24. Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-four
K ane
I stand frozen in the heart of the war room, blood roaring violently in my veins, every nerve humming raw and murderous.
Monitors blink uselessly around me, maps glowing with routes now meaningless, weapons gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights all of them worthless, mocking me with their impotence.
Because Camille’s gone.
Taken from my bed, ripped from Joaquin’s hands, stolen right out of the fucking sanctuary I built piece by bloody piece to shield her from exactly this moment.
And I wasn’t there.
I wasn’t fucking there.
My breath cuts sharp, slicing my chest, rage and guilt clawing savagely at my insides.
Joaquin’s bleeding out, shot down protecting what’s mine.
Javi’s barking orders down the hall, desperately organizing intel and triage, chaos everywhere and I should be there, demanding answers, hunting for details.
But I don’t need the details.
I have a name.
Rojas.
That’s all I fucking need.
My hand snaps out, gripping the heavy steel table in front of me, knuckles white-hot with barely restrained fury.
With one violent surge, I flip the entire goddamn thing, sending monitors shattering to the concrete, blueprints scattering, files and cords ripping free, the crash echoing like thunder against stone walls.
No one moves. No one breathes.
They’ve never seen me like this. Not in Colombia. Not after watching my father die. Not ever.
Because this, this isn’t war.
This is Camille.
This is the one pure thing I ever had, the woman who trusted my lies that I could keep her safe, that I could ever be soft, gentle, human. She’s gone because I failed her, betrayed by the weakness I let myself feel. By believing that love wouldn’t blind me.
I stride to the weapons locker, movements cold, deliberate, my pulse a low drumbeat of vengeance. The metal doors hiss open, revealing black matte steel lined in perfect, brutal order. Without hesitation, I grab what I need:
Two Glock pistols. Loaded magazines. Silencers. Tactical blade. GPS tracker. Burner phone.
Every item an extension of the violence seething beneath my skin, the darkness fully unleashed.
Javi appears in the doorway, pale, tense, cautiously wary. “Kane…”
“Don’t.” My voice is quiet, lethal. I don’t even glance at him. “Don’t try to talk me down, Javi. You’ll lose.”
He swallows hard, weighing his next words carefully. “We’ve got heat signatures moving toward the bridge near Little River. Could be a decoy.”
“Track them,” I snap, slamming magazines into place, clicking safeties off with brutal efficiency. “Rojas won’t be dumb enough to hand me a straight line.”
“Drone footage shows a black van leaving eight minutes after breach. No plates, no tags. Lost it near the docks.”
“He’s either underground or headed to water,” I mutter darkly, sliding the blade into my hip sheath, metal cold and comforting against my side.
Javi hesitates, voice tight, uncertain. “She didn’t have a tracker. No chip. We never…”
Because I fucking promised her privacy. Because I let love weaken me, break my rules.
A savage, corrosive guilt twists through my gut, sharp and vicious but I crush it down. Guilt is useless now. Emotions are pointless. Only violence matters. Only blood will make this right.
Only blood will bring her back.
I brush past Javi without another word, moving swiftly, violently, my body rippling with unchained fury. My men silently part, reading clearly what I’m about to become, seeing the truth written clearly in every ruthless step. No more masks, no more control. Tonight there are no limits, no mercy.
I turn sharply, barking commands into the darkened corridor. “Get the car. Load it, heavy weapons, drone surveillance, thermal, encrypted comms. Get Diego ready. We move in ten.”
“And if we don’t find her?” Javi’s voice cracks behind me.
I halt, turning slowly, meeting his eyes with a chilling calmness, my voice slipping into something low, primal, monstrous.
“Then we find every single man involved,” I promise, a lethal smile curling my lips. “And we start cutting until they give me her location.”
Camille
Darkness comes and goes.
Sometimes I’m floating. Sometimes I’m spinning. There’s a rhythmic pounding behind my eyes that won’t stop. My wrists hurt. My throat’s dry. I feel weightless and heavy at the same time.
The floor beneath me vibrates…metal. I’m in a van or something like it, and the air smells like salt, fuel, and mold.
My head lolls to the side.
Two men sit near the back doors, neither looking at me, both armed.
I try to speak, but my voice cracks like sandpaper.
My stomach turns violently, part nausea, part adrenaline, part something else that’s been building for days now. I curl my hand toward my stomach instinctively.
And for the first time in my life, I think: Please. Let Kane find me.
Because if anyone can tear the world apart to bring me home…
It’s him.
***
The van jerks to a stop.
Gravel crunches, metal grinds, then silence drops over everything like a curtain, smothering and absolute.
