“He could be,” Valeria hedged.

  “If that was so, you would not have run from my son in fear when you realized you were pregnant. But you fled because you feared he would be suspicious. And you knew he would have killed you for the truth. So you escaped with Colonel Edgington and his sons, leaving your younger sister without any help, ally, or hope for the future.” He tsked. “Not very sisterly of you.”

  Valeria sent her the briefest glance filled with shame and apology, then she glared at Montilla. “I left so you could not corrupt or abuse my child. The world did not need another Emilo.”

  As much as Laila felt shocked and betrayed by all her sister’s secrets, she couldn’t argue with Valeria’s conclusion. Laila had found ways of coping with life under the thumb of Victor and Hector Ramos in her brother-in-law’s compound. As a baby, Jorge would have been utterly vulnerable.

  Montilla stalked closer to Valeria. “Give me my son.”

  At Hunter’s signal, every operative he’d brought raised their weapon and pointed it at the drug lord. “We are not the police or the DEA. We aren’t here to threaten your business, but you made a simple fucking agreement: fifteen minutes with Jorge and Victor Ramos’s lousy ass in exchange for my operative. You’ve got five seconds to comply or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

  Montilla stared him down, looking simultaneously amused and annoyed. “Do you really believe you can compel me to do anything? For every gun you have trained on me, I have one pointed at each of your men. Would you like to see your brothers die? Mr. Scott in the basement? Everyone else who relies on you for a paycheck? And I assure you, once they are gone, your clients will suffer most. Valeria is young enough to breed again several times if I desire. And Laila will make a more than acceptable whore for my men.”

  Terror clawed through her. After knowing the pleasure of Trees’s touch, she couldn’t imagine enduring sexual violence and abuse again. But how could she stop what seemed like an inevitable slaughter?

  One thing she had learned over her years of captivity was that no one expected her to be a fighter or capable of foiling the plans of dangerous men. She’d use that to her advantage.

  Clandestinely, she looked around the room for some way to hide Jorge and her sister while she reached Trees. She glanced over her shoulder at Hunter Edgington. He had a scheme in mind. She saw it on his face. Laila wished she knew what.

  To Montilla’s right, Federico—who hadn’t said a word during this exchange—assessed the situation. What did he have up his sleeve?

  “I’m serious. You have five seconds to lower your weapons,” Hunter warned the drug lord.

  “Or what?” He scoffed. “You will shoot me? We will return fire. Is that really safe with a child in the room? Did they not teach you Navy SEALs better?”

  “If you’re itching to get it on, let the women and Jorge leave.”

  If Montilla agreed, they would kill everyone, including Trees. And did Hunter really think that, once the drug lord had succeeded, he would allow her and Valeria to take Jorge and walk free?

  She had to contrive some plan—fast.

  The old man smiled. “Your forthright earnestness amuses me.”

  His condescending attitude clearly rubbed Hunter the wrong way. “Five.”

  “Counting, are we? Do you think that will change anything?”

  “Four.”

  Laila watched Logan grip his weapon tighter before he shuffled her behind him. Joaquin did the same with Valeria.

  “Give me the boy, stop this ridiculous counting, and no one has to die.”

  “Three. Drop your weapons and live up to your negotiations or you won’t live until sunrise.”

  “Fuck you.” Montilla charged them.

  Logan blocked his path. Joaquin shoved him back and cocked his gun in the old man’s face. Laila tugged on her sister’s arm, easing her and Jorge back a few covert steps from the fray.

  “No, fuck you,” Hunter spit. “Two, asshole. After one, you’re dead.”

  “You wish.”

  The elder Edgington gestured to his operatives, who went on high alert. “One. Last chance.”

  Federico stepped closer to his boss and murmured in his ear, “Do not back down. We must show these vaqueros and gringos who is in charge.”

  Montilla nodded, raising dark eyes full of contempt at Hunter. “Kill them and take the boy!”

