9. Daze

NINE

DAZE

If anyone had told me a few days ago that I would not only be hiding out in a former cartel stronghold but working with the bastards, I would have said they were crazy. The sick son of a bitch might even have deserved a punch to the gut for such a twisted idea.

Well, look at me now.

I'd skip down the street hand-in-hand with the devil if it meant saving Frey's life. Liar, a part of me whispers. If you truly cared about her… Really cared, you'd pass over the devil and go straight to Silas on your hands and knees. You'd offer the bastard your head on a silver platter if it meant getting her back alive.

After that, you'd ask why he had so many documents pertaining to her family tucked away in a suburban garage. That's a tricky little riddle, I have yet to solve. Hours later and I still haven't gone through them all—for a reason that isn't entirely my fault. When Damien saw the folder the second I returned, he frowned in that mysterious way that signals bad news.

I'd almost prefer to ask Silas outright than dig answers out of Mayhem, though, the bastard would sooner blow my brains out—after he stopped laughing his ass off, that is. Still, the doubt persists at the back of my mind, in between taunting images of her. The beautiful green eyes that widened as I fucked her last. Skin so soft, and as pure as an angel's. Right before an orgasm, her voice rose in pitch, and I swear it must be the soundtrack those lucky bastards arrive to in real fucking heaven.

Damn.

This is one of the few times in my life where constantly thinking about a woman isn't a good thing. I'm not used to this. Pining , as Ben would call it, his voice teasing—and rightfully so. My fear of losing her has grown from a minor inconvenience into full-blown paranoia. She consumes my thoughts. Even with Renna…

I knew she was in a bad way, but by the time Sammy came, whatever there had been between us had already died out. We were glorified roommates, tethered together by a screaming infant neither of us was responsible enough to care for. Yes, I felt grief when she died, and it might be shitty of me to admit, but…I felt relief, too. There was no need to worry about her shooting up or nodding off with Sam in the house.

That being said, I missed her. But, when it came to saying goodbye, as much as it fucking sucked, I could let her go.

The possibility of losing Frey isn't even an option. There's no alternative to having her back in my arms. No happy ending that doesn't involve her in it. Being away from her kills me.

Truth is, I would go further than meeting with the cartel if I knew she would be safe. I'd sell my soul for her.

"I don't like this," Ben murmurs, hunched over the table, comparing pages from Hale's journal to those in Silas' trunk. In the pale glow filtering in from the high windows, he looks like hell, with his dark hair hanging limply down his shoulders and his chin coated in black stubble. "There's news clippings of the cartel mingled with a fucking last will and testament?—"

"What?" I approach the other end of the table as he shoves one of the pages toward me. My stomach twists into knots as I scan the wording printed in faded ink. It's a will, alright, documenting the final wishes of one Abagail Winston Heywood.

"She might have been Frey's mother," I say, recalling what she told me about her. "Supposedly, she was a drug addict, but Heywood more than likely bumped her off."

"This could be why," Ben says, nodding toward the stack of pages still on his side of the table. "Looks like Ms. Abby here was worth millions. I'm talking tens of millions. I can't tell the full amount because these are copies of just a few pages. Why the hell Silas would have it, I don't know."

"What else is there? Maybe he's threatening to release this to the press? The knowledge that he's riding high on his ex-wife's money could erode his financial support?"

"Maybe," Ben says. At the same time, he frowns and presses his thumb over a particular line. "If he actually did ride high on her money. Judging from this, he didn't."

I feel my eyes narrow. Fuck, I'm even more confused. Why would Silas even give a damn, unless…

"I'm guessing that if Heywood didn't profit from his wife's death, then her children did."

"Not quite." Ben sighs, but when he meets my gaze, he's frowning. "Hale would have when he turned twenty-five."

"So, then I'm guessing Frey is next in line."

And since she's only twenty-three, she has two years on her father's radar before she can inherit. Not ideal, but I plan on getting her out of the city well before then. Even so, something about the way Ben is looking at me makes my skin itch.

"What?"

"She is next in line to inherit, but it looks like there are exceptions built in. Either she inherits when she's twenty-five, or if she gets married and has a child before then."

