Page 7 of Savage Hero

“They didn’t make it,” I tell her, in case she’s in some strange type of shock I haven’t seen before.

The girl looks up, nods, and cradles the baby against her chest as she scans the rest of the cartel war zone.

Those parents aren’t the only dead bodies. Besides our men, it looks like every other person inside the restaurant—including the guy behind the counter—was hit. Father got lucky, and me and the girl were standing behind the wall, so we got lucky too.

Blue ducks as if she’s putting the baby on the floor. I don’t blame her—I hear sirens, professionals trained to handle this kind of shit. But she stands a second later while I’m sliding an arm around my father’s waist and pointing him in the direction of the back door, now burdened with a diaper bag.

When she catches my eye, she shrugs. “The kid shit herself.”

I drag my father past her without a backward glance. “They all shit themselves. It’s what happens when you die.”

“Wait…” my father croaks.

I don’t stop until he grabs the front of my shirt in a fist. “Pa, we have to—”

“Bring him.” Father points at the girl. “He saved my fucking life.”

“Pa, there’s no time to—”

“Bring. Him.”

I growl with irritation and glance back, cocking my head in the direction I’m headed.

The girl steps back, and it’s clear she’s going to run.

My Beretta APX is out a second later, and I don’t bother pointing it at her. I point it straight at the hiccupping, sobbing baby. Her arms tighten, and her mouth draws into a line, but when I start walking backward, my father leaning most of his weight on me, she follows like an obedient little soldier.

It’s a bad idea, but she’s nothing I can’t handle. And my father’s lucid enough to know if I disobey. There’s already a fuck ton of shit I’ll need to deal with—I don’t need to add fuel to this blazing inferno.

Chapter Four

Savage

Idon’t know how she does it, but somewhere between climbing into the armor-plated SUV parked behind La Buena Papa and arriving at the Domingo villa in Bay Point, the girl manages to calm down the baby, change her diapers, and pop a bottle into her mouth.

The kid’s suckling happily on the rubber teat as my villa’s massive wrought iron gates start opening.

I sent a text about the drive-by to my cousin, Vito, so when I pull onto the circular gravel drive outside the villa’s front doors, there’s a throng of cartel men waiting for us.

And a stretcher.

Father sat propped up in the passenger seat all the way, but if I hadn’t strapped him in, he’d have been in my lap. His face is gray, his eyes translucent, and he stopped responding to me several minutes ago.

The girl’s said nothing to me. I’ve said nothing to the girl. We locked eyes in the rearview mirror a few times, and every time I got a scowl. She could have pulled a runner—there was a moment when I was helping father into the truck where I didn’t have the gun trained on her.

But she didn’t.

And I haven’t figured out why yet.

Although I’m assuming it has something to do with the fact that she was hired to kill my father. I should have grilled her, but my interrogation style requires something a lot more up close and personal. Plus, I’m not carrying my bone-handled knife today. I can’t question someone without it.

It plays good cop, I play bad.

“Easy,” I snap when one of the bulkier cartel soldiers nearly bashes Father’s head against the roof of the car as he drags him out.

The man instantly ducks his head, his face paling. “¡Qué pena!,El Salvaje,” he rattles out, and then disappears like I’d threatened to burn down his house with his family still inside.

Word gets around.

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