Devastate (Deliver 4)

“Fine,” he said in Spanish and pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket. “Be quick.”

Forcing her boots to move as if reluctant and bored, she shuffled toward the stairwell.

CHAPTER 26

There were benefits of being a high-ranked gang member for Tiago Badell. One, Lucia had access to every hallway, room, and dark corner in the compound and no one questioned her. Two, she had deep insight into how Tiago ran his security.

Since there were two prisoners, there would be two guards in the basement. No more. No less. They would be armed and separated. One at the door to the basement corridor and one at the entrance to the chamber.

She was so damn nervous her shoulders tried to hunch around her ears. The tension in her neck tightened to the point of pain.

I can’t fail. I can’t fail. I can’t fail.

With a steeling breath, she opened the door to the stairwell and found the dank, narrow space quiet and empty.

So far so good.

Closing the door behind her, she grabbed the knife from her boot and flattened the blade against the side of her leg. There was no way to conceal it, so whatever happened next needed to be swift and soundless.

The almighty pound of her heart threatened to liquefy her knees as she rounded the first bend in the staircase. Her senses buzzed on high alert, making every step more arduous than the last.

One more corner to go.

Her soft treads whispered along the stone walls, but there were other sounds, too. The rustle of movement. The faint rasps of breathing. There was definitely a guard waiting at the bottom door.

The knife handle slicked in her clammy fist. She squeezed her fingers, shifted it out of sight behind her thigh, and edged around the last bend.

Perched on the bottom few stairs, the guard pulled his attention from the phone in his hand and glanced over his shoulder.

Armando.

Panic, disgust, vengeance—all of it blazed through her, feral and venomous.

His eyes widened. “Donde esta Tiago?”

Where’s Tiago?

He’s dead, and you’re about to join him.

He knew, even as he’d asked the question, something wasn’t right. He’d been in the torture room and witnessed her despair. He knew she was here for no other reason than to rescue Tate.

It happened so quickly—that realization on his expression and her sudden lurch forward. He tried to rise to his feet, but his movements were too slow, his belly too big, and she was faster.

Her higher elevation on the stairs gave her an advantage as she jumped and collided with his back. The strength and direction of her attack knocked him off balance. He stumbled, bumped against the wall, and went down. She followed him to the floor, clapping a hand over his mouth, wrenching his head back against her shoulder, and thrusting the blade upward, right into the soft part beneath his jaw. She pushed hard and fast, aiming for his brain until the hilt met his throat.

Hot blood soaked her fingers as he sagged. Soundless. Breathless. Dead.

She held onto the knife, frozen and listening for footsteps over the thrash of her pulse.

Blessed silence.

His phone lay on the floor at his feet. A 9mm with the extended barrel of a silencer sat on his hip. She needed both and waited several torturous seconds, concentrating on her surroundings. When she was certain no one had heard, she pocketed the phone and chambered a round on the gun.

That was the easy part.

Any second now, the guard upstairs would finish his cigarette and come looking for her.

With trembling hands, she positioned herself on knees at the bend in the staircase and raised the gun, ready to shoot anyone who rounded the corner.

The wait lasted an eternity as her mind swam through worst case scenarios. If Tiago’s guards checked on him, she would fail. If multiple men entered the basement and outnumbered her, she would fail. If the gun in her hand misfired, she would fail.

Tate’s fate rested entirely on her ability to not fucking fail.

When the door at the top of the stairs finally scraped open, every pore in her body beaded with sweat. Her lungs froze, and her limbs locked up.

Breathe, dammit.

The sound of footfalls grew louder, clomping, descending, speeding up. One threatening gait. Only one.

He would see Armando’s body the moment he turned the last bend, but she wouldn’t give him enough time to react.

Resting her finger on the trigger, she breathed in, timed his steps, and waited, waited…

His chest came into view, and he jerked to a stop, spinning toward her.

She squeezed the trigger on her exhale, point blank range, right in the chest.