  Laila didn’t waste a second. She pulled on her sister’s arm, using her body to shield Jorge from the hail of gunfire that suddenly erupted around them. As much as she feared for the lives of everyone at EM Security, she had to ensure her family stayed safe and free Trees before it was too late.

  Jorge began wailing. Valeria did her best to cover his mouth so the boy didn’t give away their position as Laila hustled them through the chaos to find someplace safe to hide.

  She headed toward the shadowy corners of the room and spotted an opening that led to a long corridor. At the end, a strip of moonlight filtered under the door. “Run. Find Kane and Zy. Tell them to start driving you far away now.”

  Valeria gripped her hand tightly. “I will not leave you.”

  Laila gave her a shove. “For Jorge, you must. Or he will be raised by a monster.”

  “Come with me,” Valeria entreated. “I left you before. I do not want to do it again.”

  “I am choosing to stay because I need Trees. I do not want to live without him.” When Valeria opened her mouth to argue, Laila shook her head. “No. Stay in the shadows and go!”

  Her sister hesitated, then kissed her cheek. “God be with you. Please be safe.”

  “You, too.”

  “I hope my secret does not make you angry. I love you.”

  Valeria wasn’t one for soft words. Neither was Laila. Life had been too hard on them both. But she also knew life was too short to hold a grudge against her only sister. “I love you, too.”

  Her sister slipped out the door, clutching Jorge. Laila watched until it shut, then eased back to the end of the hall, closer to the ugliness of combat.

  Someone killed the lights. Now only the silvery light of the moon shone through the busted-out windows. Gunfire rang through the cavernous room. Shouts of rage and grunts of pain filled the air as the battle raged.

  If she was going to rescue Trees, Matt would need backup. She must find a gun.

  Laila dropped to the dirty tile, crawling into the fray on her elbows and knees, staying as low as possible to avoid the flying bullets. By the dim light, she caught sight of a man, one of Montilla’s, sprawled lifeless two feet in front of her. She scrambled to reach him, patting him down quickly to find his weapon.

  Seconds later, it was in her grasp, warm and wet with something slick and coppery. Blood. She shuddered and wiped the weapon clean on her pants, shoved it in her waistband, then turned in the direction Montilla’s men had taken Trees.

  As she crawled for the exit, she ran into Hunter Edgington. She recognized his boots.

  He glanced to see who was at his feet. “Get the lights back on. Some fucker turned them off.”

  “How?”

  “There’s a switch.” He aimed and fired at some combatant she couldn’t see. “I can’t do it myself.”

  But… “Montilla will only kill you faster.”

  “You think I don’t have backup? An ace in the hole?”

  She hadn’t considered that, but hadn’t he and his brothers been doing missions like this their whole adult lives? Yes, and if the lights would keep them alive so they could help her rescue Trees, rather than her having to brave the dark to the morgue alone, she would do what she could. “On it.”

  It took some effort, but she found her way to one of the light boxes the Oracle team had brought in and fumbled under the weak beam of moonlight. Suddenly, her fingers encountered the switch and she flipped it on. Light flooded the room, startling Montilla and his goons.

  Emboldened, she ran to another light and flipped it on, too, this one blinding Montilla and Federico with a bright beam directly in their eyes.

  Both cursed. She looked around and saw a few corpses strewn on the ground. Thankfully none belonged to anyone from EM or Oracle.

  Crouching and ducking, she made her way across the room, dodging bullets until she was a handful of feet from the stairs that led to the basement.

  Then cruel fingers in her hair yanked her up by the tender strands.

  “Where are you going, little sister?” Montilla rasped in her ear as he wrested the gun from her waistband and tossed it to the floor.

  Her heartbeat surged with fear. “What do you want?”

  “My son. Where is he?”

  “I-I do not know,” she lied.

  “You waste my time. Tell me now or I will blow your brains out.” He lifted the gun to her temple.

  She tried to hold in her scream, but it escaped as a whimper. Terror shook her from head to toe. She had no illusions that Montilla would end her. She meant nothing to him. Nor did taking a life.

