“I know what you’re doing with the silent treatment. The bullshit intimidation tactics are beneath you. It’s a dick move and a waste of time. Don’t forget, whether you like it or not, I know you better than anyone.”
“Are you familiar with the rule of threes?” His deep, gruff voice came from behind her.
With a gasp, she pivoted, reaching out and grabbing only air. “You’re talking about the rules for survival?”
Where the hell was he? She stumbled through the dark, arms out, and bumped into the back of the couch.
The bastard was playing with her. Not unexpected. If he terrorized her enough, he could break her down to her most basic instinct. Survival. A human could only endure so much before they surrendered.
But she’d come here prepared to endure a lot.
Where were the windows? Or the light switch? The sheer absence of sight and sound disorientated her. She needed to keep him talking.
“Tell me about the rule of threes.” She moved on shaky legs, hopefully in the direction of the door.
“It takes three seconds to make a life-or-death decision.” His breath licked across her nape. “Three.”
“You won’t hurt me.” She shivered, uncertain.
“Two.”
“I’m not your enemy.” She reached for the door, seeking light. Or momentary escape.
“One.”
Her fingers caught the knob just as his hands clamped over her mouth and nose.
She bucked, fighting on instinct. She grabbed at his fingers and twisted, thrashing her body and going nowhere against the powerful strength of his.
Jesus fuck, he was huge and brawny and utterly immovable. She’d always pictured him as a gangly, pimple-faced, seventeen-year-old boy. But the beast who was restraining her and cutting off her oxygen was nothing short of terrifying.
Her frantic struggling bumped her back against a hard-muscled frame. A frame that towered over her by a foot. He stood like a concrete pillar behind her, no part of him jostling or shifting as she jerked and kicked and wore herself out.
“You can survive three minutes without air.” The cadence of his timbre glided over her like velvet.
Three minutes? No fucking way. Maybe if she was unconscious. Even then, the asphyxiation could cause brain damage.
Her lungs burned, and her chest raged with fiery panic. Had it even been a minute?
She renewed her efforts to escape, flailing for air and trying to bite his hand.
“Two weeks ago, I watched my friend do this to a girl hanging on a meat hook.” He adjusted his grip, pinching her nose while smothering her mouth. “She was innocent. Unlike you.”
Tears leaked from her eyes and gathered at his fingers. She surpassed discomfort and denial and plummeted headlong into frenzied desperation. She was going to die, right here in the dark, in the arms of a man who never showed her his face. With each second that passed, she was certain it was her last.
“You can survive three hours in the extreme heat of a harsh environment.” His stony voice penetrated her agony, torturing her dying heart. “Three days without water. Three weeks without food. Three months without hope.” His lips brushed her ear. “Welcome to my world, Rylee from El Paso.”
Her lungs gave out, and shadows crept in on all sides, raiding all conscious thought until nothing remained.
No bright light. No life flash. No euphoria.
Just an endless absence of being.
“Did you kill her?”
“Who fucking cares?” Tomas snarled into the phone and nudged the woman’s limp body with his boot.
Calling Cole Hartman was the last thing he wanted to do, but he needed information. Who did she work for? What were her connections? Who would miss her? Why had she really come here?
The woman had an agenda, and she’d been diligent about not giving it away.
He needed Cole to do the investigative work, but when his friend answered the phone, the first thing Tomas asked was, Are Luke and Vera alive?
Last time he’d seen or heard from Luke was in the limo before the cartel had escorted Tomas off the property.
Not only had Luke and Vera survived, but apparently, she’d strapped herself with weapons, including a grenade, and taken down the whole fucking La Rocha family. Christ almighty, Tomas adored her. She was beautiful, ferocious, and the perfect match for Luke. Hearing that they were both safe in Colombia almost lifted his murderous mood.
Almost.
He grimaced at the brunette laid out on the floor. Killing her was the cleanest way to handle this, but first, he needed to know who she was.
When he’d received her email a week ago, he intended to hunt her down before she showed up here. But that plan was fucked to hell when the cartel forced him out of the limo at gunpoint. He’d found himself stranded in California without money, transportation, or an untraceable phone.
By the time he stole a car, stole another one when he ran out of gas, dumped the last car, and hiked the rest of the way to the house, he’d run out of time. With only a day to spare, he’d spent those hours preparing for the woman’s arrival.
Electricity to the house was kept on to power the security cameras and satellite. The latter allowed him to contact Cole. But the moment he hiked out of range of the house, the outside world would be inaccessible.
That was ideal for what he had planned.
He couldn’t kill her right away, and considering the seemingly harmless, but insidious manner in which she’d been spying on him for ten goddamn years, he knew it would take some effort to crack her.
So when she’d stopped breathing against his hand, he’d resuscitated her.
“Did you receive the photo I sent of her?” He swept his gaze over the unconscious body, ignoring all the sinful dips and curves and focusing on the fragile bones that would shatter beneath his fists.
“Yeah, I got it,” Cole said. “She looks dead. Tell me she’s not.”
He crouched beside her and touched the pulse point on her throat. “She’s not. For now.”
“Listen up. If she has copies of your emails, you need her alive and compliant. Don’t fuck this up. The lives of your entire team are on the line.”
Of course, he fucking knew that. He’d made a mistake sending those emails. A horrendous, mortifying mistake that started when he was seventeen. He hadn’t known any better then. But he couldn’t use that excuse ten years later.
He would fix this.
“She’s not carrying ID?” Cole asked.
“Nothing. I searched her pockets, her truck, and all the gear inside it. No phone. She even removed the license plates.”
“She’s smart.”
“She doesn’t look so smart now.” He glared at her sulky lips which, just moments ago, had been sucking for air against his hand like a dying fish.
“Any tattoos, scars, or birthmarks?”
“None that I can see.”
“You haven’t stripped her yet?”
“I’m not a pervert.”
“Right.” Cole’s disbelieving tone grated. “How long ago did you knock her out? She shouldn’t still be unconscious.”
“I gave her a sedative.”
Cole didn’t need to ask where the tranquilizer came from. When Tomas and his roommates sold their house in Austin, Texas and moved to the Restrepo headquarters in Colombia, he’d transferred their weapons, electronics, burner phones, and medical supplies here, along with nonperishables, bottled water, and petty cash. It had been Cole’s idea. A precautionary measure to ensure the team had a safe house in Texas.