by Pam Godwin
There were over a hundred prisons in Venezuela, and she didn’t know which one they were assigned to or where this town was on the map. But as the bus stopped in front of a towering office building, it didn’t feel right.
She exchanged a confused look with Van.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Hell if I know.”
The driver rose from the seat and opened the door. The two armed guards in the front also stood.
Footsteps announced someone boarding the bus. She craned her neck and spotted a mid-thirties Caucasian man. His short brown hair was a military-type cut. He wore aviator glasses, a black leather jacket, and dark jeans. Strong jawline and muscled physique, he looked like a hot DEA Special Agent from the States. Wishful thinking.
Why was he talking to the driver?
She glanced at Van, who watched the man with a grin tugging at his lips.
Her heart rate skyrocketed. “Do you know him?”
Without looking at her, he gripped her wrist above the chains and squeezed. Hard.
Oh my fucking God. He knows him!
Was it Cole Hartman? The man who helped Tate locate her? Who else could it be?
The bus hadn’t been forced to the side of the road. This was a preplanned stop. An arrangement negotiated in advance.
A rescue.
One of the guards turned and strolled down the aisle. Her lungs crashed together as he stopped beside Van and unlocked the restraints from the seat. He did the same for hers and stepped back, motioning for them to go.
Her legs trembled, and her pulse hiked as she followed Van off the bus. The man in sunglasses led them into the building without a word, his gait efficient and quick. Too quick for her shackled, shuffling feet to keep up. Van managed only slightly better with his stronger legs.
Once they were inside the vacant lobby, the stranger crouched before them and unlocked the chains with a key.
“Where’s Amber?” Van kicked his feet free.
“With Matias.” The man unlocked her shackles and rose to free her wrists. “I’m Cole Hartman.”
Her heart tumbled and flipped.
“Do you know where Tate is?” She dropped the last of her restraints and sucked in a breath.
“Tiago Badell has him.” He freed Van’s hands, strode to the bay of elevators, and pushed the up button. “I don’t know where.”
Her heart shattered into a million pieces. “Is he alive?”
“I don’t know,” Cole said. “When I leave here, I’ll find him.”
“Who’s funding that?” Van prowled toward him, head cocked.
“You are.” Cole smirked. “Your wife approved it. Matias is chipping in on the extraction fee.”
“Extraction.” Her voice cracked with tears, and she cleared it. “You know he’s alive?”
“I don’t want to get your hopes up.”
“Hope?” She gripped the front of her shirt, drawing his attention to the dark red stains. “I’ve been wearing his blood for over a week. I left him crawling in an alley with broken ribs, his back carved to hell, and a hole from an icepick through his arm. Hope is all I have left.”
“Okay.” Cole’s brows drew in, and he stood taller. “What I know of Tate Vades is when he’s determined to do something, he does it. If he wants to live, he will.”
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. In a swirl of tears and long brown hair, a beautiful woman shot out of the lift and collided with Van’s chest.
He grunted a noise that sounded a lot like a sob as he yanked her up his body and buried his face in her neck.
“Amber, you were supposed to stay upstairs.” Cole stiffened as he scanned the street through the glass doors. “It’s not safe.”
She wrapped her legs around Van’s waist, crying as she peppered his face in kisses.
“Where’s Livana?” Van caught her chin and stared into her eyes.
“She’s in Colombia. Liv, Josh, they’re all there, except Kate. Matias has a team of men looking for her.”
Kate. Tate had told Lucia about his roommate, but he never mentioned Livana.
Amber went back to kissing his face, covering the length of his scar and the bruises around his eye. When their lips met, he kissed her hard and deep, eating at her mouth with a passion that heated Lucia’s cheeks.
“Who’s Livana?” she asked Cole.
“Van’s daughter. Get in the elevator.” He shooed her in.
Van has a daughter?
She didn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere without Tate.”
