Chapter 17

17

Rogue

T he next time Rogue woke up, he was no longer in the cell. He was somewhere between the main house and the driveway, his arms stretched out against the sides of a square wooden frame that hadn’t been there before.

His heartbeat kicked up a notch as he realized this time they’d tied his wrists with ropes, rather than chains. Here, finally, was something he could turn to his advantage. He rubbed his raw wrists against the rope, gritting his teeth against the pain, and looked around him.

The sun was high again. He wasn’t sure what day it was, or how much time had gone by since Bea had come to see him. Her visit was the last thing he remembered—though at times he wondered if he’d made it up.

Eventually, he’d faded into a kind of dreamless sleep, one plagued by nightmarish fears—that Cruz would come back and inject him with more drugs or, even worse, that Bea would be discovered and locked inside with him. That she would be tortured in front of him.

Rogue moved his head from side to side, trying to see through his blind spot, since his left eye was still swollen shut.

“Ah, you’re awake. Just in time.” Oscar Aguilar was dressed in black, as usual, but he’d changed into what looked like a new suit.

Not a good sign.

Rogue didn’t bother replying. He followed with his head as Aguilar turned to look at the door of the main house, just in time to see Cruz step outside, pulling Bea along with him. She was stuck wearing a white, puffy dress that looked like it’d been made with someone much larger in mind. It made her look even younger than she was. Fragile, even, though Rogue had seen her trek through the jungle and knew she was anything but.

Bea stepped on the hem of her too-long gown, almost losing her footing. Cruz pulled her upright again with a curse, propelling her ahead of him down the steps and onto the driveway. Her already pasty skin paled further as she caught sight of Rogue, until it was almost the color of the dress.

Wedding gown. It’s a wedding gown.

Rogue’s insides knotted.

The sound of a fast-approaching car had him looking back. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at a dusty dark sedan making its way down the long, winding driveway.

“The priest. Finally.” Aguilar smiled widely.

No. This couldn’t happen. If he let Aguilar take Bea away, he’d never see her again. Rogue rubbed his wrists against the ropes. He couldn’t let this farce of a wedding take place.

The car stopped, covering Rogue in a layer of dust. He coughed to get it out of his lungs. The driver, a stocky man with a black mustache, nodded to Aguilar and Cruz briefly before stepping to open the back door.

The priest unfolded himself out of the car, moving slowly, as if he didn’t fully trust his knees. He was an older, distinguished gentleman, with a full head of snow-white hair.

Though Rogue was closest to him, the priest was careful not to make eye contact with him as he headed straight for Cruz and Aguilar.

There’s a reason he’s reached a ripe old age, and it’s not by being stupid.

The priest opened his arms wide to encompass both Cruz and Aguilar.

“My children,” he began.

“ Padre Amador. ”

“ Gracias por venir, Padre. ”

“I take it today is a day for celebration,” the priest said mildly. If he noticed the tightness of Cruz’s grip on Bea’s upper arm, or the pinched look in her face, he didn’t say anything.

“Get everything ready for the wedding, Padre ,” Aguilar said brusquely.

“Father Nick,” the priest said. It was then Rogue noticed there was a second man in the car. His cassock was short, so as he set his feet on the ground Rogue could see most of his thick black boots. Thick black boots much like the ones that had been stolen from him.

Rogue blinked with his good eye. He forced himself to look up, straight into Slate’s bright blue stare. Rogue almost passed out, the relief at seeing the ex-Navy Seal was so strong. How the hell did Slate convince the priest to let him come?

Rogue pushed the irrelevant thought back. The only thing that mattered was, he was no longer alone. If Slate was here, the rest of his team couldn’t be far behind. Whatever happened now, his team would get Bea out of here.

Slate stepped out of the car, his eyes looking right past Rogue, much as the priest had done. For a man who was pushing six-five, he sure was able to make himself smaller. He kept his huge shoulders hunched and rounded, his head down so the white Roman collar around his neck was barely visible.

Slate stopped a few feet away from the older priest, his body language deferential.

“Who is this?” Aguilar barked out.

“Father Nick is a young priest training with me, Senor Aguilar.”

“American?” Cruz’s lips curled in distaste.

“Not many young Colombians willing to do the job these days. I need all the help I can get.”

“ Malditos americanos. ” This time it came from Aguilar. The dumb, pleasant expression on Slate’s face didn’t change. “Let’s get on with it. I want to be married and out of here by noon,” Aguilar spat out.

“ ?Aquí? ” The priest’s eyes bulged as he looked around.

“You have a problem with that, Padre ?”

The priest’s mouth opened and shut several times, like a fish out of water. He was clearly terrified of Aguilar. “No, no, hijo mío ,” He said quickly. “In the eyes of the Lord, the location doesn’t matter. Only love matters.” Bea gave a small whimper of distress.

Rogue tugged harder on the rope holding his wrists fast. Blood dripped down his arm, and for that he was grateful, knowing it would make the rope slide easier.

