Page 40 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Jansen

Y ou’d think that sneaking into places would get old.

But it never does. I might have started with groceries and cars from the curb, but the first time I realized I loved doing this, I was in some stranger’s living room, surrounded by the softest looking furniture, my footsteps muffled by thick white carpet.

I mean, who has white carpets? Don’t they do stuff that makes them dirty?

It was like stepping into a different world. And knowing I’d be a ghost to them?

Man. That was a high.

Now I’m hauling myself over a wall with shards of glass pressed into it, and instead of being afraid that I’m going to shred bits off on the way, I’m thrilled that it’s going to be a challenge.

I have pockets full of treats for the guard dogs, RJ easily disabled the cameras, and Clara made me a list of actions that, if they were less malicious, could be mistaken for pranks.

But I don’t have one ounce of sympathy for this guy. I saw his ‘wife,’ Paula’s sister, when we scoped the place out, and I almost lost my beer, right there on the side of the road. No one does that to someone they love, to someone they promised to protect.

The dogs and I made friends through the back gate this morning, and now that I’m back, they bound up to me, waiting patiently for more treats.

We’re besties now, Gracie, Magnus, and me.

I have no idea what their actual names are, but they’re big, sweet babies, pushing their heads against my thighs like oversized cats—I know a little something about oversized cats.

The dogs trail me as I sneak through the yard and up to the house, whining when I climb up the side and into the top-floor window. I toss a few treats down once I’m in, then go about the steps Clara set up for me.

The envelope with photos RJ photoshopped gets left on the table by the front door, Guillermo’s name on the front.

The bag of pig parts gets left on his desk, the local butcher happy to give them to us for almost nothing.

Lastly, I unlock the patio door, giving the dogs more treats as I open the back gate so the canines are happy to see Clara and Paula on the other side.

Weird to bring the kid along, but it seemed like the best way to get her sister to trust us.

Then, the three of us are back in the house, sneaking up to a room I’ve avoided so far, the muffled sounds of a TV sneaking out under the closed door. I go to push it open, finding it locked from the outside, making anger flare under my skin.

This fucking asshole.

I pull my picks from my pocket, and for a split-second I worry they’re rusty from lack of use, but I’m happy to find them their normal shiny selves, waiting for my eager touch.

A few swipes has the lock disengaged. Then Paula’s pushing past me, diving into a huge bed in a room with all the curtains drawn, her sister a tiny lump under the blankets, a half-empty bowl of who knows what on the side table.

The two girls hold on to each other, crying, their Spanish rapid and incomprehensible to me, but Clara’s eyes get damp watching them. “Are you okay?” I ask.

“I will be when we get them out of here. Do you think this’ll work?”

“You said he’s working with the cartel. Implying he’s a snitch with the photos, that he’s talked to police with the pig parts, and then taking his beautiful young wife? It should be enough to make him run fast and far.”

“She’s his fourth wife. The others never lasted more than a few years a piece. And each one was younger than the last,” she whispers.

I nod, not liking this guy at all. I wish we were doing more than making him run away.

Although, I don’t imagine cartels like it when their vendors drop out halfway through a deal.

Maybe he has a dark end coming soon, even if we’re not the ones to give it to him.

The thought brings a hint of a smile to my lips, Clara catching my change in demeanor, concern flashing before a matching curl creases the corner of her lips.

“We should probably get out of here before Guillermo gets home,” she says after we’ve grinned at each other like the bloodthirsty demons we’re becoming, calling out to the girls in Spanish. Paula hops out of the bed, taking her sister’s hand gently, and leads her from the room.

It looks like walking hurts. Not much makes me mad, but this does.

All I’ve got, though, is the hope that the girl can hold on long enough to get home.

The girls follow me, Paula’s sister shying away from the dogs until I give her treats to feed them.

Then, we’re through the back door, past the gate, and out to where Walker, RJ, and Trips wait with the dirt bikes.

I get Paula and her sister set up behind Walker, three helmets for them, the last two going to RJ and me, as we decided we’re most memorable.

I step away, hoping the hopped-up suspension I added to one of the bikes on a boring Tuesday will be enough to hold the three of them.

After a second of hesitation, Clara climbs behind Trips, leaving RJ for me.

We tear down the mountain, our first job in forever going so smoothly I worry we failed somehow.

The hour drive to town shows us nothing but an empty road and a single ancient pickup trundling back the way we’ve come from. Stopping in front of Paula’s house, Clara climbs off and brings the girls to the door. It’s thrown open, and then the whole family is there, crying and hugging.

Clara gives them some instructions in Spanish, likely telling them to keep the sister hidden for a few days, just in case. Then Paula slips from the group hug, wrapping her wiry arms around Clara’s waist. I can understand what she says next. She thanks Clara, or more accurately, thanks Marcy.

And Clara hugs the girl back. I can’t hear everything she says, but it ends with “Clara. Me llamo Clara.” Her smile is bittersweet, and then she swings on behind Trips, and we take off through the town for one last time, the dust as familiar as the faces we see on our way back to the RV.

We packed last night. Leaving the bikes by Tío Juan’s gate, Clara tapes a letter to one of them, thanking him for the use of the space and giving him free rein with the bikes. He can sell them or keep them; it’s up to him.

But he’s a good guy. Whatever he does with them, he won’t be the only one enjoying them. He’ll share. That much we know after all this time.

Prince Fluffington winds between our legs as we file onto the bus, before launching himself onto Clara’s shoulders, draping himself over them—his favorite spot in the world now that they’ve worked out their differences. I can’t blame him.

Walker shakes out his hands and gets behind the wheel, everything already unhooked, our driving order determined by pulling names from a hat, except for me. I’m overnight always. It’s not like I’m asleep then, anyway.

“Ready?” he asks.

I claim the chair closest to him. “Let’s go home.”

The engine hums, the RV rocking and shaking as we navigate back to the street.

Heading back home. Back to impossible plans and a normal that feels like a threat. Glancing around the RV, I’m not the only one feeling fear. It’s written in RJ’s pursed lips, in Trips’ glare out the window, in Clara’s fingers dancing across her thigh, and in Walker’s deep sigh as he turns north.

It’s time. But there will be a price.

Hopefully, we can pay it and get on with our lives. Maybe it’ll be as easy as rescuing Paula’s sister from her husband. So easy, we wonder if we made a mistake and didn’t notice.

I swallow down the fear and lean back, needing to lighten the mood. “I call first dibs on Clara’s bed at home.”

RJ and Walker sputter out a laugh, Clara incredulous. “That’s my bed, you thief.”

“I’ll let you join me if you ask nicely,” I tease, knowing if anyone is going to begging, it’ll be me, and we’ll both love every minute.

“Right. We’ll see about that.”

Goal achieved, I plop my cowboy hat on my head, tilting it down to hide the buzz under my skin from everyone.

Because we’re going home. And that’s not a good thing.