CHAPTER 22
DAMON
My eyes snap open and the fever haze is just fucking gone, replaced by a freezing absolute clarity that hits my brain like a spike of ice.
I don't sit up immediately. I go perfectly still, letting my body catalog the faint, almost imperceptible vibration running through the rusted iron hull beneath us. The goddamn beans are still warm in my stomach, a pathetic little reminder of the humanity I almost had for an hour, the quiet domestic bullshit that always precedes a bloodbath. I feel Margarita’s shallow, even breathing right beside me, the rise and fall of her chest against the tarp.
I reach out in the dark and press my heavy hand hard against her shoulder, pinning her flat to the ground to keep her silent, my fingers digging into her collarbone.
"Don't move," I breathe out, my voice barely a scrape against the silence. "Keep your mouth shut and breathe through your nose. They're here."
My fingers twitch rhythmically against the cold, filthy floorboards, feeling for the specific frequency of footsteps on the main deck above us.
The air down here is foul, smelling like cold iron and the rhythmic drip of condensation, but through it all, I hear it.
A distinct, metallic clink. It’s the sound of a metal tactical sling buckle hitting a steel railing.
Random fucking scavengers don't carry weapon slings. They carry crowbars and baseball bats. This is a coordinated team. I start calculating the time it would take for a four-man stack to descend the main hatch, grading their silence in my head. They’re good, moving light, but they’re not good enough to hide from a man who practically lives in the fucking dark.
I slowly lick my dry lips, tasting the salt of my own sweat and the copper of my healing wounds.
"Two of them. Maybe three on the perimeter," I mutter, keeping my mouth inches from Margarita's ear. "They’re moving in a diamond formation. Professionals."
The logic forms a straight, undeniable line in my skull and it pisses me off so badly my vision swims. Only one man on this entire shithole planet knew the GPS coordinates of this blind-drop safehouse.
Cole. My jaw sets so hard I can feel the teeth aching in my gums, the icy realization settling into my gut and making the stale air in the hold feel suddenly thinner.
Cole sold the fucking keys to the house.
The betrayal isn't just a business move, it’s an assault on the only place I finally felt like I could close my goddamn eyes without a gun in my hand, the one place I thought I could keep her safe for a minute.
I squeeze a handful of the dusty tarp until my knuckles turn white and the joints pop like firecrackers.
I blame myself. I got soft, letting the fucking fever and the woman distract me from the absolute viper living in my own camp.
"Cole sold the keys to the house," I growl, the rage battling with the sheer necessity of surviving the next five minutes. "I’m going to peel the skin off his face for this. Trust is a luxury I shouldn't have afforded."
I roll to my knees, a guttural groan ripping up my throat before I can choke it down.
The stitches in my side pull like white-hot wires, the cheap fishing line Margarita used threatening to slice straight through my skin and spill my guts onto the floor.
I force myself to stand, grabbing a rusted support pillar for leverage, the sharp, acrid smell of old diesel cutting through the stale air as a flash of white pain bursts behind my eyes.
I press a flat palm against my bandage, feeling for fresh wetness, checking if I’m already bleeding through.
My body is a massive liability right now, every movement a gamble with a hemorrhage, and I hate that she has to see me weak, stumbling like a wounded dog, but then I look at her and I love the way she watches me—like I’m still the most dangerous fucking thing in the room.
"Get up, Margarita," I say, my voice steadying out. "Fever’s gone. Only lead matters now. If I fall, you keep moving. You don't look back."
Instead of cowering or freezing like a normal person, Margarita is already moving.
She doesn't panic. She catalogs the items in our miserable little circle, her eyes darting from the empty tin can to the medical kit to her heavy boots. She wipes a smudge of black grease from her forehead with the back of her bloody hand and yanks her laces tight with a savage jerk that tells me she’s not a victim anymore.
She’s an asset. The surgeon is dying right in front of me and the partner is being born, and it’s exactly what I wanted, yet it haunts the shit out of me because there is no turning back from the monster I'm turning her into.
"Where are the guns, Damon?" she asks, her voice dead-calm, the rasp of her laces against the leather cutting the silence. "I'm not leaving you behind. Tell me what to do."
