'Christian!' Raven screamed. 'Look out!' Fuentes kicked the weapon aside and stood over
him with a gun pointed to his forehead, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Christian stared down the barrel. He would die on his knees after all. But in that instant, a cold wave surged through his body, initiating from deep in his chest. Suddenly, he felt the weight of the talisman, fortifying him with its strength.
It all rushed by in a blur, happening way too fast, until time abruptly stopped. The change punched him like a blow to the head, then muted to a calming hush.
Christian felt every sensation as if he were the only one moving, like an out of body experience. In his head, he heard his own breaths and the rhythm of his heart, muffled and steady. And he saw Raven crying off to his right, her voice garbled. Two men had grabbed her arms and were pulling her away. Raven didn't fight back. She only watched the drama being played out between him and Fuentes.
Near one of the helicopters, Charboneau was covered in blood and held Jasmine in his arms, but when his father cried out, no sound came from his mouth. Even Fuentes tensed his muscles and moved in slow motion.
Christian saw everything with such clarity, as if he wasn't a part of it.
But just as quickly the sluggish sensation came to a sudden stop. When it did, Christian stared into the barrel of a gun pointed between his eyes. And the sound of the detective's voice came through loud and clear.
'See you in hell, Delacorte.'
That's when Fuentes pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 26
Fuentes's eyes flared, his face distorted with rage. Without hesitation, he slapped the bottom of the magazine, racked the slide of his weapon, and pulled the trigger. A glint of flying brass from the ejected live round caught the dying rays of the sun. All of it happened so fast, Christian had no time to react.
He wasn't about to give the bastard a third try. Christian shoved the man's arm aside with his cuffed hands and broke free from the line of fire. He leapt to his feet and moved in tight to Fuentes. Putting muscle behind it, he jabbed the man's throat with a brutal forward thrust of his elbow, cutting off the cop's air. Stunned, Fuentes dropped his chin with eyes watering and mouth gaped open. Spittle drooled from his lips. He grasped his neck.
Christian wrenched the gun free from his other hand. It dropped to the ground. All he could do was kick it out of reach. He shifted his weight and drove an elbow back into the detective's stomach. When Fuentes doubled over, Christian turned to ram a knee high and sharp into his face. The man's head snapped back. He staggered backward like a drunk on a bender. Blood oozed from his nose and down his chin.
'That's for me.' Christian panted, his chest heaving with the adrenaline rush. 'But this? This is for Raven.'
Fuentes shook his head and tried holding up a hand, but no words came from his mouth. Christian wasn't about to accept his surrender so easily. A flood of memories bubbled to the surface, fueling his fire. He lunged for Fuentes with a shoulder, picking the man off the ground with force. He slammed his back into one of the helicopters, then hit him with a flurry of punches to his body and face. Even with his hands restrained, he made every blow count.
Fuentes cried out.
But Christian ignored his plea for leniency. He pictured Raven's face as the man degraded her in front of his men. Out of love, she came to Brazil to help, but Fuentes and his arrogant boss would have turned her good deed into tragedy by raping and killing her, leaving her body for the animals. And the images of the dead men back at the cave faded in and out of the shadows in his mind.
He pounded and kicked the man's ribs until he heard a crack and felt one bone give. With the force of each blow, Fuentes's body lurched off the ground. His head lolled from side to side like a macabre rag doll. Fuentes could no longer defend himself. His arms hung limp at his sides. Only his legs kept him propped against the chopper.
Christian shoved him to the ground onto his knees, then came up behind him. He wrapped his cuffed hands around the man's neck and yanked back. A fatal stranglehold or a crushed larynx, Christian didn't much care. With his head turning a deathlike purple, Fuentes grappled against his hands, grunting and writhing, the weight of his own body working against him. Christian pulled harder. As the man weakened, it got easier.
'Christian . . . please.' He heard a familiar voice, but couldn't stop.
Even the tears he imagined in his father's eyes, when he looked him in the face for the first time, ramped up his anger. His father had narrowly escaped a living hell in that damned cave, only to be thrown into another nightmare, being forced to witness Jasmine dying.
Christian's rage took hold and wouldn't let go. Not until he finally heard her voice.
'Please . . . he's had enough. You're going to kill him!' Raven cried. 'Please stop . . . for me. You're not like him. You're not a killer.'
When Christian looked up, he stared at her as if she were a stranger. She'd seen that look before and it always scared her. He loosened his grip and shoved Fuentes face first into the dirt. Raven reached for his arm and pulled him toward her, to reclaim him. He staggered, his chest sucking air. His fists were raw and covered in blood. When his rage finally subsided, he stared at Fuentes, unconscious on the ground. A bloody heap.
Christian turned and shook his head, unable to look her in the eye or say a word. His shame took over. He'd given in to the dark beast he'd fought his entire life.
Raven knew she had to distract him from his agony or the monster would find a foothold in his guilt. 'Duarte's rounding up the rest of Zharan's men. It's over.' Tears brimmed in her eyes. She couldn't believe it herself. They'd made it.
The skirmish had been brief but had taken its toll with the number of dead and dying. Most of Zharan's tactical team had their hands up and knelt in the marshy sod, their faces young and scared. Duarte's men were searching them for weapons, then binding their hands with plastic restraints and shoving them to the ground. Those trained as medics were taking care of the wounded. The more serious were being loaded onto stretchers for the ride back.
Zharan was handcuffed and under guard. By the looks of him, Duarte must have rearranged the chief's face with his fists after the man shot Jasmine. His hair was gnarled into a tangled mess and his polished smile was tarnished with blood and a chipped tooth. And that perfect nose now had character. A noticeable improvement all the way around.
'It's over, but not for Jasmine, Christian.' Raven fixed her eyes on Nicholas Charboneau, the man's hands and arms slick with Jasmine's blood.
It didn't look good.
Christian rushed by her and knelt near Jasmine. The sucking sound coming from the exit wound on her chest made his skin crawl. Unconscious, she struggled to breathe. Not a good sign. One of Duarte's men had an opened medical kit on the ground by her.
The man had to act quickly. He fumbled through the packages of dressing and found what he needed.
But soon, he cried out in broken English, 'This . . . no good. Look for another.' The young officer held out an occlusive dressing, an air and watertight trauma dressing used to treat sucking chest wounds.
Christian saw what he meant. The package had been torn open, exposed to the air. It made the blasted thing useless. The waxy coating of the dressing had dried out.
'Get these off me. Hurry.' Christian held out his hands. The young officer found his key and unlocked his cuffs, then did the same for Raven and Nicholas. With hands free, Christian rummaged through the