I blink at him. Hell, he might as well have punched me in the chest. Marriage. A child. "For all we know Heywood could have her married to his fucking puppet by now." I take off toward the entrance. What the hell I'll do? Who knows.

All that matters is getting her far from those monsters.

"Wait," Ben calls out. "You got any idea why Silas would keep this shit hidden like some kind of fucked-up security blanket? Or why he's been keeping tabs on the cartel in addition to Heywood's financials?"

It's a good damn question. Gritting my teeth, I stop short and force myself to meet Ben's questioning stare. I know what he's getting at. In spite of his apparent confusion, he hasn't asked any of the cartel holdouts for assistance. It is no secret that he disapproves of their presence. He'd rather we do things the old way, as my father did—go it alone under the glory of the Saints, armed with hopes and dreams.

In the long run, we'll all be better off if he gets it through his skull sooner rather than later—I'm not him.

"Why don't we ask the experts," I suggest, heading toward the back of the warehouse.

There, I find three of the five cartel holdouts seated, surrounded by cigar smoke. In the background, faint sounds of Latin pop play, providing an ironically jaunty backdrop to the tension thickening the air. They've been mostly quiet since setting up last night.

One of them, Marco, smirks when he sees me approach.

"It's about damn time you've come to make introductions," he says, cracking his knuckles before extending his hand for me to shake. "Otherwise, I might take our welcome as a sign that we aren't wanted around here."

"No disrespect intended," I say coldly. "I'm sure you've been listening to what we've been talking about over there. Any idea why those incidents would catch Heywood's eye?"

Or Silas', for that matter.

Marco laughs. "I'm no fucking psychic."

He reaches for his pocket, and I can't form a fist fast enough.

"Easy," he says with another forced laugh. "You always walk around your so-called base so amped up?"

"Yeah, well, I'm not fucking stupid. What's in the pocket?"

"It's this." He pulls something from his pocket, but it's not a gun. Instead, it's a card that he places on the edge of the table, forcing me to inch closer to read it. Stamped over the front in red print are the letters E.D. and what looks like a skull dribbling blood- red ink down the front of the black cardstock. "Have you heard of El Diablo?"

I raise an eyebrow. "No. Should I have?"

He shrugs. "Only if you like learning about crazy fuckers on the outskirts of the cartel. A man that even we don't work with. He deals in heroin, but it's brutal stuff. Deadly. That's not why he has the reputation that he does, though."

I relax a fraction, still keeping all three men in sight. For now, they keep their hands on the table, in clear view.

"Fine, I'll bite. How does this El Diablo get his reputation?"

"Diablo means devil," Marco explains. "According to some, this bastard is him, in the flesh. Or worships him at least."

I have to laugh. Between this shit and Heywood, I've had enough of religion to last a lifetime. "I don't care if he worships a fucking unicorn," I snap. "What does he have to do with Heywood?"

"You wanted me to look into that drug that's been flooding the market. While it's been shipped here using cartel networks, we don't deal in it. To get that stuff directly your Heywood had to literally make a deal with the devil. There are only a few things that El Diablo will accept as collateral. Money isn't one of them."

"Then what is?"

"Stop standing there like a dumbass, and we can discuss this like men."

"Fine." I approach the table and pull up the only empty chair. As I sit, I keep my stance open, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. For now, the men don't seem eager to move. "Keep talking."

"El Diablo deals in bodies. Men. Women. Children. Doesn't matter the type, only that they're alive."

"For the sex trade?" I ask, sick at the idea.

Marco shakes his head. "Men who deal in that side of the trade don't take druggies or the old or sick. El Diablo will take anyone and everyone, as long as they won't be missed. Rarely are his victims seen again."

"For what?"

"No one knows for sure," he says. "Some think as slaves to work the cocoa fields. Other thinks that he might brainwash them all to join his cult. I've heard some other theories, though."

"And what is that?"

"Sacrifice," Marco says. "Like the Aztecs used to. He rips out the beating heart from their chest and burns it on a pyre."

"You're shitting me."

"Maybe." He shrugs. "But rumor has it that El Diablo has been moving his cult north."

