Page 20 of Bastard
“You’re crazy if you believe he’ll allow you to return.”
I lean across the seat and across Donovan toward him. “Ya verás. Watch me.”
Both of them stare at me, eyebrows raised.
“He said you might be—”
“Stubborn?” I grind my teeth together. “That would be something he’d say.”
“Trouble.”
I flinch and gasp, like someone tossed ice water in my face. “What?”
Donovan decides then and within this exact second to catch up. “Aren’t we heading to the embassy? What’s going on, Luciana? The plan was to report what happened to the authorities.”
“I’ll drop you off anywhere you want. Just say the word.” Tight-Lipped’s fierce glare warns me to be silent.
Dios, as if I don’t understand the repercussions of revealing TORC secrets.
I’m tired, dirty, and now desperate to get this over with. It’d be wise to save my anger, bank it then draw on it for when I’m forced to defend myself to my brother.
Trouble. Not stubborn ...
“Call him.”
Tight-Lipped’s eyes narrow into two slits. Resisting me. A woman who has a persistent streak that would outshine and outlast Donovan’s even on his best day.
“I’m not afraid of him.”
“You should be.” His gaze dips and fixes on the outline of my ring. Dark clouds always appear on the horizon whenever it’s about to storm in Nmimpi. His expression reads the same way, slowly changing from quiet arrogance to deeply, darkly troubled. Yet I’m too stubborn to ask him what’s wrong.
“Call him,” I hiss. “Or are you too afraid?”
“Are we meeting your brother?” Donovan demands. “Why would she fear her own sibling?”
Tight-Lipped reacts to my taunt the way one would expect from a TORC agent. Leaning in toward me until our bodies almost touch, he snaps, “I don’t take orders from you.”
I respond in a way an egotistical Alpha-male would understand, by sliding the Glock out from where I tucked it inside the waistline of my pants, pointing it at his leg, and raising an eyebrow in a highly antagonistic, Alpha-woman kind of way. Hired killer ordered to watch over me or not, I’ve learned the hard way to speak the same language when the need occurs.
“Holy shit, Luciana,” Donovan gasps. “What are you doing? And where did you get that gun?”
Tight-Lipped eyes me, unfazed. “I have strict orders not to contact him unless there’s an emergency.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Does a bullet in the thigh qualify as an emergency?”
“Put the gun away.”
“Um, no.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’re here.”
I swing my head toward the window and to the waterfront warehouse beyond. Six men move away from the wall and head down the sidewalk toward the slowing taxi, like they’ve been waiting for our arrival. In Loreto, it was easy to distinguish between cartels because of the different colored bandanas members wore. Though like these men, Lobos never dressed in any distinguishable way. That fact, along with present company, has me guessing they’re TORC and work for the same organization as Diego.
One glance at Tight-Lipped confirms it.
“Tell me,” Donovan stutters, “they’re friends of yours.”
“Friends of my ...”
