Unshackle (Deliver #7) - Pam Godwin Page 0,78
to paddle away. The oar whirled around him as if he were fighting off an invisible monster. Within seconds, he was beached on the shore and running, shouting in Spanish, and slapping at his arms.
“Black widows don’t like water.” Miguel’s amused voice penetrated the panic that lay siege to Luke’s mind. “Eventually, they’ll find their way into her hair and slip under the net. Once they start biting, the venom will attack her nervous system. With her diaphragm in paralysis, she’ll struggle to breathe. Severe abdominal pain will set in, along with tremors in her legs, vomiting, profuse sweating, and swollen eyelids. The number of bites and the depth of the punctures will determine how quickly she dies. That’s if she doesn’t drown first.”
Fear was a vicious, quivering entity inside him. Tunnel vision invaded, and light-headedness crippled him with an overwhelming need to sit down before he fell down. But more than that, he was ruled by the savage, reckless urge to run to her. His legs contracted and burned to go, go, go. Now!
That was what they wanted.
This was the test.
Dozens of eyes watched him from all directions, waiting for him to strip his disguise and rescue the girl.
A slave buyer wouldn’t dare dirty his expensive suit to save the life of a whore. But a cartel sicario or teniente would endure torture and take a bullet before returning to his jefe empty-handed. That would be career-ending. Life-ending. The ultimate disgrace.
To survive this, he had to prove to them that he wasn’t with an enemy cartel. He was John Smith, shrewd businessman and unfeeling slave owner.
He stood motionless, ice-cold and dead inside, calling their bluff.
Seconds stretched. Spiders swarmed. His lungs refused air.
The longer he waited, the more deadly Vera’s predicament became.
Seeing her smothered beneath a blanket of black widows burned away the lining of his stomach and turned his guts inside out. There was only so much stress a body could bear—hers and his.
With her mouth forced open, her limbs restrained in murky water, and her head enveloped by a hood of venomous spiders, her panic would’ve exceeded volcanic by now.
Long black hair floated around her, skimming the surface and providing a landing place for clinging legs. Were they swimming beneath the dome? Sinking fangs into her tender skin? Injecting her with venom?
Enough.
Everything inside him switched gears. Tendons turned to steel. Muscles flexed around fortifying joints. Adrenaline spiked, and his mind cleared.
He would die for her.
He didn’t remember removing his suit, but by the time he reached the pond’s edge, every stitch of clothing was gone except his pants and shoes. He toed off the latter and scooped them up to use as weapons against the spiders. Then he calmly waded into the chilly water.
“What are you doing, Mr. Smith?” Marco asked, not bothering to chase him.
“Retrieving my property.” He wouldn’t survive their gunfire, but he would do everything in his power to ensure that she escaped.
Beyond the spotlight’s beam, he waited until the water rose to his hips before discreetly removing the key card and phone from his pocket. Both went into one shoe, which he kept above the water and shielded from their view.
“Come back here,” Marco called in a bored tone. “We will shoot you.”
“Do it, Marco, and you’ll invite an army of enemies you won’t win against.”
“How will they find us?” Marco laughed.
He met the man’s eyes over his shoulder. “How did I find you?”
Marco’s face went taut. Let him stew on that for a while.
As the water rushed over his shoulders, he kept the insides of the shoes dry, floating them smoothly along the surface.
The swim toward her was the longest half-minute of his life. The spot between his shoulder blades tingled beneath the aim of multiple guns.
They could shoot him at any moment, but he counted on them waiting. He was providing them with a show of human suffering and vain hope. It was the ultimate entertainment. They lived for this shit.
He slowed at the center, scanning the illuminated water for squirming black bodies. Thank fuck for the light—
It clicked off, dousing him in pitch black.
“Turn it back on,” he roared, panic setting in.
The laughter of monsters erupted on the shore.
Fuck them. Without the light, he couldn’t see the spiders. But it also meant the cartel couldn’t see him.
He released the shoes, letting them float. Then he inched toward the bobbing spider-covered dome.
“It’s me,” he whispered. “I’m going to remove the gag first. Don’t make a sound when I do.”
He couldn’t see her