Cade smirks. He must press his foot to the floor, because the Humvee picks up the pace until we’re speeding into the early dawn. “He’s the president of the Widow Makers,” he says. “He’s one of the good guys. He’s also my best friend.”

******

REBEL

181. That was the number advertised on Hector’s members-only website. I called back to the clubhouse and had Danny, our resident computer hack, check the records, but that’s all there was on her. No real name. No background information. Just 181.

She’s fucking beautiful, of course. That fact isn’t acknowledged or discussed as Carnie and I mull over what to do with her; it doesn’t need to be discussed. It just sits there between us, her beauty an obvious truth that’s making me seriously fucking antsy. Things would have been a lot more straightforward if she was ugly. I wouldn’t feel bad for her, for starters. That makes me a shitty guy, I know, but I’m honest. No point in trying to sugarcoat it. The fact that she looks like a younger, hotter, curvier Penelope Cruz is making it hard for me to think of her as a means to an end. It’s making me think of her as someone to be pursued, and that is a bad fucking deal. I don’t have time to deal with that. I can’t afford to be thinking of a girl when there are important plans to be made. Vengeance to be plotted out. Information to be gathered.

“If you leave her at the clubhouse, we can probably keep her there, out of sight, for three or four days before anyone notices. If we can keep her quiet,” Carnie says.

If. That’s a big fucking if. I somehow doubt very much that we’re going to be able to keep this girl quiet for any length of time. “She can’t stay in the clubhouse, Carnie. For starters, which room would we put her in? Everything’s being used. And secondly, Keeler and Brassic are nosey as fuck. We tell ’em they can’t go into a certain room and what’s the first thing they’re gonna do?”

“Go into the damned room. You’re right. Fuck.”

Carnie swerves a little closer to me so that our intercoms don’t crackle quite as much. These aren’t the lame, bulky intercoms dentists install inside their helmets while they’re touring around on the weekend. For starters, we don’t wear helmets unless we can avoid it, which we can most of the time. Our intercoms—sleek, small button radios that fit into our ears—were created by Brassic, the Widow Makers’ resident tech genius. He was in the army up until three years ago, when he lost the lower half of his right leg. He’s fitter, faster, more capable than well over half the other Widowers, but the US Army decided he wasn’t fit for active duty so he gave them the finger and joined our ranks—a different kind of army, but an army all the same.

“You know what you’re gonna have to do, don’t you?” Carnie asks. I hear him laughing, even with the wind whipping away his voice.

“What?”

“She’s gonna have to bunk in with you, brother.”

“Nope. No. Not happening. She can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I need my fucking space, Carnie. Shit.” I paddle the gears with my left foot, switching up so I can go faster. I leave him behind, though I can still hear the bastard laughing in my ear.

“Just sayin’, boss. If you want your little witness protection scheme to work, it’d be smart to keep the witness out of the way. At least for a little while, anyway.”

I narrow my eyes, glaring at the road. “My little witness protection scheme only needs to work if my plan for all-out violence fails first. And when has all-out violence failed us before?”

Carnie sounds grim when he says, “Never, boss. Not once.”

We arrive in Vegas three hours after we leave Cade and the girl. Should have taken four, but we’re heavy on the throttle. The city in the desert is roaring already, despite the fact that it’s still early in the morning. We rumble down the strip, dodging piles of puke and Nevada PD cruisers pulled up onto the curb, as the local law enforcement round up the wasted people being ejected from the casinos. Gotta love Vegas, city of the damned. Maybe that’s why the cartel we’ve come to see set up their base of operations here—so many drunk people, addicted to one thing or another, to abuse and manipulate.

This is the first time in four years I’ve been to visit the leader of the Desolladors—the skinners. The Colombian cartel earned their name and their reputation by actually flaying the skin from their enemies’ bodies, usually starting on the chest first. That’s where most organizations and gangs wear their colors and ink.

I haven’t been back here in so long because Maria Rosa, the brains behind the Desolladors, hates coming to America. She’s obsessed with the culture, but she hates the people. Like, really hates the people. Quite the contradiction. If she steps foot on US soil, there’s a good fucking reason for it.

I know she’s here now because I pay one of her guards to give me a heads up when he finds out she’s on her way in.

Carnie and I turn down one of the side streets off the strip and park up our rides—Carnie grumbles about abandoning his twenty-thousand-dollar baby next to a dumpster behind the Bellagio, but machines like these aren’t exactly inconspicuous. Ideally, Maria Rosa won’t know we’re rolling up on her until we’re knocking on her suite door.

Sweat runs like a goddamn river between my shoulder blades, even though it can only be sixty degrees. It takes fucking forever for us to walk up to the MGM Grand. When we reach the entrance to the hotel and casino, Carnie’s making noises about getting a beer.