Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“Go to hell,” he pants.
I pop him once in the stomach and slam my forearm across his collarbone and pin him with the car door. He coughs, tries to rake my face with his nails. I turn my head and feel one catch the outer shell of my ear. I don’t care.
“Keys,” I repeat.
He grins up at me through the dust. “Too late, cabrón.”
I trap his wrist, move it, find his front pocket. He tries to bite. I buck my forearm under his jaw until his teeth click together. The sound is satisfying. I close my fingers around a fob and take it.
He twists, but I have him trapped.
“Talk,” I say.
He laughs. “By the time you get there,” he says, his voice smug, “she’ll be in pieces.”
My vision tunnels. Blood roars. Every muscle in my hands wants to make him eat his own words, and I want that so much it scares me.
I loosen my grip by a millimeter so I don’t do something I can’t take back.
“What did you do?” I demand.
He licks his lip and smiles wider. “Franco likes endings,” he says. “Grand finales. She came, didn’t she? Like you knew she would.”
“What’s the timeline?” I grind out.
He shrugs against the door. “Ask the maestro.”
I don’t have time to unthread his riddles.
I step back and shove him, hard. He staggers, goes to a knee in the dust, and then flops onto his ass. He looks up at me like he’s measuring whether I’m going to kick him in the ribs.
I’m not. Not today.
I crouch and jam the fob in my pocket. The engine is still idling. I punch the power button and slam the door. The car locks with a chirp.
“Where?” I glance over my shoulder at him. “Where is the house?”
He laughs again, quieter. He knows I know. He knows everything that matters is already in motion and there’s nothing left to bargain with.
“Tick,” he says. “Tock.”
I stand. My legs are humming. My hands shake.
I look down at him one more time, memorize his face in case I need to pick it out of a lineup, and then run back to the truck.
I slide in, slam the door, throw it in gear.
In the rearview, Reyes claws himself upright, sways, pats at his pockets and looks dumbly at the Mustang.
I can’t spare him another thought. I shove Dani’s key fob lower in my pocket.
My phone again. Fuck!
It’s Vinnie. I put it on speaker.
“What the fuck?” he demands. “What’s going on?”
“Reyes,” I huff out. “He was driving Dani’s car. He tried to run me off the road. Correction—he tried to run past me. I clipped him. He’s on foot. I’ve got Dani’s keys. Her car’s dead in the brush.”
“You okay?” His voice tightens.
“I’m fine.” It’s almost true. “He said something. Sounds like Franco’s got something planned. Something…” Fuck. I inhale a deep breath. “It’s not good. I’ve got to hurry.”
“All right. I’ll route the nearest unit to your GPS pip. They’re three out.”
“Tell them to keep it blacked out the last mile. No light. No noise.”
“Done. Hawk—”
“I’m going,” I say, and drop the phone onto the seat so I don’t have to hear the rest.
I’m the fixer, damn it. The fucking fixer.
Every problem that has come my way, I’ve fixed.
Sometimes my fixes caused more problems, but I fixed those too.
My record is solid.
And Daniela won’t be my first failure.
Not her. Not ever.
42
DANIELA
Chef smiles, the corners of his mouth twitching. Is it nervousness? Apprehension? Reprehension?
Is he having second thoughts?
Apparently not, because he sets the fourth course in front of me with a flourish and another venomous smile.
“Queso fresco and a bocadillo trilogy,” he says, his voice bordering on rancorous. “A celebration of innocence and sweetness.”
Sweetness.
Right.
He doesn’t know the meaning of that word outside of the kitchen.
“Three little jewels,” he continues. “Goat cheese mousse with guava, a tiny yucca crisp with cream, and a quenelle of queso fresco ice cream.”
I swallow.
Goat cheese? Really?
I may love the culinary arts, but there are a few things I never developed a taste for. Goat cheese is one. Most chefs love it and put it anywhere from a simple cheese plate to the most elaborate dessert. It’s supposed to be bright, tangy, slightly acidic—the perfect ingredient.
To me, it tastes like milk that’s been sitting out just long enough to make you suspicious, with an unmistakable barnyard note underneath—animal funk. The texture is wet and chalky and disgusting.
I eat the yucca.
I eat the ice cream.
I leave the goat cheese mousse untouched on my plate.
Goat cheese can go to hell.
He watches me leave it and smirks, like he remembers.
Of course he does.
He served it on purpose. He wants to see if I’ll actually eat it, attempt to savor it to prolong the inevitable.
He’ll be sorely disappointed.
If I’m going to die tonight, I’m not doing it with goat cheese on my tongue.