Chapter 2

The betrayal was so absolute, so immediate, it stole the air from my lungs.

"Matthew, what did you do?" My voice was a whisper, a thread of disbelief in the cavernous warehouse.

He wouldn't meet my eyes. He just stared at a point over my shoulder, his jaw tight. "It was the only way, Gabrielle. They had me. It was this or we both die out here."

"We? There is no 'we'!" The rage came then, hot and sharp. "You traded me! You threw me to the wolves to save yourself!"

"You're better off as the cartel's pet artist than dead," he sneered, finally looking at me. His eyes were cold, empty of any warmth I thought we'd shared. "And those debts you're always talking about? Your cover story? They don't matter now. El Martillo will take good care of his property."

He took a step back, aligning himself with Hector. He was one of them now.

"You bastard," I spat, lunging for him, my training and fury taking over.

He was faster. He struck me across the face, a sharp, brutal blow that sent me staggering back. The sting of his hand on my cheek was nothing compared to the pain in my chest.

Hector chuckled, a low, guttural sound. "Such a prize shouldn't be wasted on just the boss."

He gestured, and his men, shadows detaching from the walls, moved to surround me. Their faces were hard, their eyes predatory.

"The crew deserves a welcome party," Hector said with a greasy smile.

They closed in. I fought back, a whirlwind of kicks and punches, my street-smart instincts meshing with my FBI training. I took one down, then another, but there were too many.

A fist connected with my stomach, driving the wind out of me. A boot slammed into my side. Pain exploded behind my eyes. They were on me, a flurry of brutal, punishing blows. I was being beaten, dragged down into a world of agony.

My consciousness began to fray at the edges. The world was a blur of dust, pain, and the leering faces of my attackers. As my head hit the concrete floor, my vision tunneled.

Through the haze, I saw it.

On the back of their necks. A tattoo.

A crude, simplified drawing of a coyote.

My coyote. The "coyotl" stencil I designed years ago, on a grimy wall in the Bronx. A design only one other person should know in such detail.

A memory, a glimmer of hope, pierced through the pain.