The gruesome crunch of his arm breaking is enough to make me sick to my stomach. But I can’t help but laugh as he drops to his knees and howls in pain as his arm hangs limply at his side. He reaches for the blade he dropped, but I land a hard knee to his jaw.
He’s dazed for a few seconds and I take the opportunity to pick up the knife. But he’s not giving up. He lumbers to his feet and lunges for me, his good arm outstretched. I move out of the way easily, but he manages to reach up and grab a fistful of my hair, pulling me down on top of him as he falls onto the bench seat.
I elbow him in the gut and he responds by locking his good arm around my throat. He knows what he’s doing because my eyes begin to prickle and I can’t breathe. I wrap my fingers tightly around the handle of the blade and drive it into his thigh.
He releases his grip on me while shouting curses, but I don’t wait for him to come at me again. I reach forward, twisting my fingers into his hair to get a firm grip before I slash the knife from one side of his neck to the other.
His body goes limp immediately as blood spurts out of his throat and all over my face and chest. I grab his legs and struggle a bit, but I manage to get him overboard in a few seconds.
I turn around to face the driver and the boat begins to wobble beneath me. But I don’t think it’s the boat moving. I’m going to pass out.
He’s shouting at me in Spanish. I don’t know what he’s saying, but he’s pointing at the pool of blood on the floor of the boat. He’s angry. His eyes flit toward the knife in my hand then back to the woozy look on my face.
Suddenly, he reaches for the knife, but I throw a quick jab to his throat and an elbow to his temple. He’s out.
The boat begins to slow as I heave him out of the drivers’ seat. I sit down in his place, one hand on the steering wheel, the other applying pressure to my knife wound. I need to get to Tenerife fast or I’m going to pass out and die in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
I push down the gas pedal, but the boat doesn’t seem to be moving fast at all. Maybe he’s running out of gas. Or maybe… maybe I’m already dead.
Chapter Five
Daimon
If two speedboats with varied horsepower set off into the water at the same time, at full speed, the one with more power will always win. This boat has doomed me. But I cannot give up. I may arrive in Tenerife minutes behind Nick and Alex, but I should get a signal on my phone by the time they reach the shore ahead of me. Then I can call an associate in the city to head them off.
I glance back and forth from the dark, shimmering water ahead of me to my phone in my hand, waiting for the moment my cell is close enough to the island to get some reception. At last, a single bar appears on my phone and I begin dialing the number for Antonio.
It takes a few seconds before the call is connected and the ringing begins. Pressing the phone to my ear, I look up and a stalled boat materializes in the dark waters just ahead of me. I swerve to the left to avoid a collision, sending a wave of water cascading into the other boat.
“Alpha-Whiskey-Echo, this is Foxtrot-Mike-Lima, responding. Over,” Antonio says, answering the phone.
I struggle to maintain control over the boat with one arm as I turn it around. “Foxtrot-Mike-Lima, this is Alpha-Whiskey-Echo. I need a safe house near Puerto de la Cruz. Over.”
“Alpha-Whiskey-Echo, I can confirm a safe house at one-eight-three Calle Verde. Repeat: We have a safe house at one-eight-three Calle Verde, just two clicks south of Puerto de la Cruz. Over.”
I slow my boat down as I approach the other speedboat, aware that this could be a trap. But the closer I get, I see I’ve stumbled upon something much worse. The entire backseat of the boat is covered in blood and Alex is slumped over in the drivers’ seat.
“Foxtrot-Mike-Lima… I need emergency medical dispatched to the safe house. Over.”
“Alpha-Whiskey-Echo, emergency medical en route. Foxtrot-Mike-Lima, over and out.”
“Alpha-Whiskey-Echo, over and out.”
I remove my long-sleeved black shirt and use it to tie the two vessels together, then I hop inside the other boat. An older gentleman, probably the boat’s owner, is passed out on the floor of the vessel. I don’t know if he’s injured, but I can’t be bothered to check. I go straight to Alex and lift her into a sitting position.
