Stolen By The Queen: A Narcos Romance

Chapter 25

Camila was lost. That much she knew. And more importantly she knew the longer she was in Mexico and not nearing the US border with her new lease on life in that manila envelope, the more likely it was that Rodrigo and Carlos Sinaloa were coming after her.

Why not have their cake and eat it too?

Let alone if they'd crossed her and her father already knew about the scandal. She'd have both the Sinaloa and Benitez cartels hunting her down. And no one in Mexico had a shot in hell at outrunning that.

Camila forced herself to breathe evenly, in and out. She focused on the grip of the steering wheel beneath her hands, the feel of the sun-warmed leather seats under her thighs, the feel of the gas pedal under her foot.

She tried not to focus on the lightheadedness blurring with the rural gravel roads, the stinging of her flesh, the hard splinters of glass digging in her skin, the dry, caking blood criss-crossing her skin. 

She just had to hang on long enough to find a gas station, a restaurant, a shop. Anything or anyone who could point her in the right driving directions for the United States. She knew once she got herself onto a major highway that she'd be good from there. She'd memorized all the main roadways as part of her prep. But she hadn't been able to keep track of every turn and twist Ryan had taken when they'd driven to the house to meet Carlos and Rodrigo Sinaloa. And growing up in Benitez territory or in a gilded cage in the US meant she didn't know this part of Mexico at all. It had been forbidden to her.

"Ay dios mio!" *Oh my god! Camila cried out inside the car, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes when she spotted the red tiled roof of a small roadside restaurant. Slamming on the gas, she spun up a gravel-road dust cloud and had to wait for it to dispel before she closed the distance between herself and the restaurant's small parking lot. She threw the Jeep in park, ambling out of the vehicle and gripping onto the car handle for support, her legs threatening to give out underneath her. She was really lightheaded now, exhaustion, dehydration, and blood loss working against her like a hell-sent trifecta.

She moved slowly toward the front of the jeep, placing both hands on the hood of the car to steady herself. She thought of sparkling blue water and soft sand, the waves crashing rhythmically against the shore of this imaginary, free, peaceful place.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, bre--

"Breathe." Camila lurched, her eyes popping open as a hand clamped over her mouth, the word inside her head now a darkly spoken snarl in her ear. Her hands left the hood of the car, crossing behind her back, her wrists held in one, much stronger palm, her vision framing with a black hazy border. 

"You fucking bitch." Ryan's words snaked across her neck, his hard body at her back, pinning her in place. How the hell had he found her? How the hell was he even alive? 

For a moment, the thought flashed that she'd been double-crossed. That Ryan had been working with Carlos Sinaloa all along. Hadn't there been rumors that the cold, handsome American used to work for former cartel Kingpin Rafael Vargas after defecting once from the DEA?

It was the same rumor that made him so valuable to Rodrigo Sinaloa. And the thought was like certain death for Camila. 

She felt her vision go back, her struggling limbs go loose as she slumped forward, her sense of gravity slipping and shifting until those same sparkling blue waves were carrying her, carrying the weight of her body, her life, her guilt, the shore growing smaller and smaller in the distance until all she could see was blue--

"Camila." Her name on Ryan's lips was a curse, a command, but there was an urgency to it. She could feel him jostle her but it felt far away, in slow motion like she was seeing herself float underwater. 

"Jesus fucking Christ." 

Camila felt her feet leave the ground and she really didn't know if she was swimming or floating, warm leather skating against her exposed, glass-torn skin, a car door slamming shut like an echo a thousand miles away. 

She felt the car moving but it could have been the waves, the ocean, the magical place she'd never reach. She didn't even know where it was, but it was peace. It was freedom.

And she was never, ever going to find it. 

---

Ryan drummed his fingers angrily against the steering wheel of his jeep, biting down on his bottom lip until he drew blood. He'd found her easy enough. Damn near pissed him off. The same woman who had duped the DEA, skated right under Jacob's radar, and framed his ass in a trade, couldn't get herself to a nearby highway when her damn life depended on it.

He wanted to strangle her. To end her. To avenge himself with her life.

But then she'd almost passed out on him. 

He'd felt her body sag, the blood on her skin even more than he'd expected, her yellow silk dress in near ribbons as she braced herself on the hood of his jeep. She only had minutes--fucking minutes--before she was a puddle on the ground, a literal sitting duck in her yellow, as beautiful as she fucking was, for Rodrigo and his men to come and scoop up in no time. The Sinaloa Cartel had eyes everywhere. So much so, he almost regretted not killing the gas station owner. He'd probably tip off Sinaloa's men without pay, the guy was so easily spooked. 

A part of him wanted Camila dead. Wanted her to pay. Wanted her ruined.

But a bigger part of him demanded that he be the only one to do it. 

Not Rodrigo. Not Carlos. Not her damn bastard Benitez father. 

Him.

Ryan zipped through several highways, throwing off his trail. No wonder Jacob was suspicious. Ryan McCallister knew how to fucking drive. And that meant knowing how to throw off a tail. He didn't doubt he had a few. 

Camila let out a soft groan in the backseat, her eyes still shut in sleep, her body far too cut and languid for his liking. She needed gauze, antibiotics, and an IV. 

Before he killed her, naturally. 

Ryan increased his speed, taking two inaccurate exits and hopping back on the highway before closing the distance to a DEA safe house Jacob had informed him about, the only shot in hell they had spending tonight in Sinaloa territory. 

Ryan slowed the jeep, the outside looking like nothing more than an abandoned warehouse. As he approached one of the rolling garage doors, an inconspicuous camera zeroed in on him. He lowered the Jeep driver side window, allowing the camera to scan his face before the roller door started to lift, allowing him inside. 

He parked, a DEA agent flashing their badge before scanning the dusty jeep.

"Rough day?"

"What do you think." Ryan's voice was flat, not interested in any banter. He quickly opened the backseat, cradling Camila in his arms, throwing her limp arms around her neck as he slid his arms under her back and neck for support.

He felt her mouth jostle against his neck as her body moved with his jerky pace, ignoring the DEA agent at his heels except to ask for water, a medical kit, and IV bag. 

"Areyougoingtokillmeee?" Camila's words slurred into one against his neck, her head rolling back and forth across his shoulder. He bit out a short curse, clutching her tighter as he followed another agent to an assigned room. 

"Yes. But not yet." 

Camila let out a small, feminine sigh as if that was a relief for now, the sound burrowing its way unwelcomely into Ryan's hard chest.