Two of Cruz’s men carried an ornate wooden table from inside the house. Slate went back to the car, coming back with an altar cloth, a small crucifix, a pair of silver candles, a well-used Bible, and a chalice. Rogue was surprised Slate was not only familiar with the items but also seemed to know exactly how to place each of them on the improvised altar.

Cruz dragged Bea forward. Her chest heaved. She looked seconds away from a full-blown panic attack, but none of the men were paying any attention to her. None, that is, except Rogue. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. Then their eyes met.

Her voice trembled. “What is he doing here?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, florecilla ,” Cruz replied. “I will deal with him once you and Oscar are gone.”

“ Tío Emiliano, no, por favor, ” she begged.

“ Quieta, florecilla. ” Little flower.

Cruz tightened his thick fingers around her wrist and dragged her bodily forward in a macabre parody of a father escorting his daughter down the aisle.

Rogue’s stomach turned.

Soon, Cruz and Aguilar were standing on one side of the improvised altar, Bea trapped between them.

On the other side stood the old priest and, a couple steps behind him and to the side, Slate, his face cool and impassive. An instant later, as the priest began speaking, Slate’s eyes flickered towards Rogue. He blinked slowly—one, two, three times. Rogue’s muscles tensed against the ropes.

“ Hijos míos ,” the priest continued, raising his hands. “ Hoy es un día especialmente …”

Bea

Married . Married—to Oscar Aguilar. Her worst nightmare was coming true.

A part of her wanted to retreat into her own mind. She’d been able to do that in the past—take herself places where real life couldn’t hurt her. But she couldn’t afford to do that now. She had to stay alert. She had to find a way out of here. For her and for Rogue, before Aguilar took her away.

Rogue. He was staring at her with fire in his eyes—or eye, since his other eye was bloody and swollen shut. What is he trying to tell me?

Bea forced a breath into her lungs. She’d heard Cruz’s words loud and clear. He would kill Rogue tonight. And yet, there was no fear in the man’s gaze as he looked at Bea. Just care and concern.

Rogue had been tortured and beaten to within an inch of his life, as evidenced by the caked blood, bruises, and burns that covered his muscular upper body. And yet, his concern wasn’t for himself, but for her. And she felt the same for him.

She didn’t have any illusions as to what her life with Oscar Aguilar would be like. No illusions that she would survive to see her next birthday—or that she’d even want to. But if she could save Rogue’s life today, she’d be doing something good. It would give her something to hold on to later, once things … once things became unbearable. But what could she do? She’d hoped his friends would get him in time. But if they didn’t, it would be up to her to?—

Aguilar’s fingers tightened around her arm like claws, pulling tears out of her eyes, his own shining with excitement.

He likes it. He likes to see my pain.

Bea forced her teeth together, determined not to give him that pleasure.

The priest, an old, old man with white, fluffy hair, was careful to look everywhere except at her. She wasn’t going to find much help in that corner. She looked at the other priest, with the too-short cassock that was overly tight around his chest and shoulders—as if it’d shrunk in the wash. Bea blinked in his direction. If she could get his attention?—

The old priest reached the climax of his speech. His hands went up in the air, calling to God. Behind him, the younger priest raised his hands as well, and it took Bea an instant to realize his hands were no longer empty. Two huge, black guns faced her.

Boom.

Boom.

Bea looked back to see two of her uncle’s men fall down next to the front door, where they’d been standing.

Boom.

A third man fell face-down on the gravel—and didn’t move again. Her uncle and Aguilar dove in opposite directions. The old priest followed Aguilar, moving with an agility that belied his years. Soon, Bea was the only one left standing.

“ ?Disparadle ! You are dead, cabrón ,” Cruz exclaimed, speaking from behind the garden furniture. Shoot him.

Boom.

Boom.

The weapons went off again, so close that Bea braced for impact. When she dared open her eyes again, she looked down to find no blood on her dress. That bullet hadn’t been meant for her. She wanted to curl up into a ball, her hands over her ears. It’s what the old Beatriz would have done. But not today. Whatever this was, this was her chance. Rogue . She had to get to Rogue.

Bea lowered herself to her knees, struggling against the puffy skirt. But there was no time to fix it. Hands and elbows on the ground, she crawled forward. Bullets flew above her head, and though she didn’t stop to look up, her back itched—at any second she expected to feel the bite of a bullet on her back.

She wondered what it would feel like. Would it be instantaneous—lights out, and it’d all be over, or would death be a drawn-out, pain-filled affair? It made no difference. She was going to help Rogue or die trying.

She looked up at her target, still a few body lengths away but much closer than he’d been when she’d started crawling. Rogue’s lips moved. Not just his lips. He was saying something—shouting something. The realization made her ears start working again.

“Down, Bea! Get down and stay down!”

Ah. Right.

She pointedly ignored him. Her dress caught against a rock and tore along one knee.

Better. I hope the entire thing tears away.

