Jagger (Broken Doll 2)

I glanced at the list of potential traitors, every man that worked for me, and uncontrollable, blinding rage burned deep inside, charring my innards for what felt like the millionth time in the three days since Miri was taken. I clenched my bruised and battered hands, ready to leap from my chair and destroy anything within reach. Not that there was much left intact in this God forsaken study at this point. Most of the office had already suffered my wrath and lay in pieces, scattered all over the expensive fucking rug. A rug that didn’t mean jack shit, along with everything else in this goddamn house. The study felt like a jail cell, sitting around staring at the walls, impotent, while my girl was being hurt, frightened, or shit, possibly even dead. My jaw ached as I ground my molars together.

Without Miri, all of this material bullshit was just that—bullshit. I wanted my girl back in my arms. Her soft skin, her sweet smell… just the thought of never seeing her again fueled my rage. Fuck!

Sarge shifted in his chair. The man wasn’t stupid. He knew I was about to lose my shit. Again. I was two seconds from detonating when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the screen. Unknown Number, with a San Antonio area code. My initial instinct was to fuck it off and let it go to voice mail so I could start destroying stuff, but something compelled me answer.

“What?” I snarled, pissed at whoever interrupted my savage manner of stress release.

“Now, now. Is that the proper way to greet someone?”

Fucking son of a bitch. I immediately recognized the smooth voice with the carefully modulated Mexican accent.

My fingers tightened around the device and I hissed through clenched teeth. “I knew it was you, you fucking bastard. Where the fuck is she?”

Across my desk, Sarge’s eyes popped and he began to rise. I held up a finger so he would stay seated. Sarge complied, but I saw his fingers curl into his palms. No, it definitely wasn’t Sarge who betrayed me. The man wanted the same as me—to reach through the phone and slit Cuchillo’s throat. The prick took George’s best friend, and George and Sarge were pretty close. Sarge wanted revenge for George.

“Your nasty temper won’t get you anywhere, guero.”

“Shut the fuck up, culero. You think I don’t know Español? What the fuck do you want?”

I was gripping the phone so hard the plastic case cracked. Frankly, I was shocked the glass didn’t shatter in my hand. I hated being at this fucker’s mercy. Despised it. It went against my very nature to feel fear. But I was afraid, for my Miri. My heart was hammering, the lump on my head beating in time with my throbbing pulse.

“You should think twice before insulting me, Jefe. It would be a very big mistake on your part.” Cuchillo was so calm, his attitude so smug, I literally closed my eyes and pictured my KA-BAR slicing through the flesh of his throat, exposing the pink layers, blood shooting out in a geyser, in order to stop myself from saying something I would regret. Something a bastard like him would certainly take out on Miri.

“What do you want?” I said slowly, enunciating each word to hide my desire to maim and kill.

“Your email address.”

Sarge twitched in his seat when my eyebrows flew up to beneath my hairline. “What?”

“You heard me, guero. Your email, now.” I clenched my free hand in a fist, my nostrils flaring at the insult. Fuck. I concentrated on breathing in and out of my nose so I could speak without threatening to dismember him one tiny piece at a time. The violent thoughts soothed me and when I was as composed as I would get—which was not at all—I recited my email. “Bueno. I will be in touch.”

The call disconnected. I stood there like an asshole with the phone to my ear for another minute or so, unable to move or process what the fuck just happened.

“Boss… Boss!” Sarge’s voice snapped me out of my trance and the phone slipped from my hand to clatter on the desk. “What did he say? Was it Cuchillo? Does he have Miri?”

I swallowed repeatedly to shove back the terror and gather my thoughts. “It was Cuchillo, but he didn’t say for sure he had her. He wanted my… my email.”

Sarge frowned and tilted his head. “He didn’t say if he had her? What else did the slimy little fucker say? Why did he want your email?”

A hollow ache in the pit of my stomach began to grow, steadily expanding until the pressure made me physically ill. Something was wrong. Besides the whole “Miri was kidnapped by my biggest enemy.” I dropped into my chair and began typing on my laptop. A minute later, I had my email program open and was on the verge of hyperventilating. Sarge moved to stand behind me, leaning over my shoulder.

“No new emails.” My inbox held the usual messages. Nothing out of the ordinary. The longest fucking hour of my life passed while Sarge and I stared at the screen, refreshing it every thirty seconds. Still nothing. It was close to ten p.m. “No fucking way am I leaving this spot. Call the men and tell them we’ve postponed the meeting. Get George, Shade, and Milo over here.” I had a really bad feeling about this. That heart plunging, bowel loosening, hands trembling kind of feeling.

“Yes, Boss.” Sarge left the sealed cell to carry out my instructions.

I must have refreshed the inbox a dozen more times. Fucking nothing. Frustrated, I shoved back my chair and walked to the windows overlooking the garden. Visions of Miri flashed through my head—barefoot, flowing gauzy dress, wild red hair glowing like a halo around her heart-shaped face. That small smile growing into a wide grin when a butterfly landed on her shoulder. The way her green eyes sparkled and her mouth opened in delight. Even though the glass was too thick to hear anything outside, I closed my eyes and imagined the light, musical sound of her laughter.

Eyes snapping open, I grabbed my phone and redialed Cuchillo’s number. Straight to a goddamn dead number. Motherfucker used a burner phone and pulled the battery.

Son of a bitch!

I didn’t realize I was pulling on my hair until my scalp began to burn. Jesus Christ my entire body was vibrating with rage. My fingers stretched and curled, wanting to destroy everything in sight. My brain was shouting at me to drive straight to Cuchillo’s warehouse with my men and go all Scarface on his ass. Blindly shoot bullets all over the goddamn place until every last person was full of holes. Problem was, one of my own men might very well turn on me. Might call ahead and let Los Guerreros know we were on our way. Might shoot me in the back as I stormed the doors of the warehouse.

Motherfucking, goddamn, asshole, cunt piece of shit traitor!

Enraged by the utter hand-tying helplessness, I stormed out of the office and finally allowed the suppressed rage to overtake logic. When unleashed, hours and hours of pent up hatred and thirst for vengeance thundered to the surface. The relief of letting go was near instant and a hell of a lot better than the futile mind-fucking agony of the last three days. Taking the stairs three at a time, I went directly to the master en suite. The fire roaring beneath my skin crackled and snapped as the anger fed its hungry flames. I wanted to destroy. I craved the brutal beating of my fists crashing against flesh. I wanted to burn down everything in sight and laugh like a maniac while the fire reduced everything to ash. I snatched up the nearest object and held it in my hand, ready to launch it at the wall.

But I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to save Miri. Unrestrained fury wouldn’t bring her back.