“You can’t keep me here,” Ana Maria snarled the moment Ethan walked into the tiny, windowless conference room that Ortiz had banished her to with a curse and a demand for hazard pay. Apparently, Ana Maria carried pepper spray and was well versed in how to use it.
Her sister’s doing, no doubt.
Just the thought of Natalia, of the surge of fear that had swamped him the moment she’d hung up on him, had him clenching his fists and biting back angry words and brutal demands that wouldn’t get him what he wanted. Panic, potent and powerful, an emotion Ethan had far too little experience with, flooded his bloodstream. It had been there for hours, thrumming through him with each beat of his heart, whispering dark warnings about all the things he couldn’t stop, all the hurt he was helpless to prevent.
He knew what Natalia had done. Had known the second she’d said goodbye. Like it was some sort of gift. Like she’d miss him. Like this wouldn’t destroy him as surely as it would her.
And he was furious with her. Had she heard nothing he’d said? Understood none of what he wanted so badly to impress upon her? Never, not under any circumstances he could fathom, would he have asked this of her.
She’d gone to her uncle to confess. To buy him time. To save Will.
Goddamn her.
Didn’t she understand what this would do to him?
What she meant to him?
If she survived this, he was going to kill her.
Or marry her.
But first, he had to save her, which meant he needed to turn the snarly, angry, bitter woman across from him into an ally. He could only hope Ana Maria possessed a fraction of the loyalty for Natalia that her sister held for her.
“We don’t have a lot of time, so I’m going to make this simple for you—”
“I’m not giving you the money, either.” Ana Maria sat back in the conference chair, shifting her weight from side to side so it spun 180 petulant degrees in either direction. “You can keep me in here all night, if you like. I only have to hold out until morning, then it won’t matter.”
“Your sister will be dead by morning,” Ethan snapped out, the urge to say Screw diplomacy and Fuck explanations fighting against his resolve. Above all else, he needed Ana Maria’s help, which meant he needed to hold on to his patience and smother his fear.
Ana Maria stilled, the defiant petulance draining away until only insecurity and surprise remained. “What are you talking about?”
“Why do you think we picked you up?” Ethan asked on an angry snarl. “She came to you for help, and you turned her away—”
“She came to me for a hundred million dollars.” Ana Maria slammed a delicate fist against the table, then jumped at the sound of the thwack that reverberated around the room. “For a man she’s never even met. And all because she was dumb enough to buy into whatever bullshit you sold her.”
He wouldn’t stand there and justify the things he’d told Natalia, wouldn’t prove the depth of his feelings to her angry little sister. There wasn’t time, and the only person who deserved to hear it was—
He swallowed hard and pushed beyond the surge of panic that if he didn’t play this right, if he didn’t fix it, then he’d never get a chance to prove anything to Natalia at all.
He’d thought they had time.
He swore he’d never take that for granted again.
“She came to you for help. For loyalty. She trusted you—and why wouldn’t she?” he snarled, his voice a biting condemnation. “Has she ever denied you anything? Her only mistake was believing that you loved her as much as she loved you.” At the end of the day, Ethan didn’t blame Ana Maria for stealing the money or setting up her uncle or wanting so desperately to have a life of her own that she’d pay any price. But that she could turn away her sister for any reason at all enraged him.
Natalia deserved so much better than the both of them.
“You don’t know the first thing about us!” Ana Maria stood from her chair and leaned over the desk, staring Ethan down. “You think I don’t know what she’s done for me? I know everything. I know that she’d kill herself to keep the people she loves safe, to make them happy. It had to stop.”
On that, at least, Ethan and Ana Maria agreed.
“I built us a future, a way out of the cartel; all we had to do was wait for Hernan to die and we could walk away.” She sat back down hard enough to send the chair skidding across the floor. “But then you come along and suddenly she’s ready to throw it all away. And for what? Love?” She scoffed. “Please. You’re just using her to get what you want.”
“You don’t have the first clue about what I want from Natalia,” he bit out, forcing his voice into something cold and flat. “And you’re a damn fool if you really thought that the cartel was ever going to let Natalia walk away.”
“No one’s ever given a damn about us.”
