by Zoe Dawson
Zasha had wanted something from him. Chry was certain of that.
The sound of a door clanged open, then closed. The snick of the lock made her tense. Then two guards came in dragging a man between them. They opened the door in the cell adjacent to hers.
For a moment, she didn’t recognize him. But as soon as she glimpsed the line of his beautiful jaw, she realized it was 2-Stroke.
“Neo,” she croaked, shocked at the rusty sound of her own voice.
They threw him inside and he rolled. Right now, he was clothed in only a pair of pants, but the guards threw in a shirt on top of his body. She clutched at her threadbare shirt, thankful to be clothed after being nude in the preliminary days of their captivity.
“Neo,” she tried again, louder, but he was lost as he gasped and groaned, pulling into a fetal position, shaking and wrapping his arms around himself as if he were trying to hold his essence inside. Then he went limp.
“Oh, God. What have they done to you?”
She closed her eyes, so tired, so scared. She dozed off into a fitful sleep but woke with a start at the sound of anguish. Opening her eyes, she saw him in the same position, but this time his heavenly blue eyes were a bit far away, his lids closing and opening again. Drugs. They’d given him drugs. For what purpose?
She pushed up and crawled to the bars separating them. Zasha and Darko had made a grave mistake. Together they were stronger, together they could come up with an escape plan. If Zasha thought she could break them down even more, she was stupidly wrong. Her miscalculation could be their salvation.
She extended her arm through the bars. “Neo,” she said, her voice a rasp.
He tried to focus on her, but his eyes kept rolling. Then, he moved, pushing closer. She stretched, needing to touch him, make sure she wasn’t hallucinating herself. He reached out and their fingers brushed, sending an electric shock through her system.
She’d know Neo’s energy anywhere. It crackled through her, bolstering her. He was alive. She was alive. That was all that mattered right now.
He closed his eyes, then opened them, determination in every line of his big body. He pushed and shoved himself closer until finally, he wrapped his hand around hers and it was as if she’d been thrown a lifeline.
“Chry,” he whispered. “I thought…they might have killed you.” The tenderness in his voice, deep and sure, slayed her. They had so much baggage from the past, two street kids now operating in an international arena but still at the street level. The players might change, but now there was much more at stake than just their lives. “Not yet. They want what’s in my head.” She squeezed his hand. “What do they want from you?”
“To break me. Make me renounce the brotherhood and the United States. Forgo my oaths and honor. Not going to happen.” He took a gasping breath as if he were trying to stay cognizant, hold onto his sanity. “I piss her off and this is breaking her. She’s losing it. She might just kill me next time.”
“We have to get out of here,” Chry said. She was a jumble of emotions, hanging onto him. Her attraction to him hadn’t lessened one iota. But he was practically a stranger even if she had been harboring a crush on him for going on twelve years, a situation she wasn’t even close to sorting out on such short notice.
“I know. Do you have any ideas, wildcat?” Together they moved closer to the bars until their bodies were aligned.
“Yes, I do, but we’re only going to get one shot at this.” She met his gaze, and what she saw made her feel like she was on the edge of a precipice. His thumb caressed her palm and Chry found it hard to concentrate. A deep thrill coursed through her body and settled between her legs—and he just kept caressing her. He was just as aware of her. It was evident in the smoldering blue depths of his eyes.
She felt safe with Neo, with the warmth of his body so close. It didn’t make sense, not here, not now, but she couldn’t explain it. Her instincts all those years ago had been spot on. They’d slipped back into the rhythm of their friendship like an old worn sweater. Even here in this dangerous place, she felt safer than she had in her life.
After a long silent moment, when she wondered if he’d lapsed back into unconsciousness, he brought his hand up to smooth his thumb along her jaw. They were lying as close to the bars as possible, held in place by nothing short of their fierce wills. His eyes were impossibly blue in the low light, his lashes, the same gorgeous chestnut as his hair, were thicker than any man should be allowed to possess.
The memory of the first time she realized Neo was more than a teenaged boy, an old soul wise beyond his years, flashed through her mind. Tired from her babysitting job just two blocks from her rundown home, she’d been foolish—she cut through an alley, her thoughts and attention dull. It wasn’t until she heard the low whistle that she looked up to find four boys from her school surrounding her with aggressive moves.
She’d been scared then, realizing she had broken the cardinal rule of the street. Never drop your guard. They closed in, and one of them grabbed her arm, their hands pulling at her, trying to drag her down.
Then a male voice rang against the brick walls, slicing through the pain and fear. “Let her fucking go. Now!”
They turned and gave her enough of a view of Neo standing there looking tall and predatory for his thirteen years. She’d been fascinated, absolutely captivated by the heart-stopping beautiful boy who had saved her.
She was just as captivated to this day, and he was still just as beautiful. He was the most intriguing mix of street toughness and natural elegance she’d ever encountered, possessing a raw, lean power, silky chestnut hair, blazing red one moment whenever the sun played with the strands, then a sexy milk chocolate the next. He didn’t need any weapon. He was a weapon, and the guys who had attacked her recognized something untamed in him even back then and backed off. He had drawn her to her feet and into his protective embrace, then walked her home. When they got there, he had quietly cleaned her scratches, then settled on the couch and held her for a long time. There was never a time that Neo hadn’t been confident and calm with that contained wildness just under the surface.
