Page 30 of Gabriel

I couldn’t believe it. Our organizations were strictly against it, and knowing what Mother Liana had gone through, Jet would never—fucking ever—get involved with it. Right?

My mind clawed for a reasonable explanation, but all I felt was a crack opening inside me and swallowing me whole.

Then I heard footsteps behind me.

I spun, gun raised, finger tight on the trigger.

And stopped, taking in Gabriel Santos’s bright smile that had no place in this setting.

“¡Qué manera tan interesante de darte a conocer en Colombia!”he said in smooth, unhurried Spanish. English was his native language, but you never guessed it by the way he rolled his r’s.

I rolled my eyes. “English, please.”

Yes, I knew a bit of Spanish, but I wasn’t proficient enough to converse and understand it all. Especially when he rolled his “r” in that sexy, cursed way.

“Interesting way to introduce yourself to Colombia,” he repeated in English. “I’m very pleased to see you here.”

I’d bet my life that he didn’t just run into me. No way, no how.

“I thought you gave up stalking,” I hissed, eyeing him suspiciously. I had to buy some time so I could gather information on Jet’s whereabouts.

He stepped out of the trees, calm and otherwise spotless in a tailored shirt and black slacks. A luxury watch gleamed on his wrist.

“I never give up, Amara.” He glanced at the bodies, then at me. “You should know that about me by now.”

I didn’t lower the gun.

“How did you know I was here?”

He moved closer, slow and controlled.

“Colombia is my territory. I know everything and everyone on my territory. And as you eloquently put it, I’ve been stalking you, so I’ve always known where you are.”

I scoffed. “Creep.”

“Your creep.”

“Certainly not mine,” I muttered, feeling my body heat.

“Let’s discuss that some other time,” he purred, then nodded toward the bodies again. “I should thank you. You cleaned up an unfortunate mess. Saved the girls. I’ll have my men get rid of the bodies and find the girls so we can get them medical care and then reunite them with their families.” He eyed his suit. “And you managed to save me the trouble of dry cleaning.”

I paused and tilted my head. “They weren’t working for you?”

He frowned, visibly taken aback. “No. Trafficking goes against everything we stand for. My brother worked hard to wipe it out. Sailor—the woman I consider my mother—was nearly killed by men like that. I’d never touch that filth.”

I let out a quiet breath, relief washing over me. Strangely, I believed him.

But that didn’t mean I trusted him. And it didn’t answer the hundred other questions burning in my mind—questions I wasn’t ready to ask.

“Who the hell wears a suit in the jungle?” I grumbled instead.

“Who backpacks through the jungle and hunts traffickers?”

Pleased that he didn’t seem to be questioning my motives—or planning to bring sanctions down on the Kingpins of the Syndicate for trespassing—I nodded. “Touché.”

He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he hadn’t yet solved.

“Do your parents know you’re here?” he asked. “Last I heard, you were still in Europe.”