Page 67 of Ravaged Hearts

Owen and I stalked along a hallway until we came to a door. A quick look within revealed a large bedroom. No one inside. Bed made. A suit jacket tossed over the armchair in the corner and a pair of men’s shoes at the end of the bed. This had to be Ortega’s room. Maybe he wasn’t home?

Farther along the hallway, we found a second bedroom. Ortega’s wife’s, judging by the scent of perfume and the dresser laden with lotions and fancy bottles. It was also empty, but the bedcover had been disturbed on one side. Owen and I filed in, clearing the room for threats. I approached the bed and laid my hand where the blanket had been pulled back. Still warm. Where was the pregnant wife?

With unease churning in my gut, I led us back to the living area.

Voices came from next door. Hope’s room.

Owen must’ve heard them, too, because he didn’t question why I hauled ass back there. Hope screamed, and my heart clenched in my rib cage. I tore open her door. In the middle of the room, Ortega held my girl with a pistol at her head.

Hope’s chest rose and fell with each breath she took. She didn’t seem terrified like she ought to. She looked angry, like she wanted to flay strips from the son of a bitch holding her hostage.

I sensed Owen at my side, also with rifle aimed but unable to fire. A pregnant woman sobbed in the corner, arms wrapped protectively around her belly.

“Ustedes dos arrodíllense,” Ortega said, eyes darting between Owen and me.Both of you on your knees.

“No!” Hope snapped. “Shoot him.”

Two red laser dots jostled on Ortega’s forehead. I could do it. I could take the shot and drop him right now, but one death-throe twitch of his trigger finger and Hope was gone.

I’d been forced to face my own mortality and my brothers’ often enough, but not once in my career had I been this scared. Not even while being tortured. If I screwed up and anything happened to Hope, I’d never recover.

Slowly, I lowered one knee to the floor, then the other, and lay my rifle beside me.

“Vaughn, no,” growled Owen.

He was right to be pissed. By surrendering, I’d condemned us to whatever fate el Señor del Dolor had in store.

“You, too.” Ortega jerked his chin toward Owen. “And hands behind your head.”

Footsteps pounded along the hallway. I didn’t need to look behind to know we were surrounded by cartel soldiers.

With a grunt, Owen dropped to his knees next to me.

Someone unclipped our helmets roughly and tossed them aside. There went our comms, but the team already knew we were in trouble. My helmet cam had shown them the events unfolding. Maybe the guys could still save Hope. It was too late for Owen and me. We’d never even had a chance to fight our way out of this mess.

This was it. Ortega’s men were going to put bullets in theback of our heads, execution style, right in front of the woman I loved.

Tears streaked down Hope’s cheeks, but her eyes never left mine. If this was the way I went, at least she would be the last thing I saw.

I’m sorry, she mouthed. Her face crumbled as she sobbed. I shook my head, letting her know that none of this was her fault.

Then Hope’s expression shifted to one of sheer terror. She fought to escape Ortega’s hold. “No!” she screamed.

Razor-sharp pain lanced through my skull. And my world fell into blackness.

31

VAUGHN

The harsh stench of ammonia assaulted my nostrils. I reared back from the source—smelling salts. My lids peeled open to the amused mug of Jorge Ortega.

Motherfucker.

I took in my surroundings. Aside from Ortega, there was an armed guard standing just outside the doorway. Where were Hope and Owen?

As further clarity returned, I realized two things. One. I wasn’t dead, and as Tyrion Lannister once said,Death is so final, whereas life is full of possibilities. And two. I wasn’t sure I wanted to experience those possibilities, because as my gaze passed over the silver trolley filled with a variety of sharp implements, I was certain this room was Ortega’s torture chamber.

And I was strung up in the middle of it, shirtless and hanging like a beef carcass in an abattoir. I glanced up to find my wrists bound in thick leather shackles secured through a large meat hook. The tips of my toes brushed the cold concrete floor.

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