Page 14 of Raphael

“I need the information tomorrow.”

I ended the call, turned to my laptop, and powered it up. The moment Google came up, I typed in the names of the McHale’s daughters.

Anya and Sailor McHale. One deceased. The other worked as an established reporter. While there was barely any information on Anya, there was plenty about Sailor. One child, Gabriel McHale. Sailor was the sweetheart of the political world. The media predicted she’d marry the up and coming youngest senator, Aaron Kennedy, who she’d been dating on and off for years.

But it wasn’t that which was most intriguing about the woman.

It was her recently published article laced with contempt for any criminal. And she targeted the Tijuana Cartel.

As I read through her articles, I could hear the voice of her contempt. Each written word was laced with hostility for the head of the cartel and she didn’t hesitate to pull in others that were in the world. Oftentimes, she’d slip in connections of our world and corrupt politicians.

It was clear she was out to get someone.More than just one person, I thought wryly.

Curious about the woman with a sharp tongue when writing, I clicked on the reporter's profile. The picture opened, and a fire flickered in my chest, then ignited into a full blown inferno.

The blonde woman with the hair of freshly fallen snow stared back at me.

ChapterEight

SAILOR

Iwiped my sweaty palms on my pants, my fingers trembling with anticipation. It was almost eleven o’clock at night, the humidity still thick in the air and darkness not affording any reprieve.

The row of warehouses lined the port area, darkness providing them the privacy to do things that should never be done. I’d be damned if I’d look the other way. I had pictures of Santiago Tijuana meeting with some prominent D.C. political figures. International shipments that were never recorded with the port or customs. I’d sent my findings to the D.C. police. Nothing. They called it no basis for a warrant. Never mind there were illegal ships docking here every week and battered women being hauled out of them.

Yeah, that wasn’t evidence. That was a figment of my imagination.

So I took matters into my own hands. Six months of research. Six months of learning everything there was about the Tijuana Cartel. Determination and redemption was my incentive. I couldn’t save Anya, but I’d save every other woman.

From the cartel. From my father. Because that bastard was working with the Tijuana Cartel. I just needed proof.

Six months of research to know how much I needed this. The retaliation. The revenge. The determination to end my father and his associates had me pushing forward and not thinking about the consequences. The aroma of rotten fish and the bay sunk deep into my lungs, the scent fitting this scenario perfectly. I pulled my baseball cap further down my forehead, worried a glimpse of my blonde hair would give me away. It was the reason I dressed all in black.

A flicker of light came through the darkness and my eyes snapped in its direction. Five men stepped out, each dragging two women by their hair. My hands clutched the camera that hung around my neck, wishing that I had a gun. I wasn’t the best shot, but I was decent. At least that was what the Ashford brothers claimed.

Whimpers and cries traveled through the humid, heavy air. My heart thundered wildly, threatening to crack my ribs. I took a step back and sunk deeper into my spot, thankful for the barrier and the darkness and raised my camera. I adjusted the lens, letting me see the men’s faces. And the faces of the terrified women.

Pain in their eyes was evident even through the lens. I couldn’t even fathom the horror they’d been through. I pushed the button, and the clicking of the camera started.

Click. Click. Click.

One of the women was bruised so badly that her eye was swollen shut. But she still fought like a hellcat. She yanked her arm out of the guy’s grip and started running. I shot up to my feet, ready to help her when a large hand yanked me back.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

My eyes widened, jerking back and forth between the man gripping me and the woman who lay limp twenty feet away from me. I opened my mouth, ready to start screaming when a large hand came to my mouth.

Using all my strength, I attempted to elbow him in his gut, but he blocked it. Then I went to shove the heel of my foot into his shin.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he hissed as I bit into his hand. “I came to kill those fucking traffickers. The Tijuana Cartel has been wreaking havoc on my territory.”

I stilled.

My eyes locked on the face covered by the shadows of the darkness. My gaze skimmed over the hard face and our gazes connected. Grey. Cold. It was then that the meaning of his words slammed into me. He said my territory. This was Nico Morrelli.

Jesus Christ. Did I just get myself into a load of crap?

This man reeked of dominance and control. His storm-cloud eyes were hooded by dark, thick lashes, those gray depths full of secrets.