Page 175 of Lone Star

“You got scared,” Fox said. “So you ran.”

He closed his eyes, ashamed. “I tried to keep in contact, I thought I could eventually convince them to join me. But. There were bombings in their city. Shootings. I couldn’t get hold of her.”

“You left your wife and child with the cartel,” Candy said, teeth bared in what was definitely not a smile. “And ran home with your tail between your legs.”

“I was young and stupid.”

“Well, now your kid is young and stupid, and he’s killing people and selling people. And you’rehelpinghim.” The last was a snarl.

“He’s my son,” Cantrell said, voice cracking, desperate. “I already failed him once.”

“And this isn’t failing him?” Candy swept an arm out to indicate the workshop, the women, the whole fucked up situation. “You’re a deadbeat dad, and a real fucking loser, obviously, but I guess the whole FBI agent thing doesn’t matter either, does it? Did you join up just so you could use your position to help Luis get a foothold here in this country?”

“No.”

Mercy tugged the shoe off.

“I didn’t!” Cantrell shouted, hoarse, sweating.Pathetic. “I joined because I wanted tostopthe cartels! I wanted to save other families. I had no idea – when Luis found me – I never thought he’d…”

“Be running his own cartel?” Fox asked, lip curling in a rare show of outward disgust. “Kids have a way of disappointing you, don’t they?”

“So you, what,” Candy said, “thought you’d make it up to him? Support him?”

“I tried to convince him to give this up. To walk away from the cartel. No one had to know he was ever involved.”

“But he didn’t,” Albie said, with a grim realization. “And you weren’t going to be the one to take him down.”

“I love my son.”

Candy leaned in low. “Your son’s a dead man.”

Fifty-Three

Nobody. That’s what Michelle had called her. And that was true, wasn’t it? She was no one’s niece, or daughter, or sister, or old lady. Hadn’t spent her life proving her loyalty to this club – had in fact spent a large chunk of time actively hating it. As far as hostages went, a huge disparity existed between Axelle and Michelle.

Axelle marveled at her ability to be hurt by this realization in the midst of their current situation. Easier to focus on the smaller, more emotional, more personal hurt than the enormity of being chained to a bed and touched by a madman.

Then she realized what Michelle was doing.

And then she bit her lip against a threatening sob.

Michelle’s gambit was a straightforward one: convince Luis that Axelle wasn’t valuable so he’d turn her loose. It was a nice thought, an endearing one, but it wouldn’t work. Axelle wasn’t going to become a dealer or an accomplice for the cartel. She had no delusions about leaving here alive. Unless the guys showed up, they were done for.

She glanced toward Michelle, a lump in her throat, already calculating the things they stood to lose. Michelle was married, and pregnant, and if she was terrified, she was brave enough to hide it well. Axelle had a car, and a job – and she had Albie, who she loved, but not for very long. She wasn’t ready to die, she wasn’t, she…

Michelle wasstaringat her.

Luis had gotten up, had left the room.

Michelle flexed her near hand, drawing Axelle’s attention, reaching down toward the cuff on her wrist, but not quite able to reach it. Axelle did the same, reflexively, and realized with a jolt that she could reach hers. Her fingers were longer than Michelle’s, and the pads touched cool metal.

Michelle gave her a nod, and then turned away, attention on Luis as he returned, carrying a glass of water.

Slowly, Axelle shifted her head on the pillow, and looked over at her far hand. Flexed her wrist, and found one of the wingnuts securing her cuff with her fingertips. Regulated her breathing forcibly, and tried, and reached, and gripped – andturned. Just a fraction, but it was a start.

~*~

Satisfied for the moment that Axelle understood what Michelle needed her to do, Michelle lifted her head off the pillow and let Luis press the glass to her lips. So, so gently. Tender, almost, his other hand coming to cup her cheek and help her gulp down a few long swallows. His wrist smelled of bergamot, she noted, rather than the cheap, sharp cologne she’d expected from a gang leader.

---