Page 102 of Jetmir

A cold dread settled in my stomach as I slid out of bed and reached for my jeans. The whole time my mind whirled and I prayed…if someone found us, let it be Anya’s family.

“Stay here,” I said, already pulling on my pants. Black T-shirt, socks, and combat boots followed.

She sat upright. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

I reached for the gun and tucked it in the back of my pants.

Within seconds I was out the front door, sprinting down the narrow forest path that wound toward the beach. Branches whipped against my arms as I ran. Dry leaves crackled beneath my feet.

The shouting grew louder.

The voices were distant, but unmistakable. Men shouting. Orders being barked. Heavy boots pounding against the ground. Familiar words and voices registered just as I heard crunching gravel behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder. Damn it. Anya was right behind me.

“What?” she called between breaths. “I’m not staying behind and leaving you to face things alone.”

Even distressed and running barefoot, she was breathtaking.

Her pink dress fluttered around her legs with every stride, catching the sea breeze. The flush coloring her cheeks matched the soft fabric, and loose strands of blonde hair danced wildly around her face.

There wasn’t time to argue. Hell, there was no time to admire her beauty either.

By the time we burst through the trees, the idyllic beach had been transformed to something resembling a military disembarkation. There were men dressed in black swarming the sand and some halfway up the cliff steps.

They moved with terrifying precision, sweeping the area in coordinated formations. Tactical vests. Rifles. Earpieces. They didn’t look like Raphael’s men. These men looked like assassins.

Fuck, was it the Triad?

“Get back,” I shouted to Anya while my instincts screamed to take her away from here. I had just started to turn around toward her when something slammed into the back of my neck. White-hot pain exploded through my skull. The world lurched violently as I crashed to my knees, rocks and sand grinding beneath them.

Before I could recover, powerful hands seized my arms and wrenched them behind my back hard enough to make my shoulders burn.

A knee drove between my shoulder blades, forcing the air from my lungs. I struggled, but the grip only tightened.

“Didn’t I tell you to keep away from my daughter?” a voice, thick with a Colombian accent and raw hatred, growled close to my ear. I was so fucking relieved it wasn’t the Triad that I laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

I raised my head and, standing over me—or rather on me—was Raphael Santos. My father-in-law.

His expression was carved from stone, his eyes blazing with fury and contempt.

“Thank God it’s you.”

Raphael didn’t think it was funny and he gritted, “I’m going to murder you, fucker.”

One knee remained planted firmly in the middle of my back, pinning me to the sand while the barrel of a pistol pressed against the base of my skull.

One squeeze of his finger and everything I’d fought to rebuild would end on this beach.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

ANYA

My papa’s face was a canvas of fury. He looked like a cold-blooded killer. His eyes—so much like my brother’s—were a murderous storm ready to make damage, and all his anger was aimed at my husband.