Miguel’s feverish eyes found mine as I entered the room. Despite his pain, he smiled.
“You saved me,” he whispered.
I checked his wound—no signs of major bleeding, but the area was hot to the touch. Infection setting in despite our precautions.
“We’re not finished yet,” I told him, already calculating dosages of our limited antibiotics. “But we’ll get through this together.”
His hand caught mine, surprisingly strong. “My sister, she has a baby coming soon. Because of you, I will meet my nephew.”
The simple statement hit me with unexpected force. This was why I stayed. Not for some abstract ideal or rebellion against my privileged upbringing or because of interpersonal heartbreak. But for moments like this. Life continuing because I refused to accept death as inevitable.
“Rest now,” I said, my voice softer than usual. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”
And I would be—regardless of cartels, corporate negligence, or my parents’ disapproval. This was where I belonged. Where I was needed. Where my skills meant the difference between life and death.
I wasn’t running. Wasn’t hiding. I was making a difference.
I settled into the chair beside Miguel’s bed, preparing for the long night ahead. Outside, dusk was falling over the jungle surrounding our little clinic, bringing with it the chorus of night creatures and the distant rumble of thunder. Another storm approaching.
I was ready for whatever came next.
Chapter 2
Lauren
A week had passedsince Miguel’s surgery, and I was finally allowing myself to believe he’d make a full recovery. His fever had broken on day three, the infection responding beautifully to our precious antibiotics. Two days ago, he’d sat up on his own, asking when he could return to work—a question that both relieved and worried me in equal measure.
Then yesterday morning, he’d been gone. I had no doubt he’d be back to work soon, if he wasn’t already. Around here, if you didn’t work, your family starved.
I was back to the familiar rhythm of treating everything the jungle could throw at us. My back ached as I straightened from examining Mrs. Perez’s infected leg wound, the third diabetic ulcer I’d treated this morning. The generator sputtered outside, struggling to power our ancient equipment in the sweltering midday heat.
“Lauren, you should eat something,” Sophia called from across the room, her practical tone leaving no room for argument. “You’ve been treating patients nonstop all morning.”
I glanced at my watch—almost three p.m. I’d been seeing patients since sunrise with only coffee and a protein bar, but at least today felt manageable.
“I’ll grab something in a minute,” I promised, knowing I probably wouldn’t. “Just need to finish with the Alverez family first.”
Sophia shook her head. “That’s what you said three hours ago. Your patients need you healthy too.”
If there was one thing Patrick had always made known, it was that missing a meal wasn’t going to hurt me. I definitely had enough meat on my bones—he’d always loved calling mehis little linebacker. I wasn’t overweight, but I definitely wasn’t delicate and feminine either.
But also…fuckPatrick.
Before I could force myself to eat something just to spite my asshole ex-boyfriend, the distinctive sound of vehicles approaching fast made both Sophia and me freeze. Not the usual sputtering trucks of local farmers or the measured pace of supply deliveries. This sound was different—aggressive, urgent.
My stomach dropped. In our time here, vehicles arriving at high speed meant one thing: violence. Whether cartel disputes, gang retaliation, or civilians caught in the crossfire, we’d seen it all. The wounds that came through our doors told the story of a region where brutality was currency.
“Expecting anyone?” Sophia asked, though her tight expression said she already knew the answer.
I moved to the window, pulling back the threadbare curtain. Three black SUVs with tinted windows kicked up clouds of dust as they skidded to a halt in our small courtyard. Expensive vehicles. Military-grade by the look of them.
“No,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry. “Definitely not expecting this.”
My pulse hammered as armed men poured out of the vehicles, assault rifles slung across their chests. In their midst, others supported four bloodied figures who seemed barely able to stand. The tactical gear, the coordination, the sheer number of weapons—this wasn’t some local gang dispute. This was cartel.
“Wounded incoming,” I called out, already moving toward the door despite every instinct screaming at me to hide. “Sophia, prep the treatment room.”
I’d learned to mask my fear in situations like this, but the deliberate show of force made my hands tremble slightly as I pushed through the clinic’s front doors. Whatever had happened, whoever these men were, they wanted us to know exactly how outgunned we were.
