Chapter Thirty-One
Gia leaned past Juan just enough to peer out the helicopter window at the dark gray strips of tarmac cutting through the dusty brown desert.
Albuquerque’s urban sprawl lay farther east, the late afternoon sun dusting the granite peaks of the Sandia Mountains in pink as it slid behind the horizon at her back.
Closer to the airport, the barren, rugged slopes of Petroglyph National Monument stretched like a moonscape.
Sweat beaded along her hairline. This wasn’t Albuquerque’s main airport. It was much smaller, and from the air, far more isolated.
As in, middle of nowhere.
Her plan to escape into a crowded terminal crumbled. She fought to stay present, resisting the protective pull of numbness.
Caleb hovered in her mind. A constant presence.
What if he was—
No.
He’d been alive when Juan dragged her away. She refused to believe anything else.
Whatever happened to her, she had to believe Caleb would survive.
Her hand strayed to the collar of her shirt. The vest was stiff and hot, her skin underneath sticky with sweat. She wanted it off. But Vincente and his men either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care that she still wore it.
Maybe it would keep her alive long enough to escape.
The helicopter touched down in front of a sand-colored building. Its bay door lifted, revealing a sleek, white private jet beneath a two-story ceiling of steel beams and corrugated metal walls.
The jet faced out, and in the cockpit, she could just make out the silhouettes of the pilots.
Vincente yanked her forward by the arm. “Let’s go.”
She stumbled from the helicopter, crouching instinctively as the rotor wash whipped her hair across her face, the whomp of blades overhead deafening.
Vincente dragged her toward the plane, Juan and the two cartel soldiers falling in behind them.
Think, Gia. Stall.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” She shouted over the din.
“There’s one on the plane.” Vincente’s tone was flat. Final.
Behind her, the helicopter lifted, rising into the sky.
Cool air hit her face as they entered the hangar.
The silence slammed into her. The rap of shoes on concrete echoed like gunshots.
“Why is the plane still in the hanger?” Vincente’s sharp voice rang through the cavernous interior.
“I thought you’d prefer to board Gianna without prying eyes.” Juan appeared unruffled by Vincente’s anger. “In case she’s not cooperative. I’ll have the pilot radio for a tow to the ramp. We’ll be ready to depart as soon as we’re aboard.”
Panic clawed up Gia’s throat.
Her heels scuffed against the smooth concrete. She tried to plant her feet. Resist.
She couldn’t get on that plane. She couldn’t —
A sudden jolt threw her off balance.
Vincente had stopped.
His grip on her arm tightened.
An older man strolled from behind the jet—graying hair, a short-sleeved light blue shirt untucked over beige linen trousers, brown loafers polished to a shine.
Two men dressed in black from their tops to their cowboy boots accompanied him, menace radiating from every pore.
“Vincente, sobrino .”
Gia’s heart skipped. Sobrino. Nephew.
She peered at the man from beneath her lashes.
Shorter than Vincente. Rougher, despite the expensive clothes. Less urbane. His dark eyes were windows into his soul, devoid of mercy.
Cruel. Remorseless. Cunning.
Her stomach pitched. Lightheaded, she fought to stay upright.
He made Vincente look like a choirboy.
If she remembered her research correctly, this was Diego Lopez Becerra’s brother.
Juan’s father.
If the brother who wasn’t in charge was this terrifying, she might not survive meeting Vincente’s father—the man at the top of the Espina Negra cartel.
She glanced between Vincente and Juan. Both had stilled, the tension in the hangar thick enough to suffocate.
Vincente’s face remained composed, but his eyes snapped with anger.
Juan looked…resigned. It struck her then how little she knew about him—only that he was Vincente’s cousin and loyal soldier.
“Tío Ramón.” Vincente dropped his grip on her arm, flicking a quick glance over her at Juan before returning his focus to his uncle. “What are you doing here?”
“Juan, close the door.” Ramón gestured impatiently. “We conduct our business in private.”
