mine instead,” Zachary said, heading for the farmhouse again.

“He’ll talk,” Ailin said hurriedly. “Soon as we find—”

“Yes,” Zachary cut in, voice a low, toneless growl. “Which I’m sure will happen any day now.”

His phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and his lips turned into a mirthless smile as he answered. “Speak of the devil.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” came a sonorous voice from the other end of the line.

Zachary smiled to himself. “We haven’t located her yet.”

“I told you not to exert yourself,” came the smug response. “She’ll come when she’s ready. That little bird is stretching her wings, but soon she’ll tire of the outside world. And then her new cage will be waiting for her.”

He despised how poetic the man on the other end of the line was. He always spoke in metaphors, turning every sentence into a sonnet.

Zachary gritted his teeth. “Have you reconsidered my request?” For a moment, deja vu flashed through him. Hadn’t he just uttered those exact words to Antonio? His smile turned true at the thought.

In the sudden silence, the crunch of boots on dried grass seemed louder. As did the call of a Jay hidden in a nearby Acacia.

“I considered you more persuasive than this, Zachary.”

“Mr. Rivera is as tough as an old root. If I know what it is you’re after, I could be more effective.”

And he’d know what this devil of a man was after, too. When he’d agreed to meet, he couldn’t have been less impressed by the man’s appearance. But there was a cruel and devious mind behind those dark eyes, and the need for vengeance had long since rotted it.

“Information is information. Does it matter how the ones and zeros are composed? I need the archives. Antonio knows what they are. He knows how valuable they are, which is why he’s holding back.”

“I see nothing on his face when I ask him for the archives,” Zachary said.

A small group of men crossed their path, most turning to nod their heads in greeting. A few of them wore bright yellow hardhats, incongruous against faces scarred from street fights.

A sigh came through the phone. With great reluctance, the man said, “It’s a list of names, amongst other things. Connections.”

“Inbetweeners,” Zachary said, trying not to let excitement taint his voice. “He’s holding that information from you?”

“Has been since the beginning. It was his part to play, and he played it to perfection. But he’s like a spoiled child that refuses to let go of his favorite toy. Even if it means breaking it, he won’t release it.”

Zachary’s mouth turned up. “Thank you.”

“For what?” came the wary response.

“For providing me with the leverage I need. It seems Antonio Rivera might value the archives more than his own daughter.”

A laugh vibrated in Zachary’s ear. “That might even be true. I guess we’ll find out, won’t we? I look forward to hearing from you, Zachary. You know where to find me.”

Except he didn’t, and that irked him more than he could bear.

Zachary slipped the phone back into his pocket. Ailin came up beside him, he and Rodrigo having fallen back when Zachary took the call.

“We will find her,” Ailin said. “I won’t sleep until—”

“A person can only last a few days without sleep,” Zachary said. “For your sake, I hope you find her soon. El Calacas Vivo must be shattered. I can’t hold my position in Chihuahua with them to the east and Santa Elena to the west. It’s taking more resources to keep them at bay than it is to expand our territory. As it is, we’re like chickens scratching in the dirt. Selling to desperate farmers and any stray gringos that happens to find himself between tourist traps.”

He didn’t consider himself a gringo. Yes, he’d been born in Indianapolis, but he’d spent more time in Mexico than he ever had in America. These last three years after he’d purchased the property in Lajitas had been the longest time he’d spent in America since he’d been abducted and taken over the border all of twenty years ago. He’d been sixteen then, but as defenseless as a newborn pup, stoned as he was. High on heroine—the only thing able to force him from sleep to waking.

And that had been before the long years he’d spent as the bedroom pet of a cartel leader whose taste for young boys was as blatant as his drive to choke America with his product.

Back then, American’s couldn’t snort cork up their noses fast enough.

Today it was meth or heroin.

Tomorrow…who the fuck knew what the gringos would be addicted to then?