The fluttering of her eyelids tells me she’s alive. But when her eyes fall closed again, I know I don’t have much time. She’s barely holding on.
My first priority is to get her to the safe house, but I can’t lose my head. I have to cover our tracks. The first thing I do is undress her down to her underwear and toss the clothing overboard. This is to get rid of the bloody evidence, since I have a strong feeling a lot of this is Nick’s blood. Also, if they find her clothes in the water, they’ll assume she went down with Nick.
As soon as I remove her shirt, my heart clenches at the sight of the knife wound in her side, less than an inch from her previous wound. I am not a praying man. I don’t think I’ve uttered a single prayer since I was an altar boy. But I close my eyes and point my face toward the heavens as I pray.
Please, God, don’t take my Alex or my child. I am not a good man. I know I don’t deserve Your mercy. But she does not deserve to suffer. Please don’t take her.
I wipe down Alex’s body to remove most of Nick’s blood. Then I lay her down in the back of the other speedboat. Back in the other boat, the older gentleman begins to stir.
“Desculpa me!” Forgive me, I shout at the man. Then I shoot him in the head and he falls limp on the bloody floor of the boat.
I dig into the right knee-pocket of my cargo pants for a small flash grenade. I untie the two boats and pull my shirt back on. Then I slide into the drivers’ seat and drive away. When I’m about forty meters out, I pull the pin on the grenade and chuck it into the other boat. The explosion sends shrapnel about thirty meters in all directions. I don’t stick around to watch the boat sink.
The speedboat glides like a bullet over the ocean, never slowing until I’m a few meters from the shore. I slow it down a bit as I approach, then I ride a small wave and hit the gas to drive the boat as far up the sandy embankment as possible. A couple sitting on the beach stands as I lift Alex into my arms and jump down into the sand.
They shout at me in Spanish, asking if I need help. I respond with a roaring no. Please don’t try to help me unless you want to get killed. I can’t leave any witnesses, I think to myself.
I carry Alex across the beach and toward a small parking lot where an SUV is pulling out of a parking space with a surfboard tied to the roof. I gently set Alex’s cold, wet body down on the pavement, then I rush the driver’s side door.
I whip my gun out of my waistband and shoot out the window. The SUV screeches to a halt.
“Get out!” I shout at the driver in both Spanish and English.
A guy with wet brown hair pulled back into a ponytail jumps out of the car, holding his hands in the air. I tell him I won’t shoot him if he helps me put Alex in the backseat. Once she’s lying safely in the back, I pistol-whip him across his right temple to keep him from contacting the authorities for at least a few minutes.
I drive the car through the quiet streets until I reach the safe house at 183 Calle Verde. It’s a warehouse. I pull the car next to a truck bay secured with a rolling steel door. Hopping out of the car, I shoot out the lock on the door and force it open.
My heart sinks when I realize no one is here yet. But I need an emergency medical team now. I’ll have to attempt to stop the bleeding and try my best to keep her alive until they arrive.
Motion-activated lights turn on as I pull the SUV into the warehouse. It doesn’t seem as though the building is temperature controlled. The hot air is sticky with humidity and smells of dusty cardboard and rubber. I hop out of the car and close the rolling door behind us. I carry Alex to a steel worktable in the back of the warehouse, tossing aside a desktop computer and stacks of unassembled cardboard boxes to make room f
or her to lie down.
I press my fingers to her neck and can’t find a pulse. I check the other side of her neck and find it, but it’s faint. She’s fading.
I pull my shirt off and lift her body so I can tie it around her waist, over her wound. Grabbing a steel rod from the floor, I thread it beneath the tied sleeves. Then I twist the rod to tighten the shirt around her. I lay her body down on top of the rod so her weight will hold it in place, then I begin CPR to get more oxygen into her lungs and keep her heart from stopping.
“Please, chérie. Please stay with me.” I brush her hair away from her temple with my lips and plant a soft kiss on her damp skin. “Please don’t leave me, Alex.”
