by Pam Godwin
Now would be a good time to tell him what happened with Armando. But as his entire body shook against her, vibrating with barely-contained fury, she decided not to throw salt in the wound.
“If I’d been here, I wouldn’t have allowed you to even consider it.” Another death glare at Van. Then he lowered her to the mattress and stretched out beside her, cradling her against his chest.
He was so close his short beard tickled her chin. His fingers combed through her hair with agonizing tenderness, and his exhales incited her to breathe.
He was here. This was real. She was breathing.
Those merciful thoughts swarmed in with the ugly ones—her abused body, her necessary return to the compound in the morning, and the inevitable fate that awaited her at the end of this.
But for now, she had him, his arms around her, his hand stroking her hair, and his unspoken intent to take care of her.
Tears leaked from her eyes and dripped into the cuts on her lips. It was neither sadness nor contentment, but rather the overwhelming weight of the past eleven years finally catching up with her.
He kissed her cheeks, nuzzling her skin. Then he shifted and cupped her head in his hands to position her on her back. The movement triggered an explosion of agony so sharp she thought she might puke.
“Fuck.” He bent over her, caressing her hair, and glanced over his shoulder. “Van.”
Footsteps approached, and the mattress dipped on her other side beneath Van’s weight.
“Where does it hurt?” Van slung a backpack off his shoulder and removed a huge zippered pouch with a medical logo on it.
“Everywhere. I think…” The constant pain trembled her voice, and she swallowed. “A shower would be nice if I had help.”
He glanced at Tate, and something passed between them.
“We don’t have time.” Tate feathered his fingertips across her stomach and paused on the hem of her shirt. “We’re leaving. But first, Van’s going to examine you and make you as comfortable as possible to travel.” He lifted her shirt, inching it toward her head without moving his eyes from hers. “I called Matias.”
“What?” Her lungs slammed together. “Camila knows? She knows I’m alive?”
“I just called him, but yeah, I’m sure she knows now.”
Anger shuddered through her. Not because Matias would take her away from her medicine. Her death was inconsequential. But she didn’t want Camila to experience it. Again.
The thought jabbed into her wounds and tore them open. “You shouldn’t have done that. Camila can’t—”
“Camila isn’t a fucking factor in this.” The harshness in his tone contradicted the delicate way he inched her shirt up and off.
“That’s bullshit.” Her frail voice failed to express her distress. “You’re here for her.”
“Not anymore.” The loaded press of his gaze sent her heart into a tailspin.
With a coughing smirk, Van left the bed and turned the water on at the sink.
“What does that mean?” she asked, aching to hear Tate say it, to taste the hope.
“I’m here for you and you alone.”
Just like that, her wish for death was laid waste in the promise that hovered between them. Maybe she could find a cure. Maybe she could see Camila again, and her sister wouldn’t have to mourn her death a second time.
Maybe Tate would love her the way he loved Camila.
She dreamed of a life where she could explore possibilities with him, where she could nurture their connection, grow it, and pour the entirety of her being into it. To do any of that, she needed to live.
He kissed the corner of her mouth, the injury on her cheek, and the trickle of tears spilling from her eyes. “The quickest Matias can get here is eight hours by helicopter. But he can’t get into the neighborhood. We have to go to him.”
Eight hours and she would be rid of this place.
Eight hours and I’ll be dead.
“I have time for one more injection if—”
“No. You’re not going near the compound.” He focused on her jeans, releasing the fly and gingerly sliding them off. “Are you still not able to feel your legs?”
“No, I can’t…” She searched his eyes, confused. “How did you know about that?”
Van returned with a wadded wet shirt and bottled water and removed two pills from the medical bag.
“For the pain.” He helped her swallow the medication while exchanging a silent look with Tate.
What were they not telling her?
She stared into Tate’s bloodshot eyes, wincing at the cut swelling his eyelid. “Why were you fighting?”
