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—”

  “Why didn’t I hear it?” Matt demanded, picking up the flashlight and shining it down the hall, almost in her face.

  “Too far away. But I am worried. If they lose…”

  “We’re all dead. Let’s go.” Trees took her hand, alert and battle ready as they charged toward the stairs. “You stayed behind to fight?”

  At the chiding note in his voice, she shook her head. “I stayed behind to find you.”

  “In the dark?” he asked softly as they reached the end of a long corridor, past what had once been an industrial elevator, and headed up. “You must have been terrified.”

  “I was more afraid of not finding you.” She squeezed his hand, meeting his stare in shadow.

  Trees squeezed her hand in return, then looked over her head to Matt. “You have to help me with this shoulder.”

  “Your arm isn’t broken?”

  “No.”

  Matt still hesitated. “I shouldn’t do this, and putting it back in place is going to hurt like hell.”

  “I’ll only be half as effective in getting us out alive if you don’t.”

  “Roger that.” Matt nodded, then handed her the flashlight. “Get on the floor.”

  Trees didn’t hesitate to get supine.

  Matt took hold of Trees’s wrist and winced. “Laila, kiss him. Don’t let him pull away.”

  “Now?”

  “I’m going to scream, honey. He’s trying to muffle the sound. Come here.” Trees held his good arm open to her.

  She fell to her knees, then fitted herself against him and looked down into his face. “I thought I had lost you.”

  “Shh.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m here, but clearly this shit isn’t over.”

  She might still lose him.

  Laila surged forward, pressing her lips to his battered ones gently, aware of Matt raising Trees’s limp arm as he pumped it in small, sharp circles.

  Trees stiffened and roared into their kiss, pressing against her lips so hard she swore hers would bruise, but she didn’t pull away until Matt stepped back.

  Breathing hard, Trees groaned and got to his feet, rolling his shoulder experimentally. He gave Matt a thumbs-up. “Thanks.”

  The cowboy nodded. “Let’s go.”

  “As soon as I get Laila someplace safe.”

  “By then, it will be too late,” she argued, ensuring the safety on the gun was off. “I can help.”

  “The hell you will, woman.”

  “She’s not a fragile doll, man. And we don’t have time to find the fucking way out of here or to argue.”

  Trees swore heartily but grabbed her hand and climbed the stairs. “Stay behind me.”

  “I will.” Unless he needed help. Until it no longer made sense.

  Her heart pounded as they ascended and reached the main area at the front of the hospital. Everything and everyone had fallen quiet. Were they all dead?

  Then Logan appeared, looking relieved as hell. He pressed a finger to his lips, then tipped his head toward the middle of the room.

  “You want to negotiate or you want me to blow your brains out?” Hunter growled.

  Federico’s face was twisted with anger and dark with defeat. “Tell me what you want.”

  “All shooting stops. Now.”

  “Fine—if you and your operatives get your business out of my cartel.” Montilla’s successor spit at Hunter’s feet. “And do not come back.”

  “As long as you agree to leave Valeria, Laila, and Jorge alone for good. No coming after them, no stalking, no threatening, no—”

  “They were Montilla’s concerns, and he is dead. That makes me boss now. Those women are not my whores, the kid is not my son, and I am not a foolish, sentimental old man. If they swear to stay far away from all things related to the business, I will not bother them.”

  “We want money,” Laila called out. “For our years of suffering.”

  Trees cursed under his breath. “You’re playing with fire…”

  “I am making sure my sister is secure.” She tried to untangle her fingers from his and face down Federico.

  Trees was having none of that, protecting her with his own body as he led her to the new drug lord.

  “How much?” Federico sneered.

  “Five million.” The amount was a pittance to an operation like Tierra Caliente but everything to her family. “Cash.”

  Federico didn’t even blink. “If you and your sister agree to relinquish any right to future profits, yes.”

  “We will.” Gladly. She wanted no part of that life. Valeria would agree.

  “And everyone walks out of here alive. We all go our separate ways without another shot being fired or another punch being thrown?” Hunter pressed. “Without any vendettas being issued.”

  “Agreed…in exchange for the other concession you promised. I want Victor Ramos.”

  Of course he did. Victor had been trying to undermine the senior Montilla and the Tierra Caliente hierarchy since Emilo died, not merely because he’d hated the old man. He’d wanted the power for himself. Naturally, the new management of the organization wouldn’t stand for that. They would want Victor snuffed out at all costs.

  He deserved it.

  “Done,” Laila answered.

  Hunter jerked his stare in her direction.

  She raised a brow back at him. “What use do you have for him? Did you think to turn him over to your American justice system where justice is almost never served? Where he could too easily use his money and pull strings to walk free so he can continue to torment me?”

  Hunter hesitated, then glanced at Logan and Joaquin. When they both nodded, he scowled. “Fine. You and all your boys disarm. Let us get our wounded out. You can do the same. We’ll be back with Victor.”

  Federico nodded, then met her stare. “I can have the cash brought here as well. Then I expect never to see you, your sister, or your nephew ever again.”

  “Nothing would make us happier.”

  The new boss and his men left their weapons with Deke Trenton and Jack Cole, who stood over a dusty reception counter against one wall. Federico snapped at some of his grunts to carry out their dead, including Montilla, who, despite his threats and demands, had never once held his son.