Page 16 of Mercenary

4

Madelyn

The fisherman takes us as far as La Paz, a resort town on the Gulf of California one hundred miles north of Cabo. A salty mist dampens our skin, and I breathe in deeply, hoping the spray of ocean water will speed up the healing of Luciana’s wounds. She never complains. Not once, even when I prompt her multiple times about tending to them. “When we get home,” she reassures me.

Her home, in the town of Loreto, a five hour bus ride north.

We arrive in the dark of night. And from the time her older brother opens his door until now, I understand why Luciana dislikes going home. It’s almost a case of us jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Except no one’s been murdered.

Yet.

I shiver at the thought. Her brother, Diego, is violence personified.

Tall, built like a fighter and with wavy black hair and fierce caramel-colored eyes, he prowls the room like a big, angry puma, all the while cursing a blue streak. I catch the Spanish word for asshole after he snarls, “Pinche puto pendejo baboso.” Words I’ve learned mixed with a plethora of others I don’t care to learn. It’s pretty darn clear that Diego’s a raw, bigger-than-life, all-abrasive-male version of Luciana.

If I wasn’t so damned exhausted—the adrenaline rush that’d help spirit us across the Baja peninsula is now cast outside somewhere on this unpaved, dusty street—if my sense of self-preservation hadn’t kicked into high gear, I would think he was hot. In an aggressive, furious, incredulous kind of way.

Luciana and I sit stiffly on the couch in his small living room, pinned to the cushions beneath his glare. The entire time, Luciana remains calm. Quiet, as if she’s waiting for his unbridled rage to fade. I open then close my mouth a few times, catching the meaning of several other curses, but defer to Luciana’s lead. This is her brother. Her call.

“Conejito, we had a deal. I gave into your pleading. You could leave aunt Gretchen in Copenhagen and transfer to school in California … so long as you stayed put in California. It’s a big state. How hard could it fucking be?”

His glare sweeps from her to me.

He hates me. Hate at first sight. Before I can dwell on the whys, he continues speaking in perfect English, with no trace of an accent, his words sharp and clear. “In turn, you were supposed to get close to her and call me with weekly updates.”

“What?” I gasp.

“Diego,” Luciana snaps. “Dios, I’m so sorry you found out this way, Madelyn. I promise I’ll explain.”

He continues addressing his sister, completely ignoring our exchange. “And what do you do? Leave me a motherfucking voice mail informing me you were going to Cabo when I specifically warned you to stay the hell out of Mexico. And now you fucking show up here, of all places?” He motions to me. “With her, of all people?”

Me. The person she’s been spying on and calling her brother about.

“You can’t stay here. You should know this by now. I goddamn pray you weren’t followed. I won’t be able to protect you.”

Luciana looks about ready to pass out. I push aside my questions, my outrage, my disappointment. “Can’t you see she’s hurt. She’s been cut to pieces. Her wounds need to be treated.”

“Cuts?” he grounds out.

“From knives.”

“How bad?”

“Small controlled slices,” Luciana answers. “About an inch in length.”

I frown at her. “Except for the two.”

“It was the bastard, wasn’t it?” Her hand shakes. “He ordered those men to hurt…”

Me. They were after me.

“How deep are they?” Diego snarls.

“Deep enough to scar,” I murmur.

We jump as Diego sends a fist into the wall beside the sofa. “Chingada madre.” He turns, flexes his fist, and points a finger at me. “This was meant for you.”