Saint

by Zoe Dawson

  He just wished he could let his teammate know that he, Aella and those kids—fuck—were going to have to hang on for a little bit longer.

  “We’re going to find her,” Fast Lane growled, hope in him blossoming. Regardless of their differences, regardless of their breakdown and divorce, they had a special connection that he hadn’t really understood, but he was certain he would have felt it if she’d died. But standing outside her quarters, he hadn’t felt anything but despair. She had to be alive, then maybe the dead part of him would come back to life.

  “Copy that,” Pitbull said.

  8

  He swore he had just closed his eyes when Aella was shaking him awake. Instinctively, he reached for his semi-automatic, but then remembered Aella was doing guard duty and he’d given the weapon to her.

  She was huddled next to him, looking at the sky. “Chopper,” she whispered.

  Rising to a sitting position, he reached out and cupped her head. He watched her, could see the fear of the prisoner she’d been. No matter how brave someone was, no matter how determined or tough, everyone had a breaking point, everyone was afraid of being vulnerable and helpless.

  He knew because he’d been his father’s touchstone for all his life. The old man had been a POW, suffered years of captivity, so he knew the look. When they were in their blind somewhere in the wilds of West Virginia making their moonshine, he’d seen his father’s night terrors and experienced his wisdom about how it was to be a man, step up in the face of adversity and still do what was right.

  Moonshine had been their bond and he had moved it, sold it, the profits used to support them. The cops had never caught him or his father because his dad had never gotten greedy.

  He’d never become a drunk or given into his PTSD but lived with it with a kind of badge of courage that Saint had never forgotten and had never lost his pride in the way his father dealt with it. He took care of his family with the same dedication. Him, his grandfather, his mom and three sisters. They had never gone hungry, been dirty or lacked for love and attention.

  But that look in his eyes had never gone away. Aella had it and it pissed him off. He wanted to get ahold of Zasha Vasiliev and strangle the life out of her.

  Of course, he was biased where Aella was concerned. He hadn’t wanted to let her go six months ago, and for every minute of every day he hadn’t been able to get her off his mind.

  He didn’t have to wonder what his dad would say. Shit or get off the pot. But he’d never been able to see past a family like what his mom and dad had. They were tight-knit, he the breadwinner and she the stay-at-home mom who met their emotional and physical needs while their dad worked his butt off to provide everything else and still be the father to all his children and a husband to his mom.

  Was that an outdated situation? He wasn’t sure. It had served his family well. He didn’t want his kids to be latchkey or raised by caregivers.

  He wasn’t sure what the answers were, but he knew it wasn’t going to be by staying closed minded to possibilities and opportunities. Aella had her mind set about how she wanted to live her life. He had to respect that.

  There was one thing his dad was and that was straightforward. It’s one thing he’d learned—the value of communication. Now was not the time or the place, but when this was over, he was going to have a talk with her.

  He watched her, keeping his expression calm. He didn’t say anything for a moment, then he said, his tone slightly husky, “They can’t see us, babe.”

  She swallowed hard, then she met his gaze, her eyes dark and haunted. He shifted to his knees, slipping his arm around her.

  “No, but they have to know we’re in this area. We couldn’t have gotten far on foot with six children.”

  “True.” He rose with her, her eyes still on the sky as the chopper came into view above them, hovered there for several seconds. Drawing a deep, unsteady breath, her body went stiff with tension against the arm he still had around her shoulders. “Aella. They can’t see us. Relax, babe. We can’t panic. That’s what they want us to do. We’ve got the advantage.” He was already getting ready to do what he did best.

  “What’s that?” She turned to him, searching his face for what felt like desperate answers.

  Hooking his knuckles under her chin, Saint lifted her sweet, battered face, the heavy feeling in his gut intensifying when he saw the bleak expression in her eyes. He held her gaze for a moment, then tightened his hold on her jaw and brushed a soft kiss against her mouth. He whispered huskily, “Me.”

  Aella gave a shaky laugh and stared at him, the expression in her eyes not quite so stark. “You, huh?”

  He held her gaze, the corner of his mouth lifting a little. “Yeah. What you got here is five-hundred-K worth of training, years of experience and a can-do attitude in the face of extreme adversity. I’m the go-to guy in tight situations and I’m worth every penny. I went through Hell Week, Aella…five days without sleep, slight hypothermia and a slew of hallucinations. I can MacGyver an operation in the worst conditions and save lives. I’ve gotten the cutting edge of training and it doesn’t matter what they send after us. I will find a way to get us out of it. Bottom line. People are in trouble, it’s my job to neutralize it. I’m damn good at it on land, sea and in the air.”

  “You are worth every penny, but no one can put a price tag on what you do, what you sacrifice. But I will say you are the Birkin of commandos.”

  “What the hell is a Birkin?”

  “It’s a handbag…a very pricey, one-of-a-kind handbag made by Hermes. There is a limited quantity of them, just like the SEALs, made out of different materials, just like the SEALs, have established themselves as the ultimate, just like the SEALs.”

  “A handbag?” He’d been called some things…but never a handbag.

