DARC Ops: The Complete Series

by Jamie Garrett

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered against her neck.

  “Sorry?” It almost frightened her to imagine what he’d say next, what new bit of terrible news he’d relay. Aside from her rescue, the day was only getting worse and worse.

  “I should have found you sooner,” Jasper said, shaking his head. “We knew someone was down here, because of the . . . the login fails. Was that you?”

  She nodded.

  “But I’d never imagined . . .”

  Fiona shushed him. “Stop.”

  His response was to break his thousand-yard stare, and instead focus a much softer, much more human gaze at Fiona. It was the most beautiful sight she’d seen in a long time. The most alive thing a morgue had ever contained. And it filled her with hope.

  “Jasper,” she said, smiling, “you saved me. That’s all that matters.”

  “I know, but there’s a few other things left to deal with. Including at least one more active terrorist. And then the prince . . .” He stared at the door. “We’ve gotta get moving.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m going to walk you out of here, to make sure you finally leave.”

  “You know what the funny thing is?” she said as they walked out into the hallway. “I came back looking for you.”

  Jasper held open the stairwell door. “What’s so funny about that?”

  They climbed the steps together, Jasper in the lead, his gun held in front of him and pointing low, one hand reaching back to keep her close to him. It was so nice to be out of that fucking morgue. And it wasn’t so shabby being with Jasper either—even better, being behind him, climbing up the steps while staring into his tight ass. But he was more than just a nice view. She felt so much safer just being near him. Even in a hospital stairwell he seemed well in his element, his head constantly moving, checking back on Fiona, then forward to each door as they climbed higher and higher. Each of his looks back to her made her feel safer. She wasn’t alone. Even better, she was part of a team, part of the crew. With this in mind, she made sure to stay close to him—maybe too close. When he came to a sudden stop halfway up a flight of stairs, Fiona bumped into him, into that backside of his. It was like what her old driving instructor once told her. You go where you’re looking. And she certainly went, piling into him with an “Oomf.”

  He grabbed hold of her, keeping her balanced on the step below.

  “What is it?” Fiona asked quietly.

  “Shh,” he said, looking up the stairs. “I thought I”—there was a distant popping sound—“ heard something.”

  “Is that gunfire?”

  He turned back to Fiona and told her, “Wait.” Only he’d said it coldly, like a soldier. And so she waited there while her brave Green Beret climbed up several steps, walked cautiously to the door, and then peered through the window. His body stiffened at the sound of more gunfire. It sounded closer this time.

  “Stay there,” he said again, this time the words coming out hard and tense.

  She stood on her step, gripping the rail and watching him as he brought his gun up to his chest and quietly pushed the bar lever, opening it, and stealthily slipping out.

  Her instinct was to disobey Jasper’s orders, to race up to the top of the stairs and, like a curious child, peek through the door’s window. She wanted to see her man in action, but more importantly, to know that he was safe, and to possibly help.

  How the fuck could she help?

  But she still needed to know he was safe.

  More gunfire rang out in the hall and, without thinking, she was already jogging up the steps. She looked through the vertical rectangle of glass, seeing an empty hallway. No, there was something, somebody, lying on the ground. Her heart sank as she realized that the person was dressed just like Jasper. Military boots, tactical pants, a weapon lying at his side. She heard more gunfire, but it didn’t faze her. She didn’t run from the door, or duck, or even flinch. Instead, her eyes were trained on that spot on the ground that may or may not contain Jasper—who was not moving at all.

  Please, don’t let that be Jasper.

  Despite the gunfire, she felt a growing urge to rush through the door, to enter the scene of the battle, blindly, frantically disobeying her orders. To run over to him, kneel by him, be near him. To know if it was him, and whether he was still alive.

  A shape flashed into her field of view, a figure, a man. It wasn’t Jasper, but someone wearing a nurse’s scrubs. He ran across the hallway corner, speeding toward her. She didn’t recognize his face. But it was definitely an unfriendly one. She hadn’t seen him before, and she didn’t want to see him ever again. That snarled look of pure evil, those nostrils—like a bull’s—flared, face gnashed up in a homicidal rage.

