Page 61 of The Sentinel

But I wasn’t.

I wasn’t ready for this.

“Nosotros vamos para allá,” Señor Gil said.

We’re coming there.

The weight of those words settled over me, cold and final.

I should have told them not to. Should have told them to stay where they were, to wait for the authorities.

But how could I?

If it were me, if I had lost someone I loved, no force on Earth could keep me away.

I nodded, even though they couldn’t see me. “Okay.” My voice barely worked. “I’ll be here.”

Another sharp breath, a sniffle, and then a click.

Silence.

The dial tone buzzed in my ear.

I let the phone slip from my fingers, landing with a dull clatter on the desk.

For a second, I just sat there, staring at nothing, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on my chest like a boulder.

Then a hand wrapped around the back of my neck, warm and firm.

Marcus.

He didn’t say anything, just held me there, his thumb brushing the base of my skull. A silent anchor. A reminder that I wasn’t alone, even when it felt like the whole world had collapsed.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to sit up straighter, to breathe.

Then I turned back to the screen.

“Play it again,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “From the beginning.”

24

MARCUS

Istood there in the security office of The Palmetto Rose, Claire’s shoulders trembling under my hand as she stared at the blank screen where Diego’s last moments had just played out. The dial tone from the dropped call buzzed faintly, a dull hum against the silence that had swallowed the room after she’d broken the news to his parents.

Izzy shifted awkwardly by the desk, her gaze flicking between us like she wasn’t sure whether to stay or bolt. I didn’t blame her. This wasn’t her mess, but she was in it now, same as me. Same as Claire.

Diego’s parents. María’s shattered sobs still echoed in my head, clawing at something I didn’t know how to name. I’d never been good with that kind of pain—other people’s pain. My brothers, sure. My unit, back in the day, when the bullets flew and the blood ran hot—yeah, I’d carried them, patched them up, dragged them out of hell and them me.

But this? A mother’s grief spilling through a phoneline, a father’s quiet, broken questions? That was uncharted territory, and I was fumbling through it blind.

I cleared my throat, the sound rough in the stillness. “I’ll send the plane,” I said, my voice low, steady, like I was giving an order on a mission. “The company jet. For Diego’s folks. We’ll get them here.”

Claire’s head snapped up, her gray eyes locking onto mine, wide and searching. “What?”

“The jet,” I repeated, shoving my hands into my pockets to keep from reaching for her again. “It can be in New York in a couple hours, bring them right back. It’s the least we can do.”

Her lips parted, like she wanted to argue, but then she just nodded—short, sharp, like she was too tired to fight it. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks.”

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