CHAPTER 11
The door shut, slamming Tate’s pulse into overdrive.
“Goddammit.” He spun, searching for shoes, a gun, his phone… “She’s not walking away from me again.”
“She just did.” Van threw a bullet-resistant shirt at him and shoved on his own shoes.
“I need you to stay here.” He dressed at breakneck speeds and grabbed a burner phone. “Watch the guards from the window and call me if there’s trouble.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed.” Van gripped the back of Tate’s waistband and wedged a gun against his butt crack.
“Dude, get your dick beaters away from me.” Twisting away, he moved the weapon from his ass to the front of his jeans.
“Dick beaters?”
“Your fucking hands, man. We’re gonna talk about boundaries when I get back.”
“Are you sure you want to put the gun there?” With the arch of an impish brow, Van stared at Tate’s groin. “It would be a shame if you shoot your dick off.”
The thought made his balls shrivel, but it was a helluva lot quicker to draw a gun from the front than to reach around the back.
“My dick isn’t your concern.” He crouched to lace his boots. “I’m going to follow her, find out how she enters her apartment, and come right back.”
Cole had said there was only one way in and out of her unit, but that couldn’t be right. How did she slip past the guards at her door?
She had too many secrets, but he’d find a way to unwrap her, crack her open, and expose all her mysteries.
I’m dying.
That one had hit him sideways, and he still felt off-balance and outraged from the blow. And doubtful. She seemed pretty fucking resigned to die, but he wanted proof, validation from a professional, someone not connected to Badell. There were ways to go about that, but the logistics would be tricky and could put her at risk.
“Now we know why Cole couldn’t find medical records on her.” He tied the second boot and stood.
“Badell figured out how to hold her captive,” Van said, his voice eerily calm, “without locks or shackles.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t get her out.”
Maybe he could get a blood sample and ship it to a lab? Could it be that easy? Not likely.
Gun, phone, armored shirt… He had everything he needed and raced to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Did you record her symptoms?”
“I captured the entire conversation.” Van held up a small recording device. “What about you? Any luck with the tracker?”
“I stuck one on each of her Berettas when she handed them to me.” He opened the door and scanned the vacant hall.
The trackers—courtesy of Cole—were also listening devices. A spy camera on her body would’ve been ideal, especially since Tate had no choice but to let her return to Badell this morning, but wearable cameras were bulky, and the battery life was shit.
Putting audio transmitters on her weapons was risky enough. If someone discovered them, Lucia would pay the price.
“Try not to die,” Van called after him as he closed the door.
Down the stairs, out the main entrance, and along the empty street, he sprinted to catch up with her. The half-light minutes just before dawn was the sleepiest time in Caracas. There were fewer gunshots. No passing motorists. No people anywhere. Just the pound of his boots hitting concrete and the heave of his lungs.
He rounded the first corner of his building, ran a block toward her apartment, and slowed at the next bend. If he turned right, he’d walk into her alley and the guards who waited for her.
Removing his phone, he pulled up the tracking program and pinpointed her location. She’d gone around the block? Why? Maybe to circle the rear of her apartment complex to enter a side door? But how would she get in from there? He’d seen the blueprints of the building and her one-room unit. The front door was the only way into her living quarters.
He followed her moving location, veered left, and ran two blocks out of the way, which spit him out at the rear of her T-shaped building. Sticking to the shadows, he kept his senses sharp and aware. But he couldn’t watch his back while sweeping the shadows in front of him.
And that was how he ended up with the unmistakable press of a gun against the back of his head.
He froze, spine twitching and pulse thrashing in his ears. For a hopeful second, he thought Lucia was behind him, aiming a Beretta with irritation twisting her gorgeous face.
Couldn’t be her, though. This gunslinger was a mouth-breather, hacking air with a scratchy throat and reeking of cigarettes.
The string of words that followed were spat in Spanish. A man’s voice. A tall man, given the height and direction of sound. His impatience was evident in the jab of the gun against Tate’s head.
Each shout and jab made his muscles tense to react, to knock the man on his ass. But he forced himself to remain still and think through the best course of action.
He’d practiced this exact scenario with Cole before they left the States. A little movement to the side, just a quick-second shift would remove his head from the path of the bullet. But he wouldn’t have time to pause after that. It had to be a single flow of motion. Shift to the side, reach back for the gun while dropping, turning, drawing his own gun, and firing without hesitation.
Christ, it was a shot in the dark. Literally. The odds of turning before he ate a bullet weren’t in his favor, but it was the only shot he had.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Then he moved.
A gunshot rang out—a single jarring bang that resounded in his chest, disorientating him. He blinked at the gun in his hand, at the finger that never made it to the trigger.
The scent of blood clotted the air, so sharp and acrid he could taste it. Was it coming from him? His stomach turned to ice as he ran a numb hand over his head, seeking a wound.
It took him a second to register the overweight man at his feet, sprawled in a dark puddle of gore and leaking from a hole in his temple.
Whoever fired that shot had impeccable aim and could’ve just as easily hit Tate.
A chill swept over him, and he quickly put his back against the building, surveying the perimeter. No movement. No apparent witnesses. The shooter had to have been Van or Lucia.
Another minute passed before the slender form of a woman emerged from behind a car across the street. Lucia.
With a heavy exhale, he seated the gun in the front of his jeans, right next to the delicious ache clenching in his groin. Because fuck him, she was all legs, perky tits, and fearless beauty charging toward him like a warrior princess.
