Chapter 18 Max #2
“Red’s gonna need to make some space in his warehouse ’cause we found the rest of their stock,” Sam says. “We’ll stay here in case more surprises are waiting for us. Unless you guys need our help—“
“We’re fine,” I say through clenched teeth. “Should be able to regroup in ten.”
A bloodbath greets me as I enter the cabin. Logan looms over the last living guy who holds his bleeding arm, and I bet he wishes Logan had aimed at his head instead. If he doesn’t, he’s going to wish for it in approximately two seconds.
The man tries to crawl away until Logan stops the sad attempt by stepping over him. Gently, he nudges his face with the muzzle of his rifle.
“How many?”
“Son of a bitch,” the guy spits out. Logan laughs, which seems to agitate the man. “Do you think I’d fire at my own fucking men?”
“Not the answer to my question,” Logan says with a sigh, his foot hovering over the man’s shoulder. “Is there something wrong with the way I phrase my questions lately, sunshine? Or are people just getting dumber?”
He steps down hard, and the man lets out a scream so loud I’m sure even Sam and Rockwell heard it.
“How fucking many, asshole?”
When he doesn’t get an answer, Logan aims at the man’s forehead. “Got a rat in your team then.”
The guy pleads for his life in a way that forces me to swallow the lump in my throat.
“We should take him with us, maybe Red can—“
Bang.
“Was that necessary?” I ask, looking the other way.
“Necessary, and an act of mercy. At least I made it quick,” Logan says dryly. “Come on, let’s check if there are any left outside.”
We leave the cabin, and I remind myself to stay on Logan’s left side as we walk back up the hill.
“What is it with you today?” he asks, nudging my shoulder with his.
“The heat,” I groan, praying he doesn’t press the issue further.
Cautiously, I let my gaze wander over the thick greenery. I’m not convinced we got all of them because there’s no way in hell someone would try to hijack a transport like this one with just a handful of guys.
Logan is the first to reach the top of the slope, almost stumbling over the small pile of bodies.
“DEA?” he asks, unfazed.
“Yeah, because I would stand here all calm and collected after killing three DEA agents.”
“Why not?” He shrugs, and I shake my head in disbelief.
Logan turns the first dead body around, revealing a bullet hole right between the man’s eyebrows.
“Should be a sniper with that aim, sunshine.”
The guy couldn’t have been much older than me. I get to live another day, and he doesn’t; the fact that it could be my dead body lying somewhere becoming hauntingly prevalent in moments like these.
“Don’t you ever get tired of blowing up shit?”
I huff, almost offended by Logan’s question. I would rather work for HR than be a sniper. Too little movement, boring, and worst of all, no explosives.
“Please tell me you’re not stealing a dead man’s clothes,” I say when Logan pulls the guy’s shirt up.
“I’m checking them for tattoos, you idiot. Red’s gonna want to know who else knew about the shipment.”
While Logan is busy snapping pictures for Red, I try not to focus on my throbbing arm.
“And, who are they?” I ask when he shoves his phone back into his vest.
“Not my problem,” he replies.
His gaze lingers on me a second too long, eyes narrowing. He knows something is up, and my only luck is that he doesn’t know what exactly. Yet.
“Helo’s coming,” Rockwell calls for us over comms.
We continue our trek towards the clearing where one of Red’s men is supposed to pick us up, and Logan’s phone beeps with a new message.
“Goods are secured.”
“Does it never feel weird to you that we’re helping him with shit like this?”
“See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,” Logan responds. “Everyone involved in this business knows what they signed up for. And I’m not one to play moralizer, sunshine. Cantrell doesn’t give a fuck as long as Red stays out of Cali and Arizona, so why should I care?”
“Fair point,” I mumble as we reach the clearing where Sam and Rockwell are already boarding the helo.
The thing is tiny, and since the others were here first, I can’t choose where to sit. Which means I have the pleasure of sitting next to Sam. Sam, who makes a Dodge Ram look normal-sized when standing next to it.
He shifts in his seat, pressing me—and my injured arm—against the now closed door of the helo, and I bite down on my tongue so hard I taste blood.
“Sorry,” he says while his huge body still has me rendered immobile.
Every attempt of his to give me more space only does the exact opposite, and the minutes trickle by a second time today as I wait for us to touch down on Red’s property.
I’m the first who leaves the helicopter, with legs more shaky than I’d like them to be, and Sam’s bruising grip is what keeps me from landing face-first on the ground.
“Get your man some fucking sugar before he starts talking to a fucking palm tree, Cabrera,” Rockwell says, redirecting Logan’s attention from the pilot over to me.
“I’m fine,” I insist before rushing toward the patio doors.
Logan and I share a room, and in any other situation, I’d be damn happy he has to sleep next to me, but right now, it’s making everything complicated.
I jog over to the house, my vision blurring with every step I take. Not because of the wound but because I still remember vividly what happened the last time I got hurt on a mission. I am pretty sure Logan wouldn’t kill any of Red’s men in his fury, but there’s no need to find out.
When I turn around to check if Logan is still busy with the others, my gaze catches on something hiding in the thicket surrounding Red’s house. A pair of eyes glow down in the darkness the rainforest plants provide, and maybe Rockwell was right, and I really need some sugar.
I exhale deeply once I step into the house, only to run right into Red who came downstairs to check on us.
“You good?” he asks, squeezing my injured arm with a worried expression on his face.
I must have wronged someone in my past life. Maybe even an entire village.
“Sure, just need to take a fuckin’ piss,” I say as calmly as possible, adding a terrible, forced laugh.
Red lets go of my arm and ushers me toward the curved stairs. “We’ll talk later?”
I nod before I dart up the stairs and down the hallway until I reach our room. My heart races in my chest, relief flooding my body the moment I close the door behind me.
It doesn’t last long.
Just when I step inside the bathroom, the door opens. Heavy footsteps echo through the room, and I stop in my tracks.
“Where are you going? And in such a hurry, too. How impolite.”
Three seconds. That’s how long I give myself to get my face back under control. I turn around, and Logan looks at me just like he did in the jungle. With narrowed eyes, staring me down like he has laser vision.
“Can I have a minute to go to the toilet, or do I need a fucking permission slip?”
“You don’t need to piss,” he states.
“Aha.”
“You complained about your water tasting like shit, so you didn’t drink a lot.” He takes a step toward me, his eyes darkening. “Probably sweat out the amount you did drink.”
“So you’re monitoring my water intake now? What am I to you, a Tamagotchi?” Subtly, I try to inch closer to the bathroom without him noticing.
“No. Just an overgrown idiot who can’t take care of himself.”
“It’s getting ridiculous,” I groan. “I’m going to go to the fucking bathroom, end of discussion.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Logan snarls, and all of a sudden, he’s standing right in front of me.
The makeshift bandage slips, and when I catch myself glancing down at my arm, I realize the grave mistake I just made.