Page 62 of Sinful
"She might not have ninety minutes."
"Then don't let them kill her before we get there." His voice is hard, but there's something underneath it. Fear. "But Bravos? You go in there alone against eight or ten cartel soldiers, you're probably dead too. So be smart. Be patient if you can."
"I'll try."
"And Bravos? Bring my niece home alive."
I hang up before he can say anything else.
Before he can order me to wait.
Because I know myself well enough to know I won't.
The property is exactly what I thought it would be.
Old farmhouse, faded white paint peeling in strips. A barn that's seen better decades. A few outbuildings that look like they're held together by rust and prayer.
All of it looks abandoned.
Except for the new chain-link fence surrounding the property.
The security cameras mounted on posts.
And the three vehicles parked near the barn—two trucks and an SUV, all black, all with Mexican plates.
Helle's Kawasaki is parked by the house, leaning on its kickstand like she just ran inside.
She's in there.
Right now.
With Los Coyotes.
I ditch my bike a quarter mile back, hidden in the trees where it won't be seen and approach on foot, moving quietly, using the darkness and the tree line for cover.
My Glock is in my hand.
Backup piece is ready on my ankle.
Knife in my boot.
I've got maybe forty rounds total between both weapons—not enough if there's an army inside, but it'll have to do.
The perimeter is quiet.
One guard by the front door, smoking a cigarette and looking bored.
Another near the barn, doing a lazy patrol with his rifle slung over his shoulder.
Sloppy security.
They're not expecting company.
That's going to work in my favor.
I circle around to the back of the house, staying low, staying quiet.
There's a window partially open—probably for ventilation in the Florida heat that doesn't quit even at night.
