My eyes filled with tears—fear, regret, guilt all tangled together.
I looked at him and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Get some rest,” he said, standing up. “We’ll talk later.”
He walked out before I could respond, before I could explain, before I could tell him any of the truths burning in my chest.
The door closed behind him, and I was alone.
***
Drew took me back to his place the next day. I was still weak, still shaky, but the doctor had cleared me to leave as long as I rested and stayed hydrated.
Drew hovered like a shadow, his hand on my lower back as we walked to the car, his eyes scanning the parking lot like he expected an attack.
“I’m fine,” I said for the tenth time.
“You’re not.” His tone left no room for argument.
When we got to his apartment, he settled me on the couch with a blanket and a glass of water, then disappeared into his room to change.
I sat there, staring at the TV that wasn’t even on, my mind spinning.
A baby.
I was going to be a mother.
The thought terrified me. Exhilarated me. Made me want to scream and cry and laugh all at once.
Drew emerged a few minutes later, dressed in jeans and a black shirt, his jaw still tight. “I have to go see Rafael. Tell him about the ambush.”
My heart stopped. “What?”
“The arms deal was compromised. We lost the cargo.” His eyes were hard, unreadable. “Rafael needs to know.”
Panic clawed at my throat. “Drew—”
“I’ll be back.” He grabbed his keys, then paused at the door, looking back at me. “Don’t leave. And don’t do anything stupid.”
Then he was gone.
I sat there, frozen, my mind racing.
He knew about the ambush. Knew the deal had been compromised.
Did he know it was me?
Did he suspect?
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, saw Vance’s name on the screen, and my stomach turned.
I didn’t answer.
Let it ring until it went to voicemail.
He called again an hour later. Then again. Then sent a barrage of texts.
Answer the phone.
