A relief that he carried with him even now, a full week later.
“Happy?” Khan asked, pulling me from my memory of that day.
“Yeah,” I answered. He still didn’t remember anything about what had happened after the gun went off. It was like Petrov had shot him, and he’d woken up in bed. But I decided I didn’t care.
It didn’t matter.
What did matter was that he was here, and ahead of us was a full day… and another.
And another.
A full lifetime that would be abundant with moments of freedom.
Because sometimes, death really does bring life.
And we would live every moment like it was the last.
THE END
ICE
by Elise Faber
Note from the author
I hope you enjoy Ryker and Laila’s story. It’s the first in a series of books following the members of a kickass private military organization called KTS. Alphas, strong female leads, and awesome tech! What else could you want?
More KTS novels will be coming soon, but in the meantime you can check out my Phoenix series, Phoenix Rising and Dark Phoenix, or book one in the LexTal Chronicles, From Ashes, all of which are available now. You can find all of the details on my Amazon author page (www.amazon.com/author/elisefaber).
I always love to hear from my readers — opinions on my books, funny cat videos, DWTS predictions, whatever. You can connect with me via Facebook (facebook.com/elisefaberauthor) or Twitter (@faberelise). Or you can check out all of the free content and behind the scenes details on my website, www.elisefaber.com.
–XOXO Elise
1100 Wednesday
Paris City Limits
3… 2… 1…
The building exploded in a perfectly orchestrated detonation. Laila hardly noticed the sound, barely felt the heat of the flames as they shot out the shattered windows.
Instead, she was already moving — melting into the crowd screaming in French, disappearing into the shadows created by the high spires of the Gothic building.
She dodged a man sprinting away from the flames and spared a brief glance around the corner of the building.
The way was clear. Thomas had done his job to keep the debris contained, to keep the risk to civilians minimal.
Sprinting, she made it to the back door of the adjacent, supposedly abandoned business in less than ten seconds.
Mid-morning was not typically a time they would have conducted such a mission, but this area of the city boasted plenty of sex clubs and abandoned buildings. The safest time was after everyone had gone home.
The safest time.
Laila’s lips curved.
Perhaps, for innocent bystanders, the risk was low. For the bastards who’d kidnapped the American diplomat… well, their well-being was way down on her list of priorities.
Click.
Safety off.
The voice in her earpiece began counting down again. “Three. Two. One. Go!”
One swift kick caved the door in. Then Laila was through the threshold, her gun up, her finger on the trigger.
What she saw made her heart sink.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
1103 Wednesday
Warehouse, Paris City Limits
SHE WAS STILL THE MOST BEAUTIFUL woman he had ever seen, Ryker thought as Laila burst through the door with a swift, economical movement that bespoke of someone who knew how to kick serious ass.
Including his own.
He never could hit a girl, and Laila with her long, blond hair, curves for days, and an ass that just screamed to be grabbed, was most definitely a girl.
Ryker had paid for his hesitation to spar with her — in the form of a bruise the size of a watermelon on his ribs and a well-deserved dressing down from his commander.
It did no one any good to hold back in training sessions. That was how people got killed in the field. He knew it. He understood it.
And he still hadn’t been able to fight her.
The voice in his earpiece was sharp. “Thirty seconds. Go!”
Laila had the same voice in her ear and responded exactly the same way as Ryker. Well, except for the glare. If her icy blue eyes were a knife, he would have been sliced to the core.
Breaking eye contact, they moved silently to the door on the far side of the room. Laila signaled their next move — two fingers down, one slice of her hand to the left, and one… middle finger, pointed directly at him.
Ryker grinned. Damn, she was sexy. Of course, she was also a giant pain in his ass.
But since he’d hitchhiked onto her mission, he would follow her orders.
Two steps and he was into the next room with Laila trailing him. They cleared the darkened space in seconds, their boots not making even the slightest whisper of sound as they moved up the set of stairs at the opposite side.
A prickle invaded his consciousness.
He reacted without thinking. In one fluid movement, he’d grabbed Laila and pinned her to the wall behind the door. For a change, she didn’t fight him, just went perfectly still.
And not a moment too soon.
The door slammed open, crashing into his back, its knob digging into his spine. He bit back a curse.
But he didn’t dare let it loose. Didn’t dare say a single word.
Instead, he listened to the sound of footsteps echoing in the hall. Smelled a heavy cloud of cheap aftershave and cigarette smoke.
They waited, not breathing. Silent. Two killers hidden in the shadows of a shitty warehouse.
“Nothing here, boss,” the wheezing man called.
“Fine,” another voice, presumably the boss, said. “Get back in here. He’s ready to be moved, and we need to hurry.”
Ryker’s gut clenched. They were missing their chance.
Laila shifted slightly, and he glanced down. She cut her eyes to the left then leaned to peak through the gap created by the hinges and the jam.
