by Pam Godwin
He recalled the few interactions he’d had with Russian constituents over his career and couldn’t trace any of it back to his last assignment. Lydia’s nationality most likely had nothing to do with him. Unless her counterparts were Russian, too. He would find that out soon enough.
The off-road tires sailed across the sand, the desert a graveyard of shadows and scattered holes. Silhouettes of cacti rose up like headstones, the wind warm and invasive. Like her hands.
As his shirt billowed up his torso, her fingers followed, exploring the ridges of his abs. He forced indifference into his posture, neither leaning in nor shoving her away. He refused to give her the satisfaction of a response.
She pressed closer, her hot body flush to his back, as her hand slid between his legs, finding him soft. But not for long.
His lungs expanded with dusty air, his cock thickening. She didn’t rub him or open his fly. She simply rested her fingers there, curled around his growing bulge.
It was torture. He wanted her to stroke him, to pull him out and give him a fleeting moment of pleasure before his world became nothing but pain.
But he had far more control than that. In seven years, he hadn’t acted on his carnal impulses. Didn’t stop his mind from placing her lips around him. He let the fantasy distract him for a few minutes, sinking into images of his cock buried in her throat, her cunt, and deep in her ass.
He had a penchant for anal—the strangling tightness, the forbidden nature of it, and the punishing fear it evoked. Just thinking about it made him hard as a rock.
Lydia squeezed his length, acknowledging his body’s reaction. Good for her. If she had any intentions of using sex to manipulate him, she had the wrong guy.
Getting off wasn’t high on his personal agenda. His only priority was protecting the people he cared about, and to do that, he needed to arrive at the destination without crashing.
So he shut down the fantasy, shut out the feel of her hand, and concentrated on navigating the sandy land.
She steered him through the darkness, pointing this way and that. No one could find their way out of this desert without a map or GPS. Except Tomas. But she didn’t falter in her directions.
Given the high-tech bugs in Rylee’s house and the armed drone tracking Matias’ aircraft, he assumed Lydia’s helmet was equipped with the necessary communication equipment to guide her back to civilization.
At last, he reached the main road, the pavement giving him license to open the gas and fly. She tightened her arms around his waist, hugging his back with her entire body as he bent into the wind.
If a cop clocked him for speeding, he would just have to ride faster and outrace the patrolman. He wasn’t stopping for anyone or anything.
His pulse revved with the roar of the engine, the bike vibrating between his legs. For the next hour or so, he didn’t pass another motorist. Vacant fueling stations and diners blurred by. No cop cars in sight.
The dark nothingness pushed his thoughts into dangerous introspection. He had one goal—arrive before twenty-three hundred. Beyond that, he was terrified of what was going to happen.
Torture was barbaric and uncivilized, but it was effective. Whatever these people wanted, he most likely wouldn’t be able to surrender it.
They were going to make him hurt.
Would it be more than he could bear? Probably. Would he survive it? Maybe not. But he’d been trained for this. Trained to put labels on his thoughts and compartmentalize his feelings, all in an effort to gain a sense of control in a situation where he had no control over the process or the pain.
Lydia directed him off the main highway. From there, he took narrow back roads through a desolate wasteland. The few buildings he passed were closed-up and crumbling. The skeletal remains of a ghost town.
He wasn’t familiar with this part of Texas. While it seemed they’d been traveling southward most of the journey, there had been a number of turns, and he didn’t know how much time had passed.
As the clock ticked toward twenty-three hundred, did he have thirty minutes left? Five? None?
The uncertainty pushed him faster, his pulse racing with urgency.
She touched his forearm and motioned to veer right just as a turnoff came into view. It was an entrance to something, the property encircled by a tall, unkempt chain-link fence. The enclosure served more as a boundary marker than a security measure.
Moving closer, he spotted a large industrial building in the distance. No lights or signs of life. Weird.
He sped through an unmanned gate and passed several empty parking lots. The property appeared to be vacant. Until he circled the side.
At least a dozen vehicles sat along an old loading dock. She indicated for him to park there, and the moment he turned off the engine, he yanked off the helmet.
“What time is it?” He twisted, hauling her off the motorcycle with him, hurrying her along. “Call off the strike.”
She reached around him and grabbed the key from the ignition, pocketing it.
His palms slicked with sweat as she removed her helmet. His mouth dried as she shook out her hair, taking her sweet-ass time. His blood pressure climbed as she pulled the tablet from her pack.
“Look at that.” She smiled at the screen, her accent thickening. “Two minutes to spare.”
“We’re here. Call it off.”
Her incisive gaze traveled down his body. “Remove your clothes.”
Lydia held the smile on her face, but inside she felt cold. Merciless. There was no room for anything else. Cole Hartman was a doorway, and she would cut her way through him to reach the other side.
His nostrils flared, and his neck corded, muscles and veins straining against his skin. He planted his boots wide apart, seething, damn near shaking with fury and fear.
Yes, fear. He was a battle-honed tough guy, but he had a weakness. An aircraft full of weaknesses. In his line of work, he knew better than to get attached to people. That was his own fucking fault.
