by Elle Kennedy
“If you want to, I’m sure we can figure out a visitation schedule that suits your needs,” Sofia answered. “But I won’t lie—your life worries me. I’d need to know that your place in Costa Rica is secure. You know, if he’s ever there for a weekend, or a summer, or whatever we work out. I mean, I guess we should decide if we want joint custody or . . .”
She trailed off. There was too much to digest right now. Too many decisions to make. And if it was too much for her, she could only imagine how overwhelming it was for D. She’d known about the pregnancy for a day and a half. He’d just found out about it ten minutes ago.
“You can take some time to think about it,” she said quietly. “I’m only two months along, so we have time to figure everything out. I just wanted you to know.”
No response.
She waited for him to ask another question, to comment on the pregnancy, the future, anything, but all she got was a harsh command.
“You need to go.” He stepped toward the door. “It’s too risky for you to be here. I’m going to take care of a few things, reach out to Mendez and set up the exchange, but once that’s finalized, you and Ash are leaving. Understood?”
His dismissal stung, but she wasn’t about to argue with him. “Understood.”
He hesitated in the doorway, keeping his back to her. “You can lie down in one of the bedrooms if you want.” His voice was hoarse, softer than she was used to. “You’re . . . pregnant. You should, ah, probably get some rest.”
Then he was gone.
• • •
Pregnant.
D’s mind spun like an out-of-control carousel as he hurried into the living room. Liam and Ash glanced up at his approach, concern etched into their faces.
“Is Sofia okay?” Ash asked.
“She’s fine,” he mumbled, heading straight for the door. “I need to make a few calls.”
He stumbled onto the walkway and sucked in an unsteady breath. The humidity had tempered, and the breeze in the air had a slight chill to it, adding to the bone-deep panic plaguing his body.
Christ, how had this happened? They’d used a condom. He would have noticed if the condom had broken.
Well, no matter how it happened, he hadn’t been lying when he said he believed Sofia. Sure, he could’ve called her bluff and demanded a paternity test, but there was no point. Sofia was the most honest woman he’d ever met, and he was a walking lie detector, for fuck’s sake.
She was telling the truth.
She was actually having his baby.
D didn’t lose his cool often, but right now, his composure was nonexistent. He staggered through the archway, doubled over, and dry-heaved in the parking lot, feeling like someone had gutted him with a sledgehammer.
He wasn’t father material.
He couldn’t be a father, damn it.
As his insides twisted, he sank to the ground and leaned against the concrete wall, furious with himself for not taking precautions sooner. Why hadn’t he gotten a vasectomy years ago? He’d toyed with the idea, but it had seemed unwarranted at the time. He always used protection, and he only fucked when the tension became unbearable. He could go for months without sex. Years, almost.
His breathing grew labored as he fished out his phone. He needed to make calls. He needed to call . . . Morgan. No, Morgan would only tell Noelle and—
D’s spine stiffened as something occurred to him. With shaky fingers, he pulled up his contact list.
“You knew,” he growled when Noelle picked up. “You knew she was pregnant and you still fucking sent her here.”
“I was wondering when you’d get in touch,” Noelle drawled.
D was so pissed off he was surprised he wasn’t foaming at the mouth. “I understand why you sent Liam my way,” he hissed. “But Sofia? In her condition?”
“She’s not dying, D. She’s pregnant.”
“And you decided it would be a good idea to involve her in this mission?”
“I was hoping it might snap some sense into you.” She sounded irritated. “You might be able to fool my husband, but I knew from the second you left the compound that you were going after Sullivan. It’s not wise to play the lone wolf on this, D. You need backup.”
“I don’t need anyone.”
“Yes, you do.”
He choked back his fury. “Did you really think sending Sofia here would make me abort the op?”
“No, I thought it would remind you of the stakes. That whether you live or die matters to someone other than yourself, you fucking asshole. You want to pretend you don’t care about your team? Fine. But they care about you. It’s utterly stupid to go all renegade when you have soldiers ready and willing to back you up.”
“You are not my fucking boss, Noelle.”
“Yeah, well, neither is Morgan.” She laughed humorlessly. “That’s just the illusion you grant him. But we both know you’re your own boss. You’re your own worst enemy too. And you’ll be your own goddamn downfall.”
He swore.
“Brilliant comeback, Derek.” He could picture her face, those beautiful features twisted in annoyance. “Now quit being a jackass and get your head on straight. Send Sofia home—she achieved her purpose. Let Macgregor and Ash back you up. And bring Sullivan back in one piece.”
Click.
The bitch had hung up.
He almost whipped the phone to the ground, tempted to watch it shatter to pieces, but he resisted the urge and took another breath instead. All right, so his mission was getting more complicated by the second. But he refused to let Sofia’s bombshell distract him from the objective.
She was pregnant? Fine. She wanted to keep the baby? Fine. That didn’t mean he had to play Daddy. Didn’t mean he had to make a single decision right now.
The only thing that mattered at the moment was rescuing Sullivan from Mendez’s island of horrors.
D exhaled in a slow, even rush. Time to get his head in the game.
He dialed another number and waited for an answer.
It took six rings before he got one.
