Running Wild. Susan Andersen
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leaned toward the passenger window. “Get in!”
He climbed to his feet and got in. She burned rubber the ancient tires couldn’t afford to lose getting out of there and Finn retrieved the gun from its precarious hiding place and leaned forward to slide it under his seat.
Without taking her gaze from the road, she reached across the seat and gripped his wrist. “Thank you,” she said fervently, her palm warm against his skin. “Again.” She gave him a quick glance before turning her attention back to the road. “I made that necessary twice in one day. It was dumb of me to answer when he called my name.”
“That’s how we learn.” He watched as her long, narrow fingers slipped away. Then he raised his eyes to study her face. “So. Magdalene, huh?”
She scowled. “Nobody calls me that but my parents.”
He didn’t understand why, since he thought it was a prettier name than Mags, if not as hipster cool. But he merely shrugged. “Where you heading?”
“As far away from here as I can. Then I need to get to a phone. I know my mother mentioned the Munoz grow farm in one of her letters but I kind of skimmed the part that said where it was. If it actually did say.” She took her gaze off the road long enough to give him a quick grimace. “It didn’t seem important at the time so I don’t really remember.”
She flapped a hand at him. “In any case, I’ll call my neighbor to see if she’ll go over to my place and try to find the reference in one of my letters. It wasn’t that many mailings ago.”
“Are you kidding me?” Not being hampered by anything so modern as a seat belt, he turned in his seat to stare at her. “Your big idea is to head right into the heart of a cartel?”
“I plan to get my folks away from one, yes.”
“Are you undercover DEA?”
She snorted. “Do I look like a drug enforcement agent?”
“Ah, the always popular answer-a-question-with-a-question ploy—I’ll take that as a no. You trained in special ops, then?”
She sighed. “I’m guessing you know I’m not that, either.”
“Then I suggest you get back on your meds, darlin’, because you clearly have suicidal tendencies if you’re self-aware enough to know you lack said training, yet intend to tackle an organized syndicate, anyhow.”
“I do not have suicidal tendencies! I didn’t say I was going in there with guns blazing—supposing I even had a gun. But if I can pinpoint the farm, then I can take that information to the nearest US embassy. They should know which agency to contact to get my folks out.”
“Let the cops pinpoint the farm!”
“You think they haven’t tried, Finn?” For the first time he heard frustration in her voice and realized that up until now she’d actually been damn calm about all the violence aimed her way. “The government’s been aerial spraying the crap out of every grow spot they hear about, so if Munoz’s operation is still intact, the way Joaquin made it sound, it’s because the cops don’t have a clue where it’s located.” Making a face, she turned off the main street. “With the possible exception of his cousin, that is. But for all we know, they could have a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy. And even if they don’t...well, clearly he isn’t talking.”
She turned two more corners before glancing over at him again. “In any case, it’s not your problem. Where do you want me to drop you off?”
His teeth clenched so tight he felt muscles jump in his temples and jaw. “Not my problem?” he said in a low, quiet voice that would have had his siblings backing away. “You don’t think it’s a bit of a problem that if I wanna stick around Santa Rosa I’d better be prepared to keep a constant eye peeled for a homicidal maniac who probably hasn’t even seen his twenty-first birthday? Because, sister, that boy’s gonna be gunning for my ass.”
She shot him a stricken glance but he wasn’t feeling particularly charitable at the moment. “Much as I sympathize with your plight, lady, you’re not the only one who got sucked into this mess.” He twisted around to look behind them, then blew out a breath and settled forward again when he saw the road was empty.
Then he looked over at Mags. Her face was set in determined concentration and her hands held the wheel so tightly her knuckles were white beneath her skin. She hadn’t asked for this any more than he had, and he knew he oughta cut her some slack.
But his temper, always slow to rise, was equally poky to cool back down once it had. So, even as he regretted the flatness in his voice, he said, “Whataya say we just drive the hell away from here until we put some distance between us and this cartel that thinks it’s copacetic to try to kill us? Once we get that part down pat I’ll be happy to explore the issue of where to drop me.”
JOAQUIN DRUMMED IMPATIENT fingertips against his thigh as he waited to be admitted to Victor Munoz’s inner sanctum. He’d been cooling his heels for twenty minutes and was tired of waiting. Yet the moment the door opened, he braced himself, suddenly wishing he had more time to prepare. Because while his boss was mostly a reasonable man, during those times when he wasn’t, he was really not. As in, psycho not.
And there was no predicting which reaction you’d get.
But the one thing Joaquin could be certain he’d always get was El Tigre’s most powerful drug lord. Standing now in the doorway of his plush office, dressed in pristine white linen, Munoz looked at him with a hooded gaze. “It is done?” he demanded in the English he insisted upon whenever he met Joaquin in his office. “You have brought her to me?”
Easing out his breath, Joaquin collected himself, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Boss. They got away.”
For a second Munoz’s expression was noncommittal. Then his eyes turned to obsidian ice. “Define they.”
“Deluca’s daughter and some gringo who interfered both times that I had her. I don’t know if they knew each other beforehand or if he’s merely a do-gooder who just can’t stop himself from sticking his nose in my business. They weren’t actually together either time, but were definitely in the same areas.”
He couldn’t bring himself to admit that one or the other of the North Americans had relieved him of his gun and his knife. Not that it was hard to get his hands on any weapon he desired—he could replace what was stolen from him with the snap of his fingers. Retaining his boss’s good opinion, on the other hand—
Well, that might not be as easily achieved.
Munoz swore creatively, but as quickly as his anger surfaced it disappeared behind a calm facade again. This was because Munoz was a businessman. And temper, as his boss was fond of saying so frequently, had “no place in business.”
Cold comfort, Joaquin thought, to the man he’d seen Munoz gun down while still in the grip of this temper that had no place.
But that had no bearing on the here and now. He shoved the memory into a shadowy corner of his mind as the older man stood aside and indicated he should step into his office.
“The fault is not entirely yours,” Munoz said in a rare near-apologetic tone as he rounded his desk to take his seat. He waved Joaquin into one of the two guest chairs. “As it turns out, the blame in this instance can be laid at my madre’s feet.”
Joaquin shivered and surreptitiously crossed himself. He had no idea how old the venerable Augustina Munoz was. If he were to judge by her thick, sturdy shoes, eye-liftingly tight bun and perpetual black, head-to-toe clothing, he’d say she must be closing in on the hundred-year mark. Yet considering how surprised he’d be if Victor had reached his fiftieth birthday, that probably wasn’t so. Unless, of course, she had her son late in life.