Devastate (Deliver Book 4)

by Pam Godwin

  “Fine,” he said in Spanish and pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket. “Be quick.”

  Forcing her boots to move as if reluctant and bored, she shuffled toward the stairwell.

  CHAPTER 26

  There were benefits of being a high-ranked gang member for Tiago Badell. One, Lucia had access to every hallway, room, and dark corner in the compound and no one questioned her. Two, she had deep insight into how Tiago ran his security.

  Since there were two prisoners, there would be two guards in the basement. No more. No less. They would be armed and separated. One at the door to the basement corridor and one at the entrance to the chamber.

  She was so damn nervous her shoulders tried to hunch around her ears. The tension in her neck tightened to the point of pain.

  I can’t fail. I can’t fail. I can’t fail.

  With a steeling breath, she opened the door to the stairwell and found the dank, narrow space quiet and empty.

  So far so good.

  Closing the door behind her, she grabbed the knife from her boot and flattened the blade against the side of her leg. There was no way to conceal it, so whatever happened next needed to be swift and soundless.

  The almighty pound of her heart threatened to liquefy her knees as she rounded the first bend in the staircase. Her senses buzzed on high alert, making every step more arduous than the last.

  One more corner to go.

  Her soft treads whispered along the stone walls, but there were other sounds, too. The rustle of movement. The faint rasps of breathing. There was definitely a guard waiting at the bottom door.

  The knife handle slicked in her clammy fist. She squeezed her fingers, shifted it out of sight behind her thigh, and edged around the last bend.

  Perched on the bottom few stairs, the guard pulled his attention from the phone in his hand and glanced over his shoulder.

  Armando.

  Panic, disgust, vengeance—all of it blazed through her, feral and venomous.

  His eyes widened. “Donde esta Tiago?”

  Where’s Tiago?

  He’s dead, and you’re about to join him.

  He knew, even as he’d asked the question, something wasn’t right. He’d been in the torture room and witnessed her despair. He knew she was here for no other reason than to rescue Tate.

  It happened so quickly—that realization on his expression and her sudden lurch forward. He tried to rise to his feet, but his movements were too slow, his belly too big, and she was faster.

  Her higher elevation on the stairs gave her an advantage as she jumped and collided with his back. The strength and direction of her attack knocked him off balance. He stumbled, bumped against the wall, and went down. She followed him to the floor, clapping a hand over his mouth, wrenching his head back against her shoulder, and thrusting the blade upward, right into the soft part beneath his jaw. She pushed hard and fast, aiming for his brain until the hilt met his throat.

  Hot blood soaked her fingers as he sagged. Soundless. Breathless. Dead.

  She held onto the knife, frozen and listening for footsteps over the thrash of her pulse.

  Blessed silence.

  His phone lay on the floor at his feet. A 9mm with the extended barrel of a silencer sat on his hip. She needed both and waited several torturous seconds, concentrating on her surroundings. When she was certain no one had heard, she pocketed the phone and chambered a round on the gun.

  That was the easy part.

  Any second now, the guard upstairs would finish his cigarette and come looking for her.

  With trembling hands, she positioned herself on knees at the bend in the staircase and raised the gun, ready to shoot anyone who rounded the corner.

  The wait lasted an eternity as her mind swam through worst case scenarios. If Tiago’s guards checked on him, she would fail. If multiple men entered the basement and outnumbered her, she would fail. If the gun in her hand misfired, she would fail.

  Tate’s fate rested entirely on her ability to not fucking fail.

  When the door at the top of the stairs finally scraped open, every pore in her body beaded with sweat. Her lungs froze, and her limbs locked up.

  Breathe, dammit.

  The sound of footfalls grew louder, clomping, descending, speeding up. One threatening gait. Only one.

  He would see Armando’s body the moment he turned the last bend, but she wouldn’t give him enough time to react.

  Resting her finger on the trigger, she breathed in, timed his steps, and waited, waited…

  His chest came into view, and he jerked to a stop, spinning toward her.

