Page 98 of Duty Devoted
Other Government Agency. CIA or NSA, probably both. Or neither—the kind of people who could help you achieve the impossible, but that it was also dangerous to owe favors to. Ethan was putting himself in this position because of me.
I wasn’t going to let it be in vain.
“Let’s gear up and get to the flight line,” I ordered. “Full combat loads.”
The team dispersed to prep, leaving me staring at the satellite image of Lauren being loaded on to that plane. The same woman I’d failed to protect, now in the hands of an organization that had every reason to want her dead.
I’d left her behind once, choosing distance over difficulty. That cowardice had led directly to this moment—Lauren paying for my failures with her freedom and possibly her life.
But not anymore. No more running. No more choosing the easy path over the right one.
I touched the screen where her image was frozen, a promise and a prayer combined.
“You stay alive, beautiful. We’re coming.”
Whatever the cartel had planned, whatever sick revenge fantasy they’d orchestrated, it ended tonight. I’d burn their whole world to the ground if that’s what it took. Leave nothing but ashes and ghosts.
Chapter 29
Lauren
The world came backin pieces. First, the throbbing in my skull—a deep, nauseating pulse that made me want to sink back into unconsciousness. Then the cotton-dry feeling in my mouth, the heaviness in my limbs that spoke of chemical sedation.
My medical training kicked in even through the fog, cataloging symptoms: tachycardia, mild respiratory depression, the way my thoughts moved like molasses. Pupils probably dilated. Benzodiazepine, most likely. Maybe midazolam mixed with something else to ensure a longer duration.
I forced my eyes open, blinking against light that seemed too bright even though the room was dim. The effort sent waves of nausea through me, and I had to breathe through my nose to keep from vomiting. Expensive furniture swam into focus. A four-poster bed with silk sheets that felt wrong against my skin. Mahogany dresser with brass fixtures. Persian rug in deep burgundies and golds.
This wasn’t a hospital or a warehouse or any of the places my drugged mind had expected to wake up in. This was…wealth. New-money wealth, the kind that felt the need to announce itself.
I tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. The room spun viciously, and I had to close my eyes against the vertigo. My hands fumbled at the sheets, finding that I was still dressed in the same clothes from this morning—was it this morning? How long had I been unconscious?
The memory slammed back: Logan beside me on the sidewalk. The crack of something—not gunfire, something else. Logan dropping, his body convulsing. Hands grabbing me. The hood. The needle.
“Logan.” His name came out as a croak.
I forced myself upright despite the spinning, gripping the carved bedpost until my knuckles went white. My legs shook when I tried to stand, muscles weak from whatever cocktail they’d used to knock me out.
The air hit me as I stumbled toward the window—thick with humidity that Chicago’s climate control had let me forget. It carried scents that made my stomach clench: earth and vegetation and that particular green smell of jungle after rain. My pulse spiked, sending my already elevated heart rate into dangerous territory.
No. It couldn’t be.
I reached the window, hands pressed against the glass to steady myself. The view confirmed what my other senses already knew. Dense jungle canopy stretched to the horizon, broken only by manicured grounds closer to the building. In the distance, howler monkeys started their evening chorus—a sound I’d heard every day for six months. A sound that belonged to only one place.
I was back in Corazón.
“No, no, no.” The words came out as whispers, fogging the glass. My legs gave out, and I slid down the wall, sitting hard on the polished floor. The impact jarred my spine, sent fresh waves of nausea through me, but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think past the impossibility of it.
Chicago to Corazón. They’d drugged me and flown me back to the place where it all started. Back to Silva territory. Back to?—
I scrambled on hands and knees to a wastepaper basket, barely making it before the nausea won. Nothing came up but bile—however long I’d been unconscious, it had been long enough for my stomach to empty. The retching made my head pound worse, made my eyes water, but it also helped clear some of the drug fog.
Think. I had to think.
I pulled myself back to sitting, spine against the wall, and tried to list what I knew. The sun was low, painting everything golden—late afternoon, maybe early evening. My watch was gone, along with my phone, my bag, anything that might help me track time or location. But the light quality, the monkey calls, the very feel of the air told me I’d been unconscious for at least most of the day. Long enough to fly here, get me to…wherever here was.
The room gave me more clues. This wasn’t some jungle hideout or remote safe house. The furniture was too fine, the construction too solid. Estate. This was an estate. Which meant?—
The door opened with a soft click that might as well have been a gunshot for how it made me jump. I tried to stand, to face whatever came next on my feet, but my legs betrayed me. The best I could manage was pressing harder against the wall, using it to keep me semi-upright.
