He’d asked several times if she was hurt, to no avail. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her shoulders trembling, clothes in tatters.Taking the quilt out of his backpack, he covered her half-exposed upper body.Pelón Garcia had hit her. The angry red mark stood out on her cheek, plain as day. He’d also raped her, or attempted to rape her. Either way, Brandon was furious, his chest heaving with pent-up rage. If he could go back and kill the man again, he would. If he could make him suffer, draw it out and watch him bleed, he would.Some of his anger was directed toward himself. He’d let her come to harm. She’d been hurt on his watch. That was unacceptable.His mood black, he drove as close to the border as possible and pulled over, parking the vehicle near a tree-lined ravine. The front windshield was gone, safety glass scattered all over the interior. They couldn’t slip into Guatemala unnoticed in a bullet-riddled SUV, and he wanted to distance himself from Carranza as much as possible.
