He didn’t have to see Rosas’s face to know that the man was enjoying this.
“You surprise me, Guerrero, but in a good way.” Rosas smiled. “Since this is your idea, you take the lead, and I shall watch. Please, carry on.”
Although Rosas stepped into the shadows, Guerrero felt his eyes on him. He would have preferred Rosas take charge and do what came naturally to a man like him.
Estella had disobeyed him. He owed her nothing, but when Guerrero saw that Rosas wasn’t going to take over, he took a deep breath and thought about what would come next. How far would he be willing to go to impress a man he didn’t respect?
“Please . . . don’t do this,” the girl begged, with tears glistening in her eyes. “I swear. I only left my room for a little while. It was too hot inside. I needed fresh air. Please.”
“You’re a lousy liar.” He glared at her and pretended to be angrier than he truly was.
When the guard hoisted her off the ground, she cried out in agony. That was when Guerrero turned toward the American, who could barely lift his head. No matter what would come next, the blame would not be his.
“You see? You have done this,” Guerrero yelled, and grabbed the man’s hair, forcing him to look in his eyes. “Are you willing to let this innocent girl die in your place?”
Guerrero found himself pleading for Estella in earnest. He hoped the American would take pity on her, something he could not afford to do, not with Miguel Rosas watching. If the prisoner cooperated, he could release her without looking like he’d compromised. Sure, the girl needed to be taught a lesson; but if Rosas had his way, she would pay with her miserable life.
When the American opened his mouth to speak, Guerrero hoped he would let him off the hook, but that wasn’t the case.
“Using that girl? You’re a . . . c-coward, man.” The prisoner could barely speak, but he’d said plenty.
Guerrero had no choice now. He had to save face in front of Rosas and his own men.
“Very well. This is on you.”
He slid his knife from its sheath and slowly walked back toward Estella. Tears streamed down her face as she sobbed.
“Oh, no . . . Please. Don’t do this, Ramon.” Her plea echoed off the walls in the small cell. Guerrero gripped the hilt of his blade and clenched his teeth.
Whatever came next wouldn’t be his fault. Estella had brought this on herself. And everything would depend on what the American would do next.
LaGuardia Airport—New York City
Dawn
The morning sun was making a valiant effort at its first appearance, but the night sky was conspiring with a menacing storm to keep dawn at bay. The dark clouds left Alexa feeling tense, as if nature foreshadowed the approach of something ominous.
Closing her eyes, she pushed the thought aside and sank into her seat on the US Airways jet as it pulled from the gate. She took solace in the fact that she was finally on her way to Mexico and breathed a sigh of relief. By late afternoon, after a change in carriers to Mexicana Airlines, she’d be in Guadalajara after layovers in Charlotte, North Carolina, and Mexico City.
Seeing herself in the reflection of the small window over the wing, she hardly recognized her face. She’d changed her hair color and used contact lenses to alter her distinctive blue eyes to hazel.
She had used fake ID to get past TSA security. And if someone came looking for her image on security cameras, she’d be impossible to recognize. On her neck and arms, she had fake tattoos applied with ballpoint pen, and she walked with a pronounced limp. And her secondhand clothes made her look like a homeless bag lady. Alexa had picked a disguise with layers of clothes in case she had to change on the run, literally.
In her line of work, being a chameleon came with the territory. And it was a skill that would come in handy where she was going. After a fitful sleep last night, she’d had plenty of time to think about her encounter with the two men on the streets of Manhattan. She knew they’d been sent to track her. And she also knew exactly who had sent them.
Donovan Cross.
She didn’t have to know the man, only the type. He had pretended to be sincere when he’d told her how Garrett had died. That had been the mark of a real player with a streak of mean. She’d seen the act before. Hell, she’d played the part herself a time or three.
All she had to do was stay one step ahead of that bastard. And with the coordinates and location in Mexico that Tanya had given her, maybe she’d have an edge before Cross knew she was out of the country.
But one other thing was perfectly clear, and it was strangely comforting. If Garrett were dead, Cross wouldn’t have sent a team to track her. More than ever, she felt certain her instincts were dead-on.
Garrett was in trouble. And Donovan Cross had no intention of letting her throw him a lifeline.
The Pérez Compound
With Miguel Rosas watching, Ramon Guerrero had to make it look good, even though he hated cutting into the tender flesh of Estella Calderone. She’d been a virgin when he first came to her bed. Her skin had been untouched and perfect.
But now, as he tightened his grip on the knife, he knew she would bear his marks forever. When the tip of the blade cut into her skin, the girl cried out.
“Please . . . don’t do this. I beg of you, Ramon.”
Under the flickering flame of a torch, he watched a stream of her dark red blood trail down her arm and leach into her blouse. And when she pleaded for him to stop, Guerrero saw the American flinch.
“Using that g-girl, you’re a c-coward, Raymond.”
“My name is Ramon. And you are the coward, not me. You are the one who is allowing this to happen to her.”
“Turn your blade on me. I’m the one you want.”
“And still, you do not talk. Why is that?” Guerrero turned toward his hostage and pointed the knife at his eye. “This girl does not have to suffer because of you. All you need to do is answer our questions. Is that so difficult? This could all be over if you would only cooperate.”
“You mean we could all be friends? Well, why didn’t you just say so?”
Guerrero clenched his jaw and glared at the man. He was tired of his insults.
“Always with the smart mouth. You think this is a game?” He shook his head, but when Guerrero turned his back on the American and stepped closer to Estella, the man spoke up again.
“You work for Pérez.” He said it with certainty, as if he knew that for a fact.
“Who?”
“Now who’s playing games?”
Guerrero took a risk and glanced at Miguel Rosas, Pérez’s watchdog. The man’s dark eyes glared back, yet he remained in the shadows, content to let him hang himself.
“Go on,” Guerrero said. “What were you going to say?” He turned back toward the American and kept his face a blank slate.
“Before you go past the point of no return, you should contact your boss. Tell him about me.”
“What makes you think you are worth his time . . . or mine?”
“You do, or you wouldn’t have brought me here.”
Without warning, Guerrero slashed his knife across the chest of the American. Caught off guard, the man cried out and gritted his teeth. Although his sudden show of violence seemed to redeem him in the cruel eyes of Miguel Rosas, Guerrero wasn’t pleased with the fact that his hostage knew where he was. It made him all the more determined to push the man to talk. Everything he hoped for would depend on it.
“Pérez knows me. If you get him here, he’ll tell you that.” The American winced in pain as his chest bloomed with fresh blood. “I’ll talk to Pérez, no one else.”