CHAPTER 35 Maeve
The world does not come back all at once.
It returns in fractured, agonizing pieces.
First, the suffocating smell of pulverized concrete and sulfur burning the inside of my nostrils.
Then, the heavy, gritty taste of drywall dust coating my tongue.
Finally, the absolute, crushing weight pressing down on my chest, making every attempt to draw a breath feel like inhaling broken glass.
My ears are ringing with a high-pitched, continuous whine that drowns out all other sound.
I open my eyes.
Complete darkness.
Panic, sharp and visceral, spikes in my blood. I try to move my arms, but they are pinned tightly against my sides. I try to shift my legs, but they are trapped beneath something immovable and heavy.
I am buried alive.
A ragged, desperate sob tears out of my throat, but the sound is muffled by the solid mass resting directly over my face.
I force my brain to stop. I force the chaotic, terrified animal inside me to freeze and assess the variables. I am an auditor. I look at the data.
The weight pressing down on me is heavy, but it is warm. It is rising and falling in a shallow, erratic rhythm. The smell of cedar and gun oil cuts through the thick dust.
It isn't a slab of concrete.
It is Declan.
The memory of the floor collapsing rushes back with violent clarity. He didn't try to jump clear. He didn't try to grab the doorframe. He threw his arms around me, twisted his body in mid-air, and took the entire impact of the fall and the collapsing stone fireplace directly onto his own back.
"Declan," I croak, my voice sounding like sandpaper.
He doesn't answer. The shallow rise and fall of his chest stutters, then resumes.
I push upward with everything I have. My hands are trapped between our bodies, but I manage to wedge my palms against his tactical vest. I shove hard.
He groans, a low, unconscious sound of pure agony, but his weight shifts just enough for me to slide my shoulders out from under him.
I scramble backward, my boots kicking against the loose debris.
A faint, pale beam of moonlight filters down through the jagged hole in the ceiling above us.
We fell straight through the living room floor and landed in the subterranean armory.
The reinforced steel racks broke our fall, creating a small, triangular pocket of space amidst the crushed stone and twisted metal.
I crawl back to Declan on my hands and knees, ignoring the sharp pieces of rock cutting into my palms.
He is lying on his side, half-buried under a massive slab of drywall and a shattered wooden beam.
His face is covered in a thick layer of gray dust. A dark, terrifying pool of blood is spreading rapidly across the concrete floor beneath his left shoulder.
The explosion tore the healed tissue completely open, and the impact of the fall likely ruptured the muscle entirely.
"Declan, hey. Look at me," I say, my hands frantically brushing the debris off his chest. "Wake up. Please, wake up."
His dark eyelashes flutter, but his eyes don't open. His skin is clammy, the heat draining out of him far too fast.
He is bleeding to death in the dark.
"No," I whisper, my voice cracking. "No, you don't get to do this. You promised me you would come back."
I grab the collar of his tactical vest, trying to pull him out from under the wooden beam, but he is dead weight. He is too heavy, and the beam is pinned under a pile of slate tiles.
I need leverage. I need a tourniquet.
I look around the ruined armory, my eyes adjusting to the dim moonlight. The weapon racks are completely crushed. The heavy olive-green crates of C4 are gone, vaporized in the blast.
A harsh, wet coughing sound echoes from the far side of the cavernous room.
I freeze.
The sound doesn't come from Declan. It comes from the shadows near the heavy steel door leading to the jungle path.
I slowly turn my head.
Through the haze of settling dust, I see a figure pinned beneath a collapsed section of the rock wall. The lower half of his body is completely crushed under the stone.
Rafael Vargas.
He triggered the explosives, but he didn't make it out the door in time. The shockwave caught him, bringing the roof of the cave down on top of him.
He is coughing up dark, thick blood, his hands weakly clawing at the massive boulder crushing his legs.
A cold, absolute stillness settles over my mind. The panic evaporates, leaving nothing but a sharp, lethal clarity.
Declan is bleeding out on the floor because of him. My life was destroyed because of him.
I look down at the rubble near my knees. The heavy Glock 19 I dropped when the floor gave way is resting half-buried in the dust, the matte-black metal reflecting the faint moonlight.
I reach down and pick it up.
It feels different in my hand this time. On the main floor, when I shot the cartel operative, the gun felt like a terrifying, alien object. Now, it feels like a tool. It feels like the only logical solution to a math problem that refuses to balance.
