Harris

by Jasinda Wilder

  Oops. That was the wrong thing to say, and I realized it as soon as it left my mouth.

  Layla, however, didn't give me a chance to correct myself. "Vanilla civilian? VANILLA CIVILIAN? Never seen combat?" She went shrill, deafening.

  "Layla, I'm sorry, that wasn't what I meant. I know you've--"

  "I killed Cut with my bare hands. I planned and executed an ambush with you. I kept my shit together. I followed your orders. I stayed in place, didn't shoot until after you did, and I took down my target. Not once in the entire time I was in Brazil, with you or alone, did I ever freeze or panic or falter." She turned away from me. Took a deep breath. "Nick, I just--I want to be beside you. In everything. I want to fly with you. I want to jump out of airplanes with you. I want to go on car chases and shoot bad guys with you. And I can. That's the thing. I can. How many women do you think are out there that are capable of understanding exactly what it is you do, on a personal, visceral level? From experience? I've been shot at. I've seen you get shot. I've almost lost you. And no, I never want to go through that again, but if anything happened to you, and I was just sitting around at home, on my ass? I couldn't deal with that. I'm not a sit-at-home girl, Nick. And if that's what you expect of me, what you want from me, then this isn't going to work. Either you accept me as I am, you trust me, train me, and let me walk beside you no matter the situation, or..."

  I swallowed hard. "Or what, Layla?"

  "Or I'm gone. I can't do this with you if you can't trust me all the fucking way."

  "So it's all or nothing?"

  "I'm not saying you put me in BDUs and give me an HK right now, Nick. I'm not saying put me point next time you're sweeping a building. I'm saying--get me to that point. In time, with training."

  I sat back, brushed the headset off. Tried to process what she was asking of me.

  Could I do that? Not just teach her to shoot at targets and clay pigeons. Not just teach her to fly biplanes and Learjets for takeoffs and landings now and again, for fun. But really train her to be part of the tactical team? Put her next to Thresh and Duke, in combat gear, knowing someone can and will shoot at her?

  It was fucking loony.

  She was from the suburbs. She was a waitress, a secretary. She was my girlfriend; she was more than that, although I hadn't taken any steps yet to make us more. Emotionally, the boyfriend/girlfriend thing didn't cut it or even begin to describe us. We were more. So much more.

  And she wanted to go into combat with me?

  I mean, fuck. How could I agree to that?

  But if I didn't agree, I'd lose her.

  Did I think she was capable of it?

  I stared out at the clouds beneath us, an eye as always on the readouts--thinking. Considering.

  Back to Brazil. What she'd been through. Cut. The ambush. The car chase. She was right: she'd never hesitated, never let fear get the better of her. And in life-or-death situations, she did what I told her.

  She was capable of doing this, I realized.

  I didn't like it, though. But the thought of Layla in BDUs, an HK in her gloved hands, hair braided back, clearing a room, pivoting, swiveling, running with the guys? Layla at my side, everywhere I went. Never having to leave her behind, because she was part of the team in every way.

  A woman in my life who didn't just let me go on missions, but who went with me? Did it get any better than that? Except for the whole part where we both risked death, risked watching the other die. That scared me a little. Or, actually, a lot.

  But after the way we fell in love, was it fair of me to deny her this? Deny her the opportunity to at least try?

  No.

  I turned to her. "There'd be a lot more to it than just weapons training, Layla. I wouldn't let you on the team unless you passed an evaluation by someone other than me. There'd be physical conditioning. Close-quarters combat training. Hand-to-hand. Room clearing. Someone that's not me has to do the training, or nothing will ever get done, and I can't always be objective. And above all, when I give an order, you listen. No questions asked."

  "If we're working, I can agree to that. In our private life, I reserve the right to tell you to go fuck yourself."

  I stifled a smirk. "You listening has to start with this mission, Layla. When I tell you to stay put, you stay fucking put."

  She faked a salute. "Yes sir, Mister Harris, sir."

  "I'm willing to try," I said. Made sure she was looking into my eyes, saw how serious I was. "I don't like it. It's going to be hard. You're going to hate the physical conditioning part. I'm probably the world's biggest idiot and sucker for even considering this. And if you get hurt, it'll ruin me. But I love you, and--"

  "If you say I've left you no choice, I'll never speak to you again."