  She squeezed the trigger on her exhale, point blank range, right in the chest.

  The bullet casing pinged against the stone wall behind her, and the report of suppressed gunfire ricocheted through the stairwell. The echo sounded like a metal ball bouncing on concrete.

  It’s too loud!

  The guard was dead before he hit the floor, but the racket would’ve been heard in the basement. She didn’t have time to pause.

  Stepping over the bodies, she cracked the lower-level door and spotted a man charging toward her, maybe ten feet away. He reached for the gun in his waistband, but hers was already aimed.

  She fired at his torso, and the suppressed bang reverberated through her.

  He dropped before he pulled his weapon, but his hand was still moving, reaching for it.

  Adrenaline kicked in as she sprinted toward him and shot again, directly through his heart.

  His arm fell to the floor with the slump of his body, his eyes fixed, glassy and frozen, at the ceiling.

  This was far from over. Even with a silencer, those three shots had made noise. If the reverberation had reached the main floor, she didn’t have much time.

  She raced toward the chamber where Tate and Van waited and slammed to a stop mid-stride.

  Keys!

  Spinning back to the dead guard, she grabbed his 9mm and unhooked the keyring from his belt.

  Then she ran, stretching unused muscles in her desperation to get to Tate. At the door to the chamber, she released the bolt and rushed into the room.

  The overpowering scent of blood hit her in the face, causing her to stumble. Van sat against the wall, arms shackled to the beam. Tate lay on his stomach beside him, free of restraints because…

  Oh God, his back was a gruesome tapestry of tattered flesh and gory illustrations too shocking to focus on. With his cheek against the concrete and his wounded arm lying like a dead thing beside him, he didn’t move, didn’t react.

  Waves of heartbreak crashed through her, wrenching a whimper from her throat.

  His eyes were open but glazed over, expressionless, utterly catatonic.

  With panting breaths, she forced her feet to keep moving, skidded to her knees beside Van, and set the guns on the floor.

  “We have to hurry.” She fumbled with the key in the locks, losing precious seconds before the chains fell loose.

  “Badell?” Van pulled his arms free and grabbed one of the guns.

  “Dead. In his room. No one knows. Yet.” From her pocket, she handed him Armando’s phone. “I’ll get us out of the compound, but we need help leaving the city. This won’t be a stealthy getaway.”

  “Matias should be close, but I don’t know how to contact him.” Van inched toward Tate and stroked a hand over his unmoving head. “Tate? I need Matias’ number.”

  Tate’s lashes twitched, followed by a sluggish blink. The muscles in his jaw bounced, like he was trying to respond and couldn’t.

  Her heart shattered, and it took every ounce of willpower she had left to keep her emotions in check.

  “He’s been unresponsive since you left.” Van stood, stepping out of her way.

  “Tate.” She stretched out on the floor beside him and put her face in his. “We’re getting out of here, but we need Matias’ number.”

  His eyes tried to track her voice, focusing and clouding over. Then his lips moved, whispering
the digits slowly and painfully in a shredded voice.

  As Van made the call, she moved down Tate’s legs. His jeans gathered just beneath his butt, as if the task of righting them had been interrupted. She carefully dragged his pants into place, focusing on her hands rather than the horror painting his back.

  “It’s Van Quiso,” Van said into the phone. “We’re in trouble.”

  Tate groaned weakly as she slid a hand beneath his hips, tucked him inside the boxer briefs, and zipped the fly as much as she could manage.

  Van quietly and efficiently outlined the situation to Matias. A few seconds later, he turned the ringer off the phone, pocketed it, and rested those sharp silver eyes on her.

  “He’s twenty minutes outside of the neighborhood.” He crouched at Tate’s side. “We need to head north, and he’ll meet us at—”

  “M-mmeh…” Tate inched his hand toward her, dragging his injured arm along the floor and hissing, “Medsss…you…”

  “I got the medicine.” She caught his hand in hers and found his swollen blue eyes, blinking back tears. “I’m good, Tate.”

