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Even so, he couldn’t abandon her now. He knew better than anyone that anger was Quinn’s shield. The impossible attraction between them buzzed under his skin, a current he didn’t dare indulge. But his instincts warred with his loyalty to Brian’s memory and that irrevocable truth. Quinn needed to keep fighting for a life that wouldn’t destroy her or the boys. No matter how many times she tried to banish him from that path, Dagger couldn’t walk away.
He swallowed hard, tension rippling through his taut frame. “I can’t imagine life without them,” he admitted, voice low. He didn’t saywithout you, but the words lingered on the tip of his tongue, dangerously close to a line they could never cross. “Youwant me gone? Prove to me, and more importantly, to yourself, that you’re ready to keep them safe. Then we’ll talk about what happens next.”
His gaze locked on hers. For a strained moment, it felt as though the entire room held its breath. Then, with the faintest incline of his head, he turned on his heel and left her office. He told himself it was just another mission, to keep calm, be strategic, control the battlefield. But with every step, the heat of her words scalded deeper, and he wondered how long his water could hold back her flame before they burned each other out, leaving nothing but ashes.
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This chapter includesmature themes related to sexual violence and trauma. Reader discretion is advised.
Hospital San Vicente, Outskirts of Caracas
El Lobo, the Wolf, lounged in the cracked vinyl chair of Hospital San Vicente, the dim fluorescents flickering overhead. The scent of mold barely masked the underlying stench of decay and neglect, the kind that clung to places where poverty thrived. He hated it. Hated the peeling paint, the rust-streaked walls, the way desperation bled into the air. His fingers traced the smooth face of his gold watch, a reminder that he was above this, above them. A man like him wasn’t meant to wade through squalor. He was meant to rule it.
He had a name once, but it no longer mattered.
Men called him El Lobo, whispering it like a warning. He liked it that way. He had no pack. He needed none. The strongest hunted alone.
He’d hunted well, removing political enemies and cartel rivals with surgical brutality. Answering to no one, he thrived by eliminating threats, rejecting alliances. That’s why thegovernment’s pleas meant nothing. He only believed in useful subordinates.
The jungle stretched beyond the open balcony, a black, breathing thing that swallowed men whole. It had taken its share of fools, but not him.
In his ear through his satellite phone, his informant spoke in careful, measured words, feeding him pure gold. The Americans had no idea how deeply he had infiltrated their ranks, how their precious operations were laid bare for the right price. Money talked, and so did men when enough of it was stacked in front of them.
"The CIA miscalculated," the voice on the other end said. "They thought they could eliminate you quietly."
A slow smile spread across El Lobo’s face. "They sent ghosts, and even you couldn’t find a shred of information about either of them," he said. "But I was waiting."
The Shadowguard was good. He would grant them that. But he had been better. Their mistake was believing they could stand against him.
The man was dead. His partner? A woman. Usually easier to break. A sultry beauty with big amber eyes, golden like the legacy of the Inca. Fierce in her own way. All she gave was her code name, Lechuza. It didn’t matter. They all broke eventually. Some wept. Some begged. Some clung to pride until their bodies failed.
She would be no different.
His fingers traced the cigar in his grip, savoring the anticipation. Baxter was already in his grasp. All those American secrets, just a hot battery, a length of rope, a waterboard, and a few broken bones away. They always talked.
He exhaled, smoke drifting upward. The Americans had no power here. Empires fell. Rome. Inca. Spain. America. The ones who thought themselves invincible always fell the hardest.
He would be the one to take their place. He controlled the fuel, the food, the weapons. The routes that fed the black markets. He decided who lived and who starved. The Venezuelan government clung to broken systems. They sat in gilded chairs, blind to the vines creeping toward their doors.
The SEALs had stormed in like peacekeepers. Lapdogs. They erased Ernesto Ramos and thought there would be no consequence.
Patience was the art of letting a man think he was safe. Then gutting him.
Retribution would come. He would pull them apart until they begged.
His informant whispered concerns.
"I will have what I need from the woman," Herrera murmured. "Baxter. When the time is right." His lips curled. "The Americans will choke on my supremacy."
The best kills took time.
Killa Saqra Rumi,callsign: Lechuza, knelt on damp stone, slick with something she didn’t want to name. Blood. Sweat. Fear. None of it was hers. Not yet.
In Spanish, "lechuza" meant owl. The parallel fit her. Like the silent raptor whose vision pierced through night, Lechuza had a preternatural ability to sense and neutralize threats before they saw her coming. A ghost in the field, all meticulous footfalls and coiled strength. Shadowguard protocol ran deep. Extraction wasn’t always an option. Survive. Observe. End the mission. O-voo had trusted her to finish it.
She wasn’t deterred by capture. It wasn’t failure unless she stopped breathing. Unless she ended up like her partner,Ndhlovu. Left for dead a day ago when everything went to hell. This single day felt like ten.
Bhekizizwe Zwide came from a proud Zulu lineage, his code name meaning elephant. He was strong, steady, a protector. But what she remembered most was his laugh. His teeth flashed white when she butchered his name. So she called him O-voo, and he loved it.