  He couldn’t have been a nurse.

  But he most certainly could have been the reason why someone who looked like Jasper was lying motionless on the ground.

  Transfixed by the unfolding action scene, Fiona kept watching as the man suddenly stopped running, as he spun around and pointed his gun away from her, down the hall, and then fired, the rounds echoing tightly. He deked to the right and got up tight against the wall, revealing what he’d just been shooting at.

  Jasper.

  Not the person on the ground, but her military hero who was—at least for now—still upright and alive. And running toward her, and toward the evil nurse. Until another exchange of gunfire, after which he had, to Fiona’s relief, ducked into one of the rooms.

  But now the nurse was heading back toward the stairwell, back toward Fiona. She froze behind the door, unable to process her options, unable to think. But she could still listen, hearing the approaching thudding horror of footsteps, and then something else. That voice that had been with her the whole afternoon, always there when she was at her lowest. Always guiding her, like now, instructing her very calmly to stay out of view through the window, and to huddle tightly against the wall.

  Fiona listened, flattening herself against the wall, waiting, hoping the door wouldn’t open. But knowing what to do if it did.

  And it did. She immediately went for the gun, slamming into him with all of her weight, lifting him off his feet and off the flat portion of the stairwell, the two of them tumbling down together in a chaotic, spinning, groaning mess of flailing limbs.

  The thudding of their bodies sounded strange, but there were two distinct sounds that made everything worthwhile: the whimpering that came after his head crashed into the edge of a step, and the metal clattering sound of the gun as it was knocked from his hand. They might both be seriously injured, but at least not by a gun. But to her amazement, the serious injury never seemed to happen. She was already halfway down, and still no part of her was broken. No bad landings. Nothing headfirst. This good fortune, however, was made possible by her opponent’s bad fortune, his cushioning of each of her bounces, his body, like a pillow, seeming to always and inexplicably come between Fiona and the concrete steps whenever her body was about to land.

  It still hurt, of course. It hurt terribly. But it was nothing she couldn’t manage. The man seemed to be managing less well. His whimpering had turned into a wail, a cry that rose and fell in volume with each thud. By the time they’d settled at the bottom of the steps, he’d gone absolutely quiet. He’d been that way for the last several bounces, his cries fading under the pure meaty thuds of his body taking all the impact. All the awful physics. It was a body that had surely been broken. It sounded broken. And now, with Fiona looking over at the mess, it looked broken. His arms and legs twisted in angles she’d never imagined possible. His head was split and bleeding, the trail of it beginning halfway down the stairs and growing larger with each step toward their ultimate jumbled mess on the floor.

  Her chest heaved for breath as she pulled herself off the concrete, inching toward the wall and resting her back against it. The gun lay up on one of the bloody steps, resting there idly, safely, pointing away from her. She checked back to the broken figure of the man, checking for any signs
of life. His chest was moving, albeit very slowly. The white of his bones broke through skin at several places. Ankles, wrist . . .

  “Fiona!”

  Jasper’s voice, and the sound of his frantic footsteps, grew louder as he hurried down the stairs toward her.

  “Don’t move,” he said, the words barely understandable through the jolting of his steps.

  But she moved. She casually pushed a leg off her waist and stood, unsteadily, but standing on her own power, the sight of which caused Jasper to slow his approach. His mouth hung open. His eyes, too. Wide. Disbelieving. Scared.

  “I’m okay,” she said. The words came out flat, emotionless. She felt similarly cold. Detached somehow from the wreckage of their fall like her personality had been knocked loose. “I got the gun,” she said, staring at it.

  “What? It’s right here.” Jasper picked it up.

  “I mean, I got it away from him.” She felt almost as numb as she had during her time in the morgue drawer.

  “Yes,” said Jasper. “You did wonderfully. Are you sure you’re okay?” He held her hand, guiding her over the still-motionless clump on the ground.

