Chapter Twenty-One
Lourdes, you’re allowed to feel angry. To grieve. To be unsure.
The therapist’s words repeated in Lourdes’s mind.
Emotionally drained but surprisingly lighter from the one-hour session, she followed the well-placed signs and navigated the maze of hallways with ease.
The spacious two-story Clínica Horizonte Nuevo enveloped her in the shade of off-white and dove-gray.
The scent of vanilla infused the cool air with comfort, a far cry from the astringent stench of cleaners and the bitterness of tension she’d expected.
Her sandals thudded steadily on the tile as the air conditioning unit purred from somewhere within the walls.
Up ahead, seven young women in T-shirts and jeans exited a room, likely having concluded a group therapy session.
Three of them ducked their heads and walked on silent feet while the others smiled at Lourdes in greeting as they passed.
At the end of the hall, they filed through a doorway to the dormitory section of the rehabilitation center.
The steady clunk of the metal door closing behind them quickened Lourdes’s pulse.
Rubén’s war with the Tronco de la Muerte Cartel had left hundreds of enslaved women with nowhere else to go except the street, so he offered them shelter, access to doctors and therapists, and the chance to rebuild their lives with safe jobs and homes.
Currently, most of the women still lived in the dorms.
The precedence was unheard of. Donating money to worthwhile causes to keep a polite public persona was one thing.
Rubén starting and funding an organization entirely from his own pocket was another.
Her father was disgusted with it, though the great Gerardo Villegas would never dare tell the Lozano leader that.
She continued down the hall to the lobby. For the first time in a long while, she was no longer drowning under her own silence. Confiding in the kind, soft-spoken therapist about her first marriage and her relationship with her parents had ripped open old, crusty wounds.
She wasn’t to blame for her father’s or Jacobo’s actions.
Or her mother’s inaction.
Miscarrying her children had not been her fault.
Her fear of getting pregnant again was natural.
She didn’t need to be fixed, as Enrique was determined to do. She needed to heal. Needed someone to just listen.
Her next appointment couldn’t come soon enough.
Lourdes bypassed the canteen where a few nurses in scrubs chatted with a handful of men and women who could only be therapists given their casual yet professional attire.
The armed security guard, who was half hidden behind the monitors on his bulky black desk, smiled at her as she approached the exit.
Even though the Lozano Cartel had decimated their enemies, retribution was always possible, so Rubén had hired private security for the clinic and dormitory.
“Have a good day, Senora Villegas.” The guard pressed a button on the wall-mounted panel.
A beep resounded, and the caged red light bulb flashed from above the large steel door.
“Gracias.” She pushed through the barrier into the small, compact lobby.
Sunlight streaked across her face from the wall of bulletproof windows before her.
At the glass double doors, her hulking new bodyguard scrolled through his phone and leaned against the doorframe instead of relaxing in one of the surrounding half-dozen padded chairs.
Another guard waited at the check-in counter, though the clinic’s only clients were the women Enrique and Rubén had rescued months earlier.
And now, Lourdes was a client as well.
Tall and wiry, Rascón straightened and stuffed his phone into his jeans pocket.
His highly inappropriate sleeveless red shirt emphasized the reddish-brown, gray, and black ink on his arms. Didn’t he know people were supposed to dress nice for a doctor’s visit?
“Everything good, senora?”
“Not you, too.” Lourdes smiled and rolled her eyes. “Do not call me senora. It makes me feel like someone’s grandmother.”
He smirked. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied in English, a twang deepening his voice.
He’d likely picked that up from watching too many old American westerns.
As she laughed, he opened the door for her.
“Let’s get you home, but you should know El Tajador is not happy with either of us.
” As she arched her eyebrow, he elaborated, “You wouldn’t let me escort you into the therapist’s office. ”
“Ah, that.”
Since Rascón had intended to wait right outside the office door, she had no choice but to pull rank as cartel princess and demand he stay in the lobby.
Even though he seemed like a decent man—or as decent as a cartel enforcer could be—he could’ve accidentally scared or upset any of the abuse victims walking around.
Only clients and staff members were allowed in the back for that very reason.
“You didn’t have to tell Enrique. I mean, El Tajador,” she drew out her husband’s alias with a teasing air.
“And end up with a black eye when he later found out? Screw that.”
