Chapter 36

36

Rogue

R ogue saw Thorne first. He was strapped to a chair, his chin against his chest, but that chest rose and fell, so he wasn’t dead.

His eyes moved on, found Bea on the couch in the corner. He was struck dumb, for an instant. Struck by relief, because she was there, and alive. He wanted to rub his eyes to make sure she was really there, and at the same time to see her on that couch with her legs splayed open, to see the terrified expression on her eyes—it was by far the most awful thing he’d seen in his life, an image he knew would stay with him until the day he died.

All this he saw in a millisecond—then pushed it away, because the only thing that mattered was the man standing in front of him. Emiliano Cruz.

The drug lord was there, in the flesh, an incongruous, annoyed expression on his face. He’d been expecting somebody else. He’d been yelling for someone else, just before opening the door. And the name of that person resonated in Rogue’s mind like a fucking alarm clock. Roberts . Agent Roberts was working with Cruz.

It explained so much, but Rogue put that thought aside as well. Slate and Griffin were out there. The three of them had decided to split up to search the containers. It was only chance that had had him walking by in time to hear Bea’s scream.

If Roberts was out there too, Rogue would just have to hope his friends could take care of him. He had other problems to deal with at the moment, and Thorne and Bea’s lives depended on him.

Rogue reached forward to grab at Cruz, but the drug lord was faster.

He grabbed Bea and lifted her like a shield in front of him. One arm went against her neck. Bea’s face went red. She gasped and sputtered. Fear gripped Rogue, obliterating all his training until all he wanted to do was fall to his knees and beg.

“Stay back, asshole, or I’ll snap her neck.”

Rogue stopped, raising his hands up in the air. “Keep her,” he said, projecting a calm he didn’t feel. He swallowed bile. “I’m not interested in her. I just came for him.” He nodded towards Thorne.

Cruz’s eyes narrowed, as if debating whether to believe him. The moment stretched, and Rogue forced himself to keep his eyes on Cruz, knowing it was Bea’s only chance. Finally, Cruz’s shoulders relaxed infinitesimally. Yes.

“Take him,” Cruz said. “Take him and get out of here.”

There was a new light in the drug lord’s eyes. And Rogue knew there was no chance Cruz would let him walk out of here with Thorne. He probably planned to shoot Rogue and Thorne as soon as they turned their backs on him.

But it wasn’t going to come to that. He was going to get Bea and Thorne out of here alive if it was the last thing he did.

Rogue kept his hands in the air until he reached Thorne. With a quick flick of his wrist, he pulled out the knife hidden up his sleeve, using it to slice at the duct tape holding the man’s arms and ankles in place.

Thorne fell into his arms. Rogue allowed himself to stagger, as if the weight was too much for him to bear. “Shit,” he muttered.

Cruz snorted derisively as Rogue tripped, falling heavily to his knees beside Thorne’s dead weight. “That’s your hero, florecilla ?”

That was the distraction Rogue needed. He jumped up, letting Cruz see the knife in his hand, which until now had been shielded from view by Thorne’s body. Rogue took a slow, deep breath. His wrist flicked once, releasing the small, sharp blade. It passed inches away from Bea, slicing through Cruz’s neck.

It wasn’t a true shot. But it was enough to make Cruz’s hands fly to his neck to evaluate the damage. And in doing so, he released Bea—which was exactly what Rogue had been hoping for. He launched himself forward and grasped for Bea, pulling her back. With her firmly behind him, Rogue’s world finally tilted back into place. He could think and breathe again. And he knew exactly what he had to do.

He watched the blood oozing out of the man’s neck dispassionately. It wasn’t a deadly wound, but Cruz might not know that yet. And that was something Rogue could take advantage of. His hands clenched into fists and he threw the first punch. Cruz moved to protect his neck, as Rogue had known he would. Instead, Rogue hit him hard on the belly, then went around to hit his kidneys.

Cruz’s beady eyes narrowed. Then he roared.

To the death. Rogue would kill—he would die—to protect Bea. Cruz wouldn’t get through, no matter what. Not while Rogue breathed.

He side-stepped Cruz’s meaty punch, wishing the container were larger, wishing Bea and Thorne weren’t quite so close.

Behind him, Bea made a strangled sound. Rogue turned to look … and missed the knife that suddenly appeared in Cruz’s hand.

Rogue watched dispassionately as the drug lord slashed left and right with an agility that belied his size. He knew how to use a knife.

Rogue jumped to the side, avoiding a slash that would have opened him from neck to belly, but left himself exposed on his left side. The blade nicked him under the ribs. Rogue rode the burning sensation, but didn’t bother looking down. Instead, he waited—for his opponent to get cocky and try again.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“She’s mine!” Cruz roared, lounging forward again to slice at Rogue’s other side. Rogue held his ground, his own knife at the ready—held his ground even as Cruz slammed into him.

Cruz’s eyes bulged, more with surprise than pain this time. Rogue looked down at the knife between them. It’d gone in almost to the hilt, but he pushed it in that extra inch—pushed it in and twisted, because he knew in his heart what Cruz’s survival would mean. A life of fear for Bea. And Rogue was happy to pay the price—happy to have this death on his conscience—if he could spare her that.

It was only when Cruz’s legs gave way and he fell to his knees that Rogue released his grip on the knife. He watched impassively as the life drained from Cruz’s eyes.

“Beatriz—” he gurgled. Bea rushed forward, but not towards Cruz. She launched herself into Rogue’s arms, her face frozen. Rogue held her tight, wishing he could have spared her this.

“Rogue!” she said. Her voice sounded quiet—more than quiet, it sounded like it was coming from far away. Then he looked down at her hand, where it pressed against him—it was bright red with blood. Fuck. Somebody moved behind him. Rogue turned, ready to fight—then recognized Slate and Griffin. Slate fell to his knees next to Thorne’s unconscious body, while Griffin rushed to Rogue.

Rogue felt his own knees giving way. His vision doubled. He would have fallen, except Griffin held him upright. He felt himself fading, but there was something important he had to say. Finally, he remembered.

“Roberts,” he muttered. “Roberts is working with Cruz.”

Griffin and Slate exchanged a glance. “We know. He tried to get the drop on us. Rahmer shot him.”

“He’s dead?”

“Not yet,” Slate said. “But he might wish he were, when he wakes up.”

“Put pressure here,” Griffin said. Rogue wondered who they were talking to in such an urgent voice.