Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
The tunnel stretches before us like a throat swallowing us whole. The air is damp and cool against my skin, carrying the smell of earth and something metallic.
I grip Naomi's hand tightly, her fingers interlaced with mine. I've never held on to anything so desperately in my life. My thumb traces small circles on her skin, a silent reassurance that I'm here, that I won't let go.
We don't speak. There's no need. Our footsteps and breathing create a rhythm that fills the narrow space. I strain my ears for sounds of pursuit, but there's nothing but our own breathing and footfalls.
After what feels like forever but is probably only twenty minutes, I spot a change in the quality of light ahead. Not the sickly yellow of the tunnel bulbs, but something warmer and more natural. Sunlight.
Unlike the entrance we used, there's no ladder here. Just an old wooden door, the planks cracked with age and warped from humidity. We approach cautiously, slowing our pace.
I press my ear against the rough surface, listening. Nothing. I turn to Naomi and find her already looking at me, her face half illuminated by the weak light.
We're inches apart. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of her breath on my face and see the few flecks that are darker blue in her eyes. Her lips are slightly parted, and the smudge of dirt across her cheek somehow makes her even prettier.
The rational part of my brain screams that we need to keep moving, that Logan could be right behind us, that danger waits on both sides of this door. But that voice is drowned out by the thundering of my heart.
I kiss her.
I kiss her because she’s still here. And I’m still here. I kiss her because almost losing her back there at the diner nearly broke me. I steal this kiss because I can, in this dark, liminal space between lands.
She kisses me back just as gratefully, her hands gripping my shirt, pulling me closer.
I only force myself to break away from Naomi when I hear a voice outside speaking rapid Spanish. I press my eye to a crack in the weathered door.
Just one guy. Young, maybe nineteen or twenty, leaning against a rusty pickup truck.
He's smoking a cigarette, talking into a cell phone.
His rifle is propped carelessly against the truck's fender.
The kid's clearly not expecting trouble from this side of the tunnel.
Makes sense. The American side needs layers of plausible deniability.
But here? The cartel probably controls everything for miles.
No one would interfere with their operation.
"One guard," I whisper to Naomi. "Armed but distracted."
I can feel her warmth behind me, her breath on my neck. "I'll take care of him," I say, already calculating the quickest way to neutralize the threat.
"Wait." Her hand catches my arm. "How?"
I don't answer, but she can read it in my face.
"He's just a kid, Walker."
"He's cartel."
"You don't know that. And even if he is, he could have been forced into this." Her eyes hold mine, unwavering. “I trust you. Trust me.”
Before I can continue arguing, Naomi steps back. In one fluid motion, she reaches under her tank top and unhooks her bra, sliding it off without removing her shirt. The sight makes my mouth go dry. Her nipples press against the thin fabric, hardened from our kiss or the cool tunnel air—or both.
"What are you doing?" I manage to ask.
"Creating a distraction." She tucks her bra into her back pocket. "When he's focused on me, you can get behind him."
Something primal and possessive roars to life inside me. I don't want this kid's eyes on her. I don't want anyone looking at her but me. It's irrational, primitive, and completely beyond my control.
"I don't like this," I growl.
“You won’t let anything happen to me,” she says with complete certainty, and a little challenge in her voice.
Naomi pushes the door open just enough to slip through. I watch through the crack as she stumbles into view, feigning disorientation. The guard straightens immediately, rifle forgotten as he takes in the sight of her, tank top clinging to her curves, her nipples still hard despite the heat.
She speaks to him in Spanish, her voice breathy and frightened. I can't make out the words, but her body language tells the only story he’s interested in.
The kid is completely captivated. Who wouldn't be? He steps toward her, his back to the door, hands gesturing as he responds.
I slip out silently, closing the distance in four long strides. The guard senses me a second too late. I wrap my arm around his throat in a practiced hold, cutting off blood flow to his brain. He struggles briefly before going limp.
"He'll be unconscious for a few minutes," I tell Naomi as I lower him gently to the ground. "That's it."
Relief flashes across her face. She grabs the keys from his pocket while I take his weapon and destroy his phone.
"Let's go," I say, sliding behind the wheel of the pickup. The engine coughs to life on the second try.
As we pull away, dust billowing behind us, I glance at Naomi. She's looking straight ahead; her profile etched against the harsh Mexican sun.
There’s a lot to talk about. To debrief. About Logan. About what happened. About how close we came to losing. How we actually won. How we have the evidence we need. About what our next steps need to be.
But we don’t say anything.
I have one hand on the steering wheel and the other on her leg. Her hands are wrapped around my arm.
And that’s how we drive, in silence, through the Mexican countryside, taking backroads whenever possible. I'm guided by the sun's position and the distant silhouette of mountains on the horizon. I know exactly where we're heading: La Pesca Azul, a small fishing village on the Pacific coast.
Years ago, I spent time here. When I first left my team and tried to disappear. The locals asked no questions, took my money, and didn’t wonder too hard what the gringo was doing here. It was beautiful and calm, but there were still too many people.
Naomi doesn't ask where we're going, and I don't volunteer the information.
The silence between us isn't uncomfortable.
It's charged, electric. Every bump in the road that brings her shoulder against mine sends a current through my body.
At some point, she leans into me, her head resting against my arm as I drive.
Her weight, the warmth, nearly undoes me.
I wonder if she can feel it too, the force that binds us, knitting us together even tighter. It's become a physical force, pulsating in the truck cab's small space.
