Page 13 of Gabriel (Legacy of Heathens #4)

Amara

T he jungle didn’t hide secrets. It buried them alive. But no secret stayed buried forever.

I found the location Elira had pinned, and scouted the area.

It didn’t take me long to run into something.

It was Jet’s Berkin bag, his initials still visible on the leather.

I recognized it instantly because it was the same one I had.

It was Elira’s gift to us—and herself—for last Christmas.

Of course, Jet had moaned and groaned that no sane man would ever use that bag, but apparently he’d been using it.

Inside it, I found Jet’s satphone.

I didn’t have time to power it up, nor did I want to alert anyone of my—or my brother’s—location, so I rushed to shove it all into my backpack and clear out of here before being spotted.

I was just about to leave when I heard faint voices drifting through the air. For a moment, I stood undecided whether to check it out or not. Curiosity got the best of me, and I followed it, my feet soundless against the ground. Until I saw it and I froze.

Young girls. Containers. Men who laughed and antagonized as they ushered women into the steel prisons.

It was a goddamn camp for human traffickers.

Fury slithered down my spine, and I knew there’d be no leaving now. I couldn’t turn my back and pretend I didn’t see this. Instead, I watched as they opened the container, then men attempted to load girls into it. Some girls obeyed, others fought.

The September heat made the air humid. I could feel sweat sticking to my skin as well as a plan I began to conjure in my head.

I lowered my backpack to the ground. Its weight would make it hard to fight these men. Instead, I pinned its location using my phone, then dug out my weapons and continued moving around, searching for the best angle to attack.

I was wary of a team guarding the perimeter, but I refused to let anything or anyone stop me.

I crouched low, knees aching, sweat and dirt slicking my hands.

My breath came slow and shallow as I watched four men shove a dozen screaming girls into a shipping container.

The door slammed shut, bolts locking with a metallic finality.

They laughed as the girls whimpered and cried.

The sun bled orange through the canopy of trees, but the heat clung to everything. My skin burned under dried sweat and mosquito bites.

I didn’t know what the hell I was planning to do.

And yet, I couldn’t look away.

One of the men—bald, thick-necked, sweat-soaked shirt open to reveal a gold chain—spat on the dirt and lit a cigarette. The others passed around a bottle, their words a blur of Spanish too fast for me to follow. But I caught enough to understand their jokes about “gringa meat.”

My grip tightened around the knife in my hand just as the container door creaked open.

The youngest of the men dragged a girl out who couldn’t be older than fifteen. She wore a dirty dress, her limbs thin, face hollow with shock. Her hair was matted, her feet bare.

Something in me broke.

I moved before I could think.

I was on the bald one first. The blade slid up under his jaw, clean and fast. His gasp was soft, but it echoed through my skull like a tolling bell. I grabbed the pistol from his waistband before he hit the ground.

The second man turned, eyes wide. I shot him in the gut. He crumpled, screaming.

Gunfire erupted behind me.

I dove behind the container as bullets tore through the metal, and I prayed the girls knew to lie flat.

My ears rang, but I didn’t hesitate. I slid along the far side, rose up just enough, and fired. The first shot missed, but the second didn’t. The third man dropped.

The last one ran, shouting. I caught him before he hit the trees.

We struggled; he was stronger. He slammed me into a trunk, snarling in Spanish with both hands on my throat. I headbutted him, stars flashing behind my eyes, then drove the knife into his side. Again. And again.

He fell in a twitching heap.

And just like that, the jungle exhaled.

No gunfire. No shouting. Just the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of life.

The girls were gone. They’d scattered like deer, vanishing into the green. I could only hope they knew the layout better than I did.

I stood there, panting, while blood soaked into my jeans. My hands trembled and silence pressed into my chest louder than screams.

My thoughts scattered. I couldn’t breathe.

Was Jet involved with this shit? Was Santos?

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.”

Only then did I see he was holding the backpack I abandoned what felt like hours ago.

“Last I heard, my business wasn’t yours.” I snatched it from him, lowering my gun by an inch. “And aren’t you too old to be stalking?”

He smiled again. Lazy. Unapologetic.

“Like I said, you’re on my territory now, Amara,” he stated, voice low and even. “Everything you do is my business.”