Take (Deliver 5)

“How did Tiago get here?” She panted, her legs burning through the strides.

“The crazy motherfucker broke in.”

“What?” She faltered, recovered, and sped up her gait. “How did he find this place?”

“Fuck if I know. Another left here.” He raced her down a long corridor, his breathing so much calmer than hers. “He came in with guns blazing, ready to take down the whole goddamn cartel.”

Her chest tightened painfully, and her lungs wheezed for air. “Did he get hurt? Is anyone dead?”

“Don’t know.”

Her limbs trembled with terror and anticipation as she skidded to a stop at the entrance to the wing.

The guards let them pass, and she followed the sounds of shouting through two more corridors.

Up ahead, Lucia leaned her back against the wall with a hand clutching her throat. When she spotted Kate, her eyes widened. “Kate! Wait!”

“Where is he?” She ran to the steel door across from Lucia and peered through the small window.

In the concrete room, Tiago lay on his side on the floor, eyes closed, dressed in only a pair of briefs. He bared his teeth and jerked his arms, going nowhere with his hands shackled behind him.

Her heart splintered, and she grabbed the door handle, shaking it. Locked.

Tate paced through the cell, shouting furiously as he demanded answers about Lucia and everything that had happened over the past eleven years.

Blood trickled from cuts on Tiago’s face and chest, but there were no visible bullet or stab wounds.

Why was he bleeding and lying on the floor?

A rabid sound wrenched from her throat. She needed to get to him and hold him and let him know she was here.

“Open the door!” She shook the handle harder, more frantically, losing control when it wouldn’t budge.

His eyes opened and unerringly found hers through the glass.

“Tiago!” She pressed her hand against the window, and a sharp burn stabbed through her chest.

He’d lost weight, his muscles radically leaner, his jaw more angular and covered in a full beard. What happened to him?

Tate’s hands clenched at his sides, his face and neck bright red as he prowled a circle around Tiago’s body. He looked as if he were seconds from murder.

“Let me in right now!” She pounded on the tiny window. “Swear to God, if you hurt him—”

Matias appeared on the other side of the glass and narrowed his eyes.

“Open the door,” she screamed, banging her fists against the steel.

He slammed a metal cover over the window, blocking her view. Shutting her out.

She lost it.

In an explosion of rage, she threw her body against the door, yelling at the top of her lungs, kicking, and pounding until Van’s arms locked around her and yanked her away.

“They’re going to torture him.” Tears blurred her eyes, and great sobs shook her shoulders. “They’ll kill him.”

“Kate, listen to me.” Lucia gripped her face, capturing her attention. “Only reason Tiago’s alive is because of you. Matias and Tate know you love him. They’re not going to hurt him.”

“He’s bleeding.” She yanked on her arms, where Van held them at her back. “Let go of me.”

He released her and stepped to the side, studying her with those bladed eyes of his. “He’s bleeding because he broke into the secret headquarters of a Colombian cartel and attacked the guards.”

“Did anyone die?” she asked Lucia.

“No. But they had to subdue him by physical force.”

She wiped away her tears and pulled in a steeling breath. A little calmer now, she stepped back to the door and pressed her ear against it.

“Why won’t they let me in?” She couldn’t detect sound through the thick steel. “What are they doing to him?”

“Just talking.” Lucia stared at the door, her expression tight. “Tate needs a resolution.”

Tiago had tortured him, forced him to have sex with Van, and separated him from Lucia for three months. Kate wasn’t sure there was a resolution for that.

“Why aren’t you in there with him?” She flexed her hands, unable to quell the shaking.

“I’ve made peace with what he did to me.” Lucia leaned her back against the wall and gazed at the door. “Hearing about your relationship with him helped. It gave me a sense of understanding, like maybe everything happened for a reason. I mean, I got Tate out of it.”

“What about you?” She turned to Van. “I know what he did to you.”

“Hm.” He removed a toothpick from his pocket and rested the end between his lips. “I’m the last person to throw stones. I don’t like the guy, but I’ll get over it. Forgive, forget, move on—any of that is better than holding on to hatred.”

He gave her a knowing look, and for the first time since she’d met him, she stared directly into his razor eyes and didn’t wince.

She didn’t know whether she forgave Van or had simply moved on, but she no longer felt fear or hatred for the man.