Vincente stiffened.
Beside her, Juan flexed his fingers and took a subtle step back, his gaze sweeping the room. Without protest, he pressed a button on the wall.
The hydraulic metal panel hummed and groaned as it descended, closing them in with a final clang that made Gia flinch.
Whatever was happening now felt even more dangerous.
A laugh that felt vaguely unhinged bubbled up in Gia’s throat.
More dangerous?
As if being carted off to a cartel kingpin’s estate wasn’t already bad enough?
“I’m pleased you’ve finally decided to clean up your affairs.” Ramón’s cruel gaze slanted to her. “Although why she still breathes is a mystery.”
The words stole Gia’s breath. Her pulse pounded.
A muscle ticked in Vincente’s jaw. “She will be returning with me to Mexico. As my guest.” His voice hardened. “I expect her to be treated as such.”
“A guest?” Ramón arched a brow, his grin oily. “Perhaps you will offer her services to your father—a minor concession for the time you’ve wasted dealing with her.”
“Perhaps.” Vincente shrugged. “Not that it concerns you.”
Gia’s stomach cramped. A violent shudder rolled through her.
He wouldn’t …
The look he gave her held no warmth. No regret. It was as if, as Ramón had put it, she was a concession to be offered in a business transaction.
Her knees threatened to give out.
He would.
He’d already threatened to give her to his men.
“I don’t have time for this.” Vincente’s voice lowered, now encased in ice. “If you wish to discuss matters further, you can accompany me on my flight—or get out of my way and allow me to run my operation as I see fit.”
He turned to Emilio. “Put her on the plane.”
Then to Juan, “Open the hanger door.”
Emilio gripped Gia’s arm and hauled her across the hanger.
I can’t get on.
If she did, her life was over.
Even if Vincente didn’t kill her outright, she’d be a captive—punished, used, and from the sounds of it, lent out to others whenever he felt like it.
Panic overwhelmed her attempt to stay rational.
She fought back—kicking, scratching, resisting.
Cursing in Spanish, Emilio tightened his hold, cutting off the blood flow to her arm. He caught her flailing hand and yanked it behind her back, forcing her up the narrow air stairs into the jet’s cramped cabin.
Pain shot up her shoulder. She twisted toward Vincente, one last desperate plea forming on her lips.
Ignoring her, he turned to Juan. “I told you it would come to this.” Violence laced every syllable.
“Yes.” Juan stepped back.
Reached behind his back. “You did.”
Gia stilled at the sudden edge in Juan’s voice.
A prickle of warning danced across her skin.
Vincente faced his uncle. “ Tío , this is the last time you interfere in my business.”
Juan’s hand reappeared.
It held a gun.
But he didn’t aim it at his father.
Shock rooted Gia in place.
Juan? But he and Vincente were like brothers.
Terror clawed up her throat. If Vincente died here, in this hangar, so would she.
“Vincente!” she shouted.
He turned, looking up at her standing in the plane’s doorway.
Then his gaze shifted to Juan.
Puzzlement, disbelief, shock…
Each emotion flitted across his face in rapid succession.
He lifted his hand. A plea. “Juan, primo, what are you doing?”
The silenced shot sounded like a muffled crack, but it echoed in the cavernous space of the hangar.
Emilio froze, his grip on her arm going slack.
For a moment, nothing made sense.
Then Vincente’s knees buckled. He collapsed in slow motion, his body thudding against the concrete floor.
The smell of gunpowder—sharp and acrid—hit her nose. Then the horribly familiar metallic tang of blood.
Gia screamed as her world slammed back into real time.
Her gaze flew to Juan.
For one brief second, regret tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Then his expression shuttered.
“I wasn’t sure you would do it.” Ramón’s calm delivery shot ice through Gia’s veins.
“My loyalty is to you, Papá . It always has been.” Juan stood rigid, but Gia saw the slight tremor in his fingers, the quiet exhale that slipped past his lips.
