Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Once she was bare, he didn’t make a sound as he used the warm wet shirt to clean her. Then he and Van worked together, washing and nursing the worst of her injuries. The gash on her cheek needed stitches, as well as two across her ribs. Brutal knuckles, the concrete floor, the steel toe of a boot… She didn’t know which cruelty caused which wounds, but Van sewed them up. Considering he used to torture people for a living, she supposed he was an expert at tending injuries inflicted by a sadist.
As Van stitched, Tate wove his fingers through hers and kissed her hand. “Your paralysis is concerning, Lucia.”
She cracked open an eye. “What time is it?”
“Just after midnight. If you usually get your medicine at dawn, we have enough time to go to the nearest hospital and—”
“All three hospitals in Caracas are infiltrated with Tiago’s people. The doctors won’t treat me. He would kill them if they did.”
His eyes flashed dangerously. “Then we’ll find a hospital outside of the city.”
“Waste of time.”
“Dammit, Lucia. I’m not giving up.”
“This isn’t about giving up. The country is in a major health crisis. The shortage of medical supplies and hospital beds is so awful women are giving birth in the waiting rooms. Patients are dying on the bloodstained floors of hospital hallways after waiting days to see a doctor. I’ve seen the newspaper headlines. They have three percent of the supplies they need to treat people. Three percent, Tate.”
“Because of the limitations the President put on importations?” Van clipped the final stitch and packed up the medical bag.
“I think so,” she said. “As a result, the hospitals have nothing. I’ll be dead and cold long before I even get into an exam room.”
The simple act of talking had stressed her body. Parts deep inside her stabbed and burned, but she didn’t know what was damaged or how irreparable the damage was. The burning sensation in her gut spread outward, blanketing her skin in violent, sweaty chills. Her breathing labored, and her pulse weakened, as if her organs were shutting down. Soon, they would be of no use to her.
“I’m dying.”
“Not if I have something to say about it.” Tate released her hand, and his large frame retreated in the blotches of her vision.
As unconsciousness tried to claim her, his voice thrummed at the edges. He was on the phone, making angry demands and pacing through the room.
She floated in and out of awareness, shifting restlessly on the mattress in an attempt to escape the persistent pain. Tate’s voice continued in the background as Van dressed her. She welcomed the warmth of clothes, until she became too hot, too clammy. She was burning up.
Then Tate’s hands were there, smoothing back her hair and easing a cool damp cloth around her face.
“I just talked to Cole Hartman.” He touched a kiss to her lips. “He’s going to find a doctor outside of the city. Someone we can trust.”
Her chest lifted, filling with lofty wishes and greedy reveries. She wanted to scream her excitement and hug him until they both grunted with laughter, but the most she could offer was, “’kay. Thank you.”
“He’ll call back and let us know where to go. But we need to move. Get out of this neighborhood. Are you ready?”
“Can’t walk.” Her words sounded garbled and slurred.
“Shh. I have you.” He pulled a gun from the front of his jeans and twisted toward Van. “I’ll follow you out.”
Van stepped toward the passageway in the closet with a gun in his hand and a huge pack on his back.
Tate bent to lift her and stopped. “Did you hear that?”
The silence that followed strangled like a chokehold. Then Van said, “No—”
A deafening bang rattled the front door, and it blew open in an eruption of splintered wood.
Her heart stopped, and guns fired. A man screamed. More men swarmed in. Assault rifles and handguns and street clothes. Tiago’s guards.
Tate stood over her, shooting, dodging, ducking, and shouting something at Van. Boots scuffed near the door. Bullets pelleted the wall. Then glass popped, and the lights went out.
Her vision fuzzed in the darkness, her brain sluggish, her entire body convulsing with panic and helplessness. She couldn’t stand, couldn’t defend him, and fear ate away her alertness.
She blindly stretched an arm across the mattress, seeking her Berettas as the gunfire began to slow.
“Van!” Tate lurched off the bed and slammed into something just as a shot rang out from the doorway.
Then silence.
Icy, dead, ominous silence.
She broke out in a cold sweat, trembling in her effort to stay conscious. “Tate?”
The rustle of clothes, tread of boots, beam of a flashlight—there were people in the room. Was Van among them?
“Tate?” She blinked, but her eyes wouldn’t work right. “Answer me.”
Where was he? What happened?
He’d called to Van, jumped, and a shot was fired.