Obsessed: His Cartel King (M/M Dark Crime Romance) (Cartel Kings Book 1)

15. Chapter Fifteen

“Come on!” Giraldo growled, squeezing Rylan’s arm and urging him forward. “We have to move!”

“But...Carmelita,” Rylan gasped out, his voice high pitched with fear. “They’ve got her.”

Giraldo sneered, giving him a rough shake. “Who cares if they do? That’s Bautista’s problem.”

Rylan stared at Giraldo, disbelief and anger swirling within him. How could anyone be so callous about the fate of an innocent little girl? Rylan shook his head. The conflict between his own safety and Carmelita’s tore at him. He couldn’t just abandon her, but what could he possibly do?

“Keep moving!” Giraldo snapped, tightening his grip on Rylan’s wrist until the bones ground together. For a moment, Rylan felt like a scrap of silk caught in Giraldo’s rough hands, twisting up to nothing.

A scream split the night, the high-pitched distress of a child. It broke Rylan’s fugue.

“Are you really that heartless?” he spat, his voice shaking with anger. “She’s just a child!”

Giraldo’s dark eyes bore into Rylan’s, unyielding and cold. “Listen, pendejo,“ he said, his voice dripping with venom. “That little girl’s papá is a fucking crime lord. This is her life, not yours.”

Rage bubbled up in him like molten lava. For a moment, Rylan wished he could wrap his hands around Giraldo’s throat and squeeze, but he knew he didn’t have the strength or courage to do so.

“Screw you, Giraldo,” he seethed through gritted teeth, before tearing loose of Giraldo’s grip.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Giraldo growled, his hand shooting out to grab Rylan’s arm again and yank him back towards himself. Rylan gasped as he felt the cold metal of a gun press under his jaw, his body freezing in terror. “Move one more inch and I’ll blow your pretty little brains out,” Giraldo threatened, his voice low and dangerous.

Rylan’s heart felt like it might burst, fear and fury coursing through him. He could feel every beat pounding against the inside of his skull, each throb reminding him of the stakes. The taste of bile burned in his throat as he swallowed thickly, trying to force down the panic clawing its way up.

“Please,” Rylan whispered. “We can’t just let them take her.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Giraldo snarled, shoving Rylan forward with the barrel of the gun. “We’re getting out of here, and you’re going to keep your fucking mouth shut. Got it?”

Rylan clenched his jaw, tears streaming down his face as he nodded. He was powerless. There was nothing he could do but obey. Much as he longed to help the little girl, with Giraldo’s gun pressed against his head there was no choice left for him to make.

“Good,” Giraldo said harshly, pushing him onward. “Now move.”

It was hard going. Rylan’s feet were treacherous beneath him, and the threat of death did nothing to steady him. He stumbled, staggering against a wall with a thud.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” Giraldo growled, yanking Rylan’s arm up behind his back and forcing him around the corner. The sudden sight before them made Rylan’s heart sink.

In the clearing up ahead, backlit by the headlights of a jeep, stood several figures in the black fatigues of Los Manos Rojos. As Rylan watched, one of them looked up, lifting the muzzle of his semiautomatic to point directly at Rylan.

And then Giraldo called out to them in Spanish. The figure with the gun called back, lowering the weapon.

For a moment, it made no sense. And then a cold realization washed over him. Giraldo wasn’t working for his father at all—he was working with Los Manos Rojos.

“You lied to me,” he said, betrayed.

Giraldo chuckled nastily. “I’ll get you home, pendejo, don’t worry. Once your father pays up, this will all be behind you. And I won’t fuck you the way Bautista does,“ he hissed in Rylan’s ear. “Not even if you beg me nice.”

“Go to hell,” Rylan spat, his voice tight with rage and fear.

“Watch your tongue, pretty boy,” Giraldo warned, raising his hand and delivering a sharp slap across Rylan’s face. The force of the blow sent Rylan reeling, and he tasted blood where his lip had split. “You better behave yourself or things will get even worse for you.”

A squeal jerked Rylan’s head around. Carmelita!

“What’s going to happen to Carmelita?” he demanded, reckless of his own safety.

“Her fate isn’t my concern,” Giraldo replied coldly, shoving Rylan toward a dark old wooden shed. His gun dug into Rylan’s back. “Get in. I have to go find our ride.”

Rylan resisted for a moment, but then Giraldo gave him a forceful shove and he half-fell through the doorway. The rickety door slammed shut behind him. Inside, the darkness was suffocating, the scent of old, rotting wood filling his nostrils.

“Please,” Rylan cried out.

“Shut up!” Giraldo snarled from outside, and then there was silence—a heavy, oppressive silence that left Rylan alone with nothing but his thoughts and the darkness.