I don't like the sound of that. "To the city?" I ask.

He shrugs again. "Perhaps. The point is, El Diablo never moves. In the thirty years that he's been trafficking drugs, he's never so much as left his commune. If he's here, it can't be good."

"So, Heywood, who thinks himself some kind of fucking cult prophet, has teamed up with some drug dealer who worships the devil," I say. "You couldn't write this shit. Am I really supposed to believe it?"

"Believe it. Don't believe it," Marco replies. "But there is one thing you should know. In the village where El Diablo lives now, do you want to know how he established his roots? He kidnapped a quarter of the town and killed the captives, one by one, and left their bodies to rot in the street. No one could stop him. No one dared to challenge him. And for thirty years, he's operated out of that commune without even the fucking military daring to challenge him. If he was thinking of expanding, don't doubt that he would have the resources to. And he wouldn't aim to just settle for a piece of this place. He'd take it all and drive out anyone who got in his way. Westpoint would be reduced to a shell, and if he had the fucking political darling on his side, along with the police commissioner? Who the hell knows what he could be capable of."

"Let's say I believe you. What would Heywood get out of it? Why even take the risk of ruling the city with some outsider?"

"Why else? Power and money. He gets to set up in a new, more powerful city in a new, more powerful country. The cartel already has ties in the police department. If he can make the mayor his puppet, there is no telling where his influence may end."

"But there has to be more to it," I insist. "Something big enough that Heywood is willing to put his life on the line. Already, there have been bodies found. How long does he think they can keep this up?"

"Ah, but you seem to think that they didn't want those bodies to be found. You don't see the city in a panic, do you? What if they weren't mistakes, but intentionally placed decoys?"

"To distract from what?"

"That's the real question." He sits forward, lacing his fingers together. "You should ask yourself why these rumors are coming to light now. If a man wanted to take over the city, he wouldn't want bodies being found or rumors taking root until well into his plans, right?"

"So, you're saying that we're already at the end game. Let me guess, that's when your big baddie comes to town and starts ripping out hearts?"

"Oh, you don't want him here," Marco warns. "If I were you, I'd stop him from ever setting foot in this city. If he's already on the move, then you don't have much time."

"Okay, so if you're so smart, tell me when this is all going down."

"Soon," he says with a grimace. "Maybe even tonight. I know where they'll be gathering, but you need to do the grunt work of getting inside."

"Why should I? What's even in it for you? Let me guess, you're telling me all this out of the goodness of your heart?"

"No. My sister went missing a few weeks ago. She was always a fuck up, so I didn't think much of it, at first. But she liked to run her mouth and piss the wrong people off. If she wound up in this mess… I need to know."

I look him in the eye to gauge his honesty. As the seconds pass, he doesn't so much as flinch, and I have my answer. When it comes to this, at least, he isn't lying.

But there is something that he's holding back.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Marco smiles. "You seem like the reckless, hardheaded type who runs into danger without a second thought. Do you really want to be bogged down with the finer details?"

I wince. He has a point. If it weren't for Ben, I'd be relying on just my instincts and sheer damn luck. But he's right. I can't let myself get caught up without weighing every option. It's not just my life on the line anymore.

"I have the time," I say. "So, what are these ‘finer details' that you've been dancing around?"

"My men know that there's some kind of event they're planning for tonight. Something big. If El Diablo is in or near the city, he'll show for that. Which is bad news for anyone that you think they have their sights set on."

An event. Like a fucking wedding? I see red, and for a second, it's harder to remember Ben's advice. I don't want to be patient and thoughtful where Frey's life is concerned. I want to fight. Maim. Kill if I have to.

I want her safe.

I need her to be…

As if Ben is exerting his influence even from the other side of the building, I feel some sense slam back into me. What I need to be doing now is staying focused.

"Where?"

"That's the problem. I don't have an exact location, just educated guesses, but the real danger comes from the fact that I know this place will be armed to the teeth. Getting in will be a suicide mission. Could be better to wait it out and see if you can spot El Diablo."

But time isn't on our side, and there's no way in hell I'll sit aside, and watch Frey marry someone else.

