Lars opened his eyes, and spent a few seconds staring up at a dusty, ancient ceiling fan as he tried to figure out what had woken him. Maybe it was the passive-aggressive headache currently taking his brain to Pound Town. He winced and pressed fingertips to his temple. Getting his elbows under him, Lars propped himself up and carefully took in his surroundings.

Ancient leather sofa - check.

Peeling wallpaper - check.

The smell of moldy carpets hanging in the air - check.

Good, so at least he was still in Cora’s haunted hotel. Things hadn’t gotten so out of hand that he’d woken up on someone’s yacht, or on a park bench — wearing just his boxers — in the middle of winter.

That had been a fun party, but the excruciating bout of bronchitis that had followed almost made it seem not worthwhile in the end.

He fumbled at his belt, but his radio was gone.

That probably wasn’t a good sign.

“Fuck, shit, damn,” he muttered, when sitting up produced a stab of pain through his head.

How much had he had to drink?

Why couldn’t he remember how much he’d had to drink?

He’d gotten royally pissed before in the past—to the point where taking a nap on a park bench had seemed a good idea at the time—but he’d always, and most unfortunately, been able to remember every last detail…right up until the point he passed out, of course.

But now? Nothing.

Manning the door for Cora…that drudgery he could recall, no problemo. Some of the fanciful masks and outfits he’d let in.

He risked standing. When his head stopped swimming, he managed to get to the door and stick his head out.

A steady stream of party goers exited the building. Most looked pissed off, some just pissed, others confused, even concerned.

The fuck?

He spotted a semi-friendly face and waved. But Neo only glanced in his direction, instantly dismissed him, and shouldered his way through the departing crowd, Santino right behind him.

Lars was still standing there with a frown, staring after the man, when Ana’s blond head appeared in the crowd.

“Ana!” he yelled, grimacing as he received another stab of pain for his efforts. Ana turned, saw him, and hurried over.

“Did you find her?” Ana asked, sounding breathless. She wore an outfit similar to Cora’s—if less modest—with her cat mask perched on the top of her head.

“Who?” Lars asked. But then he waved away the question. “You have pain killers on you?”

“No,” Ana said, looking shocked. “Maybe in the kitchen—”

“Thanks,” he said, closing his left eye in case it improved matters.

It didn’t.

His head still hurt like hell.

“Lars!”

He waved at her without turning back, but she caught up with him a second later.

“So Cora’s still missing?”

“What?” Lars froze mid-step and turned to face Ana. “What do you mean?”

“Cora?” Ana said slowly. “She’s gone.”

“And you’re only telling me this now?” Lars yelled, immediately regretting it. Not only because of the agony, but because sometimes Ana didn’t quite get his sense of humor. Her face crumpled; part confusion, part guilt.

“Where’s Milo?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bailey?”

Ana shrugged. “Neo just said we all had to leave.”

“Right after Cora goes missing?” His lowered his voice from a painful shout. “What the fuck?”

Ana gave him an apologetic shrug.

“No, I know,” Lars said, holding up a hand in case she felt like apologizing again. “Jesus, I need—”

A cellphone began chiming out some irritating tune. Which was when he realized the music had been turned off.

Ana looked at him, and then at his pocket. “I think that’s yours.”

“I don’t have—” Lars began, laying a hand over his breast pocket.

But he did, and it was ringing. He slid out a cellphone he’d never seen before, saw there were seven miss calls on it, and hesitantly answered.

“What?”

“Lars?” came Milo’s voice, sounding both relieved and frustrated as fuck. Difficult combo to pull off, but the big guy managed with ease. “Thank Christ. We’re on the first floor. Get up here.”

“What’s going—?” Lars cut off when he heard the rude beep of Milo hanging up on him.

He took the stairs as fast as he dared, Ana’s heels clicking urgently behind him as she tried to keep up with his long legs.

Finn and Bailey were outside one of the doors on the first floor, Bailey propped against the wall and Finn in a crouch in front of him. When he got closer, he saw Bailey’s chin was on his chest.

“You two at it again?” Lars asked.

Milo looked up, and rose to his feet in a rush. “Neo knocked him out. Would have been a killing blow, but I think Bailey saw it coming.”

