CHAPTER 23
MARGARITA
The blast doesn't just register in my ears.
It hits my teeth. It shatters the air pressure in the small cabin, instantly sucking the oxygen out of my lungs and replacing it with a roar so deafening it feels physical.
The flashbang detonates in a vacuum of searing white heat.
I am thrown backward off my feet before my brain even processes the threat, my spine slamming hard against the rusted iron edge of the bunk frame.
I slide down to the deck like a puppet with cut strings.
Everything went white. Total sensory deprivation.
My clinical mind immediately tries to run a diagnostic on my body—checking for shrapnel, concussive trauma, ruptured eardrums—but the high-pitched ringing in my skull drowns out every logical thought.
I frantically blink, trying to clear the dancing white afterimages that look exactly like static on a broken television screen.
The smell of ozone and burnt magnesium floods my nose, overpowering the stale diesel and copper of the ship.
The metal floor vibrates with a low, terrifying hum beneath me.
Through the shattered porthole, a sudden, sharp gust of freezing rain slaps my face.
I couldn't even hear my own scream. I wonder if I’ve gone permanently blind.
It’s a surgeon’s absolute worst nightmare, being plunged into the dark.
Move, Margarita. Move! My brain screams the order but my limbs are operating on a ten-second delay.
I try to push myself up off the deck, but my equilibrium is completely trashed.
The entire world tilts violently to the left.
I scrape my fingernails against the rusted floor, the gritty texture packing under my nails as I try to find some kind of purchase while the room spins like a goddamn top.
Through the crushing tinnitus, I feel it.
The heavy, rhythmic vibration of boots hitting the metal plates out in the corridor. Too many boots. That’s not Damon.
They're coming.
A sharp spike of panic hits me right in the chest, entirely because of the missing weight of Damon’s massive body standing between me and the door. He’s not shielding me. I taste raw copper in my mouth, biting my own tongue in the fall.
The cabin door doesn't just open; it gets kicked entirely off its hinges.
The heavy steel crashes to the floor with a muffled clang that I feel more than hear.
Three shadows move through the lingering gray smoke of the flashbang.
They are tactical, efficient, heavily armed, and silhouetted by the sickly yellow emergency light from the hallway.
"Secure the asset!" one of them barks, his voice sounding like he's underwater. "Where's the girl?"
A piece of glass from the shattered porthole crunches under a mercenary's heavy combat boot.
That tiny, sharp sound cuts straight through the ringing in my ear.
A tactical flashlight beam sweeps violently across the room, blinding me all over again.
The distinct smell of damp wool, sweat, and heavy gun oil hits me.
They don't see a person. I'm just an asset to them.
Fucking luggage to be secured and transported.
A mercenary lunges at me before I can even get my knees under me.
He grabs me by the bicep, his massive hand hauling me upward with bruising, impersonal force.
It is a sharp, violating contrast to Damon's touch.
Damon is possessive, aggressive, territorial as hell, but this guy is just handling me like dead weight.
"Get your hands off me!" I scream, my voice raw and cracking. "Don't touch her!"
I kick out blindly with my heavy combat boot, feeling the solid connection against his shin.
He grunts but doesn't let go. I twist my arm violently, throwing my face forward, and clamp my teeth down hard on the hand wrapped around my arm. My teeth graze the rough, abrasive fabric of his tactical glove, catching skin and Cordura. The man’s heavy, stale breath blasts across my face, smelling like stale coffee and nicotine.
The heat of my own absolute rage is the only thing burning away the fog from the flashbang.
And then the fucking monster wakes up.
Damon erupts from the gray smoke on the other side of the cabin.
He doesn't even bother drawing his weapon.
He uses his entire massive body like a blunt force instrument.
He catches the first man by the throat, lifting him an inch off the deck, and slams him into the steel bulkhead with a sickening wet thud.
"I'll kill you all!" he roars.
It’s not a human sound. It’s a guttural, feral snarl pulled straight from the deepest, darkest part of his chest. His eyes are wide, the pupils blown so huge they look completely black in the flickering light.
