Lars slammed on the brakes, and the SUV slid forward a foot before coming to a rest. Dust crawled over them, hitting Finn in the face as he kicked open his door and made for the guard hut a few yards away.

Two guards came out, their rifles aimed and ready to shoot. Finn waved the red envelope. “Message for Martin.” When nothing changed in their expressions, he added, “El Guapo.”

The guard who was busy chewing a toothpick ambled over as if it was ten minutes to lunch and he’d been working a double shift. He waved a hand. “I take.”

Finn snapped the envelope away before the man could grab hold of it. “No. We will take it.”

“Milo,” Lars called out.

“Señor,” the guard said easily, giving Finn a broad, fake smile. “I promise on my mother’s life, it is safe with me. I take it right away.”

He reached again for the envelope. Finn had his pistol out a second later, aimed for the man’s forehead.

“This is important,” he murmured. “Call up the towers and tell them we’re coming through. And tell El Guapo that Antonio Rivera is still alive.”

If the fact that he had a pistol pointed at him did fazed the guard in any way, he didn’t show it. He spat out his toothpick and trudged back to the hut. His friend watched with a strange asymmetrical smile on his face, rifle never wavering.

A minute later, the guard returned. He gave a sarcastic, wide wave to Finn, sweeping a hand toward Javier’s still hidden compound. “You go.”

Finn leapt back in the car as Lars started it forward. The towers came into few a minute later, gates already open. Two guards stood on either side of the gravel drive beyond, but Lars didn’t slow and they didn’t attempt to stop them when they came flying past.

The road to Martin’s villa went on forever. Finn kept tapping a finger against the envelope, catching whiffs of perfume whenever a swirl of air found its way in through the cracked open window.

Five guards waited outside the villa for them, forming a rough semi-circle by the driveway. Finn got out, flashed the envelope.

“Where’s Javier?”

“Out,” one of the men said. It could have been Ricardo, but he wasn’t sure. “He’ll be back soon.”

“This can’t wait. If he’s—”

“He’s not here,” the guard cut in. Then he held out a hand. “I will give it to—”

“We’re not handing it over,” Lars said as he got out the car.

Three guards began walking around the car. As soon as the first of them saw Angel in the back of the car, he whistled and aimed his assault rifle into the backseat.

“Easy!” Lars slid in front of the guard, hands in the air. “We checked him.”

The guard waved Lars aside with his rifle. “We check again.”

Lars stepped aside with ill grace, throwing Finn a glare over the hood of the SUV as the guard ripped Angel from the backseat. The young man fell to his hands and knees, and didn’t seem able to get up unaided. Aid which the guard supplied after giving him a rough frisking. He slammed Angel against the car door and pointed his rifle at him.

Seconds later, while Finn was wondering if he should try and push through the guards and go looking for Javier himself, commotion deeper inside the villa drew two of the guards away.

“What’s happening?” Finn asked the guard closest to him.

The man gave him a sneer, and then went over to the guard keeping an eye on Lars and Angel and murmured something to him in Spanish. The man shrugged, and they went back to their positions, both looking uneasy.

Finn saw a flash of white through the villa’s open front portal. Maids? Then another. There was a cry, and the sound of more feet.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Finn bellowed.

He knew it was Cora, just as he knew whatever had happened to her had been Javier’s fault. Both certainties thrummed through him like the knowledge of which shoe went on which foot.

One of the guards who’d hurried inside a minute ago returned. He rattled off something urgent in Spanish and waved a hand.

Finn was already moving forward, and his guard seemed happy to let him take lead as the five of them rushed inside the villa.

Silence now. No one in sight, no running feet. Finn faltered, not knowing which direction to turn, and Ricardo—it had to be Ricardo—took lead as he led the small party at a brisk pace. He didn’t lead them toward the rooms or the entertainment area. They took another route, headed toward the west of the villa. Down a stone pathway bordered with immaculately manicured hedges and screened by tall and slender pines.

When they rounded a corner, Finn saw the shapes of distant buildings. Barns, sheds. And the few stragglers who were racing over the land, aiming straight for the small crowd that had gathered in front of the stables.

Finn could see some of those servants turning to speak to each other. Could see their mouths forming words.

Eleodora.

He didn’t know he’d been running until he stopped and his chest was burning. He caught a glimpse of Javier’s head before it was obscured by someone leading a tired-looking horse past. The animal’s hide shivered, and its head hung low. But despite that, its kept showing the whites of its eyes with a wild look that promised death and destruction on everyone in sight. Its gait was unsteady too, but that could just have been the uneven ground the groom had to take to avoid the small cluster of people.

The crowd parted for him when he arrived. Javier turned to him, face creased with anger. When he saw Finn, his eyes sparked, and that concern was gone, replaced with urgency.

“Come.” Martin waved an impatient hand and began leading them back to the villa.

“Where is she?” Finn grated. He swung back to where Javier had been standing.

Someone lay on the floor.

“Cora!” His knees thudded onto the ground. She lay sprawled on her back, eyes squeezed shut in pain as someone roughly bandaged her leg. Her clothes were dirty and torn, and her face and arms were scraped raw. When she heard his voice, her eyes flew open. But just as soon, they turned upward to the sky. So intense was her gaze, Finn’s own eyes were drawn upward. He twisted his head, squinting at the sun, and then down at her again.

Relief softened Cora’s face. “They’re gone,” she whispered. She fumbled for his hand, found it, squeezed it. “Muchos gracias, Santa Muerte,” she murmured.

Her eyes fluttered as if they wanted to close, but he squeezed her hand hard enough that they flew open again. “What happened?”

“Fell,” she murmured through dry lips. “Going too fast.”

“Your leg?”

She gave him a shrug, and he realized someone—perhaps the studious man at her side busy bandaging her leg—had given her something. A sedative or a pain killer. He looked up, caught the man’s wrist.

“How bad is it?” he asked.

The man gave him a contemptuous glance, tugged away his hand, and murmured, “No Inglés.”

Then he rose, dusted off his clothes, and clicked his fingers almost like Javier had a habit of doing. Four men hurried forward and hoisted Cora up by her shoulders and hips, carrying her toward the villa.

Ahead, Javier called, “Come!” with a hard swipe of his arm as if his patience had long since evaporated.

When Finn rose, Lars was at his side. If the man had said anything, like, ‘she’ll be fine,’ or ‘it was an accident,’ he would have punched him in the gut.

But Lars just let out a sigh and strode forward with a mumbled, “He’ll pay for this, Milo.”

Lars made a habit of reading his mind.