“Oh God,” he muttered, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. He slumped down on the dirt floor of the shed, feeling utterly helpless.

Things couldn’t be worse with his new captors, could they? At least no one’s going to fuck me, he thought, shivering despite the oppressive heat. Surely that’s an improvement.

Regret lodged in his throat, a heavy lump. Bautista, he thought.

And then he thought of Carmelita in the clutches of those men. No. No, matter what happens to me, I can’t let them hurt her. She’s innocent.

Her father might be a crime lord, but Carmelita was just a little girl who liked drawing and pretty dresses. She didn’t deserve any of this.

Rylan clenched his teeth, feeling helpless. His body buzzed with adrenaline, but he knew there was nothing he could do—not without putting both himself and Carmelita in even greater danger.

He couldn’t stop the sob that tore its way from his throat. He wished Bautista were there. What a ridiculous thing to wish for, the man who tormented him. But he did. If Bautista were there then he would do whatever it took to keep Carmelita safe.

And me? Would he care what happened to me?

He’d care about the ransom money, Rylan told himself, but it wasn’t much comfort.

His breath hitched as he leaned against a pile of dusty old cloth. Everything seemed to be getting worse by the moment. First his own kidnapping, now Carmelita’s. Bautista was out there somewhere, possibly being shot and killed at this very moment. Rylan was yet again the victim of another man’s greed, waiting on his father to pay his ransom. And now, with bullets flying, he was at risk of being killed himself, entirely by accident.

What could he do? If he could alert Bautista to what was happening, then perhaps the man could save Carmelita at least. And he would rescue Rylan too, Rylan was sure of it. If nothing else, Bautista would want his money.

Did he want to be rescued? Rylan bit his lip, remembering Bautista’s rough hands on his hips, the weight of his cock. The awful things he said, and the soft things he murmured in Rylan’s ear when he was inside him. Rylan swallowed, heat rising up his throat. God, now wasn’t the time to think of such things.

Was it really better the devil he knew, when the devil was a man like Bautista?

The weight of it all sank onto him like a stone. He threw himself back on the junk behind him, and hit his head with a sudden, sickening thud. He groaned, clutching his scalp, and glared at the deceptive pile of fabric lurking behind him, hiding something hard and injurious. He smacked the fabric in frustration, shoving it back with an angry grunt. The futility of this struck him hard—here he was, unable to control his own fate, taking it out on a pile of old cloth.

“Sorry,” he said. A hysterical giggle rose up in him. He felt a little light headed. He patted the fabric apologetically. “It’s not your fault.”

The fabric was smoothly silky under the dust, but of a robust and hardwearing type that seemed suited for upholstery. Old, he thought. Vintage. Maybe acetate. He wondered what purpose it had once served—perhaps covers for a sofa that had long since been discarded?

“Probably because it’s so darn flammable,” Rylan mused darkly, a bitter laugh escaping his lips.

Flammable. If he could make a fire, he mused, then he could get Bautista’s attention. Or at least the attention of Bautista’s men. If they came, he could make them understand that the intruders had Carmelita.

But I don’t know how to make a fire,he thought ruefully. He’d never been a scout or anything like that. His childhood hadn’t included such things. Did you rub sticks together, or was that a myth?

Something was digging into his leg. He reached down to dislodge it, and realized it was in his pocket. Frowning, he pulled it out. Hard, rectangular, the same temperature as his body.

It was the zippo lighter.

With clumsy fingers, Rylan snapped it open and thumbed it into life. By the light of the flame he could see the shed he was in was small, cramped with debris, and had a high window on one wall, too small to climb out of.

He looked from the window to the fabric piled up behind him. The highly flammable acetate fabric.

Maybe this is my chance,Rylan thought, eyes fixed on the lighter. A way to get their attention...to save Carmelita. And the treacherous thought that followed: To see Bautista again.

He snapped the lighter shut. The room went dark, darker than before. For a long minute, Rylan sat perfectly still, thinking hard. Was this madness? Was he risking everything in a futile gesture?

He ran his thumb over the face of the lighter, where the letters ‘MBA’ were engraved in a monogram. Marcus Bautista Aguilar. This lighter belonged to him. Rylan had told Bautista he was his so many times. His possession. His to use. But was it true?

I can’t just wait for things to happen to me anymore.Rylan took a deep breath, reaching for an inner strength he wasn’t sure he possessed. If I’m going to do this, I need to do it now, before I’m out of time.

Every thought beyond what he needed to do, he pushed ruthlessly out of his head. He began picking apart the fabric, tearing it and fraying the edges to make it easier to catch fire. Then he bundled it into a ball and carried it to the window.