The afternoon sun is no less harsh than the morning one when we finally reach La Pesca Azul.
The village looks much the same—a collection of weathered buildings clinging to the edge of the continent, the endless Pacific stretching beyond.
Time feels like it moves differently here, measured by the pull of the moon rather than the light of the sun.
I park the truck behind an abandoned fish processing plant, and we continue on foot.
I speak to an older man mending nets, my Spanish accented but easy.
The older man directs us to a vacant bungalow at the edge of the beach.
No one's lived there for years, he tells me, but the roof doesn't leak much.
The bungalow is small. There’s one room with a sagging bed, a kitchenette with rusted appliances, and windows cloudy with salt. The paint is peeling. But the view of the ocean is beautiful.
It's perfect.
I should be hungry. We haven't eaten since the diner.
But food is the furthest thing from my mind as I watch Naomi step onto the small porch.
She stands silhouetted against the setting sun, its dying light turning her skin golden.
The sea breeze playing with her hair, lifting it gently from her shoulders.
When she turns to look at me, I see my own hunger reflected in her eyes, not for food neither. Hunger for me.
I cross the distance between us in three strides. My hands find her face, cradling it like something precious and fragile. The kiss softens. It’s not like the others. It’s not for show. Or desperate. Or stolen in the dark.
It’s slow. Soft. Not a plea but an offering.
My lips move against hers, asking for everything and giving all. My hands slide into her hair, down her back, pulling her against me as if I could merge our bodies through will alone.
And Naomi answers. Her arms wrap around my neck, her body arching into mine. She kisses me back with equal fervor, equal need, equal hunger.
For the first time since I became what I am, I feel human. Completely, devastatingly human.
Our hands work in tandem, as a team, stripping each other of our clothes.
This time, we take our time. I take every possible moment to drink her in.
Her body is gorgeous, every curve and line a testament to her strength, grace, and beauty.
I trail kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, lavishing attention on her breasts, her stomach, every inch of her.
She trembles beneath my touch, her breath coming in short gasps. I can feel the heat radiating from her, the dampness between her legs. I'm rock hard and aching with need. We can't wait any longer.
We make our way to the bed. She gets on all fours without my prompting, and I follow her lead. I notch myself at her entrance, pausing for a moment. She pushes her hips back, rubbing her pussy on my cock, whining a little that I haven’t entered her.
So I do.
I grab a fistful of her hair, not pulling but holding. I don’t pound into her. I move in and out of her like the ocean waves outside—slow and deliberate, forceful and deep.
She opens further, craning her neck back, and I tug on her hair slightly.
That causes her to moan. “Faster,” she begs.
I begin to move quicker, each thrust more intense than the last. She’s so warm and wet.
I’m not the ocean. She is. I’m submerged in her, and I can barely keep from drowning in her pleasure.
Her moans climb in tone and intensity with every thrust, encouraging me to go harder.
What started as tender morphs into raw, dripping, sweat-soaked passion.
Our bodies slap together, the sound echoing through the small bungalow.
Naomi digs her nails into my ass, urging me on.
Faster. Harder. Deeper. I fist her hair harder, my teeth on her shoulder.
The room fills with the scent of sex and the sound of our ragged breaths.
If she made me feel human before, she makes me feel like an animal now.
Every nerve in my body is on fire, every sense heightened.
I can feel her tightening around me, her body trembling with the force of her impending release.
"Walker," she gasps.
I thrust harder, deeper, giving her everything I have.
She cries out, her body convulsing around me as she orgasms. The sight of her, the feel of her, pushes me over the edge.
I spill into her, my release ripping through me like wildfire.
Our mouths swallow each other's cries of pleasure, our bodies locked together.
In the aftermath, we lie entwined, the world outside forgotten. For a moment, spent and holding her, finally becoming one with her, I feel at peace.
But the euphoria fades quickly, replaced by something heavier, darker. The weight of my guilt presses down on me like the suffocating heat that hangs in the air of our little bungalow.
What have I done?
I stare at the ceiling, watching the lazy rotation of shadows cast by the ceiling fan. My mind races with all the reasons this was a mistake. Logan's appearance changes everything—makes this infinitely more dangerous than I'd calculated.
Logan. The most sadistic member of our team. The man who burned women and children alive without blinking. And now he's hunting us.
I shouldn't have touched her. I shouldn't have kissed her. I definitely shouldn't have made love to her. I've painted a target on her back even bigger than the one she already had.
"Sleep here. With me," Naomi says, her voice barely above a whisper.
I turn toward her. Her hand finds my cheek, warm and soft against the roughness of my beard. Her eyes are open, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache. There's no regret there, only a quiet plea.
"Please," she adds.
"Of course," I answer, though I shouldn't. I shouldn't have done any of this. But I can't deny her anything. Not her safety, not my protection, not my body. And not my heart, though I've tried to convince myself otherwise.
I gather her against me, tucking her head beneath my chin. Her naked body fits perfectly against mine, like she was made to be there. Her breath tickles my chest, and she relaxes into sleep almost immediately, spent from our lovemaking and our escape.
I stay awake, listening to the rhythm of her breathing and the near crash of waves. My fingers trace idle patterns on her skin, memorizing every curve, every dip. Cataloging her like I'm afraid she'll disappear.
Logan will never take her from me. I can promise that. But maybe… maybe, when this is all over, she'll look at me and see what I really am—a weapon, a killer, a monster wrapped in human skin—and she'll walk away on her own.
But for tonight, she's mine. And I'm hers.