  "You are capable of this. I believe that, Layla. I wouldn't agree to this if I didn't think you were." I fixed her eyes with mine. "But I'm serious when I say you have to go through every phase of the requisite training and pass an evaluation before you join the team full-time. You don't pass, you don't go. Just like Thresh and all the others, you have to go through refresher courses, pass yearly check-ups and evals. This isn't a static thing where you just suddenly have the skills and then you're done. It takes a fuckload of work to stay sharp all the time, to be on your game every day, no matter what."

  She was wiggling in her seat. "I get it, Nick. I hear you. I can do this."

  "Prove me right, babe. Please. Don't make me regret this."

  "You won't--I won't, I mean." The grin on her face was ear-to-ear.

  "I've got to be out of my mind," I said with a groan.

  "You are. But I love you anyway." She got out of the chair, leaned close to me, careful to not bump any switches, buttons, or the controls. "Thank you, Nick."

  "I can't lose you, Layla. You're too important to me."

  She took my face in her soft, warm palms. "I know. And you won't." She kissed me, then. Slowly, deeply. But then she pulled away. "You owe me an apology, you know."

  "I do, don't I?"

  "You do." She grinned at me, lips curling against mine. "I've got some ideas for how you can apologize."

  "Oh yeah? How's that?"

  She resumed her seat, switched off the autopilot, and took the controls. "Oh, you'll see. But it involves a lot of you on your knees. Possibly a lot of me riding your face."

  "Apology cunnilingus?" I asked with a smirk. "I can do that."

  She quirked an eyebrow at me. "Oh, you'll apologize with words too. Don't think you'll get off that easy, Mister. I haven't forgotten the move with the zip-ties."

  Shit. Layla was crafty enough that I had a feeling I'd wake up hogtied at some point. If I knew Layla, she'd find a way to make me beg her for forgiveness. I intended to make her work for it, but I'd do it.

  5

  FIREFIGHT

  I wondered, with not a little bit of fear, what I'd gotten myself into.

  I was hot.

  I was uncomfortable.

  I was bored.

  I understood the plan, and the plan made sense. Didn't mean I liked the plan, though. But I was in no position to complain...about anything. Nick had been as good as his word: a complicated rescue plan had been formulated on the flight to Nevada and Nick made it perfectly clear that I would be part of it. To their credit, the guys never spoke a word of disagreement, and I saw, firsthand, what it meant to take orders without question, and to raise logical, respectful disagreements. Each person on the team had the full respect of everyone else, and it showed.

  They were all tight, they were brothers. Tighter than brothers, as only men who have faced combat together can be. And now...I was going to be a part of that. It made me a little giddy, as well as more than a little afraid, which I felt was reasonable and expected.

  I'd listened to the men formulate the plan and kept my thoughts to myself, knowing I needed to sit back and learn by listening.

  We were in the desert somewhere in Nevada, waiting. Miles and miles and miles from anything. I was in the
back of an ex-military Humvee, one of the huge wide mammoth ones. Tan, with gargantuan tires. Armored to withstand bullets. No creature comforts. No AC, no music, no diet Coke.

  The plan was that Nick would bring the duffel bags full of cash in the back of an old Jeep Wrangler from his location a few miles on the opposite side of the drop-point from where we were. Exchange the cash for the girl, and then haul ass to us. Thresh and Duke would cover Nick's approach to us, which they'd dubbed the "EZ" for extraction zone, Puck would be behind the wheel of the Humvee, and I would be in the back of the Humvee to be with Cleo. Once Puck had Cleo and I clear, Thresh, Duke, and Nick would cover our retreat, making sure Cain and his goons weren't following us, or trying to double-cross us.

