“You’re the tail I picked up in Topanga,” he says.
“And you’re the one I couldn’t shake in the canyon.” Her voice is flat, but there’s something underneath. “Good instincts.”
“You too.”
For a moment, they just look at each other. Then Tatiana offers him a hand up, and he takes it.
Vicente.
The thought hits and my legs are already moving, carrying me back toward the house before I can stop them. I hate that I care. Hate that five years of conditioning still has me running toward him instead of away.
Arturo’s still working on Vicente when I get back. There’s blood everywhere, soaked into the rug, smeared across Arturo’s hands and forearms. But Vicente’s chest is rising and falling, and Arturo’s voice is steady as he follows instructions from someone on the phone.
Nina’s holding the screen where he can see it. Callie’s face fills the frame, her expression tight with focus.
“Keep the pressure steady. Don’t let up even if he screams.”
“The house belongs to my doctor,” Arturo says without looking up. “Medical supplies in the kitchen.”
Callie’s eyes flick past him and land on me. Her focus breaks for a split second. “Chris, you look like absolute shit. Call me the second this is over or I swear to God?—”
“Love you too, Cal.”
“Arturo, I need you to check the exit wound?—”
She’s already back to work.
“How bad?” I ask.
“Chest wound, left side. Missed the heart, but he’s losing blood fast.” Callie’s voice is clipped, professional. “He needs a hospital. Now.”
Rafael’s in the doorway. His face is pale beneath the bruises, body rigid. He looks like someone watching a house burn that he never got to live in.
“Road into Santa Monica is blocked,” he says. “Mudslide. We saw it coming through the canyon.” He looks around, but the other half of “we” has disappeared. I don’t remember seeing Tatiana leave but I’m not surprised she’s already gone.
Arturo looks up—and freezes. His eyes lock on Rafael’s face, scanning the features, and I watch the recognition hit. “Dios mío,” he breathes. Then he shakes it off, turns back to the wound. “We need a helicopter.”
Lucia’s already on it, barking into her satellite phone. Medical evac. Coordinates. The urgency of a man bleeding out on a bathroom floor.
Wyatt appears in the doorway, rain-soaked, with a zip-tied man in tactical gear stumbling ahead of him. The second shooter. Alive, like Tatiana said. Wounded in the leg, but conscious.
“Found Darius,” Wyatt says. “Unconscious at the gate, but breathing. Vaughn is with him.”
One less body to worry about.
I should feel something. Satisfaction that we got one of them alive. Relief that it wasn’t one of ours who took the bullet.
Instead I feel hollow. The confrontation we just had, the words finally spoken, and now Vicente might die before either of us knows what to do with them.
Vicente’s eyes flutter open. Find mine.
“Chris.” His voice is barely a whisper. “Christopher.”
I cross to him. Kneel down, staying out of Nina’s way.
“Save your strength.”
“No. Listen.” His bloody hand catches my wrist, grip weaker than I’ve ever felt it. “I wasted so much time. Thirty years hating Arturo for something that wasn’t his fault. Five years using you to fill a hole I should have filled myself.” His breath rattles. “You deserved better. You deserved someone who saw you, not someone who—who made you into a mirror for his own damage.”
