Hard As You Can

by Laura Kaye

  “What?” the first man rasped under his breath. Through the hole in the mask, his eyes were horrified by her demand.

  “If you don’t, they’ll know I helped you. And I can’t . . .” What am I doing? Jesus, what am I doing? “You have to. Please.”

  Hating her reality, she screamed so loud her throat hurt.

  She didn’t have time for his morals, and neither did they. “Please.”

  A storm rolled across those eyes. “Pretend to fall and cradle your stomach.” The man swung a fist at her gut. She braced for an impact that never came. Relief and gratitude flooded through her as she played her part for the camera and threw herself backward, the tray of food flying to the ground with a thud. Her head and shoulder glanced off the wall, setting off immediate aches that had her moaning.

  When she looked up, the space where the men had stood was empty.

  But her scream had worked. Church’s men came running. Crystal curled into a ball on the floor, attempting to make herself as small as possible to avoid getting trampled by the boots pounding down the hall toward the exterior door. The one through which two masked men had just stolen her corrupt and violent boss’s prize prisoner.

  With her help. Or, at least, without her hindrance.

  Gunshots, shouts, and the squeal of tires against pavement erupted outside the heavy industrial door. More men ran past her. No one stopped or paid her any mind, like she was invisible. And in all the ways that mattered, she very nearly was.

  Her head throbbed in time with the pulsing bass beat out in the main part of Confessions, the walls nearly alive with the sound. Fear and adrenaline barreled through Crystal’s veins, making her shaky and unsteady as she pushed to her feet, trying not to step on the food scattered across the floor. Being upright exacerbated the ache in the back of her head. The one she’d caused herself. Because the man hadn’t hit her like she’d demanded. He’d only pretended to.

  Pretended.

  Why had he only pretended? She’d told him to hit her. She’d had no choice. From the moment she’d seen him and his buddy hauling the unconscious prisoner up the basement steps, she’d known she would have to scream. On the injured guy’s behalf, she was glad that he’d gotten free because she knew firsthand how many people got trapped in the clutches of Baltimore’s Church Gang and never got out again, herself included. But no way could she be seen as helping them. Not if she wanted to live. And, more importantly, if she wanted Jenna to live.

  Except, Pretty Boy had refused to hit her . . . A man who refused to hit a woman.

  How freaking miserable was her life that a man such as that was so damn unique? Then again, maybe his seeming decency was just because she’d helped him.

  “Crystal,” came a voice full of menace.

  Bruno. She adopted her meekest posture and cradled her stomach as if she’d really been struck, then turned toward her boyfriend and two of his lackeys, stalking down the hall toward her.

  A wall of rage slammed into her a moment before his fingers dug into her upper arms. He nearly lifted her off the floor. “What the hell happened?”

  Knowing how much he got off on his role as her protector, she let every bit of the fear she felt seep into her voice, swallowed hard, and shook her head. “I don’t know. I was taking food downstairs, just like I’d been told. All of a sudden”—she gulped for air—“two armed men crashed into me, and one of them punched me and pushed me down.” Crystal gingerly cupped the back of her head. “And then . . . I’m not sure. I . . .”

  Bruno let out a sound that was almost a growl as he turned to the men behind him. “Check downstairs. Anyone else down there, shoot only to maim. We need answers first.” The men hustled to obey, their feet heavy on the carpeted steps.

  “What else did you see? Think.” He shook her, the grip of his hands tightening, not an ounce of kindness visible in his gaze.

  “Um, they were dressed in dark clothes. Had masks and guns. One seemed to be carrying something on his shoulder, but then the other guy hit me and I fell and they were out the door.” No way she could admit to what else she knew. That she’d seen the faces under the mask when she’d given them directions, especially since she’d known something wasn’t right. Such an admission would serve as a one-way ticket to hell of one variety or another—for her and maybe even her sister, too.

  And she would do anything to make sure that never happened to either of them. Been there, done that, had the scars to prove it.