I suck in a breath, heart hammering violently in my chest, pulse roaring loud enough to make me dizzy. My wrists scream raw beneath the zip ties, skin rubbed bloody. My limbs feel numb, heavy, as if I’ve been bound for days.
A sharp bang echoes. Doors slam open. Footsteps, cold, purposeful, military-precise approach. My stomach knots tighter, my throat dry with dread.
The rear doors swing wide.
Sunlight crashes in, blinding, burning. I squint hard, eyes watering fiercely. Before I can adjust, a silhouette fills the doorway, olive skin, hard lines, ink crawling up his neck like a coiled serpent. His grip on my arm is brutal as he yanks me forward.
I stumble out, knees buckling onto rocky ground, wincing as pain jolts up my spine.
Saltwater stings my nostrils. We’re near the ocean, some hidden dockyard, isolated, fortified.
Temporary fencing, razor-wire, half-rusted shipping containers.
Guards in tactical gear flank the entry.
Guns on hips, rifles slung loose. One man twists a blade casually between calloused fingers, sunlight glinting off the edge.
They shove me forward, through metal doors, into darkness that swallows the sun.
Cold, damp air, smelling faintly of diesel and salt, curls around me, chilling my bones.
I stumble again, rough hands shove me upright, deeper into the space, toward a single chair bolted to the center of a barren concrete floor.
A figure waits in shadow.
Rojas.
He lounges casually, ankles crossed, a crystal glass of whiskey glinting amber in his grip. Crisp shirt, impeccable suit jacket, his dark eyes glittering calmly, as if my kidnapping was just another tedious task on his agenda.
His gaze flickers lazily over me. “I wondered if you’d ever wake up.”
My throat is sandpaper, raw from screaming, lips cracked. “Go to hell.”
His smile sharpens, humorless. “Oh, Camille. We’re already there.”
A single nod. One of his men slices through the zip tie, releasing my wrists. Pain and relief rush in, sudden and overwhelming. I rub the bruised, angry-red skin, willing my trembling hands still, refusing to show weakness.
I meet his stare evenly. “What do you want from me?”
“From you?” He takes a slow sip, ice clinking softly. “Nothing complicated. I want Kane Rivera to suffer. And you, well, you’re the perfect blade for the cut.”
A chill spiders down my spine. “You’re wrong. I’m not his weakness.”
He chuckles softly, dangerously. “No. You’re much worse. You’re the obsession he can’t control, the reason he’ll finally choke on his blood.”
My breath catches, heart faltering before hammering even faster. “You don’t know him.”
“Oh, I do.” His voice is velvet and venom. “And I know men like him only fall when they love something enough to kill for it.”
He sets down his glass, leaning forward slowly, gaze locked onto mine like a predator sizing up wounded prey.
“Tell me, Camille,” he whispers silkily, “how long do you think it’ll take to break him…once he sees what I’ve done to you?”
Kane
The map sprawled across the SUV hood is meaningless now.
A blur of red entry points, grainy surveillance stills, and satellite images flicker in my periphery like noise behind the only thing that matters:
Camille.
Javi’s briefing sounds distant. Joaquin’s voice, tight with tension, clips through updates I barely register. Every cell in my body is burning with restraint I can no longer hold.
“She’s in the northeast quadrant,” Javi says. “No movement in the last twenty minutes.”
My jaw tightens. Muscles coil beneath my skin, the silence too deep, too artificial. This isn’t caution, this is theater. A carefully staged invitation, laid out in blood and razor-wire, daring me to step into their trap.
They want me to see.
And they think I’m weak enough to hesitate.
“Breaching from the ground will get us slaughtered,” Joaquin growls from beside me, eyes dark and narrow, voice raw from pain. “They’ve reinforced every entrance, every wall. They’ve fortified their position.
“So have I,” I say coldly, my voice stripped of mercy, quiet enough to carve bone.
I feel their eyes slide to me, wary. Waiting.
But my silence isn’t fear, it’s calculation. Ruthless, surgical. Because this isn’t a rescue. This isn’t mercy. This is execution, carved deep into every breath I take.
I methodically check both Glocks, the weapons slick and cold against my palms. Two extra mags slide into my vest pockets, metal scraping softly in deadly promise. My tactical knife presses against my ribs, sharp, impatient for blood.
My pulse doesn’t speed up, it slows, deadly calm.
“Five minutes,” I order, my voice steel, every syllable cut sharp. “I go in first, alone. Wait for my signal. If shit goes sideways, you level this place and kill every last living thing.”
They nod grimly.
Javi’s eyes flicker toward the horizon, mouth a tight, grim line. “God help them.”
He won’t.