Take (Deliver 5)

Tilting her chin back with his finger, he scanned her face with a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. There and gone in a flash, his handsome Venezuelan features went from gentle to stony.

“I killed the man who hit you.” He prodded a thumb around the cut near her eye. “Got him on my way in.”

“How do you even know—?”

“Did he have a crucifix tattooed on his neck?”

Yeah, he sure did. Tiago must’ve identified him while she was transported out of the house.

“Don’t we need to go?” she asked.

“Arturo,” he called over his shoulder.

The burly guard poked his head into the room, held up a finger, and returned to the hall.

“We’re waiting.” He slid off the backpack that hung from his shoulder and removed a pair of shorts and running shoes. “Put these on.”

“Waiting for what?” She pulled on the shorts, sans underwear.

As she shoved on the sneakers, his hand wandered to her thigh, smoothing over the bandage where he’d cut her.

“There’s a gunfight outside.” He withdrew his touch and glanced at the door. “Not taking you out there until the numbers have dwindled.”

“Gunfight?” She listened for a moment and was met with silence.

“We’re deep within the warehouse.” He grabbed her hand and stood, lifting her with him. “One of their chop shops.”

“Cartel?”

“Yes.”

“The comandante—”

“Killed him, too.”

Before or after the man called Matias Restrepo? Didn’t matter at this point. Matias might’ve been in route here, but he’d still be hours away.

“Hold onto my waistband.” He pulled out two handguns and swung the backpack behind him. “We’re going to run into some resistance on our way out. Stick to me like glue until I tell you otherwise. Understand?”

“I want a gun.”

“No.” He turned toward the door.

“Why not?”

“Because you have me,” he growled.

“But—”

“If you shoot me in the back, accidentally or deliberately, your chances of escape drop to zero.”

Well, shit. She didn’t like it, but she understood. Those were his guys out there, fighting and dying under his command. They were loyal to him, not her. If he died, she was fucked, with or without a gun.

“We’re not returning to the desert, are we?” she asked.

“No.”

“Is Tate—?”

“Jefe.” Arturo appeared in the doorway and lowered a phone from his ear. “It’s time.”

“Tate is safe.” Tiago gave her his back and adjusted his grip on the pistols. “Hands on my belt.”

She curled her fingers around his belt loops, registering the small gun between his tailbone and waistband. Multiple knives strapped to his hips, legs, and boots. Loaded magazines filled every pocket and holster. He was a walking armory.

“Let’s go.” He charged into the hall.

She did her best to keep up with his long-legged strides. Arturo stepped in behind her, pacing backward to cover the rear.

Her breathing sped up, tripping in her throat as Tiago navigated a maze of never-ceasing turns and stairs.

The muffled report of gunfire alerted her they were getting close, and she silently thanked him for coming for her.

His body felt like steel beneath her hands, shifting and flexing through a seamless glide of muscle. Her gaze traced the sinewy cords in his thick neck, taking in the strength of it, the harsh cut of his rigid jaw, and the profile of a face chiseled in stone.

He was such a devastatingly sexy man. If he were normal and this was normal, she might’ve told him he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

The boom of guns came in bursts, slowing between each report but growing louder as he crept to a doorway. It opened to a massive garage crammed with more luxury cars and motorcycles than she could count.

Armed men patrolled the space. Just outside the wall of garage doors waited more men, who fired off sporadic rounds and shouted at one another.

“This is the only way out,” he whispered so low she had to strain her ears. “I need to clear the room.”

Before she could draw a breath, he was on the move. Arms stretched out before him, he trained the pistols and sidled along the back wall, using his body as a shield in front of her.

The men in the garage didn’t spot him creeping amid the shadows. Arturo veered off in the opposite direction, rifle raised, headed toward the huge garage doors.

Her pulse pommeled, her stomach a block of ice, as her fingers dug into Tiago’s hips.

He reached a wall covered with small hooks holding keys. Flicking his gaze over it, he examined each one.

What was the plan? Would he steal a car?

He snatched a key, apparently the one he was looking for, given the glimmer in his eyes. Then he pivoted, gripped her arms, and shoved her into a nook between a workbench and concrete wall.

“Stay,” he mouthed.

She locked her legs as he spun and blitzed through the garage toward the enemy, his guns up and firing.

Two men went down. Others shot back. He found cover behind an engine block, but the shooters closed in, surrounding him.