Angel shoved Cora forward into the closest hangar, the only one with its massive doors standing open. It looked deserted, and smelled faintly of diesel when a dry wind rattled past them. A shipping container had been pushed against one wall, and a small table set in front of it, two chairs.

They reminded her of the chair and table down in that cold basement where Angel had kidnapped her.

A lot of this reminded her of that terrifying hour; the muzzle pressed to her temple, the way Angel smelled, the feel of his body hard against hers when he urged her forward with his hips. The way her leg refused to bend and made her gait uneven.

The gag in her mouth.

Except, this time, she knew he wasn’t going to kill her.

Angel was halfway across the floor when a man ducked out from the shipping container. A second followed close behind.

She expected more to stream out; an army of Plata o Plomo enforcers. But it was just a ginger-haired man and a Mexican, as disparate as two men could be. Both held assault rifles in their hands, a second gun on their hips.

“Where’s Zachary?” Angel asked, speaking in rough English.

So neither of these two were the leader of Plata o Plomo.

“Don Zachary,” the ginger-haired man corrected quietly. He had pale, dead eyes, and an unsmiling mouth. The few freckles on his nose seemed incongruous against a scar that cut into his top lip. His Mexican friend had pock-marked skin, and wore a sombrero even in the shade of the hangar. “The archives?”

The gun pressed hard against her skull.

“My brother first!” Angel’s chest vibrated with the force of his yell. “Or I kill her.”

Cora’s fingers went numb. His brother? What in the hell was he talking about?

Then cold realization struck her. Angel had planned this all along. He’d been blackmailed into capturing her and bringing her to Zachary in exchange for…his brother?

Finn and Lars were going to be so pissed off.

She tried saying Angel’s name, but the goddamn gag in her mouth made it come out in a whine.

Which probably made her all the more convincing; the red-haired man lifted his chin and disappeared inside the container.

He came out dragging someone behind him. Angel tensed, and Cora whipped her head around, trying to read the young man’s eyes.

It was like trying to read something in a moonless night sky.

The man was hooded, and struggled feebly. He wore dark clothes, but they were so filthy and torn that it was impossible to see what they’d once been.

And then another man walked out of the shipping container.

Her entire body stiffened. El Lobo, for it could only have been him, walked in an aura of brutality. It clung to him like living shadows. She blinked hard. Were there still traces of drugs in her or something? Or was she so terrified that she was starting to hallucinate?

But no. Where Zachary West walked, the shadows around him lengthened and thickened like snakes.

She forced her eyes away from him, toward the hooded man instead.

“That’s not him!” Angel yelled. “Where is he?”

El Lobo didn’t seem to notice, or care, that Angel was addressing him. His eyes had locked on Cora. He didn’t glance down at her body. Didn’t take note of her injured leg, or the cuts and scrapes on her arms.

Just her eyes. He came to a stop several yards away, just behind where the hooded man was struggling to get to his knees.

“Eleodora.” Zachary said quietly. For such a nondescript man—brown hair, brown eyes, average height—his quiet voice was surprisingly cultured even though he spoke with a hint of a Mexican accent, which was strange because he was obviously American.

Cora shuddered and tried to force calm into her body. The hooded figure stiffened, and then swung toward Zachary’s voice. There was a muffled cry from under that hood, and the blind head swung back, as if trying to pierce its veil.

Suddenly, the way that hooded shape moved seemed familiar. The slim, long hands tied crudely behind his back. Even the shape of his feet.

“Papá!” she yelled. But all that came through that gag was a moan.

Angel jerked her back against him when she tried to struggle forward. She tried elbowing him, but he just gathered her up with his arms and held her tight.

He had a goddamn gun. He should have shot El Lobo in the head already. He could have taken out his bodyguards—

No, of course he couldn’t have. There were two guns on him. He’d only—maybe—get off one shot, and it would have to be a lucky one. And then he was dead. And his brother—whatever had happened to him—would be lost to him. Perhaps killed in retaliation.

“My brother,” Angel said, pressing his pistol so hard into Cora’s head that her neck bent.

“Where are the archives?” El Lobo asked. His voice never changed tone. He seemed neither angry nor dispassionate. Just slightly curious, with what could have been the start of a smile on his mouth. He wore gloves, and neat if unremarkable clothes. The only fancy things on him were his cowboy boots—which were tooled with elaborate silver designs—and his belt buckle. It was in the shape of a pouncing wolf or a ferocious dog; expertly handmade.

“You get nothing until I see Marco. You tell me he be here. That we make…that we trade.”

Her father looked so pitiful; quivering on his knees. Like they’d beaten every ounce of energy and resistance from him.

They’d beaten him.

“That’s not how this works, Angel. The trade was for the girl and the archives.”

“I want to see he’s alive.”

“He’s alive,” Don Zachary said.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have a choice but to believe me,” said The Wolf.