Finn forced his arm to steady. It had been trembling ever so slightly, perhaps caught in the stream of contradicting thoughts spilling into his mind. He knew he had to shoot Zachary West. If this thing was an animal, West was the brain. The heart. The nervous system. Everyone else was just a limb.

But Cora was a struggling mess, and every time she moved, she blocked out a different part of El Lobo.

He could try and take out the man’s henchmen so long. But what was to say he wouldn’t pull her closer and strangle her to death before Finn had a chance to take more than one guy down?

“Easy,” Lars said from a few feet behind him. “Let’s think this through.”

They stood to the side of the hangar. They’d drawn a Mexican man’s aim, but he seemed content to keep his sights on them and nothing more. A tall red-headed man had Angel in a choke hold, and it seemed the kid was destined to pass out any second now.

And West had Cora by the hair, seeming pleased at how she struggled to break free from that single grip. He’d taken off his glove, and at first Finn couldn’t figure out why he’d waste the time. And then he saw the marbled flesh from what had to have been a third-degree burn.

And then Cora had gone fucking ape-shit.

Now, even if he wanted to put a bullet through West, he’d risk it going through Cora first.

“Think he’s dead?” Lars murmured.

Like he could give a shit about Swan right now. There was blood under him, more slowly pooling out like it had all fucking day, but his concern was Swan’s daughter.

“Let’s go,” Lars said, and stepped forward.

So much for fucking thinking it through.

But he was right behind Lars, the snapping and whining of his beast as much to blame for his impatience as his own thumping heart.

It took everything she had for Cora not to slip into a faint like a Victorian woman with a too-tight corset. As it was, those shadows she’d seen before came racing back, caressing Zachary like he was a god to them.

Which he was. He was the god of death and suffering. Of the four horsemen, he was pestilence because everything he touched decayed.

“Please,” she whispered, and hated herself for that pitiful plea.

It seemed to please Zachary. But then his face switched off, curiosity and pleasure vanishing. “Where are the archives?” he whispered.

She should have resisted. She should have spat in his face or tried stomping on his feet. But her spine had turned into wet string, and the only thing keeping her on her feet was the hand in her hair. She fumbled in her pocket.

But El Lobo was an impatient man. His lips smoothed into a line, that twisted hand darting out and knocking her fingers away. He shoved his hand in her pocket, not once losing eye contact as he dug deeper, deeper, deeper.

Her skin coursed with goosebumps at the thought of that disfigured skin touching her. Nausea welled up, and for a second she thought she’d puke all over him. Perhaps she should. It would—

But then he jerked his hand out, holding the Santa Muerte pendent in his fingers. Studying the saint as intently as he had Cora just a few minutes ago.

“Join us, Michael,” Zachary said, his eyes flashing to Cora’s.

A man emerged from the shipping container behind them. He held a laptop balanced on his palm, and adjusted a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles as he stepped into the hangar. He paused when he took in the scene, and then seemed almost incapable of moving.

Zachary’s Mexican lieutenant backed up, keeping his pistol aimed somewhere behind Cora. Then he grabbed Michael’s sleeve and drew the man forward with him, until Michael stood a few feet away from Zachary.

Zachary handed him the thumb drive, and the man pushed it into the side slot of the machine with a shuddering hand.

El Lobo’s gaze darted to the side, tracking movement across the hangar. He used his arm to twist Cora around, and then there was a gun against her head again.

She was getting decidedly fed up with that feeling.

Then she caught sight of Finn and Lars, and her stomach twisted. They were inside the hangar, guns out, looking as serious as stage three cancer. But they weren’t shooting anyone. They weren’t charging in. They were waiting…because they didn’t want her to get hurt.

Fuck!

“Shoot him!” she yelled.

Zachary shook her, and the jarring motion sent a new wave of pain through her leg. She swallowed hard, forcing herself not to mewl in pain as Zachary slowly began backing up.

“Stay where you are,” Zachary said calmly. “I will honor my agreement. If the files are on there, you get Antonio Rivera.” The English man laughed in her ear. The sound made every hair on her body stand up. “What’s left of him.”

Her father. Cora’s eyes flashed down. But he was dead. He had to be. He’d lost too much blood. The pool under his body was wide and glassy, reflecting that one stray bullet-hole ray of sun.

“It needs a password,” Michael whispered tremulously.

Zachary slid his withered hand around her stomach and squeezed. “What’s the password, little Eleodora?” he murmured into her ear.

She convulsed when his lips brushed skin. And then tried starting up her breathing again. “I don’t know,” she said.

He shook her again, hard enough that her teeth clacked together. “Password. Now!”

“I don’t know!” She squeezed her eyes shut, so she couldn’t see Finn’s pale face, or the unhappy curve of Lars’s mouth. “Papá…” and then her voice broke, and sobs she hadn’t realized she’d been keeping back jerked out of her.

“Ssh,” Zachary murmured. “He’s already dead, little one. Crying’s not going to help. Now give me the password, or I’ll kill both your bodyguards. Do you really want their blood on your hands too?”

Her eyes snapped up. Finn wore his grimmest look yet, and gave a small shake of his head. Lars laughed and gave Zachary a mirthless smile.

“You really think she gives a fuck about us?” he asked. “We’re just here for the money, man. We bring her back to Javier alive, we’re getting us a damn fine paycheck.”

Even through her body’s agony, through the despair that tore at her like a raven’s claws, she could feel the sting of his words.

The smell of the man’s cologne came to her then. Something fresh and woody, almost like pine. But it wasn’t strong enough to override the smell of blood and sweat coming off her own body.

Zachary’s muscles moved as if he was shrugging. “Only one way to find out.”

But she would never find out what it felt like to lose one of them. Because if Finn or Lars died, if they left her stranded in this fucked up world, she’d have nothing left to live for.

As soon as that now-warm muzzle left the side of her temple, Cora drove her elbow back as hard as she could. Zachary huffed out a single breath, and then tried to aim the pistol back at her. But she knocked away his hand, spinning in his grip despite the agony this brought her leg, and shoved him away from her with all her might.

He tottered, caught off balance, but his Mexican lieutenant was at his side in an instant to catch him.

Two shots rang out in close succession.

The man with the laptop yelled and dove to the ground. The machine crashed down a few feet away, the splinter of plastic audible over the heartbeat’s length of silence that followed.

Then gun fire spat out from all sides.

Cora dropped to hands and knees, and put her arms over her head. She had to get closer to Finn and Lars, but they were spreading apart, both their right arms straight and squeezing their triggers in unison.

Angel lay in a heap on the floor—his attacker had turned his attention to Lars. A familiar shape drew her eye; the pistol Angel had been pressing to her head. It lay half-obscured under his motionless body.

She scrambled for it. A hand caught at her bare leg, slid down as she wriggled away, snagged her ankle. But gloves did a poor job of grabbing anything and she slipped free with a hard yank on her leg.

Then she had the pistol.

She swung around, intent on aiming it at Zachary. But as the sight moved across the room, she saw the red-haired man lifting his gun and aiming it straight at Lars.

Lars didn’t see. He was trying to cover Finn so he could get behind the side of the shipping container.

Cora aimed, blew out a slow breath, and squeezed the trigger.