“I know what happened to you tonight. I was listening.” He worked his jaw, his expression pained. “You’ve been wearing a bug.”
He told her about the listening devices, how he planted them, how they worked, and why he hid them from her. His hands flexed as he detailed what he’d heard tonight and the fist fight that followed with Van.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am for failing to protect you.” His voice broke beneath a tide of torment.
Desolation flooded his expression, and it hurt her to see it. She let her eyes drift shut and tried to process everything he’d said.
She didn’t feel anger or resentment about being spied on. She felt…relieved. Safeguarded. Maybe even cherished. He didn’t have to watch over her like that, but he did. Because he was here for her.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He gave her hip a gentle squeeze and ghosted his fingers along the edge of her panties. “I need to remove these.”
She kept her eyes closed, knowing there was dried blood and come between her legs. Since he’d heard her struggle and ultimate defeat in the basement, he wouldn’t be surprised at what he found.
Once she was bare, he didn’t make a sound as he used the warm wet shirt to clean her. Then he and Van worked together, washing and nursing the worst of her injuries. The gash on her cheek needed stitches, as well as two across her ribs. Brutal knuckles, the concrete floor, the steel toe of a boot… She didn’t know which cruelty caused which wounds, but Van sewed them up. Considering he used to torture people for a living, she supposed he was an expert at tending injuries inflicted by a sadist.
As Van stitched, Tate wove his fingers through hers and kissed her hand. “Your paralysis is concerning, Lucia.”
She cracked open an eye. “What time is it?”
“Just after midnight. If you usually get your medicine at dawn, we have enough time to go to the nearest hospital and—”
“All three hospitals in Caracas are infiltrated with Tiago’s people. The doctors won’t treat me. He would kill them if they did.”
His eyes flashed dangerously. “Then we’ll find a hospital outside of the city.”
“Waste of time.”
“Dammit, Lucia. I’m not giving up.”
“This isn’t about giving up. The country is in a major health crisis. The shortage of medical supplies and hospital beds is so awful women are giving birth in the waiting rooms. Patients are dying on the bloodstained floors of hospital hallways after waiting days to see a doctor. I’ve seen the newspaper headlines. They have three percent of the supplies they need to treat people. Three percent, Tate.”
“Because of the limitations the President put on importations?” Van clipped the final stitch and packed up the medical bag.
“I think so,” she said. “As a result, the hospitals have nothing. I’ll be dead and cold long before I even get into an exam room.”
The simple act of talking had stressed her body. Parts deep inside her stabbed and burned, but she didn’t know what was damaged or how irreparable the damage was. The burning sensation in her gut spread outward, blanketing her skin in violent, sweaty chills. Her breathing labored, and her pulse weakened, as if her organs were shutting down. Soon, they would be of no use to her.
“I’m dying.”
“Not if I have something to say about it.” Tate released her hand, and his l
arge frame retreated in the blotches of her vision.
As unconsciousness tried to claim her, his voice thrummed at the edges. He was on the phone, making angry demands and pacing through the room.
She floated in and out of awareness, shifting restlessly on the mattress in an attempt to escape the persistent pain. Tate’s voice continued in the background as Van dressed her. She welcomed the warmth of clothes, until she became too hot, too clammy. She was burning up.
Then Tate’s hands were there, smoothing back her hair and easing a cool damp cloth around her face.
“I just talked to Cole Hartman.” He touched a kiss to her lips. “He’s going to find a doctor outside of the city. Someone we can trust.”
Her chest lifted, filling with lofty wishes and greedy reveries. She wanted to scream her excitement and hug him until they both grunted with laughter, but the most she could offer was, “’kay. Thank you.”
“He’ll call back and let us know where to go. But we need to move. Get out of this neighborhood. Are you ready?”
“Can’t walk.” Her words sounded garbled and slurred.
“Shh. I have you.” He pulled a gun from the front of his jeans and twisted toward Van. “I’ll follow you out.”
