by Christa Wick
“Hope you don’t mind dry swallowing, bitch.”
“You have Ops Control,” Trent told him then, jumping up from the workstation and ripping off his tailored jacket.
“The hell I do,” Reed shot back. “Marcus, get your ass over here.”
Trent rounded on Reed, imminent and unrepentant murder clear in his gaze. “For once, will you just do as I fucking say? Marcus doesn’t have your level of OC experience.”
“And I don’t have yours, so maybe you should calm your ass down and think about this rationally,” Reed countered. “You going tactical on this isn’t—”
Trent cut him off, wrapping his hand around the collar of Reed’s shirt with a threatening snarl, “Don’t fucking explain company protocol to me. Don’t forget; I outrank you.”
For Reed, the urge to punch some sense into this boss was now bordering on uncontrollable. “We got rules we need to follow now, Kane.”
Growling, Trent shoved a step back, looking ready to exchange blows with him.
Reed steamrolled on. “Face it, unless you want to roll out there as a civilian, with just your personal weapons and vehicle and no updates from this room, we do this by the book.”
The statement came out as a threat, and he’d meant it as one. It wasn’t an empty threat either, and they both knew it. He’d hate doing it, but he’d leave Trent out in the cold if that’s what it came to.
Seeing no change in Trent’s expression, Reed sighed and then played his trump card. “Marcus, get Stark on the line.”
An explosive curse burst out of Trent’s chest. “Don’t you dare fucking move, Marcus.”
The young man at the command console froze except for the darting of his eyes between the two most senior men in the building at that moment. The only one who could veto either of them was the man he’d just been ordered to call, Collin Stark.
After a deathly silent pause, Trent finally released the breath of air he’d been holding in, his gaze flicking to the big clock in the operations room. “Marcus, if you screw this up—”
“I know," Marcus said. "You’ll gut me.”
Trent nodded in confirmation then bolted from the room with Reed on his heels. Judging by Trent’s determinedly homicidal scowl, he knew their first stop would be to the tactical garage to armor up.
As they both shrugged into bulletproof vests, Trent shot him a look. “Look, I appreciate that back-up, but there’s a reason you don’t do tactical anymore.
“Yeah, yeah,” he groused, not needing the reminder. “I’m an old man with three fused vertebrae. I can still outshoot your stubborn ass.”
“Maybe with a scope at five hundred yards,” Trent tossed back drolly, holstering a second sidearm.
Hell, they both knew Trent was right. Just like they both knew there was no way in hell Reed was letting his friend do this alone.
After they were geared up, Trent shoved a comm link in his ear just as Reed did the same.
“Marcus, tell me you have something,” demanded Trent.
“Still pinging Miss Marquardts’ phone but we need another cell tower for direction of travel,” Marcus answered in both their ears. “The car service was a Tap&Ride—”
“We’ve got a backdoor into their database,” Trent interrupted.
Stark International had put in an at-cost bid on all the major car service applications, convincing the companies that ran them that their liability risks were too high without driver accountability via GPS tracking. The fine print on the contracts they had won referenced routine system checks. The scope of those checks meant they could engage in 24/7 tracking of over a quarter million drivers in the U.S. and Europe.
“Already working on that, sir. We’re trying to establish a connection with the driver’s GPS.”
“Feed any coordinates into Tac 6,” Reed ordered, grabbing the keys to the tactical van off the hook before Trent could snatch them up. Muffling his comm link, he looked at his boss and friend. “Dani wants you there in one piece.”
Trent gave him a hooded look, a million shadows multiplying in his already black gaze. “She doesn’t want me there at all.”
15
Trent
"The recovery unit will be here in five,” Reed cautioned as Trent exited the van twenty minutes after leaving Stark International.
Reed had the vehicle parked behind a burned out barn. Twenty yards of fallow field separated the barn from a line of trees. Another eighty yards on was the beginning of a dirt drive with a rusting barbed wire gate. Images Marcus had pulled from Google Maps while they waited for aerial coverage showed that the dusty road extended a quarter mile past the turn-off. At the back end of the property, shielded by more densely packed trees, was a one-story ranch style home.
Trent lifted an uncompromising brow. “That’s five minutes in the hands of a complete psychopath.”
Reed’s face went red. They were no longer worried about Donnie Wells. With Marcus checking all cell tower hits for the area and cross referencing the numbers with Wells’ known associates, they strongly suspected that Abraham Turner, aka "Stoker," was in the club’s stash house.
Deemed too crazy even among the bikers, Turner mostly operated separate from the club as its liaison with the East European syndicates, supplying the foreigners with a steady flow of meth and human flesh.
He had earned his club nickname for the things he liked to do to the women when they were no longer attractive or cooperative enough to earn the club money. Calling him a sexual sadist would have been a mild rebuke or, to Stoker’s way of thinking, faint praise.
“Right,” Reed relented and grabbed the shotgun from the weapons rack inside the van. “Let’s just hope no one spots the van or us before recovery gets here.”
