Red Rooster (Sons of Rome Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  “Take it or leave it,” he repeated.

  “Yes, sir,” the shopkeeper said, frightened and smiling. “I think I can make that work.” She went to collect the jacket from Red and bustled to the counter to ring it up.

  Red stared at him, little worried notch between her brows. “Rooster, we can’t,” she whispered.

  “Let me worry about that.”

  She stepped in close, finding one of his hands and pulling it between both of hers. “Please don’t.”

  “Too late.”

  She bit her lip again, fretting. “It’s just a jacket.”

  “You ought to have things you want. And not just stuff you need.”

  She blinked hard and looked away, chest heaving as she took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

  She wore it out of the store, as they walked across a street made gold by the last fingers of setting sun and grabbed dinner at a tiny, hole-in-the-wall taco joint with painted iron tables set out on a cracked concrete patio. Colored Christmas lights came on when the sun was fully down, casting a warm, festive glow over their baskets of pork and beef and fish tacos, all of it glistening with grease, redolent with fresh lime juice. Cheap and delicious.

  “Hey,” he said, when he’d eaten his fill and Red was playing with the straw in her Coke. “Do I really look old enough to be your dad?”

  Her brows lifted, small smile gracing her lips. “I didn’t think you were the sort of person who got self-conscious about things.”

  “I’m just asking.”

  She pretended to scrutinize him, gaze narrowing. “Hmm. I think you look…mature.”

  “Aw, come on.”

  She laughed. “I didn’t mean it like you looked old. Just. You know. Responsible.”

  “Like somebody’s dad,” he grumbled. “Got it.”

  “But also scary,” she went on. “Like a big, scary, muscly Viking guy who could kick everybody’s ass. And responsible.”

  He felt a smile of his own threatening. “So, like, a Viking dad.”

  “Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “You don’t look like a dad. Especially not my dad. That would be weird.”

  He said, “Would it?” and wasn’t sure why. It just slipped out, one of those impulsive, dangerous questions better off not asked.

  This happened, sometimes. More often now than it used to. These little…hiccups. They were close – how many nights did they fall asleep curled together on the same hotel bed? – and they loved one another, that selfless, unspoken love as certain as breathing, as sure as the sun rising every morning. It was something he knew; something they both did, unquestioned and untroubling.

  But there were moments, like these, when a question took a certain stuttering step; when a normal, familiar touch felt like the prickling of ice. When he would notice her watching him, through a mirror or from the corner of her eye. When he caught himself watching her. And for those moments, the world would tilt, just a fraction, and all the things he thought he understood about their relationship tilted, too, until he was afraid something might spill out. Something might crack. Something might change in a terrifying, irrevocable way that he wasn’t willing to acknowledge, not even in his imagination.

  Red smoothed her hands down her thighs a few times, jacket fringe swaying. “Yeah,” she said, missing casual, her shrug more of a wince. “It…yeah.”

  Rooster cleared his throat, determined to bulldoze his way past the moment. “So, a Viking?” He managed a grin. “Maybe I oughta cut my hair.” He ran a hand through it, as always surprised by how long it was getting. He could have borrowed one of her elastics and pulled it back into a man-bun. Geez.

  The joke didn’t land, though. She stared at him, expression almost…wistful. The sweet, guileless wistfulness of a girl who hadn’t gotten the chance to have the things she wanted. “No, don’t. It looks good like that.”

  “Yeah?” His voice came out shaky. Vulnerable in a way he didn’t want it to.

  She smiled, soft and…and, well, beautiful. He didn’t want to think that, but it was true. “Yeah. I like it.”

  He glanced down at the table, flicked the paper that lined his now-empty taco basket. “Alright,” he murmured, not liking the way his chest felt. The warmth there. The strange tightness.

  He cleared his throat again. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  17

  Rooster had become a pro at locking down extraneous thoughts while he was awake. If it wasn’t protect, procure, or plan, it had no place in his brain.

