Page 6 of Sin of Love
4
Grabbing the gun,I open the car door, the interior lights momentarily blinding me. Kicking the door closed, I back swiftly away from the car, away from the house. My heart thunders in my chest but my limbs are loose and relaxed. I’ve imagined this moment a million times.
“Julep! I did what you said. I’m here. Come out.”
My voice echoes against the house, fading until I hear only the hum of my rushing blood and the gentle sounds of the night. Gentle sounds that could be easily mistaken for footsteps.
That are footsteps.
I spin and lift the gun, finding a man-sized shadow approaching not from the house but from the back of the property. Of course. He was waiting in the place I left him—or rather, Marco. The old gardener’s shack.
I don’t hesitate.
My finger squeezes the trigger lightly. Once. Twice. Three times. Pop pop pop. The shots are perfect. Direct to center mass. The figure halts. Falls to their knees, then to the ground.
For a single instant, I feel relief. Then time leaps past me and nothing makes sense.
The gun isn’t in my hand anymore. My wrist is numb, my fingers stinging. My kneecaps scream as they hit cement. My head whips back so hard I feel something pop, see a flash of white, and wonder if my neck is broken.
My neck is broken.
Then: I’m still breathing.
Then: What’s happening?
Excruciating pain is my answer—and what snaps reality back into place. Someone has my right arm twisted behind me, flat to my spine. Any second, my arm is going to pop out of the socket.
“Don’t fucking move.”
It’s a woman holding me.
“Julep?” she asks. “I’ve got her. Can you get up?”
Someone coughs. Someone who should be dead. But he’s not—he rises slowly, first to his knees then to his feet, a horrible reversal of what I’d thought were his final moments. With little to no natural light, I can only make out his general size and shape.
But I’d know him anywhere.
Grunting, Julep yanks at his chest. Velcro rips, the sound alien, startling. Something heavy hits the ground. He bends forward with a groan, hands on his knees, and mutters in Spanish. I hear a few words I recognize. Motherfucker is one of them.
“Deirdre,” he gasps, tone a mixture of disappointment and relief. “I didn’t—couldn’t believe you’d shoot me.”
“Well she did,” snaps the woman behind me.
Her voice picks at a lock in my mind. I push back, just a bit, and her grip tightens so much I have to bite my tongue not to scream.
“I know you,” I grind out, but when I try to look at her, she hits the back of my head with something hard.
I see stars. Liquid metal fills my mouth—my tongue stings where my teeth knocked and cut.
“Now, now.” Julep is closer, his voice warm and soothing. I remember that tone well. “Ease up, Margaret. Don’t damage her.”
Margaret.
The name doesn’t ring a bell, but the familiarity doesn’t go away. I know her from somewhere. Was she one of the girls who passed through the house? Nate and I were the only ones who lived with Julep, who were his muñequitas—little dolls. More likely, she works for the cartel and I met her once or twice back then, enough to remember her. I’ve always been good with voices.
The pain in my shoulder lessens suddenly, and I realize I’ve been panting like a wounded animal. I even out my breathing but don’t move. Whoever his partner is, she still has my arm twisted up my spine.
“Deirdre.”
