Page 6 of Liar

My captor falls to the floor, a knife jutting from his neck.

Gunfire fills the warehouse and men tumble around me like dominoes. I stand perfectly still, covering my head as if my arms will protect me from the spray of bullets. The shooting lasts a few minutes then everything quiets.

I inhale sharply, the acrid smell of blood causing me to gag.

“Take her to the house and lock her in the back room,” the same calm, steel-laced voice orders. I look up, following the direction of the now-faded match but I’m dragged off without getting a look at him.

“We killed the Mexican Mafia’s new leader and those following him. The rest have scattered,” the man to my left says.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the Bastard has us hunt down every last one of them tonight.”

“Either way, they’ll be gone by dawn.”

“She almost ruined it for us.”

I feel their eyes on me. “You heard him. She’s his now,” the man holding me murmurs.

“Poor thing.”

I swallow hard, and they fall silent.

We walk for what seems like the entire length of Loreto before arriving at a small, nondescript house a few blocks south of the warehouse bloodbath.

I don’t fight the two men or their firm grips on my elbows. I keep calm and alert, paying close attention to my new surroundings as they lead me through a small living room, down a short corridor, and into a bedroom. To my relief, they push me inside and shut the door behind me. I listen, counting the number of locks they’ve flipped into place. Three.

Interesting how such a seemingly simple house would have that many locks on, what I discover, is a very solid bedroom door.

I don’t have time for this. Every minute wasted is a minute too long. Diego is in trouble and I’ve encountered nothing but bad luck.

The Bastard. It was him in the warehouse. Him giving the orders.

He, who claimed me.

But will he come for me?

Doubtful. I’m a girl in his way. A woman caught up in a cartel coup d’etat, one in which, despite the daunting odds, the Bastard came out on top.

I pace back and forth, finally tiring enough to sit on the bed. My pulse pounds and my mind races as time passes. What will the Bastard be like when I meet him? Angry? Violent? Both? Will he be like all the other cartel leaders, with a huge ego that’s only rivaled by the death count behind him? How on earth am I going to convince him to help me?

For a long while, I sit there. Patting my gunshot wound with the bedsheet to stem the blood. Thinking. Worrying. Regretting how life will forever change now and understanding fully that, by dipping our toes into shark-infested water, my brother and I will either get our toes chomped straight off or need to swim to survive.

I’m fond of my toes, pretty when painted pink and not covered in dirt and blood.

If Arturo is the sneaky, murderous sand shark of Loreto, the Bastard is the great white. And me, I’m no little minnow about to let herself get eaten alive. No, I’m more piranha, with razor-sharp teeth and the ability to thrive in murky waters.

Not to mention determined.

I stand and toss the bloodied sheet aside. I’m going to rescue my brother then cut him to pieces for dragging us into this life.

But first things first.

Once upon a time, when I was five years old, my father brought home a dozen locks of all shapes, sizes, and designs in a cardboard box. “Something to occupy that beautiful mind of yours,” he told me, with a tender smile on his lips. I’d rolled the three tattered dolls I loved so much into a towel and stuffed them beneath my bed, where they remained forgotten for years until on my fifteenth birthday, I redecorated my bedroom and rediscovered them.

Papi was always good with his hands. Electrical work, plumbing, building houses, refurbishing cars, picking locks—a skill both Diego and I seem to have inherited. I suppose that was Papi’s way of indulging his two hyperactive children and offering them something else to work on instead of getting into trouble.

Poor Papi. Trouble found him and Mamá instead.

That kind of trouble will not be Diego’s fate.