“Who is this?” No hello. No pleasantries. Just the wary voice of a man D hadn’t seen in almost ten years.
Despite the pounding of his heart and the lost composure he couldn’t seem to find, D managed an unaffected tone. “Raoul.” He paused. “Long time.”
Silence crashed over the line.
“What, no response?” D said mockingly. “And here I thought we were old friends.”
“Friends?” Contempt dripped from Raoul Mendez’s voice. “I always knew you had a big set of balls on you, but you truly have the nerve to call me up under the guise of friendship? We are not friends, you son of a bitch.”
“Oh, but we are. You have something I want. I have something you want.” He chuckled. “That makes us best friends.”
“You have nothing I want, Jason.” Mendez chuckled too. “Well, except for your head. On a spike.”
“Trust me, you want something other than my head.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Your men are slacking, Raoul. I assumed you would have been alerted by now.”
“Alerted to what?” Mendez asked suspiciously.
“That I have your daughter.”
The answering hiss made D laugh again.
“I see I’ve got your attention. Good.” D leaned his head against the wall and rubbed his stubble-covered jaw. “So, best friend. Why don’t we get down to business?”
Chapter 11
Five months ago
For the first time in weeks, Sullivan could think clearly. Before that, he’d been in a twilight state for what felt like an eternity, conscious but not, dreaming but awake.
He was almost disappointed in his captors. Did they really believe injecting him with so-called “truth serum” would garner results? Sodium pentothal didn’t work in real life the way it did in the movies. Or maybe it didn’t work that way on him. Maybe the minds of the prisoners who’d graced this cell before him had been so impaired by the a
nesthetic that they’d actually talked.
It had been seventy-two hours since his last injection. They’d left him alone for three glorious days, the guards entering his cell only to deliver food and water, and Lord, it was a beautiful feeling, being able to think again. Not having to listen to the constant flow of questions.
Who do you work for?
How do you know Derek Pratt?
Where is Derek Pratt?
Days. No, weeks of hearing the same questions, over and over and over again. Usually Paulo was the person doing the asking, but sometimes Mendez interrogated Sullivan himself, probably when he had a few hours to kill.
No matter how loopy and disoriented the drugs had made him, Sully knew he hadn’t said a word. Otherwise they wouldn’t keep coming back. Otherwise he would already be dead.
He didn’t mind the sodium pentothal. His brain was strong enough to resist it, and it numbed the pain, clouded reality just enough that he didn’t have to focus on the fact that he was a prisoner here.
Still, it did feel bloody nice to have his mental faculties back.
He wearily glanced around the cell. The cinder-block walls. The iron shackles bolted into the wall and floor—one set for his arms, the other for his legs. The chains gave him about five feet of leeway, allowing him to move around and use the only modern fixture in the room: the dirty metal toilet in the corner.
Now that his senses had returned, he realized that his clothes reeked. And look at that—his arm had healed. The cigar burn was still red and puckered, but they’d pumped him full of antibiotics to prevent infection. Mendez was taking every precaution to ensure Sullivan remained alive.
Good. That was good. It meant he’d be alive when the team found him.
Because the team would find him. He’d been clinging to that truth since the moment Mendez had thrown him in this cell. They might not be able to track his location using the SOS system, but his mates were smart. They were skilled. They would follow the trail from Dublin and they would find him.
All he had to do in the meantime was hold on. Keep his mouth shut and hold on.
But Christ, he was tired. The cell was perpetually dark. Even when the sun was out, the barred window was too small and set too deep for more than a shaft of light to peek through. Every time it came, that tiny bit of light, he would crawl across the stone floor and lie in that one sunbeam. Pretend he was lying on the deck of Evangeline.
They’ll find you.
Holding on to the internal reassurance, he swallowed past his dry throat. Yes, they would find him. Liam would find him. Liam would never give up on him.
The thought of his best mate brought a deep ache to Sully’s already sore chest. A few of the guards had knocked him around last week after his lack of response had annoyed Mendez. The man had ordered the beating not as a form of torture, but as punishment for Sully being a stubborn son of a bitch.
Yeah, he was stubborn, all right. He’d displayed that same stubbornness back in Dublin, when Liam had begged him to explore the attraction between them.
Sullivan’s heart squeezed at the memory. He hated that the last time he’d seen his friend, they’d been arguing. The moment he got out of here, he would make things right with Liam.
And fine, maybe there was sexual awareness between them, but screw that. Ignoring it was the only way to hang on to the most important relationship in Sully’s life. He hadn’t cared about anyone, truly cared about them, in years. Not since—
Footsteps in the hall cut off his thoughts.
He instantly tensed, his hands curling on instinct into tight fists, but it made no difference. He was in chains. Bloody hell. He was chained, like a prisoner in some medieval dungeon.
The key turned in the lock, and then the cell door opened with a creak.
Paulo entered first, trailed by two guards whose names Sullivan didn’t know or care to know. They were faceless monsters to him, and their rotations changed on a whim—he’d studied the shift changes, tried to figure out their routine, but Mendez was smart. There wasn’t a routine, at least not one Sullivan could use to plan his escape.
