by Amy Lane
Hamblin grimaced. “Done.” He paused. “But Lacey needs to be dead by the end of the op. And I can’t control his men.”
From outside came the sounds of battlefield chaos—men shouting, shots fired, and a really fucking big piece of machinery kathunking against the ground. Hamblin’s look of confusion was a genuine treat.
“I can’t control my men either,” Burton said, grim humor dripping from his voice. “That explosion was not my idea!”
Hamblin’s mouth twisted, and for a moment they were sane allies in a sea of crazy. Burton wasn’t sure whether to hate himself for that moment or not—it took him years to decide.
But by then he’d blinked first.
“Stay alive,” Hamblin warned darkly. “Kill that asshole. Me and my men will be out of your hair and off your territory for a good long time. You’ve got other things to do.”
A particularly loud thunk from whatever machinery was going haywire made them both grimace, and Burton lowered his gun. He’d been heading for the back way out, which was where he’d directed Rivers to take Ace and Cramer, and Hamblin had obviously been heading toward the front.
With short, sharp nods, they both took off in their intended directions at a run.
Lacey’s men were milling about without direction—Burton heard a lot of shouted questions and no single answer, and not one of them thought to maybe go investigate the explosion on the west end of the base.
As Burton passed between the admin building and a barracks, he could see Hamblin’s men gathering in a well-ordered group and Hamblin addressing them. Hamblin’s voice rang out and groups of men would break off, heading for the parking lot for probably their personal vehicles and a regroup wherever the plane in the hangar landed.
There were two hangars—a big one, where Hamblin’s Cessna sat, along with a Jayhawk and a crippled Black Hawk parked out front, and a long, low one where smaller planes used to be stashed for personal use but now was used to house a few Jeeps and a lot of munitions. Burton entered through the open front of the long garage-style hangar and then moved, staying along the back wall, hiding behind the crates and land vehicles that were stored in the place now. He was nearing the far corner when a short burst of shots rang out.
The place he was using for cover was old and in disrepair, and he found a spot where the aluminum had separated from the four-by-four that held it up. He peered through the space in the building just in time to see Ellery Cramer, weapon pointed at the thin aluminum of the big hangar, staring at a cluster of holes he’d just shot through the siding while Jackson tried to get him to move.
Before he could call to get down, three shots rang out from the hangar itself, and Cramer flew back, gun falling from his fingers, and Rivers fell on top of him, a second too late in trying to save Cramer from his inexperience—and himself.
Oh God. Burton stared, stunned, unsure of himself for the first time he could remember since boot camp. Since high school.
If it had been Ernie, his heart would have stopped.
If he’d just rolled off Ernie’s bloodied body, had just checked Ernie for a pulse and come back with bloody hands, he would have died. Ernie’s still out there. Oh God, Ernie’s still out there. And then, while Burton swallowed his heart and tried to form a plan, Jackson Rivers did what Burton wasn’t sure he’d have been able to.
He rolled over to his back and fired his clip into the hangar, opening up a grapefruit-sized hole where individual bullet puncture wounds had peeked.
He called out for Lacey once, twice, and then ran to the hangar and checked.
Burton was waiting for the short, quick nod, the one that indicated his work was done, and then Jackson Rivers went back to the only thing that mattered.
The man bleeding on the ground in front of him.
Burton forced the aluminum out farther and pointed his gun, searching the area for enemies, covering Jackson while he and Ellery were helpless, much like he’d spent the past few months covering them by taking their surveillance.
He heard the mechanical thunk again, and looked toward the open area in front of the hangars, his eyebrows going up when he saw the Black Hawk performing a deadly dance as it spun around, hindered by the broken propeller Lacey had been bitching about for weeks.
Someone had rigged the thing to go, and just when Burton was admiring the initiative, he realized that Ace was in that helicopter, gun pointed out the side bay, as Sonny worked the controls on the inside.
Oh wow.
Go, Sonny Daye—Burton was reluctantly impressed. He was just about to drop his gun and go to help Jackson when he saw a wiry thin figure, snazzily dressed in a pinstripe suit and shiny black shoes, heading out from the other side of the hangar Lacey had just died in.