I’ve never been more frightened in my life. When the steel door rolls open, I nearly jump out of my skin as I point my gun at the truck bay. I don’t recognize the elderly gentleman with the bald hair and thick glasses, but I almost fall to my knees with gratitude when I see the medical bag in his hand. Tucking my gun away, I race to him to see if he needs help.
“There’s an I.V. stand and more supplies in the trunk,” he says in Spanish, nodding his head toward the black BMW parked behind him just outside the door.
He hands me the car keys and I retrieve the I.V. stand and the rest of his supplies from the trunk of the car. I meet him inside and find him cutting away the crude tourniquet I made with my shirt and the steel rod. He tosses it to the floor and performs a brief examination of the stab wound.
Once we have a sterile sheet laid beneath Alex’s body and he’s cleaned her up, he hooks her up to a machine that pumps her body with O-negative blood, pain medication, and I.V. fluids. Then he stitches her up.
“When will I know if she’s okay?” I ask, not bothering to hide the desperation in my tone.
He points to the bag of clear I.V. fluids hanging from the stand. “When this is gone in four hours, she’ll wake up. She will think she’s ready to run a marathon, but you must keep her off her feet for at least twenty-four hours. I’ll be back to check on her tomorrow night. Then she should take it easy for a couple of weeks.”
He grabs his bag to leave and I grab his wrist to stop him. “Wait… She’s pregnant. Can you check on the baby?”
His eyes widen in horror and I know what that look means. There’s no way the baby could survive this.
Chapter Six
Alex
My eyelids struggle to open. The lashes are sealed together. Blinking furiously, I groan against the stinging pull on the rims of my eyes. Then a new pain comes to me from my left side. Now I remember. I was stabbed. Again.
My eyelids finally come apart and the first thing I see is Daimon’s face hovering over me. His face is framed by the dim glow of yellow light above us. His blue eyes are rimmed pink and full of relief.
“What… where… where am I?” My voice is husky. My throat raw and parched, probably from the loss of blood.
“We’re still in Tenerife. How are you feeling?”
“What time is it? I… I have to go. I have to go to Monaco.”
I attempt to sit up and a blinding pain lights up my left side. Daimon grabs my shoulders and gently pushes me down, but not before I notice the intravenous lines snaking out of my arm.
“You’re not going anywhere right now. You have to rest,” he murmurs, brushing my hair away from my eyes. “Vengeance can wait.”
The word vengeance hits me like a kick in the chest. “You were right,” I whisper, looking into his eyes. “About Nick. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. I was—”
“Shh. You don’t have to apologize.”
He strokes my hair and leans down to kiss my forehead. His new beard brushes against my brow and his lips are cool against my hot skin. So soft and familiar, yet still so new.
“These days apart have felt like years,” I whisper, my throat thickened with emotion. “I didn’t want to kill you.”
“I know, chérie. If you wanted to kill me I’d be dead.”
I chuckle and the smile on his face makes my heart feel full. “What happened to me? How bad is it?”
He closes his eyes and hangs his head for a moment. He doesn’t have to say a word for me to know it’s serious. Every second I wait for him to break his silence feels like an eternity.
“Daimon, please. Just tell me.”
His eyes find mind, but his gaze is burning through me. My heart pounds an agonizing beat inside my chest. Then, finally, he speaks.
“The baby is gone.”
My throat constricts until I can’t speak or breathe. No, I try to say, but nothing comes out. Nothing but tears.
“Breathe, Alex,” he urges me.
I shake my head wildly as Daimon’s face begins to flicker and my vision begins to close into a tiny speck.
What did I do to deserve this? I was born a mutant and I’ve spent eighteen years paying for a sin I didn’t commit. And now this? My father dead. The hope of a child gone.
What do I have left?
* * *
The arguing gets louder as I open my eyes, but I can’t understand any of it. All I see is a single incandescent lightbulb hanging overhead, illuminating steel beams that criss-cross an industrial ceiling. I’m in a warehouse.
