32. Hope
32
HOPE
S omeone screamed so loudly my eardrums might burst.
It was me.
I was screaming.
And Jorge was plunging a goddamn power drill into Vaughn’s leg.
My beautiful dark angel growled through clenched teeth. His face contorted in agony.
“Stop!” I roared, fighting like a wild woman to break free from Sergio’s unrelenting hands.
This was a nightmare. It had to be. I must’ve fallen asleep in my room and been taken prisoner by this terrifying dream. I willed myself to wake up, longed for someone to throw cold water over my thrashing slumbering body and pull me from this horror.
Except the image before me was too vivid, the smell of Lysol in the room too pungent, and Vaughn’s labored grunts all too real.
The muscles in his sweaty, bare torso tensed so aggressively I thought he might break free of his restraints. He couldn’t, of course. And while I was forced to watch the man I loved endure unimaginable pain, something inside my chest cracked as though crushed by a boulder.
Jorge pulled the drill from Vaughn’s thigh. Blood, thick and crimson, dripped from the bit onto the concrete floor.
Silent now, Vaughn clenched his lids as his chest rose and fell with each ragged lungful.
I hated that this was happening to him. Vaughn had already suffered more than any human ought to at the hands of monsters. And now this? If he survived, what fresh scars, both mental and physical, would he be left with?
The nausea I’d been holding back surged forth, and I vomited. It drew Jorge’s attention. The sick son of a bitch laughed as he returned the drill to the trolley to retrieve his next implement—a large hunting knife.
My limbs felt powerless after the burst of energy I’d called upon. I took short, sharp breaths while staring Jorge down. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just stop hurting him, please.”
“So naive.” He shook his head in disappointment and tested the weight of the blade, passing the grip between his hands. Standing before me, Jorge stared at me with soulless eyes. “I’m not torturing him to get information. I’m torturing him to hurt you.”
Goose bumps pebbled my skin as if an arctic breeze had permeated the room’s thick concrete walls. All Jorge’s theatrics, they weren’t even about Vaughn. And now that I thought about it, this madman’s efficiency at extracting information had never been purely about brutality. It centered on his ability to understand the very thing that would break his target. He had all the control he needed once he found that weakness.
And Jorge had found mine—Vaughn.
I stiffened when he approached, casually spinning the handle of the blade in his palm. Sergio wrapped my hair around his fist and yanked back, exposing my throat .
“No!” Vaughn yelled. “She’s not a part of this. Leave her alone.”
Jorge kept coming for me. “Don’t worry, little traitor. I won’t kill you tonight. You have years of my devoted attention to look forward to.” He brought the knife to the scars on my face.
A whimper left my lips. My heart pounded faster than it ever had. I couldn’t blink or move as the tip of the blade pressed against my skin. Was I even breathing? I couldn’t be sure.
Jorge sighed. “Such a shame about this side. Maybe I should even you up?”
Vaughn growled and fought to break free. The chain clattered and swung from side to side. “Don’t you fucking touch her!” His roar boomed through the chamber.
I shivered when the cool blade switched sides and traced a path down my unmarred cheek. A little more pressure and he’d slice me open.
“Shh,” Jorge cooed. “Relax. I’m not going to ruin your face any further. Besides, that pain would only be temporary. To truly hurt you, to give you a lifetime of agony, I need to scar you here.” He tapped the flat of the blade over my heart. “So I’m going to make you watch as your boyfriend endures a death unlike any I’ve ever delivered. And then every day for the rest of your disloyal life, I’m going to remind you that it was your betrayal that caused his misery. You brought the enemy into my home. Did you think you could kill me? What about your father? Did you intend to murder the man who gave you life?”
I snarled, baring my teeth. “You and Carlos have destroyed everything I’ve ever loved.”
“Not everything.” He glanced at Vaughn. “But I’m about to.”
Firecrackers went off in the distance, and Jorge froze.
No. Not firecrackers.
Gunfire.
The team was here .
Vaughn’s eyes met mine, and we shared a brief moment of hope that we’d somehow make it out alive.
