Warrior Mine (8 page)

“I’ll keep watch downstairs.”

“But…” She picked at the pillow's seam. “I…” Her cheeks puffed on a breath and she slumped back against the wall.

Vail sat back in the chair. “What is it? Truth goes both ways here, all right?”

“The truth hurts sometimes, but at least it’s honest. That’s what you said. It does hurt. I don’t want you to know I’m scared, but I am.” Moisture welled in her eyes.

“Of me?” Vail asked.

“No. Maybe I should be, but my gut tells me you’re a good guy.”

“You have smart guts, Sophia. Listen to them always. They’re smarter than your brain, which doesn’t seem too shabby either.”

She nodded at that and gave a half-masted smile. “Could you stay, for just a little bit longer?”

“You got it.”

C
armen’s
right arm reached high. Her back arched as she rose onto tiptoes. Like a rubber band set free, she snapped down with the force of her muscles.
Whack!
The racket connected with the tennis ball, deforming it for a split second before it sailed over the net and smacked high into the boxwood hedge.

“You’re destroying the bushes,” Carlos Hersio-Ruez’s rapid-fire Spanish chastised from the narrow opening behind her.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t speak to her father. She honed the hatred eating her alive from the inside, gripped the leather handle tighter, and repeated the process of impaling the shrubbery. What more could she do? The question had kept her up more hours in the last three weeks than should be humanly possible. At some point she expected sleep to claim her for more than twenty minutes at a time. Yet, it never did. It came in exhausted intervals, always interrupted by one of two recurring dreams.

“Your brother will not be pleased,” her father pushed.

Only one of the two dreams had a right to her thoughts. She should wake, pillow soaked through with tears, imagining her daughter huddled in a ball at the far corner of a dark glass room she could see into, but never enter. She should wake screaming her daughter’s name with her arm outstretched, trying to reach her.

Whack!
She pummeled another ball.

“Carmen Félix-Ruez, stop right now, or I’ll call Manny and have him slice sweet Sophia’s cheek.”

Carmen hated the name, but even more she hated the power her father, brother, and their minions held over her head like a guillotine. They toyed with the line, letting it loose a few inches, then a foot before hauling it back to the top to repeat the process. He wouldn’t hurt Sophia because they needed her daughter alive as leverage to keep her here. Christ knew it was the only reason she’d returned, the only reason she’d stayed as long as she had.

Though she knew it would cost her, Carmen pivoted and backhanded the ball as hard as she could, using her anger for fuel.

Whack!

The yellow sphere’s impact left a red misshapen circle on her father’s cheek. His wide hand flew to the painful stain. “You stupid bitch! Men!”

She smiled. He wouldn't try to take her alone. He’d learned over the years that the weapon he’d painstakingly crafted had a will of her own. She’d enjoyed teaching him and his men with their every bloody cut and broken bone. For a long time she’d been obedient. It upset Sophia to see bruises on her hands and face from the fights. But they’d taken her baby from her. The incentive to play nice had vanished with her daughter.

The ache of loss doubled her, but she hid the pain, morphing into a crouched athletic stance. One. Two. Three. Four. They skidded around the corner. “I see you remember,” she whispered. “One on one just isn’t fair for your boys, now is it?” She spoke English. She always spoke English to her father, brother, and the goons. It pissed them off because most couldn’t speak or understand a lick of what she said. It also separated her from them. Their atrocities. Their greed. Their family business. Their sins. And her. Her greed. And her sins.

Freeing her daughter from the people who shared her blood and spilled that of others took precedence over everything else. The space in her brain wouldn’t allow concern for all the other people the AFO hurt, as long as it wasn’t her daughter. Failure threatened her singular task. So how was she supposed to save all of Mexico from her family, a group she couldn’t even stop from hurting her and Sophia? If that made her greedy, then greedy she was. Unapologetically so. Hence, her sins and the other dream that disrupted her sleep. Her wake too.

“You stupid little whore. Why can’t you just follow directions? Be good for a change?” Her father shook his finger. “Raf and Saul, get her and lock her in the room. For three days, this time.”

Go home and run the business, Carlos had said. Right. More like go home and be ordered around by idiots. She didn’t want any part of the business, but being a prisoner in the place she’d grown up was getting old. Her poor father didn’t seem to recognize his flimsy grip on power. The men rubbing their fists for a chance at her took orders from her brother, even when locked behind yards of metal and concrete. Her old man was destined for a bullet from his son’s barrel. He just didn’t know it yet.

