“I already do.”

  One-Mile wasn’t surprised. After all the abuse she’d endured at Montilla’s compound, she probably trusted no one.

  His face softened. “You should start seeing a counselor.”

  She recoiled. “I would rather forget.”

  “You’re not going to without help. I’ve been doing this long enough to know that.” He didn’t press any more. He wasn’t here to harp on her. “If anything happens, especially if you see Montilla, call me. Day or night.”

  Laila nodded. “Thank you. I am glad you are the one who came to move us. It made me feel safe.”

  Because he’d had her naked and chosen not to touch her? Probably. He wished he could erase what those assholes had done to her.

  “Take care.”

  Then he was gone. Once they had unpacked the rental, he’d returned the van, so he took a taxi straight to the airport and finagled a seat on the next flight, which left in less than two hours. After a layover, he would arrive in St. Louis in the wee hours of the morning.

  While waiting for his plane to board, One-Mile stared at his phone again. Maybe he could catch Brea at the end of her workday. But when he dialed, no answer. Again. This time he didn’t leave a message. He didn’t want anyone to know where he was going.

  With a curse, he hung up, then boarded the aircraft and decided he’d best catch a few hours’ sleep.

  Stopping the son of a bitch who’d nearly broken him—without his bosses figuring it out—wouldn’t be easy, but he was determined. Once that was done, he’d go back to Lafayette, find Brea, explain his past and reassure her, then make her his for good.

  Thursday, October 30

  St. Louis

  One-Mile arrived at the safe house just before one a.m. He doubted Montilla had gotten a message yet from EM’s mole, but just in case, he perused the neighborhood. Quiet. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  So he crept around the back of the house and let himself in with the key he’d pocketed the day they’d left.

  He flipped on a few lights, figuring that if the place was being watched, it would look lived in.

  A tornado would have had less impact on the interior. Valeria had only been able to pack for herself and her son what they could fit in a couple of suitcases. Laila hadn’t struggled as much since she’d come with nothing and had acquired very little in a month. But Valeria had passed most of her pregnancy and all of her son’s short life in this house. He knew leaving had been difficult.

  Too bad this mission wasn’t about putting everyone out of their misery and ending Montilla. One-Mile didn’t bother lying to himself; he wanted revenge. And if the drug lord were no longer on this planet, his estranged wife could stop looking over her shoulder and fearing for her safety. Laila could finally breathe. Baby Jorge wouldn’t be at risk of growing up without a mother.

  But the scumbag wasn’t worth losing his job or risking the wrath of his government. And Brea would be horrified if he intentionally added to his body count, rather than letting the wheels of justice do the job. So, he was going to be a good boy, even though he hated it.

  He had a plan and a few hours to kill before Montilla likely showed. Right now was about fortifying this place and getting some rest.

  The house didn’t have an alarm system, and even if it had, it would have been some prefab piece of shit a guy like Montilla could easily skirt. So One-Mile got creative.

  He opened the pantry and pulled out a dozen cans of soups and vegetables, then scanned the labels. Since airport food was barely edible, he’d skipped it. Now, he set aside some chili, opened the rest of the cans, and dumped their contents down the garbage disposal. Finally, he searched the house until he found a spool of twine and an icepick.

  Not perfect, but he’d make it work.

  While he heated the chili, he stabbed holes in the empty cans and tied them together. Then he attached a set to the handles of both the front and back doors. It wouldn’t keep anyone out, but if an intruder tried to barge in while he slept, the cans rattling across the tile would serve as an early warning system. Finally, he checked all the windows in the house to ensure they were locked.

  While he ate the chili, he scooped up the clothes Valeria had left strewn around and lamented having to leave behind. He tossed them in a big box he found in her closet, then emptied the rest of the baby’s drawers in there, too. Since he had a little bit of space left, he included a couple of pacifiers and a few boxes of baby oatmeal, then taped it all up and shoved it in the back of the car she’d forgone. If he survived, he’d UPS her stuff to Florida. If he didn’t…well, most of Valeria’s things would already be packed for her. She wouldn’t care about his fate.