The drugs, unfortunately, had impaired his mind, prevented him from being able to formulate any escape plans, but now that they were out of his system, he was on the alert again. Searching for any weakness he could exploit.
“Evening, soldier,” Paulo said brusquely.
He always referred to Sullivan as soldier, and there was an odd note of respect in his voice each time he said it.
Of all the guards, Paulo was the hardest to figure out. He seemed to be Mendez’s number two, obeying the man without question. He seemed to be as sadistic as Mendez was. And yet Sullivan had heard him shouting at another guard before, his tone laced with disapproval and disgust as he reamed the man out for touching the “merchandise.”
Sullivan didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what the merchandise was. He’d heard the female sobs echoing through the halls of the dungeon. He’d heard the guards talking about the girls they were transporting. Which meant he was smack-dab in the middle of a sex-trade operation.
“Are you feeling clearheaded?” Paulo’s hand absently stroked the gun butt poking out of his hip holster. “The drugs should be out of your system by now.”
Sully didn’t answer.
Paulo nodded at one of the guards. “Check his pupils,” he ordered in Spanish.
The guard knelt in front of Sullivan and peered closely at him. “He’s good.” Then he stood up and rejoined Paulo.
“So. Are you ready to tell us where Derek Pratt is?” Paulo asked pleasantly.
Sullivan stared at him.
That earned him a heavy sigh. “I thought you might say that.” Paulo nodded at the second guard, who briskly disappeared through the open doorway.
No one spoke. Paulo tapped his foot, a bored expression on his face. The guard at his side didn’t move.
A startled yelp echoed from the hall.
A female yelp.
Sullivan’s stomach went rigid. Jesus. Looked like the game was about to change.
A moment later, the guard returned, dragging a dark-haired woman inside the cell. He gave her a hard shove, and she went sprawling to the floor, landing four feet from Sullivan’s chained ankles.
His heart stopped when he noticed Paulo’s smirk.
Oh Christ.
Forcing himself to remain stone-faced, he flicked his gaze at the woman. Her hair was a mess, tangled and greasy and sticking up in all directions. The red dress she wore was ripped in several places, and streaks of dirt covered her bare legs.
She suddenly shifted her head and a pair of fearful dark eyes met Sullivan’s. There was blood caked on her left temple. Her bottom lip was swollen, thanks to a red cut on the edge of her mouth, but even in her disheveled state, he could tell she was pretty. Beautiful, even.
As she silently stared at him, he almost opened his mouth to reassure her, to tell her everything would be all right. He tried conveying it with his eyes instead, but clearly he failed, because her expression didn’t change.
If anything, she looked even more afraid, because someone else was now entering the cell.
Mendez.
Once again dressed in khakis and a polo, the man looked like he’d just stepped off the golf course of a country club. “Good evening.” He greeted Sullivan with a smile. “I see you’ve met our guest. We grabbed her off a resort in Cabo last week. She’s been in the cell next to yours since then. I bet you didn’t even know you had company, did you?”
Sullivan’s jaw tensed.
Mendez’s smile widened. “We’ve decided to try something new today. Your resistance is impressive. It truly is, and I admire you for it. It’s a sign of strength.” He sighed. “You’d be surprised by how many weak men I encounter on a daily basis. It makes me sick, really. But while I appreciate your willpower and your loyalty to Mr. Pratt, it’s time you told me how you know him and where he is. I’ve spent a lot of money and wasted a lot of manpower on P
ratt, and I’m afraid I’m growing impatient.”
Sullivan said nothing.
“I’m going to give you one last chance to tell me where I can find him. If you do, my men will release you.”
Bullshit. Sullivan knew he was never walking out of here alive.
Mendez must have read his mind, because he clucked in disappointment. “You don’t believe me. I guess I don’t blame you.” He glanced at Paulo. “Paulo, am I a man of my word?”
“Yes, sir.”
“See?” Mendez told Sullivan. “I’m a man of my word. I have no issue with you, and I don’t fear you. If I release you, I’m not afraid of you finding your way back here and exacting your revenge. No one approaches this compound without my knowledge, and nobody steps foot on it without my permission. So no, you’re not a threat to me. Only a potential source of information.”
Sullivan closed his eyes. He was so damn tired of these games.
“Open your eyes,” Mendez said irritably. “Or else I’ll order my men to pry them open for you. I want you to see what happens next.”
Sullivan reluctantly obeyed.
Mendez gestured to the bulkier of the nameless guards, who promptly hauled the woman to her feet.
She cried out again, her husky voice cutting into Sullivan like a knife. He didn’t look at her, though. He couldn’t look at her. Because whatever was about to happen, whatever reason they’d brought her here, it wasn’t going to be good.
“She’s lovely, isn’t she?” Mendez admired the curvy body beneath the torn dress. “Do you think she’s a virgin?” He raked his gaze over her again. “No, I don’t think so. Usually when a woman dresses like a slut, she is slut, right?” He shrugged. “But her pussy will probably still be tight.” He chuckled at the guard, a stocky man with a thick neck and massive arms. “You think her pussy is tight, Ricardo?”
The man grinned. “I would very much like to find out, sir.”