Page 40 of Rogue Voice

Rogue. He was staring at her with fire in his eyes—or eye, since his other eye was bloody and swollen shut.What is he trying to tell me?

Bea forced a breath into her lungs. She’d heard Cruz’s words loud and clear. He would kill Rogue tonight. And yet, there was no fear in the man’s gaze as he looked at Bea. Just care and concern.

Rogue had been tortured and beaten to within an inch of his life, as evidenced by the caked blood, bruises, and burns that covered his muscular upper body. And yet, his concern wasn’t for himself, but for her. And she felt the same for him.

She didn’t have any illusions as to what her life with Oscar Aguilar would be like. No illusions that she would survive to see her next birthday—or that she’d even want to. But if she could save Rogue’s life today, she’d be doing something good. It would give her something to hold on to later, once things … once things became unbearable. But what could she do? She’d hoped his friends would get him in time. But if they didn’t, it would be up to her to?—

Aguilar’s fingers tightened around her arm like claws, pulling tears out of her eyes, his own shining with excitement.

He likes it. He likes to see my pain.

Bea forced her teeth together, determined not to give him that pleasure.

The priest, an old, old man with white, fluffy hair, was careful to look everywhere except at her. She wasn’t going to find much help in that corner. She looked at the other priest, with the too-short cassock that was overly tight around his chestand shoulders—as if it’d shrunk in the wash. Bea blinked in his direction. If she could get his attention?—

The old priest reached the climax of his speech. His hands went up in the air, calling to God. Behind him, the younger priest raised his hands as well, and it took Bea an instant to realize his hands were no longer empty. Two huge, black guns faced her.

Boom.

Boom.

Bea looked back to see two of her uncle’s men fall down next to the front door, where they’d been standing.

Boom.

A third man fell face-down on the gravel—and didn’t move again. Her uncle and Aguilar dove in opposite directions. The old priest followed Aguilar, moving with an agility that belied his years. Soon, Bea was the only one left standing.

“¡Disparadle! You are dead,cabrón,” Cruz exclaimed, speaking from behind the garden furniture.Shoot him.

Boom.

Boom.

The weapons went off again, so close that Bea braced for impact. When she dared open her eyes again, she looked down to find no blood on her dress. That bullet hadn’t been meant for her. She wanted to curl up into a ball, her hands over her ears. It’s what the old Beatriz would have done. But not today. Whatever this was, this was her chance. Rogue.She had to get to Rogue.

Bea lowered herself to her knees, struggling against the puffy skirt. But there was no time to fix it. Hands and elbows on the ground, she crawled forward. Bullets flew above her head, and though she didn’t stop to look up, her back itched—at any second she expected to feel the bite of a bullet on her back.

She wondered what it would feel like. Would it be instantaneous—lights out, and it’d all be over, or would death bea drawn-out, pain-filled affair? It made no difference. She was going to help Rogue or die trying.

She looked up at her target, still a few body lengths away but much closer than he’d been when she’d started crawling. Rogue’s lips moved. Not just his lips. He was saying something—shouting something. The realization made her ears start working again.

“Down, Bea! Get down and stay down!”

Ah.Right.

She pointedly ignored him. Her dress caught against a rock and tore along one knee.

Better. I hope the entire thing tears away.

Bea kept crawling until she reached Rogue’s bare feet. Of course her uncle had taken his shoes. Bea swallowed hard. That was something her uncle had learned from her father. She remembered the night her father had explained his reasoning for taking his prisoners’ shoes. It wasn’t because being barefoot made it harder to run away. It was because shoes were a sign of dignity and taking them away reduced the prisoners in both their minds and the minds of the guards.

There were burn marks on Rogue’s feet and ankles, as far up as she could see into his torn jeans. Bullets flew around them. She raised herself to her knees, then up to her feet, until her body covered most of his body.Except for his head. He’s a head taller, so he can still get shot in the head.She had to get him down.

She was afraid to touch him, there were so many open wounds on his chest and arms, but she drew comfort and courage from his proximity.

“Get down, Bea!” he shouted. His thick arm muscles strained. God, his body was a work of art. If he wasn’t hurt and bleeding, if they weren’t seconds away from becoming collateraldamage in a fight she didn’t yet understand, she could stop and stare at him. But now wasn’t the time.

Around them, bullets boomed and hissed. It seemed to her then, that the odd-looking priest with the blue eyes couldn’t be alone. There had to be somebody else helping him, because there were too many bullets flying.

---