Layla shrieked as she the molten tip of the fireplace poker pressed against her flesh yet again. She’d been burned before, but never like this—never tortured. Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes and down her face, joining the sweat clinging to her skin. Beside her, a blazing fire roared in the fireplace. Four more rods lay among the flames, growing hotter and brighter as her tormenter enjoyed his slow work.

Pablo Nuñez hovered over her, a grin plastered on his face as he watch her writhe against the restraints that kept her tied to her chair. Layla could feel the skin on her arm sizzling before he pulled the red-hot iron away.

Another scream drifted closer, though this one was muffled and much farther away. Layla knew exactly who it was—Marisol. Somewhere nearby, she was being tortured just like Layla was, and hearing it only served to make her even angrier. Nuñez only laughed.

She hated the way he laughed.

“Don’t be a fucking pussy, Pablo,” Layla hissed, spitting at his feet as he admired the horrific burn he’d laid onto her arm. “Be a fucking man and just kill me.”

The drug lord giggled as she shook his head, walking out of her line of vision. It drove her nuts whenever she couldn’t see him.

“Oh, no, chica,” Nuñez said, his smooth voice warm against her ear as he spoke. “I’m not going to kill you.” He walked back into her view, sitting down on a chair opposite her. “In fact, I’d like to tell you a little story.”

“About how the first girl you ever had sex with laughed at your tiny dick?” Layla hissed, straining against the straps that held her tight to the chair. Nuñez shook his head as he watched her struggle.

“No. This is a story about my father,” he said, crossing one of his legs over the other as he relaxed against the back of the chair. “He was a very strict man. And he was not a fan of noisy things.”

“Let me guess, he liked to touch you at—”

She felt the slap against her cheek before she could even register Nuñez rising from his chair, forcing her head to the side. Her world spun.

“You won’t ever disrespect my father again,” Nuñez said, clearing his throat as he sat back down in the chair. “My father did not like noisy things. So, when my mother insisted on bringing home a pair of ruidoso Chihuahuas, my father was naturally opposed.”

Layla watched him as he spoke, her cheek still burning from the force behind his slap. She was positive that by the end of today she’d have a dark bruise along the side of her face.

“Since my mother loved them so much, my father allowed her to keep them. But the longer they lived in our house, the angrier my father became until one day, he couldn’t stand to listen to the yappy little shits. And do you know what he did?”

A silence fell between them as he looked right into Layla’s eyes with the cold, unfeeling gaze that had given her chills back at La Hacienda. When she didn’t answer, he smiled and gestured vaguely.

“My father, being the brilliant man that he is, took the Chihuahuas one morning while my mother was out shopping and drugged them. And, while they were sleeping, he took his knife and cut their little vocal cords out.

“My mother was furious, but from that day forward, my father never had to listen to another yappy dog in his house for as long as he lived.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Layla said, though a creeping dread had begun to edge into the pit of her stomach.

“You are—if you don’t mind me saying so—a little fucking bitch. And you love running that cute little mouth of yours. So I’m going to follow mi padre’s example and open up your throat and cut every single one of your vocal cords.”

Her throat tightened, her stomach churning as once again she heard the sounds of Marisol rooms away, crying out for someone to help her, to make the pain stop. She had to get free.

“And when I’m done, and you can’t even make so much as a whimper, I’m going to tie you to my fucking bed and tear your little ass—”

Something loud drifted in from the door behind them, leading out into the hallway. It seemed so far off at first, but then it came again in rapid succession. Nuñez’s confident expression vanished into a cloud of anger—Layla wasn’t sure which one was more horrifying.

He stood, walking over to a little black box on the wall and slamming a finger into the square button near the bottom. Something clicked and Nuñez began shouting into what Layla could only assume was some kind of intercom system. She watched him turn to look at her as he spoke, his face seething with anger before barking more orders.

“Your little friends are here,” Nuñez hissed, pulling a sleek pistol from behind his back and pointing it at Layla. “Which means they’re coming to get you. How do you think they’ll feel if they bust in here and find you dead?”

“How about you find out, you piece of shit,” she snapped, spitting right into his face just as she heard the door behind her burst open.

Using her weight, Layla scooted her chair forward, pulling the front legs off the ground just enough to get one of them right over Nuñez’s leather-clad feet as he turned to point his gun at the door. With all her might she leaned forward, driving the leg of her chair onto his vulnerable toes.

Her captor let out a howl and jumped back, knocking Layla’s chair off balance and sending her onto her side. From the doorway two shots rang out, followed by a cloud of plaster as both missed their marks and bit into the wall.

“I’m going to fucking kill you!” Nuñez screamed, returning fire to cover his retreat.

