Page 11 of Duty Devoted
I found myself staring at the photograph of Dr. Lauren Valentino that Jace had included in the intelligence package. Where her parents were polished and controlled, she appeared completely natural—blonde hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, no makeup, wearing plain scrubs. But her eyes held an intensity that jumped off the screen, even in the candid shots.
Getting her and the other three doctors out of Silva territory before the hurricane hit was going to require every skill I’d learned in two decades of combat operations. And with our limited firepower, timing and concealment were everything.
But something about Dr. Lauren Valentino’s expression told me she was going to be the wild card in this equation.
Chapter 4
Logan
Less than twentyhours after ending our call with the Valentinos and Dr. Merrick, we were hovering over Corazón. The helicopter’s rotors whipped the humid air into a frenzy as we descended toward the landing zone two klicks south of the clinic. Through the open door, I could see the jungle canopy swaying harder than it should have been—the outer bands of the approaching storm were already making their presence known.
“The hurricane has taken a turn toward us,” Jace called over the engine noise, adjusting his headset. His laptop balanced precariously on his knees, weather data streaming across multiple windows. “It’s possible it might turn back out to sea, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“Shit. What sort of time frame are we looking at?”
“Hard to say. May start feeling the effects in a few days, may be longer, may not hit us at all.”
I gave a brief nod. “Then the plan stays as-is.”
Ty checked his gear one final time, the movement practiced and efficient. “Time to earn a paycheck.”
I studied the terrain below as the pilot found our designated landing zone. Dense jungle stretched in every direction from the LZ, broken only by the thin ribbon of road that connected the clinic to the outside world.
Tactically, it was a nightmare—limited sight lines, countless hiding spots for hostiles, and only one viable exit route.
The pilot’s voice keyed into our headsets. “Radio us when you need us. We’ll be staged a few hours from here for the next few days.”
The landing was rougher than usual, the pilot having to work for every foot of altitude. As soon as the skids touched dirt, we were moving, shouldering our packs and fake meteorological equipment with the efficiency of a team that had done this dance too many times to count.
“Radio check,” I said into my throat mic as the helicopter lifted off behind us, disappearing into the gray sky.
“Lima Charlie,” Ty’s voice with the military abbreviation forloud and clearcame through exactly that.
“Same same,” Jace confirmed. “We officially look like the world’s most amateur atmospheric research team.”
We moved through the jungle in tactical formation, our civilian clothing and research equipment hopefully selling the cover story to any watching eyes. But beneath the academic facade, muscle memory guided every step—spacing, angles of advance, fields of fire. Each of us had at least a decade of combat experience, and that kind of training didn’t just switch off because you were carrying weather sensors.
“I still can’t believe we pulled together this much meteorological gear in six hours,” Ty said, adjusting the strap of a weather station that looked like it had been assembled from spare parts, probably because it had.
“Craigslist coming in clutch,” Jace replied with a grin. “Nothing sayslegitimate scientific researchlike equipment from twelve different sellers.”
“Let’s hope we don’t need it,” I muttered.
The clinic appeared through the trees on the outskirts of the village—a converted schoolhouse that was larger than I’d expected from the intelligence photos. The two-story building showed its educational origins in the tall windows and institutional design, probably first built by missionaries who had long since deserted it. Years of tropical weather had taken their toll. Paint peeled from weathered walls, several windows were cracked or boarded up, and the whole structure had the slightly sagging look of a building that had seen better decades.
“Shit,” Ty muttered under his breath. “That thing’s held together with hope and duct tape.”
“More space than anticipated, but not exactly a fortress.” I automatically cataloged the tactical challenges. Multiple entry points, large windows that couldn’t be properly secured, and walls that probably wouldn’t stop much more than harsh language. “We’ll have to work with what we’ve got.”
Jace looked up from his equipment. “At least there’s room to spread out. Won’t be sleeping on top of each other.”
As we approached the main entrance, the heavy wooden door opened and a woman in scrubs emerged, squinting against the wind. She was Asian, mid-forties. Behind her, two other figures appeared—men, both in medical clothing, both looking wary.
“Can I help you?” she called out, her tone cautious. Her eyes moved from our civilian clothes to the weather equipment we were carrying, clearly trying to piece together what we were doing here.
“We were told there was a medical clinic here? Is that you guys?” I said, stepping forward while Ty and Jace continued positioning equipment.
The woman exchanged glances with her colleagues as I walked forward and shook her hand. “I’m Dr. Yang. This is Dr. Martinez and Dr. Williams. We weren’t expecting anyone.”
