Devastate (Deliver Book 4)

by Pam Godwin

  She sat motionless and silent as he outlined seven years of blackmail, kidnapping, submission training, and rape. He explained how Liv Reed shot him the same night she killed Mr. E, how the slaves escaped over the years, and the roles Camila, Tate, and Matias played in that.

  It was agonizing to hear how her sister had been forced to kneel, beg beneath a whip, and suck his dick. But when he confirmed he never raped her, Lucia sagged with relief. Then he spoke about the ten weeks he imprisoned Tate.

  “I’m attracted to submissives. Women and men.” Van stood with his back to the window, moving only his lips around an ever-present toothpick. “As you already know, Tate is neither gay nor submissive. I preyed on that. Used it to humiliate him, hurt him, and yes, I fucked him countless times while he fought uselessly in his restraints.”

  As Van delivered his monotone confession, Tate smoked one cigarette after another without interjecting a word. She peeked at him, expecting to see fury in his eyes. There were remnants of that in the blue depths, but there were so many other emotions twisting and turning at the forefront. Unease, turmoil, distrust… But she might’ve glimpsed forgiveness there, too.

  He’d had six years to come to terms with what Van had done to him. There must’ve been some level of resolution, because here they were, together. During Van’s account of the events, he admitted he wanted to help Tate and Camila any way he could. Even so, the unfinished tension between him and Tate electrocuted the air.

  Another thing she noticed… If Van was bisexual, why didn’t he look at Tate with sexual interest? Tate was so damn eye-catching even a straight man would give him a second glance.

  Though now that she thought about it, Van didn’t look at her with desire, either. Maybe he had a partner or spouse he was faithful to? If so, he didn’t mention it. Not that she blamed him, given her connection to Tiago.

  At some point during the conversation, nausea and muscle aches crept in. Her earlier bout of vomiting had given her a momentary reprieve, but it didn’t always keep the symptoms at bay.

  Come what may, she hid the pain and turned to Tate. “If my sister helped rescue all the slaves, does that mean she saved you, too?”

  “Yes.” His eyes caught fire. “She’s fucking fierce, Lucia. Brave and beautiful and determined. You would be so proud of her.”

  As he outlined the four years that followed Mr. E’s death, his expression grew brighter and more alert. His entire existence seemed to be centered on Camila and her vigilante group, the Freedom Fighters. He’d lived with her, protected her, and even helped Matias reunite with her.

  With restless strides, he paced through the room, expounding on Camila’s fight against slavery and the sacrifices she made. After all these years, she and Lucia were still considered missing persons. But Camila had the impenetrable shield of a cartel in front of her, keeping her safe from enemies and invisible to the law.

  That explained why Tiago never found her.

  And holy shit, Matias was the capo of the Restrepo cartel? He was such a good-looking man in his teens. And one-hundred-percent, head-over-heels in love with Camila. Add to that his powerful position and Lucia couldn’t be happier they were together.

  Then Tate told her about her own abduction—how and why Matias’ brother orchestrated it, her parents’ involvement, and their ultimate death at Matias’ hand.

  She waited for the tears to come, but she’d cried enough for them when she was taken. They’d sold both of their daughters into slavery. She would mourn them no more.

  “You okay?” Tate asked.

  “Yeah. How did you find me?”

  He detailed the efforts Matias had made to track her to the crash in Peru, the investigators he himself had hired, and finally Cole Hartman, the man who located her here.

  When all the hard questions were answered, she asked him easy things—Is Camila happy? Healthy? Still as ornery as ever?—and he was all too eager to answer. The adoration he felt for Camila was as clear as his crystal blue eyes. He spoke of her as if he were eternally bound to her and wouldn’t want it any other way. They shared a connection that had nothing to do with Lucia. He was here, doing what he thought was right, not for Lucia, but for Camila.

  Realization gut-punched her. “You love her.”

  “I do.”

  It stung. Like a thousand angry bees stung. Even though she’d only just met him and her jealousy didn’t make a lick of sense, she felt what she felt and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

  Still, she couldn’t stop herself from pointing out, “She loves Matias. Always has.” She gentled her voice. “That’s not going to change, Tate.”

  “I know.” His tone matched hers despite the flare of persistence in his eyes.

  Her stomach chose that moment to cramp painfully, but she didn’t let the illness reveal itself, didn’t show a hint of discomfort on her face. “Do you intend to win her heart with news of my survival?”

  “No. And let’s talk about that—your survival. I know Tiago’s men pulled you from the crash and brought you here. You’re not locked up, and you’ve already demonstrated your ability to evade his guards. Why are you still in this godforsaken place?”

  Her defenses bristled. “Venezuela is a beautiful country. The landscapes alone… Have you even seen the forests and the mountains and the beaches? What about the birds? There’s like fourteen-hundred bird species here. Oh, and the dolphins. Have you seen the Amazon river dolphins?”

  She hadn’t seen any of those things, but often when she sat alone in her apartment at night, she imagined what it would be like to leave the slum and become an explorer. Or maybe go to a university and become one of those scientists who discovered new plants that cured diseases.

  “You’re not here for the damn dolphins.” He prowled toward her and leaned down, bracing his hands on the couch bed and caging her in. “You’re going to leave with us. I’ll take you straight to Camila and—”

  “No.” Panic rose, and she pushed at his chest, unable to move him. “I can’t.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “If Camila thinks I’m dead…” Anguish swelled against the backs of her eyes, magnified by a blooming migraine. “It needs to stay that way.”