There was nothing sexier than a woman with a gun. But Lucia was more than that. Strong, stunning, and gutsy as all hell, she was badass personified. And to think, she was sick. Dying. She didn’t let it show in the square of her shoulders or the jut of her chin. She looked for all the world like she was bulletproof. Impenetrable.
Except he’d penetrated her, impaled her deeply and thoroughly, and fuck if he didn’t want to do it again.
By the time she reached him, he was so goddamn hard he had to step back and fold his arms across his chest to stop himself from falling on her like a rabid animal.
“Are you pissed?” She crouched beside the body and rifled through the pockets.
“Pissed?” He lowered his arms, dumbfounded. “You saved my life.”
“No, I didn’t.” Pocketing the dead man’s money, she tossed the empty wallet on the ground. “You moved your head. His bullet would’ve missed you. With your gun out and the way you turned so fast, you had the shot.” She glared at the corpse. “Sorry I took that from you. I’ve wanted this kill for years.”
“Why? Who was he?”
“One of Tiago’s stooges.” She rose to her full height and spat on the body. “A serial rapist.”
The pain simmering beneath her voice triggered his protective instincts.
“He hurt you?” He gripped her arm.
“Not anymore.” Pulling away from him, she strode down the alley behind her apartment building.
He wished he would’ve been the one to shoot the fucker. He’d killed before, right alongside Lucia’s sister, and enjoyed every second of it. Evidently, he had an unquenchable thirst for the blood of the guilty.
“What about the body?” he asked her retreating back.
“Leave it.”
He trailed after her, lengthening his strides to catch up. “The police—”
“They can’t touch me.” She set a moderate pace, her steps even and eyes straight ahead. “Tiago, on the other hand, would punish me for killing one of his men.”
His jaw clenched. “Punish you how?”
“Death.” She lifted a shoulder and veered around a dumpster in the narrow alley. “But hey, I didn’t do it, right? I mean, I’ve been in my apartment all night with guards on my door.”
“Jesus, Lucia.” He tipped his head up, probing the dark second-floor windows. “Someone might’ve seen you.”
“Maybe, but it’s their word against that of his two best guards and his favorite girl.”
His favorite girl?
What kind of relationship did she have with Badell? When he gave her medicine, what did she have to do in return? The only information Tate had was the video of her at the compound and Cole’s words.
Her job is to inflict physical and emotional pain. Torture. Sometimes she rapes them.
If she raped the victims, why did she have such a grudging reaction to the rapist she just killed? It didn’t make sense, and he desperately needed to understand.
It would be daybreak in about ten minutes, and they’d reached a bend in the alley where the three arms of her building came together. Her apartment would be right there.
He didn’t know how she would get in from back here, but first, he needed to settle this one thing.
Grabbing her waist mid-stride, he swung her around and held her against him, chest to chest. “How are you his favorite girl?”
She stared into his eyes for a span of several heartbeats, her face an emotionless mask.
“Does he fuck you? Or force you?” He wrapped his fingers around her neck and forged his voice with steel. He wasn’t angry with her. He was angry for her. “Answer me.”
A muscle bounced in her cheek. Then slowly, reluctantly, her aloofness shuddered and broke away. Uncertainty creased her forehead. Disquiet twitched her lashes. Concession sighed from her parted lips.
“You’re possessive.” She raised a tentative hand and traced the corner of his mouth.
His lips felt a little weak and a lot hungry. “I told you you’re under my protection—”
“I don’t mean me specifically. You’re possessive as a general rule.” She moved her finger along the seam of his mouth, exploring with achingly sweet curiosity. “It’s a quality I’ve never given much thought to…until now. It looks good on you. Like really fucking good.”
Her breath whispered against his face, weaving with the flutters of her featherlight touch. A touch he felt all the way down to his balls.
She caressed a path across his cheek and slid her fingers through his hair, all the while inching closer. Hovering her lips just out of reach. Leaving a hairbreadth between stay and go. A sliver between yes and no.
It all blurred together as he leaned in with single-minded focus. Maybe it was just the perfect combination of feminine seduction—the sultry look in her eyes, the drugging feel of her touch, the warm scent of her skin—but he felt buzzed, utterly drunk on this woman, and he needed to kiss her like he needed air.
Only she shifted back. He chased her mouth, and she evaded again, blocking the next advance with a finger against his lips.
He reached up to remove her hand, but her words stopped him.
“I’ve never had sex with Tiago Badell.” She didn’t give him time to respond as she lifted on tiptoes and pressed her lips next to the finger she held against his mouth.
Then she stepped back, pushing against his chest until he released her waist. “Goodbye, Tate.”
Oh, fuck that. He gave a humorless chuckle. “Can’t get rid of me that easily. I’m walking you home—”
“And you did. Thank you.” She turned to the nearest apartment door and removed a key from her pocket.
Given the vicinity of the door and his recollection of the building’s blueprints, she was accessing her next-door neighbor’s unit.
She unlocked the door, and the yap of a tiny dog on the other side confirmed it. There must’ve been a hidden cut through between the two apartments?
He moved to follow her in, but she flattened a hand against his chest.
“I really love how protective you are.” Her voice was gentle, but it felt like she was fighting tooth and nail to hold herself together. “Camila’s lucky to have you.”
Her face was ghastly pale, and her legs trembled to keep her upright. Christ, she didn’t look well at all. It killed him to let her out of his sight, but he didn’t have the medicine she needed. She had to go to Badell.
“I’ll be here when you get back.”
“No. You need to go.” She met and held his eyes as the first light of dawn reflected in hers. “Take care of Camila. Please.”
Then she shut the door in his face.