  “Extra?” he slurred. “More mehhs…sinnn?”

  Extra medicine?

  Despite her efforts, her strung-out misery flowed down her cheeks in hot streaks. She couldn’t imagine the amount of pain he was in, yet his concern was entirely focused on her.

  She knelt over him and put her mouth against his. “The syringes are locked up, but it’s okay. Matias will find me a good doctor.” She kissed his cracked lips, lingering, savoring the connection. “I have twenty-four hours. Plenty of time.” Not near enough time. But she wouldn’t dwell on that. “Van’s going to carry you. We need to go.”

  Tate closed his eyes, his expression contorted in pain. When he refocused on her again, he looked fiercely determined and brutally handsome.

  Flattening the hand of his good arm against the floor, he tried to push up. Van was there, lifting and adjusting to position Tate’s body in a fireman’s carry. Though Tate didn’t make a sound, his agony was palpable in the tenseness of his muscles and the creases on his bruised face.

  She lost her breath through the grueling process of dragging him to his feet. His back was one massive, open, chewed-up wound. His ribs were broken, and the hole near his elbow slicked his forearm and hand in fresh blood. Moving him without causing extreme pain was impossible.

  Sliding behind Van, she cupped Tate’s jaw and kissed his mouth, tasting his torment and love and wetting his lips with promises.

  “Netflix, a rescued dog, and a road trip to wine country.” Squatting beneath the droop of his upper body, she kissed him again. “It’s all waiting for us.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched—a heartbreaking attempt at a smile.

  “Lay out the escape plan.” Van hitched Tate higher on his shoulder, with the guard’s gun held tightly in his hand.

  Thank fuck he was strong, because Tate wasn’t a small guy. Carrying him through the compound would be a feat in and of itself.

  “There are two ways in and out.” She strode toward the door, trembling violently with nerves. “We’ll take the stairs up, turn right down the hall, and go out the back exit. Less guards.”

  She opened the door and peeked down the basement corridor. Other than the dead man, it was empty.

  “Since I have the silencer, I’ll do the shooting.” She checked the magazine in Armando’s 9mm. “Five rounds left.”

  “When we make it out, what then? Is there gate in the rear?”

  When not if. She could’ve hugged Van for his confidence.

  “No gate. Just guards. It’s a service entrance. We’ll have to shoot and run.” She rested a hand on Tate’s backside, where he hung over Van’s shoulder. “Can you manage?”

  “I’ve got him.” Van gripped the door, opening it wider. “We need to head north. It’s quicker and easier for us to leave the neighborhood than for Matias to fight his way in.”

  He gave her the address of the meet spot, which was about a fifteen-minute sprint. Half that if they stole a car.

  Her stomach turned to ice as she led him down the hall and into the stairwell. She paused at the bodies long enough to snatch the sawed-off shotgun and holster from the dead guard. She strapped it on her hip and crept up the stairs with Van at her back.

  At the top, she met his eyes and whispered, “Don’t let him get hit.”

  “I’m more concerned about you,” he whispered back. “He’ll kill me if something happens to you.”

  Tate released a low, deep sound in his throat, and her lips quivered in a smile.

  She stroked the back of his leg, her chest aching with an outpour of things she wanted to say to him. But this wasn’t the time.

  We’ll make it out. Then she would have a lifetime to tell him how much she loved him.

  She cracked the door to the main floor and scanned the empty hall through the opening. “Clear.”

  They ran. Down the long hall, guns raised, footsteps soft, the sprint zapped the air from her lungs and turned her stomach to lead. Adrenaline soared through her blood, and her hair flicked against her face as she swung her neck side to side to watch their backs and fronts.

  A shadow moved across the wall of the intersecting corridor up ahead, and an all-over tremor shook her aim. She locked her elbows and honed in on the approaching threat.

  The guard stepped from around the corner and paused in her sights. He gasped, and she fired. The bullet hit his chest, and he dropped just as another man emerged behind him.

