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the other began.
    “Boss.” I spun wildly at the voice, fists ready to strike out at anything to quell the fury clawing at my insides. “Whoa!” Milo put his hands up in surrender. “It’s just me, Boss.”
    I cracked my neck and inhaled deep several times until I was calm enough to hold some semblance of a conversation without ripping Milo’s throat out and stomping on his remains.
    “Tell me your men found something, Milo.”
    Milo didn’t have to speak. The uneasy look on his face and the fact that he took a step back said it all. I had every last man on my payroll—from dealers to restaurant managers, to the people who cut my heroin—out on the streets looking for members of Los Guerreros. Not a single one of those little fuckers could be found anywhere. They all just up and fucking vanished, every last one of them. Los Guerreros businesses and warehouses were abandoned. Their dealers vanished from street corners.
    It was as if El Cuchillo and Los Guerreros never existed in San Antonio.
    “Fuuuuuck!” I tore at my hair and let out a primal roar. I was about to grab a kitchen chair and hurl it across the room when Sarge came through the French doors from the backyard.
    “Boss.” I turned to my head of security and dropped my arms to my sides, knowing what was coming just from the look on his face. “We got another email.”
----
    S arge and Milo followed me into the backyard to the pool house that served as headquarters for security. Every step toward the small structure was like moving closer and closer to the gates of hell. My feet were lead bricks, my heart slamming against my ribcage. Sweat beaded my brow and the back of my neck, soaking my shirt, but right now I could give a fuck about my clothes. When we entered the main room, Sarge indicated I should take the seat in front of the wall of monitors.
    Oh fuck. I wasn’t sure I could do this again. My muscles locked in place.
    “No. I’ll stand.”
    No way could I sit through whatever sick shit I was about to see. I’d be lucky if I made it to the end of the video, period. Bracing myself, I gripped the back of the chair for support while Sarge tapped on the keyboard. The center screen lit up with an email attachment. The little arrow moved over the paper clip symbol.
    Click, click.
    The attachment opened and filled the screen. An hourglass spun an excruciatingly long time, and a video began to play. Oh fuck. Bile gurgled in my stomach.
    Miri. My sweet, tiny, precious doll. Bound to the same chair as yesterday.
    My throat constricted and my hands tightened on the headrest of the leather chair. My fingers pressed deep into the cushion and I wished I had claws so I could tear the fucking thing apart. Miri’s gorgeous green eyes were reduced to reddened slits, the swollen skin around them a hideous shade of black and blue. Miri’s soft, pink lips were dry and cracked. Split by crusted scabs. Her creamy throat was an angry reddish-purple where Cuchillo choked her on camera.
    “I’m going to kill that motherfucker!”
    “Want me to stop it, Boss?” Sarge’s finger hovered over the pause button, waiting for my command.
    “No. If Miri had to suffer through the torture and beating, I owe it to her to suffer by watching.”
    The video was much the same as the previous one. The two men would slap, choke, and abuse my poor Miri. Tears dripped down her cheeks and muffled cries escaped around the cloth in her mouth. I focused on her face and held my breath. There. In her eyes. I caught a glimpse of my little fighter. The bastards hadn’t broken her, not yet. After each blow, my doll held her chin up high, and from what I could see of her puffy eyes, they still had that fiery spark I loved so much.
    They didn’t break my Miri.
    They wouldn’t break me.
    I would break them.
    More cries and slaps echoed from the speakers. I nearly lost it when Cuchillo’s hand snaked down and squeezed Miri’s breast.
    Yes, I would break them. Every last motherfucking one