Less than fifteen minutes later, the van pulls to a jerky stop. Raphael is the first out; I can tell from the way his voice fades and then cuts off altogether when his door slams shut. The music is still blaring, though it’s not pop music anymore. It’s Mexican rap music. Angry. Hostile. Violent.

The rear doors open, and suddenly someone has hold of my ankles. I’m pulled from my cowering position in the back of the van, and I hit the ground hard. The drop from the vehicle to the ground must only be two feet, but my shoulder impacts first, sending a white hot flash of pain charging through my back and neck.

I cry out, but no one says a word. Hands find me, more than one pair, and they lift me roughly to my feet, pulling me forward. I hear nothing but Mexican rap music and the frantic staccato of my own heartbeat. I stumble after whoever is dragging me behind them, tripping on unseen obstacles and rolling my ankles. The music fades away, and my heartbeat grows even louder.

“Now, you’ll keep your fucking mouth shut, you hear me?” a voice commands. Raphael. Of course, Raphael. “If you want to live, you don’t breathe a fucking word.” He yanks on my arm, unbalancing me, and I drop to one knee, only to have my arm almost wrenched out of its socket as I’m tugged to my feet again.

Without being able to see, my other senses have come alive. A saccharine sweet smell hits me—the smell of sugared almonds and cotton candy. There’s a screeching sound—a screen door opening?—and then I’m jerked to a halt.

“And what is this?” a male voice asks. The timbre of that voice is low and rumbling, husky with a thick accent. Spanish, but not Mexican Spanish. It’s softer, more muted than Raphael’s hard intonation.

“This is mine,” Raphael replies. “I picked her up along the way. The judge is dead, by the way. In case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t wondering. I gave you a job to do, and I expected you to do it. What I didn’t expect you to do is bring a stranger back to my home.”

The way this person speaks makes something very clear; he is pissed. Seriously pissed. It’s the quiet, careful way he parts with his words that gives me that impression. I’ve had a severe case of mouth sweats ever since I threw up back in the van, but now my throat is miraculously dry.

“She’s been blindfolded the whole time. She doesn’t know anything,” Raphael says.

A cracking sound, and then the dull, slow thudding of feet against wood. One step. Two. Three. The voice is closer now.

“Has she seen your face?”

“Yes.”

“Does she know your name?”

There’s a brief pause. And then, “Yes.”

“Does she know…my name?” The malice in this question makes my palms break out in a sweat. I’m beginning to get the feeling Raphael’s fucked up in kidnapping me, and I’m going to be the one paying the price.

“Yes,” Raphael answers. “She does. But she’s never gonna be out of my sight, Padre. She won’t be a problem.”

“The girl isn’t the problem here, Raphi. You are currently the problem. You do shit without thinking, and that is a really fucking big problem for me, you understand?”

So I know this guy’s name? That must make him Hector, surely? He is Raphael’s boss. Raphael doesn’t say anything to him in return, though his hand tightens around my arm, fingernails digging into my skin. I squirm, trying to free myself, but it’s a complete waste of energy.

“Take the blindfold off her,” Hector commands.

A piercing light stabs into my head, making me gasp. Daylight? Daylight? It was eight thirty in the evening when I first came across the unfortunate Judge Conahue. I blink up at the sky, horrified when I see the sun’s position directly overhead. That would make it almost midday, or around that time anyway. How the hell is that possible? I was dazed after being hit on the head, but I thought I’d been mostly conscious. Obviously I was wrong, otherwise I wouldn’t be surprised by the fact that at least eighteen hours have passed since I was taken.

Eighteen hours. That means I could literally be anywhere. Definitely out of Washington State. Any hope of rescue I might have been harboring plummets.

“I see why you risked pissing me off, Raphi,” Hector says. I lower my gaze and I see him—a tall, dark-haired man with startling green eyes. He’s clearly of some Latin descent, though his skin is more golden than olive. Maybe in his mid forties, he reminds me of the pediatrician I used to see when I was a kid. Except there’s an air of something not-quite-right about this man that Dr. Hereford didn’t have. Something that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

He holds out a hand to me, his cool mint-green irises locked firmly on my face. I don’t know what the hell he expects me to do. My hands are still firmly tied behind my back. Hector doesn’t even turn his head; his eyes simply travel from me to Raphael, and then my captor is moving quickly, hands fumbling to pull a small knife from his belt so he can free me. I’m in instant pain. It’s like my hands are on fire. Blood rushes back into my fingers so quickly and intensely, the piercing sensation takes my breath away. Hector reaches down and takes my right hand in his, and massages his fingers over mine, making a clucking sound at the back of his throat.

“You’ll have to excuse my friend here. He can be very uncivilized when the mood takes him.”

Raphael’s getting antsy in my peripheral vision—he clearly doesn’t like anyone else playing with a toy he considers his—but something primal within me is warning not to look away from Hector. He’s beautiful in an odd way.