“We’ll discuss it upstairs.” He gripped Van’s arm, guiding him onto the lift with Amber in his arms.
“Lucia.” Cole lowered his voice to a threatening tone. “If you die in this lobby, you won’t be able to help him.”
She gritted her teeth and stepped onto the lift. He pressed the button for the top floor, and the elevator started its slow crawl upward.
“Who gave you a black eye?” Amber cupped Van’s face as tears streamed down her own.
He kissed her again, pressing her back against the wall and tangling his hands in her hair.
Watching them together ripped open the hole in Lucia’s chest. She’d been kissed like that once. For five days. Not only had Tate given her a blissful taste of happiness, he’d also fought for her, bled for her, and reopened his own emotional wounds. For her.
She owed him her life, her freedom, and she intended to pay that debt. She wouldn’t neglect it or abandon it. She would never walk away from him.
“What’s on the top floor?” When she glanced at Cole, her horrific, puffy-eyed face reflected back in his sunglasses.
“Helicopter,” he said. “Matias is taking you to Colombia.”
Camila might be here with Matias, but it wouldn’t change anything. Lucia’s mind was made up. “I’m not getting on that helicopter.”
He slid the sunglasses to his hairline and pinned her with the intensity of his brown eyes. “I didn’t just spend seven days getting you out of a Venezuelan jail to let you stay here.”
“I’m going with you.”
“No. Absolutely not.” He set his jaw. “I work alone.”
“Work alone then. I know Tiago better than anyone. I’ll find him on my own.”
The elevator bounced to a stop, and the doors opened to a waiting room filled with half a dozen people. Some she didn’t recognize—Matias’ cartel members by the look of them and the weapons they carried. But there were two familiar faces.
Sitting on a couch beside Matias, Camila lifted her head toward Lucia. Their gazes caught, locked, and connected in a way only two sisters could.
Camila stood, and Lucia stepped off the lift, her legs numb and throat tight.
I’m not going to cry. I will not cry.
Tears welled in Camila’s huge dark eyes. God, she was beautiful. Gone was her sweet baby face and spindly limbs. She’d bloomed into a curvy, toned beauty with long black hair and a healthy glow that radiated around her like a halo.
She paused within arm’s reach of Camila and tentatively touched her soft hair and tear-soaked cheeks.
“You’re as tall as me.” Lucia laughed through a sob. “I told myself not to cry.”
It’d been twelve years since Van had taken Camila from their citrus grove. Twelve years since Lucia last saw her. But it felt like only yesterday when they were running through the maze of orange trees, laughing and screaming as Matias chased them.
“You’re thinner than me, bitch.” Camila grinned through her tears.
“And you’re still bitchier.”
They reached at the same time, crashing together in a hug that constricted her ribs and wrenched a sob from deep inside her.
“I thought you were dead.” Camila cried, soaking Lucia’s neck.
“I thought you were dead, too. This doesn’t feel real, does it?”
Camila shook her head and tightened her embrace. “I’m taking you to Colombia with me. You need food and a doctor and… Goddammit,
Lucia.” She leaned back and wiped her cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve looked harder. Done more. And Tate…” Her face crumpled.
“Don’t do that.” She brushed Camila’s tears away. “Tate told me all about your vigilante work. I’m so fucking proud of you.”
Matias stepped in, nudging Camila aside to wrap his arms around Lucia. “So damn good to see you, bella.”
“You, too.” She hugged him back. “Thank you for taking care of my sister.”
“She’s my life.” His head turned toward Camila.
She followed his gaze and watched Camila pull Van into a tight embrace. His hands hung awkwardly in the air for a moment before they slid behind her and patted her back.
“I still want to kill him,” Matias growled.
“Give him a second chance. We all deserve one.”
“I’m trying.”
Camila pulled away from Van and returned to Lucia, encircling possessive arms around Lucia’s waist.
“Let’s go home,” she said to Matias.