“We had a deal.” He stepped into her space, his rock-hard chest in her face.
Christ, he smelled good. Wild and earthy, like the dusty wind on a dark road. Dangerous and sexy, like the brawn flexing beneath his shirt.
He was gorgeous beyond all sense of the word. With that chiseled body and those fathomless brown eyes, he could crush a perfectly good heart.
Good thing she didn’t have one.
She glanced at the clock on the tablet. “One minute.”
His lips curled back, baring straight white teeth in the moonlight. And dimples. A pair of them bracketed his enraged scowl, forming deep divots in his beard. Cute. Like a furious grizzly bear.
With a snarl, he reached over his head and grabbed the back of his shirt, yanking it off in that way men did. Tattoos covered his sinewy arms and sculpted chest. Almost as many as she had. But where her ink glowed with color, his were black, the images impossible to make out in the dark.
He held her gaze as he toed off his boots and unbuttoned his jeans. He didn’t look away as he shoved down his pants and kicked them off.
“Call off the drone.” He regarded her with an unflinching glare, fully nude and chillingly stoic.
As much as she wanted to look down, she didn’t check out his body. She refused to break eye contact. Not even as the door opened and armed men spilled outside.
“Your friends are safe.” She watched his expression relax a half-second before it hardened again. “Show Mr. Hartman the live video.”
Someone appeared at her side. Without glancing, she knew it was Mike. No one looked at her like he did, the heat of his gaze flickering over her, searching for injuries.
He already knew she was unharmed. The technology in her helmet had allowed them to communicate while she was away. But he wasn’t rational when it came to her safety.
He was insanely overprotective.
Holding a laptop, he pivoted the screen toward Cole. It showed the Colombian cartel jet coasting at a distance ahead of the drone. A m
oment later, the drone veered off, changing course, the strike aborted.
Cole stood motionless, except his eyes. They tracked the screen, his expression showing no hint of relief.
It had taken months of digging and a Hail Mary plan to locate the cartel’s private aircraft. They had multiple hangars in South America, all of which were monitored for activity by her team. She’d hoped Cole’s most powerful ally, Matias Restrepo, would make the journey to Texas, but she hadn’t known when or who would be with him.
She’d lucked out when the whole damn crew boarded that plane.
Without a word, she grabbed Cole’s clothes and strode toward the building. Her fifteen-man team moved in around him, heavily armed and highly trained. They were hardened soldiers, their backgrounds diverse, spanning from criminal to retired military. But they were all here for the same reason. A paycheck.
Could they be bribed to switch sides? Not easily. But everyone had a price. If Cole made the right offer, maybe he could gain an ally among her crew.
For that reason, no one would be allowed near him unless she or Mike were present.
She entered through the loading dock, confident that Cole wouldn’t give them any problems. If he tried to escape, they would shoot to wound, not to kill. He was worthless to her dead.
He was also too smart to run. Without clothes or transportation, he wouldn’t get far in the desert.
Past the loading ramps, she turned into a spartan corridor. Dust coated the concrete walls and floors. Overhead, stark fluorescent lights illuminated layers of sand that had crept in from outside and gritty powder left over from the raw materials that had once been hauled in and out of this building.
Years ago, a manufacturing company used this warehouse to split and carve granite blocks into monuments, mausoleums, crypts, and headstones.
She’d needed a secure, out-of-the-way place to do this job, and this was what she got. A building where tombs had been made. Fitting.
At the end of the corridor, she passed the factory floor. All that remained were piles of discarded granite and limestone, broken machinery, and dust. Powdery residue clung to everything, each step stirring it into the air and making her sneeze.
She turned away, taking another hallway toward their makeshift quarters.
Over the past four months, they’d converted the storage rooms into private sleeping spaces, hauling in mattresses and other comforts when they weren’t hunting and planning and preparing for the right moment to take Cole Hartman.
Getting him here was the easy part. A long, arduous road lay ahead, and by God, she was ready. She’d waited eleven years for this, and she was so close to the end. So fucking close she could taste it.
In her room, she changed into lounge pants and a soft t-shirt. A wobbly old table sat in the corner, covered in cosmetics and beauty supplies. She slumped into the chair and began the mindless task of removing false eyelashes and cleansing away makeup.
That done, she grabbed a bag of Twizzlers and flopped onto her back on the mattress. Pulling out a long red rope of candy, she chewed on the end, lost in thought.
It was after midnight when the door to her room opened. Mike stepped in, carrying a microwaved burrito on a paper plate.
She shoved the half-eaten bag of candy beneath her. Too late.
He pounced, snatching the Twizzlers and dropping the plate on the bed beside her.
“I’m not eating that.” She shoved away the food.
He pushed it back. “You need protein, not empty calories.” He tossed the candy on the table.
“There’s nothing more unhealthy than a frozen burrito.”
“Say that again.” He crawled onto the mattress, grinning.
Oh, man. She was a sucker for his crooked Bruce Willis smile. He looked like a younger version of the actor—all cocky and handsome with that indestructible, blue-collar edge that women loved. He also brought a level of warmth and humor that no one saw but her.
