The morning sun hung low in the sky, its bottom touching the far horizon. A chill nipped at the air. Any other time, Miranda would have relished in such a morning. With Francesca's presence, and looming discussion, she had little time to dwell on enjoyment. Together, the women rounded the diner and headed to the back where extra parking situated beyond the eyes of eating patrons. The lot had exploded with activity in the short amount of time they arrived. Three more semi-trucks took up space in the back, flanked by a dozen sedans and trucks. It was surprising, but Miranda hadn't paid attention to the patrons inside.
Miranda dallied behind Francesca a few steps. She mentally fought over how to approach the situation. Cool and calm? Understanding and warm? Or would Francesca be no-nonsense and curt? Miss Munoz's footfalls gave way to the crunch of gravel. Miranda decided to swallow her nerves and posit her inquiry. “Well, Miss Munoz, what did you want to tal-”
“Miss Groves,” a deep, masculine voice cut Miranda off. Her heart thudded in her chest. Her brain recognized the voice, immediately, and one word sang through her head 'run.' Her blood ran cold, keeping her feet planted. She didn't have time to register the knowledge, though, as Baldie stepped out from behind a maroon sedan. He leered down at her and her stomach heaved. For a split second, she was glad to have an empty stomach. He sneered down at her, lips twisted into a vicious smile. “Long time no see.”
Her gaze flicked from Baldie to the woman she previously considered a potential ally. The woman couldn't bear to meet her gaze. Betrayal lit through her thoughts like flaming gasoline. The air locked in her lungs, but she couldn't turn anger toward Francesca just yet. There had to be an explanation! With her mouth going dry, Miranda rasped, “…Francesca?”
Despite the scene playing out before him, Baldie advanced on Miranda. Two more men stepped out from the sedan. Baldie continued to talk, a smirk twisted across his lips, “How was Maui? Rather short trip, wasn't it?”
Her mind buzzed and tumbled, trying to make sense of the event playing out before her. Tyler's words ricocheted around her head. Her gaze focused on the other woman, a chill slicing across her gut, followed by the heat of Hell. Had Francesca ratted them out to Pete? The woman refused to meet Miranda's gaze. She stared over Miranda's left shoulder, face masked with a neutral expression. “Sorry, Miss Groves. You know how it is.”
No, she didn't know how it was. Just as she opened her mouth to correct Francesca's presumption, two pairs of arms locked around her. A hand slapped across her lips. She gasped, marveling at the speed of Baldie's lackeys. Instantly, her muscles tensed and her feet kicked out, her shoulders jerked as she attempted to shake off the men. She sunk her teeth into the palm and one of the men howled. He jerked his hand away and she screamed, “No!”
The word echoed through the morning air. The slam of the front door joined her frightened declaration. A familiar voice sang through the air, “Mir?!”
“Tyler!” She shrieked, twisting and jerking against the fingers clamped along her arms. A hand slapped across her face, pain lighting across her cheek. She cried out, a yelp loosing from her lips.
“Mir!” He shouted, rounding around the corner of the diner. The slam of car doors and the smell of burning rubber and the sputter of flying gravel graced his ears. Briefly, he caught sight of Miranda struggling against two men in a sedan. The driver's bald head caught his eye.
Red clamped across Tyler's thoughts. Who the fuck did this? His ears perked up at the sound of crunching gravel. He spun, pinning a familiar figure with his heated glare.
Francesca ducked into her black sports car, revving the engine in a rush. Without thinking, Tyler charged at the car. Just as the vehicle began sliding through the parking lot, he slammed onto the hood. From inside the car, he could hear Francesca scream. She slammed on the brakes. The sudden stop sent him bounding off the car hood and landing just in front of the wheels.
The pain that arched up his body didn't stop him. Hell, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered if Miranda were kidnapped. Possessed by sheer rage, Tyler climbed to his feet and scrabbled over the hood of the car. He yanked the driver side door open and hauled Francesca from the car. Despite her flailing, he managed to pin her to the side of the car with a metallic thunk. He bent low, his dark brown eyes catching her wild hazel gaze. He could smell her fear as he snarled, “The Hell did you do?”
She gasped and dropped her bag before he shook her and slammed her back against a black sports car. A yelp barely left her lips before he shook her savagely. Her hands flew to his, her nails digging into his knuckles. He ignored the slight pain that grazed on his hands.
“The Hell did you do, Munoz?” Tyler demanded, his fingers digging into Francesca's shoulders. He knew marks would be left, dark purple bruises along her shoulders and clavicle. It wasn't anything the woman wasn't used to, though.
Francesca steeled herself, glaring heatedly at Tyler. Her lips curled into a thin sneer. She said the words as if she were reading from an inner script, stunted and curt, “Pete wants to talk.”