He looks like a literal demon. He isn't fighting for territory or syndicate politics right now; he's fighting for me.
The metal bulkhead buckles inward under the force of the impact.
A spray of hot red blood hits the peeling gray paint.
"Damon, watch out!" I scream, though he definitely can't hear me over the chaos.
But he's not invincible. He's bleeding, exhausted, and the fishing line stitches I put in his side a few hours ago are barely holding him together.
He takes a heavy, brutal blow to the ribs—right on the exact side I just patched.
He staggers. His breath hitches audibly.
He winces, his massive hand instinctively clutching his side for a fraction of a second.
It's a tiny opening, but these guys are pros and they exploit it immediately.
"He's hit in the liver!" one of them yells. "Go for his side!"
Damon doesn't stay down. He swings wildly, breaking a man's jaw with a devastating backhand that sends bloody teeth skittering across the metal deck like spilled dice.
The heavy boots shuffle and stomp around us.
The rhythmic thwack of fists on bone fills the tiny space.
I can smell fresh blood mixing with the heavy diesel fumes.
I literally feel the phantom snap of my own stitches giving way inside him, and it feels like my own heart is tearing open.
The man holding me uses Damon's distraction to yank me hard toward the door. I dig my heels in. My combat boots screech against the metal floor. I am not running away. If I leave this room, I lose him. I can't lose him.
"Let me go!"
I grab onto the doorframe with my free hand. My knuckles turn instantly white as I anchor my entire body weight against the mercenary's strength.
"Damon!"
The vibration of the fighting shakes the entire ship.
The freezing rain hits my back as we reach the threshold of the cabin.
The mercenary turns his head for a split second, distracted by Damon roaring as he snaps another guy's arm like a dry branch. The grip on my jacket loosens just a fraction. That’s all I need.
My right hand dives into my oversized pocket, my fingers searching for the heavy weight of the tactical knife Damon forced into my hand earlier.
My fingers brush against the cold steel of the hilt.
My pulse hammers against the tips of my fingers so hard it hurts.
"Not today, bastard."
"Margarita, stay back!" Damon yells from across the room, but I’m not listening.
I grip the knurled texture of the handle. I remember his voice in the dark. Don't hesitate.
The mercenary realizes what I'm doing. His eyes snap back to me, furious.
"You want to play, little doctor?" he snarls. "Drop the knife!"
Instead of wrestling for my arm, he snatches a massive fistful of my dark hair.
He yanks my head back so violently my neck actually cracks.
Searing tears of immediate pain spring to my eyes, blurring my vision.
He twists my hair around his fist, using it to physically pull me off my feet.
The stinging pain in my scalp is blinding.
I can smell his tobacco-stained breath. He’s trying to torture me into submission, trying to use pain to control me, but it does the exact opposite.
The pain is a catalyst. It instantly converts all my blind panic into cold, clinical, lethal intent.
I don't drop the knife. I twist my body, using the bastard's grip on my hair as a fucking fulcrum. I thrust the blade upward with every single ounce of strength I possess.
"I know exactly where your carotid is," I hiss through my teeth. "Die."
I aim for the soft, vulnerable space right beneath the jawline.
I’ve studied this anatomy for years. I know exactly how to save a life, which means I know exactly how to end one.
I feel the sickening, tight resistance of his skin pop as the blade sinks in.
It glides through muscle and artery all the way to the hilt.
It’s so much easier than I thought it would be.
That is the most terrifying part. A sudden, hot gush of arterial blood drenches my hand instantly, hot and sticky.
The man lets out a wet, horrific gurgling sound. His eyes go wide and flat, the life leaving them in real time. His heavy grip on my hair relaxes. He stumbles backward, both hands flying to his throat as rhythmic arterial spray paints the rusted wall red.
"Oh god," I whisper, staring at my hand. "I did it."
I watch a single drop of thick blood slide down the steel blade of the knife. My fingers go numb and I drop the weapon in shock. It hits the deck with a clatter. His heavy body hits the floor with a wet thud. The asset just became a killer.