Page 26 of Duty Devoted

Logan

I didn’t want to scare Lauren, but we were probably in worst-case-scenario territory.

Now that Mateo knew where we were, it was just a matter of him sending as many of his men as possible into this location.

Every minute we were out here, we were a minute closer to being caught, and it would just continue to get worse.

“Keep moving,” I said, pushing aside a low-hanging branch. “We can do this.”

Lauren stumbled behind me, her breathing ragged. She was dragging. For the first time since we’d left her village, she was not going as fast or giving as much effort as I thought she should.

Now . Right when we needed most to dig deep.

“You’ve got to go faster.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder.” The words came out sharper than intended, but we didn’t have time for exhaustion. We pushed hard now, or we died.

I checked my watch—1800 hours. The hurricane had passed twelve hours ago, which meant Silva’s forces would be mobilizing for real. The damage would slow them down, but we had maybe an hour at most before this area crawled with cartel soldiers.

“Logan, I need—” Lauren’s voice cut off as she snagged her foot on a root, barely catching herself against a tree.

“No breaks.” I grabbed her arm, steadying her just long enough to keep us moving, keeping my eye out for cartel members who may pop up any second. “I know you’re tired. We stop when we’re hidden in Puerto Esperanza, not before.”

I looked at her briefly, and she nodded, jaw tight with determination. Good.

The terrain shifted from dense jungle to scattered palms as we approached the coastal town. Storm damage was everywhere—uprooted trees, debris scattered like toys, standing water that reflected the afternoon sun. The hurricane had hit Puerto Esperanza hard.

Lauren lagged farther behind with each step. I had to slow my pace repeatedly, frustration building with every delay. This wasn’t the time for her endurance to fail. Not when we were so close to relative safety.

“Almost there,” I said, pulling her through a gap in a chain link fence that marked the town’s outskirts as the sun began to set. “Just a little farther.”

The first buildings we encountered showed heavy storm damage—roofs torn off, walls collapsed, windows blown out. Perfect for our purposes. I guided Lauren into what had been a small shop, now missing half its roof and most of its inventory.

“Sit.” I pointed to an overturned crate in the corner, positioning myself where I could watch the street through a broken window. “Catch your breath while I make contact.”

She practically collapsed onto the crate, one hand pressed to her side. Probably a stitch from our pace. I’d pushed hard, but staying alive took precedence over comfort.

I pulled out the satellite phone and turned it on, grateful it had survived both the hurricane and the firefight. The connection took longer than usual—storm damage affecting even satellite communications—but finally Jace’s voice crackled through.

“Jesus Christ, Logan. Thank God.”

“We’re alive. Made it to Puerto Esperanza.” I kept my voice low, eyes still scanning the street. “What’s your status?”

“Ty and I are holed up about twenty miles south. The other doctors made it out—they’re safe in Panama. But the storm damage is extensive. Most roads are impassable.”

“We had contact with Silva’s men. Two spotted us at the river and got a radio call out. Four more came after us—they’re all down now. But Mateo most likely knows our location.”

“Shit.” Jace’s typing was audible through the connection.

“Okay, I’ve managed to arrange a safe house for you there in town, although it’s more of safe room than house.

Found a bar owner who was willing to help for the right price.

Above a place called El Pescador, near the docks.

Tell the bartender you’re looking for yellowtail fishing charters. He’ll get you upstairs.”

“Copy that. Extraction?”

“Marina at 0530 tomorrow. Storm surge destroyed most of the docks, but there’s one section still functional. We’ll be coming in from our location on a speedboat. Helicopter isn’t an option.”

“Understood. We’ll be there.”

“Logan…” Jace’s tone shifted, carrying worry. “You both okay? Really okay?”

I glanced at Lauren, still hunched on the crate. “We’re functional. That’s close enough. See you at 0530.”

I ended the call and turned to Lauren. “We’ve got a safe house. Few blocks from here, then we can rest until tomorrow. Let’s go.”

“I can’t.”

The words were so quiet I almost missed them. Lauren hadn’t moved from her position on the crate, both hands now pressed to her left side.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” I moved closer, alarm bells starting to chime in my head. “Lauren, we need to?—”

She lifted her hands.