Patchy static crackled through the handheld radio on the side table. Jorge rushed for it, snatched it up, and demanded an update. None came.
Jorge clicked his fingers and pointed to the guard at the door. “See what’s going on up there, and report back immediately.”
“Yes, boss.” He jogged out of the room and down the hallway.
More gunfire popped, and the first glimmer of concern crossed Jorge’s features. He seemed torn between continuing his torture session and following his man to see for himself what was happening.
“You’re fucked, Ortega,” Vaughn said. “Your whole organization is about to be obliterated. Don’t you know who’s on your doorstep? We’re the cartel killers, and yours is the next to fall.”
Jorge blinked but didn’t say anything. If I had to guess, I’d say Vaughn’s comments had taken him by surprise. He thought Vaughn, Owen, and I were acting alone, and hadn’t considered that we were with the group responsible for bringing down the cartels.
Jorge shook his head. “They’ll never get through my security.”
Vaughn only dropped his chin and delivered Jorge a sinister stare made even more menacing by the small, knowing smile tilting his lips. “That’s what all the other cartels thought. We’d have come for you sooner, but you were the best at hiding. How does it feel to be the biggest cowards in Mexico?”
Jorge glared at Vaughn as though no one had ever spoken to him with such flagrant disrespect. The air in the room became so thick with Jorge’s fury that you could cut it with the hunting knife strangled in his fist.
Shit .
The knife. I didn’t like the way Jorge’s forearm tensed as he gripped it.
Vaughn continued, “I mean, shielding your compound with children? Helpless orphans, no less? I never imagined a drug–smuggling flesh peddler with a fetish for torture and murder could sink any lower, but here we are.”
A muscle in Jorge’s jaw ticced repeatedly, and he switched the blade to his right hand—his dominant hand.
“Vaughn,” I said in warning.
Jesus. Did he want Jorge to kill him?
The gunfire continued aboveground, growing louder by the minute, but Jorge paid it no mind. His sole focus remained on Vaughn.
Movement at the door caught my eye. Red silk.
Gabriela.
She aimed a small snub-nosed revolver at Jorge’s back. The weapon shook in her hands as she shifted on her feet nervously.
Vaughn must’ve spotted her approaching before I had. He’d been baiting Jorge to keep him distracted.
“Patrón!” yelled the jerk holding me.
Jorge spun to face his wife. Sergio tossed me aside and reached for his weapon. Gabriela swung her pistol toward my guard and shot him. One, two, three times. Sergio went down.
Her aim reverted to Jorge.
He held a palm up. “Gabriela, I will?—”
Gabi shouted a war cry, firing shot after shot into Jorge until she’d expelled every round in the chamber.
Click, click, click. Gabi continued pulling the trigger despite the lack of ammunition. Her arms dropped to her sides. The weapon slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.
Except Jorge still stood. Patches of blood stained his white shirt, but the small-caliber bullets weren’t enough to take him down. He staggered as though he were about to topple. Then he groaned and pressed a hand against a wound in his chest. The other hand still held the knife.
“Hope,” Vaughn called, and jerked his chin toward Sergio’s corpse and the pistol beside the man’s hand.
But Jorge noticed, too, so I dove for the gun. My knees skidded along the hard floor, slipping on Sergio’s blood. I reached for the weapon with my bound hands.
Jorge leapt for me. But Vaughn lashed out, clamping his legs around Jorge’s waist to reel him in. The overhead chain rattled as the pair struggled. It bought me time to snatch the pistol.
Vaughn released Jorge, who staggered to the back wall, crazy eyed and gasping for air.
I aimed and fired. The first bullet found Jorge’s heart. The second, his skull. He slumped to the floor, leaving a red smear down the wall. Jorge’s eyes were unblinking. Lifeless.
It was over. Jorge was dead. A shuddering sob left my body as I lowered the weapon.
I turned to face Vaughn. He hung limp from his bindings, his torso covered in blood.
Then I saw it.
Jorge’s knife was embedded in Vaughn’s chest.