George and Frank both followed me down the crumbling sidewalk, dodging the small trees that sprouted through the cracks. I stopped next to Milo’s car, flicked out one of my daggers, and stabbed the front tire. Then I did the same to the back. Satisfied my ex-lieutenant wouldn’t be going anywhere, I walked up to the metal door on the backside of the building. It was crooked and hanging on its hinges.
I smirked. Stupid idiot wasn’t even in a locked building. Slowly, I opened the door, wincing when the rusted joints creaked. There was no one visible in the hall so I waved in my men. I pointed to Frank and held up one finger, then to George and held up two. They would check each of those floors and I would take the third. The top floor was the most likely place for Milo to hide and I really wanted to be the one to find him.
I set out to find the stairs, George behind me while Frank went deeper into the crumbling building. George exited on the second level and I continued on to the top floor. Making sure my heavy boots didn’t make any noise, I crept down the hall, the scent of mold, rot, and piss stinging my nostrils. An exposed fluorescent bulb in the ceiling buzzed, flickering on and off like a grim strobe light. I pressed my ear to the first door.
Nothing.
Same with the second and third. On the fourth, I had him. Not only could I hear footsteps inside the unit, I could smell the thick grease of fast food over the smell of trash.
I grinned. Stupid motherfucker.
Dagger in one hand, my Glock in the other, I lifted a heavy boot and kicked open the shoddy door. It slammed against the wall as I rushed in. Milo was standing near a window and had to scramble for his gun. Before he could pull it out, I threw the small blade. Milo howled when it pierced the back of his hand, sticking out like a nail in a crucifix. I was on him in a flash, and with a single hard blow to his temple with the butt of my gun, he was out.
* * *
“Welcome back.”
Milo blinked, clearly confused as to where he was. He didn’t go far as we were still in the shitty apartment he had been using as a safe house.
“What the fuck?” he growled when he tugged on his hands and feet and found himself bound tight. He struggled, rolling on the filthy floor in a useless bid to free himself. Without a single piece of furniture to tie him to, I had to make do with what I had. The little plastic chair would never hold Milo, so tied up and shoved to the ground was my only option.
“What the fuck?” I repeated, incredulous at the nerve this prick had to be surprised to have ended up in his current position. I crossed the room and kicked the big man until he lay on his back. “What the fuck?” I stomped on his chest and held my foot there. Milo groaned, but said nothing. My boot still on his sternum, I bent over and grabbed his hair, holding his head in place. “You motherfucker. You think you can stab me in the back? Collude with El Cuchillo and hurt my woman?” I raised his head and smashed it back down so hard the old wood floor beneath him splintered.
“Fuck you!” Milo roared. He was screwed and he knew it. His only choice now, was whether he went out like a man or a crying pussy. Hell, Milo was a brutal bastard; for all I knew, he wasn’t frightened one bit. The man was truly fucked in the head.
I lifted my shit-kicking boot and brought it down again. This time I felt something in his body give and heard a snap. A rib, maybe? Like before, Milo only grunted. I had to give it to him, he was as tough as they came. “I’ll make a deal with you,” I said. “You cooperate, and I’ll give you a man’s death. You fight me, and I’ll make you beg like a girl.” Milo sneered and I increased the pressure on his chest. His lips tightened but still, no sound and no signs of giving in. I nodded. “Have it your way.”
I reached down and rolled up my pant leg. Milo knew what was coming. He’d seen me do it many, many times. I unsheathed the KA-BAR and rolled my pants back over my boot. Slowly, I strolled around his prone form, letting my eyes roam up and down his body, deciding what part I would cut off first. Decision made, I grabbed it and began.
This time, he screamed.
9
Miri
“No one will tell me anything, Cat. I’m getting really worried.” I chewed on my lip and sat back on my heels. My nose itched but my hands were covered in grease. I put down the wrench and wiped them off on a towel so I could scratch it.
“I have no idea what to say, Miri.” Cat was sitting on a folding chair while I worked on the Ducati.
Jag had been gone for two days. Two days since we were shot at on the beach by men on jet skis. Two days since Jag left me asleep in his bed and said he’d be back as soon as he could, giving no explanation as to where he was going. Two days of nonstop worrying and panic attacks. The only things keeping me from losing my mind were Cat, and the fact that Jag’s men reassured me that he was alive and well, just out on business. Of course no one would tell me what kind of business or how long their boss would be gone, but knowing he wasn’t hurt or dead was better than nothing.
At least Milo hadn’t been around lately. I shivered. He had taken to following me around the house, staring at me, as if waiting for something to happen. M
y head began to hurt. Whatever it was my mind was trying to tell me, I just couldn’t get a grip on it. It kept slipping through my fingers, dissolving like a drop of water in the turbulent ocean of my fucked up head.
I threw down the towel and slumped over. “I’m tired, Cat. Like I haven’t slept in years.”
“I know, Miri.”
My face heated when I realized how selfish I was being. Of course Cat knew how I felt—she was the one who was held for nearly a year, raped over and over. Kept tame with addictive, mind-numbing drugs. At least I had Jag, and I had only been captured for a few weeks. Nothing like what Cat went through.
“I’m sorry, Cat. I don’t mean to be so insensitive.” I stood and washed my hands at the sink.
“It’s fine, Miri. You’re worried about him. I get it. I don’t even really know the man and I’m worried.”
A chill went up my spine and I shivered. If Cat was worried, then something bad might actually happen to Jag. I shook my head at the thought. No. He would be fine, and his men wouldn’t lie if something did happen. Besides—I cut a glance across the garage to the imposing man standing guard at the door—it was obvious Jag had increased our protective detail. Neither Cat nor I were ever alone. One or two bodyguards followed us everywhere except the bedroom and the bathroom. We weren’t allowed to go to the gazebo or do anything outside. Heck, it took an hour of pleading just to get one of the guards to allow us to walk the twenty feet from the kitchen to the garage so I could work on the bikes to keep my mind occupied.
“He’s okay,” I said, more for myself than Cat. “He’ll be back.”