  Nick was going in alone, unarmed, only a walkie-talkie to coordinate with the others. Just the bags of cash and the Jeep--which didn't even have a top--and the clothes on his back. We knew from Lear's surveillance that Cain had the drop location covered from every direction, and that we were outnumbered, and that his guys were all heavily armed. There would be at least a dozen cross-hairs on Nick at any one time. Sure, we had both Lear and Anselm with big old rifles covering Nick the entire time, but what could a couple of guys with rifles do against twelve or fifteen guys with machine guns? Sorry, assault rifles. Or submachine guns, or whatever. Anselm and Lear couldn't keep them from shooting Nick. If someone got an itchy trigger finger, Nick would be dead, and no one could do anything.

  What assurance did we have that Cain wouldn't have his guys shoot Nick as soon they had the cash?

  None, I was told.

  That was the biggest risk.

  It could turn into a firefight.

  In fact, I think Thresh and Duke were planning on that eventuality. Planning? Hoping? With those two, it might equal the same thing.

  As for me? I was wired, and bored out of my mind. And scared for Nick.

  I had my Beretta 9mm in a black tactical holster on my right thigh, the belt going around my waist and the bottom of the holster itself fastening around my thigh. The holster also contained two extra clips of ammunition. I felt kind of like a legit member of the team, although I was under strict orders to not pull the pistol out unless my life was directly in danger and I had no other choice. No matter what happened, I was to leave the gun-slinging to the professionals.

  Soon, that would be me!

  No time to think about that now. Focus on the op, Layla.

  Except, there was absolutely nothing happening. Not a goddamn thing. Puck was in the front of the Humvee, the engine rumbling with a deep diesel clatter, the door propped open, his feet crossed and propped in the V-gap where the door met the frame at the hinge. He had a laptop on his belly and was playing poker on it, a cigar between his teeth, lit and curling acrid smoke.

  "Is it always like this?" I asked.

  "What? Ops? Yeah. Boredom is part of the gig. Lots of sitting, lots of waiting."

  "Being wired and full of adrenaline and all that bullshit while bored at the same time is a weird feeling."

  Puck chuffed a laugh as he pulled a mouthful of smoke off his cigar. "Yeah, it's a shitty feeling. You wanna go, go, go, but you gotta wait, wait, wait. It fuckin' sucks." He tapped at his laptop, playing a hand, and then returned his attention to me. "This feels a lot like my TOD in Iraq, actually. Sitting in a Humvee, bored out of my skull, waiting for shit to hit the fan. Kind of wigging me out a little, actually."

  "You don't look like you're wigging out," I said.

  "Yeah, well, fear happens on the inside. It's what you do on the outside that determines the kind of person you are." He didn't look at me as he dropped that little nugget of wisdom.

  "That was deep, Puck."

  "Nah." He pulled on his cigar, blew out a stream. "It's experience. My first firefight, I fuckin' froze. Hid in a doorway ignoring my L-T's orders to return fire. Bullets whippin' past, buzzing and shit. They make this sound when they pass right by your ear, a kind of buzz--"

  "Sometimes they make a...snapping sound," I said, remembering Brazil, being in that old Defender, bullets going past my face. "Sometimes they snap, sometimes they buzz."

  Puck looked at me, a piercing stare that contained a new element of respect. "Yeah. The snap is when they're not as close. You hear 'em buzzin', you best fuckin' duck."

  "That first firefight, what happened?"

  He returned his attention to his online poker game. How he was getting signal out here was beyond me, since my cell phone said no service. "Like I said, I froze. By the time I got my balls back, the fight was over. L-T reamed me a new asshole, made me pull latrine duty for three days. All the guys ragged on me. Next time shit went FUBAR, I refused to let myself freeze. I was still pissin' in my boots, but I didn't freeze. After that, it got easier. Never is exactly easy, though, you just...deal."

  "When I was running from Vitaly's men, I kept telling myself I had to hold it together. I promised myself I could freak out later."

  Puck puffed again, sending a thick mushroom cloud skyward. "I've heard bits and pieces of that story, but never the whole shit and shebang."

