War (Wrong Book 4) Read online

  War

  Wrong #4

  LP Lovell

  Stevie J. Cole

  Contents

  Bad

  1. Jude

  2. Jude

  3. Jude

  4. Tor

  5. Jude

  6. Tor

  7. Tor

  8. Jude

  9. Jude

  10. Tor

  11. Jude

  12. Tor

  13. Jude

  14. Tor

  15. Jude

  16. Tor

  17. Jude

  18. Tor

  19. Jude

  20. Tor

  21. Jude

  22. Tor

  23. Tor

  24. Jude

  25. Tor

  26. Jude

  27. Tor

  28. Jude

  29. Tor

  30. Jude

  31. Tor

  32. Jude

  33. Tor

  34. Jude

  35. Tor

  36. Jude

  37. Tor

  38. Jude

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Bad

  Ronan’s story is coming November 9th in Bad. Pre-order now.

  1

  Jude

  The wind howls across the desert, and all I can make out through the whirling sand is Tor's blonde hair whipping around her face. Jésus grabs her by the waist. Her eyes widen with fear. Bullets whistle past me. And all I can think about is saving her.

  I move to run toward her, but my feet won’t budge. Panic settles in my chest and then—Bam. A loud shot rings out. Tor’s eyes slam shut, her lips part on a silent scream, and a patch of blood appears on her white dress, the stain quickly growing.

  “Why did you do this to me?” Tor shouts, and that's like a fucking dagger in my chest. Because I did this to her. To us. I destroyed her the moment I loved her…

  I wake in a sweat, my heart pounding as I reach out for her. But all I find are cold sheets, and fuck if that's not the emptiest feeling I've ever felt. I squeeze me eyes closed and bite down on my lip as I ball the sheets in my fists. My chest grows uncomfortably tight at the memory of her. Of our life...the life I've forever lost. The life I never deserved.

  I try to recall the way she felt wrapped in my arms, how her lips felt, because I'm afraid I'll forget and if I can just hold on to some bit of that, then she's not really gone. Is she? Sighing, I drag my hands down my face.

  It’s been a week since I lost Tor, and as much as I want to drown myself in grief, I can't. Domingo is dead and so that leaves Jésus and Ronan to deal with. I've spent the last week searching for Cayla, going with Gabe and taking down bits and pieces of the Sinaloa because I have to do something to make myself feel some bit of worth.

  I push up from the bed, pull on a pair of jeans, and go to the kitchen. Marney is usually down here drinking coffee and reading the paper at any given point of the day, but today his seat is empty. I fix a cup of coffee and sit down at the table, trying to sort through the thoughts swirling in my head. Part of me fears that since Tor is dead, Jésus would have killed Cayla, but then I remind myself he wanted something from me. Without Cayla he has no leverage.

  I finish my cup and search the house for Gabe or Marney, but the only people here are Gabe's guards who constantly lurk in the hallways. I hate having nothing to do because that's when my mind gets away with me. That's when I start to think about things no man wants to think about. So, I go to the foyer and climb the stairs to my room. As soon as I get inside, I grab the bottle of whisky from the nightstand and take a heavy swig. If I can't keep myself busy, I'll just drink myself to sleep and hope I have peaceful dreams. Dreams of me, Tor, and Cayla, when my past had yet to catch up with me.

  I've downed two more swigs when there's a knock on the bedroom door. "Jude?" Marney says, his voice low.

  "Yeah..."

  The door creaks open and he steps in with his chin to his chest. He shuts the door behind him without looking up, and I hear his breath catch before a strangled sob works its way up his throat. "The bastards..." he starts, but he can't finish. My heart holds back a few beats because I already know what he's going to say. "Gabe's informant said that Cayla...that she...you aren't gonna get the little darlin' back. She's—"

  A fury of emotions pummel through me, and I'm not quite sure which one to grab ahold of. He glances up at me, and I don't want to fucking believe him.

  "Jude, do you hear what I'm saying?"

  I shake my head, a throbbing pain shooting through my temple. "No!"

