So she wasn’t alone. Panic clawed at her. Were they going to rape her? Her lungs tightened, making it difficult to breathe.
The door next to her bed burst open, startling her. A very tall and very big man entered the room. She had never seen him before. She didn’t know why, but even though he was good-looking, the man scared her to death. He sat down at the end of the bed. She recoiled at the thought of him touching her, but the handcuffs prohibited her from going very far.
She was helpless. Tears rushed to her eyes.
“I’m no danger to you, child,” the man said. His English was impeccable but had a pronounced Spanish accent.
Leila was too terrified to reply and didn’t dare look at him, afraid of what she might read in his eyes. She heard him sigh.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Her heart pounded in her chest, almost suffocating her with anxiety.
“My name is Hector,” the man offered. “I have two daughters. One of them is fifteen years old. That’s about your age, right?”
Leila nodded.
“That’s what I thought. You’re friends with Sophia, yes?”
She nodded again.
“You’re hungry?”
She was. Her stomach growled. But the handcuffs squeezing her wrists pained her more than her hunger. “My wrists,” she said, looking at her handcuffs. “You’re, like, seven feet tall. I’m fifteen years old.”
He laughed. A sincere laugh, she thought.
“You’re right, Miss . . . ?”
She almost told him her name. But she didn’t.
He shrugged. He stood up and pulled a small key from his black combat pants. He unlocked the handcuffs. She massaged her tender wrists and whispered a thank-you.
“As I said, I’m no threat to you, young lady. But I need to know who you are.”
He waited a few seconds. When she didn’t reply, he continued, “What about lunch? You like egg sandwiches? And potato chips?”
“You’ll feed me if I give you my name, is that it?”
He laughed again. “Is that an offer? If so, I accept.”
Now that she had seen him laugh twice in the past minute, she was a little bit less scared of him. Maybe this was just a big mistake, and once Hector learned who she was, he would let her go?
She was being optimistic. She knew that. But she preferred that to the alternative.
Hector left the room and closed the door behind him. It locked itself automatically.
“She’s hungry,” Hector said to the sicario standing guard outside the room. “Go make her a sandwich, and bring some potato chips and a soda, will you?”
“Yes, sir, right away.” The sicario—a man named Emilio—scurried away. Like the men Hector had led during the ambush, Emilio was former military. He had been a military prison guard, so it was fitting that he was now running the Black Tosca’s safe house in Hallandale Beach.
Hector took the stairs to the ground floor and walked to the covered porch facing the ocean. The view was spectacular, with the sun hung high in the pale blue sky and the water echoing its azure color. Back home in San Miguel de Allende, it was all about the majestic mountains and the lush green rolling hills, but, here in Florida, it was the ocean that took the prize. The ocean had always fascinated him. Sailing was in his blood, and he hoped that one day, God willing, he could retire on a nice yacht and cruise the Mediterranean with his family. Hector closed his eyes for a moment to let the liquid sunshine meet his face, but it was the sweet ocean breeze that came sweeping in, blowing cool air through his hair.
Today hadn’t been an easy one. But it had been successful. In five minutes, he was due to call the Black Tosca and report on the day’s operations. He hoped she’d be indulgent. He was unsure, though, about the young girl—Sophia’s friend. Abducting her hadn’t been part of the plan. What would the Black Tosca want to do with her? Hector suspected she wouldn’t be spared, but who knew? It all depended on who she was.
And it was his job to find out.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Miami, Florida
Hunt tried to remove his bulletproof vest, but the muscles in his back screamed for him to stop. The round that had hit him in the back was embedded in the vest, and he could feel the dimple where it had struck. A paramedic—a young woman with dark brown hair—saw him struggle and offered her assistance. Hunt raised his hand and let the paramedic help him slip out of the vest.
The paramedic lifted his T-shirt and examined him. Her hands were soft and warm and probed gently over his muscular side and back.
“You’ll have a severe bruise or two, but you’ll be okay,” she said. “The vest saved your life.”
She walked away before Hunt could thank her. She had a lot to do.
The area around him looked like a war zone. Now that the shooting was over and the scene was secured by law enforcement officers, paramedics and firefighters were flooding the street. Their professionalism was apparent. They surveyed the scene and moved around to assess who could be helped and who couldn’t.