Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Not without you.
His luggage was still here, his clothes draped over the chair.
“John?” She leaned up on an elbow, listening.
Silence.
Sighing, she threw back the soft coverlet, warm and bright with the kiss of sunshine, and went to investigate.
A full breakfast greeted her in the main room, eggs and high-fat pork still steaming beneath the dome covers. She forced herself to eat, needing the calories, but her nerves prevented her from tasting it.
Where was he? Was he already executing some reckless plan against La Rocha? Why hadn’t he woken her? What if he got himself killed?
Cold dread slithered up her spine.
“You’re deranged and paranoid,” she whispered under her breath. “He’s just working out.”
She showered and got ready for the day. By mid-morning, he hadn’t returned.
She went for a walk.
Keeping to the low-traffic areas, she followed winding paths through the gardens and ventured away from the main buildings.
All was quiet here in the morning, opening her ears to the sounds of chirping birds and busy bees. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was in a peaceful place, surrounded by nature and harmony. And freedom.
She’d forgotten what freedom felt like. To exist without someone watching. To run without someone chasing. To make decisions without painful corrections lashed upon her body.
It had been so long she didn’t know how to wish for such an ideal.
Lost in thought, she wandered until her feet carried her to the garage on the far side of the property. The door creaked as she opened it, the aroma of metal and engine oil tickling her nose. A comforting scent. Her sanctuary.
A camera hung high in the corner, tracking her movements until she veered around a large shelving unit and climbed into the back of an old Dodge Dart. The rusted thing might’ve been a rock-star muscle car in the sixties, but the only purpose it served now was a place to hide beyond the reach of the camera.
The paint was so worn and dusty only a few bits of blue shone through. The long backseat, however, made a comfy bed. She crawled in and curled up on the blanket she’d placed here forever ago.
From beneath the seat, she removed a small journal and flipped through the pages, reading her handwriting, savoring the words. Memory after memory filled her vision. Only good memories. The best ones from her childhood. She’d written them all down when she first arrived and added to them over the years. On her worst days, she read them, relived them, and rediscovered her smile.
But she hadn’t come today to recharge with happy thoughts. She was here to think, weigh her options, and make a decision.
The last time she trusted a man, she got schooled. Miguel had promised her a dream and delivered a nightmare.
John had made no such promises, save for one.
He’d said he wouldn’t leave without her.
It was a promise he couldn’t keep. La Rocha would never let her go. Not for any sum of money. Not even at gunpoint. Well, maybe if it was a lot of guns. Like a whole army.
If John was connected to the Colombian cartel, he had the means to gather a militia. But he didn’t know where to send them.
It all came down to the location of the compound.
She couldn’t help him with that, but she could tell him what she saw on the other side of the wall. Maybe it was nothing.
What if it was everything?
The thought slingshot her heart into the garage rafters. She jackknifed up, shoving the journal beneath the seat on her way out of the car.
She wouldn’t be naive, but being stubborn was just as bad. She could help him figure out the location without giving him her name. If his plan went south, or worse, if he betrayed her, her family would still have anonymity.
Decision made, she turned toward the door. But before she stepped into view of it, it creaked open.
She froze, her senses amplified as a single set of footsteps crunched across the dirt floor.
Heart thudding in her ears, she rounded the shelving unit and came face to face with Miguel La Rocha.
“Ven aquí, mi pequeño zorro.” He smoothed a hand down his tie, his Spanish a silken caress. “Are you hiding from me?”
“No. But had I known you were back, then yes, you bet your ugly ass I would’ve hidden somewhere you couldn’t find me.” She sidestepped, veering toward the door.
“Careful.” Graceful and deadly, he moved with her, blocking her escape. “I’m not in the mood today.”
“You’re never in the mood, pachuco.”
His lip curled with distaste. “Watch your mouth, or I’ll find a better use for it.”
A sting of fear knifed through her. “You didn’t come here for a blowjob.”
He would never force her to do that particular act. He knew better. But there were worse ways to hurt her.