Saint (Mercy Book 2)

  Saint

  Copyright © 2018 JB Salsbury

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover Art by:

  PixelMischief

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

  Milo sold his soul to the devil to save an angel.

  Now he’s after revenge.

  There are worse prisons than the lush estate of a notorious drug smuggler in Mexico. Mercy lives out her days alone and hidden from the world, but her sleep is riddled with nightmares of the muti and all the boys and girls just like her who weren’t lucky enough to get away.

  If the people who kept her as a child are in Mexico, is it possible she could find them?

  What starts as vigilante justice unravels a web of human trafficking deeper and darker than Milo and Mercy could’ve imagined. When she comes face-to-face with the people she once considered family, she proves she is far from the Angel they raised her to be.

  Contents

  SAINT

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Titles by JB Salsbury

  Present Day

  Milo

  STARING ACROSS THE table into the cold, emotionless eyes of Detective Roth, I wonder if he’s fully prepared for the information he’s about to receive. Will he believe me? I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t spent the last four months living it, and I have the physical and mental scars to prove it. I live with the vivid memories that shift from fantasy to near-death nightmares every minute of every day.

  I’ve made a mess of my life. Not on purpose. I always thought, in the moment, that I was doing what was best for those I love.

  You know what they say. Hindsight is a bitch.

  I adjust my position, but the cold metal chair still digs into my back. The AC unit whirrs as it pumps cool air into the stifling room filled with powerful men who stare at me with anticipation. Not that I’m surprised. I hold the key to shutting down a cartel that has been a thorn in their asses for years. They want what only I can give them even if it means signing my own death certificate. They don’t care about what this confession will cost me, but neither do I. I only care about the life it’s securing.

  “Where do you want me to begin?” I ask and slide my gaze from the detective to Chief Bastilla then to a sergeant from the San Ysidro Police Department.

  The detective leans back and props his ankle on his knee. Casual, as if we’re just a couple of homies grabbing a beer rather than the police questioning a known gang member. “Start at the beginning.”

  I scratch my cheek and chuckle. The beginning? Nah . . . some things are too personal to share, and not all skeletons deserve the light. I cross my arms and tilt my head while fixing my gaze on his. “You promise once you hear the story you’ll do what you can—”

  “We’ll do what we can.”

  I chew the inside of my mouth. I’m not feeling the warm fuzzy confidence that he’ll follow through on his word, so I keep my mouth shut.

  After a few silent minutes, he adjusts in his seat to catch the eyes of the men around him. Bastilla nods.

  The detective leans forward with his elbows on the table. “All we need is proof.”

  “You realize I could be killed for what I’m about to do.”

  He nods and frowns. “You could be killed if you don’t.” He twirls a finger around the room, motioning to the other men and the camera in the corner with the red light that burns like a laser-sight pointed at my head. “You talk, we become allies.”

  Allies. With cops.

  “Fuck.” I groan and drop my head into my hands and rub my eyes so hard it takes time to regain my vision.

  The detective returns to his casual slump. “Why don’t you tell us what happened after you ran away from your foster parents and crossed the border into Mexico?”

  My eyes settle on the large picture window, and I see my own reflection. I wonder who’s on the other side of the glass. Maybe no one . . . maybe everyone. Maybe that one and only someone.

  My lips curve a little, but I flatten them out when I turn back to the detective. “We went to go live with my . . . father.” The word tastes like acid. “Maybe you’ve heard of him? Esteban Vega?”

  The room is already silent but manages to go impossibly still as if everyone stopped breathing. The only movement I see is the widening eyes of the man across from me.

  “I’m gonna take that as a yes.”

  Detective Roth clears his throat. “Go on.”

  “I came to Mexico and needed a place to stay, but Esteban’s hospitality comes at a price.”

  “And why did you run away?” The good detective readies his pen.

  Nice try. “Have you ever been in love, Detective?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “The woman I loved was traumatized in the worst kind of ways, and after my brother’s accident, she was terrified she’d be locked in a psychiatric facility for the rest of her life. I wasn’t going to let that happen.” All lies, but I can’t tell him we made an African criminal with human trafficking on his resume disappear and worried more might be after us.

  “Did she want to go, or did you convince her?” Chief Bastilla says, earning a glare from me.

  I fist my hands under the table. “You’re focusing on the wrong thing. Now, do you want my story or not?”

  “Bastilla.” Detective Roth’s cool, calm voice has the chief standing down.

  “In order to live with Esteban, he made me agree to work for him. Mostly deliveries.”

  “What kind of deliveries?”

  I shrug. “Drugs. Guns. Only problem was I underestimated the toll Mercy’s past had taken on her. The toll it had taken on me. Suddenly being in Mexico wasn’t about staying safe. I was after revenge. I wanted the people who’d hurt her to pay. Unfortunately . . . I wasn’t the only one.”