“No one’s ever given a damn about you. Except Natalia, who made sure that no one would ever so much as glance in your direction,” he ground out. “But your sister is deadly—that makes her either threat or asset and nothing in between.” Ethan sighed, forced himself to take a breath, to take a step back, to remember that whatever or whoever else she was, Ana Maria was still the most important person in Natalia’s life. And right now, she held the key to saving it. “They never would have let her walk away, Ana Maria. Your sister understood that.” He pulled out one of the unoccupied chairs and forced himself to sit. “She’s been prepared for that for years. So when you told her no—”
“I—”
Ethan held up a hand. “It doesn’t matter why. Not anymore. When you told her no, Natalia did the only thing she thought she could. She turned herself in and took the blame for everything.”
All the color drained from Ana Maria’s face. “She wouldn’t—”
“Of course she would. Putting herself last, saving other people, it’s the thing that comes most naturally to her.”
“They’ll kill her for this . . . ,” Ana Maria whispered, her fingers coming up to toy with the necklace at her throat.
“Yes,” Ethan agreed. “But not until she gives them what they want.”
“Then, why?” But even as she uttered the words, Ethan saw the truth dawn across her face. “She thinks she can buy you enough time to find your friend,” she realized aloud. “She did this for you.”
“It doesn’t matter why she did it. It doesn’t matter if I deserve it. She didn’t see a way out for herself, but she saw one, no matter how slim a chance it is, for someone else. That’s who your sister is.” Selfless. Relentlessly devoted to the people she cared about.
How had she ever thought herself irredeemable?
“She’s tenacious, I’ll give her that,” Ethan acknowledged, even though it pained him to do so. Never could he have imagined that Natalia’s strength of will, her absolute conviction, could be turned so brutally against her. “She’ll last long enough for my team to find our man.”
“And then?” Ana Maria asked.
“And then she’ll tell them what they want to know, and if she’s lucky, they’ll kill her quickly.”
Ana Maria dropped her head into her hands, scraped her fingers through her hair, shuddered once, twice, and then when Ethan was sure she’d fall apart, when he thought he’d have to comfort her enough to bring her back from the brink, to gain her cooperation, she surprised him.
“I never wanted this.” She looked up, pinned him with a soft cornflower-blue gaze, and said, “I’ll release the accounts.”
He heaved out a relieved sigh. The money wouldn’t help them—it was far too late for a solution that simple. But that she’d offered . . . Whatever else Ethan might feel about the woman sitting in front of him, he had to at least acknowledge that at the end of the day, she valued her sister’s life at more than a hundred million dollars, and that was no small thing.
“It’s not that easy. Even if we could get all the money wired in time, they’d never let her walk out of there alive.”
“So, go. Get. Her.”
“We’ve tried, goddamn it!” he roared. “You don’t think I’ve looked everywhere? I sent a team to the house. Every holding we know about has been checked out. Wherever she is, I can’t find her.”
“You have to,” Ana Maria whispered, horror pushing her voice through a cheese grater. “Ethan, you have to.”
“I can’t,” he said, the weight of the truth threatening to drown him. “But you can.”
“Me?” Ana Maria shook her head. “I know a lot more than people realize, but I’ve never been directly involved in any facet of the business. I don’t know where shipments come in or deals are made.”
“I don’t . . . That’s not what I need.” He needed a miracle—another, better option. But in lieu of that, he’d have to make do with what he had. He only prayed Natalia would forgive him for it.
“Your sister’s a fighter—”
“A nice way of saying stubborn as a mule,” Ana Maria muttered, then flushed, as if she hadn’t intended to say as much aloud. She probably hadn’t. The words had slipped out fond and exasperated, as if she’d said them a hundred times before.
“That, too. But she’s strong, and, more important, she’s driven. Maybe the most driven individual I’ve ever known.” Which was saying something, considering the people he worked with every day, each and every one of them at the top of their respective fields. “She’s not going to give in, not until she’s sure enough time has passed.”
“They’re going to hurt her,” Ana Maria whispered through the fingers she held to her mouth.
“They’re going to try to break her—your uncle’s good at that. Looking into someone, finding their fears, using it against them. But Natalia only fears one thing.”
