Page 170 of Desperate Actions

My head whips to the side, skin blazing.

But I laugh.

I make sure he hears it.

Because I can see it in his eyes.

He’s unraveling.

His nostrils flare. His hand tightens on his gun.

He lifts it.

Presses it to my forehead.

The barrel is cold, like the promise of death.

But I don’t flinch.

I don’t blink.

I stare him down.

“Go ahead.” My voice is calm, eerie.

“You want to shoot me? Then do it.”

Santos laughs.

“You’re brave for a dumb bitch, aren’t you?” he sneers.

“Brave? Me?” I tilt my head. “No, I’m not brave.”

I let my lips curve into a knowing smirk.

“But maybe I know something you don’t.”

His eyes narrow.

“You don’t know shit.”

I lean forward.

“I know my husband.”

Santos growls, his grip on the gun tightening.

“You don’t know nothing about good ol’ Sam that I don’t know. I fucking lived with him. Bled with him. For years.”

I listen.

And I hear what this is really about.

“Then we come home and this motherfucker springs it on me he’s rich as the fucking Pope? He coulda got us home any fucking time! But he didn’t.”

His breathing is ragged, uneven.

“He let half of us die. Marcel. Gabe. Cruz. All dead!”

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