The doors clanged and fear speared through her. “Neo,” she gasped. “Hang on. Promise me that you will hang on.”
“I will. Whatever it takes, Chry. I promise.” She could feel the steady beat of his heart through the pulse in his wrist. The rhythm was a solid echo through her fingertips and into her awareness, and she knew he was giving her more than a sensory reminder that they were both still very much alive.
But it wasn’t him they were coming for. Her cell was unlocked, and the two guards ripped her from him and roughly walked her out of the cell. To her horror, they brought her into that room with the barrel and the water.
Zasha stood near the small dingy window. “Welcome back,” she said, her eyes cold and dead. “Now, where were we?”
The guards shoved her forward, and Chry took as big a breath as she could.
2
2-Stroke lay there after Chry was taken, not knowing if he would ever see her again. A cold sensation spread through his middle, and his insides bunched into a hard knot. Emotion threatened to swamp him. The thought of never seeing her again, of all that beauty, potential, kick-ass attitude gone… It made him feel hollow.
Then he visualized her returning, whole and hanging onto life as fiercely as he was hanging onto it. He knew all about the everyday struggle to just exist. He had used that experience to build up his ability to surge back after he was reduced down to the very bare minimum of his foundations, not only as a man, but as a human being.
He was scraping bottom and hanging on by sheer will. The drugs were unexpected, and they had dragged him kicking and screaming into the hell of his life before he’d killed his father. The constant fear, the pain, the uncertainty. All of it was rolled into a ball he thought he had expelled a long time ago. But monsters were called monsters for a reason.
He wasn’t a kid anymore. He was a man…a SEAL, and that was fu
cking everything. He was committed one hundred percent to performing his duty. One hundred percent wasn’t fifty or even ninety-eight percent. One hundred was one hundred. Any less would be off mission, any less would be a failure, and SEALs didn’t fail. They won every fucking time. He could do no less because that’s what he decided he wanted in life.
He might be here in this cell, and his enemy might have control of what happened to his body, but they could never control his thoughts. He would always be the master of his mind.
He’d proved that to himself in BUD/S, and every SEAL in that class had been broken down to the basics. Survive. He intended to do that. And what was more, he intended to take Chry with him.
Zasha was unpredictable, mentally unstable, and a fucking sadistic beast.
What she wanted was their surrender, their mental surrender. That was what was behind her wanting Chry to give up the codes and him to renounce the US. His resistance was important and part of what made him a warrior, but denouncing the brotherhood? Unthinkable, impossible, never going to happen. He might as well cut off a limb. The brotherhood wasn’t what they were…it was who they were. Denying their bond was the same as turning his back on them, severing an unspoken and sacred oath. She didn’t understand what made the bond they had all formed during BUD/s so strong, and she never would. It made them all unbreakable.
2-Stroke had failed every time at quitting. Whether it was before BUD/S or after. Quitting was never an option.
Chry was cut from the same cloth, had different experiences, but she also sucked at quitting which was why she would win over and over. “Hang on, babe. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere without you. Just, hang on,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. He visualized her face, her determination—her—and kept breathing, kept resisting every avenue his mind kept traveling.
He would go down swinging, never out of the fight until he was permanently out. And, if he could, he would come back and haunt the hell out of that crazy bitch.
Chry was doing everything she could to hang on. She was fighting her fear, fighting for her very integrity. She’d taken a vow, pledged herself to Uncle Sam. If she crumbled at the first test of that resolve, who was she? Zasha wouldn’t have the upper hand in destroying Chry. Even if she died here under the water where they held her, her air spent, her lungs giving out, the breath she’d taken her last, she would die for what she believed in.
When her body relaxed, no more air to feed her brain, the man yanked her out of the barrel, but the bastard who held her barely gave her enough time to fill her lungs before he plunged her back in. Chry caught just a glimpse of Zasha’s face and her now animated eyes. She was enjoying this.
Of course, she would. Zasha was driven by revenge, anger, and loss so deep she was nothing but a black hole inside. The need for it had devoured everything else until all she ate, slept, and breathed was vengeance.
The man pushed her torso so hard against the barrel, it impeded her ability to breathe. After a minute she started to struggle, her head feeling light and airy as if she were floating. After another thirty seconds, she fought to exhale. She could only hope she would blackout before she drowned.
Breathe. There was no more air to accomplish something so simple. Her heartbeat resonated in her ears. It was all she could hear beyond the strain of holding her breath. In this place where they took away everything that made her human, she prepared to die.
The man yanked her out again and she collapsed to the floor. She lay there shivering, the voices above her nothing but angry scattered words.
Zasha knelt beside her. “You are stubborn. I’m offering you a way to get out of more torture and you refuse to answer one question.” She smiled like they were best pals. Chry always had an inkling that Kelly Sparks wasn’t the woman she pretended to be. Maybe it was her experience on the street, but there had always been a detached disingenuity to her interactions with people.
