Spiders in the Grove (In the Company of Killers #7)(54)

“She could be walking alone in the fucking desert.”

“Look for her if you want,” he says, “but if she could get out of this by herself, I doubt she’s walking alone in the desert. She’s probably halfway to Arizona by now.”

OK, he has a point.

“How’d you know to come here?” I ask.

“Probably same as you,” he says. “I sent someone to watch Izabel; I came when I got word she was in trouble. And when I heard—”

“That Javier is alive,” I add.

“Was,” Fredrik says. “I found him dead in a room down that hall. I think that’s where they were keeping Izabel.”

Reaching up behind me, I scratch the back of my head. “She lied. All this time, she’s been lying to us—to Victor.”

“I’m sure she had a good reason,” Fredrik says.

“Yeah, she probably did.” I gaze around at all the bodies. “How do you know she didn’t have help getting out of here?”

“I don’t,” he says. “I guess I just have a feeling.” He makes eye contact for the first time since I walked into the room. “Izabel doesn’t need our help anymore—I think even Victor would agree. And I for one won’t be following her, or sending someone else to watch over her. For the first time since I met Izabel I can honestly say she doesn’t need anybody’s help.”

I take another look at the bodies laid out haphazardly all around me, and I think about the first time I met Izzy.

Maybe Fredrik’s right…

I look up when movement catches my eye. A woman, Mexican, with blonde hair, stands in the doorway; blood splatters stain one side of her face and neck. She looks like she’s been through hell.

She stumbles forward, one hand covering her stomach where I notice blood seeping through her dress, and through her fingers.

She falls to her knees, unable to go any farther.

“She said…she wanted me to…suffer before I died,” the woman says.

“Who?” Fredrik asks, pretending he doesn’t already know.

“La Princesa”—she coughs blood onto the floor—“I…deserve what I got,” she says between breaths. “For the…things I’ve done. I deserve it because…” Her eyes flutter; her upper body sways. “…because I don’t regret…anything. Tell her I said…I regret nothing.”

The woman falls forward, dead before she hits the floor.

Fredrik and I glance at each other, shrug, and then do a sweep of the mansion.

We find more slave girls huddled together in a closet, and we give them money and encourage them to leave this place. Two guards, soaked by their own piss, are found hiding in an upstairs bathroom. Fredrik kills one, and I kill the other. And in a more extravagant room, we find a man, dressed in an Armani suit, shot in the forehead, slumped against a chair. I can’t be sure who he is, but it’s obvious he was important to the running of this place. The paperwork scattered all around the room, and on the desk beside him, shows numbers and money amounts and slave girls names and the names of buyers. I know this because I see Jackie’s cover, Frances Lockhart, among the names, and all the money she spent on the girls she saved.

I flinch when I see my sister’s photo.

“She was here, too,” Fredrik says, as I hold the photo of Naeva in my fingers. “My guess is that she came here with Izabel.”

“Is she alive?” I’ve been gritting my teeth since I took up the photo.

“I’m not sure,” Fredrik answers. “You didn’t know?”

Absently, I shake my head. No, Jackie didn’t name her when she told me all that happened—but I never imagined the girl she told me about involving the fighter was my sister.

“Maybe she’s still alive,” Fredrik offers.

I pocket the photo, holding down the anger boiling inside of me.

Everybody else is dead. Seventy, eighty people, at least.

How in the hell did Izzy pull this off by herself?

I smile thinking about it. Because I know she’s still alive. And Fredrik’s right—she’s halfway to Arizona by now, if she’s not already there.

But where’s Victor?

And Nora?

“Looks like we were the only ones who gave a shit.” I tell Fredrik. It pisses me off just thinking about it, that my brother didn’t send someone like we did, and that he’s not here right now, like we are.

And Nora—screw Nora.

Fredrik moves away from the dead man near the desk, and pulls a black handkerchief from his suit jacket pocket, wiping his hands on it.

“Victor isn’t here because he was shot,” he says, and I blink, stunned. “Nora called me an hour ago; he’s going to survive, but she says he hasn’t spoken to anyone since Nora took him to Mozart. She’s worried.”

Mozart is a surgeon who works for Victor in times like these, to keep our business out of the hospitals and such. And why didn’t Nora call me? I’m Victor’s brother. God, I hate that woman.

“Worried about what?” I say. “What’s there to worry about if he’s not gonna die?”

“I don’t know.”

“And since when does Nora worry about anyone?” I ask.

“That’s what worries me,” Fredrik says.