  But he couldn’t guard his dreams, and scenarios – fantasies, he guessed; mostly nightmares – drifted up to the surface of his consciousness when he slept. No matter how he tried to shield himself, the dark corners of his mind were something against which he couldn’t defend.

  It was getting worse.

  More frequent.

  Like tonight. They watched old Friends reruns while Red sat on the end of the bed and Rooster carefully combed the black dye into her hair. No matter the city, no matter the TV station selection, Friends had always been a constant, and Red knew the dialogue by heart; she laughed before each joke was delivered, parroted the lines she liked best. And something small, and fragile, and better left unexamined inside him fractured as the vibrant red of her hair disappeared under foam and shadow.

  She rinsed the dye – he heard her quiet sigh as she glanced at her reflection in the bathroom mirror – and they climbed into their separate beds.

  “Night.”

  “Night.”

  Like always. Click of the light switch, enfolding darkness.

  Rooster wasn’t sleepy, strung tight with nerves, too aware of her quiet breathing on the other side of the room. He shut his eyes and concentrated on his own breathing, slowing it, forcing regular, deep inhalations. It would pass, he knew, whatever it was that nagged at him. In the morning things would be back to normal, and he wouldn’t feel guilty for things he hadn’t done, hadn’t even thought.

  Your daughter.

  He didn’t want to think of her like that. For other people to think it.

  That was wrong of him. But…

  He heard the rustle of sheets in the next bed; his eyes popped open and he watched Red sit up, a shifting of layered shadows in the dark. The light clicked on and he blinked against it, grimacing.

  By the time his vision cleared, she’d moved from her bed to his, perched on the edge right by his hip, her hand on his shoulder. The lamplight caught her hair, sleek rivers of copper, and auburn, and fire over her shoulders.

  “What?” he asked, but her eyes were wide, and dilated, and his heart was pounding against his ribs, and he already knew what. Already wanted it.

  Her hair teased along his ribs, his arms, his throat as she leaned over him, close enough to feel her breath against his face, low enough that her tank top gapped in the front, and he saw the curves of her breasts. Her lips pressed to his, soft and slick with chapstick, warm as a banked fire.

  He lifted his hands to push her away…and buried them in her hair instead, spearing his fingers through the heavy silk of it.

  She moved against him, sinuous as a cat. “Please, Rooster,” she whispered against his mouth. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”

  And she wasn’t; it was a woman’s body pressed to his, soft, curved, ready.

  She drew back a fraction, her hand on his chest, over his wildly thumping heart, and smiled down at him, nervous but certain. Asking. “Roo,” she murmured.

  And her head exploded in a burst of red mist.

  The sound followed a fraction of a second after, the concussive blast of an IED. Her body fell on top of his, headless, gushing blood from the neck. The shrapnel peppered his side, hot, brilliant pain as it tore through flesh, shredding muscle, imbedding in bone.

  He screamed and rolled over, trying to shield her. But it was too late, and his left side wouldn’t hold him, buckling at every joint. He fell face first on top of her, hot sand, and hotter blood filling his mouth. Above him somewhere were screams, shouts
, the staccato crack of M4s returning enemy fire. The distant thump of helo blades chopping at the sky, but too late. All of it, always, too late…

  Her voice in his ears: “Rooster.”

  “Rooster.”

  “Rooster!”

  He woke with a gasp to find that he lay curled up on his side in his hotel bed. On his good side. The lights were on, and Red knelt beside his head, her hair black – because he’d dyed it. Because she hadn’t climbed over him and kissed him. Hadn’t been killed by a makeshift bomb.

  It had been a nightmare.

  But his left side was weak, trembling, rippling with pain.

  He’d sweated through his t-shirt, the sheets glued to his arms, sticky-damp all around him. He shivered; realized his teeth were chattering.

  “Hey,” Red said, frowning, brows tucked together. She edged in closer and put her hand on his forehead; it felt cool and he leaned into it with a shameful little choked-off sound. “Hey,” she repeated, softly, like he did for her when she was upset. “It’s okay. I think you just had a bad dream.”

