Where did they move the target? It would just be a matter of time before he found her. But, he was running out of time.
Dario crouched, resting his forearms on his knees, and leaned closer to her. “Donna… dear. I keep hearing you say you don’t know where she is. And I keep not believing you.”
He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. She tried to tug away, but he dug his fingers deeper into her flushed skin. “Somebody knows where that girl and the drugs are, and you’re going to tell me who.”
Her breath hitched, but she held his stare. Brave little thing. Brave didn’t matter.
He let go and stood, pacing a tight, restless line. His phone buzzed. Again. He wasn’t a man who scared easily, but having Marco Garcia, the kingpin, calling, practically scared the life out of him.
“Your crew’s stunt at the safe house was noticed. The police are all over it now. And Victor? The one you sent inside?”
“Dead. Shot. Didn’t make it out.”
“You’ve lost three men on this,” Marco informed him, as if he didn’t know.
“And the drugs?” Dario asked.
“Forget the drugs,” Marco said. “It was a tiny load. Not worth the heat you’ve kicked up. Too many cops. Too much noise. We’re shutting this operation down until it cools.”
In all his years, he’d never known Marco to walk away from missing drugs and shut down a deal. This would not end well for him. He was as good as dead unless he resurrected this situation, even if that meant going against Marco. It was his only chance of survival.
“Kill the deputy. Dump her. Kill Milbourne. And walk away.”
“I’m close. She knows something?—”
“It’s too late. You’re wasting time. End it.”
“Jonathan’s guarded in the hospital.”
“Figure it out.” And then the line went dead.
Dario swallowed hard. Killing Jonathan Milbourne in the hospital was suicide. But, then again, not doing it was suicide. For a moment, he considered running, but the Garcia reach was too much—too far.
Donna blinked at him, with the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut. Her gaze was dazed, and her face and shirt were covered in blood.
“Please,” she whispered. “I don’t know anything else.”
“Yeah, I know.”
She sagged in relief. Then burst into tears when he pulled his gun from his holster.
He stepped behind her.
“You should’ve given me something,” he muttered in exhaustion.
Her breath hitched again—fear this time, raw and real. “Wait—please—my parents?—”
“Your parents will be fine, but you, dearie, you’re out of time.”
Slowly, he wrapped his finger around the trigger, still debating killing her as ordered or if he should still try to resurrect this drug deal.
Then something outside snapped. A twig? A footstep?
Instinctively, Dario placed his hand over Donna’s mouth, then froze. Listening.
Donna squirmed and murmured a prayer against his palm.
All was quiet. Still, he didn’t pull the trigger. Not yet.