Mike was her rock, and every day at his side was a good day to die hard.
“Say what again?” She blinked, playing dumb.
“You know what.” He grabbed the burrito and shoved it against her mouth.
“Burrito,” she muttered around the dried-out shell.
“I love the way you say those Rs in that accent.” He tipped his head, biting down on his grin. “Like they’re stuck in your throat, and you have to hack them out.”
“Shut up.”
“Eat.” He pressed the burrito to her hand.
She pouted but didn’t have many options. The only food around here was either frozen or in a can.
While she gave in and ate, he stripped down to his briefs and stretched out on the mattress beside her. There were other rooms and other beds, but he never left her alone at night. As the only woman among a team of single, testosterone-fueled men, she was grateful he had her back.
Neither she nor Mike selected the men assigned with them. Before this job, they didn’t know any of these people. She could count on them to obey orders and earn their wages, but she didn’t trust them.
She didn’t trust anyone but Mike.
With her dinner eaten and the lights off, she collapsed against him, tucked under a muscled arm with her cheek on his chest. His hand found hers, twining their fingers together.
As much as she didn’t want to think about Cole, the instant she closed her eyes, all she saw were his. Huge brown eyes. Disarmingly intelligent.
“How did our prisoner react to his room?” she asked.
“As you would expect.”
“He didn’t react.”
“Nope. No last-ditch attempts to escape. No struggle. Not a twitch behind that beard.”
Her chest constricted. “He’s smart.”
“He’s trained. But we’ve gone up against harder men than him.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s not too late to cut our losses and get F out of H.”
“Are you serious?” She popped up, glaring at him in the dark. “What the hell, Mike?”
“Calm down. I was just tossing it out there.” He gripped a lock of her hair and pulled. “Come here.”
She went, returning her head to his chest. “We have to finish this.”
“I know.”
“No matter what.”
His silence rang through the room, his objections deafening. She wriggled closer, resting her brow against his whiskered cheek. His jaw felt like steel, his entire body rigid with tension.
They’d argued about her role in this job, and he wasn’t over it.
“I can do this.” She ran a hand over his neatly trimmed crew cut, trying to soothe him.
“What if you can’t? What if he’s as unflappable on the inside as he is on the surface?”
“Everyone has a breaking point. I’ll find his.”
How many days had Cole been in here? Had it been a week? Longer? He hugged his knees to his chest, his body naked and filthy, every inch covered in itchy dust.
No use trying to find a comfortable position on the hard floor. The cell was designed for misery.
Dirty.
Empty.
Pitch-black.
He only saw daylight twice a day when someone opened the door to toss in food and switch out the buckets. A bucket for drinking and a bucket for shitting. Christ, he hoped they didn’t mix up the two.
While lying on the cold concrete and living off a repulsive diet of frozen hot dogs, he was forced to listen to the same aggressive, head-pounding, thrash metal song over and over and over. It was a three-minute meth binge on repeat, delivered at a blistering velocity that tried to rip off his fucking face.
He used to love hardcore music, but after a few days of guttural vocals and distorted riffs, the genre was ruined for him. He didn’t recognize the song. Not at first. Now he knew every raging word and shredded guitar chord. He hated it. He wanted to stab his goddamn ears with an ice pick.
It was truly painful, digging under his skin and dry-humping at his la
st nerve.
But that was the point.
Psychological torture.
The only time they shut it off was when they opened the door. He tried not to anticipate those moments, but there was nothing else to do but wait.
And wait.
And wait.
At last, the song fell silent.
He didn’t move, didn’t lift his head from his bent knees. He could still hear the rampant adrenaline of music, the pounding discord permanently embedded in his eardrums.
Footsteps entered his cell, and three frozen hot dogs landed on the floor beside him, rolling in the dust.
He snatched them up and didn’t hesitate to shove the processed meat into his mouth, dirt and all. Eating these things cold made his stomach turn, but he preferred that over lukewarm meat. The ice coating assured him they hadn’t been sitting out. They should be safe from contamination and food poisoning.
Swallowing the last bite, he hungered for more. But it was always the same. Three hot dogs per visit. Two visits a day.
As an unarmed man swapped out the buckets, Cole stole a peek at the old factory floor beyond.
Piles of stones, discarded materials, and abandoned machinery lay beneath a coating of dust. Amid the waste material, he identified broken headstones.
It was a clue. But without any knowledge of headstone companies in Texas, it didn’t help him determine his location.
Not that he could escape.
A group of men stood just outside the door to his cell. Never less than six in total and always armed. None of them spoke Russian.
He would have to physically overpower them before they fired a weapon.
Impossible.
Any attempt to run would only get him injured, and up until now, they hadn’t inflicted so much as a bruise. So he remained motionless during their visits, biding his time.
With the buckets refreshed, the guard stepped out. But today, the door didn’t close.
The others moved out of view, their footsteps retreating but not going far. Then a tread of clicking steps approached. A slow, confident gait. Click-clack. Click-clack.
He hadn’t heard this one since he’d been thrown in this room, but he knew who it was before she appeared in the doorway.