  She swiped her thumb over his bottom lip, the humor in her eyes lightening her expression. Her tone amused, she responded, “Very well-made, gorgeous, finely crafted.”

  “I got the feeling we’re not talking about bags anymore.”

  “Maybe not,” she whispered.

  Hair that had worked loose from her braid tickled his fingers, and he suddenly remembered what it felt like to have the silky weight slinking across his chest and down his thighs. He clenched his jaw against the heated rush of physical response, knowing that after the way they parted, there was more than a quick fix in store for them.

  When he got inside her, he wanted to be there for a long damn time.

  He looked up as the chopper banked away, then a black line dropped from the helo’s belly and five men fast roped out. They were going to beat the bushes until they found them. But Saint had already gotten the lay of the land around here while the girls and Aella had been sleeping. He never went into anything blind.

  He had only one thought, one focus in mind that consisted of two jobs: Kill the bad guys and survive.

  He hadn’t told Aella, but that was something he and his team did extremely well. When he keyed his radio, there was nothing but static. He pulled out his compact binoculars. His mouth tightened. The small antenna on the undercarriage of the chopper was a radio jammer. Sons of bitches thought they could defeat SEALs with a jammer.

  He might not know what Fast Lane and the remaining brothers with him were doing, but he knew his CO was moving forward. They would never be out of the fight.

  “This titillating handbag discussion is going to have to wait.” He grinned and gave her another quick kiss, then turned her around and gave her a push toward the kids. “Get them awake and rounded up.”

  “Are you going to be a hero or a saint out there?”

  “A saint,” he said. “Saints need sinners.” Her dark eyes held no humor, nothing but fear…for him. Crouching down to his heavy pack, he watched her cross the clearing, appreciating the rear view, appreciating the sexy way she moved those hips. Cyclone curves.

  He wondered what she would look like pregnant. Caught square in the gut by that random thought, he clenched his
jaw and turned back to the pack, wishing he were already out there taking care of business. He knew what was building inside him, and he didn’t like it one damned bit. It was like recognizing the shadow of something hovering motionless in very deep water, something still and silent and dangerous. He had enough of aching for her. He either had to make the decision to fish or cut bait. If this ever got away from him, he knew it was the kind of thing that could have long lasting, painful effects. It was the kind of need that was hot, intense, that could eat at a man until it corroded a hole in him.

  Hmmm, maybe he was more sinner than saint.

  That shadow was dogging him, shimmering deep below the surface, and he attributed it to his personality, the one that never saw an obstacle, but only solutions. Except he couldn’t see his way around this one. He would have to work on the way out, he thought desperately. There had to be one.

  Opening the flap to his ruck, his face felt tight. He wished he could talk to his old man, find out what he really thought about this predicament. He vowed he wouldn’t get bitter. That was one thing he didn’t want, as that emotion would eat him from the inside out. Aella would make her own decision. He just had to endure until they got through all this madness.

  He would rather lose her than expose her to any kind of derision from him. Hating her just wasn’t in him.

  She herded the children toward him, their faces already alarmed. “It’s all right,” he murmured, and they settled down. “There are power bars in my pack. Give them one each and take one for yourself.”

  “What about you?”

  “I need the camo paste in there.” He started to unbutton his camo shirt, stripping down to the tan t-shirt beneath. She grabbed his forearm.

  “No vest?”

  He shook his head. He needed to move light and fast.

  He could see the war going on inside her head, but her trust in him won out. His heart beat hard for the faith she put in him. Yeah, she knew who he was. It was written all over her face. And he sure as hell knew who she was—it was carved in his goddamn heart.

  He had no intention of letting her down.

  She knelt down, found the bars and handed them out. Then she rose, and he reached out his palm for the container.

  She closed her hand around it. “I’ll do it.”

  He should have told her that he had a small mirror in his pack, but in the course of his deployments and his training, team members had camoed his face many times. It was self-serving, but he’d let her do her thing if it made her feel better.

  He would have to channel all this sexual frustration into the savageness he needed to do his job, to protect these fierce little girls and this strong, beautiful, brave woman.

  He could smell her warm skin and feel her soft breath up close, her eyelashes thick and dark as they fluttered when she touched her fingertips to his face. He was fascinated at the seriousness of her face as she focused so intensely on what she was doing.

  What was she seeing? He wondered, when she would lean back and narrow her gaze, taking him all in before she continued. He might have doubted it was him at all, except that now and then she would meet his gaze, and those lashes would flutter again, her pupils dilating.

  He loved her reaction, her awareness. Her attention on him was killing him by degrees. She used only her fingers on him, dabbing and sliding the pads everywhere. Every time she touched him, blood would drain out of his head and pool in his groin. It took all his SEAL skill and his combat training to keep from dragging her caveman-like into the bushes and fucking her brains out.

  “That should do it,” she said, sitting back on her heels.

  Uba came over and touched his chin, turning his face to either side, checking out Aella’s handiwork. “You look like a warrior,” she said solemnly.