I try to sit up and the sharp pain in my side reminds me of my injury. I take a deep breath as I lie back, trying to hear my thoughts over the sound of the arguing. Then I remember.
Daimon said the baby is gone.
My eyes sting and I grit my teeth against the pain, but I can’t hold back the tears. “Why?” I mutter through my grief.
The arguing stops. The silence is followed by hurried shuffling, and Daimon is at my side again. The curves of his beautiful face, hardened by the argument, begin to soften as he gazes into my eyes.
“You’re awake.”
“Why did this happen to me?”
Daimon’s face screws up as he shakes his head, unable to provide an answer.
“I… I just wanted someone to love… to love me.” I squeeze my eyes shut to block out his face. To hide from the shame.
He grabs my face to force me to look at him. His lips tremble slightly as he presses his mouth into a hard line, trying in vain to suppress his emotions.
“I love you, Alex. I’ll always love you.” He kisses the corner of my mouth and more tears roll out of my eyes and onto his fingertips. “In the light and in the dark. With a mask or without. I love everything about you.”
I reach up slowly and coil my arms around his neck to pull him closer. He buries his face in my neck and allows me to weep as he caresses my hair.
“It’s okay, chérie. You’re with me now. Everything is going to be okay.”
I squeeze him tighter, savoring the sensation of his solid chest against mine. Breathing in the slightly briny fragrance of the ocean mixed with the woodsy scent of his skin. I nuzzle my cheek against his neck and draw in a deep breath.
“I missed you,” I whisper against his skin. “I knew you were alive. I knew you’d come back.”
He chuckles and the sound sends a sweet chill through me. “I can’t even be angry with you for trying to kill me. I am hopeless.”
I loosen my hold on him and grab the sides of his face to look him in the eye. “Not hopeless. This isn’t over. We’re not finished. We have to kill her.”
His eyes narrow as a slow smile forms on his gorgeous face. “What I have planned is much more satisfying than a simple assassination.” He kisses the tip of my nose as a bald man in a white coat begins hanging another bag of fluids on an I.V. stand next to me. “Rest, chérie. You’ll need your strength.”
The bald man presses a button on a machine and Daimon and I both watch as the fluid travels through the line and into my arm. He begins to draw away, but I lock my arms around his neck and pull him in for a real kiss. He tastes a bit sweet and metallic, but the cool sensation of his tongue in my mouth is better than any pain medication. Almost as soon as a painful longing sweeps through me, the medication kicks in and my grip on his neck
slackens.
He pulls away and kisses my forehead. “Sleep, chérie. I’ll be standing right here when you wake up.”
* * *
The next time I wake, I’m surrounded by darkness. I’m not on the hard steel table anymore. I’ve been moved.
“Daimon!” I whisper frantically.
I hear movement in the dark and suddenly the room is flooded with light. I blink against the bright glow of the lamplight, blue spots obscuring my vision. Then Daimon appears at my side.
“How are you feeling?” he murmurs as he kneels next to me.
I’m lying on a sofa in an office. I blink a few more times to clear the spots, then I reach for his hand and see the bandage on the inside of the crook of my arm. The I.V. line is gone and I’m dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt.
“Where are we?”
“We’re still in Tenerife, in the warehouse. We moved you so you’d be more comfortable. How are you feeling?”
I move my hand to my side to touch my injury and grunt at the searing pain that results from this brief touch. “I’m fine. I need to get out of here.”
I grit my teeth as Daimon helps me sit up. Then he sits next to me and wraps his arm around my shoulder. “Do you feel well enough to travel?”
“We’re going to Monaco?”
“Not yet. You’re not ready physically, or mentally.”
“What does that mean?” I turn my head to face him and just this small movement causes a sharp pain to explode in my side. “What do you mean, I’m not ready mentally?”
“Alex, you’re not able to see beyond your pain right now.”
“I’m fine!”
“No, you’re not,” he growls. “Let me make this very clear, you are not going to Monaco until you’re ready. And you are far from ready, Alex.”