“She’s resilient. I’m impressed with how well she’s dealing with it all,” Remi said. “I should get back to her. I’ll let the guys know that you stopped by?—”
There was a sudden thud followed by a soft gasp. Ike peered around the corner in time to see Remi slump to the ground. Wesley stood over her, tucking something into his pocket—likely a syringe.
White-hot rage flashed through Ike. He moved without thinking, launching himself from his position.
"Thomas!"
Wesley spun, eyes widening in genuine shock as he registered Ike's presence. "Da Costa? I’d hoped you were gone for good."
"Sorry to disappoint," Ike growled, closing the distance between them. “What the fuck did you do to Remi?”
They circled each other, two predators assessing vulnerabilities. Wesley had always been methodical and patient. He'd won more than his share of their sparring matches during PISCO training, even if Ike had proven time and again that he was the superior special operative.
Wesley’s expression hardened into cold calculation. “She’ll be fine in a few hours. I couldn’t let her get in the way of an ongoing PISCO operation. You remember those, don’t you?”
“Why would the PISCOs care about a private pilot to the rich?” Ike demanded. “We both know Lachlan has no connection to Quattro. So, why are you really here?”
“For the kid. Britt’s daughter,” Wesley said, emphasizing her name.
“Galloway would never target a child!” Ike had executed heinous ops for the Commander, but none that involved using children to get at their targets. It wasn’t the man’s style. But Wesley Thomas had a pattern of breaking the rules to capturePISCO targets—and from what Ike could tell, the target was Britt. Not Lachlan.
Ike closed the distance between them. “I’m not letting you take her.”
Wesley smirked. “You can’t stop me.”
Ike lunged, but Wesley was ready, countering Ike’s fast jab to his jaw with a counter punch to Ike’s chest. Pain detonated through his barely healed cracked ribs. He grunted but didn't go down.
Wesley struck with snake-like speed, landing a combination that pushed Ike back. Ike absorbed the blows and then countered with a sweep that nearly took Wesley off his feet.
Tucker barked frantically, creating a diversion that allowed Ike to land a solid hit to Wesley's sternum. The man doubled over but recovered faster than Ike anticipated, driving his shoulder into Ike's midsection.
They crashed to the ground. Pain radiated down Ike’s arm. Wesley straddled Ike, executing a brutal series of punches that left him dazed and debilitated. Ike struggled to counter, his defensive moves thwarted by Thomas’s faster, more practiced attack. He was rusty, his weaknesses glaring at the worst possible time—when Paloma needed him the most. He was losing the battle fast, frustration mounting as he failed to get the upper hand.
The knockout blow came from nowhere, a precisely aimed strike at the junction of his neck and shoulder—a pressure point that sent Ike's nerves screaming. His body buckled as his head bounced off the sidewalk, sending blinding pain through him. His breath hitched. Ike had mere seconds before he’d be unconscious.
The last thing he saw before darkness took him was Wesley digging in his pocket for the black metal Stingray card. He held it in the air with a smug satisfaction, then jogged toward theentrance. He was going after Paloma, and she had no clue the danger that was closing in.
He’d failed her. He’d failed his little dove.
Chapter 48
“Hope you don’t expect me to thank you for this.” Lachlan glared at Miquel Rubio as the speedboat sliced through the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. He winced as a wave jostled the vessel, sending fresh pain radiating from his bruised ribs—a souvenir from the beating Quattro's men had given him days earlier. The fact that they'd kept him captive, treating his wounds until he was fit enough to travel, struck him as darkly ironic. Each second put more distance between him and Britt, the salt-laced wind carrying away any trace of her that might have lingered on his skin. Her last words echoed through his mind, threatening to rip his heart to shreds … again.
Miquel leaned over the polished teak railing, eyes shielded by dark aviator sunglasses as sea spray pelted his face. The sleek vessel carved a foaming wake through the glittering surface, sending droplets dancing across the deck like scattered diamonds.
"I don't need your thanks when I have Britt's." Miquel’s voice carried a hint of smugness.
Lachlan mirrored the man's posture, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the sun-warmed rail. His gaze swept across the horizon where the emerald silhouettes of St. Mateo and St.Cera rose from the sea like sleeping giants. Their lush peaks pierced the cloudless sky, shores rimmed with ribbons of white sand that seemed to glow against the azure waters. "You know I'm never giving up on getting her back. This isn't the last you'll see of me."
"I don't doubt it," Miquel said with a casual shrug that sent ripples through his linen shirt. He shifted his weight as the boat crested a wave, then turned to face Lachlan. "Question for you."
"What?" Lachlan snapped, still staring at the diminishing outline of St. Mateo behind them.
"Your child. The little girl." Miquel paused, removing his sunglasses to reveal eyes as dark as volcanic glass. "Is Britt her mother?"
Lachlan hesitated. He weighed the pros and cons of answering, knowing his decision could have ramifications. But he couldn’t shake the authenticity of the top leaders’ reaction to seeing Britt alive for the first time in three years. The unveiled devotion and commitment. The deference. Quattro didn’t want to hurt Britt. They weren’t the enemy. At least not this time.
Yes," Lachlan finally responded, the single word falling between them like a stone in still water.
