Cold from the pistol’s muzzle had seeped into her head; it ached and throbbed where that cold metal touched her. Her teeth started a hard, sporadic chatter. She gripped Angel’s arm, but not with the intention of drawing away the choke hold he had on her. It was to hold herself up. Her left leg had gone numb, and her right shook with the effort of holding her weight.

Why was she so damn weak? Maybe it had been the exertion of the ride, coupled with everything that came after?

She despised being helpless. She loathed the fear that came with it. The desperate tug of despair that, should someone not be there to help her, it would all be over.

More than anything, she hated depending on someone else for her safety.

If she got through this—when she got through this—she’d make sure she was never defenseless again.

When a SUV came screaming around the corner, leaving a dust cloud twice as large as itself, Angel spun to face it with a hiss of surprise.

“He wasn’t lying,” Angel murmured to her in Spanish. “You have good friends, señorita.”

Did Angel not have any idea who she was? Maybe he wouldn’t keep her then, not if he thought she was just—

“Come, Eleodora. We have far to go still.”

Her stomach clenched.

So he did know her. And it sounded like he knew exactly where he’d be taking her, too.

He’d said he worked for Plata o Plomo…but he’d made it out to sound that he’d been forced into his role. What if he hadn’t? What if he’d been sent here to kidnap her?

She tried speaking through the gag, but all that came out were a few pitiful moans.

The truck slid to a halt a few yards from them, and as Lars got out, a gunshot echoed out to them from deeper inside the villa.

Angel spun to the noise, and then twisted back to Lars. The pistol wasn’t at her temple anymore; he had it pointed at Lars, who was slowly stepping toward them. Lars lifted his hands. “Easy, Angel. I brought the car. You can go wherever you want.”

“What was that?” Angel asked, waving the gun toward the villa.

“A gunshot?” Lars said with a shrug. “We may have overstayed our welcome.”

“Keys?” Angel said.

“In the ignition. Now, hand me the girl, and I’ll just stand right here while you—”

“No!” The gun was back on her head. “Not until I’m safe.”

“Buddy…” Lars took another step closer. “She’s useless to you. Dead weight. In about two seconds, she’s gonna start crying, and trust me on this, you don’t want to listen to a girl blubbering in your ear while you’re trying to escape the fucking Fortress of goddamn Solitude.”

Angel hesitated, but it was probably just for show. Cora began struggling, hurling words through her gag that Lars would never have been able to decipher. Lars glanced at her, a touch angrily, as if willing her to shut the fuck up so he could talk this guy into letting her go.

Then came the patter of automatic gunfire. Angel spun, the pistol flashing toward the source of the sound.

“What?” he yelled. “What did you do?”

“We’re in as much of a fucking pickle as you are, bud.” Lars was coming closer now, slowly as if trying not to attract Angel’s attention.

Finn had appeared around the corner, running like a hellhound was on his tail. Angel tensed. Finn skidded to a halt when he saw the three of them, the truck. The pistol that was once again flush to her head.

“I said no one!” Angel yelled.

It was as if the spirit of Santa Muerte possessed her. She drove her elbow into Angel’s stomach, and dropped to the ground with all her weight. His arm caught her chin, but she was out of range of the pistol when it went off.

That bang was so loud, her vision went white and she found herself on her hands and knees a second later, scrambling away from Angel while a banshee shrieked in her ears. All other sounds were muffled, indistinct things. Her gimp leg dragged behind her in the dirt, but for now there was no pain.

It could come later, of course.

Something brushed her leg, and then a body fell beside her. Angel, Lars on top of him. A hand grabbed her arm, but she managed to shake it off and crawl away a little further. She was at the truck’s front grille, and used the fender to haul herself up.

The banshee’s wail became a high-pitched whine. She turned, saw Lars and Angel scrabbling in the dirt like kids on a playground, and then looked up as Finn came hurtling toward her.

He grabbed her. Dragged her along the side of the car. Flung open the backseat. And shoved her in.

She half-fell, half-clambered inside, but when she glanced back, she could see Lars getting to his feet, pistol in hand, pointing it to the limp shape of Angel where the man lay in the dirt.

Angel didn’t put up his hands. Didn’t bother trying to kick out Lars’s legs from under him or roll away. He lay like a corpse, as if he’d already surrendered and was ready for whatever saint he worshiped to take him wherever his life choices had led him.

Please, help me, Santa Muerte. I don’t care if you send me an angel or a demon.

La Flaca had heard her prayer. And the saint had decided to send her a demon in the guise of Angel.

“No!” Cora screamed, her voice cracking.

As if her yell had summoned them, a troop of Javier’s men rounded the corner of the villa, rifles raised and ready to shoot.