The bullet casing pinged against the stone wall behind her, and the report of suppressed gunfire ricocheted through the stairwell. The echo sounded like a metal ball bouncing on concrete.

It’s too loud!

The guard was dead before he hit the floor, but the racket would’ve been heard in the basement. She didn’t have time to pause.

Stepping over the bodies, she cracked the lower-level door and spotted a man charging toward her, maybe ten feet away. He reached for the gun in his waistband, but hers was already aimed.

She fired at his torso, and the suppressed bang reverberated through her.

He dropped before he pulled his weapon, but his hand was still moving, reaching for it.

Adrenaline kicked in as she sprinted toward him and shot again, directly through his heart.

His arm fell to the floor with the slump of his body, his eyes fixed, glassy and frozen, at the ceiling.

This was far from over. Even with a silencer, those three shots had made noise. If the reverberation had reached the main floor, she didn’t have much time.

She raced toward the chamber where Tate and Van waited and slammed to a stop mid-stride.

Keys!

Spinning back to the dead guard, she grabbed his 9mm and unhooked the keyring from his belt.

Then she ran, stretching unused muscles in her desperation to get to Tate. At the door to the chamber, she released the bolt and rushed into the room.

The overpowering scent of blood hit her in the face, causing her to stumble. Van sat against the wall, arms shackled to the beam. Tate lay on his stomach beside him, free of restraints because…

Oh God, his back was a gruesome tapestry of tattered flesh and gory illustrations too shocking to focus on. With his cheek against the concrete and his wounded arm lying like a dead thing beside him, he didn’t move, didn’t react.

Waves of heartbreak crashed through her, wrenching a whimper from her throat.

His eyes were open but glazed over, expressionless, utterly catatonic.

With panting breaths, she forced her feet to keep moving, skidded to her knees beside Van, and set the guns on the floor.

“We have to hurry.” She fumbled with the key in the locks, losing precious seconds before the chains fell loose.

“Badell?” Van pulled his arms free and grabbed one of the guns.

“Dead. In his room. No one knows. Yet.” From her pocket, she handed him Armando’s phone. “I’ll get us out of the compound, but we need help leaving the city. This won’t be a stealthy getaway.”

“Matias should be close, but I don’t know how to contact him.” Van inched toward Tate and stroked a hand over his unmoving head. “Tate? I need Matias’ number.”

Tate’s lashes twitched, followed by a sluggish blink. The muscles in his jaw bounced, like he was trying to respond and couldn’t.

Her heart shattered, and it took every ounce of willpower she had left to keep her emotions in check.

“He’s been unresponsive since you left.” Van stood, stepping out of her way.

“Tate.” She stretched out on the floor beside him and put her face in his. “We’re getting out of here, but we need Matias’ number.”

His eyes tried to track her voice, focusing and clouding over. Then his lips moved, whispering

the digits slowly and painfully in a shredded voice.

As Van made the call, she moved down Tate’s legs. His jeans gathered just beneath his butt, as if the task of righting them had been interrupted. She carefully dragged his pants into place, focusing on her hands rather than the horror painting his back.

“It’s Van Quiso,” Van said into the phone. “We’re in trouble.”

Tate groaned weakly as she slid a hand beneath his hips, tucked him inside the boxer briefs, and zipped the fly as much as she could manage.

Van quietly and efficiently outlined the situation to Matias. A few seconds later, he turned the ringer off the phone, pocketed it, and rested those sharp silver eyes on her.

“He’s twenty minutes outside of the neighborhood.” He crouched at Tate’s side. “We need to head north, and he’ll meet us at—”

“M-mmeh…” Tate inched his hand toward her, dragging his injured arm along the floor and hissing, “Medsss…you…”

“I got the medicine.” She caught his hand in hers and found his swollen blue eyes, blinking back tears. “I’m good, Tate.”

“Extra?” he slurred. “More mehhs…sinnn?”

Extra medicine?