Unlike the entrance we used, there's no ladder here. Just an old wooden door, the planks cracked with age and warped from humidity. We approach cautiously, slowing our pace.
I press my ear against the rough surface, listening.Nothing. I turn to Naomi and find her already looking at me, her face half illuminated by the weak light.
We're inches apart. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of her breath on my face and see the few flecks that are darker blue in her eyes. Her lips are slightly parted, and the smudge of dirt across her cheek somehow makes her even prettier.
The rational part of my brain screams that we need to keep moving, that Logan could be right behind us, that danger waits on both sides of this door. But that voice is drowned out by the thundering of my heart.
I kiss her.
I kiss her because she’s still here. And I’m still here. I kiss her because almost losing her back there at the diner nearly broke me. I steal this kiss because I can, in this dark, liminal space between lands.
She kisses me back just as gratefully, her hands gripping my shirt, pulling me closer.
I only force myself to break away from Naomi when I hear a voice outside speaking rapid Spanish. I press my eye to a crack in the weathered door.
Just one guy. Young, maybe nineteen or twenty, leaning against a rusty pickup truck. He's smoking a cigarette, talking into a cell phone. His rifle is propped carelessly against the truck's fender. The kid's clearly not expecting trouble from this side of the tunnel. Makes sense. The American side needs layers of plausible deniability. But here? The cartel probably controls everything for miles. No one would interfere with their operation.
"One guard," I whisper to Naomi. "Armed but distracted."
I can feel her warmth behind me, her breath on my neck. "I'll take care of him," I say, already calculating the quickest way to neutralize the threat.
"Wait." Her hand catches my arm. "How?"
I don't answer, but she can read it in my face.
"He's just a kid, Walker."
"He's cartel."
"You don't know that. And even if he is, he could have been forced into this." Her eyes hold mine, unwavering. “I trust you. Trust me.”
Before I can continue arguing, Naomi steps back. In one fluid motion, she reaches under her tank top and unhooks her bra, sliding it off without removing her shirt. The sight makes my mouth go dry. Her nipples press against the thin fabric, hardened from our kiss or the cool tunnel air—or both.
"What are you doing?" I manage to ask.
"Creating a distraction." She tucks her bra into her back pocket. "When he's focused on me, you can get behind him."
Something primal and possessive roars to life inside me. I don't want this kid's eyes on her. I don't want anyone looking at her but me. It's irrational, primitive, and completely beyond my control.
"I don't like this," I growl.
“You won’t let anything happen to me,” she says with complete certainty, and a little challenge in her voice.
Naomi pushes the door open just enough to slip through. I watch through the crack as she stumbles into view, feigning disorientation. The guard straightens immediately, rifle forgotten as he takes in the sight of her, tank top clinging to her curves, her nipples still hard despite the heat.
She speaks to him in Spanish, her voice breathy and frightened. I can't make out the words, but her body language tells the only story he’s interested in.
The kid is completely captivated. Who wouldn't be? He steps toward her, his back to the door, hands gesturing as he responds.
I slip out silently, closing the distance in four long strides. The guard senses me a second too late. I wrap my arm aroundhis throat in a practiced hold, cutting off blood flow to his brain. He struggles briefly before going limp.
"He'll be unconscious for a few minutes," I tell Naomi as I lower him gently to the ground. "That's it."
Relief flashes across her face. She grabs the keys from his pocket while I take his weapon and destroy his phone.
"Let's go," I say, sliding behind the wheel of the pickup. The engine coughs to life on the second try.
As we pull away, dust billowing behind us, I glance at Naomi. She's looking straight ahead; her profile etched against the harsh Mexican sun.
