Page 2 of Stolen

Chapter 2

There was an old saying, Ariana thought: ‘Out of the frying pan, into the fire.’ It was something people said when you got out of one bad situation, only to find yourself in one just as bad.

Or worse.

But how could you know, when salvation seemed to be knocking at your door, where the escape route would lead?

For her, it had led out of her brother’s house—a life of luxury supported by unimaginable violence and misery.

She just hadn’t measured the cost—not to her, but to others.

Instead, she’d fallen for the man who rode out of the sunrise, promising to take her away to a new life. She’d talked herself into believing it was a movie, one of those ones where the men in the white hats won, and the bad hombres were defeated, and the heroine lived happily ever after with the incredibly guapo cowboy.

But this was real life, and the bad guys weren’t a few banditos in the Mexican desert. They were a multinational drug cartel, and they didn’t just have a posse on horseback. They had an army.

And they were coming for her.

Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but they were coming. She’d betrayed her brother too badly, and she knew too much about his operation. Either one was a death sentence.

Both together were a ticket to hell.

She was outside the little cottage in the Adirondack mountains of New York, in the United States of America. Compared to her home in Colombia, the mountains looked small and friendly, though she knew that was deceptive.

From where she stood she could see the wilderness that surrounded the town. Thickly wooded slopes that hid wild predators as well as soft prey, and that would throw a killing blizzard at you in a moment, if you offended their gods.

But right now it was spring, and there was a garden, and the scent of sun-warmed earth and green growing things filled her senses.

Life in the midst of death.

If she was going to die at her brother’s hands, then she wanted the memories of her last days to be of digging her fingers in the warm earth, of planting seedlings and watching them grow.

Flowers, for beauty.

And vegetables, for life-giving food.

That would have to be enough, for her. She just had to figure out how not to take Hawk down with her.

Hawk, her guapo cowboy, the man who had infiltrated her brother’s cartel to try to bring it down, and instead had helped her escape.

Because of the way he felt about her—the way they both felt. They’d tried to deny it, knowing it could only lead to disaster, but wolf called to wolf, and in the end they had thrown the dice on one bold move.

She rubbed her fingers over her upper chest, still feeling the scar from the bullet that had almost killed her. Still hearing her brother’s voice as he’d ordered his men after them.

He was gone—loco—over the edge, if he’d ever been on this side of it. She couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been cruel, tyrannical—enjoying causing pain to anything weaker than he. His sisters. Small animals. And now, anyone who opposed him. Other ‘businessmen.’ Officials. Whole villages.

She shivered.

A white delivery truck pulled into the driveway of the cottage, and Mike Kirby got out, carrying a wooden carrier of milk bottles and an extra bag. Only seventeen, Mike delivered for his family’s dairy in the early mornings before he went to school.

“Morning, Miss Ariana,” he said, his freckled face lighting up in a shy grin. “Want to take the milk? Or should I put it in the box?”

“Hello, Mike,” she said. “In the box, please, if you wouldn’t mind? I’m not going straight inside.”

“No problem.” He held up the cloth bag. “Our new cheese is cured. Ma sent you some special. No charge.”

Ariana’s heart warmed. “But how kind of her! Be sure to carry my thanks to her.”

“I sure will. She wants to know if you think customers will like it.”