Chapter 100 I'll Go With You
The gunfire sounded flat and ugly, vibrating through the armored SUV. Pop-pop-pop. Bullets pinged against the cracked glass.
I didn't roll down the window. I didn't answer Blake Bennett.
I tried to be calm, like Ethan would be, but my mind was racing. The smell of smoke and blood filled the car, making me sick. My hands shook so violently I had to clamp them between my knees.
"Liv!" Blake’s voice cut through the chaos outside, amplified by a megaphone or just sheer arrogance. "Last chance."
Inside the car, the air was thick with desperation.
"Ms. Reed," the injured bodyguard wheezed, his face pale and slick with sweat. "Don't listen to him. Keep your head down."
"We hold the line," the driver added, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he prepared to ram the blockade again. "You don't go with him."
"If you stay, you die," I said, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears—dry, cracked, terrified. "And if you die, what happens to me? The drug lords drag me into the jungle, or Blake drags me into his car. The end result is the same for me, but you two end up in body bags."
Blake checked his watch, looking anxious. "Liv, I'm counting to three. If you don't come now, I'm leaving. These are cartel hitmen—your guards can't hold them off forever."
I cracked the window open. "Okay, I'll go with you," I shouted. "But you have to promise they won't get hurt."
The guard started to protest, but I cut him off. "We don't have a choice. We can't all die here." I forced a bitter smile. "That would just be a waste."
The interior of Blake’s vehicle smelled of expensive leather and mint—a jarring contrast to the blood and sweat I’d just left behind.
We drove in silence for a long time, putting miles between us and the ambush. Blake seemed content to just drive, humming a tune I didn't recognize, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
Eventually, we pulled onto a private airstrip. A sleek jet was waiting, engines already whining.
It wasn't until we were seated in the VIP lounge of the airport, waiting for clearance, that the adrenaline finally crashed. I sat on a plush velvet sofa, my hands wrapped around a glass of water I couldn't bring myself to drink.
Blake sat opposite me, looking infuriatingly relaxed. He’d shed his tactical vest and was pouring himself a whiskey.
"Blake," I said, my voice steadying. "Stop this. Stop fighting him. He’s your uncle. You’re blood. Why tear each other apart like this? If you keep going, you’re both going to get hurt. What’s the point?"
He stood up and moved to the sofa, sitting right next to me. Too close. He draped an arm over the back of the seat, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck. I stiffened, but I didn't pull away. I couldn't show fear. Not now.
He reached out and snagged a lock of my hair, twirling it around his finger. "It’s not me fighting him," he said softly. "It’s him. Ideally, uncles are supposed to protect their nephews. They aren't supposed to steal their girlfriends. Do you think he’s even human, doing that?"
I pressed my lips together.
I was the victim here. I was the one who had been traded, bartered, and stolen. But in their world—this twisted, high-stakes game of chess played by the Bennett men—I wasn't a player. I was a pawn. A trophy. Pawns don't get to have opinions.
When I didn't answer, Blake yanked my hair. Sharp. Painful.
"Answer me," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. "Is Ethan a decent human being?"
I closed my eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
He let go of my hair and grabbed my chin, his fingers digging into my jaw, forcing me to look at him. His eyes were dark, manic. "Do you know why Ethan sent you to the Golden Triangle? Do you know why you’re really here?"
I remained silent.
Blake released my face, his touch suddenly gentle as he rubbed the red marks his fingers had left on my skin. He laughed, a low, cruel sound. "He’s not hurt, Liv. I lied on the phone."
My eyes snapped open.
"I knew he wasn't hurt," Blake continued, looking delighted by my confusion. "Because I know for a fact that he couldn't scratch Ethan if he tried. Ethan is former Force Recon. He eats guys like that for breakfast."
"Then why..." I started, my voice trembling. "Why did he tell me..."
"I told you he was hurt to get you panicked," Blake said smoothly. "But here’s the kicker: Ethan knew I was calling you. He knew I was lying. And he let you come anyway."
"What?"
"The phone he gave you." Blake pointed to my bag. "It’s bugged. Heavily. GPS, microphone, keystroke logger. He hears every word you say, reads every text you type. He knew I called you. He lured you here. He faked the severity of the situation. He wanted to see if you’d come running."
"He’s a sociopath, Liv," Blake crooned, his voice dripping with poison. "He dragged you into the Golden Triangle, a place crawling with cartels and mercenaries, putting a target on your back. Why? Just to test your loyalty. Just to see if you loved him enough to risk your life."
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. It made sense.
"He didn't care about your safety," Blake continued, driving the knife in deeper. "Take tonight. He sent you to the airport with two guards. Two. He has an army at his disposal, but he sent you with two guys in a flashy SUV. He knew the cartels were watching."
"Stop it," I whispered.
"If I hadn't intercepted you," Blake said, leaning in close, his eyes wide with mock sincerity, "you would be in a cage right now. Real drug lords don't have my patience. Do you know what they do to pretty American girls? They use them until they break, and then they sell the pieces."
"How did you know?" I asked sharply, my mind finally latching onto a discrepancy. "How did you know about the ambush? How did the cartels know who I was?"
Ethan was paranoid. He was meticulous. He wouldn't have leaked our relationship.
Unless...
Unless Blake was the one who set it up.