Sweat pooled at the base of her spine, at her temples. The clamminess of her skin reeked of fear. She had no advantage here, but she pushed herself up to a sitting position, her back against the barrel.
Answering that one question would lead her down the road to treason. Betraying her country was not a game of quick, easy steps. “F-u-c-k y-o-u!” Chry managed between gasping breaths of air.
Zasha’s face contorted and she backhanded Chry so hard her head slammed against the wooden barrel and she dropped to the floor. Dazed, she lay there absorbing the pain exploding in her face.
“You will tell me those codes, or I think we’re close to the end of your journey.”
The not so veiled threat was supposed to invoke fear, terror. Chry refused to give her anything. She remained on the floor, taking in gulping, rasping breaths.
“Oh, take her back to her cell.”
Zasha’s thug forced her to her feet, and on rubbery legs, she was dragged back to her cell. Frantically she looked for 2-Stroke, but the cell was empty. Were they taking another crack at him or had they separated them again? Hopes of getting out of here slipped through her fingers as they tossed her back into her cell. She went to the corner and curled into a ball of shivering pain and desperation.
She had to face the facts. Zasha was never going to ransom them or use them for bargaining chips. This was all about her personal vendetta. Chry took a rough breath and clamped down on her resolve. Next time they were together, they had to make a break for it.
It was either escape or death for them.
Saint stood toe to toe with Quell. Had he miscalculated, and she was on his enemy’s side? He was about to find out. It seemed Quell was as much an enigma in person as she was in cyberspace. He might not know her real name, but he did know she was more than beautiful, in a complex mixture of mind, body, attitude, and heart. Her dark hair was loose and long, flowing over her shoulders, some of it caught in his fists. With that delicate nose that gave her face an impish look, her eyes wide with a slight tilt, thickly lashed, she looked familiar in a way he couldn’t quite place.
He’d gone a long time without a real woman, kissing and more, a very long time, and he had no business thinking about kissing her here. But there it was in his head, his gaze drifting to her lips, a hot longing curling deep in his gut.
Only a real woman could have generated that feeling. But then it was difficult to meet those women on his job. But here she was, pressed up against him, turning him on, even with the gun snug against his heart. It only made it all that much…riskier.
Maybe he was a little twisted. Okay, maybe a lot. But suddenly it didn’t matter if he lived or died right here. Only that they got what they needed out of her.
“I told you. We want information.” He narrowed his eyes.
“Is that all?” she asked, leaning closer to him, and her question was jumbled up with his thoughts. Was a kiss all he wanted…
“No.” Not by a long shot, but she was taking it all away with her aggressive stance. “When we’re done, we will have justice.”
He was supposed to be thinking on his feet, but he couldn’t seem to find solid ground with her. That’s when it always paid to have brothers.
A man’s steely voice came out of the darkness. “I’m only going to tell you this once. Put down your weapon.”
Her eyes widened as his teammates stormed into the room. When she felt the automatic rifle in her back, she pulled the gun free, and with a sigh, dropped it to the ground. Saint released her and kicked it away without losing eye contact with her.
Her eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“US Navy SEALs.”
“Oh damn,” one of the men in the background said.
She laughed softly. “I knew it.”
“Did you?”
“You were too coiled and on edge to be some kind of thug.”
“No, I’ll leave that to you, Quell. What is your real name?”
“Special Agent Aella Mikos, ATF.” She pronounced it Ay-la
After loading back into the SUVs and heading to the safe
house, they checked the three alleged Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives agents with TOC. Come to find out, Aella and her two male sidekicks were legit ATF agents, according to Anna. They were currently yelling at each other over the conference table.
There was a high-pitched whistle, and everyone’s attention went to the front of the room, conversation halting mid-tirade.
“All right!” Anna yelled. “We all have the same goal here. What are we arguing about?”
“I’ve been undercover for three months. Darko murdered five ATF agents during a gun smuggling takedown. He’s going to answer for those deaths!” Aella said, her face set and determined.
Anna took a breath when it looked like Fast Lane was going to blow. She set her hand on his arm. “We understand what you must be going through, but right now, Darko is holding and torturing two of our people. They are very much alive. If we don’t get to them soon, there will be no rescue, just recovery, and that’s if we can find their remains.”
Aella looked at her two fellow agents and they nodded their heads. “I see. Your reasons overshadow ours. How can we help?”
“Can you tell me what your plan was to find Darko?”
“We found out that he can’t resist going to cage matches in person. He does watch them on video, but he wants to hear the screams, feel the adrenaline, and afterward…touch the women who win.”
“Touch?” Saint asked, sitting up in his seat. His immediate thought was that Darko wouldn’t lay a hand on her, then realized that was jacked up. She would have to continue with the cage fighting to get close to Darko.
“Yeah…touch,” Aella said, her eyes looking smudged in the bright lights from being outlined in dark kohl. “He wines and dines them, then takes them to his special hideout for some horizontal time. We figure it’s a good possibility that it will be near or at the place where he keeps his arsenal to sell to the highest bidder. When he’s done with the girl, he returns her back to the match to fight again. If she wins, she gets more alone time with Darko. I planned to win all my matches until I catch his eye, then we would close the trap.”