Seven years ago Jack Schilling riddled Jimena Grajales with more than half a dozen bullets. Three of those rounds had caused superficial injuries, but the remainder had torn through major organs and had nicked her spinal column. By all rights she should have been dead just like her lover, Jesus Abadia, and their child. Yet the woman had survived. And despite having lost the complete use of her body from a point just below her diaphragm—meaning she must suffer regular renal dialysis, a colostomy bag and a permanent catheter—she had clawed her way back to a position of power in Abadia’s organization.

Cesar Calle might be the name at the head of the cartel, but Jimena was the iron hand that commanded it from this hidden chamber. It was Jimena who had sought Rickard’s services, when after seven years the rage tearing at her had become all-consuming. The need to avenge her child’s death was such that it twisted all reason. She ordered all of the team responsible, and their loved ones, murdered in the most vicious fashion. Joe Hunter, she commanded, should be left for last. Of all the men involved, Jimena held him most responsible. If Hunter had shot Abadia, she would not be this bed-bound freak. Her child would still be alive. Hunter was supposed to suffer as much as she had.

“Why are you here, Rickard?” Her voice was stronger than expected coming from such a frail body and sounded exactly as it had when passing instructions to him via his phone. It held little trace of an accent, and even less of the shock of having watched her latest lover cut down by Rickard’s bullets. “I told you to disappear for a while.”

Rickard grunted. “Told me?”

“Yes. You were being paid a lot of money to do as you were told.”

“That was never the way I saw our arrangement. You told me nothing. You asked and I delivered.”

“That is not quite true.”

“I did everything I was asked.” Rickard dabbed at a trickle of blood on his forehead.

“You failed to kill his woman.”

“Ballard wasn’t his woman.”

“That’s beside the point. Your instructions were to pose as Joe Hunter. I accept that you did that quite well. You framed him for murder, but that was supposed to force him into running for his life. Hunter did not run, though: he came after you. And instead of concentrating on your prime directive, you chose to go off on a private vendetta against your wife.”

“My wife betrayed me. She led your people to me.” Rickard laughed at that. “She needed punishing.”

Jimena’s breath sounded like a whistle in the back of her throat. She looked confused at his words. She stirred, attempting to sit straight in her bed. “I didn’t send anyone after you.”

“Three men died in my apartment,” Rickard crowed. “Explain that.”