“You’ve made a terrible mistake,” I say quietly.
“Shut. Up.” The guy grunts, driving with his knees at top speed while reaching across to the glove compartment and fishing out a stained packet of…something.
Using his good hand, he rips the packet open with his teeth, getting half of the enclosed white powder in his mouth. Cursing and spitting, he shakes out what’s left of it over his wounded hand.
Huh. Clotting powder. Smart.
Gotta say, I’m impressed with the knee-driving.
Unfortunately, his hand is still a dripping mess. Since I don’t want him to bleed out at ninety miles an hour, I search the nasty glove compartment and pull out another wrinkled packet—an out-of-date BleedStop covered in whatever died in there—and rip it open, pouring it over his wound.
Cursing, he gingerly grabs the wheel and course corrects right before we fly into the berm, still spitting white powder on himself.
“Don’t fucking think that will get you any pity, whore.”
Aw, just when I thought we’d be friends.
“That’s okay, amigo. I don’t need your pity, especially since I plan on killing every single one of you.”
The eight-fingered man snorts in disbelief as he calls his buddies. It appears I’ll be going to my grandfather’s compound—the place where my entire life went to shit—after all. Since the guy didn’t kill us or even stop for a Band-Aid, I’m guessing he’s following orders to bring me in alive as quickly as possible.
Just a guess, but I suspect they’re going to try to make an example of me.
And-or resell me.
How quaint.
For the record, I did not want to come here. I wanted to let it go. I wanted to begin a life outside of murder, yet this man is dragging me straight toward it. So, I let him. I was even nice and gave him a warning, which he decided to ignore.
Pity.
You see, I already ran the numbers on my grandfather’s compound. Even though I decided on peace, I still created the logistics for taking it down. If my boyfriend isn’t too upset, he’ll remember to check the emails, where he’ll find that the back entrance is more difficult to breach than the front. Which means his best bet is to bust right in through the front gate.
It’ll be a big, dramatic gesture, to be sure, but I’ll have killed everyone by then. Except my grandfather.
I’ll let Erik take care of him.
That might surprise him, but I’m telling the truth when I say I don’t want to do this anymore. Honestly, I’d rather not kill anyone, but they tried to take Gael, and they’ve made it abundantly clear there will be no peace while they live. They—whoever they are—brought this on themselves.
The driver shifts his jaw as he hangs up, frustrated. Totally valid, given the state of his hand.
“Why do you think everyone is going to die?” he finally asks.
“Aside from the minimum two satellites tracking us and the fact my boyfriend is currently making plans to bring down an army on your heads, you’ve kidnapped me, of all people. Objectively, that was your biggest mistake.”
He turns, his eyes taking in my small stature. He doesn’t see what the years of pain turned me into. He doesn’t see the carefully designed muscles. He just sees a little man. Maybe even a kid.
Hell, even after I violently defended my cousin—who was doing a kick-ass job of defending himself, by the way—this maimed asshole hasn’t even bothered to tie me up or check me for weapons. I’m just sitting here in the passenger seat with my seat belt on and my hands in my lap.
And he’s going to die because of his assumptions.
Refocusing on the road, he asks, “Why is that my biggest mistake? Who are you?”
“My friends call me Ant, and your mistake is that I would rather die than be pulled back into this life. Which makes me a very, very dangerous person.”
He snorts, then ignores me for the rest of the drive, speeding until Gael’s SUV disappears from our view. We pull up to my grandfather’s compound about an hour later, and I almost don’t recognize it. It looks like it’s been abandoned for a decade. The big wall that surrounds everything is solid, but the paint is rain-stained and faded, the beautiful landscaping now a graveyard where green things go to die.
We drive around to the back, which, as I suspected, is heavily guarded. Five men armed with automatic rifles surround the vehicle. I could start the killing spree here, but that would alert too many people, and it’s better to get an accurate count of all the guards now. Logistics first, murder later.
Odd, Anders’ twin, is the one who taught me that it’s better to be patient and get more data before you begin killing people. He’s right, of course. Anders calls him a stick-in-the-mud, but I think Odd’s onto something.
I should call him.
Me and Lefty roll into the compound, and the house, a large Spanish-style villa built around what was once a beautiful courtyard, is in even worse repair than the wall. The structure is solid, but a few windows are smashed out and the beautiful courtyard now houses a parched fountain and wild overgrowth. This place always had a remote feeling, but now it feels like a ghost town.
As we roll to a stop, memories of love, rejection, and alienation push in from all sides. I remember trips to the park with my mom, visits from Yaya and Gaelcito, followed by long stretches of loneliness.
There were lectures about my responsibilities as the last living Allende heir, followed by whispers that I wasn’t living up to the family standard. My mom tried to protect me from the worst of it, but I was a small kid with big ears, and I knew something was wrong with me.
It took being sold for me to realize that wanting to marry a man was the thing that was wrong with me. In that way, trafficking did what my grandfather’s sneering side-eye couldn’t do—I no longer wanted to marry a man once I saw what they were capable of.
