Wearing a ghost of a smile, Montilla tiptoed straight for the master bedroom—something he could only do if he knew the layout of the house. And he could only know that if Trees had passed on the schematic.
That motherfucker.
But he’d deal with the back-stabbing giant later. Now was all about taking off the head of the snake.
Once Montilla entered the bedroom, One-Mile slipped out of the shadows and crept across the floor toward him.
His heart revved. He gritted his teeth and put a chokehold on his fury. God, he’d love to raise his gun and double-tap the slimy son of a bitch. It sucked that he couldn’t.
A few feet in front of him, the drug lord eased toward the bed, bare hands outstretched menacingly, then yanked back the blankets on the big bed. “Get ready to die, bitch!”
“Sorry. You get me instead.” Before Montilla could whirl and attack, One-Mile smacked the drug lord on the head with the butt of his weapon. The sadistic bastard crumpled to the ground.
Time to take this fucker down a few notches…
Yes, he should just call the cops and wait for them to come arrest Montilla. But where was the fun in that?
Besides, he’d come so far and given the silent bird to so many people just to have a few minutes of quality time with this fucking asswipe. One-Mile intended to enjoy every moment.
He withdrew a blade from his pocket and cut off Montilla’s shirt. Then, with a smile, he hogtied the son of a bitch—one of the many useful skills his granddad had taught him during his summers in Wyoming—and hauled him to the bathtub, setting him facedown. He closed the tub’s stopper and flipped on the cold water.
Montilla came up howling and sputtering in the dark. “Son of a bitch! Who are you? What do you want?”
“Shut the fuck up and listen, Emilo. First, you’re never getting your hands on Valeria or Laila again. I’ve made damn sure of that. Second, I owe you for the sparkling hospitality you showed me in Mexico.”
“Walker?” When One-Mile flipped on the glaring overhead light, Montilla turned his head and met his gaze with a scowl. “Let me go, and I might allow you to live.”
“I don’t think so, you lying sack of shit. You almost killed me the first time. But I’m going to be a nice guy and show you a little mercy. Not much…but you’ll live. I think. If not? Oops.”
With a chuckle, he splashed water across Montilla’s back, dipped the sponge-cushioned clamps of jumper cables under the tub’s spray, then hauled the car battery he’d procured near his feet. Finally, he attached the cables to the top of the power source.
As he leaned in, Montilla’s eyes went wide. “No!”
“Oh, yeah.” He laid the wet sponges coursing with electric current against Montilla’s ribs.
The asshole jolted, bowed, and screamed before he sniveled and begged.
After a satisfying series of uncontrolled twitches and a hint of burning flesh, One-Mile lifted the jumper cables away. “Are we clear?”
Montilla panted. “I will kill you.”
“Those are big words for a guy with his wrists attached to his ankles behind his back. Besides, you’re on US soil now, motherfucker. I’m sure the feds would be very interested in knowing your location…”
Montilla spit at him, his eyes full of fire and hate. “Killing is too good for you. I will capture your family and torture them slowly until they die like the pleading, whimpering dogs they are.”
“Wow. That sounds really dramatic. I’ll bet that threat usually works well—on other people. Me? Sorry. I don’t have any family.”
“Every man has a weakness. I will find those you hold dear and—”
One-Mile jabbed the wet jumper cables against his ribs again and listened to Montilla scream. “Shut up. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that acting like a dick won’t make yours bigger?”
After a few more seconds of uncontrollable jolting and hair burning, One-Mile retracted the cables.
Montilla panted as his body went limp—until he realized he was belly down and face first in a tub with the water level rising steadily.
“Turn it off!” the drug lord demanded.
“Because I’m a good guy, I’ll show you more mercy than you showed me.” One-Mile turned the water flow down but not off.
Montilla eyed the still-rising water. “Are you trying to drown me, you crazy bastard?”
“I’d be doing the world a favor, but no.”
The drug lord ripped a murderous stare in his direction. “I will find those you love and make them suffer.”
“Blah, blah, blah. If you can’t shut the fuck up, I might have to rest my boot on your head for a few minutes. You know, with your face in the water. Just until you stop breathing.”
Montilla jerked and cursed. “I heard that, when you were in the hospital, there was a pretty brunette who never left your bedside. My men said you were smitten.”
One-Mile froze. Montilla’s thugs had seen Brea?
He tried not to show any reaction. “She’s not mine. Girlfriend of a teammate. I don’t do permanent, and I don’t believe in love.”
Well, the old him hadn’t. Brea had changed him.
“I don’t believe you.”
One-Mile scowled. “I don’t care.”
But he did. If Montilla’s men had been watching, how much did they know about Brea? About the two of them together?
“I think you are lying. But perhaps I am mistaken.” Montilla sneered. “After all, who would love you?”
“I could ask you the same. I know you took your wife from her little impoverished village at sixteen and forced her to marry you. Is it any wonder she left you the first chance she got?” Then he waved his hand in the air as he finally kicked off the water that had now risen to the prick’s chin. “You know what? This conversation is boring me. I think it’s time to put an end to this.”
“You will not kill me.” Montilla’s sneer was full of bravado, but he didn’t actually look convinced.
One-Mile picked up the thick lead pipe he’d found in the garage and thumped it against his palm. “Say nighty-night.”
Then he swung and hit the asshole on the back of his head with just enough force to knock him temporarily unconscious. He drained the tub, carted the battery away, extracted the burner phone he’d procured earlier, and dialed the only number he had pre-programmed.
“St. Louis Police Department, Narcotics Division.”
“Do you know who Emilo Montilla is?”
“Who is this?” the cop asked.
One-Mile didn’t answer. “Do you know who I’m talking about?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Write this address down.” He rattled the information off to the detective. “Montilla broke into that house. I put a stop to him. You’ll find him facedown and unconscious in the tub. Hurry…”
“Who are you?”
One-Mile hung up and hauled ass out of the house, hopping into Valeria’s abandoned car. He was already heading for the freeway when he heard the sirens.
One-Mile scrapped his plan to drive Valeria’s car to her in Florida, then fly home on Sunday.
In case Montilla could somehow make good on his threat, he needed to warn Brea now. It couldn’t wait.