  As One-Mile took his last bite of chili, he glanced around. The place looked a bit more orderly, but tidying the shithole wasn’t his concern. He needed sleep.

  He found a roll of wide tape and some thumbtacks in Valeria’s craft room, then stuck the heads of the wide pins to the tape and set a few strips in front of the door to Laila’s bedroom. He’d sleep there since her room had multiple exit points.

  Then he double-checked his weapon and drifted off in the dark corner of the house.

  The night passed peacefully. So did most of the rest of the next day.

  One-Mile ran out to grab some supplies, sent Valeria’s box to Orlando because he was a nice guy, then returned to the house and started preparing for his uninvited visitor’s arrival.

  As evening came and went, his tension grew. If dawn came without an appearance from Montilla, he’d have to re-examine his supposition that Trees was the traitor. Until then, he’d operate on the premise that any intruder who wanted to steal stuff broke in during the day; anyone who wanted to kill crept in at night. And he’d act accordingly.

  So after ignoring hordes of inconvenient trick-or-treaters, One-Mile turned off the interior lights just before midnight and stuffed pillows under the covers in Valeria’s bed. He snatched an oblong throw pillow off the sofa and set it under one of the remaining baby blankets in the abandoned crib.

  If Montilla came, he’d kill Valeria before he took the baby, but on the off chance he wanted to get a look at his son before he offed the boy’s mother, One-Mile would be ready.

  Until then…his thoughts turned to Brea. Nothing new from her today. Was she busy at work? Had her father had another relapse? Was she thinking about their last evening together? He wished he knew, but it was too late to disturb her now. And he had to keep focus.

  Bathed in darkness and attuned to the still, One-Mile waited. If there was one thing a good sniper needed, it was patience. In the rest of his life, he hated waiting for anything. But when it came to ending scum bags, he could drag that shit out forever as long as it meant bagging his target.

  Sure enough, a little after two a.m., he heard the jiggle of the handle at the back door. Figuring that was Montilla’s most likely entry point, he’d taken the string of cans off the knob. No reason to let the enemy know he was onto him.

  Instead, he melted into the shadows in the adjacent hall and peeked into the living room. After a little more rattling and a few clicks, the knob turned. The door swept open.

  Montilla ducked in—alone.

  He glanced at the baby swing and toys in the corner where Valeria had left them, then crept through the family room.

  Wearing a ghost of a smile, Montilla tiptoed straight for the master bedroom—something he could only do if he knew the layout of the house. And he could only know that if Trees had passed on the schematic.

  That motherfucker.

  But he’d deal with the back-stabbing giant later. Now was all about taking off the head of the snake.

  Once Montilla entered the bedroom, One-Mile slipped out of the shadows and crept across the floor toward him.

  His heart revved. He gritted his teeth and put a chokehold on his fury. God, he’d love to raise his gun and double-tap the slimy son of a bitch. It sucked that he couldn’t.

  A few feet in front of him, the drug lord eased toward the bed, bare hands outstretched menacingly, then yanked back the blankets on the big bed. “Get ready to die, bitch!”

  “Sorry. You get me instead.” Before Montilla could whirl and attack, One-Mile smacked the drug lord on the head with the butt of his weapon. The sadistic bastard crumpled to the ground.

  Time to take this fucker down a few notches…

  Yes, he should just call the cops and wait for them to come arrest Montilla. But where was the fun in that?

  Besides, he’d come so far and given the silent bird to so many people just to have a few minutes of quality time with this fucking asswipe. One-Mile intended to enjoy every moment.

  He withdrew a blade from his pocket and cut off Montilla’s shirt. Then, with a smile, he hogtied the son of a bitch—one of the many useful skills his granddad had taught him during his summers in Wyoming—and hauled him to the bathtub, setting him facedown. He closed the tub’s stopper and flipped on the cold water.