  If this was how she died, trying to protect those she loved, then she would gladly perish, but she would leave behind one gaping regret—that she had broken her promise to Trees yet still hadn’t saved him. She could only hope that EM Security prevailed and that they would rescue the man she loved so he could have a long, hopefully happy life.

  “I will not tell you.” She raised her chin in defiance.

  “Shame. You will look far less pretty with your brains splattered across the floor.”

  He cocked the gun. The sound reverberated in her ear. Her breathing turned ragged, and she closed her eyes, praying for a miracle. But she would not beg this monster for her life.

  Suddenly, she heard a splat, felt a gush of hot liquid spray across her face. Her breath caught. Had she been hit? Was she bleeding? Why didn’t she feel pain?

  Montilla’s grip on her hair loosened, then his body began to fall away. Laila turned—and saw his wide, lifeless eyes, along with a small bullet hole in between. The back of his head had been blown open and his brains littered the floor.

  She screamed.

  “Get her!” she heard someone roar in a heavily accented voice.

  Laila took off running, ducking long enough to grab the gun Montilla had tossed, and made her way toward the basement stairs.

  One of Montilla’s thugs charged after her. She heard his pounding footsteps above her harsh breathing and turned to find him barreling down on her. She looked around for help and saw some wounded among the EM Security operatives. Others she didn’t see at all, like Hunter. She prayed they were still alive.

  Logan charged across the giant, empty room to help her, but he would reach her too late. Her pursuer was already taking shots at her. One bullet whizzed past her ear.

  To her right, she ducked down an unexplored hallway. It was still and shadowy. Maybe too dark for Montilla’s murderous underling to see her? Perhaps, but the encroaching blackness terrified her.

  As she darted down the corridor, it closed in, threatening to suffocate her. She started to panic. Her breaths got louder, and she still heard his pursuing footfalls. Her thoughts tumbled and whirled. How could she sneak past her assailant to reach the basement stairs?

  As possibilities rolled through her head, Laila tripped and stumbled. Her shoulder crashed into a door that gave way and slammed against the opposite wall. Moonlight shined through the lone rectangular window here, enough for her to see she’d cornered herself in a closet.

  The door swung shut again. Panic clawed at her as she looked for an escape. The shelves lining the walls were empty. Maybe she could climb them, break the glass, and shimmy through the small window above. But then she would be forced to run around the hospital perimeter, find a door to enter, and locate the stairs to the basement—precious minutes in which EM Security might be overrun by Montilla’s thugs and Trees might die. But if she ran back out of the closet, her assailant would catch her.

  The window it was.

  Laila tested the sturdiness of the shelves, then started climbing—only to be stopped by a sign to the right in big red letters. A small, square opening sat beneath.

  The laundry chute. It should take her down a level, into the basement, right? But would she fall to her death?

  Behind her, the door crashed against the wall again. Knowing she had no time to waste, Laila yanked the narrow panel open and crawled into the chute. It was a tight squeeze. Darkness overtook her again. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore her fear.

  Then she was falling, down, down. Laila bit her lip to keep from screaming. Would she break a leg when she landed or simply plummet to her death?

  Gravity finally hurled her out of the chute. She tumbled feet first onto the cold concrete floor with a thump, rolling to her hands and knees. But she was unharmed.

  Laila stood and fought a fresh wave of impending terror. The dark down here was absolute. She held up a hand in front of her face. She couldn’t see a thing.

  Her heart gonged furiously against her chest. She panted hard and fast but struggled for air. Panic surged, threatening to strangle her. She tried to tell herself she was fine. Her pursuer—and nearly anyone of any size—would struggle to fit in that chute. He hadn’t followed her down. She was free to find Trees and rescue him.

  But hysteria froze her in place.

  Laila shook from head to toe, her eyes wide and alert, despite the complete blackness. Every sense was on hyperalert, cataloging the cool air on her skin drifting from the chute to the sound of something scurrying—a rodent?—a few feet on her right.

