Grace woke with a suddenness that belied her exhaustion, but her body didn’t jerk or otherwise indicate she’d awakened. She had shifted at some point and faced her rescuer, who drove with a somber expression on his face. His eyes didn’t shift from the road, so she studied him through half-closed lids.

His hair was so short it barely existed on his head, its dark color the only reason she could see it. His eyes were dark, his skin olive-toned, and he was a colossus of a man. Considered tall for a woman, she rarely had to look up so far when a man stood close, and his broad shoulders, thick neck, and muscular, tree-trunk legs were drool-worthy. The scar over his left eyebrow, not visible to her while in the passenger seat, gave him a dangerous edge, one that meant he might kill you or keep you safe, and either could change in the blink of an eye.

Just as he wanted to know her story, she wanted to know his, but hers was more relevant at the moment. What would she do with this story? She had no pictures to go with it; her camera had remained in her cell when Anna and Esmerelda had dragged her upstairs. Trevor was the writer, and he was gone. A sadness welled in her at the thought of her friend, but she didn’t have time to mourn him. She would cry for him when she was safe, and in his memory, she would tell this story. To the DEA, FBI, CIA, whoever handled this sort of thing, and she would write it, with help, so the world could understand what the cartel was.

She shifted and sat up, lifting the jeep’s seat to its upright position, and looked out the window as she settled. “Where are we?”

“Almost to Tuerto,” Tony replied, his deep voice sending a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with fear.

“Okay.” She stretched and yawned hugely, apologizing.

He glanced at her. “You should have a couple hours to sleep once we get there.”

Grace nodded as she reached for the visor to look at the mirror she hoped was there. She lifted the cover and looked at her face, frowning. The bruise on her forehead had mellowed to a sickly green, but her eyes were still purple and blue. Snapping the visor closed, she grumbled under her breath.

“What?”

“My face,” she replied angrily. She jerked her hair into a makeshift ponytail and tied it in a knot at the top of her head, hoping it would stay in place. “I never thought I’d have bruises on my face.”

“You put yourself in dangerous situations for your job,” he commented without taking his eyes off the road. “I’m surprised this is the first time, actually.”

“You know, I’ve never even come close to being injured while on a job,” she said with a frown, “and I’ve been places that are much worse than this.”

“A country ravaged by war is nothing like a country run by drug cartels,” Tony told her. “I don’t know if you were raped, doesn’t seem like it. You’re lucky to have nothing more than a few bruises.”

He doesn’t mince words to protect feelings, that’s for sure, she thought. “You’re right. I am lucky, and based on the story Tomas told me, I’m not only lucky. I’m blessed with a guardian angel.”

He nodded his head, though his expression revealed nothing. His words, however, were pointed. “If we are captured, that luck will end. I don’t tell you that to scare you. I’m warning you.”

She stared at his profile, fear renewing its vigor in her. “How do we prevent being captured?”

“You do exactly as I tell you, when I tell you,” he explained, glancing at her with serious, hard eyes. “I can get you home as long as you don’t do anything stupid.”

She sniffed petulantly, his words irritating her. “I won’t do anything stupid. I have no desire to see Tomas de Velazquez again in my life, unless it’s to testify against him.”

He grimaced and shook his head. “You’re an idealist, an admirable trait in other circumstances. In this one, you sound stupid.”

“Why do I sound stupid?” she asked, trying to control her anger. “The man should go to prison. He’s a murderer, kidnapper, torturer, and drug dealer. I can’t think of anyone who deserves prison more than he does.”

“Men like de Velazquez don’t go to prison, Grace,” Tony told her slowly, as if he didn’t expect her to understand. “They are killed either by their enemies or by the authorities, or they get away with their crimes due to lack of credible witnesses.”

“I’ve read several news stories about cartel members going to prison,” she countered, leaning forward in her seat to make her point.

“Do your research,” he scoffed. “Most of them were lower members, gun runners or assassins. Very rarely do you see a leader put in prison, and if he does go, he’s killed within a month of being there.” Tony shook his head as he looked at her, his almost handsome face determined. “The leaders have men who will take the fall for them, or they kill themselves to save face.”

Grace leaned back, letting his words settle into her mind as she tried to remember some of the stories she’d read. And as she recalled, his words rang with truth. Meaning Tomas de Velazquez would undoubtedly escape prison. Then I’ll wish for his death, she thought with a sneer of hatred. He’s cruel, heartless, a psychopath. The world would be better without him.

