Enslaved (Colombian Cartel #6) - Suzanne Steele Page 0,8

Page jumped up and headed to her closet, ready to tackle the next adventure with the only person in the world she trusted: Judy.

Chapter Four

Mano scrubbed his hands over his five-o-clock shadow as he sat slouched down in the seat of his black panel van. He had access to various vehicles, but he always took the black van when there was any chance of a kidnapping. He could toss a body in the back without fear of someone seeing a woman squirming in rope, tape, or handcuffs—well, a woman in this case, anyway. Usually, it was a man from a rival organization who needed to be interrogated. Though he wasn’t a sadistic man, he enjoyed watching Antonio Wayne work; the man’s imagination, when it concerned various ways of torturing people, was matchless. Ricardo and Antonio Wayne used Mano to stalk and kidnap victims; it was Mano’s area of expertise. Years of experience and training had taught Mano how to stalk, interrogate, capture, and take-down prey—he was the best in the biz. Combining their abilities ensured any job was successful. Like a well-oiled machine, each person involved in the Colombian cartel served a purpose: no deaths or arrests.

He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to deal with his little victim, yet. It was one of the things that intrigued him about her: you never knew what the girl was going to do. She was as unpredictable as the sea.

Thinking about all the various ways he could slowly destroy her was entertaining. She was a loose cannon. If somebody didn’t stop her, she was going to get more people killed. The cartel was an intricately woven web of what could best be described as six degrees of separation. Sooner or later, her antics were going to cause his retired parents to be involved in her clusterfuck of a mess and that… wasn’t going to happen—not on his watch. He’d cut her throat and watch her bleed out with no remorse. There was also the issue of her possibly causing problems for the Colombian cartel. No doubt, the woman was an adrenaline junkie. She’d shown no sign of slowing down, even though her fixer had been brutally killed. Most women would be scared into retirement, but not Page, it only seemed to solidify her intent.

He adjusted the mirror and watched two women walking up the sidewalk, weaving their way into the red velvet roped off area that was a line halfway down the block. He picked up his phone and dialed a number. A security guard, no doubt a Colombian bouncer stood at the door picking and choosing who would grace the doors of the prestigious club. The man who ran 'The Club'—Diego—made certain only the most elite of Louisville’s gangsters and celebrities entered. Though Diego operated 'The Club', he worked closely with Antonio Wayne Ramirez and his older brother Ricardo. There were monthly meetings, and no detail was ever overlooked; that included the image of ‘The Club.’ Nothing screamed 'image' like who you allowed to come into your establishment.

“They’re in line.”

“Description.”

“5’10—Six foot in heels, long blond crimped hair, wearing a white shirt, tight jeans, and black stiletto ankle boots. Her friend has brown shoulder-length hair, glasses, and is wearing jeans and a white button-up shirt with a blazer and heels.”

“I’m on it.” Antonio Wayne was a man of few words.

“I’ll wait five minutes after they get in, and then I’ll come in.”

Mano wasn’t offended when Antonio Wayne hung up. That was just how the man rolled—all business. Mano chuckled when he thought about the men who stressed over the uncomfortable silence Antonio Wayne carried with him like a concealed weapon. The atmosphere changed when he walked into a room, and it was a trait you wouldn't soon forget. Mano had been childhood friends with the brothers and remembered how it grieved everyone when Ricardo sent Antonio Wayne to the United States. Ricardo had feared his little brother being killed and had made the hardest decision in his life when he sent the boy stateside. Going stateside was a conversation Colombian-cartel children grew up hearing. He had witnessed his parents have the same conversation many times—usually after a confrontation with the military or a rival organization. Nothing like bullets whizzing by your head to make you reevaluate your location. The issue with being part of the Colombian cartel was trouble followed you wherever you went, and the locale provided no assurance of safety. Fidel had the connections to make sure they were