Van stepped toward the passageway in the closet with a gun in his hand and a huge pack on his back.
Tate bent to lift her and stopped. “Did you hear that?”
The silence that followed strangled like a chokehold. Then Van said, “No—”
A deafening bang rattled the front door, and it blew open in an eruption of splintered wood.
Her heart stopped, and guns fired. A man screamed. More men swarmed in. Assault rifles and handguns and street clothes. Tiago’s guards.
Tate stood over her, shooting, dodging, ducking, and shouting something at Van. Boots scuffed near the door. Bullets pelleted the wall. Then glass popped, and the lights went out.
Her vision fuzzed in the darkness, her brain sluggish, her entire body convulsing with panic and helplessness. She couldn’t stand, couldn’t defend him, and fear ate away her alertness.
She blindly stretched an arm across the mattress, seeking her Berettas as the gunfire began to slow.
“Van!” Tate lurched off the bed and slammed into something just as a shot rang out from the doorway.
Then silence.
Icy, dead, ominous silence.
She broke out in a cold sweat, trembling in her effort to stay conscious. “Tate?”
The rustle of clothes, tread of boots, beam of a flashlight—there were people in the room. Was Van among them?
“Tate?” She blinked, but her eyes wouldn’t work right. “Answer me.”
Where was he? What happened?
He’d called to Van, jumped, and a shot was fired.
He was hit.
Her heart collapsed, and the roar of blood thrashed in her ears.
No no no no no. He can’t be hurt. He can’t die. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.
Shadows moved in around her. Then footsteps. A lot of them.
She turned her neck and felt a cool hand on her cheek.
“Tate and Van.” The low rumble of a man’s voice. Tiago’s voice. “I know a lot more than their names.”
“Help.” She cringed away from his touch, but his hand stayed with her. “I think Tate was shot.”
“He was definitely shot.” His fingertips crawled across her lips. “Directly in the chest.”
She couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t real. Her body locked up, and her mind screamed in denial. “I need to see him. Let me see!”
A phone rang. Muffled and cheerful, the chirp sounded close. Somewhere on the floor.
Cole Hartman. He was supposed to call back with an address for a doctor.
The hand on her lips slipped away. A moment later, the chirping grew louder, clearer. Then it died.
“Who’s calling him?” Tiago’s voice drifted from above.
“I don’t know.”
It didn’t matter. That call was an invitation for believers and dreamers. There were no dreamers in hell. Only sufferers and tormentors, prey and predators, and she epitomized both sides.
She was also a fool. Because dammit, she still hoped.
She hoped Tate was alive as Tiago carried her away from him and out of the apartment.
She hoped to live as he sat her in the backseat of a car and drove her to the compound.
She hoped for strength as he hauled her into the basement chamber.
But as she trembled on the concrete floor, it was hard to hang onto hope. The pain in her body became intolerable when her muscles began to spasm and a seizure thrust her into the black void.
Voices and footfalls ricocheted around her, but her mind was a mass of wool. She couldn’t focus. Couldn’t fight. They would do whatever they wanted to her, and the slow pulse of time would be a new kind a torment.
At some point, her brain disentangled, and her senses came online. A pillow, hard and thick, bolstered the back of her head. She lay face up, squinting against the harsh lighting. And hurting. The pain concentrated in her stomach, constricting and twisting and threatening to take her under again.
Oh God, it hurts. Make it stop.
She shifted her gaze away from the lights and focused on what was directly above her. Broad chest, thick biceps, and a scarred and swollen face with silver eyes. As her mind sharpened, she realized her head was on Van’s lap. With his back against the wall and his arms chained to a horizontal beam behind him, he watched the activity on the other side of the room.
Her heart rate exploded. If Van was here…
She gathered the strength to turn her neck and collided with the crystal blue fury engulfing Tate’s eyes.
He’s alive.
Her breaths seized, and her arms quaked to hold him.