She leapt from the car. Finn tried grabbing her shoulder, her hair, anything—but she evaded him with a twist of her body. This time, it wasn’t Santa Muerte who’d possessed her—a part of her brain she didn’t understand yet had decided to ignore the pain and stiffness in her leg, and forced her body to run.

It was an uneven, hobbling run, but she made it to Angel’s side a second later. Grabbed his shirt. Began dragging him to the car.

Lars had his mouth open, shock writ large on his wide, green eyes. “What the fuck are you doing?” he yelled. “Leave him!”

There wasn’t time to explain. But she threw Lars a desperate, pleading look, and staggered back another step. Her leg was on fire now; invisible flames licked and chewed at her flesh and bones. Tears slid over her cheeks—first from that pain, and then from sheer desperation.

When Lars still didn’t move, she yelled, “You damn well help me!”

And then Finn appeared. He grabbed Angel like a sack of flour, hoisted the young man over his shoulder, and ran back to the truck. She was still following their progress when Lars scooped her off her feet and made after Finn. As her head bobbed, she glanced behind them. Javier’s men were closing in, most aiming at them through their scopes, some circling to the side and speaking into hand-held radios.

Why weren’t they shooting?

A single shot rang out; one of the men had gone into a crouch and begun looking particularly keenly at them. The man beside him’s mouth moved, and he punched the guy in the side of his head so hard that he looked dead when he hit the ground.

Because she was here.

The thought was a strange one. It made her angry, but it made her proud at the same time. It was as if she’d cast some kind of protection spell over these men—her aura was a shield that no bullet could penetrate, because no one would dare fire in case that bullet lodged in her flesh.

The same couldn’t be said for the truck. There was a pop, and the truck listed about an inch to the side.

He’d shot out a tire.

Neither of her men seemed to notice. Finn threw Angel in the backseat, and was already running for the driver’s door when Lars set her down in the back. He urged her down, until she was crowding against Angel’s limp body, and then slid into the passenger seat as Finn threw the truck into gear.

Beside her, Angel stirred. She was lying half on top of him, but when she tried to lift herself up, Finn snapped, “Stay the fuck down!”

“Milo, the towers!” Lars shouted.

“Think that gate’s going to give if we ram it?”

Lars gave a mirthless laugh. “I’m more worried about the fucking snipers!”

“They won’t shoot.”

“Yeah? You have a fucking vision or something?”

“Shoot me, and the car could roll.”

“Injuring Princess Cora,” Lars muttered. “I hear you.”

“Seatbelt,” Finn said as he clipped his in.

“Jesus fuck,” Lars said. “I’m too young to die.”

Angel shivered once, dragged himself straight on the seat, and wrapped his arms around her. She should have struggled. For heaven’s sake, the man had tried to shoot her. Had been about to drag her back to his jefe, El Lobo.

“It’s opening! They’re letting us out!” came Lars’s voice. He slapped the dashboard and let out a whoop. “Yeah, Princess Cora!”

“Shut up,” Finn muttered. “Anyone behind us?”

“Not unless they’re in the shape of dust devils.”

“There’s only one way out of this place. Gonna be piss easy for them to follow us.”

“Yeah, but they have to catch us first. Drive, Milo. Fucking drive!”

When she opened her eyes, Angel was staring at her with a strange light in his eyes. Confusion, wonderment, awe. He cupped the back of her head, seeming oblivious to the truck bouncing and careening over the uneven ground.

“You saved my life,” Angel murmured in Spanish. “Why would you do such a thing?”

She swallowed. Tears pricked her eyes, but they were tears of relief. Perhaps aftershock. Angel wiped them away with a thumb, and gave his head a small shake.

“I am not a good person, Eleodora,” Angel whispered. “You should have left me. I deserve nothing more.”

“Maybe not,” she replied, keeping her voice low so Finn and Lars wouldn’t hear. “But I need you. I don’t know why, but Santa Muerte gave you to me for a reason.”

Surprise flickered over Angel’s face, tugging his beatific mouth into a confused smile. And then realization broke over him like a wave, and those arms gripped her hard, fierce. “Because I’ve seen the face of our enemy. I know where he lives,” he said. His voice sounded hollow, but resigned. Then he sighed, and pressed tighter against her. “And I can take you to him, señorita.”

“Call me La Sombra,” she said, but so quietly, she doubted he’d heard. She had no idea why she’d said that, but once it was out it sounded right.

From behind, came a short burst of gunfire. Then more. Angel stretched around her, hugging her against his chest. Protecting her.

It had to be the drugs left in her system. Because… instead of feeling trapped, she felt safe.