Chapter Twenty-One

The blood funneled out of Manny’s face when he got the news.

His fingers slackened around the wine glass. It crashed to the glazed Mexican-tile floor and shattered, sending up a spray of ruby liquid and tiny glass shards. Like blood and crystal teardrops.

“What?” he whispered, stricken, reaching forward to grasp the edge of the table to steady himself. Praying he’d heard wrong. Or at least misunderstood.

David, his trusted head of security, shifted his stance nervously and cleared his throat. “Anya finally died of her injuries on the way to the hospital.”

Finally? “What do you mean?”

He glanced away, as though unable to look Manny in the eye.

Manny’s heart tripped, then sped into double time. “What did they do to her?” he snapped.

“Montoya’s men. They sliced her up.”

His knees gave out. They were vicious, he knew that. Yet even he had mistakenly believed they wouldn’t dare touch anyone connected so intimately to him.

His ass hit the woven cane seat, his entire body wooden as he absorbed the blow. He shook his head, barely comprehending but there was something else in his bodyguard’s expression. A kind of dread mixed with pity that warned Manny there was more. Much more. “What,” he demanded. “Tell me. Is it Oceane?” Dear God, if anything had happened to—

“No, she wasn’t hurt, from what I understand. But Anya. They uh…”

His patience fractured. “Say it, goddamn it.”

“They raped her, boss.”

Nausea rippled in his belly, mixed with a toxic, blinding rage so strong that for a moment he couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. He imagined Anya, with her dark Caribbean skin and those inky spiral curls, her hazel-green eyes laughing up at him with such joy and trust and worshipfulness.

Fuck. No, this was too horrible. It was supposed to be a clean hit. Humane, without any fear or suffering on her part. He’d ordered Arturo to take care of it personally instead of Montoya and his men, for that very reason. Manny had ordered him to find out Anya and Oceane’s location from Montoya once he got it, then infiltrate and kill Anya with a single bullet to the back of the skull when she wasn’t looking. One shot, without her ever knowing he was there.

Instead, she’d been raped and butchered…

He swallowed back the bile that rushed up his throat, hot and acidic like the guilt now burning a hole in the center his chest. Anya. Sweet, beautiful Anya. “Montoya,” he ground out as the red haze of rage receded slightly. “I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill him.”

“He wasn’t there, boss.”

Manny’s gaze snapped back to his bodyguard, temporarily forcing back the blinding anger. “What?”

“He found the safehouse and alerted Arturo, but then Montoya left. He was trying to track down Oceane and wasn’t there when his men attacked. He’d ordered them to stand down, wait for Arturo. But they didn’t listen.”

His jaw worked, his hands flexing restlessly. They hadn’t listened because they were like a pack of jackals, hungry for the kill. “They’re dead men.”

“They were killed at the house. Along with Arturo. I heard Oceane shot him.”

When the gravity of that sank in, of what it must have cost her to shoot someone she loved so much, Manny lowered his gaze to the tablecloth. His favorite meal was spread out before him but the sight of it turned his stomach. “My God,” he whispered, frantic and sick inside. “My God, how is she ever going to forgive me now?”

****

Juan Montoya slumped down in the passenger seat of the unmarked van parked in the underground lot and checked his watch one final time. Six-fifty-one a.m. Seven minutes until the meeting that was supposedly going to take place between Oceane and the lawyers from the U.S. Attorney’s office.

“You see any of them yet?” one of the guys asked from the back.

Juan checked the video feed on his phone that showed all the approaches to the building. He had four guys with him for this part of the op, including the driver, who was to remain at the wheel throughout this whole operation so they could make a speedy getaway. Another van was parked across the street, with five more of his men in it. All but two of them former Mexican Special Forces who had been lured to the dark side by a guaranteed salary of four times what they made in the military.

Yeah, Juan had the best sicarios money could buy.

“No,” he answered, scanning the feeds.

