Devastate (Deliver 4)

Tate sidled in behind her, fighting the impulse to rest a hand against the small of her back. He couldn’t touch her, but she was close enough to infuse his senses with hints of citrus and gun oil, sunshine and city air.

He didn’t look at her as he paid for the tea and whispered against her hair, “You’re not alone.”

Before she could respond, he left the bag of food on the table in front of her and strolled out of the market.

For the rest of the day, he sat in his apartment, listening to the receiver. The silence on her end stretched for miles while she sat by herself across the street. Hopefully, she was sleeping since she hadn’t slept at all last night.

He took a short nap, but it was restless, as his hearing was constantly tuned into the receiver. So he gave up and used the time to research her symptoms, leave messages for doctors in the States, and order the most comprehensive home blood test kit he could find online.

“Is that your plan?” Van gnawed on a toothpick, scrutinizing him. “An online blood test?”

“Got a better idea?”

“No. I just want to make sure you’re not planning to storm the compound and steal the medicine.”

He laughed, because dammit, it’d crossed his mind. “I’m not that reckless.”

“I don’t know. You have a crazy look in your eyes.”

“I’m going to start staying with her at night.” He paced to the window and surveyed the alley until he located her guards. “I need to learn everything she knows about her illness, the injections, the doctors, her injury… There’s so much she hasn’t told me. Maybe the solution isn’t as hopeless as it seems.”

“And if it is? Hopeless?”

“I’ll draw her blood and send it off to a lab. Maybe figure out a way to bring a doctor here to her.”

“If she has a terminal illness, Tate, there’s little you can do.”

“I know.” He pivoted away from the window and dragged his hands down his face. “I know.”

They’d been in Caracas for eleven days. The trip could extend twice that or longer. Van never mentioned his wife, but he was so damn smitten with her the distance must’ve been eating at him something fierce.

“I could be here another month.” Tate crossed his arms and met Van’s eyes.

“I know. I’m with you till the end.” Van gave him a soft, genuine smile.

The human side of Van was an anomaly. Witnessing its rare appearance wedged something deep inside Tate, crowding out some of the cynical, mistrustful feelings he’d harbored for so long.

“I’m sorry I haven’t said it before, but thank you.” He released a slow breath. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I know.” Another smile from Van, this one twisting with his standard wickedness. “Wanna mess around? This dry spell is brutal.”

He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his brow. “And there you go, ruining it.”

“You make it too damn easy.” Erasing the few feet between them, Van stepped into his space. “Just so you know, I’m going to rid you of your homophobia.”

His hackles went up. “I’m not homophobic.”

“You have a problem with men fucking men.”

“No, Van. I have a problem with you fucking me.”

“Well, then let me clear that up.” Van braced a hand on the window behind Tate and pressed close enough to exchange breaths. “I love my wife, and I’d cut my dick off before I cheated on her. I like to fuck with you, but I don’t want to fuck you. Feel me?”

He’d rather not feel Van’s breath on his face, but… “Yeah, I feel you.”

“Good boy.” Van patted his cheek and held the touch there, cupping his jaw for a defining moment before strolling away.

The familiar touch paired with the murmured words should’ve triggered a flashback of those agonizing weeks in the attic. But as Tate tempered his breathing, he felt strangely…peaceful.

“All teasing aside, you seem more comfortable around me.” Van lowered onto the couch, his expression serious. “You’re healing.”

Tate nodded absently, thinking. Being cooped up with Van in a small apartment and depending on him for protection might’ve been a much-needed catharsis. He could honestly say he trusted the perverted psychopath. He might even like him, but he wouldn’t admit that out loud. So he left it at a nod.

“Good.” Van grabbed a bottle of tequila and poured two glasses. “Let’s drink to that.”

A few hours and shots of tequila later, Tate watched from the window as Lucia left her apartment to meet Badell for dinner.

Armed and ready to go, he left Van behind to keep a lookout on the alley.