  Montilla came up howling and sputtering in the dark. “Son of a bitch! Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Shut the fuck up and listen, Emilo. First, you’re never getting your hands on Valeria or Laila again. I’ve made damn sure of that. Second, I owe you for the sparkling hospitality you showed me in Mexico.”

  “Walker?” When One-Mile flipped on the glaring overhead light, Montilla turned his head and met his gaze with a scowl. “Let me go, and I might allow you to live.”

  “I don’t think so, you lying sack of shit. You almost killed me the first time. But I’m going to be a nice guy and show you a little mercy. Not much…but you’ll live. I think. If not? Oops.”

  With a chuckle, he splashed water across Montilla’s back, dipped the sponge-cushioned clamps of jumper cables under the tub’s spray, then hauled the car battery he’d procured near his feet. Finally, he attached the cables to the top of the power source.

  As he leaned in, Montilla’s eyes went wide. “No!”

  “Oh, yeah.” He laid the wet sponges coursing with electric current against Montilla’s ribs.

  The asshole jolted, bowed, and screamed before he sniveled and begged.

  After a satisfying series of uncontrolled twitches and a hint of burning flesh, One-Mile lifted the jumper cables away. “Are we clear?”

  Montilla panted. “I will kill you.”

  “Those are big words for a guy with his wrists attached to his ankles behind his back. Besides, you’re on US soil now, motherfucker. I’m sure the feds would be very interested in knowing your location…”

  Montilla spit at him, his eyes full of fire and hate. “Killing is too good for you. I will capture your family and torture them slowly until they die like the pleading, whimpering dogs they are.”

  “Wow. That sounds really dramatic. I’ll bet that threat usually works well—on other people. Me? Sorry. I don’t have any family.”

  “Every man has a weakness. I will find those you hold dear and—”

  One-Mile jabbed the wet jumper cables against his ribs again and listened to Montilla scream. “Shut up. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that acting like a dick won’t make yours bigger?”

  After a few more seconds of uncontrollable jolting and hair burning, One-Mile retracted the cables.

  Montilla panted as his body went limp—until he realized he was belly down and face first in a tub with the water level rising steadily.

  “Turn it off!” the drug lord demanded.

  “Because I’m a good guy, I’ll show you more mercy than you showed me.” One-Mile turned the water flow down but not off.

  Montilla eyed the still-rising water. “Are you trying to drown me, you crazy bastard?”

  “I’d be doing the world a favor, but no.”

  The drug lord ripped a murderous stare in his direction. “I will find those you love and make them suffer.”

  “Blah, blah, blah. If you can’t shut the fuck up, I might have to rest my boot on your head for a few minutes. You know, with your face in the water. Just until you stop breathing.”

  Montilla jerked and cursed. “I heard that, when you were in the hospital, there was a pretty brunette who never left your bedside. My men said you were smitten.”

  One-Mile froze. Montilla’s thugs had seen Brea?

  He tried not to show any reaction. “She’s not mine. Girlfriend of a teammate. I don’t do permanent, and I don’t believe in love.”

  Well, the old him hadn’t. Brea had changed him.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  One-Mile scowled. “I don’t care.”

  But he did. If Montilla’s men had been watching, how much did they know about Brea? About the two of them together?

  “I think you are lying. But perhaps I am mistaken.” Montilla sneered. “After all, who would love you?”

  “I could ask you the same. I know you took your wife from her little impoverished village at sixteen and forced her to marry you. Is it any wonder she left you the first chance she got?” Then he waved his hand in the air as he finally kicked off the water that had now risen to the prick’s chin. “You know what? This conversation is boring me. I think it’s time to put an end to this.”

  “You will not kill me.” Montilla’s sneer was full of bravado, but he didn’t actually look convinced.

  One-Mile picked up the thick lead pipe he’d found in the garage and thumped it against his palm. “Say nighty-night.”