  Bruno’s callused hands eased on her skin. Suddenly, he yanked her into a fierce, breath-stealing embrace. “I will kill them for touching you,” he said. The declaration was based more on outrage that his “property rights” had been violated when another man had dared touch her than actual concern. She knew that. But better his anger over her than suspicion of her.

  Crystal burrowed into him, like she found solace in his arms. “I was so scared,” she whispered, relishing the adrenaline shakes that gave credibility to her words. Sometimes she worried she was too damn good at acting, that maybe every time she put on one of these little shows, she lost a little more of whatever capability for honesty she’d once possessed.

  As abruptly as he’d pulled her in, he pushed her away. She wobbled on her heels. “Wait in my office. I’ll be back.” Grasping her jaw almost painfully, Bruno kissed her hard. His lips and tongue demanded she respond, so she did. And then he was gone, out the same door through which the prisoner’s saviors had gone.

  Were they truly saviors? Were they even good guys? For the imprisoned man—whoever he was—she hoped so. Given Pretty Boy’s revulsion at her words, her gut told her they were. And if there was one thing she’d gotten better and better at over the past four years of living this life, it was reading people, seeing them for who they really were. And her gut told her that the man with the gray eyes was a savior.

  Just not hers.

  No, when she found a way out of this mess—and she would, for both her and Jenna—it was going to be because Crystal got them out. No such thing as white knights or Prince Charmings or caped crusaders in her life, that was for damn sure. The one time she’d thought otherwise, she’d ended up with a man who had no qualms about hitting her.

  Alone in the dim hallway, the events of the past few moments sank in. Trembling, thoughts scattered, body aching, Crystal made her way down the dim hallway to the office suite. As she had a little while before, she let herself in and moved through the inner sanctum to Bruno’s office. Raised voices argued behind the door at the back of the suite. Crystal wanted no part of what might be going on in there. They’d wanted things perfect around here for Church’s deal, and she suspected part of it might’ve been carried out the back door mere minutes before. If Church was in there, he was going to be hungry for blood.

  And she was rather fond of hers.

  She slipped into Bruno’s office and held her breath as she closed the door so quietly, the latch didn’t even make a noise. Her body molded to the black leather sofa that filled one wall, and cold suddenly painted over her skin as if someone had cranked up the air-conditioning. What she wouldn’t have given for her comfy jeans and a sweatshirt instead of this ridiculous piece of lingerie.

  Alone in the stillness of the room, the enormity of the risk she’d just taken for a complete stranger washed over her.

  Tremors wracked her muscles, shaking her bones until the effort to hold it together hurt. So many times tonight she’d taken a chance. And for what? God, if she’d been seen talking to them, or hesitating before she screamed. Or if someone had noticed that the man hadn’t actually punched her. Jesus, what if any of it had been captured by one of the security cameras?

  She’d been conscious of them at the time, and her gut told her she was probably okay there. There were far more out front than in the rear of the building given that access was usually controlled so tightly. With two exceptions, the cameras all monitored the external doors. The only other cameras recorded who came through the curtain from the club floor and who
went into the back offices. So, yeah. It was probably fine.

  Please, God, let it be fine.

  Hugging herself, she just barely managed to keep it together. Her gaze went blurry as she stared at a spot on the far wall and willed her emotions under control.

  “Sara,” she said, whispering her real name out loud. “Sara. Sara. Sara.” Sometimes, saying the name out loud, the name no one but Jenna ever called her anymore, was the only thing that made her feel present in her body. Once, there’d been a girl named Sara, and her life had been good. One day, Sara would live again. “Sara. Sara. Sara.”

  Until then, she’d wait. And act. And survive.

  Chapter 2

  Still riding the buzz of last night’s op, Shane McCallan ran down the empty street, dodging potholes, garbage, and the occasional discarded needle, and attempted to clear his head of the shitstorm that had parked itself in his cranium overnight.