Laughing again, she shook her head at him and stepped out into the warm sunshine.
The breeze kissed her skin like layers of silk and flattened her blouse against her chest. The mouthwatering scent of onions, grilled meat, and spices drifted from the white food cart halfway down the block as mariachi music blared from the rooftop loudspeakers.
Only six people waited in line, so she veered toward the stand.
“Not this time.” Rascón gently gripped her elbow. “The boss wants you home right away. He’s already texted me twice for updates.”
“So you’re going to let me starve?”
“Damn right. Come on.” With his head on a swivel, Rascón scanned the bystanders on the busy street as he released her and led the way.
She sighed heavily and kept pace. Since Enrique had to compile an inventory list for the camps and prepare his work schedule, she got stuck with by-the-book Rascón.
Who, for the life of her, didn’t look as though he’d ever followed the rules in his life.
If only his babysitting gig were a onetime deal.
But no. Rascón was now her full-time bodyguard if her overprotective husband couldn’t escort her about.
Enrique had tried to play off his announcement like it was nothing. Like giving her a babysitter was as common as breathing. Just a precaution. Though she expected a shadow at some point, she’d hoped for a little more freedom before that time came.
Poor Rascón. He probably hated the assignment. Yet guarding the wife of El Tajador had to be a step up in enforcement circles. Right?
“What’s your first name? It’s not Rascón, is it? I’ve only ever heard of that as a family name.”
His brow crinkled. “My birth name is terrible. Doesn’t fit me at all.”
“Ooh, intriguing.”
“I’m not telling you.” He huffed and cast his gaze back toward the taco stand as they passed it.
An attractive, curvy woman in a simple polo and khakis smiled at him. Even gave a little wave.
Lourdes grinned. “You sure don’t want food? And maybe that woman’s number?”
“Damn, you’re a handful.”
She snickered. “I’m just in a good mood.”
The sharp screech of tires jerked her around.
A black van zoomed down the street. The side door slid open with a bang.
Gunfire erupted.
Pop-pop-pop-pop.
Rascón hauled her behind him and shoved her head down. “Run!”
Lourdes ducked, immobilized. Fear clogged her throat. Heart slamming, she gripped her bodyguard as he snatched out his gun from under his shirt.
People screamed. Glass shattered. Metal crunched.
A gut-wrenching scream split Rascón’s lips.
He whipped back and plummeted to the sidewalk. His gun skidded toward a lamppost. Blood oozed from the holes in his chest and shoulder.
“Oh, God. No!” She scrambled to Rascón’s side just as someone gripped her arm with fingers stronger than steel and yanked her back. “Stop! Let me go!” She swung her purse and knocked her attacker upside the head.
The masked man groaned and ripped the bag away to toss it on the ground.
“Help!” She struggled and punched with all her strength, hitting his armored vest.
The van jerked to a stop at the curb.
Her attacker pinned her against him as he strong-armed her toward the vehicle. His stench of cloying cologne invaded her nostrils. Dios mío. Diego! She’d know that smell anywhere.
Two more masked men jumped out.
“No, stop!” She kicked a man in the shin and hit another across the head before they dragged her into the van.
She collapsed on the carpeted floorboard.
Ow! Pangs shot through her legs. The door slammed shut behind her.
Then someone cracked something sharp against the back of her skull.
Agony skewered her. Vision winking, she fell into a cavernous pit.
Oppressive darkness swallowed her whole.
****
Enrique saved the spreadsheet on his office computer and snatched his phone to text Rascón. The man was supposed to check in with him once he and Lourdes were on their way to the penthouse. Her appointment ended at four o’clock, ten fucking minutes ago.
—Where are you?—
He added Lourdes’s number to the message, pressed Send, and brought up the tracking app on his phone since Domingo had installed a tracker in Lourdes’s new watch.
A map of Hermosillo filled the screen with a little red dot moving through the city streets toward the highway.
His stomach lurched. Lourdes—rather, the tracker—was heading out of the city.
He called Rascón. Silence stretched for endless minutes until the call finally connected.
“Rascón, what the hell is going on? You were supposed to—”
“This isn’t Rascón,” a woman blubbered on the other end of the line. “There’s been a shooting. A drive by. This phone has been buzzing on and off. I found it in the man’s pocket. Rascón—is he tall and kinda handsome, covered in tattoos?”