“Losing me,” she realized aloud. “I’m her weakness—”
“And her strength,” Ethan countered. “But yes. You’re the key, and as long as they don’t have you, they don’t have a way to make Natalia talk.”
Ana Maria stared at him, her eyes wide, her throat working around a swallow. “But if they had me,” she said, working it out without his help, “then you’d have a location. They’d take me to her, use me to hurt her, to make her talk.”
“I’d never let that happen, Ana Maria. We’d be with you the whole time,” Ethan said, doing his very best to allay her fears even as his own built with every passing second. “The minute you confirm Natalia’s there—you only have to say her name—we’ll break down the doors to get to you.”
“So I’d, what, wear a wire?” she asked, her voice small, her posture every bit the frightened kid.
“We can do a lot better than a wire, but yes, we’d set you up with a GPS tracker and an audio stream. We’d be right behind you the whole time.”
“And once I’m inside, what then?” she asked, chewing the edge of her fingernail ragged.
“Then we end this. For good,” he assured her. “You and your sister are the only ones walking out of there alive.”
“What about your friend?” she asked quietly.
“We’re down to hours now. Less by the time we set this whole thing in motion. If we’re careful, if luck is on our side, no one will know your uncle’s dead until far too late.”
“And if luck isn’t on your side? If doing this costs your friend his life?”
Ethan closed his eyes against the guilt, against the unfairness of a choice he never should have had to make. Will or Natalia. Loyalty or love. If he lost Will, a part of Ethan would no doubt die right along with him. But if he lost Natalia . . . if he lost Natalia, then that was it, he was done. Knowing that she’d walked in there certain of what she’d face, carrying around the understanding that she’d done it for him, was too much. He wasn’t strong enough.
So in the end, the choice was easy, may Will forgive him for it.
“I choose her,” he said. And he’d keep choosing her, over and over and over again, until she realized where she belonged. That she could count on him. That when he made a promise, he kept it.
“So do I,” Ana Maria said, rising from her chair and tugging down the sleeves of her shirt. “Let’s go get my sister.”
“Do you remember why I like this position, gatita?” Carlos asked, his question less a raspy whisper of sound and more a grating physical touch, uninvited and unwelcome.
“No?” He clucked his tongue, his breath a moist puff of air on the back of Natalia’s neck. “You never did take to this, did you?”
He completed his circle, sidestepping until he appeared before her, blurred through sweat and traitorous tears and something heavier that tried to seal her eyes shut. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need to see. Didn’t want to know. It would all be over soon. Until then, if she closed her eyes, let her mind drift and her body sway, she could picture Ethan. Mentally unpack the depths of his smile, the layers of colors that made up his eyes, remember the texture of his hair beneath her fingers.
“Always so eager to finish the job, always too merciful to draw it out.” Fingers, blunt and unwelcome, stroked down her abdomen, jerking her back to the present. The movement, small as it was, was enough to lay ruin to the precarious balance she’d found.
“Ah,” Carlos sighed as Natalia stiffened, her entire body one long line of fire as every muscle stiffened and cried out as one. “And now you remember.”
Oh, she hadn’t forgotten. How could she? She’d been here hours, her arms stretched high, her toes barely brushing the floor. Her uncle might have bound her to a chair, left her immobile and utterly at his mercy, helpless to move or flinch or evade. In his unimaginative mind, he equated complete control with absolute power.
Carlos was not so limited.
He preferred his captives to have a hand in their torture. To work against their own instincts, their own interests.
So when they’d dragged Natalia in here, already bruised and bleeding and half-unconscious, he’d shoved the sturdy metal chair to the corner, stripped her of her shoes and jacket, and strung her up until only the balls of her feet made contact with the floor.
If he’d simply left her there, agony would have set in within a matter of hours, the position wrenching her shoulders and stretching her chest until the simple act of breathing became a torment.
He hadn’t left her there, but neither had he needed to get creative. There’d been no pliers or needles or shocks. Just fists and the punishing sway of her own failing body. Still and calm, she felt the pain ebb and flow through her until it became a pulsing but predictable wave. But if she moved? If she let herself shy away from his touch or flinch from a blow, her entire body cried out in agony. As the hours passed, he’d hit her less, hurt her less—but found more and more ways to ensure she inflicted suffering upon herself.
