Page 43 of Gabriel

I rolled my eyes. “You’re such a drama queen.”

He shot me a mock-offended look. “Watch it. I’m a king, not a queen.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, fighting a grin. “Jesus Christ, Your Majesty. Let’s go back and pay Esteban a visit. See what Amara’s been up to. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find the skeletons she keeps in her closet.”

He cracked a crooked smile. “Lead the way, my reluctant knight.”

I always got stuck with the crazy ones.

Gabriel

Ididn’t bother knocking.

The heel of my boot slammed into the wood and the apartment door cracked open with a bang, ricocheting off the wall like a gunshot.

Inside was a shoebox that overlooked the shipyard, cluttered and likely rat-ridden.

The place reeked. It was the kind of smell that stuck to your clothes if you stayed too long.

Good thing I was planning a quick visit.

Three monitors glowed in the half-light, sitting above what looked to be a disassembled burner phone and about a dozen hard drives. The chair was empty.

Where the hell was he?

The sound of a window sliding open—a faint metallic screech—cut through the silence. I moved fast.

By the time I reached the back room, Esteban was halfway out the window, his legs dangling over the ledge, trying to wriggle into the alley like a cockroach diving for a drain.

I stepped forward and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking him backward. He let out a thin, high-pitched scream as he landed hard on the floor, thrashing. A clump of hair stayed in myhand. I dropped it without looking and drove a boot into his ribs. He folded with a wet grunt, gasping for air.

“How nice to see you,” he wheezed, curling around the pain.

“Why are you running, Esteban?” I drawled.

Esteban Santiago was a twenty-year-old punk. He was born in Miami, raised online, and currently in hiding, mostly along the shores of Colombia. He was brilliant but arrogant, lacking the street smarts necessary to survive our world. The younger syndicates practically worshipped him, although personally I didn’t see the appeal.

“Por favor… por favor… no me lastimes…”

“Come here before I pull out my gun and decide to empty the magazine.”

I hauled him off the ground like he weighed nothing and shoved him into the desk chair. He barely had time to blink before I pulled the zip ties from my jacket pocket and fastened his arms and legs to the frame, tight enough to bite into the skin.

Esteban whimpered, pleading under his breath in a mix of Spanish and English. It didn’t matter what language he begged in, he wouldn’t get mercy until I got my answers.

I grabbed a chair from the kitchenette, turned it to face him, and sat down slowly. Calm. In control. He needed to see that.

“Now,” I said, voice razor-sharp, “tell me what you’re working on for Amara Brennan Cullen.”

“Who? I-I don’t?—”

I pushed up from my seat in an instant and threw my fist. The crack echoed in the tiny room. His head snapped back, eyes wide with shock and pain.

“Wrong answer,” I said coolly, flexing my fingers at my side. “And just so we’re clear, lying only makes this worse.”

He groaned, spit mixing with blood on his lip.

I gave him a few seconds to breathe. I wanted him scared but conscious. Alert. Focused on me.