Wicked as Sin (Wicked & Devoted 1)

Laila wrapped herself in the blanket on his cot and glared at him with accusing eyes as the goons prodded him into his filthy jeans, up the stairs, and out into the breezy desert night. Emilo Montilla was waiting, whip in one hand, crowbar in the other as they clapped him into the shackles drilled deep into the concrete wall of the bunker.

Fuck, this was going to hurt.

“You have been a pain in my ass. It is time we reminded you that you should play nice because I am in charge. But I will spare you if you tell me where to find my wife.”

“Are you just stupid or is your memory that bad? I’ve already said a hundred times that I’m not telling you a fucking thing.”

Emilo snarled, then opened his back again with a single lash of the whip. Fire burst across One-Mile’s skin. He hissed and arched, but nothing stopped the agony until the drug lord backhanded the side of his face with the crowbar.

An instant after pain exploded in his head, One-Mile’s world went black. If he ever opened his eyes again, he hoped he would be anywhere but here.

Chapter Nine

A blast jolted him back to consciousness with a gasp. Gunfire. Pops of it resounded all around him, along with scuffling and shouting. One-Mile lifted his cheek from the wall and tried to open his eyes. A floodlight beamed down into his face, blinding him. He flinched but couldn’t escape.

What was happening, some fucking apocalypse? Maybe that meant the end was coming so his fuck ton of pain would finally stop.

Every bit of his body hurt as if someone had set him on fire. His jaw throbbed. His back sizzled. Something warm and liquid ran down his arms. He couldn’t fucking move. With his remaining strength, he tried to rise from his knees, which felt as if someone had driven stakes through them. But he was shackled. He smelled blood.

He was pretty sure it was his own.

“Over here!”

The voice was male. American. Familiar. One-Mile’s head hurt too damn much to place it. Friend or foe?

Did it matter anymore? Either way, he was going to die.

He slumped forward, pressing his overheated cheek against the cool wall, and closed his eyes.

A pair of amber eyes haunted him.

Brea.

“Find ’em?” asked that familiar voice again, this time closer. “Toss them to me.” No sooner did a metal clink fill his ears than the man shouted, “Fuck!”

More gunfire filled the air with a rapid rat-tat-tat. One-Mile lifted a lid to find a shadow standing over him, clutching an automatic weapon, wearing an angel-of-death glower, and spraying bullets into the darkness beyond.

“Get him now. We’ve got to get the hell out of here!” another American voice called, even more familiar. “I’ll cover you.”

An Edgington?

“On it!” said the first man as he blocked the blinding light and jerked at his imprisoning shackles.

One-Mile squinted up to see who had come to his rescue.

Cutter.

What the fuck?

“We’re going to get you out of here,” Bryant vowed grimly.

Why? Sure, they were teammates, but why would Brea’s boyfriend rescue him?

“Can’t move. Leave me.”

“I promised Brea I’d bring you home, and I’m going to live up to my word.”

Suddenly, his wrists were free. He tried to steady himself and use the wall to stagger upright. But agony gouged his knees. And his left shoulder. Dizziness turned his pounding head around and upside down.

One-Mile slumped to the ground.

Was this where he’d die, face down in the mud, when he’d been on the verge of safety?

Fuck no. Not if Brea wanted him back. For her, he’d fight.

One-Mile planted a hand in the mud and grimaced as he mustered the last of his strength to climb to his knees, then cling to the wall and stumble to his feet.

Cutter was right there. “Let’s go. You’re in no fucking shape to walk.” He shoved the automatic in One-Mile’s hands. “Keep our backs clear.”

Before he could figure out what Bryant had in mind, Cutter hoisted him onto his back. Then Logan was beside them, taking down Montilla’s lackies and thugs, clearing a path forward.

More goons gave chase. Every fucking bone in One-Mile’s body hurt, but the opportunity for some payback was too good to pass up. He saw one of Montilla’s heavies grab Laila by the hair and toss her to the ground.

Fuck that. She’d suffered enough.

His hands were shaking. Seeing double would totally affect his aim, but he’d seen Laila’s expression. She’d rather be dead than stay another minute in this hellhole.

But One-Mile didn’t intend to miss.

He pulled the trigger. The kickback was a bitch, but the thug jerked and stumbled. Laila screamed.

The asshole fell to the ground.

Josiah was there to scoop her up and wrap her protectively against his chest. Hunter, weapon in hand, flanked his back, signaling everyone with a wave of his arm to get the hell out now.