She wanted to hate him for it but had expected no less . . . and far worse.
“You must be hurting, gatita.” As if she were a prized thoroughbred, he ran a palm across her stomach, over her hip, along her flank. He stroked across muscles that quivered and bruises that throbbed, but his touch was impersonal and efficient, as if he were looking for a lameness that had come on overnight and without warning.
This time, she kept her feet, let herself lean into his hand and use him for the energy it took simply to maintain her balance.
He tsked and withdrew. She swayed, then relaxed, letting her arms take her weight so her feet wouldn’t move. Small corrections, little adjustments—it was the best she could do.
“Me duele hacer esto.” He sighed, his grating, roughened voice somehow more fluid in Spanish than in English. “Hurting you brings me no joy, gatita.”
Strangely, Natalia believed that.
The moment she’d told her uncle what she’d done, he’d turned on her, his rage a living, breathing thing. For a moment, she’d thought he’d kill her quickly, if brutally, and finally, finally, everything would be done.
But no. He’d stopped. Handed her over to Carlos with a cold, “Break her. Then kill her. But not until after she releases the money.”
No one could claim Carlos hadn’t done his job, no matter what her uncle screamed during his brief rage-fueled appearances. But where Hernan had been blinded by his pride, lost to his rage, Carlos knew her. In some ways, Carlos knew her better than almost anyone else on the planet. He’d made her, after all. Taught and punished and pushed until lessons became ingrained and fears distant.
All but one, anyway. And he understood that. Knew that without Ana Maria, Natalia could not be made to talk. Not with the knife at his hip or the gun at his back. And because for him this would always simply be a job and nothing more, he took his time, inflicted the pain, but took no pleasure in it.
He’d kill her, they both knew he would, but Natalia was grateful he wouldn’t make it any worse than it had to be. That he’d left her clothed, kept her whole. It was a strange thing—perhaps not gratitude but a grudging respect for a man who had ruined and saved her in turn.
“Are you thirsty, little cat?” Carlos asked, pushing a sweaty tangle of hair away from her face. “Would you like water?” He snapped his fingers, held out a hand, and, a moment later, the cold rim of a water bottle touched her lips.
She opened her mouth, let the water run over her tongue and coat her lips, but precious little made it down her throat.
When he took away the bottle, she heaved out an agonized breath, then fought, her chest rattling like an ancient, failing water heater, to draw another.
“Hush,” Carlos said, running a soothing hand across ribs she was certain were broken, though if they’d cracked beneath her uncle’s foot or Carlos’s fists, she couldn’t be sure.
She suspected the former. For all that Carlos was brutal, there was a reluctance there. A degree of restrained disinterest. Still, when he bunched his fists, torqued his body, he went for maximum pain and minimal damage. She couldn’t die before she gave up the money, not if her uncle wanted to save his own skin.
It hardly mattered. The choice would soon be taken from all of them. Each wet, raspy pull of air was smaller and harder fought than the last.
Natalia was ready.
“You’re drowning, you know,” Carlos said, stepping back to study her face, to trace the edge of a bruise, the split in her lip. “Slowly, your chest fills with blood and your lungs collapse. It need not be so painful, gatita.” He leaned forward, skimmed a finger along the outside of her arm and down to dip between the grooves of two ribs. “The knife would be fast, I promise. The pain”—he snapped his fingers—“gone.” He shook his head. “Will you not tell me what I ask?”
“No.”
He sighed and turned away. “Always so stubborn,” he said, his voice fond but exasperated. Strange, to think that the man who’d taught her to kill, to survive, would be the one who killed her. He wouldn’t regret it, that was an emotion he’d shut off a long time ago, but she didn’t think he’d have chosen it, either.
“A different question, then,” he said, stepping closer until he could bend his knees and look up into her eyes for the answers he sought. “Why?”
When she blinked, long and slow and tired, he continued.
“I ask myself this. Why?” His expression didn’t change, didn’t become curious or frustrated or annoyed. But she knew that she’d surprised him, that he’d believed from the start Hernan was guilty. “Money does not drive you, little cat. Only loyalty.”
