Chapter 7

The boy was heavy. By the time Kaitlynn dragged him through the back door of the farmhouse, her arms were burning, and her lungs felt like they were on fire.

She dumped him unceremoniously on her own bed-the only clean, flat surface in the house.

"Paige, go put some water on the stove," she ordered, already reaching for the first aid kit she had assembled from the clinic's supplies. "Cason, bring me the bottle of alcohol and the clean rags."

The kids moved without question. They were getting used to this new version of their mother.

Kaitlynn cut away what was left of the boy's shirt, exposing his torso. The stab wounds were deep, but they had clotted slightly, which meant he hadn't bled out. Yet.

As she pulled the fabric away, something fell out of his pocket and clattered onto the wooden floor.

It was a heavy, brass lighter. Expensive-looking. But it wasn't the metal that caught Kaitlynn's eye-it was the engraving on the side.

A snake eating its own tail, wrapped around a single poppy flower.

Kaitlynn's hand froze in mid-air. Her blood ran cold.

She recognized that symbol. She had seen it in the deepest, darkest corners of the DEA database. It was the mark of the Golden Crescent Syndicate, one of the most ruthless international drug cartels in the world. And this particular variant-the ouroboros with the poppy-was the personal sigil of their high-ranking inner circle.

She hadn't just saved a random kid. She had saved a cartel prince.

"Damn it," she muttered under her breath. This was bad. This was very, very bad.

She couldn't take him to the hospital. The cartel would find him. And if they found him, they would find her. She couldn't call the police. A kid with that tattoo would disappear into the system, or worse, be killed before he ever made it to a cell.

She had to make him disappear.

"Paige! Cason! Don't come in here yet!" she shouted.

She worked quickly. She searched the boy's pockets, finding nothing else. Then she checked his shoes. Inside the lining of his left shoe, her fingers brushed against something flat and hard. She pulled it out.

A micro SD card, wrapped in a tiny piece of plastic.

Evidence. This boy wasn't just a prince; he was a courier. Or a liability.

She pocketed the SD card and the lighter. Then she gathered up the boy's bloody, expensive clothes and carried them to the kitchen. She shoved them into the wood-burning stove and stoked the fire until they were nothing but ash.

She went back to the bedroom and pulled out one of Cason's old shirts, slipping it over the boy's head. It was too small, but it would do.

"Cason," she called out. "I need you to run to Dr. Brennan's house. Tell him... tell him I found a homeless kid in the woods who fell down the ravine. Tell him it looks like he got thrown from a train. Can you do that?"

Cason stood in the doorway, his eyes taking in the scene-the blood, the makeshift bandages, his mother's grim expression. He didn't ask questions. He just nodded and ran out the door.

Kaitlynn let out a breath. She looked down at the unconscious boy. His face was pale, his breathing shallow. She had stepped right back into the world she had died to escape.

A knock came at the door twenty minutes later. Dr. Brennan hurried in, his medical bag in hand. He took one look at the boy on the bed and his eyes widened.

"Good lord, Kaitlynn. What happened?"

"I found him up on the ridge," Kaitlynn said, reciting the lie she had rehearsed. "He looks like a runaway. Maybe he fell off a freight train. I don't know."

Brennan moved to the bed, his professional instincts taking over. He examined the leg, the stab wounds. "These aren't from a fall," he said, his voice low.

"I know," Kaitlynn said. "But I couldn't just leave him there to die."

Brennan looked at her, a mixture of admiration and concern in his eyes. "You're a good woman, Kaitlynn. A lot of people would have walked away."

She didn't feel good. She felt like a woman standing on the edge of a volcano.

Brennan set to work. He reset the broken leg, making the boy cry out in his unconscious state. He stitched the stab wounds and hooked up an IV bag of antibiotics.

Kaitlynn assisted him, handing him instruments, cutting bandages. Her movements were precise, efficient. She knew the names of the tools before he asked for them. She anticipated his needs.

Brennan paused, looking at her hands. "You've done this before," he said. It wasn't a question.

Kaitlynn met his gaze. "Colt taught me," she said smoothly. "He said these were skills everyone should know, just in case."

It was the perfect excuse. Colt Richmond, the Green Beret. It explained everything-her strength, her skills, her calm under pressure. It was a shield she could hide behind.

Brennan nodded slowly. "He was a smart man." He finished the last stitch and stood up, wiping his hands. "He's stable for now. Keep him warm, keep the IV flowing. I'll check on him tomorrow."

"Thank you, Doctor," Kaitlynn said, walking him to the door.

After he left, she stood in the quiet house. She could hear Paige's soft breathing from the other room. She could hear the wind whistling through the broken window.

She walked outside, into the cold night air. She pulled the brass lighter from her pocket. She stared at it for a long moment, the engraved snake seeming to mock her. It was a beacon, a death sentence. She walked over to the burn barrel in the yard and tossed it in. She lit a match and dropped it on top. The flames flared up, consuming the evidence, the orange glow dancing in her eyes.

But the SD card remained in her pocket. She went back inside, prying up a loose floorboard beneath her bed. She wrapped the tiny card in a piece of oilcloth, tucked it into the dark space, and pushed the board firmly back into place. It was too dangerous to look at now, but far too valuable to destroy. It was an insurance policy. A weapon. An ace in the hole she might need to survive what was coming.

She looked back at the house, her eyes settling on the overgrown garden and the peeling paint. She had a lot of work to do.