Page 126 of Drawn Blue Lines

Horizontal lines sank deep into Cristiano’s forehead as he turned to face me. “Why? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m too arrogant.” I laughed, dropping my head with a laugh.

“I could’ve told you that.”

I met his eyes. “And I know how to find her.”

“Well, then let’s go get her—”

“Sorry, Vergara. No hard feelings, but I’ll take it from here.” Drawing my arm back, I punched him and watched him hit the ground. Adriana only needed one hero. And he’d waited long enough to save the queen.

* * *

Adriana’s reverse trail of breadcrumbs led me into a labyrinth of twists, turns, and dead ends. I blindly followed a maze with no beginning and no end, and what pissed me off the most was that I had no doubt Ignacio was somewhere watching all of it.

Adriana and Santiago were running out of time, and I was done indulging Vergara’s mind games. If Ignacio wanted to play in Valentin Carrera’s league, he needed to step up to the plate and swing instead of hiding behind the batter.

So, I tightened my grip on my gun and did the one thing that went against everything I’d been taught. I stepped in front of the bullet instead of firing it.

“Adriana!” I called out, my voice echoing in the dark and deserted hallway. Pausing, I waited, listening for any remote sign of a response.

Nothing.

“Adriana!” This time, I didn’t hold back, running full force while yelling her name over and over. “Fuck!” Turning back around, I took two steps back down the same damn hallway I’d walked half a dozen times when the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of my head.

“You look lost, pendejo.” One of Ignacio’s followers ripped my gun from my hand and pressed it against my back.

“What can I say? The service around this place sucks.”

“Walk,” he commanded, pushing the muzzles of both guns against me.

I tried to pay attention to each twist and turn, but every wall looked the same. By the time we came to a stop in front of a large steel door, it felt like we went in another damn circle. He knocked twice, and a gravelly Spanish accent sounding like rusty nails on a bullet-ridden chalkboard answered.

“Tráemelo.” Bring him to me.

My brain fired electric shocks at the familiarity I knew shouldn’t be there. I knew the voice. I’d heard it in person. On the phone. Enabling me. Pushing me.

Informing me.

As soon as the guard opened the door, I took the steps on my own, my fists clenching. No one had to force me inside. I didn’t care if I walked straight into a bullet. I knew exactly whose gun waited on the other side.

And after all he’d done, that Colombian motherfucker had better shoot to kill.

He stood behind a metal chair at the back of a simple folding table. I didn’t know what I expected, a throne maybe? Definitely not some back-alley thrift store setup.

However, my mouth went dry the moment my eyes landed on what was in front of him.

“Brody…”

Adriana sat in the chair, with what looked to be a nine-inch blade pressed against her throat. She was pale and covered in blood, but she was here. I wanted to close my eyes and savor the sound of my name on her lips, but I couldn’t show weakness. So, I held her eye, making sure she felt what I couldn’t say.

I raised my eyes to meet the man holding the knife, his top lip peeled up, his gray goatee framing a smirk I’d wanted to punch off his face for weeks. “Ah, Harcourt, I’d welcome you, but it seems you’ve welcomed yourself, not to mention made somewhat of a mess in my warehouse.”

I shot him a deadpanned look. “Carlos, or should I call you Ignacio? Which name do you prefer these days?”

He brought a lit cigar to his mouth with his free hand, ignoring me while puffing on the end. Blowing out a cloud of smoke, he swung a cold stare my way. “King.”

“Fuck you.”

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