  The one that had featured his thirteen-year-old self, his eight-year-old sister, and the single biggest failure of his entire life.

  Damnit all to hell and back, why had the nightmare returned?

  Once a staple of his subconscious mind, he hadn’t dreamed of Molly’s disappearance for years. Not because the guilt didn’t still eat at him—it did. And not because her loss didn’t still weigh on his chest until it was hard to breathe, because that was true, too. Even all these years later.

  But he’d perfected the art of driving himself into a state of exhaustion so acute his body shut down everything in favor of a few critical hours of REM sleep, his mind included. So he didn’t dream anymore. At all. Not of Molly or anything else.

  Until last night.

  And good goddamnit if this wasn’t just one more reason to hate Colonel Frank Merritt. If his former commander hadn’t gotten greedier than a starving hog at feeding time, Shane would still have the job that wrung him out better than anything else he’d ever found, not to mention his friends, his professional reputation, and his honor. Instead, a year ago, Merritt had betrayed the Special Forces team he commanded to make a little coin on the side, resulting in the deaths of six good men on their team and the other-than-honorable discharge of the five survivors, himself included.

  Turning a corner, Shane ran past a car up on blocks and stripped to its skeletal frame. He knew Baltimore had some rough neighborhoods, but this one was so run-down that both sides of the tracks were wrong. Why the hell had Nick and his brother opened a tattoo shop here, of all places? Abandoned buildings with boarded and broken windows and layers of graffiti covering the old brickwork were the norm. Close to the waterfront, the old, industrial area had probably once been hopping with port-related business. Now, it was just a sorry mess.

  The blight and deterioration opened it up wide for criminal activity, which was why Shane had wanted to get out and eyeball the geography around Hard Ink for himself. Having taken a bullet during the getaway chase from Confessions last night, his shoulder wasn’t in love with this idea. But it had only been a surface wound. No biggie. Still, it was goddamned ironic that the first time he’d ever been shot in his life happened after ten years of active duty service and innumerable deployments to all kinds of places nobody wanted to go. GSW or no, the former intelligence officer in him itched for a full rundown of their surroundings. Given the enemies they’d racked up in the past twenty-four hours, they needed all the intel they could gather. That the running might clear the cobwebs of the past from his mind was just a lucky twofer.

  As his sneakers pounded out a rhythmic pace on the cracked blacktop, Shane pondered the return of the nightmare.

  Maybe Nick Rixey was responsible for it. Wanting to help Becca Merritt, their former commander’s daughter, find her missing brother, Shane’s best friend—or former best friend, or whatever the fuck they were now—had called together what was left of their discredited and discharged Special Forces team for the brother’s recon and rescue. And everyone from the team—himself, Edward “Easy” Cantrell, Beckett Murda, and Derek “Marz” DiMarzio—had dropped everything and come to Baltimore. Because that’s what brothers did. Especially those forged by war and not blood.

  So maybe the reunion, strained as it was by the fubar of a past they all shared and the danger of the present operation they didn’t yet fully understand, was responsible for rattling things loose in his head that had long been secured in place.

  Maybe.

  Or maybe it was the operation itself. After all, it wasn’t any great leap to think that finding and saving Becca’s brother Charlie might’ve resurrected memories about Shane’s own missing sister. The one no one had ever found and sure as shit hadn’t saved.

  Goddamnit all.

  Where the street met the harbor, Shane rounded the next corner, mentally checking off another part of the map he’d studied before heading out. With the back of his hand, he wiped the sweat off his brow. Despite only being eleven in the morning, humidity choked the late-April air until it felt like he was running through molasses. Not that he really minded. Having grown up in southern Virginia, the heat was a welcome old friend. But the salt in his sweat stung the hell out of the injury on his shoulder.

  Suck it up, McCallan.

  Pushing himself harder, Shane picked up the pace, surveying the street as his thoughts continued to churn.