“Neo?” Lars snorted. “I doubt it. Probably his sidekick, Santa. I saw them running out of here with their tail between their legs.”

“They’re leaving?”

“The whole fucking party’s leaving,” Lars said. Then he stabbed a thumb behind him at Ana. “What’s this I hear about Cora being gone?”

Milo filled him in, but reluctantly. When he was done, Lars almost felt like kicking Bailey, but then again, he hadn’t been much help either.

“I was drugged?” he said. “By who?”

Milo pressed his lips together, and stabbed a thumb into the open door beside them. Lars frowned, and craned his head to peek around the door frame. Then he slowly drew back again, his frown even deeper.

“Who the fuck’s that?”

“You don't remember?” Milo said. “That’s the DEA agent that drugged you.”

Lars looked again.

A man sat bound to a chair, staring in the direction of their voices. When Lars peeked in again and made eye contact, the man gave him a slow smile that made the hairs on the back of Lars’s neck want to stand up.

He took a step back, crossed his arms over his chest, and shrugged at Milo. “Do we have any leads on Cora?”

“This guy was the last person with her, from what Bailey told me,” Milo said. “But he swears he doesn’t have her.”

“That’s right,” came a voice from inside the room. “But I know who does.”

Lars stepped inside the room, running his eyes over the man in the chair. “Peter, right?”

The man gave a self-deprecating dip of his chin. “That’s me. Although, I’d prefer Agent Hanson.”

“Howsabout Corporal Dickweed?” Lars came up to him, crouched in front of the chair, and stared up at the man with as an intense a glare as he had on him.

The headache helped; he felt like Superman turning on his lazer vision.

“So who took her?”

“The Mexican who was here. Your friend called him Neo.”

A hand on his shoulder made Lars look up. Milo stood over him, wearing a grim expression. “You’re sure about that?”

“He was wearing a mask, but I recognized his voice, height, build.” A shrug from Peter. “I’m trained to notice these kinds of things.”

Milo caught Lars’s gaze, and they frowned at each other. He caught Milo’s sleeve, leading them outside and out of earshot. “Think he’s bullshitting?”

“To save his ass? Who wouldn’t?” But Milo didn’t sound all that convinced.

“You say Neo knocked him out?” Lars asked, pointing to Bailey.

Milo gave a grim nod.

“What is it with this fucking Martin family?” Lars said. “Is this some kind of twisted revenge plan? I thought he hated his father?”

“Maybe not as much as he hates having to share the cartel with Cora,” Milo said. He glanced toward the room. “What do we do with him?”

“Let’s kill him,” Lars said, obviously with just the wrong amount of sarcasm.

“Kill a DEA agent?” Milo said, eyes wide with incredulity. “He’s already said SWAT’s on the way. You want more shit raining down on us?”

Lars sighed. “Then we’ll leave him tied up for his mates to find.”

“Yeah…” Milo agreed reluctantly.

“What? What is it?”

Milo glanced at the door, and then back at him. “You really don’t remember anything? Him drugging you, nothing?”

Lars shook his head. “I’m guessing that’s one of the more pleasant side effects of whatever he used — I can’t remember shit about who spiked me with it.”

Milo’s gaze met his. “Follow my lead,” he said.

He led Lars back inside the room. The man had been staring out the window, but turned to them when their boots crunched over the dirty floor. “Time’s running out,” Peter said with a wide smile. “My team should be here any minute now.”

“I don’t think they will,” Milo said. Then he began unbuckling his belt.

Lars straightened his shoulders.

What the fuck was he doing?

Peter cocked up a thick, dark eyebrow. Granted, the guy was seriously good looking. Like an unpolished actor, fresh off the farm. He’d been blessed with thick hair that he wore long and stylishly unstyled. His flawless skin was pale, but that only seemed to highlight his dark features. Intelligent, hazel eyes watched Milo with what Lars might have taken as hedonistic anticipation…if this was a gay porn video and not a fucking interrogation.

Milo’s belt dangled from his hand as he stepped closer, moving at a menacingly slow pace. “I think you’re full of shit.”

“Yeah?” Peter said, his smile growing.

“I think you’re alone.” Milo stepped past him, standing behind Peter’s chair. “No one’s coming for you. No one even knows you’re here.”