  He tried to laugh – because what a fucking understatement – but it came out sounding like a cough instead. “I…” It felt like he really did have a mouthful of desert, dry as bone and metallic with old, bad memories. “I…it hurts,” he managed, gritting his teeth, hating himself for this weakness.

  Her frown deepened. She pushed his hair back and ran her fingers through it, light, barely-there touches that made him shiver even harder. Her touch moved down his neck, to his bad shoulder, and even that was too much contact, his damaged nerves screaming.

  He hissed. “Don’t…maybe just some aspirin….”

  Her mouth twisted to the side, a strikingly grownup display of annoyance. “Yeah. Sure. Hold on.”

  “Red–”

  But she was already moving, peeling back the sweat-soaked sheets and sliding into bed beside him, facing him, wriggling in close, her small arms going around his shoulders.

  It felt obscene, this closeness, after he’d dreamed of it. Vulgar. He wanted to shift back from her, but he couldn’t, too alive with pain.

  “I don’t…get it.” He breathed in harsh little panting rushes, shallow and through his teeth. “I’m sorry…shit…”

  “Shh, shh.” She cupped the back of his neck with one cool hand and brought their foreheads together.

  Rooster shut his eyes.

  “Ready?” she said, and sent her power flowing into him, the familiar hot shockwave blasting him immediately, blessedly free of pain.

  Being painless was its own kind of staggering; as the pain bled out of his muscles, so too did all his tension and strength, leaving him limp and exhausted.

  Red breathed out a tired sound, moved her hands to his shoulders, and cut off the flow of power. Her face was so close he could feel her fluttering lashes tickling his own; her breath against his mouth, though now he was too worn out to let himself feel guilty for noticing.

  “Okay?” she asked, voice drowsy.

  “Okay.”

  Sleep returned, dreamless this time, and Red stayed curled against him, the steadiness of the pulse in her wrist against his shoulder a lullaby that sent him under.

  ~*~

  At first blush, the apartment above the garage looked like any other of its kind: a bachelor pad furnished in dated plaid couches, its front door bracketed by piles of work boots, the fridge stocked with domestic beer and diner takeout. But the kitchen table held three expensive laptops, a printer, and scanner, and the components of Ramirez’s Glock 9 as she methodically cleaned every piece of it, fingers moving with the surety of long practice. The three laptops faced Jake, where he sat wincing in their fierce glow, willing away a headache that started in his eyes and wrapped all the way around his temples, one that the whiskey he was nursing wouldn’t touch. One laptop showed him a digitized version of Rooster Palmer’s service record; another a satellite map of Farley; the center one was open to Skype, and Dr. Talbot’s bespectacled face smiled at him all the way from Virginia.

  “Major Treadwell,” he greeted. “How goes the mission?”

  Jake searched for a sinister undertone to the question, but could detect none. “Well, sir. The ruse has worked so far.”

  “Corporal Palmer hasn’t pegged you for an operative? Excellent.”

  Jake made a face before he could help himself.

  “What?” Dr. Talbot asked.

  “I wouldn’t exactly say he hasn’t pegged me,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. It was an obvious tell of nerves, one his mother had always reprimanded him for growing up, but he’d never been able to shake it. Suppress it, sure, when he was on active duty. But now, after the accident, it was creeping back into his daily life.

  “Oh?”

  “He knew I was military straight off,” Jake explained. “I told him I was Army – lying would have only made him more suspicious. But I don’t think he knows I’m here on your orders, sir.”

  “Oh. Well. That’s good, then.” The doctor looked and sounded relieved. “Have you made contact with the target yet?”

  Jake managed to suppress his frown. “Yes, sir. She seems…” Like a kid. Like a sweet, innocent kid who happened to be able to heal burns just by touching someone. And who, according to diner gossip back in Evanston City, could shoot fire from her hands. A pyrotechnic trick, he’d thought, but then she’d touched him, and…He didn’t know anymore. This whole mission was starting to leave a very bad taste in his mouth.

  Over the top of the laptop, Ramirez cocked a single brow, curious, almost mocking.

