Now for a sneak peek at the next installment in the Band of Sisters series
I Am Grace
Gracie Parish had learned three valuable things in the last two excruciating hours driving around Mexico: The fetal position was only comfortable in the womb. Her deodorant wasn’t trapped-inside-a-hidden-compartment strength. And blood circulation could be lost in your forehead.
There had to be an easier way to break into a sex-slaver’s home than smooshed inside this malodorous secret compartment, while her brother and his frenemy, Victor, drove into the compound, posing as mano-a-mano live “entertainers.”
Sweat salted her eyes, slicked her skin. The good news? If she did die, the house of Hades would feel like an oasis. A spacious oasis.
This was it. This was the absolute last time she took part in her family’s insane vigilante schemes. Ugh. Sometimes she wished she’d never been adopted into this mess. She needed a vacation on an island. A Canadian island. Someplace cold.
With a flick of her jaw, she clicked her mic. “How much longer, Justice? I’m roasting.”
“Please, you’ve been in there for two hours. People smuggled out of Mexico stay in that compartment for days.”
Days? Days pretending to be the back seat of a car, while your legs were tucked, foam padding stuck to your skin, your right arm went numb, your right hip screamed, and you could taste exhaust. “Yeah, well, not me. If my cyber skills weren’t needed to rescue your boyfriend, nothing could get me into this Dante’s Inferno. Nothing.”
“Chill your white privilege. You’re almost inside the compound.”
Her sister scored zero on the empathy meter. Zero. “Easy for you. You’re on a hilltop, stretched out, overlooking this whole scene through a scope.”
“Just playing to my strength. I’m the best shot.”
She was a good shot. Hey. No. “You know, this bull-poop has been going on since childhood. ‘Gracie’s the smallest, she can fit in that pipe.’” She mimicked a child’s high-pitched voice. “‘Gracie’s the smallest, let her squeeze through the vent system. Gracie’s the smallest—put her in the smuggling compartment so she can break out Trojan horse-style inside the compound.’”
“Bull-poop? If you cursed, you’d realize bullshit is way more satisfying.” She could hear the humor in Justice’s voice. “And it’s not my fault you’re a shrimp.”
“Being petite isn’t a talent.”
“You also have great red hair and hot underwear.”
Oh. God. She’d never live that down. “Good thing. Otherwise I’d have no excuse if they find me. Assuming they don’t shoot before I explain that Tony and Victor hid me here as a surprise bonus to their sex show.”
“Trust me, no red-blooded male is going to shoot you when he gets a look at that thong.”
Humiliating. Circles of heat singed her already too-warm cheeks.
Should’ve just nodded when Justice had said, “Sure, Gracie, pretending to be a stowaway entertainer is better than nothing, but we don’t have a costume for you.” She’d looked around the desolate plane hangar, thrown up her hands, and teased, “We’re shit out of eight-hundred-dollar bras, and there’s no Agent Provocateur in sight.”
What happened after that was probably one of the top five most embarrassing moments of her life. She’d dropped her pants. She’d lifted off her shirt.
Justice had burst into laughter. Tony had sputtered. Victor had whistled. “Damn, Red, if I’d known you were hiding that, I would’ve been nicer to you.”
Yeah. Top five. Definitely. And this, being in this car, was definitely in the top ten most uncomfortable places she’d ever been.
Well, maybe top fifteen.
“Our boys are pulling up to the compound gate.” Justice’s voice was low in her ear. “So stay quiet.”
The car turned. The crunch of gravel vibrated under the wheels and through her bones. The car jerked to a stop. Her forehead thunked against metal.
Her headset clicked. She heard Justice’s breathing and then, “There’s a big American Ninja Warrior-like security guard. He seems to be in charge. He’s gesturing Tony and Victor out.”
Gracie caught the sound of a deep voice, a guy with an American Southern accent. Southern?
The car doors opened and shut as Tony and Victor got out.
Come on, come on. It’s the home of a human trafficker, not the White House. Just let us inside.
Justice snorted through the headset. “Victor just pirouetted to show he had nothing to hide. Hysterical. Man has balls.”
And then some. She pictured that fine Latino pirouetting in his Magic Mike costume. Victor could fill out a G-string.
“Heads up. They’re coming to check the car.”
The front car doors opened with a squeak of hinges. Her heart rate jumped to please-God-don’t-let-them-find-me pace.
Sweat rolled down her face, perched on her lips. She held her breath.
They’d find her. They’d hear her hyper heartbeat like in Poe’s “The Telltale Heart,” ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. And then they’d shoot her. Boom.
Someone climbed into the back seat. Blood whoosh, whoosh, whooshed in her ears. Her hearing focused in tight. Did he have his knee on her left butt cheek? Not a featherweight.
Oh Lord, please. If she survived, she’d go back to running her bar. Maybe keep her cyber-warrior stuff going on the side, but she’d stay far away from the field. And danger. And death.
His weight shifted. The padding and the springs pressed tight against her hip. Ouch.
No big deal. No big deal.
If they caught her, well she’d heard that Mexicans love redheads.
Is that racist?
Gracie, stop overthinking.
He didn’t register her beneath him. Phew. Then again, if this had been a shoddy place to hide, she never would’ve gotten into it. Petite body didn’t mean petite mind.
The door shut with a slam. She exhaled. Thank the universe, Allah, Dr. Phil, and baby Jesus.