Almost as soon as the fight began, silence reigned over the room, the smell of gunpowder thick in the air. Before Layla could take it all in, a familiar and welcome face appeared over her.

“Jesse!” she cried, tears rolling down her cheeks as he began to undo her restraints. The moment that her arms were free, she pulled her savior into a tight, bone-shattering hug.

“So you missed me then, huh, beauty queen?”

“I thought you were dead!” she sobbed, staining his with the first tears of happiness she’d cried in a long time. “Please tell me that everyone’s—“

“Everyone’s fine, beauty queen. The whole gang’s here. But I might not be for much longer if you keep pourin’ salt in my wounds.”

Layla let him go. Though she couldn’t see it through his jacket, she remember vividly the bullethole one of Nuñez’s men had opened up in his shoulder.

“Fuck. Sorry,” she breathed, pulling him closer for one last hug before she finally stood herself up onto her own two feet.

“Ready to leave?” he asked, glancing toward the doorway with his gun at the ready.

Layla shook her head. “Not yet. We need to get the other girls out of here, first.”

Jesse stared at her like she’d grown another head. “That’ll take—”

“I’m not leaving here without them, especially not without my friend.”

Jesse looked at her a few moments more, the sounds of more gunshots echoing from outside the house. Layla could only assume it was the rest of the Marauders.

“Just give me fifteen minutes, Jesse, and then I’ll be right there with you.”

He shook his head. “You don’t even have a gun!”

“So give me your spare!” she snapped, glaring at him with her hand extended.

Jesse sighed. From inside his leather jacket, he pulled a much smaller gun than the one he was carrying, though it was the perfect size for Layla to use. She silently thanked her dad for all those days at the shooting range.

One of the few perks of having conservative parents, she thought as she took the smaller pistol in her hand, gripping it just the way her dad had shown her.

Together Layla and Jesse made their way out into the hall, following the screams toward where she knew that Marisol was being tortured. Every cry of pain wretched at her stomach, tearing her apart. She’d made her friend a promise, not so long ago. A promise that she wouldn’t let el Coyote put his damn dirty hands on her. Now she was ready to make a new one.

She was ready to promise that nobody would lay their hands on her ever again.

Before long Marisol’s screams lead Layla back to a familiar hallway, the very same one where Nuñez had captured them before.

“Start opening doors,” she said to Jesse. “These girls deserve a chance at freedom.”

Jesse nodded. One by one, the two of them released each of the girls from their rooms, encouraging them along as he covered their retreat. Meanwhile, Layla continued along the hallway, quickening her pace as the young girl’s screams grew almost deafening. Only one door was left unopened in the hall. She set her hand on the doorknob, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open with all her might, her gun raised.

Marisol lay strapped down to a table in the center of the room, her body covered in innumerable cuts. None of her wounds seemed deep, though the amount of blood that ran down her body was enough to drench her.

Her torturer looked up from his work, knife in hand as his gaze came to rest on Layla’s gun. He began to turn, knife raised up above his head. Layla could hear her own heartbeat in her ears.

Before he could make more than two steps toward her, Layla pulled the trigger, falling into the stance she’d been taught time and time again.

Each shot struck him in his center mass, passing right into his chest. For a moment she even thought that she might have to shoot him again before the huge goon looked down at the hole in his tanned flesh.

He stared back at Layla for a moment before his entire body began to go limp, starting with his feet. He seemed to collapse in on himself, falling to the floor in a heap.

She couldn’t stop to consider what she’d done. She needed to get Marisol out of there. Now.

Layla bolted for the table and began to untie her. The young girl winced as Layla helped her sit.

“I know you’re some rich party girl,” Marisol said, “but you don’t gotta be fashionably late for everything.”

“Better late than never,” Layla replied, kissing her forehead as she helped her friend stand and get out into the wall.

What she saw there was the last thing she’d expected. All the women Jesse had set free were out in the hallway, a few of them holding down a number of guards as the others let loose a vicious assault with anything they could find: TVs, small appliances, scissors and knives, or even their own nails and fists when nothing else would do. Jesse watched, his eyes wide, lips quirked in a mixture of shock and amusement. When he finally realized Layla was standing there too, he waved for her and Marisol to follow.

“That Jesse?” the young girl asked.

“Yeah,” Layla said with a smile. “That’s the one.”

“He don’t look dead,” Marisol observed.

“I sure don’t,” Jesse agreed.

All three of them made their way out to the courtyard where the Marauders had been keeping their escape from being cut off by the rest of Nuñez’s men. Silence was thick in the air as the three of them walked out into the unnervingly open space. The bodies of more than a few guards were scattered about, their blood pooling between the cracks in the sand-colored pavers.

