Page 68 of Duty Devoted
“Lauren! Oh my God, sweetheart, are you all right?” Not the only ones.
My mother’s voice crackled through the connection, pitched high with worry.
“Mom, I’m fine?—”
“We heard three doctors got out, but you weren’t with them. Your father’s been calling everyone, the State Department, that Compass Medical director—he even threatened to fly down there himself.”
“I’m okay.” I kept my voice steady, even as my free hand unconsciously pressed against the bandage hidden beneath my robe. “There was some confusion with the evacuation, but I’m safe. I’m in San Juan.”
“San Juan?” My father’s voice now—they must have me on speaker. His tone carried that particular mix of relief and frustration I’d heard since childhood. “What are you doing in Puerto Rico? Why aren’t you with the others in Panama?”
Because I stayed behind to deliver a baby. Because I almost died in a hurricane. Because I’ve been running from a psychopath through the jungle. Because I watched men die.
“Logistics,” I said instead. “Different extraction routes. But I’m safe, and I’ll be home tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Lauren, we can send a jet?—”
“Commercial flight is already booked. I’ll see you for dinner tomorrow night.”
“At least let us upgrade you to first class. You must be exhausted?—”
“Already handled.” Another lie. I’d booked economy, needing to feel like a normal person for a few hours. “I should go. The connection isn’t great.”
“Lauren Victoria Valentino, don’t you dare hang up on us.” But my mother’s voice had softened, the way it did when relief finally won over worry. “We love you. Whatever happened down there, whatever you’re not telling us—we’re just glad you’re safe.”
My throat tightened. “I love you too. Both of you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Ten minutes and a dozen more reassurances later, I finally ended the call. They meant well, but I couldn’t handle their worry right now. Not when I was barely holding myself together. Not when so much had happened in the past week and I needed to process it all myself.
All I knew was that for right now, I was safe. No running, no hurricane, no cartel.
But still, a knock at the door made me freeze and glance around for possible exit routes and potential weapons.
“It’s me.” Logan’s voice came through the door, and my shoulders dropped with relief.
I opened the door to find him hovering at the threshold, and my breath caught. He looked exactly as he had on the boat—same torn shirt darkened with sweat and blood, same dirt-caked pants, same exhaustion carved into the lines of his face. While I’d been luxuriating in thread counts I couldn’t calculate, he’d been working.
“Come in,” I said, stepping back.
He hesitated, actually hesitated, his eyes scanning the pristine suite before looking down at himself. “I’m filthy.”
“I’m sure these floors have seen worse.”
That earned me an almost-smile as he stepped inside, careful not to touch anything. The morning’s efficient killer had been replaced by someone almost uncertain, and it made my chest ache in ways I didn’t want to examine.
“How was the debrief?”
“Long, and it won’t be the only one.” He positioned himself near the window, still not sitting, like he might contaminate the furniture. “It’s important to go over every detail while it’s fresh. Silva’s organization, the hurricane, the extraction. Especially the…conclusion.”
The explosion. Mateo’s death. We hadn’t talked about it, but I’d seen the grim necessity in his expression when he’d pulled that trigger. One more ghost for him to carry.
“You’ll have a shorter version tomorrow morning,” he continued. “Eight sharp, downstairs conference room. Just basic questions, nothing too invasive. Either I or one of the guys will come and get you.”
“Okay.”
We stood there, the space between us feeling like an ocean. His gaze tracked over me—the plush robe, my clean hair still damp at the ends. Something shifted in his expression, a tightening around his eyes.
“You look…” He paused, seemed to reconsider his words. “Better. How’s the wound?”
