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)
“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?”