For a moment Layla feared the worst. There was no sign of the other Marauders as they cautiously stepped over the corpses of the hired thugs. Jesse turned his head toward the low wall leading out towards the villa’s spacious ground before giving a sharp whistle that seemed to cut through the air like a hot knife through butter.

Layla saw them slip from their hiding places as quietly as shadows, their guns at the ready. Gordo and Hollywood were both there, but that didn’t stop the hair on her nape from standing on end—someone was missing.

“Where’s Gareth?” Layla asked, her stomach clenching. Had he not made it out of La Hacienda alive?

“No clue,” Gordo said. “Fucker ran off after Jesse went looking for you. Said he wanted to take care of Nuñez and el Coyote himself.”

“Fucking moron,” Jesse muttered. “He’s going to get himself killed!”

“And he’s too late,” Layla said. “I already killed el Coyote.”

“Puta,” Marisol quipped, “I helped.”

“Jesus, beauty queen,” Hollywood said, his eyes wide in what she thought might be admiration. “How…”

“I slit his throat. After he got his dick cut off,” she said, giving Marisol her due.

“¡Ay, Dios! Fuck, Layla. I didn’t think you had that shit in you,” Gordo said, his bushy brows raised.

“What do we do about Gareth?” she asked, looking up into Jesse’s face. “We can’t just leave him.”

“I don’t think we’re going to have much time to worry about Gareth,” Hollywood said, pointing his gun toward the villa’s massive front doors.

Layla turned her head in time to see a squad of Nuñez’s thugs pouring into the courtyard, their guns at the ready. In a flash all of the Marauders turned, their own pistols up, each pointed at one of the four gunmen.

Layla dropped herself into her shooting stance as she stood between the new threat and Marisol. Things weren’t looking good; each of the groups with their guns locked on one another. The courtyard had become the scene of a Mexican standoff, with no hope of escape without someone dying on both sides.

“¡No hay donde correr ahora, cabrones!” one of the henchmen yelled, a smug grin smeared across his face.

“What do we do?” Layla asked so low that only Jesse could hear her. His face was taut, pinched.

“I’m thinking. Just give me a—”

A gunshot ran out through the courtyard, echoing in on itself again and again as Layla watched one of Nuñez’s men fall to the floor, a red stain soaking through his shirt.

It was enough to give the Marauders the advantage as the other gunmen turned their attention to their fallen comrade. Like thunder heralding a storm, their guns rang out again and again, each bullet finding its mark in one of the drug lord’s henchmen.

Gun smoke filled the air, searing the inside of Layla’s nose. There wouldn’t be a day that went by that she wouldn’t remember the way it burned like the barrel of the pistol in her hand.

“I leave for a few minutes and you all almost get your asses shot in a motherfucking Mexican standoff,” came a familiar voice from the massive double doors of the villa. “I don’t get to have any fun.”

Layla turned, a smile curling the corners of her lips as Gareth strode out from where he had taken cover. A curtain of red ran down his left arm and his shirt had been torn around to bottom to make a makeshift bandage to staunch the bleeding.

“You were supposed to stay here,” Jesse growled, shaking his head.

“Funny way to say ‘you’re welcome,’ Mr. President,” Gareth muttered. “But I couldn’t just sit here. I had to get some revenge.”

“And this is why you aren’t in charge.”

“Spare me the speech. We need to get the fuck out of here. I found el Coyote, but not Nuñez. He’s probably long gone by—”

Another gunshot rang out, this one much louder than any of theirs had been. Gareth stumbled forward, clutching at his stomach before he fell onto his knees, then to the ground. She couldn’t even scream. Couldn’t budge. All she could do was raise her head toward the spot she knew that shot had come from.

Pablo Nuñez sauntered forward, sneering as he regarded Gareth’s lifeless body. “I won’t abandon my home to some two-bit little chuchos who got too fuckin’ big for their britches. No, we’re going to settle this right fucking now—like honorable men.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jesse asked, holding Layla back with an arm as she tried to run at the drug lord.

“You and me, Jesse—mano-a-mano. No guns. No weapons. Beating the shit out of one another like civilized people.”

“Why the fuck shouldn’t we just kill you right where you stand?” Jesse asked, pointing his gun right at Nuñez’s chest.

“Because you’re like me,” he said, his wicked grin pulled across his lips. “You’re a man of honor.”

Layla turned her head toward the leader of the Marauders, frowning. Jesse’s face was a mask of indecision, his eyes cast down as he took Nuñez’s words and seemed to chew on them, rolling them over in his mind.

“You can’t be fucking serious,” she hissed, her glaze flicking between their leader and the drug lord who had just shot one of their own in cold blood. “He just shot—”

“I know what he did!” Jesse snapped. “But I’m not him. I don’t just shoot men like dogs. If he wants to fucking fight, then I’m going fight him, and whoever wins gets to walk away.”