She kept her thoughts to herself when the jeep slowed as they entered a village smaller than Adelaida. The roads were all gravel or dirt, and the buildings were little more than metal sheds that had been converted to homes and one that might have been a grocer. No one stepped outside to watch as they passed through the hamlet that couldn’t really be called a town or even a village.

“Are you sure people live here?” she asked as she tried to peer into a shack that had no door. “I haven’t seen a soul.”

“We’re in de Velazquez’ jeep. They’re probably afraid to step out,” Tony replied, his eyes moving in all directions as the vehicle crawled through the streets. “We won’t see anyone until we get to Pablo’s.”

“How far is that?”

He chuckled darkly, without humor. “Pablo doesn’t like people much. He lives on the outskirts where no one bothers him.”

“And he’s a friend of yours?” she asked curiously, suspicious of everyone in Mexico now.

“I wouldn’t call him a friend,” he answered. Throughout the conversation, he’d watched everything as if waiting for an ambush, increasing Grace’s tension.

“What would you call him?” She returned her eyes to the terrain, joining his search for bad guys.

“de Velazquez would call him a traitor. I call him a spy. He calls himself a patriot.”

“Hmm. Interesting,” Grace said unnecessarily. “Are we safe with him?”

“You ask too many questions,” Tony grumbled. “We’re as safe here as anywhere at this point.”

She pursed her lips, his quip cutting her. “I am a reporter, you know.”

“And now you know why reporters shouldn’t come here,” he grunted. She opened her mouth, ready with a hot reply, when he said, “Quiet. Something’s wrong here.”

Grace looked through the windshield again and saw that they’d nearly reached what was obviously Pablo’s home, a word used loosely when describing the hovel. The ramshackle building was made of wood and leaned precariously to one side as if the wind was stronger than its walls. The wood had aged to a sickly gray, and there were holes throughout patched with what looked like cardboard. The tin roof was littered with rust and had a tarp thrown over portions of it, obviously to keep the weather at bay. The door—a screen door like the one from the bar—hung from one hinge as if someone had tried to rip it off. To the left of the house was a dilapidated car with what looked like brand-new tires.

“He lives in there?” Grace asked, distaste filling her as she wondered where he went to the bathroom.

“Yes.” Tony halted the jeep twenty feet from the shack and turned off the engine. He pulled out his pistol, checked to see how many bullets it still held, cocked it, and alighted from the jeep. When Grace lifted her leg to swing out as well, he stopped her. “Wait here.”

She scrunched her nose and pressed her lips together. He was a bossy bastard with few manners, and he wasn’t a talkative person. He spoke only if she asked him a question, it seemed. But she’d told him she would do what he said. Anything, if he can get me home, she told herself, putting her pride in her mind closet and shutting the door for the moment. She hated being told what to do, but she wasn’t so stupid as to believe she was in her element.

She watched Tony, admiring his muscular backside as he walked slowly towards the dwelling. He paused at the door and lifted his head the way a hound would when catching a scent. Frowning, she leaned forward in her seat, fascinated by this reticent man whom she trusted as if she’d known him her entire life. She had no reason to base this trust on, but it was there nonetheless.

* * *

Tony stepped closer to the door after smelling the tell-tale coppery odor of blood. He glanced briefly over his shoulder at Grace to be sure she had remained in the jeep before stepping into the one-room shack. He scanned the scene, sighing when he saw Pablo hunched over a table with part of his head missing.

“Damn.” The man had been a piece of shit, ranked high in the cartel before growing too old to be as useful as his bosses wanted him to be. Because they’d left him to die, he’d turned to the American government, offering tidbits of information here and there to keep his pantry full and his liquor stocked.

With his passenger in mind, he pushed Pablo’s body off the chair and covered it with a blanket he found on the only other piece of furniture, a twin bed. Before covering the body, he wiped the table with the blanket to remove the blood that had seeped there. He used the sheet from the bed to cover the table, then stepped outside and called to Grace, beckoning her inside.

He watched as she scurried across the dirt to the door, admiring her movements. She was a graceful woman, one he’d seen naked from afar. The vision returned to him briefly, and he banished it, telling himself that should be the furthest thing from his mind while they were in very real danger.

“Before you go in, you should know Pablo is dead,” he warned her.He watched as she reeled in her emotions, cleared her throat, and joked, “Would it be too much to ask that he died of natural causes?”