Someone got into the front, started the car, backed it up, drove it a short distance, and parked. The car door creaked open and slammed closed.
“Justice—” she whispered.
“Fuck. They parked the car outside the compound. You’re like twenty feet from the fucking guard tower.”
Fudge. She needed to be inside the gate to turn off the security. Ok. Stay calm. “Don’t worry, J. I’ve got this. I’ll find a way in and turn off the electric fence for you.”
Honestly. The very last time I do this.
* * *
Guarding the front gate of a ten-thousand-acre cattle ranch turned bad guy’s hideout, Leif “Dusty” McAllister couldn’t help but wonder if he had the luck of an ’80s action-adventure star. John McClane’s brand of bad luck.
That Die-Harder could be scarfing down burgers at a Shake-n-Steak and still run into a shit show.
Not that he was currently anywhere near that fabulous testament to American culinary prowess. And if he went—God’s honest—he’d have to admit he’d been asking for it. Going undercover in Mexico to catch a family of American vigilantes wasn’t exactly staying out of the line of fire.
Sure had raised a few eyebrows at the bureau. Uptight, shoe-polish divas. If you couldn’t stomach a little cow patty on your boots, you shouldn’t stomp around with the bulls. He’d spent months cultivating his relationship with Tony Parish, so when he’d offered Dusty a part in this operation, he’d gone all in. Tony was the reason he was in Mexico, pretending to work for that psycho sex-trafficker Walid.
Dusty motioned the Latino guy with the sparkly G-string and Tony, who wore a similar getup and a belt weighted with BDSM tools—leather hand- and ankle-cuffs, leash, gag, nipple clamps—to stand still while he frisked them.
Tony was tense and clearly less comfortable in his G-string than his partner. Dusty frisked him. Tony shifted from foot to foot. “Dusty.”
Even though it was barely a whisper, Dusty froze. Guy was gonna call him by name? Here? Pretty stupid. Or desperate.
Dusty leaned down as he checked Tony’s tools of the trade. Those and his steel-toed boots had set off the metal detector wand. Dusty got to a knee. “Take off your boots.”
Tony bent down, took off his shoes, leaned next to Dusty’s ear. “Gracie in back of car. Can you get her to security?”
Tony’s sister was in the back of that car?
This wasn’t the original plan. How the hell was he going to get her inside without his men starting to suspect Tony and his pal?
Dusty stood and nodded. “Put your boots back on.”
He moved to frisk Victor. The guy winked at him. “Take your time, big guy.”
Was he serious? Walid was probably watching this whole exchange. Dusty pointed at his shoes. “Take ’em off.”
Dusty checked the guy’s shoes, ducked his head, hid his mouth, and murmured, “Justice?”
Inches from him, the guy retied his shoes. “Hillside. Scope.”
Definitely not the original plan. His heart started to pick up its pace. She had a scope on them?
This last-minute bullshit must’ve been sparked when Walid captured Sandesh, Justice’s boyfriend. Damn. Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve were lining up at the pasture gate in his mind.
He ran through the possibilities. Tony was going after Walid, so Gracie and Justice must be after Sandesh.
He motioned to the golf cart waiting nearby. “Good to go.”
Without another word, Tony and his pal walked toward the cart that would take them to the villa. Just as well. Couldn’t afford to keep talking with his men looking on. Sure they trusted him, hard not to after months here, but they weren’t total idiots. Poorly trained. Yes. Go-lucky. Yes. Total idiots. No.
Now he had to get Gracie Parish inside the compound without raising suspicion, keep that hothead Justice from shooting anyone, and sacrifice one sadistic sex-slaver to the cause. Hopefully then he’d gain an invite into the Parish family.
An invite he sorely needed to get the evidence to take down the Parish matriarch and vigilante extraordinaire, Mukta Parish.
He cast his eyes to the sky and whatever heavenly power broker might happen to own stock in this shit show. Please. No more surprises.
In answer, the alarm blared from the speakers perched on posts throughout the compound.
Thanks a lot.
The two-way on Dusty’s belt sparked to life, security telling him the alarm had started in the dungeon—the old mine where they took prisoners. Looked like Sandesh had gotten restless.
Dusty motioned his men back from Tony and his pal, who had climbed into the golf cart. He did not want to set Justice off. The alarm had to be playing as much havoc with her nerves as his.
He absolutely had to do something, because Walid—a raging loon since his brother’s murder—was surely watching.
Adrenaline brushed its chemical magic across his blood, and the entire scene slowed, snapped into bright, glaring focus.
He ordered Tony and Victor out of the golf cart and onto their knees. Best to make it look good.
One of his guards, a recent hire, misunderstood. Deciding the alarm and these two arriving weren’t coincidence, he got in Tony’s face.
Newbie.
With a calm voice, Dusty spoke to the guy in Spanish. But the newbie bent down, grabbed Tony, hoisted him to standing.
And then the idiot reached for his gun. Dusty put up a hand. “No. Para—”
Pop. Blood splattered from a bullet hole in newbie’s head. Tony wrestled out of his dead grasp and ran toward Walid’s villa, with Victor a hot step behind.
Bullets started flying. Dusty ducked and ran for cover in the other direction, toward the car and the woman hidden there.
Yep. John McClane’s luck. They were gonna die so friggin’ hard today. All of them.