Page 39 of Strike Fast

“Yeah, you will. Now go back to sleep,” he whispered, dropping one last kiss on her lips and pulling the covers up over her.

Tess curled onto her side and watched while he laced up his boots, murmured goodbye when he paused at the door.

“See you soon,” he said, then slipped out into the hall.

The door closed and the lock clicked into place. Tess rolled to her back and stared up at the ceiling, the heaviness in her chest growing with each imagined step he took down the hall. Falling for another man with a dangerous profession was probably asking for heartbreak, but it was too late for that to stop her now.

All she could do was keep going and see what happened, and pray that the combined weight of time, distance and his baggage wouldn’t crush her in the end.

Chapter Eleven

Carlos took another drag of his cigar and tightened his fingers around the crystal tumbler that held his half-finished whiskey on the rocks. Once again, the Big Easy hadn’t disappointed. His belly was full of rich French Creole food, his third whiskey warming his veins pleasantly. And soon, both his cock and the desire for vengeance would be satisfied as well.

Exhaling a stream of smoke toward the ceiling, he glanced around the decadently furnished room. This place had been a brothel back in the day, and the velvet and leather used in the décor had a sensuous, erotic feel. The perfect setting for what would transpire here as soon as they brought the reporter whore in. She’d had almost a week to heal up now, enough time for her face and body to recover sufficiently, with a little help from some skillfully applied makeup from the salon people he’d hired to make her presentable for him.

He glanced at his watch, irritated that she was late. A soft knock drew his attention to the door. “What is it?” he asked in annoyance.

Antonio stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. Even cleaned up and dressed in a suit with his black hair slicked back, he still looked exactly like what he was. A killer.

One look at his chief enforcer’s face, and Carlos knew something was wrong. “Well?” he demanded.

“She’s gone.”

Not believing his ears, Carlos set his drink down on the mirrored side table next to him, his fingers all but crushing the cigar as he clenched it. “What?” Two enforcers were supposed to have escorted her here an hour ago.

Antonio shifted his weight and drew in a breath, seemed to struggle to meet Carlos’s gaze. “Manny just called me. There was a sting at the bayou house.”

The cigar and drink forgotten, Carlos shot to his feet and advanced on Antonio, too angry to take any kind of satisfaction in the way the other man paled and took a step back. “What kind of sting?” he snapped.

“He said it was the FBI and the DEA working together. They stormed the house, killed some guys, took one prisoner and took the women. Manny was the only one who escaped.”

Carlos curled his upper lip into a sneer. Manny had run rather than protect Carlos’s investment. “Fucking coward. Where is he?”

“Outside Baton Rouge. Or so he says.”

“And that reporter bitch, they took her too?” He’d made it crystal clear that two of his men should guard her at all times.

Antonio nodded in confirmation.

Rage exploded inside him, dark and deadly. With a snarl he swept an arm out, clearing the top of the antique sideboard with one vicious swipe. Crystal decanters and glassware exploded against the wall and floor, covering the marble tiles in glittering shards and puddles of liquor.

It did nothing to cool his temper. “How the fuck could they let this happen?” he roared, rounding on Antonio, who stood there unmoving, his face impassive, still a little pale. Because he knew exactly what could happen when Carlos was in a rage. “She was supposed to be here an hour ago, and I’m just finding out about all this now?”

“He didn’t think it was safe to call it in until now.”

“Because he’s more worried about saving his own pathetic skin instead of protecting my business,” Carlos scoffed. Manny would pay for that. Dearly.

The whore was gone. Out of reach now. Carlos ran a hand through his hair, fighting to get a grip on his temper. He forced himself to take a deep breath, then another, his mind whirling, a red haze clouding his thoughts.

The loss of the female cargo hurt his pride more than his bank account, but that bitch reporter… She knew exactly who he was, would tell the U.S. authorities that he’d been at the property a week ago.

And she was fucking smart. Smart enough to have put pieces of his operation together during her captivity, no matter how isolated they’d kept her. He wasn’t stupid enough to think his men hadn’t let something slip in front of her, having mistakenly assumed she wasn’t a security threat since she was bound hand and foot and would be sold off soon enough.

And now, because of their incompetence and unforgivable cowardice, he would never get the chance to punish her personally for what she’d done to him.

The ache in his leg and hip transformed to a searing pain, as though his body was screaming its outrage. But there was no way to get her back now. No way to get the retribution he’d planned out so carefully and dreamed of for so long.

His chance was gone. The only remaining viable targets to focus on now were the agencies and units involved in tonight’s operation.

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