Page 5 of How Much For A Broken Heart?

If I didn’t know him better, I’d have thought his stillness implied he didn’t care that everything was crumbling around him, leaving the cartel vulnerable and bleeding and ripe for the picking. I’d seen the aftereffects of what he’d done to people who crossed him, or his boss, and it was ugly and evil, worse, he enjoyed it, and his smiles covered the actions of a sadist.

I stepped closer to Eli, lowering my voice. “We trust no one new, Eli, keep our heads down and stay off the radar. We need to reassess our vulnerabilities.” In other words, let me see deeper inside what drives the crimes here.

“Mitchell, this is really fucking bad," Eli sighed, running a hand down his face. His usual confidence was shaken, a rare sight, and one I was going to use to my advantage.

“We’ll get through this,” I said. “We always do. All we need is some guidance from above.” I stopped short of showing I cared who pulled the strings, still a frustrating shadow I wasn’t able to connect to.

I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d done the right thing handing names and evidence to Ethan and his Sanctuary organization. I’d weighed up the pros and cons, but taking the lieutenants off the board meant there was less hierarchy and maybe—just maybe—the one running all of this shit would make themselves known.

Then, I could take everything down and die a happy man—the walls were closing in, and in this game of cat and mouse, it was just a matter of time before the next move was made.

“What next, Mitchell?” Eli asked.

“Like he fucking knows,” Diaz drawled, then stood, hooked his thumbs into his belt, and stared right at me.

I wondered what part of me he saw. It wasn’t the old August, nope, he saw Aubrey Mitchell, who amidst the relentless cycle of human trafficking, arms deals, and narcotics, had become someone else. Every day I was undercover, a small part of August Fox was destroyed. I was in a calculated story of survival, a balancing act on the edge of a knife. I was no longer Lieutenant Fox, active SEAL; I was dead to the real world, and now, I was Aubrey, just another player in their dark game.

Diaz inclined his head toward me. “Still, Mitchell, it seems to me you pretend to have all the answers.”

Diaz’s murmured words echoed in my head, stirring a whirlpool of paranoia that was becoming all too familiar. “Pretend”? Did he stress that word or was my mind playing tricks on me? Undercover work had a way of seeping into your psyche, twisting every word, every glance into a potential threat. I found myself analyzing, second-guessing every interaction for hidden meanings and signs of suspicion.

I was getting tired of this shit.

Make sure Annie is safe. Then kill them all.

Diaz took the safety off the gun and pressing it to my temple. “What are the answers, Mitchell?” There was evil in his eyes, the same evil that’d killed entire families, put guns on the streets, murdered in cold blood.

No different to me.

“If you’re going to kill me, then get on with it.”

We stared at each other, any stray ounce of humanity left in me slipped away, and then, he holstered his gun.

“Fuck you, Mitchell. I have my side; you stick to yours. After all your fuckups, there’s a target on your back.”

The fuckups, as the cartel called them—the kids in the trucks not getting to delivery—Danvers had taken the fall for that, the twisted FBI man I’d shot dead. Partly personal, and partly to maintain cover. Actually, no, it’d all been personal. But it’d gotten me noticed, elevating me from useful as shit, willing to kill on order to support the trafficking, to lieutenant with my own portfolio and small army of soldiers who just wanted money.

I confronted Diaz, who met my gaze.

“Says the man who lost an entire shipment of AK47s,” I deadpanned and braced myself for him to throw himself at me. We’d fought before—he was way too quick with his fists—volatile, out of control—but this time, the only sign I’d gotten from him was the tic of his jaw and the tension thinning his lips.

Our cell phones vibrated in unison, and it distracted Diaz enough that, if I’d wanted to, I could’ve snapped his neck.

Eli pushed between us, waggling his phone. “Amos says we’re needed at the big house.”

Adrenalin shot through me—the big house was a fenced-in part of a sprawling compound set deep in the forest, and I’d been inside on just two occasions—once the day I was hired into the cartel, the next, after I’d executed Danvers and was promoted. Was it possible my gamble on decimating the organization at my level had paid off, and I’d finally get to see the shadow behind this?

I knew Annie was there—a reminder of my failure to protect her and James. I’d seen her from a distance, a young woman with her, but I had to stay cold. She was collateral that needed to be moved from all of this.

From me and the killing spree I’d start as soon as she was away.

We took separate vehicles, a couple of my guys leaning against the SUV, armed to the teeth, staring with intent at the guys who were under Eli and Diaz. That’s how this group operated, with each team hating each other and each group trained to work independently.

It made the whole cartel as fragile as a bag of blood.

Easy to cut open and drain.

From the warehouse to the compound, it was a couple of hours’ drive, and we arrived and parked in a row. There was space for more than the three vehicles, and the empty spaces made me happy, knowing it was on me that the other lieutenants were all under arrest and detained.

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