“Five,” she mouthed. “Knife?” It was the barest wisp of a question.
“Leg,” he breathed, knowing that her ability with blades far exceeded his.
Her gun was pressed into his hand, and his knife removed from the holster on his thigh before his next heartbeat.
If they’d been in any other circumstance, he would have enjoyed Laila’s hand so near that particular part of his anatomy. But now wasn’t the time.
She slid from his arms, pressed flat against the wall. After slipping one of the guns into his holster, Ryker held the knob of the door then sidestepped out from behind it.
Laila gave him the hand signal for ready, but he shook his head and reached into the pocket of his cargos.
She frowned. Until she saw what he’d pulled out. Then her lips curved into a smile that made his heart ache the slightest bit. He’d let her go — well, actually, he’d pushed her away.
Which was really the crux of his problems, the reason she was such a pain in the ass.
Because he had a big ol’ tub of regret when it came to Laila.
She took the can, pulled the tab, and rolled it quietly into the other room. Purple smoke poured from the small container.
Tear gas. Or a form of it. One that wouldn’t affect either of them because they wore special contacts to protect their eyes.
The lenses were just one of the perks of working for KTS.
Private spy organizations had all the gadgets.
It took precisely two heartbeats before a myriad of curses and shouting erupted from the room. Voices yelled to get out, to move the ambassador, but Laila and Ryker weren’t about to let that happen.
“Ready?” he mouthed.
She nodded as she extracted another knife from somewhere, holding the twin blades with confidence. They counted down together.
3… 2… 1…
They burst into the room.
1109 Wednesday
Warehouse
LAILA TOOK THE LEFT. RYKER THE right, the pop-pop of his gun echoing thro
ugh the smoke-filled room.
The tear gas made her vision slightly hazy, but her contacts were working. No burn, no tears. Not that she couldn’t function if the contacts failed. But it was easier to do her job when her eyes weren’t on fire.
And damn, did it feel good to do her job.
The call from the American embassy had come less than eight hours before.
One of their ambassadors, a man known for championing peace between Muslim radicals and French nationals here in Paris, had been kidnapped by a violent subset of the radical group.
They’d wanted to send in a team from KTS because the American military couldn’t get in and out that quickly, at least not on a legitimate mission on French soil. So, to bypass governmental red tape and have proper deniability, the embassy had contacted KTS.
Laila and her team had gotten to work, knowing that the initial twenty-four hours after a person went missing were the most important.
First, Thomas had tracked the ambassador’s location to the warehouse using a combination of GPS triangulation from his cell phone’s last location and satellite imagery of the kidnapping. That had been the time-consuming part. Organizing the team, flying over from Germany, and setting the explosives next door had been quick.
Laila’s eyes flicked over the room, and she moved faster. The radicals were trying to forcibly drag the ambassador from the room, while he, despite being restrained, was doing an admirable job of fighting his removal.
That removal wasn’t going to happen.
A kick dropped the nearest radical to the ground. When he reached into his pocket, presumably for a weapon, her elbow whipped across his temple, knocking him unconscious.
Another radical lunged for her, and she kicked again.
This time using her knife was unavoidable.
She ducked under the gun he aimed at her and slammed her blade into his chest. The sound of his dead body hitting the floor was lost amongst the cacophony in the room.
She couldn’t worry about it anyway, about the morality of killing someone, about the family that might be left without a husband, a father, a son.
Her mind needed to remain clear.
Because the next enemy was already upon her.
She and Ryker tore through the room in a swiftness that was as efficient as it was terrifying. Bodies — some unconscious, some groaning in agony — littered the floor.
KTS trained their agents extremely well.
They were brutally effective.
They were lethal.
“Stop!” one of the radicals shouted. He held a gun to the head of the ambassador, whose hands were tied behind him, an oozing wound dripping blood down his forehead. “Or he dies.”
Laila didn’t stop.
This wasn’t the time to think. Wasn’t the time to do anything except rely on her training.
The knife flew from her hand.
If she hadn’t worked so hard to perfect the shot, hadn’t spent hours making sure she didn’t miss in a situation just like this, she wouldn’t have believed it possible anywhere outside of a movie set.
But it was possible. Very, very possible.
The blade hit her intended target. It pierced the man’s eye with a thunk, and he collapsed to the floor.
“Damn, girl,” Ryker said, holstering his gun and handing her hers. “That was my favorite knife.”
0736 Thursday
KTS Headquarters
Berlin, Germany
RYKER EXITED HIS COMMANDER’S OFFICE WITH orders that should have had him cursing.
Instead, he had a smile on his face.
Laila was running the lead on the next mission, and though normally he would hate not being the one in charge, acting as second in command to the sexy, curvy goddess known as Laila wouldn’t be difficult.
Okay, that was a lie. It would be difficult — she would be difficult — but he was willing to push all that aside if it meant he got another chance with her.