  "It's a long story, but here's the Spark's Notes version: Vitaly Karahalios had me kidnapped as a ploy to get back at Roth and Kyrie. I was bait, and he told me as much. Had me brought down to Brazil--and that trip is it's own fun story, let me tell you. I spent three days with Vitaly, never sure if he was going to kill me, rape me, or both. He ended up leaving on business, and his second in command tried to rape me. I stabbed him in the eye with a pen, stole his clothes and gun, then hijacked a car from a one of the valets that worked in the building. I bought a burner phone, called Kyrie, which got me Nick--Harris, I mean. I was supposed to find somewhere and wait for Harris to find me, but Vitaly's guys found me first. I stole their truck and took off like a bat out of hell. Eventually I managed to cross paths with Harris. We took down some of Vitaly's guys in an ambush, hooked up with Thresh, who got us a flight out of South America."

  Puck just stared at me. Then, after a few processing blinks, he burst out laughing. "Jesus, woman. You stabbed a man in the eyeball with a pen?"

  I snickered. "That's not the worst part."

  He raised his eyebrows. "What is, then?"

  "When they'd first kidnapped me, they'd kept me locked up in this little room in the bottom of an old fishing boat. There was an old, dirty ink pen lying on the floor. So I cleaned it off and--hid it."

  He frowned at me. "Hid it? Where?"

  I quirked an eyebrow at him. "Best hiding spot a woman has, Puck. Up my hoo-ha."

  "You gotta be shittin' me."

  "That's not something I'd make up," I said. "I called it 'Mr. Papermate the Pussy Pen.'"

  This got me another disbelieving belly laugh. "And you shoved it so far into the dude's eye that he died?"

  I couldn't quite suppress a shudder at the visceral memory. "Not...immediately. I had to sort of..." I mimed slamming the heel of my palm down, over and over, "drive it...in a little. And even then, it took him a while to--you know. Die."

  "Fuuuuck." He wiped at his face, still laughing. "That has got to be the most hard core thing I've ever fuckin' heard." The awe in his voice sent thrills of pride through me.

  "I was in survival mode. I would have done anything to stay alive. I don't go down easy."

  Puck snickered. "I think our boy Harris might disagree."

  I glared at him. "Don't be a cock-waffle, Puck."

  He held up his hands, palms out. "Sorry, sorry. I'm an ass. I ain't ever really had a filter. It's why I never made it very far in the FBI. They don't appreciate a man calling his superior a 'pencil-dick weasel-fucker', apparently."

  I snickered. "I would imagine not."

  Puck grinned. "He was, though. Typical desk jockey, you know? Couldn't find his balls with both hands if you gave him a map and a flashlight." He checked his watch, the same type that all the guys wore, thick rubber chronographs that looked like they could survive a direct nuclear blast. "Shit should be happening soon."
<
br />   He snagged a handheld walkie-talkie from the seat beside him. "Anselm. Report?"

  "He is making the trade off now. He has the little girl in the Jeep, and he's giving them the bags of money." There was pause, and then a crackling as Anselm keyed his mic again. "Be ready. I have a bad feeling, you know? In my stomach. Shit! I knew it, I knew it!"

  "Anselm, talk to me, what's happening?"

  "I cannot, I cannot. Go to him. Drive east and be ready to provide assistance. It has gone, as you say, off the rails." There was a loud BOOOOM that echoed weirdly, coming loudly from Anselm's end of the line, cut off as his radio went silent, a sound which we also heard in the distance, the report of a rifle.

  Immediately after the echoing boom of Anselm's rifle we heard automatic fire crackling from multiple locations, and another long rifle report.

  Puck had closed and tossed his laptop aside as soon as Anselm cursed, and by the time the first rifle report echoed, he had his door closed and the Humvee in gear.

  "Hang the fuck on, Layla!" he shouted as he gunned it and slewed the truck around, the tires spitting sand and dirt and rocks.

  I heard the radio crackle, heard Nick's voice: "I'm heading toward you, coming in hot." I heard gunfire in the background, a girl's screams.

  I was hanging on, leaning into the turn, trying to see out the window and failing. All there was to see was desert flying by. We hit a ditch and went flying, my head hitting the ceiling, and then the Humvee bottomed out with a nasty scraping crunch, and immediately we pitched down, sliding partially sideways down a steep, short hill. My heart was pounding in my chest, and my head was throbbing, but none of that mattered, buried as it was beneath the adrenaline and the fear.