  Or maybe someone else was responsible for shaking the subconscious skeleton from its closet. Maybe it was the woman he’d run into in the strip club where they’d found Charlie.

  Crystal.

  The first time he’d run into her—literally—she’d helped him unwittingly, thinking he belonged there. And, man, she’d been as beautiful as she was skittish. How a woman working in a strip club and wearing sheer lingerie managed to give off such a genuine, innocent vibe, he didn’t know. But she had it—and then some. And the incongruity had been rolling around in his head ever since, like a pinball tripping sensors and ringing bells.

  But the second time he’d run into her? When she hadn’t prevented their getaway from the club? When it was clear he had no business there? Her terror had been apparent in the blaze of her green eyes and the tremble of her voice, but whatever mental calculus she’d run had come down in his favor. And she’d helped him—or at least hadn’t hindered him—on purpose.

  Yet, she so greatly feared someone there thinking she’d been complicit in his actions that she’d insisted he hit her.

  The surreal nature of the request sent him reeling all over again. Shane couldn’t remember the last time he’d been as gobsmacked.

  Not even when Nick had called out of the blue after months of ignoring Shane’s emails and phone calls and said he’d found a possible lead into the cover-up that’d gotten them booted from the Army.

  The woman had freaking demanded he hit her.

  Who did that?

  And what kind of people did she know that made her expect he’d actually do it? It told him a lot about the green-eyed girl. That she was scared. And felt vulnerable. And thought punishment was a real threat.

  That she was in trouble.

  What the hell had happened to her after their cut and run? The possibilities were endless. And mostly piss poor.

  And the wondering had nagged at him all night, right alongside his nightmares of Molly.

  So, yeah, maybe concern for this woman, who was clearly caught up in a bad situation, had triggered all these old thoughts of his sister. Because Molly had never been found. He had no idea if she’d been killed right away. Or if she’d suffered a lifetime of imprisonment and abuse at the hands of some sicko. Or if she could be alive and in trouble, even now.

  Like Crystal.

  Another thirty minutes, and Shane had completed his circuit of the neighborhood around Hard Ink, his team’s home base of sorts in their newest covert mission: to figure out how Charlie’s abduction might be related to the cover-up of their commander’s activities that got them a one-way ticket right out of the loving arms of Mother Army. Shane had been dubious as all hell that a conne
ction actually existed, especially when he saw how into Becca Nick was. The man had clearly been thinking with his more southerly head. But the things Charlie told them after they’d rescued and patched him up last night made it clear that Nick was right.

  Given the tension between himself and Nick, it rubbed Shane’s ass a little raw to admit that, but there was a connection. And it gave Shane and the rest of his former teammates the first honest-to-God lead into the real reason behind their discharge. No way in hell he could walk away from that. None of them could.

  Because they weren’t just fighting for their own honor. They were also fighting for the honor of six good men who could no longer stand up for themselves. Doing right by those men wasn’t a choice, it was a duty.

  A half block out from Hard Ink, Shane slowed to a walk. The Rixeys owned the entire L-shaped building that sat at one corner. The place was a whole lotta nondescript red brick from its former days as a warehouse. Nick’s younger brother Jeremy had rehabbed a fair chunk of the building, including the space for what was apparently a very successful tattoo business, at least according to Nick.

  Shane had nothing against ink—in fact, he had quite a few pieces himself—but it still tripped him out to imagine that his hard-ass Special Forces teammate had the patience, precision, and artistic skill to put needle to skin himself. Man, they were a bunch of friggin’ chameleons, weren’t they? Changing and adapting as conditions dictated.

  Just like they’d been trained to do.

  And while Shane had landed on his feet with a decent job at a defense contractor, he almost thought Nick had the better approach in doing something entirely different from what they’d done in the Special Forces. Because being benched on the sidelines of a game you could only advise on but never again play sucked big, hairy donkey balls.

  Like there were any other kind.