He had to pile up junk in the dark so he could reach the window, unwilling to use the lighter again in case someone saw the light inside the shed and came to investigate. All the while his heart was in his mouth, his ears straining for any sound he was about to be discovered.

When he climbed up onto his teetering junk pile and looked out the window, it was mostly darkness. But he made out the shape of a jeep a few yards away, under a tree. The tree looked dry, and the jeep was covered in a flapping canvas cloth. If he could get that to light, then Bautista’s men would certainly notice it.

He flicked the lighter open, the flame casting eerie shadows across the cramped shed. “Here goes nothing,” he whispered, holding the flame to the fabric. It caught quickly, the shredded acetate going up quicker than he’d expected. He gasped and flung the bundle out the window.

It wasn’t a good throw. The bundle had no weight to it, so it fell short, into the dry grass just under the window. Rylan swore and climbed down to begin quickly tearing more fabric for a second try.

He needed something to give the projectile weight. In his panic, he couldn’t think. If someone noticed the fire burning under his window, they’d stop him, and it would all be over.

In a burst of inspiration, he yanked off one of his sandals and tied the acetate to it. Then he scrambled back up to the window, lit his second bundle, leaned out the window, and lobbed the thing as hard as he could.

This time, it landed right on the canopy of the jeep. Rylan watched in terrified fascination as it burned. He willed the canvas to catch, praying that no one would see it until it was too late. Were the branches of the tree above it smoldering? He couldn’t be sure.

Please. Please, please…

The smell of smoke seemed like a sign. He saw the canvas shift, and then catch, a line of yellow flame springing up. He watched it burn, and then the bundle dropped out of sight. For a moment, he couldn’t understand what was happening. Then it hit him that the bundle must have fallen into the jeep.

Well, that was all right. The canvas was burning now. And he could smell burning wood, so the tree was definitely about to go up in flames.

A wisp of smoke rose up in front of his face. Rylan looked down.

The dry grass under the window was on fire. Of course, the first bundle had fallen into it. And now the fire was licking up the side of the shed, the old, dry wood blackening and smoking already.

Oh shit. Rylan glanced around the dark interior of the shed, looking for something to drop on the fire. A wool blanket? A bucket of sand?

He didn’t see the jeep explode, but the boom as it burst into flame knocked him off balance. He fell hard onto a pile of boxes, rolling down to the ground in a pile of agony. For a moment he just lay there, dazed. What had happened? He’d thought cars didn’t just explode like that, that it was a myth. Surely it couldn’t have gone up so quickly.

Unless there had been a can of gas in the back of it.

Rylan shook his head, groggy. The smoke was getting thicker. The whole shed would be full of it soon. He pushed himself up, wincing in pain, and staggered to the door. It was, of course, still locked. Rylan debated what to do, but survival instinct clawed at him like a wild animal. He rammed the door with his shoulder, trying to smash it open, but it held. He held up the lighter, looking frantically around the cramped shed for anything he could use as, oh, a battering ram? Anything? But nothing stood out to him, only old, flimsy junk.

Rylan banged on the door. “Help!” he screamed. “Help me! The shed’s on fire!” What was Spanish for fire? “Fuego!“ he yelled as hard as he could. “Help me!”

But no one was coming. The smoke was so thick now it made him cough. Rylan slid down the door to where the air was clearer. He was going to die here. He was going to die here, and it was all his own fault.

He sank to the floor, pressing his cheek against the earth. The acrid smoke began to fill the small space, suffocating him, seeping into his lungs like a poisonous fog. Despair weighed him down, shackling him to his own mistakes.

“Stupid! I’m so stupid!” Rylan chastised himself, tears streaming down his cheeks, mixing with sweat and ash. He wished he had chosen differently, barricaded himself in Bautista’s bedroom instead of trusting Giraldo. But then, what would have happened to Carmelita? In the end, Rylan hadn’t been able to help her either.

It was too late for regrets. The fire roared outside, consuming the shed with a ravenous appetite. Panic clawed at Rylan’s chest, rendering him immobile, unable to think or act. He gasped for air, each breath a struggle, his vision blurring beneath the onslaught of smoke and tears.

“Help me,” he coughed, his voice too thin to be heard. Tears streaked down his face. “Bautista,” he sobbed, covering his face with his hands. “Please…”

The door slammed open. Powerful hands gripped Rylan’s shoulders, dragging him from the smoldering confines of the shed and into the night air. He sucked in fresh air greedily, coughing and spluttering.

He looked up. Bautista stood over him, wearing a flack vest and a bandolier of bullets. He looked every inch the cartel soldier now, his face and bare shoulders streaked with blood and ash, a murderous look in his eyes.

Bautista was here. And he was furious.