CHAPTER 34 Declan #2
Maeve stands in the center of the living room, the gun still raised, her chest heaving violently. The smoke swirls around her legs. She is staring at the body on the deck, her eyes wide, the reality of what she just did crashing down on her.
I drop my weapon.
I cross the room in three strides, ignoring the agonizing pain in my shoulder, and wrap my arms around her. I pull her flush against my chest, burying her face in my uninjured shoulder to block her view of the dead man.
She drops the gun. It hits the floor with a heavy thud.
Her hands come up to grip my tactical vest. She isn't crying. She is trembling so violently her teeth are chattering, her entire body vibrating with the shock of the adrenaline dump.
"I got him," she whispers, her voice completely fractured. "Declan, I got him."
"I know. I know you did." I press my mouth to the top of her head, my own breathing harsh and ragged. I close my eyes, burying my face in her hair, inhaling the scent of vanilla and burnt gunpowder. "You did perfectly. You held the line."
I hold her tightly, my right hand stroking the back of her head, anchoring her to the physical reality of my heartbeat. I need her to know that the violence she just committed wasn't a sin; it was the absolute necessity of survival.
"Are you hurt?" I ask, pulling back just enough to look at her face.
She shakes her head, her dark eyes searching mine. "No. Are you?"
She looks down, her gaze snagging on the dark, wet blood soaking the entire left side of my shirt and tactical vest. Her breath hitches.
"You tore the scar open," she says, her hands hovering over the wound, afraid to touch it.
"It's a secondary concern," I murmur.
I step back from her, forcing the protective instinct down so I can secure the perimeter. I walk over to the ruined window, kicking the shotgun away from the dead operative's hand. I look out over the deck. The ocean is calm. There are no more thermal signatures approaching the house.
The initial assault team is dead.
I turn back to the living room. "We need to clear the bodies and secure the breach. If they have a secondary team—"
A sharp burst of static cuts through the quiet room.
I freeze.
The sound isn't coming from the secure terminal on the desk. It is coming from the tactical radio clipped to the webbing of the dead operative lying on the deck.
I walk over to the body, crouching down, and pull the radio from the man’s vest.
I press the earpiece to my ear.
"Bravo team, report," a voice crackles over the frequency.
It is a voice speaking heavily accented English. A voice I recognize from the decrypted cartel intercepts. The regional commander.
Rafael Vargas.
My jaw locks. The blood in my veins turns to ice.
I press the transmit button on the side of the radio. I don't try to disguise my voice.
"Bravo team is dead, Vargas," I say, my tone a low, lethal promise. "And you are next."
A wet, coughing laugh echoes through the earpiece.
"Vance," Vargas wheezes. He sounds terrible. He sounds like a man running on painkillers and pure, vindictive spite. "I figured you'd handle the first wave. You always were an overachiever."
"Where are you?" I demand, my eyes scanning the dark tree line beyond the pool.
"I'm close," Vargas replies. The sound of a heavy metal door groaning open echoes in the background of his transmission.
"You know, I paid a lot of money for those blueprints Leo pulled.
The cartel's architects are very thorough.
They told me all about the subterranean armory you built under the cliff. "
The air leaves my lungs.
He isn't on the beach. He isn't on a boat.
He is under the house.
"You left the armory door unlocked, Declan," Vargas taunts, his voice echoing slightly in a cavernous space. "And you left a very impressive amount of C4 sitting on the workbench. It seems you took the rest of it to the airstrip."
I drop the radio.
I spin around, looking at Maeve. She is standing near the fireplace, watching me, the confusion evident on her face.
"We have to leave," I say, my voice rising in volume, completely abandoning any pretense of calm. "Now."
"What?" She takes a step toward me. "Declan, what's wrong?"
"Vargas is in the armory. He has the raw explosives." I grab her hand, pulling her toward the front door. "He is going to blow the foundation of the house."
The realization hits her, the color completely draining from her face.
We reach the heavy wooden door. I throw the deadbolts open, yanking the door wide.
We don't even make it across the threshold.
A massive, earth-shattering explosion detonates directly beneath our feet.
The sound is apocalyptic. The slate floor of the living room buckles violently, thrusting upward with the force of a localized earthquake. The massive stone fireplace—the anchor of the house—cracks down the middle with a deafening roar, raining heavy boulders onto the floor.
The shockwave hits us from below.
I throw my arms around Maeve, twisting my body to shield her from the debris as the floor gives way.
The world fractures into dust, noise, and falling stone.
And then, there is only darkness.