  Three months ago

  Mercy

  ONE YEAR AGO, I never would’ve believed that one day I’d be this girl.

  With the front of my T-shirt filled with a few dozen tiny limónes and my fingers fragrant with the scent of fresh picked citrus, I imagine I feel no different than any other twenty-year-old girl. In the privacy of my mind, I pretend I’m picking fruit from my own trees outside of a house I grew up in. I pretend I’m living in a town where people know my name at the grocery store and it’s perfectly safe to walk around at night.

  I grasp another pale fruit and it falls to the ground. “Toro, no!”

  The gray dog runs with the fruit tucked safely in his jowls.

  “I’m not going to c
hase you.”

  He turns back, tail wagging.

  “Go on! Take it, but you’re not going to like it.”

  He runs again only to stop and turn back in another attempt to entice me to play. I shake my head and try to grab a few more fruit before having to hunt down the basket I left near the orange trees.

  Men at the front guard shack bark something in Spanish before the heavy metal gate screeches as it opens. Toro takes off, the fruit he stole left slobbery and forgotten on the dirt. I head to the edge of the tree line as some of the other property dogs come out from behind the main house to chase the car.

  I can’t see much from this distance, but from the shape and color of the car, I recognize it as one of Esteban’s. I clench the fabric of my shirt and step closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of who’s behind the wheel.

  The vehicle stops near the front door rather than taking the road to the underground garage where the cars are usually kept. Hope bubbles up in my chest, and my feet carry me closer. A man gets out of the passenger side. He’s too short to be Esteban. Sancho maybe? My feet slow. I don’t know the man well, but the few times I’ve seen him in passing, I haven’t liked the way he looks at me. Maybe it’s the way Milo always tucks me under his arm or casually steps in front of me when Sancho’s around that has me conditioned to think he’s not a good guy.

  Whatever it is, if Sancho is with Esteban or any of his other men, I’d rather go back to being blissfully lost in the orchard.

  I squint as the driver’s side door opens. Even from a distance, without being able to see the details of his face, I know it’s Milo—his tall body, broad shoulders, and his blue baseball cap identify him. My lips part to call to him, but he’s already circled the hood of the car and jogging toward me.

  My feet move quickly to meet him halfway, and as he gets closer, his smile comes into focus.

  “Milo, you’re home!”

  Home. Not the right word, but the closest to what we have here, although sometimes it feels more like a prison. Those ungrateful thoughts dissolve as his arms wrap around me. He’s warm and smells of laundry detergent, his deodorant, and a hint of smoke. I press my cheek against his chest and breathe him in.

  “Mi alma,” he says, his big hands rubbing circles on my back.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d see you until tomorrow.” My voice cracks. I hate that I sound so needy and dependent on him when he has no choice in how often he works. However, the truth is, I am needy and dependent on him.

  “Are you kidding?” He pulls back enough to grip my face, and he tilts his head to avoid hitting me with the bill of his cap as he presses his warm, full lips to mine. “You think I’d miss your birthday?”

  My chest fills with warmth that spreads to my cheeks. “It’s not technically my birthday.”

  He kisses me again. And again. The last one he makes deeper, using his tongue to coax the strength from my legs until I sway into him. He chuckles and holds me upright.

  “It’s been one year since you were found at the border.” His jaw gets hard as it always does when he speaks of the way I was found. “Your ID says today is your birthday, so today we celebrate.” He grins, and his eyes light with excitement.

  “Apúrate!”

  Milo’s excitement dies and his expression turns hard at the sound of Sancho’s voice.

  “Esteban está esperando!”

  Milo turns to Sancho, keeping me behind him, and spews something in Spanish that sounds like a threat. I can’t see the man’s face, but I hear his feet stomp through the dirt, up the stairs, and into the house. Milo’s shoulders rise and fall with two exaggerated breaths before he turns back around to face me.

  “What did he say?” I tilt to the side, spilling limónes from my shirt to peer around Milo’s body to make sure Sancho isn’t listening.

  “Nothing important.” At my questioning glance, he continues. “We just have to update Esteban on some stuff.” He presses a quick kiss to my forehead. “Let me help you with these before I go in.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  He pulls up the hem of his shirt and I try not to stare. His jeans hang low on his trim hips. Muscles he always had are now bigger and more defined under his dark skin and frame a small line of dark hair that disappears behind the button of his jeans.

  “Mercy,” he whispers with an edge to his voice I’ve become used to, “you’re killin’ me.”

  “Oh, um . . . here.” I dump the fruit into his shirt. I’m afraid to look at him out of fear that he’ll see how badly I want him.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I blink at him, and our gazes tangle in a few heavy beats of unbridled want. My lips part, and when he steps forward, I crash into his chest only to stumble back from the few dozen limónes that sit between us.

