Wicked Ever After (Wicked & Devoted #2) - Shayla Black Page 0,96

zip-tied behind her back for hours. She shifted on the hard metal chair in the abandoned repair shop and studied the woman who had abducted her. Clara, she called herself when she muttered out loud. She clearly hadn’t thought this plan through. Brea suspected the woman’s grief had overwhelmed her mental state, because she’d been acting frantic and half-crazy for hours.

Clara’s bony fingers gripped Brea’s phone. She wished she could snatch it back, at least long enough to tell everyone where she was and that she was all right. She hated to think about Pierce and Daddy both worried sick. Instead, the woman clutched the device in her hand and paced.

“I simply have to call that cabrón and lure him in. His number is here.” She held up Brea’s cell. “Why am I waiting?”

Seemingly to find her courage.

Brea was trying to hang on to hers. The good news was, Clara Montilla appeared to be working alone. She’d seen no hint of accomplices or heavies or anyone else who wished her harm. Apparently the cartel wasn’t helping with this rash plan, nor did she act like she was accustomed to committing violence. Brea clung to those small comforts.

“All I have to do is ring him and tell him I have his puta,” Clara went on. “He will come. Then I will shoot him, and my brother will be avenged.”

That thought terrified Brea, but she refused to let that happen without a fight. “It won’t be that easy.”

The woman whirled on her. “You think I do not know that? Your man has slaughtered many for the sake of his government, his paycheck, and his pride.” She spit on the ground at Brea’s feet. “He is a macho pig.”

And her brother had been an angel? Brea glared but kept her sarcasm to herself.

“He is also dangerous,” Clara went on. “I know this.”

Brea played on Clara’s obvious fears. “And Pierce won’t go down without a fight I’m not sure you’re ready for.”

Clara’s lip quivered. Her fear morphed into terror, but she tried to play it off. “The gun is the great equalizer. I can fell any man with the pull of a trigger.”

Brea couldn’t refute her except to make one point. “Pierce can kill you from a mile away.”

“Not in the dark. Now shut up! And do not speak again.”

Brea was afraid to push the woman any further, so she tried another tactic. “Could I have more water, please?”

Something guilty flashed across Clara’s face. “You have but to ask. I do not wish you or your baby harm.”

The woman assured Brea of that often, even as she rampaged about getting her revenge. And no matter how many times Brea had argued that ending Pierce’s life wouldn’t bring her brother back, Clara didn’t want to hear it.

After the woman set her phone on the nearby counter—so close yet so far away—then lifted the bottle to her lips, Brea took a few sips. When she was finished, Clara set the bottle aside.

They couldn’t go on all night this way. She had to do something.

“I also need to use the bathroom.”

Clara let out a sigh of irritation. “Fine, but do not try to be clever.” She fumbled in her purse for her gun and pointed it in her direction. “I would rather not shoot you, but I will.”

Brea nodded. So the woman had said before. Clara was unstable enough to pull the trigger. Her emotions were a roller coaster—fear gave way to tears, then fits of anger, which morphed back into fear. Grief had made her behavior erratic and unstable. As the hours went on and the woman grew weary, she seemed more unhinged. Brea feared Emilo’s sister would lose her ability to think rationally and shoot her in panic.

It was now or never.

“I understand.”

Clara approached with an industrial-size box cutter and the zip-tie holding her wrists behind the back of the chair suddenly gave way. Brea’s shoulders screamed as she rolled them and rose to her feet. The woman escorted her to the bathroom with the barrel of her gun poking her spine. Brea tried to ignore it and let herself into the small, dirty space.

She wasn’t sure where they were exactly. In some sort of repair shop, though seemingly not for cars, close to the lake. There were chains abandoned on the concrete floors, bays where a few scattered tools still sat, darkened lights everywhere, and a rusting trailer or two.

As Brea took care of business, she was dejected to realize the bathroom had no