The Vargas Cartel Trilogy (Vargas Cartel #1-3)(21)

“No way.” Evan vaulted out of his chair. “That’s impossible. We’re not some third world banana republic with a dictator who can snap his fingers and make things magically happen.”

“Figure it out.” With those three words, Ignacio hooked his hand into the top of my hair, yanking it back, exposing my neck. His other hand curved around the front of my neck. Unfortunately, in that hand, he had a knife. He slid the knife across my neck up the side of my face. “I’d hate to have to hurt her or cause any permanent damage to this pretty face.”

I squeezed my eyes closed, bracing myself for the moment his knife penetrated my skin. With each centimeter it slid along my skin, he pressed harder…deeper. I cataloged his movements.

Cheek.

Below my ear.

The underside of my jaw.

I wanted to scream, but my lungs constricted, preventing me from inhaling one molecule of air. I bit the inside of my bottom lip so hard the copper taste of blood flowed through my mouth. And then it happened…the sharp point of the knife bit into the side of my neck and a warm liquid trickled down my skin.

A piercing scream echoed through the room, and it took me a few seconds to realize it came from my mouth. Ice ripped through my muscles and my heart froze in my chest. It took every ounce of control to suck in another breath.

“What the f*ck! You promised not to hurt her,” Evan screamed, his voice cracking, but I didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t need to see his stricken face. I already had a shitstorm of emotions racing through my mind without adding his fear to mine. I was going to die…maybe not today, but soon. The Vargas Cartel had no intention of letting me live.

“I think you understand how serious this is now. Maybe you’ll figure out how to make the wheels of justice churn a little faster,” Ignacio warned. His voice vibrated through my body, as he withdrew the knife and stepped back.

“That’s enough,” Ryker said. I smelled his spicy, sea salt scent as he leaned over and shut off the computer monitor. The noise from the video conference halted mid-shouts. “We’re done here. Everyone needs to leave.”

Distantly, I heard the shuffle of feet as they exited the room, but I still refused to open my eyes. My brain was fuzzy with fragmented thoughts and racing fears. I wanted to go to sleep and wake up when I had my life back, and if that never happened, I didn’t want to wake up at all.

When the heavy door slammed, I slumped down in the chair and opened my eyes. Everything was out of focus, coated with a dreamlike haze. Nothing seemed real. I couldn’t comprehend how my vacation to Mexico had ended with me as a hostage.

Ryker crouched in front of me. “How do you feel?”

Not able to talk, I meekly shook my head.

He lifted my hand and held two fingers on the inside of my wrist, checking my pulse. “Shit,” he murmured. “You need to lie down.”

In one swift movement, he lifted me out of the chair, cradling me against his body. Like human chains, I wrapped my arms around his neck as though he was my one and only lifeline, and everything would fall apart if I let go.





Chapter Twelve




One.

Two.

Three.

Four turns and Ryker halted in front of a door at the end of the hallway in the villa. He pushed it open and kicked it closed behind us. Maneuvering through the large room, he carried me with ease. Instead of white walls and dull concrete floors like my prison cell, the room danced with vibrant color—warm terra cotta floor tiles, honeyed wood furniture, a black and red Aztec looking coverlet neatly folded at the bottom of a creamy duvet. Bright photographs of Mayan villages hung in a block of nine on the heavily textured wall above the headboard. A lamp molded from a twisted wooden branch casted a yellow glow over the room.

He sat me down on the bed, and my eyes drifted lazily over the room absorbing the details. “Where are we?”

“My room.”

I shivered. “Why?”

He didn’t answer. “Get under the covers and warm up.”

I glanced at my hands. Blood stained my fingertips. My eyes widened, and I thought I’d be sick. On a good day, the sight of blood made me lightheaded, but today it was so much worse. I didn’t have my usual armor. I’d been stripped bare by the events of the past week and the past hour. “Oh my God,” I breathed as I leaned against the mountain of pillows on his bed.

Ryker sat next to me on the bed. “Are you going to be sick?” he asked slowly.

I closed my eyes and took deep breaths. “No,” I whispered, not opening my eyes. “I don’t like blood.”

“Shh,” he said, taking the hem of my dress and lifting it.

“Get away from me,” I yelled, swatting my hands at him like a loose helicopter rotor system. Whatever calm I felt in his arms melted when I saw my blood. Ignacio Vargas, Ryker’s dad, had sliced my neck. I gasped for breath repeatedly, but my lungs forcibly repelled the air. It was like someone had stuffed a ball of plastic wrap in my mouth, slowly but inexorably suffocating me.

“Calm down,” he said, restraining my arms.

“Calm down!” I screamed. “How am I supposed to calm down? I’m being held captive by a band of deranged murderers, one of which sliced open my neck and threatened to kill me.” He snorted, and my eyes popped open. Summoning every inch of fiery anger from every corner of my soul, I glared at him.