Beth Thomson forced herself to open her eyes. Hot pressure burned behind her lids. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and reminded herself that crying would only excite them. She could pretend to be brave. She wouldn’t show fear. The only thing she could control was her reactions. There would be no screaming, no tears. If this was the way her life was going to end, she was not going to give these men the pleasure of knowing the terror that coursed through her. Men like this thrived on it, required it, it was the currency that funded their regime. She could only pray that the man holding her could not feel her heart’s violent assault on her ribs. Her heart was one thing she could not control. She tried but it refused to listen to her commands to slow: stupid heart.

She took a slow deep breath, conscious of the cold blade held against her throat. Her eyes darted around the hotel room; there was nowhere to go, no escape. Even if there weren’t four of them, she was on the 15th floor. Even in her panicked state, she knew she stood a better chance against four gang members than the concrete 100 feet below.

She needed to think.

She could get out of this. She just needed to be compliant. It went against everything in her to ignore the reflex to fight back. Her training had taught her to fight, but common sense and self-preservation told her this was not a fight she would win. There was no doubt they were armed and she wasn’t. As a precaution she had come to the meeting unarmed and carrying no ID that would link her to the DEA. Her captor leaned in until his nose brushed the side of her face “Hueles bien,” he smirked, exposing a chipped front tooth. Ironic that he was commenting on how good she smelled when the only thing she could smell were the stale cigarettes that clung to his breath. She recognised him from his mug shot: Salvador Flores. Unfortunately for her, she also knew every crime he had ever been convicted or suspected of, and the list was long…and gruesome. Even among the ranks of a notorious drug cartel, Flores stood out as particularly savage.

She did not recognise the others, which meant they were not in the system, probably because they were too young. Los Zetas preferred their recruits young as they were more compliant and fearless and their moral compass could be pointed any way the Zetas needed.

Beth studied all their features, mentally noting heights and weights, every scar, every tattoo. If she survived this she was determined to be able to identify them later.

Flores ran a tattooed hand up her side, settling on her breast.“Pequeno pero agradable,” he hissed against her ear. When he spoke she could see the missing incisors; a testament to his training with the gang. He had joined Los Zetas as a boy, only 13, and like all young Zetas, or Zetilla, his initiation was murdering someone at point-blank range. And then his real training began: by enduring torture so he would know how to torture. In this case, his incisors had been pulled out. It was hard to say what else had been done. Beth had seen cases where Zetillas had had their nails removed one at a time. Others were burned. It was a brutal coming of age for any young man but the results spoke for themselves; the Zetas wanted killing machines and that is what their system produced.

His words were met with laughter from the other three men, each one staring at her like a vulture eying a dying animal, biding their time, ready to swoop in. Beth’s back straightened but she did not push his hand away and she didn’t let on that she knew he was talking about her breasts being small. She bit the side of her mouth to keep herself from giving away any clue that she understood them. Her Spanish was fluent, but it was in her interest that they didn’t know that. She wanted them to think she was just a silly girl in the wrong place at the wrong time. If they found out she was a DEA agent, she would be better off dead.

“Quien es el primero?” Flores asked, but the question was rhetorical as it was clear he intended to be first. He was the leader here. Beth clenched her hands together until her nails bit into the soft flesh of her palms. No matter what happened she would get through this alive. She had a chance if she could get him alone. She needed him to take her through to the bedroom. If she could get him alone she had a chance. More than a chance. She could get through this. She would not let them take her from the hotel. She had seen too many files with women kidnapped by cartels and given as gifts.

That was not going to be her.

Flores grabbed her chin and pulled her face to his and pressed his lips to hers. She couldn’t stop herself clamping her mouth shut. His response was to grab a fist of her hair and violently jerk her head back.

Again the room exploded in coarse laughter. His mouth came at her again, this time she allowed her eyes to close. She needed the small escape. His hands bit into her hips as he pulled her against him. This time she offered no resistance. She could get through this. She had to. A picture of her mom and sister came to the front of her mind but she pushed it away as quickly as it appeared. She could not think of them right now, how much she needed them, how much they needed her. Right now she had to put all of her energy into getting away.

“Es mia.” She’s mine a low voice hissed from the doorway, the harsh tone like acid, burning through the room.

At that moment everything stopped.

Flores’ hands dropped from Beth as his head shot in the direction of the threat.

Torres. He was here.

Beth’s heart stopped in her chest. For a painful suspended moment, her blood stopped in her veins, stagnating in its course. And then a staccato beat began hammering against her ribs. There was an audible gasp. She could not be certain but she thought it was from her. When he had not shown up for their meeting, she assumed she would never see him again. No, that was a lie; she’d assumed it before then. She was always on borrowed time with Torres; once he got what he wanted, he would be gone. Lucky for her, he didn’t have it yet.

Torres crossed the room in long strides, the men parting to make a path. His head was shaved now, only a dark shadow gave the impression of hair. He looked bigger than when she had seen him last and more menacing than the photo in his file. He was six foot tall, but he looked bigger, his presence sucked the oxygen from the room. In a room full of armed gang members, at least one with a rap sheet longer than his arm, Torres still succeeded in looking like the most dangerous one of all, hell, СКАЧАТЬ

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Blurring The Line: A steamy romantic suspense novel that will have you on the edge of your seat. Kierney Scott
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