  He takes a step toward me. I can see tears welling in his old, blue eyes, but I don't want to believe him. He places a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry, Jude. It ain't right."

  I swat his hand off, and before I know what I'm doing, I ball my fist up and punch him right in the jaw. "She's not dead!" I shout.

  Marney holds his face and takes a deep breath. "I know it's hard, boy. And it ain't right." He hangs his head and bites down on his lip. "It ain't right..."

  And like a ton of fucking bricks, it hits me and I fall back on the bed, my entire world imploding and blowing to fucking smithereens. She can't be dead, but then again, why wouldn't she be? Why would a fucking soulless bastard like Jésus keep her alive?

  "She's dead?" I whisper, those damn words echoing into the very bottom of my soul.

  "Jude..." Marney whispers.

  I bury my face in my hands, pressing on my head in an attempt to make it all stop. "Get out,” I barely manage the words.

  "Jude—"

  "Out!" I shout so loud my throat burns.

  I hear him shuffle out of the room, the click of the door shutting behind him. I lean my head back against the wall and breath in and out with my heart going ninety to nothing and my stomach churning. Whatever was left of my life has just crumbled. Without them, I have nothing. No reason to live. I close my eyes and choke back a sob as my head falls to my chest.

  Some people are the very air you need to survive—and the people who my world revolved around have been snuffed from my life. Those girls were my life and without them, without the promise of holding them again, there is no reason. No purpose. There's this black void sucking me in against my will, pressing in on me from all sides. My mind is unable to process the thought that I've lost my little girl and my Tor.

  I stagger to my feet and begin to pace, dragging my hands down my face. My Cayla...her soft ringlets, that smile that could light up even my cold fucking heart. Gone. Gone? There's a moment, a split second where darkness covers me. Where an indescribable amount of grief consumes me, but then...then the rage slowly sets in, burning and breathing, growing with each passing second because the thought of Jésus killing my daughter, hurting her infiltrates my mind.

  I slam my fist through the wall on a growl. "I'll fucking kill him!" I pick up the chair under the window and throw it against the mirror, shattering the glass. I go into a fit, punching and throwing things, raking shit from the dresser. My blood pressure rises with each second, with each thought of Cayla crying for me and Tor. And then I stop.

  The tension in my muscles melts as the devastation sets in.

  Cayla must have thought we abandoned her. My little girl thought I left her. I was her father and her protector. She was too little. Too innocent, and she was murdered because of who I was—who I am. My knees buckle and I sink to the floor, my head swimming with morbid thoughts of how she may have been killed, of where her body may be—out in some desert...

  I pound my fists over the floor and scream until I'm gasping for breath. Not a damn thing I do will change this. Nothing will give my girls back to me. I’ve lost plenty of people I’ve cared about, but this loss is a blanket of grief
and regret and shame, and every form of pain you can imagine—it's unbearable. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, watching the ceiling fan blades circle for a moment before I reach for the bottle of whisky on the nightstand beside me. She's dead. They are both dead. I twist the top and bring the bottle to my lips, gulping back the warm whisky, waiting on some cheap form of reprieve from this shit.

  But even after I've sucked back the rest of the liquor and dropped the bottle to the floor, the pain is still very real. My head spins, my thoughts numb. But not enough. Nothing will ever make this sense of loss bearable.

  “Gone,” I whisper to myself as I stagger to my feet.

  I look across the room at the shattered mirror, down to the dresser drawer. Emotions swirl through me like a raging cyclone, sweeping me up against my will. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. There have been moments over the past few days where I could not believe this is real. And then, almost like the shifting of the tides, realization would set in. Panic would grow in my chest until it felt like I was going to implode, detonate like a bomb. I’ve been on a pendulum, swinging between grief and despair, anger and disbelief, but at the end there was always hope because I thought I still had my little girl, and now all there is, is hopelessness.

  But there is hope in death.

