“We need to go, Gaby.”
“Mateo can stand guard. This will be quick,” she insisted, tearing a strip from the hem of her skirt. Two of the girls did the same, handing her fabric without a word. Gaby wrapped the makeshift bandage around his ribs, tying it off the best she could—not a nurse by any means.
“That will have to do for now.”
Before she drew away, he caught her hand and pulled her closer. His voice dropped, meant for her alone. “You bite your lip when you concentrate,” he observed. “Sexiest medic there ever was. Thanks, love.”
When she glanced up in surprise, he actually winked. Then said louder, for the others, “Let’s get to the tunnel. But stay alert. Others may be trying to evacuate through it.”
“What tunnel?” Mateo asked.
“Leland clocked it during recon. It doubles as a maintenance corridor. South ridge.”
With no time for questions, Rhys led them away from the burning mansion, through thinning smoke, and down a sloping path.
Then, suddenly, they were out of the gray haze. Sunlight broke through the trees ahead, brilliant, almost blinding. The air was cleaner, the roar of the fire muffled behind them.
Rhys stopped and scanned the hillside. There it was, beyond the trees, partially hidden by vegetation. A heavy steel door stood wide open. Not just a tunnel, Álvarez’s final contingency. Already lost, like his smoldering palace.
She spared no more than a fleeting thought for the millions of dollars of art lost to the fire. The real treasure followed in single file—young women, including Natalie, being given a new lease on life.
Chapter 24
Leland heard them before he saw them.
Heels striking stone. Ragged breathing. The wet scrape of a shoe that didn’t lift cleanly. One of them was injured.
He lifted a hand, and the agents with him assumed their ready positions.
The tunnel mouth opened onto a narrow strip of shoreline where a secondary dock jutted into the water. Beyond it, smoke rose in a dark column from what remained of the main pier and from the shattered helipad on the ridge above.
Four of Álvarez’s people emerged out of the tunnel, too busy arguing to notice the danger awaiting them. Two men in guard uniforms wrestled a single long crate between them, the weight forcing them into an uneven, stumbling rhythm.
“Lift it higher,idiota,” the one out front ordered. “If you crack it, I swear—”
“Then you carry it,” the man behind the crate snapped, sweat streaking through soot on his face. “This thing weighs a damn ton.”
A fourth guard limped behind them, one hand clamped to his bleeding thigh, contributing nothing but curses and dead weight.
The bossy one jerked his chin toward the dock ahead. “Keep moving. We’re almost home free.”
“Not quite,” Leland said calmly, stepping into view.
OIJ agents fanned out behind him, weapons raised. One of them spoke brusquely in Spanish.“Policía! Están arrestados. ¡Armas al suelo!”
The guards froze. The one in the lead glanced at the boats as if calculating the distance. Another dropped his end of the crate in defeat, knocking his partner off balance. He fell to his knees, holding his back. The wounded man sagged, pain finally winning.
It confirmed what Leland suspected. They weren’t fighters. They were opportunists who’d mistaken chaos for escape.
“You heard the man,” Leland barked. “Drop your weapons and get on the ground. Now.”
No one tested him. Weapons clattered. Knees hit sand. The wounded man collapsed with an agonized groan as officers moved in to secure them.
Leland keyed his mic. “Tunnel exit contained. Secondary dock secured. No outbound traffic.”
The response came within seconds. “Copy. Main dock destroyed. Helipad is a loss, too.”
“Understood.”