  Against her will, a whimper escaped. Memories of sleeping in the narrow, uncomfortable bed in Emilo’s underground compound rushed back. At first, she had appreciated the fact that sunlight never cut her sleep short. Then came that horrible night. The scraping noise of metal on metal. The footsteps. The echo of her own voice asking who was there…and the chilling silence.

  Then she’d been held down, her screams muffled by a sweaty hand before a strong, cruel hand shoved her nightgown up and a man slid between her legs.

  Laila shoved the rest of the memory away. That was then. Now she had to save Trees. Victor and Hector weren’t here to rape her, and she would be damned if she was anyone’s victim again. Everything she’d been through had only made her stronger, and Trees had done so much to save her physically and emotionally. She refused to let him down.

  Slowly, she rose, feeling her way through the inky room until she came across something square and metal, about waist high. A washing machine? She groped her way from that one to another, then several more, all in a row.

  Finally, her fingers encountered a wall, then an opening. Laila edged into what she suspected was a hallway. She desperately wanted to reach for the phone in her pocket and use the light to guide her through the blackness. But she didn’t dare alert Montilla’s guard.

  She simply had to be brave.

  Laila fumbled along the wall, tiptoeing and listening for noises. The sounds of the battle upstairs grew fainter and fainter as she made her way past other doors, none of which were the morgue, she supposed, because she didn’t hear Matt or Montilla’s lackey.

  Finally, she reached the end of that wall and found herself in the intersection of two corridors. The pounding of something against metal—a fist?—resounded down the empty space almost directly ahead.

  Then she heard a voice she’d know anywhere. “Get me the fuck out of here!”

  Trees! He was still alive. Still fighting.

  “Shut up, freak,” an accented voice spit at him with contempt, sounding even closer.

  “You shut up. He’s not a freak,” Matt defended.

  “I would love to fight you, tear you limb from limb, vaquero. If el jefe gives me the go-ahead…”

  “You’re all talk.” Matt sounded annoyed.

  Laila crept closer, still shaking and fighting the urge to curl up into a fetal-position ball, rock back and forth, and beg someone to turn the light on. But she would brazen her way through this and rescue Trees, even if it took all her will.

  “I can hear your fucking voices. Let me the hell out!”

  Trees was alone, probably in the dark, too. Was he afraid of what would happen if EM Security lost the battle? Did he even know it was going on? In this floor, in a separate wing, she could hear none of the commotion above.

  “One more word, and I will come in there and kill you myself.”

  “You fucking try,” Trees sneered. “You don’t have the brains or the balls.”

  “Pinche pendejo,” Montilla’s man spit. “I will fuck you up.”

  Suddenly, a little light flickered on at the end of the hall. Laila glimpsed the hazy outline of a dark-haired man facing the door, gun in hand. She heard the scrape of metal, then the thug yanked on the door.

  Matt, weapon in hand, clamped down on his shoulder. “You’re not touching him.”

  “No, I am going to kill him. Back off.”

  Matt surged into the small circle of light and shoved the man. The light dropped between their feet as the sounds of curses and flying fists filled the hallway.

  They were distracted. This chance would not come again.

  Laila swallowed back more fear and rooted along the wall toward the morgue.

  As Matt and the drug thug tangled toward a corner, they kicked the light. Beams spun crazily on the sagging ceiling as Laila crept closer, now mere feet from the door.

  Before she reached it, it wrenched open. Trees busted out. Scattered beams lit his face in stark relief. He breathed hard and growled, looking like a blunt-force instrument of vengeance.

  Then he turned to Matt and Montilla’s goon. They were both armed. Trees wasn’t.

  He needed her help.

  Before she could give him her gun, Matt scuffled back into the circle of light and hit the criminal over the head with the butt of his gun. Montilla’s lackey wilted, seeming to melt toward the concrete floor.

  They were safe—for the moment.

  “Trees!” she called out.

  His head snapped up. His stare fastened on her. “Laila, what are you—”

  “No time. We must go.” She fumbled with the gun in her waistband, then handed it to him before bending to grab the firearm off the body near Matt’s feet. “There is a shoot-out upstairs. I sneaked my sister and my nephew outside, but everyone else—”