Central Mexico was like being in Australia’s outback. It was hot, trees were sparse, the roads weren’t paved and civilization seemed a million miles away. From his hiding place in the scrub at the bend in a dirt road, Luke watched the cliff for Marco’s signal. Aside from motorized vehicles and the AK-47 in his hands, the ambush seemed like something out of a Hollywood western.

Except it’s deadly and real.

He didn’t trust anyone in El Padrino’s ranks and he sure as hell didn’t trust the Zambada Cartel. It was clear Juan had made Luke the point person to put him in the most danger—to see how well he performed under pressure and to ensure the new guy was killed if it turned into a stonking shootout.

Put me in a plane and I’ll show them pressure.

El Padrino’s men flanked him on both sides, their weapons locked and loaded, ready for the attack. Luke had been in dogfights before, but never with enemy combatants on all sides. If things crashed and burned, he had no backup. Sure, he’d done his best to arm himself, to keep his body toned. But he wasn’t bulletproof and these murderous Comancheros didn’t issue Kevlar vests.

On the cliff, Marco moved into sight and waved his arms. A few seconds later, the low rumble of a truck hummed from around the bend. Luke glanced to Juan. “Ready?” he asked in Spanish. “I’ll take out the driver’s side tire first.” He didn’t wait for Juan to respond. Shooting the tire would stop the truck, but Luke wasn’t about to admit his approach would also give the sitting ducks a chance to escape—maybe live if they were smart.

Raising the AK-47 to his shoulder, Luke stepped from the brush and aimed. As soon as the grille of the truck came into view, he fired at the tire with a resounding crack. Surprised and panicked faces shifted his way as the men in the cab shouted, flailing their arms and scrambling to duck for cover. The man on the passenger side swung a rifle out the window, pulling back the bolt.

Luke dove behind a boulder and rolled. El Padrino’s men opened fire, creeping from the bushes, sweeping their semi-automatics back and forth like fire hoses. Luke checked his path. All clear.

Bullets pinged on metal and thudded into flesh. Dying men wailed. The stench of blood and gunpowder wafted through the air while Luke ran to the rear of the truck. Reaching the door, he looked for Bruno—the bloke who was supposed to charge in from across the road and help open the back.

Shit. Luke crouched below the doors, secured with a padlock. Shouts and pounding came from inside.

How many guards are in there?

“Bruno!” Luke yelled, but the ass didn’t respond. Together they were supposed to secure the shipment. Had he been set up again?

Swearing under his breath, Luke shot off the lock. The door burst open to a volley of gunfire. Luke dove beneath the van, rolled to his belly and waited.

Three guys jumped to the dirt.

“Drop your weapons!” he shouted.

One man fired.

With a blast of bullets, Luke dropped him, then trained his rifle on the others. “I’ll let you live if you drop your weapons now.”

The two exchanged glances and gingerly set their guns down.

“Kick them away and lie on your faces.”

Only after they obeyed did he sweep his weapon into the van—filled with coca. Once sure no one else was inside, Luke zip-cuffed the two guards.

“I’m shot!” screamed a man from the scrub—Bruno’s stakeout place.

When no one else moved to help, Luke scrambled over to the boy. “Where’re you hit?” Then he looked. Blood gushed through Bruno’s fingers, his palm plastered against his head.

“Jesus Christ. Don’t move.” Luke stripped off his shirt, cursing the day El Padrino was born. The man was wealthier than the head of the most successful company in Silicon Valley and there wasn’t a damned field dressing among them.

A couple shots popped near the truck, but Luke didn’t look back. He rolled his shirt then slipped it under Bruno’s head, keeping hold of the ends. “Let go now.”

Blood seeped down the boy’s face as Luke tied the shirt tight like a headband. Bruno cried out, his legs kicking. “I’m gonna die!”

“Not on my watch.” Luke pressed his fingers around the wound but felt nothing. “Looks like the bullet just grazed you. Head wounds bleed a lot, mate.”

Bruno winced—he didn’t have a line on his face—looked like he might be eighteen. “It…” he gasped as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. “Hurts.”

“I reckon it does.” Luke patted Bruno’s cheek. “Hang in there, mate.”

“Why didn’t you kill those traitors?” Juan barked, waving his AK-47 in front of Luke’s face.

“You mean the guys from the back of the truck?” Luke looked to where he’d left the two men zip-cuffed. Jesus, Marco was pulling their dead bodies off the road.

“Yeah. You can’t let those dogs live, man.”

“What about interrogating them?”

“Not worth the trouble—Zambada’s goons are thieves and liars.” Juan kicked Bruno’s shoulder with the tip of his cowboy boot. “Leave him. He’s fucked.”

Clenching his fists, Luke blinked twice. “You’re joking. He’s one of ours.”

“Huh? If you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a war zone here. Get in the truck and drive before Zambada sends out a freaking army.”

Luke grabbed Bruno’s arm and hoisted the boy over his shoulder. “This guy’s riding with me.”

“You’re fuckin’ soft. If he dies, you’re gonna be the one to dig the grave.”

“Fine.” Luke headed for the truck—El Padrino’s men had changed the tire and were tightening the lug nuts.

“And you’re not taking him to no hospital,” said Juan. “Orders are to drive straight to the factory.”

“Got it.” Luke loaded Bruno into the passenger side. He couldn’t miss phase two of the mission and a chance to see one of the places where Morales manufactured Rhapsody. The young pup just needed to hold tight and continue breathing for a few more hours.