Someone had come into the room in the few minutes I’d been out of it and taken her. How? Think, damn it. Think like him. I had minutes to pull it together and figure out what had happened, how the fucker had gotten out and where he’d take her.
No forced entry—that meant a key. I bolted for the door and toward the clerk’s office. I needed a description and a license plate.
She hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t made a single sound, so she’d been taken unconsciously. That meant a blow to the head—which was never a sure thing—or an injectable sedative—the more likely weapon used.
It was a small relief—she wasn’t terrified, not yet. She had no idea I’d failed her yet, and I was going to fucking find her before she came to.
I threw open the office door. It slammed against the wall and the glass shattered. I stormed to the desk, drew the gun out of its holster and held it up to the young punk’s head. “Room twelve, who has the key?”
Incoherent stuttering, and I think the guy might have pissed himself. I didn’t give a fuck.
“You have three seconds before I blow your brains out. Three…”
“Your…your brother. Your brother has the key, Mister. Please, don’t kill me,” he sniveled.
I didn’t have a brother—in case you were wondering. “Describe him.”
“T-tall. Black hair…”
Yeah, in Central America, that was really fucking helpful.
“He-he had a scar. Yeah, a scar on his cheek.”
“Was he alone?”
“I think so,” the guy squeaked. “He…he said he just got back in town and wanted to surprise you. He gave me a thousand pesos to give him the key.”
A thousand pesos—fifty bucks? This dumb fuck had just handed Scar over for fifty bucks? My finger shook the trigger. The kid deserved to die. But Scar invaded my thoughts and I knew she wouldn’t want that.
“Car? What kind of car was he driving?”
“It was black. Yeah, black.”
I cocked an impatient eyebrow.
“One of those really expensive cars, you know?”
As useless as it was, that was all the information the punk was going to be able to give me. I couldn’t exactly walk out and have him calling the cops though. So, I slammed the butt of the gun into the punk’s skull and watched him crumple, unconscious in his seat. The kid would never know how fucking lucky he was.
Back outside, I grabbed my shit from the motel room, cast one last glance at the bed as if she might appear there even now, and then left the room. I slid into the car and revved the engine, half-expecting the car to have been tampered with, but the assailant hadn’t bothered. That meant he was either one cocky, son of a bitch, or else he was too nervous to spare a moment even to safeguard his own getaway.
I scanned every inch of space as I pulled out of the parking lot, but I already knew I wouldn’t find her here. It was an easy decision which way to head though. Either one of Marcos’ goons had scooped her up or else the buyer had. Both options meant heading back the way we’d come.
I made the mistake of glancing over at the empty seat next to me. Rage and agony nearly won out. My hands shook on the wheel and were clenched so tight I was surprised the wheel didn’t snap.
I wanted to scream, kick, hit; break everything I could get my hands on. But that wasn’t going to help her. What she needed was the cold-hearted asshole I’d been before I’d dragged her into my life. If I had been hunting down a runaway slave six months ago, I would have been the coolest fucker you’d ever seen. Any regret, any equivocation about the unsavory task…I would have buried it down and focused on the job at hand.
That’s what I did. It’s all I had known for a long time. Do the job—it was all that mattered because it brought what I’d needed. Purpose, respect, money. Power. All the things I’d thought I needed. Until Scarlett. And now because I’d fucked up, the only thing I cared about—the only person who mattered—was slipping further and further away by the second.
Think like him, a rational voice in my head whispered. Strange that the rational part had taken on Scar’s voice, but it—or she—was right. So, I did my damnedest to push everything else out. If I was him…I’d be heading north in a hurry. Especially after failing to take out the mark’s vehicle, I wouldn’t be making stops or detours for anything.
I’d be on the highway, slipping above the speed limit as much as possible without risking getting pulled over. An expensive car meant there likely wasn’t a lot of trunk room to stash her in, and I’d be nervous about doing it anyway because of the weapons I’d have stashed in there. So, Scar was likely lying beneath blankets in the back seat—not the best scene for a cop to find if I was pulled over.