When he hit the street, the sky was dark enough to cloak the buildings in shadows. He kept his head down, gait swift, and managed to arrive at the rear of her building unmolested. After a quick I’m here call to Van, he knocked on the neighbor’s back door.

The middle-aged woman looked as harmless as her little dog when she answered, but she refused to open the door farther than a crack. When he slipped a few bolivars through the opening and said, “I’m Lucia’s amigo,” she was more than happy to escort him in and show him the hidden cut through in the closet.

It was too easy. Giving up Lucia’s hidden door to a total stranger meant she’d do it for anyone willing to bribe her.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She stared at him blankly.

Well, shit. He’d only picked up a few Spanish words. “Uh…nome?” No, that wasn’t right. “Nombre?”

“Franchesca.”

“Franchesca, don’t let…” Damn language barrier. He needed a translator. “Hang on.”

He dialed Van, who had grown up in a border town and spoke fairly decent Spanish.

“Miss me already?” Van rumbled through the phone.

“Nope. I need you to translate. Tell Lucia’s neighbor to never let anyone in the back door. Never show anyone the passage through the closet. Never, no one, under no circumstances. You get the idea. Use your threatening tone.”

“I have a threatening tone?”

The innocent act was bullshit, so he decided to poke the sleeping bear. “You used to, but you’ve grown soft. And gay. So gay your pretty wife is at home right now bouncing on a harder, straighter dick.”

“What the fuck did you just say to me? You’re going to find out exactly how gay I am when I fuck your skull through your asshole, motherfucker. You’re fucking dead.”

“Yeah, that tone. Here she is.” He handed the phone to Franchesca.

As she listened, her breath wheezed, and her eyes grew wide. When she handed the phone back, he disconnected and placed a larger bill in her trembling hand. No translation needed for hush money. It was a universal language in this town.

He left her staring at the money and slipped into Lucia’s unit through the closet.

Other than the muted glow from a night light in the wall, her windowless space was dark. He did his best to seal up the passageway. She needed a lock or something to brace against it. Something to keep trespassers like hi

mself from breaking in.

At least, she wouldn’t be sleeping here alone anymore, and when he left Caracas, she would be with him.

Switching on the ceiling light, he scanned the barren room, which entailed a single-person mattress, mini fridge, sink, toilet, and shower head that aimed at an open tiled space.

Her boots and a small stack of clothes sat in the corner. On the counter was the bag of tea, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a generic bottle of hair and body wash.

That was it? A lump formed in his throat. Everything she owned would fit in one small bag.

There were no cabinets or pantries, so where was her food? Her dishes and cookware? Hell, she didn’t even have a stove.

His attention zeroed in on the fridge, and he yanked it open. The scanty contents wobbled on a single shelf—a sandwich of bread and pork, strawberries, bananas, and coconut cookies. The only food in her possession was what he’d bought her.

She has nothing.

No one should live like this.

A restless pang clenched behind his sternum, and his muscles burned to do something, anything, to fix this.

But he couldn’t fix it. Not without risking her life.

Phone in hand, he paced the room, back and forth, back and forth, staring at the screen.

It was time to call Matias. The cartel capo could find the best doctors and bring them here. According to Cole, it would take weeks, but Tate could at least get that ball rolling.

Drawing a calming breath, he dialed the number by memory and hovered his thumb over the button that would connect the call. And he hesitated.

I’ll be dead within hours. Long before they can diagnose me.

Lucia knew how resourceful Matias was, yet she’d begged Tate not to call him or Camila. She was fucking stubborn in her conviction that Badell held the only antidote.

Then there was Cole’s warning that Matias wouldn’t have enough men and sway here to fight Badell.

Fuck! He erased the number on the phone and slumped against the wall. He needed to talk to Lucia first. Then he’d call Matias.

Over the next hour, he listened to her dinner conversation with Badell. Strange how she was allowed to keep her guns in his presence. Though there was a span of time this morning when it sounded like they’d been taken from her. Was it when she received her injection? If she was given medicine, Tate didn’t hear it happen.