I move toward a section of the floorboards where the rust is slightly disturbed, counting the rivets from the bulkhead—four down, three across.
I drop into a low crouch, my movements tight and efficient despite the tearing pain in my side.
This ship is a fucking tomb, and I just have to make sure it's their tomb, not ours.
I pull a flat pocket screwdriver from my pants and pry at the edge of the metal plate, holding the breath in my lungs to keep my hands steady.
"Stay in the shadow of the pillar," I instruct her, keeping my eyes glued to the dark corridor. "Count to ten. If I’m not up, run for the bilge."
I haul the heavy metal plate up, revealing an oilskin-wrapped bundle shoved into the damp earth beneath the floorboards.
I drag it out, the weight of it heavy and promising in my hands.
I unwrap the thick material with quick, jerky movements, exposing the dark, matte finish of steel and lead.
It’s a pathetic little arsenal. A Glock 17, two extra magazines, and a heavy serrated combat knife.
It’s not enough to fight a goddamn war, but it's enough to blast a hole through whoever comes down that hatch.
I rub a layer of protective oil off the slide of the Glock with my thumb, the slick feel of it grounding me.
"Found it," I tell her, the heavy thud of the bundle hitting the floor sounding like a drumbeat. "Old friend. New problems."
I slam a magazine into the grip of the Glock.
The harsh, mechanical clack of the seat is the loudest fucking thing in the world, ringing off the steel walls.
I rack the slide, chambering a round, the sharp metallic snap echoing through the hold.
It’s a definitive end to our period of hiding, a loud broadcast to the assholes upstairs that we're armed and ready to make them bleed.
I check the chamber, seeing the brass of the 9mm round glinting in the dim, pathetic light.
"They heard that," I say, toggling the safety off with my thumb. "Clock’s ticking now."
I turn to Margarita, but I don't hand her the gun. I know her hands might shake with a trigger, I know the recoil might throw her aim, but I’ve seen her work a scalpel under pressure.
I flip the heavy combat knife, catching it by the flat of the blade, and offer her the G10 hilt.
I wait for her to take it, watching her face.
This is it. This is the moment her soul officially becomes part of my fucked-up world, the moment I ruin her forever, and I’d do it a thousand times over just to keep her breathing.
My fingers linger against hers, the heat of my skin burning into hers as she wraps her hand around the grip.
"You know where the arteries are," I tell her, my voice dark and flat. "This isn't for surgery, Margarita. Take it. Grip it until your palm bleeds."
I lean in close, my free hand cupping the back of her neck, pulling her forehead firmly against mine. Her skin is cold but her eyes are a storm. My voice is a low vibration right against her ear, demanding a silent, blood-soaked oath.
"If they get close, you don't think. You don't scream," I tell her, my hot breath washing over her face. "You just sink that steel into their throat and pull. Don't look at their eyes. Just the throat. Remember? The carotid. Be the monster I know you are."
Margarita gives a single, sharp nod against my forehead.
Her eyes aren't wide with fear anymore, they are narrowed, hyper-focused, absolutely clinical.
She tests the weight of the knife in her hand, shifting her stance, her knuckles whitening as she locks in her grip.
She looks like a queen of the damned. My fucking queen.
"I've got it," she says, her voice stripped of any hesitation. "Let them come."
A heavy thud sounds directly overhead, vibrating the dust off the ceiling.
It’s followed instantly by the rapid scrape of boots sliding down a metal ladder.
They’re coming down, but not through the main hatch—they're using the secondary service entrance.
The bastards are trying to flank us, cutting off the main artery.
I raise the Glock, my elbow locked tight, my focus shifting instantly to the deep shadows of the aft corridor.
"Move. Now," I snap. "Stay on my hip."
I gesture toward the maintenance tunnels and start moving, my predatory grace coming back to me despite the limp dragging at my right leg.
The tunnels are narrow, claustrophobic death traps of rusted pipes and low-ceilinged hallways that smell like a century of rotting neglect and stale water.
I use my heavy shoulder to push open a sticking steel door, wincing internally as the hinges screech against the rust.
"Watch your head," I tell her, sweeping the barrel of the Glock across the empty space. "Follow the red pipes. They lead to the engine room."