He stared at her for a suspended moment, sharing a private smile that lit up his face.
He was even more handsome than Lucia remembered, with his thick black hair, powerful frame, and hazel eyes glinting in the sunlight from the windows. Thank God, he and Camila had found each other again.
“The helicopter’s ready.” He gestured at the ceiling. “Head up to the roof. I need to talk to Cole for a—”
“I’m not going.” Lucia stood taller, bracing for an argument.
“Oh.” Camila stepped back, her expression etched with hurt and disappointment. “Okay… I… Well, we can get you back to Texas. I just thought—”
“I’m not leaving Venezuela without Tate.” She wouldn’t apologize for her feelings. They were real and honest, and Camila of all people would understand. “I love him.”
A smile wobbled across Camila’s lips. “I bet on my life he loves you, too.” She gripped Lucia’s hands. “But you need to see a doctor. You’ve been so sick.”
Tate must’ve told Matias about her illness, but that would’ve been a week ago.
“I’m doing okay now.” She rested a hand over her stomach. “I don’t know why, but I haven’t felt any of the symptoms.”
Camila and Matias turned toward Cole Hartman, who leaned against the wall on the far side of the room. He straightened, shoved a hand through his hair, and approached.
“I intercepted the blood results Tate was waiting on,” he said. “I had them reviewed by a doctor I trust.”
She stopped breathing, and everything inside her went still. “What is it?”
Camila clutched her hand and squeezed. Clearly, everyone knew but her.
“There were traces of something like hemlock in your system.” He held a fist against his brow, as if trying to think. “I don’t have the report in front of me, but it was a poison that behaved like hemlock, derived from a plant the doctor couldn’t identify. He found compounds or alkaloids or whatever that causes ascending muscular paralysis. I guess it starts at the legs and works its way to the respiratory muscles. Did you experience that?”
“Yes. Exactly that.” A sudden coldness hit her core. “What are you saying?”
“Tiago Badell was poisoning you with an unknown venomous plant. You had dinner with him every night, so I assume he put it in your food. Every morning, he injected you with an antivenom.”
She swayed as the past few years came crashing down upon her. The mandatory dinners, the nighttime cramps and nausea, the instant relief after the medicine—it all fit. And she hadn’t been sick since the last time she ate at his table.
“I don’t have a terminal disease.” She clutched her throat as she tried to absorb the impact. “I’m not going to die.”
“Not today.” Cole smiled. “As far as the doctor can tell, repeat exposure to the poison didn’t cause lasting damage. Your overall blood work is healthy. But you need to have tests ran, a full examination. Not to mention your injury in Peru…”
His voice faded beneath the heavy thud of her heart. Tiago poisoned her. For years. That sick, disgusting, depraved son of a bitch. How could he do that? And now…
“He has Tate.” Her pulse raced, and pain stabbed through her chest as she turned to Camila. “I need a loan. I’m sorry to ask this, but I just need some money for…” Lodging, transportation, food, clothes, weapons—the list is endless. “I have to find him, and I promise to pay you back.”
“Lucia, calm down.” Matias slid into her line of sight. “Cole will find him. He knows what he’s doing and—”
“What would you do?” She moved around Matias and confronted her sister. “If Matias was taken by a man like Tiago, what would you do?”
“I’d put everything I had and everything I was into finding him.” Camila’s eyes dampened, and her voice broke. “I’ll give you whatever you need.”
“Stop.” Cole pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed under his breath. “Here’s the deal. I’m not babysitting you, and I’m not fucking kidnapping anyone.”
“Okay.” Lucia held her breath.
“Say your goodbyes.” He rubbed the back of his neck and lowered his hand. “We leave in ten minutes.”
CHAPTER 31
Standing on sturdy legs, Tate lifted a soaked sponge over his head and squeezed. Cool water sluiced down his nude body. It was neither refreshing nor painful. It was just…water. He plunged the sponge into the bucket and repeated the task with robotic movements.
