Enslaved (Colombian Cartel #6) - Suzanne Steele Page 0,38
jolt. When he did it again, the truck weaved around her and sped up past her. The tinted windows were so dark she was barely able to see a man with dark hair and a beard, but then he was gone—not much of an identity. She pulled over. Her hands shook on the steering wheel, and her heart was racing. The guy had scared the crap out of her. Was he trying to kill her by running her off the road and pushing her over the steep incline? This was crazy. All of this for a blog. She couldn’t wrap her brain around why someone would take a blog so serious as to kill somebody. If they thought they were going to scare her out of writing, they were wrong. She jumped out of the SUV and ran back to where Mano was, leaping into his arms. She felt like she never wanted to let go. He had saved her life.
“You’re not going anywhere without me. Do you understand?!” He didn’t care; he knew, she could feel the subtle tremble rippling through his embrace.
“After that scare, I’m not even going to argue with you.”
Chapter Twenty Two
El Loco eased his shirt over his head and rubbed his chest gently. It was already turning black and blue from the impact it made slamming into the steering wheel when Mano ran into the back of his truck. Those airbags are a bitch. How the hell had Mano gotten there so fast? No doubt, he cared about the woman. El Loco could see the look of rage on his face as he had slammed into him—Mano wanted to hurt him. El Loco knew if Mano had gotten his hands on him, he would have killed him. It had taken all his concentration to keep his truck from going off the edge of the drop-off. It had been a long time since that much adrenaline had surged through his body. He enjoyed the jolt of excitement it gave him. This was going to be more enjoyable than he initially anticipated. He liked a job that presented a challenge. Mano was a worthy opponent, and El Loco would use the sentiment the man had for Page against him. If he could kidnap the woman, he would have power over Mano. Mano would pay top-dollar for the woman. El Loco might even be able to retire and move to the mountains. He could hide out and get out of the gangster life. Years of fear wore on any man.
He winced when he reached down into the cabinet for an ace bandage. He knew his ribs were bruised, and he couldn’t do anything but wrap them. He pulled open a drawer and popped three pain pills and then took a swig of whiskey from the bottle he’d set on the bathroom counter. Any gangster knew to keep drugs on hand. Going to the hospital had to be avoided at all costs, and gunshots were reported. There were doctors who got paid under the table by the cartel, but a doctor couldn’t do any more for him than he could do for himself. His ego wouldn’t allow him to seek out a doctor for anything less than a gunshot wound. The boys laughed at men who ran to the doctor for every little wound they got. The doctors loved to see them coming because it meant a fat bank account for them. The doctors lived in mansions and drove high-dollar cars, vacations were part of the package, and their wives were dressed in the most expensive of jewels and fashion. Life was good for them—if they didn’t get caught. Taking a chance on losing their medical license was worth the perks they enjoyed.
Wives who looked like models and the prestige that went with their titles made it easy for them to bury the guilt of helping the bloodthirsty clients they served. They were on call 24/7, and their wives knew what they did but never asked questions; their guilt was easy to bury too under the diamonds and designer clothes they wore. If their husbands didn’t do it, someone else’s would. Guilt was an enemy you closed your eyes and your conscience to. Each person played an intricate part in the land of the lawless. They all kept their mouths shut for fear of their life. Nobody wanted a torture session with the likes of a sadistic Antonio Wayne.
El Loco tightened the bandage and placed two clips in it