Chapter 7
557 Words
Chapter SevenMiguel seemed disappointed that she wouldn’t scream. His hard slaps only served to piss her off and make her jaw hurt. Fine, as long as he didn’t break it—so that she could chew off his face if she got the chance.
He made all sorts of threats and boasts—most having to do with f*****g her to death just to teach her a lesson. Apparently rejecting his now-dead son, as well as his job offer to be a shooter for Miguel’s illegal operations had really pissed him off. It was hard to tell which had made him angrier.
Too smart to risk freeing her hands or ankles, Miguel used a steak knife to slice away her clothes.
“First me. Then the knife,” he wielded it down near her waist. “Don’t worry, Alejandra. It will be fast. I have other business to see to tonight as well.”
He stripped and knelt above her. Alejandra braced herself for the worst. She wasn’t going to cry or beg, not for Miguel’s benefit. There had to be more horrid ways to die, she just couldn’t think of what they were. She wouldn’t cry for him, but inside, where her heart ached, she would cry for what she and Hector might have had.
She closed her eyes as his hot breath landed between her breasts.
“First, I’m going to—” then he squeaked.
Alejandra opened her eyes and couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing.
Miguel’s eyes were wide with shock.
In the mirror above the bed, she had a bird’s eye view of the baddest, angriest warrior she’d ever seen.
She’d thought Hector had looked heavily armed and badass this afternoon. Now he was something else. A pair of night-vision goggles had been pulled up onto his forehead. He wore a vest that hung with two pistols, dozens of magazines of ammo for both pistols and rifles, as well as grenades and flashbangs. His puppy-dog eyes now belonged to a full-grown Doberman—a really pissed one.
And she couldn’t see his rifle, not all of it anyway. The muzzle appeared to be jammed well into Miguel’s a*s. The angle was such that if Hector fired, the round would miss her, traveling up through Miguel’s body and out the top of his head. She might get splattered with his brains.
She was fine with that.
“Lose the knife.”
She thought she knew all the moods of Hector Garcia, but she’d never seen him so angry, so focused in her entire life.
Apparently, neither had Miguel. The blade clattered to the floor.
“Sideways, slowly, until you’re lying facedown on the bed. You so much as brush against Alejandra and you’re a dead man.”
Miguel edged carefully away. The rifle moved with him.
“You okay, Alej?”
Ah-lay. A name she hadn’t heard in far too long. She couldn’t say all of the things that welled up inside her, didn’t dare let them out in the world yet. Digging deep, she found something else. “Could do without the goddamn ropes.”
Keeping his rifle shoved someplace dark and nasty, he pulled out a big military knife and slashed her bonds.
Her clothes were in tatters. She went and found some others stashed in a dresser: women’s, a wide variety, some close enough to her size. Bastard.
She came back and picked up the knife Miguel had dropped to the floor and shifted around until he could see her holding it close by his nose.
“How would you like to f**k a knife, Miguel? Be glad to hold it for you. I’ll put you down just like I did your rabid dog of a son.”
- Writer