My eyes fall again to the dried-up fountain, and I remember how lush everything used to be. A forgotten memory spins up. I’d been playing quietly with my cars under the shade of the elephant plant by the fountain because I found the splashing water soothing.
I suppose that’s why my grandfather and my mother never saw me. He’d pulled her into the courtyard by one of the trees, then started kissing her. Not in the way a father-in-law kisses his daughter-in-law, but the way lovers kiss. Worse, she’d kissed him back. My grandfather, never a soft man, pressed his forehead to hers, smiling as he palmed her belly.
“My heir,” he whispered sweetly.
Something in my mom’s expression faltered, but he kissed her again and took her by the hand, leading her to his side of the living quarters.
My memories shift to my heavily pregnant mother pushing me under the bed, telling me to cover my ears and close my eyes. Always a little defiant, I watched as booted feet stormed in through the door and listened as my mother’s screams filled the room.
My grandfather had always been involved in shady bullshit, and the men took delight in telling my mother this was payback. I never fully understood the details then, but I do now. When they left the room, my mother slid to the floor, staring at me with dead eyes as blood pooled around her.
It was hours before a maid finally found me.
The nightmare was far from over though. My grandfather still had a debt to settle.
I blink away the horror-drenched memories as the truck comes to a stop. The driver gets out and circles around to my side, opening the door for me. I undo my seat belt and step out of the truck, taking a neutral stance. I glance up at my grandfather’s window and startle to find him looking down at me. He drifts away like a ghost.
A man who looks to be in his forties—though who can tell these days—walks up to us. He’s handsome, tall, and has the beginnings of gray at his temple.
“So. You are the grandson causing your grandfather so much trouble.”
I grin, touching my fingers to my chest. “Me? Troublesome? Never.”
He looks me up and down, and I let him. While I appear disinterested, I am, in fact, cataloging every person in this compound. I count about a dozen men, and half of them are standing guard, immobile.
That’ll slow their reaction times, which is good for me. The others are milling about, which makes them a little more dangerous, but nothing I can’t handle. Better, the little truck partially blocks their view of us, which means I’ll get a few of them before all hell breaks loose.
It’s all about crowd control. Omar taught me that.
“Yes, troublesome. I hear you’ve been on a killing spree, one that’s cost me a lot of money. Thankfully, there’s a guaranteed way for you to be able to pay me back, and according to our records, you make a great whore. So, getting on your knees again shouldn’t be all that difficult.”
Ah, so this is the current asshole in charge. I do hope he caught the sunrise when he woke up this morning. It’ll be his last.
I respond to his threat by wrinkling my nose and tilting my head back to look him in the eyes. I do this to emphasize how tall and strong he is compared to how small and weak I am. His body is relaxed, without an ounce of muscle tension anywhere. So certain that I pose no threat to him or his men. Assuming the Silent One did all the murdering.
It’s almost boring, really.
“No, thank you,” I answer brightly.
Amusement filters behind his eyes. “No, thank you? It wasn’t an offer, little one. It was a statement of fact. And hey, since you’re probably a little rusty, I’ve asked several of my men to help break you back in. You’ll be happy to know they were more than willing.”
Ah, I think to myself, that explains the men who are milling around.
“Seeing that you’ve injured my right-hand man, he gets first dibs.”
I chuckle. “Right-hand man? Eh. Not so much anymore.”
The driver sends me an ugly sneer, and I would’ve been happy to start my killing spree with him, but I’ve first got to take out the smug asshole who thinks he can tell me what to do.
“So, this is your guy, right?” I ask, grinning. “Your most trusted soldier.”
“Yes, he is. He’s been with me for years, and he’s always been completely faithful to me.”
“Has he?” I ask, the excitement of the kill speeding through my veins. “Has he, really?”
Look, just because I’ve matured beyond revenge doesn’t mean I can’t have fun when murder is offered up to me on a platter.
“Yes, he has. You’ll notice you’re still alive, and that’s because I ordered it.”
I tap my chin. “Tell me, Head Bad Guy, do you have any rules and regulations about managing the person you kidnapped?”
“Of course.”
“Is one of those rules checking for weapons?” I ask, letting the kitchen knife slide down my sleeve into the palm of my hand. The grip is comfortable from years of my abuela using it to make delicious meals, and the blade is sharp enough to shave a man’s balls—Abuela never could stand a dull knife.
Head Bad Guy glares at the driver. “You let him come into my compound armed?”
While the driver stutters for an answer, I kneel quickly, making two quick vertical slices behind each of HBG’s knees. I may not have much formal education, but I know how to find the popliteal arteries. One of the seven deadly arteries you can aim for to make a person bleed out quickly.
Anders taught me that.
He also drilled it into my head that a slice is far more deadly than a stab. He’d sing, “Slice, slice baby,” to an old hip-hop tune to help me remember. Given the amount of blood pooling around HBG’s shoes, it looks like I learned my lesson pretty well.
HBG is still screaming at the driver when he realizes, well beyond the point of saving, that something is amiss. He looks down, confused by the sheer amount of blood.
