Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Not yet.
He tore his mouth away and shoved her off his lap, gasping with the fury of his breaths.
Her gaze flew to the window. Confirming no one was watching? She looked back at him, lips swollen and eyes smoldering. “Fuck you.”
“Careful, Camila. You don’t—”
She launched at him, teeth bared and fists swinging.
He subdued her easily, wrapping her shackled arm around her torso with her back pressed against his chest.
“Let me go, you fucking traitor.”
He covered her mouth with his palm, fingers gripping her jaw shut, as he angled her face toward the window. “You promised Nico you’d be a good girl.”
She froze, attention glued to the back of Nico’s shirt, and choked an indiscernible sound against his fingers.
He released her mouth.
“Jefe is…Nico…” Her free hand touched the glass, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Nico Restrepo? As in capo of the Restrepo cartel?”
Of course, she knew the name, but not because her parents had been Colombian. Anyone who watched the news knew about the ongoing conflict between the notorious kingpin and law enforcement officials in the U.S. and Colombia.
What she didn’t know was that the Restrepo cartel had played an instrumental part in her captivity eleven years ago. He needed to guard that secret until she was mentally and emotionally prepared to hear why he was still embedded in the crime family that had banished her to chains.
“Oh my God.” She dropped her head in her hand, her expression veiled by the tangled mess of her black hair. “This isn’t just some local slave ring.”
Not even close. She was headed bowels-deep into Colombia’s most powerful criminal organization.
“You work for the fucking Restrepos?” She twisted on his lap and searched his eyes. “All this time?”
He flattened his lips into a line, knowing she couldn’t handle the truth.
“What’s your position exactly? VP of Shipping and Receiving?” She jerked on the handcuff. “Director of Human Slavery?”
Her jaw set in the defiant way that had always made him hard. He dug his fingers into her skin and tried to ignore the roll of her hips over his agonizing erection.
“Oh, right.” She tipped her chin up, wearing a corrosive smile. “Even now, those questions are off limits. But you knew I’d be here? You planned this?”
He rapped on the window, anxious to get her across the border and show her what he thought of her questions. He hadn’t expected her to confess the reason she was here, but whatever scheming she was still doing in that gorgeous head of hers was pointless. Her fate was sealed.
Nico broke away from his conversation with the pilot, and she instantly hunched her shoulders forward, head down, quivering like the mousy little girl she wasn’t. Nico opened Matias’ door, concealed by his ski mask and casual clothing, all safety precautions to protect his identity—not from Camila, but from anyone who might’ve been watching.
“Listo?” Matias tightened his grip on her stiffening body.
“Ready for what?” Her voice cracked.
“Something came up.” Nico glanced over his shoulder at the plane and returned to Matias. “We’re modifying the route.”
Wasn’t uncommon. Transfers and layovers changed with the intel. Sudden DEA activity, rival gangs mobilizing, anything could’ve compromised their scheduled stopover.
“Chispa’s done with his sweep.” Nico stepped back. “She’s next.”
Matias didn’t give her time to fight, hauling her out of the SUV and tossing her over his shoulder. She felt willowy in his arms, but not delicate, not like the tiny girl he used to hoist one-handed into orange trees.
Stifling the twinge of remembrance, he crossed the field, lifted her into the eight-seat Cessna’s rear door, and set her on her feet. Inside, he pushed her head down, both of them ducking as he guided her past three rows of chairs and shoved her into the front seat.
She didn’t glance at the stripped-down interior, the exposed cockpit, or the absence of anything that could be used as a weapon. Her glare was all for him.
“Where are we going?” She tucked her shackled arm against her waist. “This hunk of metal won’t make it to Colombia.”
No, but their connecting flight would.
Removing a key from his pocket, he knelt before her and trapped her shins with his thighs. Then he unlatched the cuff from his wrist and locked her to the chair’s frame.
The tread of soft shoes sounded on the stairs behind him, followed by the scratch of a familiar voice. “Dejamos en cinco minutos.”
Turning, Matias met the cloudy eyes of their most trusted doctor, Picar. The old man’s hunched spine and stocky frame allowed him to pass through the cabin without too much bending. But his decrepit appearance was deceiving. Picar earned his name by the way he wielded a scalpel. Chop.
Matias shifted out of the way as Picar slipped by and settled into the seat across the aisle from Camila. A black bag sat on his lap, his gnarled hands rooting through it.