Blood . Holy shit. Blood soaking through her shirt, coating her fingers. A makeshift bandage of torn fabric was pressed against her side, completely saturated.

“What the fuck?” I dropped to my knees beside her, combat medical training kicking in. “When did this happen?”

“During the fight.” Her voice was steady despite the pain etched on her face. “The guy got a shot off. It’s just a graze, but it won’t stop bleeding.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Fury and fear tangled in my chest as I carefully lifted the blood-soaked cloth. The wound was a deep graze along her ribs, worse than she’d admitted. The bullet had carved a furrow through skin and muscle. “I’ve been pushing you for miles with a gunshot wound?”

“We had to keep moving.” She winced as I probed the edges of the damage. “You said it yourself—stopping would get us killed.”

She was right, but that didn’t stop the rage at myself for missing this. I was supposed to protect her, supposed to notice when she was hurt. Instead, I’d been so focused on speed that I’d failed to see what was right in front of me.

And more than that, it had been because I’d been trying to create distance between us after last night. Unacceptable on every count.

I crouched down and cupped her cheek. “I’m sorry. I wish you would’ve told me, but regardless, I should’ve noticed.”

I should’ve known right away when she was dragging that it was something serious, not just her being lazy at the most critical moment.

“We made it. That’s the most important thing. And this wound isn’t critical. I’m not a martyr. I would’ve told you if it were more serious.” Her smile was tight, trying to reassure me. “But I’m not going to make it to the safe house without help. I don’t even think I can get up without help.”

My plan had been to use speed and evasive maneuvers to get around town, maybe even circle to the opposite side. That wasn’t an option now. We needed to get her to the safe house, off her feet, and get this wound cleaned. The blood was…

—blood pouring out of James’s neck, all over my hands. Blood on the concrete, blood fucking everywhere ?—

No. I pushed the memory back. Not now. We could not afford for me to have some sort of psychotic crack right now.

I cleared my throat. “We’re not far from the safe house. We’ll keep to the shadows. Sun is almost down, so that will help.”

“Okay. I’ll make it.”

We couldn’t get spotted because if we did, we were fucked. She had no more running left in her. The fact that she’d made it this far—with a goddamned bullet wound—was beyond impressive.

I scooped up a handful of dirt from the floor, mixing it with debris and storm water to create a grimy paste.

“I’m afraid to even ask what that’s for.” She rearranged her makeshift bandage so a piece of cloth that wasn’t already saturated with blood was pressed against her wound.

“Your hair. Blonde stands out here. This will help at a distance.” I slopped it over her strands, then brushed as much of it out as possible for her comfort.

When I finished, her honey- colored hair was dulled to a muddy brown.

“Not perfect, but better. We can’t run, so we’ll want to make sure we don’t draw any undue attention to ourselves. ”

Early evening was casting long shadows through the damaged buildings. We needed to move—we didn’t want to be seen, but being on the streets after dark would multiply our risks.

“Can you walk?”

“If you help me up.” She held out her hand, and I grabbed it with one of mine and wrapped my arm around her hips to help her the rest of the way. She swayed, catching herself against my chest. “Okay. Maybe I need a little help walking too.”

I kept my arm around her, taking most of her weight. “The bar’s only three blocks. We can make it.”

The streets of Puerto Esperanza were chaos. Residents picked through the storm wreckage, salvaging what they could. Most were too focused on their own disasters to pay attention to two more storm refugees.

My PTSD clawed at me as we entered more populated areas. Too many people, too many angles to watch, too many potential threats in my peripheral vision. A woman dropped a metal pot, the clang sending my hand toward my weapon before I caught myself.

Not a threat. Just storm cleanup. Keep moving.

We stayed to shadows where possible, avoiding the main thoroughfares. Lauren leaned heavily against me, her breathing shallow but determined. Blood was already seeping through the bandage—we were running out of time.

A black SUV turned the corner ahead, moving slowly through the debris. I froze as I recognized the deliberate patrol pattern, as if the choice of vehicle didn’t give them away. Cartel.