Perhaps, like her father, she didn’t see her own demise yet. Soon Carlos would grow tired of her disloyalty, decide the trouble outweighed the effort, and have her eliminated. If only her mother hadn’t died. How different things would be.

Thoomp. Thoomp.
The automatic ball feeder continued to serve, buzzing fuzzy yellow balls past her face. One large step toward the men brought her out of harm’s way. Or closer, depending on how you looked at it.

The two young men broke off from the group, moving wide to attack from the sides. Any person in their right mind would fear these two. It wasn’t that ink scrawled over their faces, dipped below the hem of their wife-beaters, and encased their arms. It was what the black doodles depicted. Faces, numbers, and acts of death polluted their brown skin. Heads severed from bodies. Bullets busting into a forehead. The skulls of Santa Muerte.

Carmen wasn’t in her right mind. High on sorrow and rage, she winked at Raf and simultaneously launched the racket at Saul’s head. The
crunch
and subsequent howl proved her aim true. Love game for Saul. Raf barreled in quick and heavy, fury rippling the ink imbedded around his mouth and forehead. At the last moment, she bent at the knees and waist, guided his momentum over her shoulder, and then stood, helping him flip.

The other men gave her no time to gloat, which was bad sportsmanship anyway. Though, integrity had no place in this life. Obviously it didn’t. She’d shot an unarmed man in the belly. Yeah, he’d been armed with his capable hands. Hands that, given the chance, would have inflicted serious damage. Why was she going over this again, when other men with less precision and more malice crowded her space?

They circled like starved coyotes on a wounded animal. Her heart bled, but her body craved a good fight. The man in front of her, with a tattooed one and zero split between his sunken cheeks, flipped a knife from his jean’s pocket. His capped teeth greeted her in a smile.

“Don’t kill her, for Christ’s sake,” her father yelled from far off.

“I’ll kill you for Santa Muerte,” Ten whispered.

Not unless I kill you first.

He lunged fast, aiming for her belly, but would have needed a sword to sink flesh. The man behind her backed off, giving them the dance floor. Not a fan of this particular tune, she stood her ground. He ran in this time, using quick choppy steps, and stabbed higher. The blade glittered in the early morning sun less than a foot from her face.

Carmen blocked hard with both forearms. The knife flew from his impotent grip. While his eyes followed the knife as it skittered over the slab, she plowed the back of her fist into his face. Bone snapped under the weight of the assault. His eyes shut and he fell to the ground, clutching his ten.

He’d threatened to kill her, in front of his friends. And he couldn't get away with that. She should turn and guard her back, but she wouldn’t. If she left him unpunished, she’d leave herself and Sophia more vulnerable in the future. Choking him was neat and tidy. So, she raised her foot high and stomped. Once. Twice. Three times before a body rammed into hers.

The damage had been done. His cheek deflated into a pile of blood and teeth. He wouldn’t die, but he’d never talk right again. A bold statement for a bold threat.

Looking back at her ugly triumph twisted her body so that her shoulders took the brunt of the tackle. Great for her lungs. Not so great for her brain. The horizon and all the gorillas on it blurred a wash of white that smeared to black.

The whine in her ears built to a full-fledged ring. A chorus of church bells played, refusing her the peace of unconsciousness. Rough hands dug into her armpits and the bite of rock and earth scraped her left knee. Carmen fought with her legs, willing them to kick or at the very least shuffle along and save her skin. The din of voices, muffled and loud, and the damn ringing muted her order. Her body hung in the in-between.

Someone yelled. Her head jerked. Warm blood pooled in her mouth. She tried to catch it before it slipped over her lip and onto her tennis whites. Her lips moved and the trickle became a stream. It tickled her cheek, rolled down her neck.

“Grab her legs and get her into the room before she comes to. Get him to the clinic and clean up the blood before it stains.” Her father’s words aired through a cave, echoing and bouncing a hundred times before registering.

What a thoughtful man.

Arms hooked her knees and spread her legs. Hot cotton-covered skin slipped between them. Carmen’s heart plummeted into her bowels. Energy surged. She screamed. Bucked. She demanded freedom. In her head. Outwardly all she could manage was a slit of blinding sun, wavy in the sea of moisture collected in her eyes.