They ran the twenty yards to the trees, their black tactical dress visible to anyone passing on the road. They were going in blind, no idea how many vehicles or bodies were at the house. Caution would dictate that they set up a perimeter and perform surveillance for the recovery team.
But the feed from Daniella's phone inside the house meant there was no room for caution—not for Trent. The next sentence he heard over the speaker ripped his guts to pieces.
Shit, man. You think anyone wants to buy a blind baby?
Fuck. Kane had one pistol out of its holster, a silencer threaded at its end.
Reed looked over at him and asked quietly, “So that’s how we’re doing it?”
“If necessary,” Kane answered without any hesitation whatsoever as they came up on the clearing around the house.
At the back of the building, there was a distance of maybe four feet from leaving the trees to being at the rear door. The sides and front had more open space. There were three motorcycles and the Tap&Ride car littering the drive.
Seeing the sedan, Kane’s expression darkened. The cowardly driver would be lucky if anyone went looking for him once Daniella and the baby were rescued.
With a hand gesture, he directed Reed toward the front of the building, ordering him to stay within the cover of the trees until called forth. Reed glared in reply, but didn’t argue.
“Four targets minimum,” Marcus advised over the comm link. “One female, Julie Brown. Three males, Abraham Turner, Donald Wells and a third identified only as Paulie. Sounds like he’s their cook.”
“Stop talking” Kane growled. “Unless you’ve got something I don’t already know.”
“Recovery arrival in three-point-five,” Marcus said and then the comm link went silent.
Kane snuck up on the back side of the house. There were two windows—one on the rear door that was covered with grime and the second at the far end that was boarded over. He approached the door at an angle as Stoker took a call.
“Trace?” he queried over the comm link.
“Ilia Grekov,” Marcus answered after a few seconds, his voice turning queasy.
Fuck! Kane cursed silently. If Stoker had a direct line to the Russian Butcher, the club was more connected than they had realized.
Daniella and Christine might never be safe.
Kane inhaled then slowly released a deep breath as he tested the door handle.
He knew what he had to do—leave no one alive who could give the Grekovs the name of the missing woman and baby.
Finding the back door unlocked, a calm settled over him. He slipped inside to find a wiry male standing in front of a stove, spacing out over empty pans. Next to him, unmixed and capped, were chemicals used in the manufacture of methamphetamine.
Kane stepped behind him, brought his gun hand up, his forearm flat against the man’s opposite cheek. His other hand snaked behind the target’s head then around his chin.
There was less than half a second of the target realizing he was not alone in the room. He dropped the lid he was holding and then Kane jerked his right arm back to his right side, mirroring the technique with his left arm and snapping the man’s neck.
Something touched against the back of Kane’s knee. Dropping the target, he spun, gun pointed and ready to fire.
Yellow-green eyes stared up at him.
The cat tapped Kane’s leg a second time as Stoker began yelling in the next room.
“Drag Paulie’s fucking ass in here so I can kick it!”
Cue target number two, Kane thought, lifting the pistol and stepping over the corpse as Wells walked into view.
“What the—”
Kane pulled the trigger and down the man went.
“Fuck! Fuck!” Stoker shouted followed by a two-octave jump in the man’s voice before he screamed a threat that stopped Kane’s heart.
“Bitch, I’ll kill you for that.”
Kane burst into the room, gun up, gaze trained on the far side of the living room where Stoker had one hand covering his eye. The other hand held a Smith & Wesson M&P45. Daniella was on the floor, throwing herself in front of Christine’s car seat. She had something in her outstretched hand.
A red dot bounced against Stoker’s cheek.
Seeing Kane, Stoker jerked his gun arm up, both men firing at the same time.
Stoker’s cheek exploded. Kane spun, a grunt leaving him, his body hitting the ground as Reed kicked in the front door.
Over the comm link, Marcus offered an update.
“Recovery in one-point-two-five.”
16
Daniella
Strong armed by Reed into the back of a massive armored vehicle, Daniella wanted to tear her hair out—or at least scream really, really loudly.
Trent was inside the filthy house injured, a broad spray of his blood on the door Reed had ushered her through. No one was telling her Trent’s condition, but a second team had arrived and was working on him.
Sitting in the car seat, Christine began to kick and fuss.
“It’s okay, love,” Daniella coaxed, her frustration, but none of her anxiety, abandoning her at the first sign of the baby’s distress.
One of the other Stark employees who arrived after the shooting had tossed Christine’s diaper bag into the vehicle. Daniella unzipped the bag and removed a water bottle.
Lifting Christine out of the car seat, she patted at the baby’s bottom, relieved that a diaper change wasn’t necessary. The way her hands were still shaking, just giving the baby a bottle would be a challenge.
Hearing a new vehicle enter the yard, Daniella tensed. It didn’t sound like a motorcycle, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t someone from Stoker’s gang.
The back doors of the tactical vehicle in which she waited were thrown open.
“That will have to wait a few minutes,” Reed said with a nod at the bottle.
The right side of his face had been fine when he pulled her from the building. Now, minutes later, it was red and puffy, the flesh around his eye socket beginning to purple.
Without another word, Reed stepped into the vehicle, hoisted Christine’s car seat and bag then walked to a black van.
