Page 185 of The Devil's Thorn
I let out a slow breath, steadying my pulse, and adjusted the holster under my jacket. My hand hovered near the grip of my gun as I crept forward through the shadows. Empty crates and rusted machinery cluttered the space like abandoned skeletons—relics of whatever life this building used to have before it became a hiding spot for men like them.
Move quietly. Stay small. Eyes everywhere.
It was instinct now.
A hallway stretched ahead, and I followed it, ears straining for any sound—footsteps, breathing, voices.
Then I heard it. Faint, at first. Like a radio playing too low. But as I moved closer, I saw the flicker of light leaking from a cracked door at the end of the corridor. I crouched down beside it, spine pressed against the wall, and slipped my gun from its holster.
Just in case.
The wood was old, warped, and left just enough of a gap to let me see shadows moving inside—figures pacing, one seated. I couldn’t make out faces from this angle. But the voices carried clearer now, low and sharp.
“He’s a problem. And not just for us anymore.” A man’s voice—calm, even. Like this was a boardroom and not a conspiracy.
“Rafael always was. But we knew that going in.” The seated man spoke this time, a slower drawl. My stomach coiled.
They were talking about him again.
“Cartel wasn’t supposed to know the details. They were the cover story. We let them believe it was about the shipment, but this…” a pause, then a hiss of breath, “…this is about blood.”
I clenched my jaw.
So the Cartel wasn’t behind the ambush. They were just the lie. The smokescreen. My fingers tightened on the gun, but I didn’t move.
Another voice jumped in. This one anxious, like he was out of his depth. “You think Viktor will handle it?”
That name.Viktor.
My pulse skipped.
“Viktor always handles things. He has the Italians now. And they’re waiting for a reason to finally move. Rafael gave them one the moment he set foot in Cartagena.”
My mind reeled. The Italian Mafia.
It wasn’t about a lost shipment or cartel tension. This was deeper. Twisted. Years in the making. They were using the city as a stage. And Rafael—he was the target. The symbol. The threat that had to be cut down.
The men inside laughed softly. Not cruel. Confident. “Let him think he’s safe. He’s not. We’ll let him bleed slow.”
I felt the ice in those words creep down my spine like a blade.
I had to go.
I pressed a hand to my knee to ground myself, the cold metal of my ring biting into my skin.
You’ve heard enough. Now move.
It was just a matter of time before one of them stepped out. Before they noticed the door wasn’t closed all the way. Before someone asked for a smoke break and caught me crouched in the dark.
I rose, slow and silent, heart pounding in my ears, and turned. Retraced my steps. Footsteps light. Each step away from that room felt like a countdown ticking in my head.
Get out. Get out.
I reached the back door and slipped out into the humid air like a ghost. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing whatever darkness lived inside that room. And I didn’t look back.
I didn’t breathe until I was nearly half a block away. Every step I took felt heavier than the last, like the weight of what I’d just heard was dragging behind me like a chain. I moved quickly at first, slipping through shadows, ducking low in case someone followed me out. But no one came. No shouting. No gunfire. No running footsteps. Just silence. Deafening. Suspicious.
Too easy.