She swayed in their hold. As helpless as Sophia had been when they’d stolen her. As helpless as Vail Tucker had been when she launched a bullet into his stomach. In her altered state, her mind rushed to him as it did anytime she let her guard slip in the slightest. His face woke her literally, but figuratively too. And she hadn’t realized she’d been asleep. His features possessed her in a way she couldn’t grasp. Without a doubt his drawing, intelligent brown eyes would haunt her until the day she died.

Though the man was hot enough to melt the panties off a nun, the dream had nothing to do with sex. Raw and painful longing, yes. In time the dreams would surely multiply and devolve into a sick fantasy where she rode the man she’d shot and maybe killed. Damn it. She didn’t even know if he’d survived.

For now he just stood there, inches away. His plain white button down opened at the neck and cuffed at the sleeves as it had been that night. Bright red stained the middle, though he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes stayed locked on her, mapping her features. The perfect square of his jaw stayed set as well as his narrow mouth. His thin pink lips parted just a hint like he would say something. He never did, only swallowed the sentiment down his wide muscled neck. His Adam’s apple would bob. She’d catch herself staring and her gaze would jump to the thick brows that hooded his eyes. Then she’d map the frame of his close-cropped hair. The dark strands lay flat against his head, pointing down on his forehead, but fading and shining into vibrant silver at his temples.

They would stare for hours, it seemed. And she would only wake when the desire, the overbearing need to touch his face, to stem the tide of his blood grew to impossible proportions. She’d wake crying, wishing she could see him. Explain things. Help him more than scribbling an insignificant note. Go back in time. Change things so that Carlos hadn’t found out she planned to leave.

Carmen never expected his touch, in the dream or reality. But somehow he’d already touched her. He hadn’t said, “Okay, shoot me.” But the look he gave her expressed understanding she could never fully comprehend. Where hatred and anger should have been plain, there was calm.

“Just drop her here,” the man near her head spat.

“On the bed,” the other countered.

“The floor’s easier.”

“Not for what I’m gonna do.” The man between her knees slipped deeper, pressing his weight between her legs.

Lightning flashed in Carmen’s eyes as again she tried to open them. Her head pounded as though a group of Jarabe dancers stomped, whirled, and flung their colorful skirts about her skull.

The hands beneath her arms released their grip and circulation stung its way back up her arm. She expected to meet the hardwood of her bedroom—not that she could do anything to stop the crash—yet the cool downy of her comforter pillowed her short fall.

“I’m not a part of this. If you want to get your head cut off over some fancy pussy, that’s your business.” Steps sounded one man’s retreat.

“Ah, I’m just gonna have a little fun,” the asshole between her legs called after him. The door clicked into its latch. “I didn’t want to share anyway.”

His hands coasted up the backs of her thighs, levering her wide open. The ridge of his crotch met her bloomers. The pounding in her head receded to a dull hum, but still her arms and legs were useless. She’d been knocked for a loop too many times to count and sometimes full function took time to return. Time she didn’t have, based on the progress of his hands.

He searched for the top of her panties, shifting and tugging her limp body. Thank God they were attached at the waist of her shirt and she wore actual panties beneath her tennis whites. Though, what would that accomplish, prolonging the inevitable? No one would save her. No one here cared enough to try. Carlos might be pissed, if he ever found out, which he would because she’d slice the son of a bitch into a thousand pieces and dance in his blood. If she could ever open her eyes enough to see the face of the man about to violate her.

Carmen braced herself for the hell pressing upon her. She could survive this. She had to, for Sophia. Tears wet her cheek. Though Sophia’s absence ate her heart one nibble at a time, she was thankful her daughter wasn't here to see this, or by the devil, experience this. God, what if she had? No, Carlos’s men wouldn’t hurt her. She had to believe that. But there were eventualities you couldn’t plan for. Like the fingers pulling at the waistband on her skirt.

Her eyes, lubricated by tears, popped open. Gordon’s baby face sneered as he wrestled with the difficult clothing. She tried to lift her hand, but it was like lifting a mountain. Impossible. His light hazel eyes narrowed on her face and he stilled.

Using every ounce of will, thought, and motor skills she possessed at the moment, she spoke, barely above a whisper. “I see you, Gordon. Take your pleasure, if you dare. But know, I will take mine in return. Then you’ll wish every day for the rest of your life that I had killed you the night I snuck into your room, tied you to your bed, cut off your penis one millimeter at a time, and shoved it down your throat.”