Page 189 of Beat of Love
Rafferty’s jaw clenched as an image cut through the fog.
That cold, stinking concrete basement.
The sting of the lashes.
The copper tang of blood in the air.
Her all-consuming anger—
“The compound,” Rafferty said, voice low but urgent.
The room fell still.
He looked up. “The compound,” he repeated. “It might’ve been destroyed during the DEA raid, but if she’s trying to disappear, she might go back there. Back where it all started.”
*
Several days later …
Rafferty stood at the back of the room, arms crossed, eyes locked on the wall of monitors in front of him. Hannigan had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to concedeOperation Pradato King Security and pay the hefty fee for their services.
“We have confirmed her presence at the compound,” John Smith had relayed earlier, summoning his presence for a briefing with the team.
A wide clearing appeared on the screen — freshly scarred, the jungle still held at bay by the violence that had swept through less than four weeks earlier.
The one-story sprawl of buildings had once been a secure compound — a functional fortress wrapped around an opulent central house. He had lived there. Worked there. Fucked there. Before she discovered who he was and dragged him to the basement.
Now, the compound was unrecognizable. Blasted open and gutted. Concrete walls stood jagged, torn apart by explosives, black scorch marks fanning out like spider legs from each blast site. The elaborate house, once gleaming with marble floors and high ceilings, sagged in on itself, charred and broken. No vegetation had dared return. It was a dead place — burned, brutalized, and hollow.
On screen, a thermal overlay flickered — several heat signatures, subtle but distinct.
Stas’s voice came through the comms. “She’s here. There are at least two guards with her. Another four on perimeter. No comms traffic, no visible power grid. She’s keeping it low-tech, off-grid. Smart.” Stas appeared on another monitor — sweaty, crouched under foliage, camo face paint streaked from humidity.
Rafferty stepped forward. “Any security?”
“Mostly trip lines. Several homemade claymores — already disabled.”
“Too easy,” Rafferty blurted.
Stas grinned, all dark humor and sharp edges. “I’m not done yet. There’s a pocket of men holed up near the ruins, just waiting for her signal to swarm in. We took care of them. A little something in their water supply. Let’s just say they’ll be too busy praying to the porcelain gods to pick up a rifle.”
He leaned in, smirk widening. “So, our window’s open. We go tonight. Zero three hundred. New moon, low vis, maybe some rain. The holy trinity of stealth. She won’t see us coming — literally.”
Rafferty’s appreciation for the team surged, and he pushed back the unexpected wave of emotion. “You’ve secured a place to detain her?” They were still debating what the hell to do with her once they had her in custody.
Brazil wouldn’t extradite one of their own, especially not for a homicide committed on U.S. soil — which, of course, was why she’d run home after killing Selena.
To make matters worse, Hannigan was convinced their leak had come from inside thePolícia Federal, ruling out any hope of local cooperation.
That left them with two options — neither ideal.
Option one: Smuggle her into a neighboring country, orchestrate an arrest, and push for extradition to the U.S. The gamble? Counting on that country to play along.
Option two: The darker route. Smuggle her straight into the U.S. and tip off the authorities. Legally, it was kidnapping. A blatant violation of international law. The kind of thing that could torch King Security’s reputation — or worse, land them in federal court.
Until they figured it out, they would hold her in a secure location.
But there was a third option Rafferty hadn’t voiced yet.