He’d blown it big time.
Five years before, he’d not just been younger, but also a heck of a lot stupider. Ruled by his dick and only interested in where he could get his next lay.
Laila had been hurt. Because of him.
With a sigh, he turned in the direction of the training room. Time to play it cool until Laila called the team in for the mission’s prep work.
Then he would make it up to her.
The call came exactly two hours later, just as Ryker was hopping out of the shower after his workout. As he toweled his hair dry, he snagged his phone, which was buzzing like an electric razor on steroids, and punched in his eight-digit identification code.
“Ryker,” he answered.
“Conference room Delta,” came Laila’s clipped voice. “Five minutes ago.”
“Roger that.” He tossed the towel aside.
“And next time, pick up your phone the first time I call,” she snapped.
“Sorry, sugar,” he replied. “Next time, I’ll bring it into the shower with me.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” she said. “And don’t use that two-bit southern accent with me. I’m not one of your one-night — hell, your one-hour — stands.”
“You were once,” Ryker said, softly. “And I seem to remember you liking it very much.”
Her breath hitched, just slightly and quietly enough that Ryker could have been completely mistaken about her doing it at all.
But — and it was a big but — he didn’t think he was wrong.
Explosive didn’t begin to cover his night with Laila. It had been hot. So hot, in fact, that he’d been surprised the sheets hadn’t burned to a crisp.
But he had blown it with her before, so he’d be an idiot to assume anything.
Still, he liked Laila when she was full of piss and vinegar. Loved it when she spat fire at him. So he turned up the southern accent.
“Be there faster than a greased gator, darlin’,” he said and hung up the phone.
Ryker ignored the cell when it began to immediately buzz again, slipped on his t-shirt, and walked out of the locker room.
His grin might just split his face in half.
1855 Friday
The Castro, San Francisco
LAILA LEANED AGAINST A BUILDING AND watched her team work. There were five of them altogether. She was running lead and Ryker, Thomas, Shell, and Dom were stationed around various points in the two-block radius they’d set up.
They were running a full-blown operation on one of the busiest nights of the week, in one of the busiest sections of San Francisco, and not one civilian noticed.
Yup. They were just that good.
But the net they’d cast had better catch the bastard who was trafficking women into the city from Southeast Asia.
Hundreds of girls — some barely of legal age, some perhaps not even that old — were being transported via cargo containers and then dispersed amongst men in various port cities around the world.
It was slavery, plain and simple. And Laila had made it her personal goal to eliminate every last one of the son of a bitches who’d kidnapped, paid for, or harmed any of the women.
She knew what it was like to be controlled, had experienced her own kind of slavery — though hers had been shaded as parental concern. Her mother had groomed her to be a beauty queen before she could walk, had exercised ultimate control over what she wore, when she slept, who her friends could be.
Not to mention the daily battle with her mother over food.
“Don’t eat that, Laila,” her mother had told her numerous times through the years. “Your thighs are already the size of ham hocks. At this rate, you’ll be as fat as a cow.”
And, dammit, she still couldn’t eat bacon or steak without the pervasive voice of her mother worming its way into her mind.
“How we doing, sugar?” Ryker’s voice broke into her reverie, and she scowled at him.
“Get back to your position,” she hissed.
He raised a brow. “You’re the one who wanted us to r
otate every fifteen minutes.“ He pointed toward the doors to a bar where Shell had last been stationed. “I’m just following orders.”
She snorted. “I don’t think harassing me is following orders.”
“You looked sad.”
Laila’s mouth dropped open at the quiet words. She scrambled to find something to say, to deflect, but none of her normal put-offs would emerge from her lips.
“Everything okay?” came Dom’s voice.
Discreetly, she tapped the mic for her com. It was hidden in the band of her bracelet.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Everyone check in when they’re in position.”
“R4, here,” Dom said almost immediately.
Shell followed suit. “R2, in position.”
Thomas spoke a few seconds later. “R3, ready.”
Her eyes locked with Ryker’s, the “Well, what about you?” apparently evident in her gaze because he smiled and put his hands up in surrender.
“I’m going, sugar.”
Ugh. She shuddered. “Don’t call me that. Just move your ass.”
It was bad enough when he used that smooth-as-silk southern voice, but when he looked at her like that, with his blue eyes searing into the very depths of her soul, she was completely and totally entranced. It filled her with heat, made her want to strip naked and have him show her even more of what he could do between the sheets.
Hell, who needed sheets? She could make do with a wall or a—
There was movement over Ryker’s shoulder, and the moment her mind processed what was happening, a curse came to her lips. They were so completely fuc—
Not because of him. Well, not entirely. She shouldered a fair amount of the blame for this blunder, for having let him distract her.
But blame aside, they were screwed because their target — the one they were supposed to be avoiding all contact with, the one they were supposed to be tracking unnoticed via surveillance — was walking right toward them.
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