He smirked at her. “His head might have exploded on its own, but that’s rare.”

She stared at him a moment, then threw her head back and began to laugh, loud and long, until tears streamed down her face. He watched her, a small smile on his face. He hadn’t thought his little jeer had been that funny, but she probably needed the release. She looked beautiful when she laughed because her whole face lit up with the humor. As her humor subsided, she looked at him and rolled her eyes.

“Your face won’t break if you laugh, Tony,” she commented, pushing past him and into the shack.

“I didn’t think it was that funny.” Frowning, he followed her and watched as she skirted around the body and began digging through the foodstuffs on the shelves hanging on the back wall. She read each can carefully before depositing it on the table or back on the shelf. “What are you doing?”

“I’m hungry, and you’re going to be hungry,” she announced as she plopped another can on the table. “Hopefully, I’ll find a bag to carry some of this stuff with us and we can eat in the jeep.”

“We can eat here,” he told her. “And we’re taking the car.”

“That heap?” she asked, swinging around to look at him. “You sure it works?”

“It was part of the plan, so I’m assuming it does,” he answered as he joined her search, looking for utensils rather than more food. She’d found six cans of various vegetables and soups. “Pablo’s death could unravel the plan we made. I’m not sure yet.”

As she plopped down with the hand-operated can opener and attacked a can of green beans, she froze and looked up at him. “Are we still safe?”

“For the moment.” She looked as if she could use some reassurance, but he wouldn’t lie to her.

“Will you tell me the plan?” she asked, adding, “What kind of vegetables do you want?”

“I’ll take the corn,” he answered. She’d taken the only chair, so he walked around and sat on the corner of the filthy mattress he’d bared when he’d removed the sheets. She handed him his can and they began eating as he spoke. “Pablo was taking us to a cabin he built years ago. Near that cabin is an airstrip. If we can get to it, we can hopefully contact my buddy, who’s a pilot.”

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” she conceded. She waited for him to continue, and when he remained silent, she grumbled, “What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know who killed Pablo. Nor do I know what he told that person,” Tony intoned.

Grace swallowed a bite of green beans, nodding as she did so. “I guess that’s a risk we have to take, right?”

He stared hard at her as he tried to think of other options, but there were none. He had no idea if de Velazquez had sent his people to retrieve them or if he had decided they weren’t worth the effort. But the man had proven relentless when he wanted something, according to what he’d learned about him. A woman had escaped him; he wouldn’t take that lightly.

“Finish your food,” he ordered, rising and tossing his empty can into the corner where other trash was piled. “We need to get going.”

Grace narrowed her eyes at him, her fiery expression clearly showing she wanted to explode into words, but she upended the can and finished the last of her food. She tossed hers near his and rose, collecting the remaining cans in her arms and heading for the door. He watched her with respect. She’d wanted to retort, probably a biting comment, but she hadn’t. This woman is dangerous, he thought as he wished Pablo a good afterlife. She would have escaped on her own, I’d bet my paycheck.

He fought with the door for a moment, jerking it loose and jamming it back into place before walking to the jeep to get his backpack. Grace waited by the car, watching him, a strange expression on her face.

“Why did you close the door?”

He scowled and said, “To keep the animals out.”

Her brow furrowed as she opened the back door of the car and deposited the cans there. “Huh.”

Tony lifted an eyebrow at her, but a glint in the distance caught his eye. “Oh, shit!”

She jerked around and saw the vehicle as well, which skidded to a stop about thirty yards from where they were standing. “What do I do? What do I do?”

“Get around here!” he yelled, motioning her to come around to his side of the car so it would be between them and the newcomers.

“Where are the keys?” she hissed when she knelt beside him.

“Supposed to be in it,” he growled, “but they aren’t in the ignition. He probably put them in the glove box or under the seat.”

Grateful he’d grabbed his backpack first, he replenished his clip and reinserted it in the gun, cocking it. Four sets of footsteps approached and stopped behind the jeep, using it as a shield. Grace grasped his shirt and held on tight, repeating ‘Oh God’ in a mantra. He hissed at her to be quiet, and she pressed her lips together.

“I’m going to talk to them,” he whispered to her, his face inches from hers. “I’ll open the door and you search for the damn keys. Do not lift your head high enough to be seen through the window.”

“Okay,” she said, her head nodding. Her eyes were wide with fright, but she climbed into the car and began her search just as a voice called her name.