It bothered him, she realized, that he couldn’t figure out what had driven her to this. He’d grown too used to life in the cartel. Too comfortable in the expectation that everyone was always out for themselves. He’d grown up poor, fought for everything he had, and even after a decades-long career—a rarity unmatched within the Vega cartel—he had only his reputation to show for it. He could understand loyalty, but only in the basest terms. He’d never bite the hand that fed him, but it was born of necessity and not desire.
Carlos was, and always would be, a product of his roots.
Just as Natalia was a product of hers.
There was no answer she could give that he’d understand.
Because though she’d forgotten what it felt like, she’d been raised in a loving home, with parents who had supported her, believed in her. People who wanted more for her. And though so much had changed, and even if she’d forgotten what it was to bask in the warmth of someone else’s faith, someone else’s pride, Ethan had reminded her.
When she’d believed the worst of herself, Ethan had forced her to acknowledge the best. To remember that she hadn’t chosen this life. That she hadn’t always been hardened and cold and lonely.
And now, each passing minute, every agonizing breath, was a step back to the woman she wanted to be. The price she had to pay to wipe the slate clean. To do the right thing for the people she loved.
Beneath the weight of her desire to be the woman Ethan believed her to be, her resolve hardened. It would be enough to see her to the finish line, a threshold she could finally see, one she expected to cross in minutes rather than hours.
A door behind her creaked open, then slammed shut, the heavy, labored footsteps heralding her uncle’s return.
“Anything?” he barked.
“No.”
Curses fell like hailstones against a metal roof, drowning out everything but the agony in her shoulders, in her chest, at her side.
“I want my goddamn money, you whore!” he shouted, kicking her legs out from beneath her and startling a cry from her mouth. “And finally, you’ll give it to me.” He stepped in front of her, waited the long moments it took for her to stop flailing, to stop gasping for air like a fish on a hook, and for her to find the strength to lift her head and meet his stare. “Bring in the sister.”
No!
Natalia jerked back, watching in horrified silence as two men escorted Ana Maria into the room.
A sob—shattered, wet, and broken—tried to expel the jagged pieces of her heart. Ethan had promised her. Sworn he’d have Ana picked up and detained. Why hadn’t he?
She closed her eyes, tugged at the shackles digging into her wrists, whined at the way her feet slipped and slid against the floor. Ethan wouldn’t have let them take her; he would have kept his word. Which meant . . . which meant . . .
“Natalia,” Ana Maria whispered, her voice a ruin of shock and horror and fear.
She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t watch as they took Ana Maria apart. Ana was the reason for everything Natalia had ever done. Good or bad, right or wrong, Natalia could shoulder it because no matter what, she could never regret ensuring Ana Maria had the life she deserved. But now that was about to be torn to shreds. If Ana Maria died, it would all have been for nothing.
“Look at me,” Ana Maria said, her voice pushing past fear and turning sure and steady and clear as a church bell. “Natalia, look at me.”
Natalia opened her eyes, met her sister’s gaze.
Ana Maria smiled. “You were right. He—”
The single door into the room burst open on a bang, slamming against the rough cinder-block walls hard enough to swing wildly back in the other direction, but not before something sailed through the door, bringing noise and fire and chaos with it.
Silence descended, smothered beneath the hazy, high-pitched ringing in her ears. Somewhere beneath that, as if she heard it from the bottom of a pool or through a dozen walls, voices shouted and shots rang out.
Natalia blinked, her vision foggy, as if she’d opened her eyes into the sun and temporarily blinded herself. Slowly, her senses came back to her, sound following sight. Four men—two who’d watched as Carlos had beaten her, two who’d dragged Ana Maria through the door only moments before—lay dead on the floor.
And Ethan stood before her, a man she didn’t know at his back. She swallowed back an apology or a plea or a sigh of relief—it was hard to tell beneath the mess of pain and confusion and exhaustion. His mouth moved, terse words she didn’t understand falling from his lips.
She forgot herself, tried to take a swaying step forward, only to be jerked back by a strong arm and a brutal grip. Too late, she felt the knife at her throat, the edge biting into her skin.