  This one managed to release a warning bellow and draw his weapon before she shot him in the face.

  Fucking shit and damn! The back door was close now, only ten paces away, but the commotion was too loud. Soon, they would be swarmed by armed men.

  A glance behind her confirmed Van was on her heels. She grabbed a gun off a dead guard, shoved it into her waistband, and cut the corner.

  The din of distant footfalls pounded behind her, intensifying the terror that gripped her neck and shoulders. They were feet away from the exterior door when two more guards entered the hall at the opposite end.

  “Go, go, go,” she shouted at Van. “Get outside.”

  Breathless and sweaty, she ran past the exit and fired three shots at the men. One guard went down as Van threw open the door and slipped outside with Tate.

  The second guard fired back, missing her by inches. Tate’s hoarse roar sounded over the bang of gunfire, and she fired again.

  A hollow click stopped her heart. Out of ammo.

  The man at the end of the hall had paused to check on his friend. But he was moving now, running toward her with his pistol aimed.

  A bullet pelleted the plaster beside her head as she dropped the silencer, drew the short-barrel shotgun, and blasted a huge hole through his chest.

  Her ears rang with the explosive noise. She tossed the gun and pulled the pistol from her jeans, needing the 9mm to cover the distance between her and the throng of men tearing around the corner.

  She backed through the doorway and into the sunlight, angling around the door jamb and spraying bullets into the chaos inside.

  More gunfire ricocheted behind her, spiking her heart rate. She turned and found Van shooting down two approaching men in the alley. He crouched beside the open rear door of a small car. Tate lay face down across the backseat.

  “Let’s go.” He scanned the barren street and ran toward the driver’s side.

  Can he hot wire that car?

  She didn’t have time to ask. More men flooded the corridor. Too many to shoot down. She slammed the steel door shut and hauled ass toward the car. Van bent under the steering wheel and yanked on wires as she pulled Tate’s feet into the backseat with her.

  “Hurry!” She closed the door and ducked just as the window exploded in shards of glass. Bullets pinged the side of the car, and the report of gunfire shuddered the air.

  “Van!” she shouted, petrified. “Can you do it?”

  The car roar
ed to life and jerked forward, slamming her against the seat back and tossing her on top of Tate’s prone body.

  Van sped out of the alley, sideswiped another car, and bounced over a curb. Bullets rained down upon them, blowing out the rear window and riddling the metal exterior.

  Keeping as low and concealed as possible, she curled up near Tate’s head and rested his cheek on her lap. His lower half hung off the seat, his knees bent on the floorboard at an awkward angle.

  “Which way is north?” Van swerved around a pedestrian and hit the gas.

  “Left.” She craned her neck to look between the front seats. “Not this street. Turn left at the next one.”

  He followed her directions, and as her panting breaths slowed, so did the bullets and yelling behind her, until…nothing.

  We lost them.

  We escaped.

  The glory and relief in getting away settled through her in great shivering waves. She combed a hand through Tate’s hair and bent to rest her lips against his feverish brow as she caught her breath.

  But they weren’t out of the woods yet.

  “They have motorbikes,” she shouted at Van over the gusts of the wind through the windows. “They’ll catch up.”

  He took the corners at high speeds, lurching in and out of traffic, and whipping her around the backseat with the starts and stops of g-force.

  The pungency of fuel and burning rubber saturated the cab, and the taste of blood soaked her tongue from her stabbing teeth.

  “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to make it.” She whispered the chant at Tate’s ear.

  She didn’t have medicine and probably wouldn’t live through tomorrow, but she had today. She had Tate, and he would survive this. He had to.

  His eyes were closed, his lungs laboring for every intake of air. Clots of blood coated his back in a gruesome reminder of the prior night, and beneath the gore lurked a picture carved into flesh and muscle. Through the shimmer of tears blurring her vision, she could make out images. A massive gate opening outward and… Was that a silhouette floating through it?

  “We’re close, right?” Van pointed at the motorway that emerged up ahead.