  “That’s not gonna happen.” He straightened, scanning the room until his gaze landed on a burner phone. “I’ll call her right now so you can tell her yourself.”

  “Listen to me, goddammit.” She leapt from the couch and grabbed his arm, digging her nails into muscle. “She already mourned my death once. Please, if you love her, you won’t put her through that again.”

  “What are you saying?” His voice took on a lethal bite, making her shiver.

  “You can’t tell her I’m alive.” She strode toward her weapons on the kitchen table.

  With a disbelieving laugh, he stayed on her heels, breathing down her neck. “You need to give me a lot more than that, sweetheart.”

  “I’m living on borrowed time.” She reached for her guns.

  He knocked her hand away, and in the next breath, he had her pinned against the wall with a fist wrapped around her windpipe.

  “You answer to me now. You’re under my protection.” He put his face in hers, his lips so close she smelled toothpaste on his breath. “You will leave with us—gagged, blindfolded, shackled, whatever it takes.” He glanced at Van. “You good with that?”

  “Sure.” Van reclined on the couch bed, with an arm bent behind his head.

  “What’s it going to be, Lucia? The easy way? Or…” He tightened his fingers against her throat, cutting her airflow. “The hard way?”

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t pry his grip away. The urgent need for oxygen grew stronger and more desperate, but did it really matter? She was alone in the darkness save for the strong grip around her throat. She couldn’t think of a better way to die than fading beneath his beautifully ferocious eyes. But those eyes were traps, the possessive gleam in them compelling her mouth to soundlessly form two words sh
e’d held back.

  “What?” He yanked his hand away, freeing her. “Say that again.”

  “I’m dying.” She wheezed, clutching her throat as her attention snagged on the paling sky beyond the window. “Shit, I have to go.”

  “Dying?” He exchanged a startled look with Van then scanned her up and down, pausing on her midsection. “How? Is it your injury from the crash in Peru?”

  “I don’t know.” It was a terrible truth, one she should’ve figured out by now. “But if I’m not where I’m supposed to be by dawn, I won’t get my medicine. And if I don’t get that injection, I’ll be in respiratory failure by lunchtime.”

  He went still. So still the air around him thinned and charged, sweeping over her like a blanket of static and raising the hairs on her arms. He looked floored, volatile, teetering on the brink of eruption.

  “Tate—”

  “You’re telling me you’re terminally ill.” Denial flexed at the edge of his voice.

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t know what’s wrong with you?”

  “No, I… I don’t know the medical diagnosis.”

  “How can you not—?” He swiped a hand down his face and glared at her. “Tell me the symptoms.”

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  His eyes were as deep and turbulent as the ocean, his lips perfectly arched despite the pressed line of disapproval. Muscles twitched across his bare chest and broadcasted his impatience. But it was his demeanor that demanded her attention.

  He rendered her immobile simply by standing there, looking utterly self-possessed and cavalier, like a saintly king or a gallant warrior. Or a sociopath. Whatever it was that made him so damn compelling seemed to glow like a backdrop for his powerful legs, broad chest, and brutally gorgeous features.

  He was strong enough, assertive enough to take her burdens so she wouldn’t have to carry them by herself. It was his presence that spoke to her, commanded her at a cellular level, and she obeyed.

  “The symptoms vary, but what I experience most is chronic nausea, abdominal pain, hematemesis, migraines, bradycardia, tremors, ataxia, seizures, muscle paralysis…” She released a breath of exhausted pain.

  “Fucking Christ.” He lowered his head and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Then he was staring at her again, his expression dangerous. “Are you experiencing any of that tonight?”

  “Some, yeah.”

  “Told you she was too thin,” Van said from the couch.

  Tate tossed him a warning glare and softened his eyes as he looked back at her. “Badell gives you medicine? It helps?”

  “His doctors developed a treatment. The injection is the only thing keeping me alive.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “Yes, and I know what you’re thinking.” With trembling hands, she snatched her guns from the table and holstered them in her waistband. “Sometimes he lets me see just how close to death I can get. I’ve tasted it, Tate. Felt its icy breath suck the life from my body. Have you ever experienced that? The abject, black void of extinction? The dismal nothingness? There’s no bright light at the end of the tunnel. There’s no fucking tunnel. When your heart stops, there’s nothing.”

  “You’re leaving with me, Lucia. Right now. We’ll go directly to the hospital.”

  “I’ll be dead within hours. Long before they can diagnose me.”

  His nostrils flared. “Badell knows what’s wrong with you?”

  “Of course. As long as he keeps my condition a secret and the antidote locked in his safe, I can’t leave.”

  “Have you tried to find—?” He swore under his breath. “That’s why you asked me if I was a doctor.”

  Tiago owned every medical practitioner in the neighborhood. Moonlighting at the sex club twice a month was her only opportunity to furtively search for visiting doctors. She just hadn’t had any luck.

  “If I had more time…” She glanced at the window, where the graying sky signaled the coming of dawn. “I’d tell you all about my attempts to escape, my failed visit with a doctor, and the bloodshed that followed.”

  She strode toward the door, opened it, and wobbled on the threshold.

  “You can’t fix this, Tate. Go home. And tell my sister…” Keeping her back to the room, she swallowed the heartache shredding her voice. “Tell her I’m already dead.”

  Forcing one foot in front of the other, she walked out and closed the door behind her.

  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.