"That's not all," Marco adds. "There has been an uptick of people disappearing from homeless shelters. Usual customers who have vanished."

"Let me guess, more rumors?"

"Ah, but I haven't told you the best, most salacious one of them all." Marco crosses his arms over his chest and leans in. In the dim lighting, his eyes fucking glow, and I feel like some dumb kid, listening to a ghost story. "They say that to honor his presence, El Diablo would demand a sacrifice. A grand display to show that his loyalty has been appreciated."

Sacrifice. I think of Frey with some bastard ripping out her beating heart.

"Jesus Christ. But that's just a bullshit rumor, right?"

Marco shrugs. "Who the hell knows. But if you want to go after them, we need to move now."

"Give me the locations. I'll handle this with a team of men. We can sneak past their defenses somehow?—"

"You don't think I brought you here just to sip tea and for the pleasant conversation, did you?" Marco says. "Oh no, pretty boy. You're taking me with you. I need to see this shit for myself firsthand."

I raise an eyebrow at that. "So, you can kiss the ring of your creepy ass rival?"

"No. So I can see for myself if the rumors are true. If they are, you might find yourself with more allies, biker. No one wants this kind of weird bullshit in our city. If not stopped, we'll all wind up on that altar, one after the other."

He has a point. Only a fool would turn down more willing hands. At the same time, the offer sounds too good to be true. There has to be a catch lurking somewhere. Am I desperate enough to ignore the danger for now?

Maybe.

"How does that saying go?" I rasp. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth."

"Then it looks like we have a deal." Marco extends his hand.

And I have no fucking choice but to take it.

By the evening, the warehouse no longer looks like a refuge for the homeless. Within a few hours, Damien and his boys have moved equipment in, and our ragtag band is performing various tasks like some demented boy scout troop.

"Lex thinks he made headway on your missing reporter," Damien calls out once he's finished unloading a black crate filled with weapons. "I'm sure your buddy will want us to be subtle and do shit all stealth-like—" He nods toward Ben, who scoffs and waves him off. "But I'm down for a rougher introduction."

"There isn't time for games," Ben warns. "Shit's gonna get real soon, and we won't have a lot of time to fuck around. What the golden boy here—" He jerks his chin in my direction, "—has signed us up for is basically a suicide mission."

Knowing Damien, there's no need to go into the specifics. All I have to ask is, "You in?"

He grins, his teeth bared. "Hell, yes."

"Ah, but that's before he mentions the cannibal aspect."

Damien raises an eyebrow. "Seems like you've been having more fun in this city than you let on."

"Unfortunately, it's not a joke," I admit. That makes every man in the nearby radius turn his head in our direction. "Looks like our dear preaching politician got himself involved in way more than we thought. We gotta find where they are tonight."

Before it's too late for Frey.

"And I'm assuming that this mission is why three men from the cartel have just driven up to the gate?"

"The fuck?" Ben rushes to the tangled array of security monitors connected to cameras affixed outside. "Shit, Day! Those fuckers are trying to box us in! It's a trap."

"No," I say, watching as one familiar figure steps from the car at the head of the mini convoy. "It's a truce."

"What?" Ben is left sputtering as I head outside to meet Marco. "Day, what the fuck are you talking about? You didn't mention anything about working with them."

"Because I knew you wouldn't like it, but if this is what it takes to get Frey back. Then fuck it."

"What about working with the reporter, you know? What she actually wanted you to do."

He has a point.

"Then you take the lead with them. The leader's name is Marco. I'll try to pin down the fucking reporter and see what he knows, but I'll be back in time tonight, so keep me updated."

"Damn it, Day…" Ben sighs. "You don't pay me enough for this shit. Hell, you don't pay me at all!"

"You're a good man, Ben. The best anyone could ever ask for in a friend."

"Yeah, yeah, you owe me for this, you son of a bitch."

He's right, and I don't take that lightly.

Sooner or later, everything is going to come to a head, and I'm running out of promises to make.

The funny thing is that the only one that feels impossible to keep is the one I made to her.

Trust her.

But if I give her any more time, I might lose her forever.

And that's just not a risk I'm willing to take.