He swung toward Matteo.
Lifted his weap on again.
She thought she heard him murmur, Lo siento, amigo , before he fired again.
Gia’s knees buckled, as if the bullet that struck Matteo had torn through her instead.
Emilio yanked her inside the cabin and let go.
“?Dios mío!” His hands plunged into his hair as he paced the aisle before collapsing into a seat, his gaze unfocused.
Up front, the two pilots sat frozen.
“Call someone,” she hissed. “You have a radio. Use it.”
The pilot glanced at her, fear and regret clouding his eyes. He reached back and slid the panel shut, separating the cockpit from the cabin.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She had the urge to kick that panel in. Drag them from their seats and—
Then what?
She didn’t know how to fly a plane or even work the radio.
There was only one option left.
“Hey!” Gia marched over to Emilio and shook his shoulder. “Listen to me. We have to get out of here before they kill us, too.”
“Shut up!” he hissed. He was staring out the cabin window where Vincente and Ortega bled out on the hanger floor, his leg bouncing with nervous energy.
“Emilio. Bring out the woman.” Juan’s voice. Taunting. “Maybe we’ll have some fun with her, yes?” Any hint of remorse he’d shown had vanished.
Gia clutched Emilio’s sleeve, frantic. “Look what they did to Vincente. To your friend. They’ll kill us both. They can’t risk Vincente’s father learning his own flesh and blood betrayed him.”
Dead.
Vincente was de ad.
She should have felt safe. Relieved.
Instead, she was caught in a family betrayal that would spill more blood before it was over.
The enormity of it hit her like a wave.
A sob escaped. So did the truth.
She’d thought staying silent would keep her safe.
How wrong she’d been.
“No, puta . They’ll kill you.” Emilio’s voice rang with a false bravado that clashed with the fear in his eyes.
Not for her. For himself.
He shoved to his feet and grabbed her roughly, dragging her toward the open cabin door.
Gia planted her hands on the doorframe, feet braced at the top of the stairs.
She stared down at Juan—at the man who’d so cruelly betrayed his cousin.
Hate and fear coiled in her chest. She’d never liked Juan—with his snide remarks and inappropriate stares—but Vincente had trusted his cousin implicitly.
Now his blood stained the floor. Just like Antonio’s had soaked the deck of Vincente’s yacht.
The scent of copper and iron turned her stomach.
This time, there was no ocean nearby to swallow the bodies.
“Vincente’s father will kill you both when he finds out. And he will.”
It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a plea.
Just a final parting shot. A curse she prayed would come true.
Because the best she could hope for now was a quick death.
Ramón’s snee r reeked of arrogance and disdain. “My brother will believe his son died in a trap laid for him and his men by you and that soldier you’ve been fucking. I will take great pleasure informing him that my son avenged Vincente’s death by killing you.”
He turned to Juan. “Deal with her. Then we leave.”
Juan’s leering smile made her want to claw his eyes out. “Vincente promised me a turn with you. All those times I saw your lips wrapped around his cock. Bent over while he took you and I could only watch…”
He glanced at his father. “We’ve got time, don’t we, Papá ?”
Ramón’s backhand landed with a brutal crack, knocking Juan sideways. “Are you as dimwitted as your cousin? You think this is a game?”
For a flicker of a second, something dangerous burned in Juan’s gaze.
“Once the Federales realize Vincente’s plane isn’t in Phoenix, they’ll trace its path here,” Ramón continued. “We need to be over the border before they do. Now, finish it.”
“Emilio, vámanos ,” Juan barked. Color flared in his cheeks as he glared after his father’s retreating back.
He made an impatient movement with his gun.
Emilio gave her a shove.
She shook him off.
Held her head high
Edged one foot down the metal stair.
She’d die with dignity, not dragged kicking and screaming to meet her fate.
I love you, Caleb. And I’m so sorry.