I pulled Lauren into an alley, pressing us both against the wall. She bit back a gasp as the movement pulled at her wound.

“Silva’s men,” I whispered. “Looking for us.”

The vehicle crawled past, occupants scanning both sides of the street. I held my breath, one hand on my weapon, the other keeping Lauren upright. If they stopped, if they got out to search…

But they continued on, disappearing around the next corner. I waited thirty seconds before moving again.

“Almost there,” I told Lauren, feeling her strength slipping more with each step.

El Pescador sat on a corner two blocks from the damaged marina, its neon sign dark but structure mostly intact. Storm shutters still covered the windows, but light leaked from beneath the door. Open for business.

The interior was dim, lit by candles and battery lanterns. The bartender—a weathered man in his sixties—stood behind the bar, and two men sat huddled in a corner, looking like they were taking shelter rather than drinking socially. The bartender looked up as we entered.

“We’re looking for yellowtail fishing charters,” I said in English, hoping the man understood. I supported Lauren’s weight as casually as possible.

His eyes flicked between us, taking in our condition. After a moment, he nodded toward a door marked Private at the back of the room. “Upstairs,” he said in accented English. “Third door on the right.”

The staircase was narrow, forcing me to half carry Lauren up each step. She tried to help, but I could feel her fading. The blood loss, the miles of jungle, the fight—it was all catching up.

The third door opened to a small room that had seen better decades. But it had a bed, a sink with running water, and—most importantly—windows facing three different directions. Multiple exit routes if things went bad.

I got Lauren to the bed, her face pale beneath the dirt I’d rubbed into her hair. “Still with me?”

“Still here.” She managed a weak smile. “Though your bedside manner needs work. Most doctors don’t yell at their patients for bleeding.”

“Most doctors’ patients tell them when they’ve been shot.

” But there was no real heat in my words.

The anger was all directed at myself. I should have noticed.

Should have protected her better. Should have been the one bleeding instead of her.

“I need to get some supplies. Will you be okay for a few minutes?”

She nodded weakly. “Not going anywhere.”

I made my way back down the narrow stairs, finding the bartender wiping down glasses with mechanical precision. He looked up as I approached.

“Medical supplies?” I asked, miming bandaging a wound. “Alcohol? Bandages?”

He studied me for a long moment, then disappeared into a back room. When he returned, he carried a half-empty bottle of vodka and what looked like a basic first aid kit—probably kept for bar fights that got out of hand.

“Gracias,” I said, pulling out some crumpled bills. He waved off the money, his eyes flicking meaningfully upward. The message was clear—whatever Jace had paid him covered everything.

Back in the room, Lauren had her eyes closed but opened them when I entered. “Room service?”

“Five-star treatment.” I set the supplies on the small table beside the bed. “But I’m sure not what you want for medical treatment.”

I set the supplies on the small table beside the bed. “This needs proper cleaning. The wound’s been open too long.”

But as I reached for the vodka bottle, my hands betrayed me. The tremor started in my fingers and worked its way up my arms. Not now. Not when she needed me.

Blood on my hands. Carter’s blood. Too much blood.

“Logan?” Lauren’s voice seemed to come from far away. “What’s wrong?”

I gripped the edge of the table, trying to force the shaking to stop. The room felt smaller suddenly, walls pressing in. Every shadow could hide one of Silva’s men. Every creak of the old building could be footsteps on the stairs.

“Nothing. I just—” My voice cracked. When had it gotten so hard to breathe? “The wound needs cleaning. Can’t risk infection.”

“Logan, look at me.” She spoke with her doctor voice, calm and authoritative despite her own pain.

I couldn’t. If I looked at her, I’d see the blood. See another person I’d failed to protect. Another name to add to the list of people who’d bled because I wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t good enough.

“You need someone with steady hands. Someone who doesn’t see ghosts every time they close their eyes.” The words came out raw, pulled from somewhere deep. “Someone who doesn’t fall apart when you need them most.”

“I need you.” Her voice was firm despite the pain. “Shaky hands and ghosts and all. We’ll get through this together.”

I wasn’t so sure.