Shirtless and heaving, his chest bore a ghastly wound that bled beneath the skin. But it wasn’t the critical, penetrating type of injury she expected from a bullet. It looked like someone had swung a hammer as hard as possible against his ribs.
If he was in pain, he didn’t show it. His red-hot expression suggested he had so much adrenaline and testosterone pumping through him he felt nothing but violent rage.
“He took a bullet in the chest for me,” Van said quietly. “Saved my life. Only reason he’s alive is because he was wearing an armored shirt. His ribs are probably broken.”
She knew his soft tone was meant to calm her, but beneath the whispered words shivered something she knew too well. Fear. She felt it, too. Dread. Terror. The horrifying grip of doom.
Tate hung from chains that encircled his wrists and connected to the rafters, his feet bare and raised on toes, as if to ease the strain on his arms. It was the same place, same position, same fate as the man who died there only hours earlier.
Standing beside him, Tiago held a phone in one hand and Tate’s shirt in the other. He spoke in a low voice to Armando—the only other person in the room. When he tossed the shirt on the metal table in the corner, that was when she saw it.
The lethal razor blade curved from the end of his finger like a claw.
An artist’s instrument.
His favorite weapon.
“No.” A mangled keening sound wailed from her throat. “Tiago, please, I’m begging you. Don’t do this. I’ll do anything.”
“You’ll do anything for him?” He tipped his head toward Tate, holding her gaze.
“Yes. Anything.”
“Hm.” He teased the claw across Tate’s pecs. “I’m more interested in finding out what he’ll do for you.”
CHAPTER 23
The scent of blood stung Tate’s nose. Not his blood. The death from earlier tonight hovered in the air and stained the concrete floor. He’d heard the man’s tortured screams through the transmitter and could now see the source of that agony glinting on the end of Tiago Badell’s finger.
The blade looked lethal enough to carve through muscle, and as it lightly scraped across his che
st, he was certain it would.
His heart drummed a furious tattoo. Chains restrained his arms, and broken ribs made every breath excruciating. He had no defense, no way to protect Lucia and Van. No way out of this.
Fear should’ve been a hulking presence inside him, but it was crowded out by unholy rage. Lucia lay on the floor in dangerous need of urgent care. She’d just surfaced from what must’ve been a seizure, one that had convulsed her muscles so violently it banged her skull against the concrete. Van, with his arms shackled, had managed to wedge a thigh beneath her head. Meanwhile, Badell had stood there and watched her suffer like a morally depraved psychopath.
How would they get out of this? With Van and him shackled and Lucia clinging to life, they needed a fucking miracle.
It would be eight hours before Matias realized there was trouble, and even more hours to organize a rescue party. Maybe Cole would suspect something since his call went unanswered. That wouldn’t help them, though. He was in another country.
“There are no contacts stored on your phone.” Badell set it on the metal table and met his eyes. “No call history.”
At Cole’s request, Tate had meticulously kept the burner phone wiped clean. Thank fuck for Cole’s counsel. The man had laid out plans for every emergency, including instructions in the event Tate was captured.
“I can give you a contact.” He hardened his expression, masking the pain in his ribs. “Call my brother.” He rattled off a predetermined phone number that would alert Cole of foul play. “You’ll get your ransom money.”
“Your brother?” Badell casually strolled through the room, clasping his hands behind him and twitching that deadly finger blade. “Your shirt repelled a bullet, and your companion”—he glanced at Van—“doesn’t carry a phone.”
Tate had destroyed all the phones but one before they left the apartment. He’d also had the foresight to protect their friends and family in anticipation of repercussions for taking Lucia out of Caracas. If Badell were to discover Tate’s identity, his friends’ lives could be threatened. So when he’d called Matias, Matias vowed to send his local guys to collect Liv and Josh, Amber and Livana, and all of Tate’s roommates. They should be safely on their way to Matias’ Colombian estate at this very moment.