  “You’re excited for tonight too, huh?”

  I nod. A lot.

  He chuckles and motions with a jerk of his chin to head back to the tree line. “Come on. Let’s get you out of the sun.” He smiles, watching me, as we walk back to the orchard. “How long have you been out here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His smile falls. “You ‘bout done? You’re red.”

  I shrug. “I like it out here. Maria said to bring some fruit when I came back. She didn’t say how much.”

  He hums as if to say he hears me, but something tells me he’s got more to say.

  “No one is making me work. I want to help. I go crazy being inside. The walls, the confinement, the loneliness.” A shiver skates up my spine as memories from the past assault me.

  “I get that.” He spots my basket at the base of an orange tree and squats to dump in his shirt-full of fruit. A few roll away, so he grabs them before lifting the basket and standing. “It’s just . . . if you’re gonna be out here, you need sunblock and a hat. Didn’t Maria get you some the last time she was in town?”

  I turn away, pretending to look for Toro, so that he won’t see me roll my eyes. “I spent my life being afraid of the sun.” I turn back to him. “I do have sunblock on. A little exposure won’t kill me.”

  He flinches, and I wish I could take back the words. I expect him to lash out, but his expression softens. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I just worry, and since I’m not here all the time . . .”

  It’s only then I realize I’m frowning.

  “Right, well, we have all the time in the world to talk about shit that sucks, but today we’re only talking about you.” He tucks the basket under one arm and pulls me close. “And how much I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  “You’re gonna love me more”—he hooks me around the waist and guides me toward the house—“once you see what I got you for your birthday.”

  “Presents?” My chest explodes with nervous excitement. “I’ve never been given presents before.”

  “Get used to it.” He kisses my temple, and his lips linger there. “Because I plan to spoil you for a very, very long time.”

  Does he pretend too? In his head, are we living a normal life? Not two people hiding from the threat of the albino-mutilating muti?

  When our feet hit the steps to the house, so does the seriousness of our reality. There’s no telling what the future holds for us. Will I be stuck living behind the protective walls of this compound forever?

  Milo brings the basket of fruit to Maria and mumbles something in Spanish.

  “Lo siento.” She bows and backs out of the room. “Lo siento.”

  As soon as she’s gone, I whirl toward Milo. “Why is she saying sorry?”

  He kisses the tip of my nose. “It’s nothing.”

  “Milo—”

  “Mi alma.” His gaze settles on mine. “Please.” He slides his fingers through my hair and holds me at my nape. His thumb makes a few lazy passes along my cheekbone. A soft, barely-there touch. “Relax and let me take care of you, okay?”

  “I don’t want her to think I mind helping out.”

  “Emilio!”

>   I jump at the sound of Esteban’s voice, but Milo doesn’t even flinch. His gaze stays fixed to mine, and although his jaw tics, he smiles.

  “I’ll see you tonight, okay, birthday girl?”

  “Okay.”

  He presses one more kiss to my lips and ushers me to the stairs. I had planned to go back outside, but something about the firm set of his jaw makes me think he wants me in our room where he knows I’ll be safe.

  Only when I’m finally up the stairs does he turn and go to Esteban.

  Milo

  IF I CLOSE my eyes as I face the ocean, I can pretend Mercy and I are on a different coast. Florida, maybe. Or even Hawaii. Not that I’d know what either of those places are like, but I can imagine.

  The cool breeze coming off the water this time of night carries the scent of salt and sea life—similar to Los Angeles beaches, but without the pollution of thousands of people. Yeah, if I try hard enough, I can pretend to escape the life of Emilio Vega, son of a drug-smuggling, arms-dealing thug, and just be Milo.

  The sound of the patio doors opening behind me brings a smile to my face, but I remain staring out toward the water.

  “Okay,” Mercy says, her voice soft and light, like a distant bell. “You can look now.”

  I turn around and lean back against the patio railing. My hands brace on the intricate wrought-iron to keep from grabbing her and tossing her on our bed.

  “I . . .” My voice cracks as if I’m fifteen years old, so I clear my throat and try again, but the words still don’t come easily. “Wow. You . . .” There isn’t a descriptor in the English language that would do justice to the way Mercy looks. “Mi tesoro.”

  She smooths her pale hands against the silken fabric at her stomach. The simple navy lingerie would look average on another woman, but on Mercy, it’s phenomenal. “Tesoro?” Her white brows pinch in confusion.

  I erase the distance between us in a couple long strides and walk her back with my body so I can shut us inside our bedroom.

  “Yes. It means my treasure.” I grasp her hips and pull her close. “Valuable, hidden, and only mine.”

  Her cheeks tinge pink, but she doesn’t hide her eyes. She keeps them locked on mine.