“What the—”
When the driver leans forward to examine his boss, I take out his carotid. He turns to me, incredulous, as his mangled hand goes to his neck. I give him my brightest smile.
“Hey there. I let you take me because I figured this is where you’d bring me. Everyone will be dead within the hour. Anyway, have a good time in hell.”
The HBG finally falls to the ground, and one of the guys milling about wanders around the truck. He wrinkles his brow as his eyes fall on the vast pools of blood seeping into the cracked clay earth. Confusion marks his features and he’s still not putting together that I’m the threat. So I make him pay with two quick slices—one through his larynx to keep him quiet and one through his subclavian artery because now I’m on a mission.
I’m rewarded for my sneaky ways with a faceful of blood, but I’m on PrEP and have all my shots, so I enjoy it.
The driver and HBG, both dead, have decent guns, which I tuck away for later. But this third guy—also super dead—has a ridiculous magazine on his 9mm. Fifty rounds, at least.
It’s fucking excessive.
Here’s the thing, you can spray bullets into a crowd and hit a whole bunch of people, but Odd’s never liked that. “Be efficient with your bullets. You never know when you might need them.”
Another lesson I’m learning from this day is be nice. Based on the disinterested looks I clock around this place, these guys hate their boss. That driver might’ve been loyal to him, but these motherfuckers don’t even realize—or give a shit—that he’s lying dead in a pool of blood right in front of them.
Sure, the truck is blocking the view, but there’s a guy taking a cigarette break, like, ten feet from where I’m standing. Have a little pride in your work, dude.
As much fun as I could have with this crew, I really just wanna get home. Barricading myself behind the truck, I take out the six standing guards with six shots, barely making a dent in the number of rounds. I then take out the cigarette guy, who is still fumbling for his gun, and two more of the closest guards.
I’m down to the last two when the five guys from the gate make their way in. Unlike the first dozen men I killed, these guys are shooting back. I stay behind the truck and take out two, one right after the other.
My gun jams on the third, and he wings my shoulder, which…fucking ouch.
“Fine,” I say out loud to no one in particular.
True, I have other guns, but Abuela’s knife just feels like the right tool for the job.
A super skinny guy comes at me, and the abdominal aorta, which is usually very difficult to get on most people, is his downfall. Two guys grab my arms, but I manage to hold on to the knife, angling it to slice through the one guy’s radial artery.
When he lets me go—because he’s pretty much dead on his feet—I jab the knife into the other guy’s thigh and drag it around till I hit pay dirt. Femoral artery: check.
Well shit. There’s only one major artery left to complete my killer’s hat trick—the thoracic aorta. Thankfully, the opportunity presents itself in the form of a very large man running straight at me.
Spling.
Right in the ticker.
Now, to be fair, this breaks the stabbing versus slicing rule. However, this guy doesn’t look too bright, and he’s about to kill himself in three, two, one…
Ah yes. The man looks down at the knife embedded in his chest and pulls it out, thus completing my tour of the seven major arteries that will leave your motherfucking ass dead in under ten seconds.
He falls to his knees, looking at me as though I’m the one who fucked up.
No, buddy. Your driver fucked up. I’m just taking advantage.
My problem is that when I get into these situations, I get a little cocky. An issue which reveals itself when I go to grab my grandmother’s knife from the dead guy’s hand and get a knife in my back for my troubles.
Fuck, I never could count to save my life.
I spin around and find a guy about my height and build taking aim with another sharp throwing knife.
“Oh, you wanna party?” I ask, imagining a nineties action movie playing in the background. I blame Javier for that visual, by the way.
The little guy rolls his eyes and throws the knife. I’m grateful Javier spent as much time teaching me to evade knives as he did teaching me how to throw them.
Obviously, I got nailed on the first one, having lost count of the bad guys—totally deserved, lesson learned—but I easily sidestep this one.
Still a little too cocky for my own good, I practically step into the third knife, which hits a nerve that makes me drop my gun. Sneaky bastard.
“Missed the artery, jackass!” I yell, yanking it from my arm.
He reaches for another knife, but I’m done being his pin cushion. I return the knife to sender, impaling his eye. He doesn’t even wince, which is sorta badass and an indication that I didn’t throw the knife hard enough. The knife in my back didn’t hit anything interesting, so I reach back, pull it out, and throw that motherfucker as hard as possible.
Knife Boy grunts now that he’s half-blind and losing blood from his groin. I grab one of the guns I picked off the first two guys and shoot my nearly worthy opponent, taking out his other eye, plus a fair amount of brain matter. Having learned my lesson, I double-check the space like Erik taught me and verify that, like my very own set of Pokémon, I got ’em all.
I glance up at my grandfather’s window just as the curtain drops back into place. Keep sheltering in place, asshole.
As I’m considering my next steps, Javier and Erik barrel through the front gate in Gael’s mini-SUV, which is a helluva lot sturdier than I’ve given it credit for. Erik and Javier tumble out of the vehicle, racing toward me.
I stare up at Erik, happy and in love. “Someone finally read his emails.”