  Yasmiin came over and pulled off a small amber carving of a stern male face that had been hidden by her shirt. It was threaded through a leather band. She draped it around his neck. “In our culture Nidar is the righter of wrongs. He is the champion of oppressed people by their own kind. Nidar Ba Ku Heli,” she whispered. “Nidar will find and punish the ones who are naughty.” She set her palm against the necklace, her voice hushed. “You are our Nidar. This will protect you.”

  “I’m honored to be considered worthy of fighting for your tribe, Yasmiin.”

  She bent down and kissed the top of his head. Uba simply leaned over and kissed him full on the mouth.

  Aella laughed softly as she toddled away. He shook his head, bolstered by their sweetness. He met Aella’s eyes, and she almost pulled off that cool, kind of removed, slightly amused demeanor, but there was something about her that made his gaze narrow. She met his glance then she looked away, and the hollowness in her eyes made his gut clench. It was fear he saw, deep, gut-wrenching fear—for him. That stunned him, and he sat there, feeling like someone had just kicked his feet out from under him. Without thinking, he hauled her into his arms. All the girls ran over, tiny arms encompassing both Aella and him.

  He didn’t say anything, but just held them all.

  “Okay, I’ll be back as soon as I’m done.” He pulled his sidearm out of his holster and handed it to Yasmiin. “Point and shoot at body mass. You think you can do that?”

  She nodded, her eyes narrowing.

  “What about you?” Aella asked.

  He smiled and pulled out his knife, tested the razor-sharp blade and tucked it back in his sheath. “I’m good.” With that, he took off into the forest. It was time to hunt.

  He heard them crashing through the trees from a mile away. By the time he slipped up behind them, the sun was blackened out by the clouds. He watched them trudge through the underbrush, looking for his first opening. They each had a semi-automatic and ammo clips. Those would come in handy, along with grenades. Not trained commandos…warlord flunkies who overwhelmed their enemies with sheer numbers.

  They were overconfident because of their numbers. Five to one. He liked those odds.

  The first man had dropped back as a downpour washed from the sky. He was the most nervous of the five of them. His eyes darted everywhere…in front of him. Rarely did they look back. He ran ahead, his footfalls barely making a sound, dodging foliage and ducking tree branches. Then he went to a crouch in the dense trees, waiting as silent as death.

  The four men passed him without even pausing. The fifth was easy pickings as Saint rose, grabbed him around the head, his hand over the guy’s mouth, his knife already out of its sheath. The deluge of rain muffled sounds.

  He died quickly as Saint cut his throat and let him drop. He grabbed up the semi-automatic and stripped the body.

  Shouldering the weapon, he pocketed the ammo and clipped the grenades to his belt. He took off at a run just as one of the guys called out. Looking for your buddy? He’s taking a dirt nap, pal.

  The rain had eased up a little, yet the sky was still dark, clouds hovering in a hard stall, ready to unleash again. They were nervous now, the confidence he’d seen in them gone. They turned in circles and watched the trees like he was some deadly ghost.

  But he was no ghost. A shadow maybe, but blood ran through his veins and his heart beat like them, adrenaline surging into his system, his training honed as sharply as his knife.

  They moved on, but the gloom of the overcast sky gave Saint the advantage. The fourth guy went down just like the first, then the third disappeared until it left only two of them. The second guy broke and ran. Saint was waiting for him, made quick work of it and converged on the last man. He had his semi up. Before Saint could make a move, he was talking into the radio, then sprayed the forest. Saint was already supine, his finger on the trigger. With one shot, the guy was gone.

  Other than the soft patter of rain, it was painfully quiet.

  He headed back to their camp.

  Warsame Omar stood yelling into the radio, but there was nothing but static. He cursed and threw the radio. It smashed against the stucco wall. He paced, rage working into every pore until his fis
ts were clenched so tight, his hands hurt. Who was this woman, this she-devil who had escaped? She had eluded them.

  He turned to his second in command. “Put out the word. I want that white devil, and I will pay a bounty.” He named a sum and his second in command’s eyes widened.

  The man turned away and started to get the word out.

  Warsame was going to bury his father, then he was going to run that bitch to ground. Anyone with her would die. He vowed it on his father’s grave.

  Axmed Omar would be avenged if it was the last thing Warsame did.

  Darko Stjepanić hadn’t gotten to where he was on the food chain with words alone or without an innate sense of when the shit was going to hit the fan. They were all on borrowed time here and it would be a matter of breaths before they would meet their end.

  He’d always known she would be the death of him.

  She stood with her lovely back to him, staring out into the heavy forest beyond their camp. Her shoulders were tight, and she was playing with his switchblade. With a flip of her wrist the blade was exposed, razor-sharp and ready for action, and with another flip it was closed, the threat on the thin edge of lethal will.

  It was her desperation that always kept Darko on edge. She was a weapon, a flesh and blood weapon with a black soul and a frozen heart…except for him. She went out there, dealt with bad men, did bad things, but she’d always came back to him every time. But time was running out. He felt it with each passing day, with each scheme she survived. He felt it when they worked together, and he felt it when she went out without him, like she had this time.