Page 50 of Ravaged Hearts
“What?” I snapped. “What’s going on?”
“They’re pulling off the highway,” she said. “All three vans are passing through the security checkpoint of a trucking depot. We have to back off, but we still have the drone in play.”
Goddammit. This was exactly the kind of nightmare I’d dreaded since hearing about this bullshit mission.
With each passing second, I felt Hope slipping away from me.
21
HOPE
Vaughn would be losing his mind right now. I felt like the world’s biggest piece of shit for hiding those trackers in the airplane restroom’s trash, but my conscience couldn’t handle Vaughn or any of his teammates losing their lives because I’d led them to possibly the most dangerous place in Mexico.
But I had another reason for going it alone: It gave us the best chance of completing the mission. Not because I was smarter or more capable than anyone on the team, but because I could get close enough to Carlos to kill him.
My father was no normal target, and the team’s plan to assassinate him was doomed for failure. As soon as the first gunshots were fired during the siege, Carlos would scurry to a concealed escape route and evade capture. The compound might fall, but as long as my father lived, so did the Pacific Coast Cartel.
If I’d told Vaughn what I intended to do, he’d never have let me go through with it. I doubted Brandon or Sage would’ve supported my idea, either. Deceiving them all was a crappything to do, but what choice did I have? I refused to put another life at risk when Carlos’s kingdom could be felled without war.
My father’s sudden death wouldn’t be the killing blow for the PCC, but it would throw the cartel into turmoil. As much as Jorge was touted as their future leader, he wasn’t well liked within the organization, and Carlos had never officially announced him as his successor. Infighting and discord would run rife among the ranks, and as they squabbled over who should be in charge, their disunity would leave them vulnerable for Vaughn and the team to sweep in and finish the PCC once and for all.
I wouldn’t try to stop them from doing that—lord knew it wasn’t within my power to hold those men back—but I hoped that after taking out the most challenging target, the remainder of the op would be easier and safer.
I wasn’t delusional about the risks involved. If each step of my plan were a slice of Swiss cheese, a lot of holes needed to align for me to pull this off. Jorge’s presence was already an unwanted complication.
Our convoy approached the entry to some kind of delivery center. After inspecting the truck in front of us, the attendant at the security booth waved us through as if we were VIPs, then closed the boom gate.
We passed rows and rows of stacked shipping containers before arriving at a busy trucking depot. Along the front of the large, modern warehouse were a half dozen trucks backed up to loading bays. Several white vans moved about—some arriving and others leaving—and it wasn’t lost on me that they looked exactly like the vehicle I traveled in.
The convoy slowed. We entered the building’s receiving area and drove deeper within. When we reached a closed roll-up door, armed guards disguised as depot workers spoke into radios and quickly opened the door, giving our vehicles the all clear to pass.
Once through, the vans came to a stop. We exited our vehicle, and Jorge led me through a rabbit warren of vacant corridors, down into a basement, then through a second guarded checkpoint.
“Adónde vamos?” I asked as unease crept under my skin.Where are we going?
“To see your father,” Jorge replied, providing my rapid heart rate with no relief. “You’ll be reunited soon enough. It’s not much farther.”
Not much farther?
Wasn’t Jorge going to swap us to a different white van, then leave the depot with a bunch of decoys? The simple but effective technique was a cartel favorite. It was what Brandon and Vaughn had anticipated and the reason they’d fitted me with the trackers. But Jorge only led me deeper and deeper into the belly of this warehouse.
He tugged me along until we reached a steep stairwell. After descending, we arrived at a solid steel door, and Jorge entered a code followed by his thumbprint on a touch panel. With a hiss and a whoosh, the door opened, revealing a tunnel wide enough for a small car. Concrete floors, smooth walls, fluorescent lights overhead. The whole setup looked like something from a spy movie.
Jorge led me to a six-seater golf cart, the kind resorts used to ferry guests around, and once his enforcers had taken up the rear seat, a driver transported us through the cool tunnel.
The journey went on and on, and when we reached a signpost that read1 kilómetro, I had to wonder if that was how far we’d already traveled or how much farther there was to go.
As we drove, Jorge ignored me, giving his attention to his phone. He’d already peppered me with questions on the plane ride to Manzanillo. I’d dodged the trickiest, namely where I’d spent the last three years. There was no way I’d give that information up and risk this monster paying Playa de la Palmera avisit. The rest of his questions I’d answered as truthfully as possible without going into detail.
I’d lived with a female friend.
I’d earned money by working at a restaurant.
Yes, I was still upset about Simon, and no, I didn’t want to know what tool he’d used to make him beg for death.
Jorge was the same twisted bastard he’d always been.
The golf cart slowed and came to a stop at the end of the tunnel. But it wasn’t truly the end. Other tunnels converged here, too, with armed men coming and going between them. There had to be at least a dozen doorways. Most were closed, but the open ones revealed living quarters full of bunks; supply rooms packed with weapons, water, and food; and even a kitchen and recreation zone with a pool table, huge TV, and couches.