  “Yeah. Is he?”

  “Who cares.” Jasper sat her down on one of the steps, inspecting her face, looking deeply into her eyes.

  “Am I concussed?”

  He held out his index finger in front of her face. “We’ll have to monitor that.” His finger began moving across her line of sight.

  “I feel fine,” she said, watching his finger clearly and in singular vision, her eyes easily tracking the movement.

  “I’ll have to watch you tonight.” Jasper sat next to her, wrapping an arm around shoulder. “Does that hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Does it hurt anywhere at all?”

  “Not really.” She leaned into him. “I’m sore. But I’m fine.”

  In truth, she was totally fucking numb. She’d been swallowed up in a giant puffy cloud of ether, its sedatives having taken her away from herself. And thank God for it. She needed the vacation. In the last five hours, she’d experienced more trauma than she had in her entire life. She was ready for an empty nothingness now, a decompression. Maybe with Jasper by her side.

  33

  Fiona

  She woke to the sound of a cork being pulled from a bottle, a wonderful little thunk followed by glass touching glass, and then wine lapping into it. She rolled over in the king-sized memory-foam bed, her head twisting over the silk pillowcase, catching sight of a glistening, stemless wine glass, and then the bottle, and the large hand wrapped around it. And attached to that, the body. Jasper’s. Wearing nothing but a gleaming white bath sheet with its luxurious 900 thread count and its Ritz-Carlton logo half rolled and tucked against her man’s abs. A commercial if she’d ever seen one. A dream that she’d somehow woken up to.

  “Hi, Miss Fiona,” he said, clunking the bottle down on her nightstand. “Have a nice nap?”

  She did. A nice, dreamless, heavy, power nap. An escape. She yawned and peered out the window to a reddening sky. A sunset. Thank God.

  “It’s time for your bath.”

  She rose to a half-sitting position, her back leaning up against the handcrafted ornamental headboard. She looked over the room, over him, trying to convince herself that it was all real.

  Jasper handed her the wine glass. “Take a sip of this and then let’s get you ready.”

  “What time is it?”

  “I told you. Time for your bed bath.”

  Time didn’t exist in their impromptu love nest. He made sure of it, removing the clock, hiding smartphones and the TV remote. The only thing on his schedule was to satisfy whatever Fiona needed next, the next surprise, the next in her care regimen. As her nurse, he went above and beyond. She’d gone from feeling traumatized and shattered, to normal, and then now, to something else. Something . . . crazy. Was it love?

  “Or would you like a shower?” He watched her tip the glass to her mouth.

  She took a long sip. It was good, cool, and crisp, and she could feel herself, her whole body, waking up and warming with it. “Yeah,” she said, tasting her lips. “A shower sounds more fun.”

  “Whatever you need.” He pulled back the sheets slowly like a long, drawn-out revelation, looking down at her bare legs. He looked thirsty.

  “Where’s your glass?”

  He reached down, grabbing hers from her hand. He tipped it back into his mouth, the glistening wine emptying into it. “There,” he said, smacking his lips as he put down the glass. “Now come with me.”

  She grabbed hold of his hand and was swiftly lifted up and off the bed and into him, his smell, his embrace, his kiss. Then he led her across the room, their secret hideaway that Jasper had arranged immediately after leaving the hospital. He’d broken prior commitments, ignored requests for his presence near the recovering prince, his attendance at debriefing with government officials, a DARC Ops meeting. Everything was pushed aside for Fiona, the two of them sneaking out of the hospital’s parking garage and heading for the nearest hotel for some badly needed rest and relaxation.

  What would come next, she wasn’t entirely sure. Though one thing she had to do was visit a spa, not just for the further R&R but for a new haircut. She would be appearing at a press conference, to accept a reward for her bravery in taking down the last terrorist, and for her emergency services given to Matthias, the man she’d seen face down in his own blood in the corridor. Another DARC Ops man—from what Jasper had told her—though he’d shared precious little apart from that.

