Page 101 of Duty Devoted
“Okay,” I whispered, needing to hear something besides my own panicked breathing. “Okay. You’re okay.”
But I wasn’t. I was locked in the dark in Diego Silva’s compound, scheduled to become breeding stock for a dead psychopath’s legacy. Logan didn’t know where I was. No one knew where I was. And Diego had been very clear about his timeline—days in here, then his medical team would begin procedures.
A sob tried to escape, but I bit it back. Crying wouldn’t help. Panic wouldn’t help. I needed to think, to plan, to use what I had.
First step: map the space.
I extended my arms carefully, shuffling forward until my fingers found rough wood again. More crates, stacked at least three high. A few steps. Something metal. Solid. Maybe shelves. I followed them, building a mental picture. The wall was rough concrete, cool despite the jungle heat and slightly damp with condensation. Something skittered across my foot, and I had to bite back a scream.
Ten shuffling steps along one wall. Turn. Fifteen steps. Turn. Ten again. Fifteen. A rectangle, about ten by fifteen feet. No windows. The door was metal from the sound it had made, set in a frame that felt solid when I found it again. No give when I pushed against it.
In one corner, my foot hit something that clanked. Bottles. Old glass bottles that rolled and clinked against each other. The sound was almost musical in the oppressive silence.
I sank down in the corner where two walls met, pulling my knees to my chest. The concrete was gritty with dirt and God knew what else, but sitting felt safer than standing blind.
Time lost meaning in the darkness. Minutes or hours—impossible to tell. My eyes strained for any hint of light, creatingphantom shapes that dissolved when I tried to focus on them. The scurrying sounds continued, bolder now. Again, something ran across my ankle, and I had to stuff my fist in my mouth to muffle the shriek trapped in my throat.
But worse than the creatures, worse than the dark, was the echo of Diego’s words. His calm discussion of forced pregnancy. His backup plan to father the children himself. The clinical way he’d reduced me to genetic material, a vessel for continuing his poisoned bloodline.
My medical training supplied helpful details about what he was planning. Hormone injections to stimulate ovulation. Careful monitoring of my cycle. The procedure itself—catheter through the cervix, specially prepared sperm injected directly into the uterus. Clinical. Violating. Effective.
And if that didn’t work, Diego himself. The thought made me gag, bile burning my already raw throat.
Tears came then, hot and bitter. For the first time since waking up, I let myself feel the full weight of my situation. I was back in Corazón, in the hands of a man who saw me as breeding stock. Who had the resources and ruthlessness to keep me here indefinitely.
Logan would come for me. I knew that like I knew my own name. But how would he find me? How long would it take? Diego had been planning this—the grab in Chicago had been too smooth, too professional. He’d probably been watching me for weeks, waiting for the right moment.
The storage room suddenly felt like a preview of my future—trapped in the dark while Diego Silva decided how to use me.
But even as despair tried to drown me, anger flickered beneath.
In the darkness, I smiled. It probably looked unhinged, but there was no one to see.
Diego Silva thought he’d already won. He thought he had me trapped, helpless, ready to be molded into his grand genetic plan.
He was wrong.
Maybe I’d lost sight of who I really was, what I really believed, over the past couple of months. Diego had just unknowingly given that back to me.
I was Lauren Valentino. I’d stitched wounds while bombs fell. Delivered babies during hurricanes. Loved a broken soldier and lived to tell about it.
The darkness pressed in, but I pressed back. Somewhere out there, Logan was looking for me. I just had to stay strong until he found me. Stay smart. Stay myself.
In the corner of my concrete cell, I began to plan.
Chapter 30
Logan
The C-130’s rearramp yawned open at 25,000 feet, revealing nothing but darkness and the promise of gravity. Wind tore through the cargo hold at two hundred miles per hour, trying to rip us from our positions. In the dim red light of the cargo hold, the other operators were shadows checking gear one final time.
The jumpmaster held up two fingers—two minutes. I passed the signal back, watching as each man repeated it down the line.
I ran through my gear check one more time. Altimeter good. Oxygen flowing properly for the high-altitude exit. Main and reserve chutes secure. Weapon strapped tight against my side. Ruck positioned correctly. Everything had to be perfect—no second chances at 25,000 feet.
I turned to my team, making eye contact with each man. Ty gave me a thumbs-up. Jace nodded, one hand on his gear bag. Ben had Jolly secured in his tandem harness, the dog’s tail twitching with anticipation. The Malinois tolerated flyingbut lived for the groundwork that came after. Each operator returned my look with steady confidence.
I raised my hand, circled it overhead, then brought it down to point at the ramp—ready.