  Jake cleared his throat. “She’s very young, sir,” he said, squaring up his shoulders.

  “Yes, well.” Dr. Talbot sighed, gaze hard to read behind the lenses of his glasses. “I’m afraid her age doesn’t mitigate the danger she poses – both to herself and the community at large. She’s very powerful.”

  “Yeah. You’ve said that before.”

  Talbot tipped his head to the side. “Has something happened, Major? You sound troubled.”

  Ramirez’s other brow went up. Now what? she asked, silently.

  “No. Nothing.” Jake’s headache spiked, and his vision blurred. He squinted, trying to cut back some of the computer screen’s glare. “Just trying to decide how we’re going to take her into custody.”

  “Ah. I see. You have all the necessary equipment, Major.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t be afraid to use it.” The doctor sounded almost cheerful now, smiling.

  “Right. Sir.”

  “You’re supposed to have her back here by the end of the week, Major, don’t forget.” And there, now, finally, was the knife-edge of a threat under the smile.

  Jake felt something whither inside himself, some small kernel of hope. “We won’t let you down, sir.”

  “Glad to hear it. Check back in tomorrow, Major. Have a pleasant rest of the night.”

  The connection cut out, screen going blank.

  Jake sighed and closed the lid, reached up to massage his eyes. Little starbursts of color blossomed behind them – for now. The blurring was worse by the minute. If he let it go another hour, he’d be crawling around the room on his hands and knees, helpless as a baby. Ramirez would have to administer his injection, and she didn’t strike him as the sort of person who’d be gentle about it.

  As if reading his thoughts, she said, “What was that?”

  He dropped his hands and stood up, going to the fridge in the kitchenette. “What was what?” he asked over his shoulder.

  Their injections were kept in labeled plastic boxes in the vegetable crisper, nice and cold. Jake found his box and set it out on the counter, fumbling a little against the condensation-slick sides with shaking fingers as he worked the latch.

  “You hesitated,” she said, chair legs scraping the floor as she stood.

  Jake grimaced, in part because he heard her footfalls moving toward him and he didn’t want her any closer, but also because holy Jesus his h
ead was starting to hurt.

  “Something really did happen,” she said, pulling up beside him. “You had a run-in with the target.” Not a question.

  The syringes, cold from the fridge and now fogged with warm air, slid like fresh-caught fish through his fingertips. He fumbled one twice, teeth gritted, vision beginning to swim. The first ring of black was creeping in around the edges, his window of sight starting to tunnel.

  “Good grief,” she muttered. “Here.” She plucked the syringe from his hand.

  “No–” he tried to protest, but her other hand was on his shoulder, steering him back toward the table.

  “You can’t even see.” She pushed him down into the chair she’d vacated. “You’re gonna stab yourself through the arm. Where’s a tourniquet? Oh, there’s one on the fridge.”

  Jake subsided into the chair, shoulders slumping, feeling inept and defeated as his vision dimmed and Ramirez bustled around. She tied off his arm, swabbed him with an alcohol wipe. “Hold still,” she murmured, and then came the bite of the needle, the warmth and relief.

  His vision cleared almost at once, the pain in his head receding.

  “Thank you,” he said, and Ramirez hummed acknowledgement, moving to put everything back in its place.

  He thought maybe she would let her earlier question – well, assumption, really – drop, but no such luck.

  “You didn’t answer,” she called from the fridge.

  He sighed. “How much do you know about our target?”

  She let the fridge slap shut and leaned her shoulder against it, arms folded, completely unimpressed with his evasion. “What they told us during our briefing. She’s strong. Powerful. Volatile. That we shouldn’t turn our backs on her and she’s got a guard dog who’s not afraid to drop bodies.” Her gaze narrowed. “But you know something else, don’t you?”

  He clenched his jaw and stared her down.

  It didn’t work. “You know, if a team leader fails to share valuable intel with his team, that’s putting the whole op in jeopardy. I know you’re not doing that.” An accusation. A challenge.

  “Maybe I am. You don’t know me.”