“I’m going in,” Milo hissed.

Lars barely caught the scruff of his neck before the man rose. “You’ll get her killed. Her or the guy I know we both assume is what’s left of her father.”

“It’s going wrong.”

“How?” Lars said through a sigh. “How could you possibly know what right would look like?”

Fin clamped his jaw shut, but his eyes were instantly back to the scene inside the hanger. He and Milo were crouched a distance away beside one of the empty hangars. They’d been watching the exchange since it began, but they were too far to hear anything.

From Angel and Cora’s body language, anything could be happening. He’d tried ad-libbing, but Milo had thrown him such a fierce scowl that he’d stopped in fear of his life.

Milo was right though—it was looking touch and go down there. Cora had started struggling, and kept trying to get Angel’s attention. But that pretty spic seemed so intent on the man Lars assumed was Zachary West that he barely paid her any mind.

Until he did.

Angel ripped the gag from Cora’s mouth. Her lips moved furiously, with a quick glance back at Zachary and his men.

Lars tried grabbing Milo the same instant Angel threw Cora away from him like a toy he’d grown bored of. This time, Milo yanked himself free and went running in a low crouch for the side of the hangar.

He didn't have to see Milo’s face to know the man wore a determined grimace.

In about ten seconds, people were going to start dying.

“Fuck,” he spat, then ran after Milo.

The first shot to go off in the hangar that afternoon sounded like a whip crack. Cora stumbled away from Angel, almost found her balance, and then fell to the floor when her left leg gave way under her.

She spun around, scanning everyone to see who was reeling from the gunshot.

Her father lay on his side, unmoving.

“Papá, no!” her scream echoed just as much at the gunshot had. She pushed herself up, stumbling and falling to her father’s limp figure. A distant thought warned her that she’d be traveling straight into the line of fire, but she didn’t care.

They’d killed her father.

Angel yelled, and another gunshot went off. It pinged off something metallic, and a ray of light struck the hangar floor like an arrow straight from heaven.

As soon as she was in reach, she yanked the burlap sack off the unmoving shape. Her father squinted up at her with a face the same color as the concrete floor.

“Papá!” She drew his head into her lap, and hurriedly began touching his shirt. She found the bullet hole a second later when her fingers touched wet, warm blood where it had seeped through the fabric just below his ribs. She tugged up his shirt, hissing when she saw the gaping hole where blood pumped out in a constant, slow ebb. And then she saw the bruises, and the dirt, and the dried blood covering his skin.

Her fear, her panic…it snuffed out instantly, as if her mind couldn’t process anything anymore. Like it was shutting down in the wake of the obvious brutality her father had suffered. She hurriedly tugged down his shirt and pressed her palm against the wound, trying to stem the blood.

“Te amo, Papá,” she whispered, bending to plant a kiss on his forehead as she used her free hand to tag away his gag.

“Mi corazón,” her father rasped in a voice that could have belonged to a poltergeist. She stroked his cheek, and then gently laid his head back on the concrete, folding up the burlap sack for a makeshift pillow.

Then she got to her feet.

Blinked.

Looked around at everyone.

The Mexican had Angel by the throat while the man struggled. There was a bullet wound in Angel’s leg, although she couldn’t remember hearing a third shot go off.

El Lobo was smiling now. Smiling at her. As if pleased that she’d discovered the terrible things he’d done to her father. Someone called her name. Loud, panicked. But it was background noise as she ran at El Lobo, intent on strangling him until she’d forced that pleased grin from his lips.

Obviously, no one in the room thought she was a threat. No gunshot went off to stop her reaching Zachary.

She went at him like a feral cat. Fingers clawed, teeth showing in a vicious snarl, making an angry sound that could have doubled for a feline hiss.

He caught her wrists, twisted, and forced her to her knees. She would have cried out in pain, had it not been so agonizing that all she could do was draw in a ragged gasp.

Because she’d charged him without thinking. Bailey would have spat at her feet and stormed off in disgust. She had given Zachary every advantage. She might as well have crawled to him on her hands and knees.

El Lobo twisted harder. Her left knee issued wave upon wave of near blinding agony, but it almost matched the strain on the tendons in her arm. They went numb in warning, as if another quarter inch of a twist would break both her arms.

The man stared down at her with that same fascination he’d had earlier. “You’ve grown since I’ve last seen you, little Eleodora,” he murmured. “Do you still remember me?”

She managed a breathless, “No!” He was crazy. Insane. What he’d done to her father, and now he—

He released her wrists. She collapsed with a wail, head almost flush with her knees as she nursed her arms against her. They felt too loose, like he’d twisted her muscles to twice their length. A dull ache throbbed in them, working its way up her arms to her neck.

A hand fisted in her hair. Forced her head up. She blinked back tears of pain as Zachary lifted a gloved hand to his mouth, nipped the tip of one finger, and slowly drew his hand out.

More pain now as she jerked and kicked and screamed on the end of his hand. She could feel her hair pulling out, but she didn’t care. Her left leg had gone lame under her, but it didn’t stop her scrambling to her feet in an attempt to get away from him.

El Lobo.

Don Zachary.

No—the fucking English man.