Bea kept crawling until she reached Rogue’s bare feet. Of course her uncle had taken his shoes. Bea swallowed hard. That was something her uncle had learned from her father. She remembered the night her father had explained his reasoning for taking his prisoners’ shoes. It wasn’t because being barefoot made it harder to run away. It was because shoes were a sign of dignity and taking them away reduced the prisoners in both their minds and the minds of the guards.

There were burn marks on Rogue’s feet and ankles, as far up as she could see into his torn jeans. Bullets flew around them. She raised herself to her knees, then up to her feet, until her body covered most of his body. Except for his head. He’s a head taller, so he can still get shot in the head. She had to get him down.

She was afraid to touch him, there were so many open wounds on his chest and arms, but she drew comfort and courage from his proximity.

“Get down, Bea!” he shouted. His thick arm muscles strained. God, his body was a work of art. If he wasn’t hurt and bleeding, if they weren’t seconds away from becoming collateral damage in a fight she didn’t yet understand, she could stop and stare at him. But now wasn’t the time.

Around them, bullets boomed and hissed. It seemed to her then, that the odd-looking priest with the blue eyes couldn’t be alone. There had to be somebody else helping him, because there were too many bullets flying.

Her uncle and Aguilar were shooting back from behind the overturned garden furniture, but it didn’t seem to her as if there was much urgency behind their shots. Because they’re waiting for the rest of their men get here. Shit.

She had to get Rogue away before that happened. Rogue, who wasn’t paying any attention to the shooters. He was staring straight at her. Warmth filled her at the thought that his concern was for her. She wanted to tell him it was okay. She didn’t want to die, but she didn’t mind dying if the alternative was standing by and watching him die instead. Of course, it’s preferable if neither of us has to die.

She had to get him down. Except his wrists were tied up high above her own head. She studied the contraption briefly. It was a square, solid-looking wooden frame, staked deep into the ground.

Rogue seemed to have realized by now that she wasn’t going to get down or go away. At least, he’d stopped shouting at her. The next words out of his mouth were softer—and more helpful.

“The rope. Find out where the rope ends up, on the outside of the frame.”

Bea followed it with her eyes until she came across a metal hook around which the rope was looped and knotted. Could it really be as easy as that?

She didn’t have a knife, so she used her hands to pull at the stiff, stubborn knots, not stopping even as the rope burned the pads of her fingers. She swallowed a cry of frustration when they refused to come undone.

“It’s okay, Bea. It’s okay,” Rogue said, his voice soft. “Stand behind me.”

Bea ignored him and kept working the knots until, finally, she got her nail underneath the rope.

Yes.

With that additional leverage, she was able to start pulling at the loosened loops. Suddenly, the rope slid through her fingers, gaining more and more momentum as it unraveled. Bea turned to warn Rogue, but it was too late. Free from the bindings, his body hit the dirt—hard.

Shit.

“Rogue! Rogue!”

He was face-down on the ground. He looked unconscious, but when she went to turn his body around, worried he would suffocate, his hand wrapped around her wrist, tight as a vise, and he pulled her down with him.

She landed with an ungainly oomph. Moments later, he’d rolled himself over her, flattening her to the ground. A surge of warmth hit her at the protective gesture.

“Stay down,” he growled. His hot breath on her head made her shiver. “Stay down until it’s over.”

It was a strange turn of phrase, and it took her a long instant to understand. The blue-eyed priest. Rogue knows him.

Bullets pinged on the dirt next to them, but Rogue didn’t move a muscle. If anything, his arms tightened even further around her. Bea settled in against him, cocooned in the safety of his arms, breathing in his scent, for once not thinking of anything else.

Because if this was the end ? —

She never got to finish the thought.

“Rogue!”

The priest’s knees landed next to her body, hard enough to make the ground shake. Moments later, Rogue’s weight lifted from her. More bullets pinged around them.

“Fuck. What did they do to you?”

Rogue’s eyes fluttered open. “Get her … get her out of here.”

“I’ve got her, Rogue. I swear to you, I’ve got both of you.” The priest’s bright blue eyes met hers. “Can you run?”

Bea looked down at her dress. Anger slammed into her at the sight of the scuffed white leather ballet slippers peeking from under the dress. She had them in every color imaginable. Shoes designed to keep her indoors. To keep her safe … and hidden. No longer.

“I can run,” she said, in what she hoped was a firm voice. She was going to have to do something about the dress, though. She’d barely been able to walk in it without tripping.

The priest—Slate, she reminded herself—was way ahead of her.

“Allow me.” He bunched up the bottom of the dress in his huge hands, then pulled hard, tearing it right below her knees.

“Your uncle will be back with reinforcements soon. When that happens, Dark and Thorne won’t be able to hold them back. We need to run fast.”

Bea nodded quickly. “But Rogue?—”

Slate’s eyes were cold blocks of ice. “I will take care of Rogue. At the count of three, you get up and run. You run fast and don’t look back. Understood?”