  After all, it would end the thoughts, the hurt, the guilt. There has to be so much peace in the quiet, in a place where I’m not without them. Glass crunches under my feet as I walk to the dresser, opening the top drawer and taking out Caleb's Colt 45.

  A lump forms in my throat. My chest tightens, but the tears I know should come don’t. I stare at the sleek black metal and skim my finger over the barrel, circling it around the tip. This is control right here in my hand. A cold, metal form of control because I can choose to take all the shit in my head away. I can choose not to live without them. I can find the quiet, a way out of this unbearable fucking loneliness that will continue to choke me every fucking second of every fucking day.

  I stare at my reflection in the shattered mirror as I lift the gun to my head and slowly press the barrel to my temple. My finger rests over the trigger. But I shake my head because this is not the best way to do this. I move the gun away and slip it into my mouth, biting down on the barrel. The taste of metal coats my tongue as I war with myself. I miss them. I hate myself for dragging them into a life that had no room for innocence. My nostrils flare. My finger trembles over the trigger. One slight movement. That’s all it will take. A few seconds. A blinding pain, and if I’m lucky, this bullet will go right through my brain stem and my heart will stop immediately.

  This will all stop.

  My heart bangs against my chest, each beat thrumming in my ears. My palms sweat. It should be easy; I think as I stare at my distorted reflection. Shouldn’t this be easy? Just pull the goddamn trigger. End it. I have nothing left. No comfort in this world. But I swear to god, it’s like I’m paralyzed. It’s like something is holding me back, there’s a sliver of doubt in the back of my head. I close my eyes. I drag in several deep breaths, the gun still resting in my mouth. My finger slides down the curve of the trigger and all I can see in my head is Tor. Her smile...she could make me feel like a better person with just her fucking smile.

  I drop my hand to my side and the gun clatters to the floor. Sighing, I brace my arms on the dresser and lean over. There will be no peace in death if I leave business unfinished, and Jésus and Ronan are unfinished business. As much as I’d love for this empty feeling to be blown into oblivion, it’s just not in me to allow the men who took my girls away to keep on living. I open my eyes and stare down at the gun. My peace will have to wait because vengeance is part of my nature. So, I stumble to the bed and fall back onto the mattress, my heart pounding as I close my eyes and wait for the world to fade away.

  2

  Jude

  2 weeks later

  A round of gunfire booms outside the window, the loud noise waking me from a restless sleep. I hit the floor before I reach for the gun on the nightstand. As I slowly stand and peek around the side of the window, I cock it. From here I have a clear view of the long drive leading to Gabe’s front gate. There’s a black Hummer idling right outside the wrought iron fence. Men are propped on the roof with rifles aimed at Gabe’s house. That's Jésus’ men—men that helped take Cayla and Tor.

  Anger swells in my chest.

  I hear the explosion before I see the slight glow from the end of the gun. I shift in front of the window, lift the gun, stare down the site, and pull the trigger. The window shatters. I pull the trigger again and again. One of the men fall to the ground. A guard on the roof shouts before a hailstorm of gunfire ensues. Bullets ping off the house. Men shout. Tires squeal.

  Gabe wants to take back the city the Sinaloa stole from him, and Ronan's little stunt has helped push the Sinaloa back. The very thing that cost me everything has given Gabe the upper hand, and I can't help but feel bitter as fuck about it. All I want is Jésus dead, and by my own hands, so I'll start my own path to weakening that motherfucker. But I know I can't take down the cartel without a good plan, so I've spent the past two weeks plotting, planning, calling in favors. I’ve paid a few lowlifes for information on who Jésus' contacts are, and compiled a list. And at the top of my list is one of a dozen crooked ass cops that helps ensure their cocaine supply arrives without any issues, Jorge Hernandez. It’s the in-betweens like him that I plan to go after first, cutting most of the Sinaloa's ties that connect the illegal with the legal.

  Marney sniffs before taking a sip from his mug. "Damn cartels make a show outta everything." He shakes his head just as the front door opens and slams shut.

  "Putas," Gabe groans. He stops midstride when he sees me standing in the kitchen.