I stand up. My left leg protests, a sharp pain shooting up my calf, but I ignore it.
I walk across the ruined armory, my boots crunching loudly on the broken stone.
Vargas hears my footsteps. He stops clawing at the rock and turns his head, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He looks at me, taking in the dust covering my clothes and the heavy weapon in my right hand.
"The accountant," he wheezes, a bloody bubble popping on his lips.
I stop five feet away from him. I don't say anything. I just look at the man who put a price on my body, the man who sent killers to my island, the man who tried to bury me under a house.
"You... you survived," he gasps, a cruel, mocking disbelief in his voice. "Vance shielded you. Of course he did. The stupid, predictable dog."
I raise the Glock, pointing the muzzle directly at the center of his forehead.
Vargas flinches, his hands coming up weakly to shield his face.
"Wait," he chokes out, the arrogance finally cracking, replaced by raw, pathetic desperation. "Wait, Maeve. You aren't a killer. You're an accountant. You don't have it in you to execute a man in cold blood."
Aim for the center mass. Do not hesitate.
Declan’s voice echoes in my head, cold and precise.
"You're right," I say, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "I am an accountant."
I step closer, the barrel of the gun hovering two feet from his face.
"And you are a liability."
I pull the trigger.
The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space of the cave. The flash illuminates the dust in a bright, violent strobe.
Vargas's head snaps back against the stone. He doesn't move again.
I lower the weapon, my chest heaving, the smell of fresh gunpowder burning my lungs. I don't feel remorse. I don't feel the crushing weight of a moral boundary being crossed. I feel a profound, absolute relief.
The ledger is balanced. The file is closed.
I turn my back on his body and run across the rubble toward Declan.
I drop to my knees beside him, tossing the gun aside. I rip the heavy velcro straps of his tactical vest open, pulling the heavy ceramic plates off his chest to relieve the pressure on his lungs.
"Declan," I urge, pressing my hands against his pale face. "I need you to wake up. I need you to help me."
His chest rises in a sharp, ragged gasp. His dark eyes open, unfocused and cloudy with pain. He blinks, staring up at the jagged hole in the ceiling, before his gaze slowly shifts to my face.
"Maeve," he breathes, the word barely a sound.
"I'm here," I say, my voice breaking. "I'm right here. You're bleeding, Declan. I need to get this beam off you."
He tries to move his right arm, his fingers brushing against the dust on my cheek. He feels the dampness of the tears I didn't realize I was crying.
"You're crying," he observes, his voice thick and slurred.
"Because you dropped a house on us, you idiot," I sob, grabbing his hand and pressing it against my mouth. "Don't close your eyes. Look at me."
He forces his eyes to stay open, the dark obsidian locking onto my face. The lethal, controlled fixer is completely gone. He is just a broken man lying in the dark, using the last of his strength to verify that I am breathing.
"Vargas," Declan murmurs, his jaw tightening as he tries to look past me toward the heavy steel door.
"He's dead," I state firmly.
Declan’s eyes snap back to mine. The confusion in his gaze slowly clears, replaced by a dark, profound understanding. He smells the gunpowder on my clothes. He sees the absolute lack of hesitation in my eyes.
"You killed him," he says softly.
"He was a variable," I reply, echoing his own logic back to him. "I neutralized him."
A faint, bloody smile touches the corner of Declan’s mouth. The pride in his expression is terrifying and beautiful. He doesn't see a broken girl who lost her innocence. He sees an equal. He sees a partner who understands exactly what it takes to survive in his world.
"My chaotic girl," he whispers, his thumb stroking my cheekbone.
"Save your breath," I order, wiping my eyes with the back of my dusty sleeve. "I'm going to lift the beam. When I do, you have to roll toward me. Understand?"
He gives a single, minute nod.
I stand up, moving to the shattered wooden beam pinning his hip to the floor. I wedge my hands under the splintered wood, planting my boots firmly in the rubble.
I pull upward with everything I have. My muscles scream, my lower back burning with the strain. The beam groans, shifting an inch. Two inches.
"Now!" I scream.
Declan bites down on a harsh groan of agony, throwing his weight to the right. He rolls clear of the beam just as my grip fails and the wood crashes back down onto the concrete.
I collapse onto my knees beside him, gasping for air.
He is free, but the movement accelerated the bleeding in his shoulder. The dark pool on the floor is expanding.