Page 20 of Wild Angel

Some drug runners are lounging around under a bridge, but too many for me to approach. Especially if I’m not planning on buying drugs. So I head down the street, stopping at each shop I pass and asking them if I can call a cab.

Most say no, but one graying old gizzard at a tiny laundromat gives me a scrutinizing once-over and then nods toward the tacky beige phone nearly hidden under his newspaper.

“Gracias.”

He shrugs when I smile at him, and then disappears into the back of the shop while I make the call.

He doesn’t come out again, and I don’t hang around. I go wait outside for the cab, sighing in relief when I fall down in the backseat and give the driver the address.

I don’t feel groggy anymore.

Now I’m just pissed off.

How fuckingdarehe? Who the fuck does he think he is? Drugging me? Kidnapping me?

I laugh at myself, earning a wary glance from the cab driver.

Fuck it, he doesn’t understand.

I don’t even think I do.

Chapter Twelve

Savage

When I spot the container of food on the coffee table, I already know I’m too late. I don’t bother checking upstairs—Nyx decided to leave, and the fact that I don’t see a note anywhere could only mean that she doesn’t want me to follow.

I was only ten minutes away when Ginna called to tell me Nyx was awake.

She should have been asleep for at least another hour, but I guess her tolerance was higher than I’d thought.

I dart out of the sliding doors and scan the perimeter of the guest house. She only has a few minutes on me. How far could she get on foot?

Would she have tried the road or the beach? Either way, she could have easily lost herself in the oak trees.

Fuck.

Fuck!

I thump my fist into the Expedition’s dashboard and then sit another minute, fuming, trying desperately to figure out where she went.

The motel.

I slam the SUV into reverse. My tires kick up a spray of gravel that patters onto the chassis, and again when I turn and accelerate down the drive.

Keying the motel’s address into the satnav, I speed out of the private estate where Vito’s fucknest—the guest house on the property of one of Domingo’s better-paid sicarios—is located. I scan every alley and copse of trees I pass.

“Where the fuck are you?” I growl.

Minutes later, I hit the main road. There’s a takeout restaurant and some shops. I pass close to a bridge and slam on my brakes.

This whole stretch of beach is under our territory, so the crew under there must be Domingo cartel…or they’ll all be dead in the hour.

One member of the crew glances my way and then does a double take. There’s sudden upheaval—everyone turning to me, most of them looking like they want to bolt. After a general consensus—and some shoving—one of the older guys heads my way at a quick, yet reluctant, trot.

Baggy jeans, tattoos, shades.

“Wassup, Boss. You need some…” The man trails off when I roll down my tinted windows and he catches sight of my face. “El Salvaje,” he says, suddenly nervous. “What you need?”

---