Maybe they’d gotten bad intel. Or maybe they’d received a bogus tip about the meeting time and location. Even though his contact had worked his magic at the U.S. Attorney’s office yesterday, charming the young receptionist in charge of booking appointments so she didn’t suspect anything was wrong, it didn’t guarantee she had been telling the truth.

“Even with the cameras down here disabled, I don’t like doing this in plain sight, man,” the guy in the back continued.

“I don’t care if you like it or not, cabrón. This is the job and you’ll damn well do as I tell you.” After yesterday’s botched hit, Juan had half expected to wake up in his motel room bed to find Manny holding a knife to his throat. His boss didn’t like violence, and Juan knew damn well how enraged he would be right now after what had happened to Anya.

Juan hadn’t had the guts to call Manny last night to explain what had happened, knowing word about the botched op would get back to him soon enough through the cartel network. Even though they hadn’t had much of a relationship over the past few years, Manny had still loved Anya in his own way. Enough that he’d ordered Arturo to make the hit instead of Juan.

It had irked him to be rejected on that kind of high-level op, but he’d let it go and focused on the prize that would give him the most reward—Oceane. She was Manny’s number one priority, and if Juan could bring her back unharmed to him then all might still be forgiven. While he’d been searching for her, his men had disobeyed orders and gotten…carried away and gone after Anya. All dead now. One less problem for Juan to deal with.

The office building they waited beneath wasn’t marked, with no visible signage on it except for the address. Apparently the U.S. Marshals had chosen it to keep the meeting a secret and maintain security for Oceane and the lawyers.

Next to him, the driver yawned and folded his arms, leaning his head against the window. Juan punched him in the chest. “Hey. Wake the fuck up. This isn’t the military, but I expect you to stay alert. All of you, get ready. When they show we’re gonna have seconds to get this done. Seconds, understand? This is a one-shot deal. We screw up, we either die or go to jail here. Got me?” He had no intention of dying or going to jail today, or anytime soon. He was having way too much fun.

A grumbled chorus of yeahs sounded from the back.

On camera, a deep blue SUV rolled up and turned into the street that led behind the building, its windows tinted. “Hey,” Juan snapped, watching closely as he alerted the other van with a button on his radio. They would take care of any backup that arrived, and assist with the main assault if Juan and his crew needed a hand.

Not that he expected to. A handful of federal agents armed with pistols and maybe a pump-action shotgun or two were no match for Juan’s men and automatic rifles.

“Get ready,” he ordered. This could be it.

The SUV turned and took the ramp into the underground parking garage. Juan sunk down farther in his seat, making sure he wasn’t visible through the windows.

The SUV’s front passenger door opened and a guy wearing jeans and a collared shirt popped out. He was a big guy with a military bearing and he turned his head this way and that, scanning the garage. Juan tensed when that alert gaze seemed to stop on the van. But then it moved away and the man reached for the back passenger door.

A woman’s legs appeared, ending in a pair of high heels. Nice legs. Too pale to be Oceane’s. A trim body climbed out wearing a snug skirt suit. She had long black hair.

Turn around, sweetheart, Juan silently urged her, needing to see her face for confirmation.

His hand gripped the door handle as he watched the camera feed, the other ready to tug down the black balaclava already on his head. His rifle rested in his lap, a full magazine ready to go. He could be up and out of the vehicle and ready to fire within a second.

The woman stood fully and turned to face the building’s rear entrance, finally giving him a view of her profile.

Gotcha. He tugged the mask down over his face and alerted the other team with the push of a button, adrenaline pulsing through his veins in a dizzying high he’d never get enough of. “It’s the lawyer. Go.”

“What about Oceane?” one of the guys blurted as he opened the back door. “Shouldn’t we wait for her?”

They couldn’t wait. “We get the lawyer, we’ll get Oceane.” Rowan Stewart would know where she was. And he would make her talk. “Go.” He threw open the door and brought his weapon up, ready to have some fun.