“The fuck you think they'll do with her?” He carried on, barely registering her words. He shook her again, her back thudding against the car. No matter how many times he shook her, no matter how much damage he did, he knew it wouldn't alleviate the mounting fear in his thoughts. If Pete had Miranda, who knew what would befall her. It equally enraged and terrified him.
“She understand the life,” snarled Francesca between shakes. Her fingernails sunk into his flesh, blood oozing from the crescent marks on his hands.
Tyler paused, his words becoming icy blocks of disgust, “No, she fucking doesn't.”
“Yeah, right,” snorted the woman, rolling her eyes.
“She's my high school sweetheart,” he growled, slamming Francesca against the car harder than the last few times. He tightened his hold until a whimper sifted from her lips. “She doesn't know the grit of this life.”
Francesca's eyes widened, sudden realization slammed into her thoughts. She hardened her expression a moment later. “Well, that's not my fault!”
Disgust peppered his thoughts. “And to think she wanted to help your sorry ass.”
“What?”
“She told me how that stupid fucking tat had something to do with the Torres family in Mexico or some shit.” He nodded to the rosary across her chest. Francesca's gaze darted to the blood red beads inked into her skin. Her face paled and little, incomprehensible sputters left her lips. Tyler didn't notice. He carried on with a darkening scowl, “It's supposed to belong to a family pretty well known in Mexico. They lost their daughter to an agreement with a cartel and she disappeared.”
Francesca couldn't bring her gaze to Tyler's face. A simple gasp wafted on her lips, “What?”
“Yeah, she figured that shit out from your stupid fucking tat,” spat Tyler, resisting the urge to slam Francesca “And she wanted to help you. We were talking about Lloyd, this morning, and getting his guarantee and everything. Fuck!”
“I didn't–”
“She wanted to help you, you bitch, and you handed her over to Pete!”
“I didn't know!” She shrieked, glassiness filling her eyes.
“Of course not, you shit, 'cause you never talked to us!” Tyler couldn't help himself. His muscles tensed and he rattled her against the car.
Francesca hung her head, her words coated with a sob. “How was I supposed to know!?”
“You should've talked to us,” he roared. He was amazed no one from the diner came out to investigate the ruckus. Then again, Francesca didn't seem to have a great reputation in San Marta. That same reason probably deterred her from reacting violently to him. If she kicked him or bit him, who could guarantee her life? And if she died, who'd take care of her 'girls’? Francesca Munoz was stuck in a town that treated her with barely masked disdain and she couldn't do a damn thing about it.
“I couldn't!” The woman sobbed, her mascara trailing dark lines down her eyes. “I'd be sent back to Mexico and my family would die!”
“If you talked to us, we would have scored you a deal,” he growled. He knew it wasn't fair to keep repeating himself. Francesca was stuck in a shitty situation, from what he gathered: sold off by her family to pay for a debt and the cartel used her, and her girls, as drug mules to dealers. If she didn't do what she was told, the cartel would carve her family up. She was stuck between a razor edge and a hard place.
How was she supposed to truly know what they could have done for her? The woman bowed her head farther, tears dribbling down her cheeks. She sniffled loudly, her grip on Tyler's knuckles slackened.
An upbeat pop song cleaved through the air, interrupting Tyler and Francesca. He paused, his mind shifting gears. The ringing, the incessant music, was a cellphone. Not his prepaid, though. It screamed from somewhere. Where? His eyes drifted down Francesca's body, until he noticed the squareish shape pressed into the pocket on her hip.
“Get that,” he snarled, nodding to her phone.
Slowly, Francesca's hand dug into her pocket. She yanked her phone out of her purse and answered it, “Francesca Munoz.” She paused, her focus shattering as her eyes widened slightly. Her gaze returned to Tyler's face, her eyes red-rimmed and lips twisted into a miserable frown. She thrust he phone out to him. “Here, it's for you.”
Tyler eyed the woman and her gaze flicked to her phone. For a brief second, he debated on accepting the call or not. Could this be a ploy to earn freedom from his grasp? On the other end of the line, though, a scream shrieked out. He snatched the phone from her hand, forgetting the potential farce. He barked into the phone, “Don't fucking touch her!”
“Meet Pete at 1523 David Drive tonight at ten,” said the voice on the other end of the line. Tyler couldn't help but hear goading smugness in the voice. “Bring no one or sweet-tits will be a tit short.”
Click.
Tyler stood, staring off into the distance with the phone still pressed to his ear. Miranda's shriek still clawed through his head. His stomach roiled and bile itched in his throat. Something had to be done. Francesca wiggled under his palm, reclaiming his focus. Tyler's heated glare lit onto the woman's face. She squeaked and sunk against the car, preparing for a strike to her face or more degradation.
He leaned close, making Francesca flinch as his hands grappled at her elbows. She didn't try to get away from him as he snarled into her ear, “Are you going to make yourself useful and help me? Or do I need to call the Bandits early?”