Lift. Squeeze. Plunge. And don’t forget to scrub beneath the ankle cuff.
They’d taken his clothes away when the doctor had stopped bathing him. It must’ve been weeks ago.
Was it weeks? Or months?
Time didn’t exist within these walls. It didn’t speed up or slow down. It didn’t move at all. Because it was dead.
Sometimes his mind weakened, and he thought about the lost weeks. He could track them if he wanted to. He only needed to take inventory of his injuries. The stitches in his arm had been removed, and his hand had some mobility. His back didn’t feel as tight when he paced the dirt floor, dragging the heavy chain behind him. Pain still lingered in his ribs, but it was muted. Dull.
Dull like the water trickling over his skin as he bathed.
Dull like the stew and porridge they brought every day.
Dull like the beat of his heart when he forced himself to face the truth.
She’s dead.
He hurled the sponge into the water, snatched the bucket from the ground, and shoved it toward the guard waiting at the door.
It was always the same two silent scowling men. They were about as happy to be here as he was.
The guard reached for the bucket, and Tate yanked it back.
“Where’s Lucia?” he demanded.
Always the same question. Always the same non-response.
When the man pinned his lips, Tate threw the bucket at his feet, splashing the man’s trousers with water.
“Where is she?” he bellowed.
The guard’s face turned red-hot. A beating would follow. A fist in the face. A boot in the ribs. Didn’t matter if he taunted them or not. They seemed to get off on boxing a shackled man who was too weak to defend himself.
But Tate always fought back, and he was growing stronger. He fought until blood leaked into his eyes and clouded his vision. Until his lungs wheezed, and his ribs screamed in protest. Until the bastards knocked him out.
He fought because it made him feel alive.
Today would be no different.
The second guard entered the shack and cracked his knuckles. They never brought weapons in. Nothing Tate could use against them. If he managed to kill them bare handed, what would he do? His fucking ankle was chained to a fucking pike buried a mile into the fucking dirt floor. The damn thing wasn’t budging. He’d bloodied his hands trying to dig it out.
He stepped to the center of the shack, as far as the chain would allow, and squared his shoulders.
But the guards didn’t attack.
“Where’s Lucia?” He gnashed his teeth.
When they didn’t respond, he spat at their feet. “Fuck off then.”
They didn’t fuck off. Why were they just standing there?
A moment later, an electronic buzzing sound broke the silence.
Buzzing.
Like a phone.
One of the guards reached into his pocket and removed exactly that.
He hadn’t seen a phone since the night he…
He tried not to think about that night.
His attention locked onto the phone as the guard connected the call on speaker and held it out of his reach.
“Hello, Tate.” The deep voice sliced across his skin like the edge of a blade.
Tiago Badell.
He tried to step closer to the guard, but the chain jerked his leg back. “Where’s—?”
“If you ask about her,” Badell said, “the call ends and you’ll never hear from me again. You’ll spend the rest of your lonely existence locked away in that shack, wondering why I called and what I was going to say.”
His molars clamped together so hard he felt the pain ripple through his skull. “I’m listening.”
“I would be there in person, but I haven’t been feeling well. I’m sure you know why.”
Lucia thought she’d killed him. She must’ve injured him, and Tate hoped the bastard’s dick had been removed during the attempt on his life.
“I wanted to offer you something,” Badell said. “Let’s call it a last request. Anything you want. This doesn’t include information, and it must fit inside the shack.”
What the fuck? “What is this? Like a last-meal request? Am I on death row?”
“I’m offering more than a meal, Tate. You can choose anything—a bed to sleep on, a girl to fuck, a drug to numb your mind. I’m sure you can come up with something creative.”
“Why?” He paced the dirt floor, and the chain slithered after him. “What do you want?”
“I’ve already taken my payment. Consider this a thank you.”
He slammed to a stop, and the pound of his heartbeat thrashed in his ears. “What did you take?”