Figuring that was her cue to follow, she got out of the first vehicle but stopped to look at the house.
“Is he—”
Reed interrupted the question by taking Christine from her and stepping into the van.
“Strap in,” he ordered, his voice remaining gentle as he settled the baby into place. His gaze wasn’t as pleasant when he shut the van’s side door and jerked his thumb towards the front of the vehicle.
Trying not to scowl or glare at someone who had just helped rescue her and the baby, Daniella climbed into the passenger seat and drew the belt across her chest.
As soon as the belt’s lock clicked into place, Reed threw the van in reverse, turned in the narrow space and sped down the driveway to the road.
Trying not to look at how his eye and cheek were swelling, Daniella glanced around for a street sign or anything else that would tell her where she was. She had been unconscious the entire time in the transport vehicle and couldn’t say for sure if she was even in the same state.
“There was a driver,” she started, then stopped, trying to piece it all together. “Is he…”
“Don’t know,” Reed replied, answering her unasked question with a sound of disgust. “We’re still looking for that piece of shit. What kind of man leaves a woman and baby like that?”
She’d wondered the same thing. Still, he’d been a bystander in all this. Her bleeding heart couldn’t help but feel bad.
“Are Trent’s injuries bad?” she asked then worriedly.
Reed lifted a negligent shoulder. “Not compared to the men he shot.”
That info wasn’t at all helpful. She knew full well that in their world, a gunshot was deemed a graze if it didn’t hit a vital organ. And a pool of blood wasn’t necessarily something to panic over.
Hell, Reed probably knew and didn’t care that the swollen flesh around his eye was now a blackish purple.
Reed shrugged after a few more seconds of silence, reading her well. “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. He’ll probably be off his feet for a few days, followed by light duty for a few weeks IF he listens to his doctor.”
She opened her mouth, started to say something, then swallowed while she tried to bring her voice under control.
“Sorry I was a little stubborn back there,” she said at last.
From his side of the van, Reed cut her a side glance.
Her cheeks heated at the memory of how and why she’d fought him when she did. As soon as she had realized Christine was out of danger, she’d rushed to Trent, who had immediately, and quite colorfully, ordered Reed to get her and the baby out of the house.
When she’d resisted, things kind of…got out of hand.
She had been so damn adamant about staying with Trent that Reed had been forced to put some kind of ninja hold on her arm that had made her want to pass out.
Trent did not take that well.
“Is that why he hit you?” she asked.
Reed shrugged. “You’re so far up into him, who knows why he’s doing anything.”
For some reason, she had a feeling there was something she was missing. But whatever it was, her actions back at the house had definitely stirred up something between Trent and Reed.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry if I somehow caused any bad blood between you.”
“Don’t worry, Dani girl,” he said, a wistful smile turning up one corner of his mouth. “Someone else beat you to it a long time ago.”
17
Trent
Thirty days after the rescue, Trent sat at his desk at Stark International and stabbed at his keyboard. Across from him, Reed Henley shifted uncomfortably in the visitor's chair.
"What?" Trent growled. "Worried Stark will make you the Chief Operating Officer?"
"No," Reed scoffed, the question seeming to settle him. "You only think you get to resign and run away from this Potomac Ballers mess."
Trent appreciated that Reed didn't attribute the "mess" as belonging to any one person, especially since several company executives—all the way up to the very top—regularly visited t
he club.
"You going to slip it under the boss's door in the middle of the night?" Reed mocked.
Trent cut him another sharp glance. Stark had already said he would not accept Trent's resignation other than in person. Before Trent could give it to Stark, he would have to find the man.
"The girl overdosing was a lucky break,” Reed said, suddenly changing direction. “But we’re still coming up empty on locating the driver and figuring out how to keep his mouth shut once we do.”
Trent said nothing, his gaze stuck on his laptop, his fingers stomping all over the keyboard.
Reed cleared his throat but Trent’s attention didn’t waver.
“You know what’s got me confused?” Reed prompted.
A sigh detectible only by the lift of his chest escaped Trent before Reed pressed on.
“The State Crime Lab report noted blood spray in the kitchen, but only a few drops next to the couch. Your blood."
"I recall being shot," Trent deadpanned.
"You fell near the doorway," Reed said. "That explains the kitchen spray, but it's more than eight feet from the doorway to where they found the drops next to the couch. Nothing on the couch.”
Trent shrugged.
Reed dropped the unvoiced question.
“So any thoughts on what to do about the driver?”
“Leave it to the cops,” Trent answered drily. “He’s probably been ground into the dirt in one of Grekov’s fight pits by now.”
Leaning forward, Reed slammed the lid down on the laptop.
“Fine. You don't want to explain your blood being by the body of a dead female junkie who helped kidnap the woman you've fallen in love with, don't. You've got a constitutional right against self-incrimination. But you haven’t asked a single question about Dani and the baby.”
Trent pulled the laptop out of reach and flipped the lid up before shooting a warning look at Reed.
“If there’s a problem with Daniella or Christine that you can't handle, you’ll tell me—or my replacement.”