  Protecting her from more of the darkness of his world, she supposed.

  After the last few days, she was okay with that, for now. She had her sister’s funeral to attend in the coming days, and that was enough death to think about. Fiona couldn’t even bring herself to think any more about Dr. Wahl. Jasper had quietly told her between a shower and nap that his death wasn’t related to what happened to her. The police believed his extra-curricular activates as an Angel of Mercy had caught up with him. No one at the hospital was too sympathetic, given that information.

  Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what had become of the man lying so still just feet from her while she hid from the terrorist’s bullets.

  In the hotel’s opulent bathroom, Jasper helped her forget all about the bullets. His hard body disrobed, his hand pulling down her underwear, their naked bodies pressed up against each other, the feeling of his smooth skin on hers. His mouth at her earlobe.

  She wasn’t sure right now what their long-term future held, but their immediate future, their evening together in the shower stall and their potentially debauched night on the king-sized bed seemed very clear. There was no ambiguity regarding what lay in store for them, no uncertainty as to what they both wanted. It began with Jasper, like her personal nurse, helping her into the shower and under its warm water. Hands massaging against her scalp as he frothed the shampoo into a thick lather, some of it falling onto her shoulders and down over the peaks of her breasts, his hands moving there too, his cock hardening against her back. The water, the citrusy lather, and his body felt so good on her.

  “I want to take care of you,” he said, his low voice bouncing against the stone walls of the walk-in shower. “You’ve done such a great job of taking care of others. Now it’s your turn.”

  She said nothing, instead just turned to face him, her man, watching the way the water flattened his short hair, how it wandered down his perfectly chiseled face and off his hard chin in a single, collected stream. The stream arched off his face and landed on her body somewhere, imperceptibly blending in with the rest of the wonderful, warm water.

  Fiona pushed up on her tippy toes, pushing up against him, her hands gripping, crawling up at his smooth pecs, her head trying to get as close as possible to his, her mouth to his. Jasper met her halfway up, their kiss so deep and long that her feet gave way and slumped back down flat on the wet tile. But he moved with her, lower, staying locked, one of his h
ands wrapping around her back while the other curved under her ass, squeezing, wanting. His mouth slipped away, tasting down around her chin and along her throat as her hand lowered to grab hold of him, to stroke him.

  “Take care of me,” she whispered.

  She couldn’t stop smiling, as they stopped the water, as they stepped out of the stall and toweled off. She dried herself but was still so wet. And he was still so . . .

  “No,” she said, giggling, pushing him away with the balled-up towel. “Let me dry off.”

  Impossible.

  They made love again on the bed, this time slower and more gently, more thoroughly, climaxing together and then collapsing together and in each other’s arms, drifting off to a most wonderfully warm and sedated half sleep. It was like coming off anesthesia, only there was no heaviness. No pain. Just an afterglow from a procedure that, while being invasive and sometimes a little harsh, was exactly what she needed.

  Lying there and recuperating, she felt light and floaty, in a cloud—his cloud—his love, all of it surrounding her and protecting her. She’d been thoroughly de-stressed, exercised, and wiped clean by his work. He’d shut her brain down, and thankfully so. It was what she needed, an emptiness, a reset, and her nurse knew exactly how to deliver the care.

  And when she felt the thoughts creeping back in, the memories, the concerns, he seemed to have noticed immediately. Was it her breathing that had changed? Was it their mental connection? They’d certainly become connected on a—

  “Shh,” he whispered, placing his finger to her lips. “Stop thinking so loud.”

  She whispered through his finger, “Okay.”

  “You’ll have time for that later.”

  Fiona smiled, and then hushed him back with a louder “Shh.”

  “What? Stop talking about later?”

  She nodded. She didn’t want there to ever be a later. Just now. Always now. And always with him.

  The phone rang.

  “Fuck. How’d they get this number?” She imagined it to be one of the hundreds of reporters and government officials, a mob of distractions constantly hounding them since they’d emerged from the hospital like survivors of a train wreck.