“Stay, gatita,” Carlos said against the shell of her ear. “Stay and live a little longer.”
“Natalia,” Ethan said, his words for her but his focus on Carlos, “don’t move, honey.”
Relief twisted her lips, trying to muster the energy for a grin, but the humiliating bite of exposure—she was utterly helpless, completely reliant on someone else—stole her focus. She’d been prepared to die alone, to have that dignity at least, but now Ethan stood before her, barely able to look at her.
“Mentiroso!”
Hernan’s roar pulled Natalia’s gaze to the corner of the room where he stood, clutching Ana Maria to him like a shield, his arm around her neck, a gun in his hand. The man who’d followed Ethan into the room had his own gun up and at the ready, but even if he was an expert marksman, the risk was too great, Ana Maria too much of a target.
She pulled uselessly at the rope binding her wrists. She needed to . . . She couldn’t . . . Oh God, she couldn’t reach anyone. Couldn’t help anyone.
“Hush,” Carlos said again. “Your role in this is done, and now I will hear the truth.”
“Let her go,” Ethan repeated. “We can settle this without the women.”
“I don’t think so.” Carlos leaned close, his chin nearly settling atop her shoulder, his knife still pressed to the column of her throat.
“I have what you came for. Let her go and I’ll wire the money.”
“How did you come by the money?” Carlos asked. “She gave it to you?”
“Does it matter?” Ethan didn’t so much as take a step, though his body shifted, as if he had to fight every instinct he had to hold his position.
“To the cartel? No. Colombia sees only guilt and retribution. They do not care for why.”
“I do.” Carlos loosened his hold, the knife nicking Natalia’s throat pulling away enough for her to heave in a shuddering breath. She coughed, wet and thick, then wheezed as she tried to pull in another breath. “Explain. And for her sake, do it quickly.”
“Natalia never touched the money.”
Natalia whimpered through an agonizing breath. “No, Ethan . . .”
“Shh. He says what I already know,” Carlos whispered. Then to Ethan, he demanded, “Who?”
“Hernan, of course.”
“You lie!” Hernan shouted from the corner of the room, an angry bull facing the sword. Ana Maria jerked and cried, her hands pulling fruitlessly at her uncle’s forearm.
“To steal but not spend, to take but not run—it requires discipline. Control. Hernan does not have these things. Colombia knows this. I know this. If you have the money, as you say, then Hernan did not take it.” Carlos shifted, used the weight of his arm around Natalia’s throat to push her down, forcing her chest to expand and the pressure to drive the air from her lungs on a strangled wail of agony.
“Stop it.”
“Then, tell me.”
“I took it!” Ana Maria blurted out, her voice panicked and scared. “I took it.”
“Bitch!” Hernan shoved his gun into Ana Maria’s ribs. “I’ll kill you both!”
She jerked sideways but brought her gaze to Natalia’s, her face scared but her eyes determined.
“You’re dead the second you pull that trigger,” the man behind Ethan said, sliding forward another step.
“He is dead anyway,” Carlos pronounced. “Too careless for too long. It is time for change.”
“I don’t have the money!”
“But you lost it,” Carlos said, his voice a rolling tumbler of gravel. “To a bad accountant. To agentes federales. To a woman. For that, you will die.” Carlos shifted, tilting his head to the side as if considering Ethan. “You object?”
“I need him,” Ethan acknowledged. “He has something of mine.”
“Ethan . . . please,” Natalia begged, though for what—her sister’s life, her own freedom, Will’s safety—she couldn’t be sure. But this had to end, and Carlos didn’t need to know these things. She didn’t know what he’d do with the information, if he’d care or cut his losses. There was nothing in it for him, no reason to do anything other than what he’d come to do.
“You knew this, gatita?” he asked against her neck. He tsked, a familiar cluck of tongue that said she’d both disappointed and amused him. “I warned you.”
He had. About love. About loyalty. About the weakness it bred within her. He’d meant Ana Maria, but it applied to Ethan, too. And now he knew it.
“And what would you give me?” Carlos asked. “What is his life worth to you?”
“Nothing. I needed only time—” Ethan pinned her with a look. “Time I was given. I have no need for Hernan Vega.”