In a flash, Milo had the belt around Peter’s throat. He jerked so hard at the strip of leather that the man’s chair rocked back. He brought up his leg, boot flat against the back rest so he could apply more pressure without toppling the chair.

Lars’s stomach tightened. It wasn’t the most aggressive interrogation technique, but in the silver moonlight, in this desolate room, with that ferocious snarl on Milo’s face…it was enough to make his skin want to crawl off his body.

Don’t let this get out of control.

Don’t let him lose his shit.

Not if this guy might be their only hope of ever finding Cora.

“Hey…buddy…” Lars inched forward. “Take it easy.”

Milo looked up at him. He expected a wink, maybe. A reminder that he was supposed to ‘go with it’…but there was nothing except a feral rage etched deep into Milo’s normally impassive face.

Fuck.

Peter writhed in the chair. Surprisingly, there wasn’t an ounce of panic or fear on his face. Just resolute determination to stay alive. Hazel eyes flashed to Lars, then to the window.

When Milo eased up on the belt, Peter drew a long, ragged breath and then stared straight at Lars as if waiting for the next part of the game to begin.

Fucking hell. He’d probably been trained for this as well.

“They’re getting away,” Peter said in a thick voice. “You know that, right?”

Moonlight glinted off Milo’s teeth as he grimaced. The chair rocked back, but this time Peter didn’t even bother struggling.

“Milo, wait.” Lars stepped forward, lifting his hand.

Chair legs thumped back on the ground. Milo glared at him, but Lars had a feeling it wasn’t intentional.

“Listen, guy, we all know your friends ain’t coming, else they’d have been here by now.” Lars went to one knee in front of Peter, laying a hand on the man’s thigh. “So give us something useful, something concrete, and we’ll let you go.”

“Why would I want to help cartel scum like you?” Peter snapped.

In that instant, a change came over the man. Where Lars had been looking up at a calm, almost idyllic features, now he faced a man that looked as primal as Milo at his worst.

“You’re a bunch of fucking rats,” Peter spat. “When the food runs out, you start cannibalizing each other. She’s probably dead already — decapitated, strung up on a bridge—”

Lars’s fist cut off whatever Peter had been going to say. The chair rocked back, and this time the man fought his bonds like he was undergoing an exorcism. Veins stood out on his temples and throat, pale moonlight glancing from blood stained teeth.

When the chair legs thumped down again, Lars had his face an inch away from Peter’s.

“Rats don’t take prisoners,” Lars murmured. “Last chance, Peter Hanson. Make yourself useful.”

Peter’s gaze fixed intently on Lars’s. The man’s furious panting brushed over his lips, breath coppery from the blood in his mouth.

Slowly, incrementally, disgust eked from his face. Peter blinked, and his gaze became imploring. “I can help you find her, but time’s running out.”

Lars laughed, rushing to a stand. “Jesus, just kill him Milo,” he said with a dismissive wave.

“No, please, I can—!”

Gurgles cut off the man’s insistent plea.

Lars paused just before he reached the door. He turned back, watching Milo throttling the DEA agent.

But was he really? Milo said he’d found a badge on him, but nothing else. Wouldn’t he have had a radio, or an earpiece—something to keep contact with HQ? And if not, did that mean he really was out on his own?

Why?

Why would a DEA agent knowingly attend a cartel meeting of this size without backup?

Lars strode back. He slammed his boot down on the man’s thigh, forcing the chair back on all four legs. Milo let up with the belt, frowning at him over Peter’s bowed head.

The man rasped for breath. Lars grabbed his chin, forcing his head up. “What do you mean, ‘Time’s running out?’”

Peter’s eyes were bloodshot, his mouth a trembling line. He drew a few more labored breaths, before whispering, “I put a tracking device on her, but the battery only lasts so long.”

Lars stepped back, and the man’s head dipped before he could straighten his neck to look at Lars. Milo came around, belt dangling from his fingers as he stared blue murder at Peter.

“You motherfucker,” Milo bit out. “You couldn’t just fucking tell me that?”

Peter grinned at him with bloody teeth and innocent eyes. “Where’s the fun in that?” he said hoarsely.