Layla shook her head in disbelief. “This is why Gareth gets pissed at you,” she whispered. “This fucking macho horseshit…”

She looked at Gareth’s body. It felt like a punch to the gut. Sure, he was breathing. But for how long would that last?

Her heart ached worse than the burns on her arms or the bruises on her face. I can’t lose him. Or Jesse. I can’t lose anybody else…

Pablo let out a laugh as he tossed his gun aside.

“Good boy.”

Layla felt the urge to simply shoot him right where he stood, but something inside of her made her stop. At first she didn’t understand why—it would have been so damn easy, after all of the things that he’d done to her, to all of them. But deep down, she knew that it wouldn’t be right—she couldn’t defy her loyalty to Jesse, to her gang.

No matter how fucking stupid they were being.

The two men set their guns aside, and Jesse took the spare knife he’d had stashed in his boot out and tossed it onto the floor. The Marauders all backed up to the edges of the courtyard, giving Jesse and Nuñez more than enough room for their fight.

“Your boyfriend’s an idiot,” Marisol muttered, leaning bodily on Layla. She’d lost so much blood—too much. She was pale and swaying. “I would’ve shot him in the face, and then gutted him like a fish and eaten his heart.”

“Jesus, Marisol,” Layla said. Then added, “Me too.”

Nuñez and Pablo met in the center of the courtyard, staring daggers at one another before Nuñez threw the first punch, swinging right at Jesse’s face.

Their leader stumbled back a moment as Nuñez pressed his advantage, letting loose a series of rapid-fire punches right into Jesse’s sides. Layla felt her stomach turn, sure that Nuñez would somehow break his word and do something to turn the odds in his favor.

Jesse raised his arms to stop Nuñez’s furious assault, pushing back and finally getting enough room to slam the drug lord right in his chest with a heavy blow.

As they fought, Layla’s eyes caught just the slightest movement from elsewhere in the courtyard. Her gaze shifted from the fight, Nuñez once again gaining the advantage with a knee right to Jesse’s chest.

Her heart soared as she watched her lover turn himself over onto his side. His face was a contorted mess of pain and stained with his own blood, but he was alive and awake—which was bad fucking news for Nuñez.

When she looked up, hoping to signal that their friend still lived to Jesse, she saw that the fight had taken a turn for the worst, with Jesse on the ground, Nuñez’s foot pressed against his throat as he stood above him.

“Jesse!” she cried out, her body instinctively moving to rush to their leader’s side.

But before Layla could move an inch, a loud crack of another gunshot ripped through the air, making her shrink back and throw up her arms for cover.

Silence followed. Layla moved her hands away from her face. Her eyes immediately went to Jesse, who stared up at his opponent in shock as the drug lord took a shaky step backward, setting him free.

“I thought you were fuckin’ men!” Nuñez yelled, touching his hand lightly to his chest and pulling his fingers back stained in a thick sheet of crimson. “I thought you had honor!”

“Jesse has honor,” she heard Gareth rasp from the ground. In his hand, he held the same gun Jesse had set aside to have his fight with Nuñez. “I’m not Jesse.”

Nuñez stared at Gareth as he slumped against one of the courtyard walls, a trail of blood following him to the ground. She watched the life drain from his eyes, all that power and cruelty just suddenly… gone. Marisol squeezed her hand and Layla returned the gesture. Another pact sealed. This would never happen again.

Jesse climbed to his feet, stumbling over to Nuñez to check his pulse. He crouched there in silence for what seemed like minutes before turning toward the others and giving them a solemn nod.

“Serves him right,” Hollywood said, shaking his head in disgust.

Layla kneeled down next to Gareth, pulling his shirt up to examine the sizable gunshot wound in his lower abdomen. His bleeding had slowed, but something told Layla that if they didn’t get him to a hospital soon, then he’d be dead before they ever made it to the border.

“Hey, Cinderella,” he said, flashing her a wolfish grin that was just a little lopsided. “We’ve come to pick you up from the ball. Only we ain’t got a fancy coach—just some shitty, beat-up motorcycles and a fat Mexican.”

“Jesus, Gareth,” she whispered. “There’s so much blood…”

The wail of sirens rose up in the distance.

“The Federales,” Gareth said, giving a faint, rasping chuckle. “Just in time to catch the bad guys.”

“Let’s get moving,” Jesse said. He grabbed Gareth’s arms and yanked him up, supporting his friend’s weight as they all limped toward the motorcycles. “Asshole.”

The six of them rode down the dirt access road that lead down to the highway, missing the Federales by seconds before they began storming the villa.