Relief, nearly as sweet as fresh, crisp air, filled her chest. She’d done it. Bought him the time he needed to find his friend. She hoped Ethan brought Will home. That he found comfort in his friend.
Natalia only wished she’d be able to meet him.
“And hers?” Carlos asked, flicking the point of his knife to Natalia’s throat. “What would you give me for this life?”
“Anything,” Ethan declared. “Everything.”
“My little cat.” He stepped away and withdrew his knife. “One more fight,” he said, his voice a fond goodbye, “and then no more.” He put his blade to the rope at her wrists. “If she fights and lives, so be it,” he declared, the rope loosening, then fraying, her heels touching the ground. “But Natalia Vega is no more. Yes?”
“Yes,” Ethan agreed.
“He dies now,” Carlos said, nodding to Hernan as he continued to cut at the rope binding her.
Hernan shouted, pulled his gun up, and aimed straight for Carlos and her. Natalia watched, stunned and proud and horrified, as Ana Maria jerked her hand from his arm; withdrew the switchblade Natalia had given her so long ago; turned to the side, giving her room to bury the knife in Hernan’s thigh, twisting her wrist and severing the femoral artery, as Natalia had taught her.
Hernan released Ana Maria as the rope holding up Natalia snapped, dropping her to the ground like a stone into a pool of fire and agony. She turned to her side, drew a breath, fought for another, and gasped like a landed fish.
Hernan glanced down, the gray of his pants already wet and heavy with blood. It would take only minutes. And from the look on his face, her uncle knew it, too.
“Bitch,” he spat, pulled his arm to the right, and fired two rounds before the man behind Ethan put a bullet through his head.
All the fight Natalia had left hit the floor with Ana Maria’s body, the echo of the bullets impacting her back like fists against a heavy bag. “Ana . . .” Natalia twisted, gasped, and tried to pull herself across the floor.
“Check on her, Ortiz,” Ethan said, his gaze still fixed on Natalia. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s all right, she’s going to be fine.”
“She’s alive,” Ortiz said, “but we need to get Liam in here now.”
“You will wire the money?” Carlos asked. “I do not wish to return.”
“On my word, it’s done,” Ethan said, falling to his knees beside Natalia, his hands trembling as he reached for her. “It’s all done.”
Carlos stepped over her and toward the door, then glanced back. “Goodbye, gatita.” And then he was gone, through the door and out of her life like a ghost.
“Ana—” She turned her head, looked for her sister, but couldn’t find her through the chaos of men pouring into the room.
“Shh, shh,” Ethan said, rolling her to her side. “Just breathe. Ortiz is with her. We’re going to take care of you both. Just stay with me, Natalia.”
He brushed hair from her face, cupped a palm against her cheek.
“Why? Why did you do this?” he asked, his face contorted in pain and confusion. “I never—You should never have . . . ,” he said, picking up her hand and kissing her knuckles.
She blinked at Ethan, black spots dancing in front of her eyes. “Your friend . . . the right thing.”
“I’ve got a team on the way—”
“Hey, let me take a look.” A man with red hair appeared at her side, gentle hands checking her over, a soft voice asking her to breathe—he might as well have asked her to fly.
“Liam?” Ethan asked.
“First ambulance is here!” a voice shouted from the door.
“Liam!” Ethan repeated.
“They’re both critical,” he replied. “Both out of time—you need to prioritize one and triage the other.”
“Ana . . .”
“Second ambulance is minutes out, but I need to know who to take, Ethan.”
“Can’t both go?”
“Ambulance can only carry one critical patient, Ethan, the crews need room to work.”
Oh God. No. No.
“You promised . . .” Natalia forced her chest to expand, to fight for the air to breathe one last burst of life into her sister.
“I know,” Ethan said, dropping his forehead to hers, torment deepening the grooves on his face until she barely recognized him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Natalia.”
She squeezed his hand. Tried to tell him it was okay but didn’t have the words or air or energy to do more than grasp his fingers.
“Forgive me,” he whispered as more men and women and equipment poured into the room.
Then, as she’d known he would, Ethan looked her in the eye as he buried the knife in her heart.
“Over here!”