Page 21 of Damián

“They’re the same. Alexios made them specially so we don’t need any mics,” I tell him, and watch as Oliver holds the comm close to his mouth.

“To whoever is listening: In five hours, Red Hook Terminal, Pier 12. The cargo ship is the Andean Star. The ship is exporting weapons.”

Oliver hands the comm back to me, and I reinsert it. “Alexios, did you get it?”

“Got it. I’m searching for maritime logs now… and… It’s real. It’s set to sail in six hours and flies a Panamanian flag.”

“Knox and Tae, come back to the van,” Logan orders. “Damián, stay with the informant. Björn, stay as backup.”

“On it,” I say and then smile at Oliver. “Great. Now that that’s settled, is there a way to remove the guards from the coatroom?”

“Not all at once.”

“Damián,” Alexios says over the comms. “One of the guards came to get Rafael, and it looks like they are headed your way. They’re twenty seconds from leaving the DJ’s camera angle, so I assume you have less than two minutes before they reach you.”

“Two minutes?!”

“What did they say?” Oliver asks after seeing my grin drop.

“That your brother was just told we are locked in here, and he is headed this way. Is he part of your team?”

“Far from it… We need to leave.” Oliver reaches for the doorknob.

“No.” I slam my hand against the door, right next to his head, holding it shut.

I step in close, my arm framing him, trapping him between the wood and my body. The air between us instantly thickens and feels as if it’s charged with static.

He looks up at me, eyes wide, his breath hitching in his throat.

Up close, the aroma of expensive wine and suntan hits me.

Damn, he smells good.

“I can hear guards walking outside.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “If we walk out now, they’ll see us.”

“It’s the only door,” Oliver whispers back, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a split second before snapping back to my eyes. “The window is a stationary stained glass, and the exhaust fan is the size of a squirrel. We’re locked in.”

My eyes dart around the room: white marble, gold, flowers, and towels.

Fuck. There is nothing we can use and nowhere to go.

Then I see the toilet.

“There. Puke in the toilet.”

Oliver looks at me with horror. “What?”

“Shove your fingers down your throat and puke.”

“Why the hell would I puke?”

“Because your staff knows you’re drunk half of the time. It makes sense if they find us locked in here while I’m helping you puke.”

“Oh, how noble.”

“Thanks. Now go, go.”

“I am not going to puke. That’s horrifying. You shove your fingers down your throat and puke.”