  I go to the cabinet, grab a bottle of liquor, and yank the cork out before tipping the bottle back. When I glance down to the counter I see an envelope peeking out from a stack of mail. The writing is neat and across the center is the word: American. The handwriting is neat. Taking another quick swig, I grab the envelope from the counter and hold it up. Gabe stares blankly at me as I brush past him with the letter and bottle of whisky. I wait until I get back into my room to open it, and inside is a single piece of thick, crème paper.

  My sincerest condolences. Such is the cost of War.

  My pulse steadily picks up as I stare at that letter. My skin heats. This was not my fucking war. Tor and Cayla—they were not mere casualties. The arrogance of this piece of shit, sitting in his fucking Russian mansion, smoking his fucking cigars while every bit of me has died. He wants power, and he doesn't care who or what he destroys in his search for it. The paper crumples in my hold. He was the reason I got dragged into this shit show. He went behind my back and talked Tor into selling me out. I wouldn't doubt if he had a hand in Cayla being kidnapped… I toss the crumpled piece of paper to the floor and go to the closet, throwing open the door before I grab a rifle from inside the shelf because all this anger is about to be taken out on Jorge.

  I load the rifle and head out of the room.

  Gabe’s in the kitchen shouting into the phone, which is good because I don’t want to argue with him over this shit. I walk straight through the door and to the garage beside the driveway. I fling the door open and grab a box of grenades before I climb into one of the numerous cars parked in the drive.

  I’ll bring fucking Jésus to his knees and then I’ll fucking kill him with a smile.

  I’ve been sitting at this nasty bar on the outskirts of Juarez City for an hour downing whisky, but the buzz coursing through my body right now does little to relax me. Jorge is next to me, slamming back beers and groping women. Laughing, he whispers something into a young woman's ear. She smiles when he sweeps her hair from her face, but her gaze is locked on me. His hand snakes down her stomach. I watch as he discreetly slips some cash into the waist of her tight skirt. She grins at me before she shoves away from him, swaying her hips as she crosses the room and heads out the door. He gr
unts as he pushes his stool back and staggers to his feet. I take one last gulp from my glass and set it on the counter before standing myself and following him down the hallway to the Men’s room.

  He goes to the urinal and whips out his dick. He may have had nothing to do with Tor and Cayla being taken, but he is a link that I have to sever. This—this is the cost of war.

  I grab the hilt of my knife as I start to pass behind him like I’m going to the other urinal. I stop, and before his mind can even register what I’m doing, I hook one arm around his neck and slice over his throat with the blade. Blood spurts from the open cut, spraying with each frantic pound of his heart. He grabs at his neck and I release him, watching as he falls to his knees on the floor. There’s a few gurgled grunts before he topples face first into the base of the urinal.

  I tuck the knife into the waist of my jeans and walk out, straight through the bar and out to the car. I pull off and make my way along the desolate desert road. Lucky for me, there is no such thing as loyalty. For a hundred grand, some dealer for the Sinaloa gave me the location to one of Jésus' coke factories. He never asked my name. Never questioned me. I guess he didn't need to when he saw the duffel bag full of cash.

  One fucker down. A warehouse to go.

  There’s not a cloud in the sky as I travel out of Juarez. I watch the filthy city disappear in the rearview and eventually the tires bump over the uneven desert trails. It only takes thirty minutes before the warehouse appears in the distance, its silhouette wavering in the heat. There's a line of black Hummers along the perimeter, and I glance at the box of grenades, wondering how many it takes to blow a coke factory. As I approach, two men step out from behind a parked SUV, rifles propped on their hips while a group of men carry boxes to the back of a big rig.

  I let off the accelerator, and the guards take several steps from their post, shielding their eyes from the sun. This is Gabe's car. And by no fucking mistake, I'm going to drag him right down with me because I know I can't do this alone. I just have to force his hand in the matter, and that's exactly what I am about to do. I watch one of the guards point before his hand goes to move, but I already have my gun aimed. And I shoot.