  Then he swung and hit the asshole on the back of his head with just enough force to knock him temporarily unconscious. He drained the tub, carted the battery away, extracted the burner phone he’d procured earlier, and dialed the only number he had pre-programmed.

  “St. Louis Police Department, Narcotics Division.”

  “Do you know who Emilo Montilla is?”

  “Who is this?” the cop asked.

  One-Mile didn’t answer. “Do you know who I’m talking about?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Write this address down.” He rattled the information off to the detective. “Montilla broke into that house. I put a stop to him. You’ll find him facedown and unconscious in the tub. Hurry…”

  “Who are you?”

  One-Mile hung up and hauled ass out of the house, hopping into Valeria’s abandoned car. He was already heading for the freeway when he heard the sirens.

  One-Mile scrapped his plan to drive Valeria’s car to her in Florida, then fly home on Sunday.

  In case Montilla could somehow make good on his threat, he needed to warn Brea now. It couldn’t wait.

  Through the thick of night, he forced the little compact down the highway at speeds not intended for this small engine, refusing to stop for food or drink. The trip that should have taken over ten hours, he managed in less than eight.

  At ten on Saturday morning, he screeched up in front of the preacher’s house. He feared Brea would be at the salon, already doing someone’s hair. But her car still sat in the driveway.

  Thank fuck.

  As he yanked the keys from the little import’s ignition, the front door opened. He hauled ass up the walkway just as Brea emerged and headed for her vehicle, staring at her phone.

  The sight of her alive and in one piece sent visceral relief sluicing through his body. He’d fucking missed her like he’d been gone for a year, not nine damn days. He visually inhaled her, but that only made him hungrier.

  She’d dressed in a billowy gray sweater and black leggings he’d love to peel off her. She’d piled her hair in a haphazard knot. Even under the layers of makeup she didn’t usually wear, she looked too pale. Almost sick.

  Though he preferred her bare faced and bare assed, right now he was just so fucking glad to see her.

  “Brea!”

  Her head snapped up. When she spotted him, she stopped short and blinked. “Pierce, you’re back. When did you—”

  “Just now.” He closed the remaining distance between them and took her shoulders. “Is your dad home?”

  “No. He’s at the church.”

  “Good.” Without warning, One-Mile shoved her into the house, crowding her against the adjacent wall with his body, then locked the door. He stared out the glass opening. No one had followed him; he’d been watching. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  It felt so good to be close to Brea, but he could only afford a few minutes with her right now. He had to keep his head. “I need to talk to you. It can’t wait.”

  “Okay. I-I need to talk to you, too. There’s something you should—”

  “Let me go first.” He didn’t have the luxury of being polite.

  Frustration bubbled. Why had he hopped on his high fucking horse and decided it was his responsibility to make sure Valeria lived so that Baby Jorge grew up with his mom?

  You know the answer to that.

  But why the hell hadn’t he simply captured the drug lord and immediately called the police?

  Because, dumb ass, you couldn’t have your pound of flesh, so you insisted on stealing an ounce or two. Way to go.

  Now, he was paying for his stupidity. No matter how much he ached for Brea, he couldn’t be with her until he knew Montilla was behind bars for good—or dead.

  “Listen, Brea. I hate like hell to do this, but something has happened.” One-Mile tried not to terrify her. “I can’t see you for a while.”

  “I know you just got back. This can wait. My weekends are always busy. In fact, I’m late for a client now, but—”

  “It will be longer than a few days. I’m not sure how much. We could be talking months.”

  Shock crossed her face before she frowned. “What do you mean?”

  How the hell could he drop the bomb on her that a dangerous drug lord wanted to kill her slowly and painfully? He couldn’t without scaring the shit out of her. “Like I said, something’s happened. It’s complicated and it’s my fault…but we need to take a step back.” Fuck, he was bungling this. “What I’m trying to say is—”

  “So you don’t want me to move in?”

  He did. He’d love to have her against him every night. But he would choose her safety over his happiness every fucking day. Explaining that was a scary, long-winded bitch.