Burton stayed out of sight, gun trained on Hamblin as he spoke to Jackson.
Hamblin—right there in his sights.
Lacey was dead, as offered, and Hamblin was right there, and there were no rules in the combat handbook about letting a mercenary king live.
“My plane is intact,” Hamblin told Rivers, “and I’d like you to let me and my men leave.”
Even from his position, Burton could see Rivers’s confusion. “My gun is empty. What in the fuck—”
“Your friends—they will back off?” Ace and Sonny shouted from the Black Hawk, and Hamblin rolled his eyes. “They can fix the rogue helicopter—as entertaining as it’s been. You order them down, and I’ll take the Cessna and my six decent men and leave.”
“Why should I do that?” Burton could hear Jackson’s desperation, and his heart ached. But…. But Hamblin.
“Because if you know someone who can fly, I can let you have the Jayhawk,” Hamblin said, unmoved by the man bleeding at Rivers’s back. “Provided your men haven’t sabotaged it, of course. And I’ve already promised to send files of Lacey’s… assets.”
Rivers caught his breath and then showed Burton what a true soldier is made of. “The psychopaths—”
“Yes—and their intended targets. This is your call, Mr. Rivers. Lacey was not a good soldier—he was easy to kill and foolish to shoot blind. I am a good soldier—and my men are well trained.”
“They are,” Jackson said, making Burton wonder who he’d faced. “Give me the keys. I’ll call to my men.”
Hamblin half laughed and Burton wanted to cry. “Oh dear God. Who are you?”
“I’m nobody. What’s your fucking problem?”
“Helicopters don’t have keys. All you need is a pilot—and not to get shot when you’re trying to get in it. Now what’s it going to be, young man?”
“Sonny!” Jackson screamed at the top of his lungs. “Ace! Stand down!”
Hamblin held a walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Corduroy!” he barked. “Stand down!”
Abruptly the shots, the shouting, the chaos that had filled the air around them ceased, and Burton heard the resignation in Jackson’s voice. But still, he had to ask.
“Rivers? Status!”
“Ellery’s down!” Rivers shouted back. “He’s injured but still breathing. Lacey’s dead. I’ve got an offer of a helicopter and jackets on Lacey’s trained killers if we just let Hamblin the fuck out of here. I’m taking it!”
“Fucking Jesus,” Burton swore. “Hamblin, I could kill you from here!”
“Oscar, is that you?” There was a certain disappointment in Hamblin’s voice. “Oh dear. I find myself owing this young man instead of you.”
“Turns out he and I want the same things. I’d say choose your men better,” Burton snapped, “but—”
“But you’re the best of them. And now I know why. Your friend here is right. Standing down is your best option. I like you, Oscar, but I won’t hesitate to kill him as he sits. You know that.”
“Fuck.”
And then Rivers gave Burton a reason to let him go. “Sonny’s friend is here!” he called. “He’s safe now!”
Oh God. Sonny’s friend. Ernie. “But not for long. I hear you. Go, Hamblin—but don’t count
on the US military to just let this go. This is a mercenary flag on American soil. It might not be me, but—”
“But we will all live to fight another day!” Hamblin called back. “I understand. I was offered assets—that was all. The rest of this—the flag, the base, all of it—delusions, you understand? A dead man who wanted to make the world in his image. All petty demagogues are like that.” He gave a razor-thin smile. “I should know. I’ve killed plenty. Good luck with your man there, Nobody. You should be proud. You toppled a minor king.”
He didn’t even know who Jackson Rivers was. For some reason that seemed to Burton to be the gravest injustice, but Burton wasn’t going to do anything about it now.
Hamblin turned then and walked unhurriedly toward the front of the hangar, and Burton rushed to Rivers’s side.
“Ellery?” Jackson said quietly, turning to see him. “Ellery, you with us?”
“Fucking. Ouch,” Cramer mumbled, lips thick with blood. “What in the hell?”
From the corner of his eye, Burton could see Ace advancing, and he ran to intercept. “Is the Black Hawk controlled?” he asked tersely.
“Yessir—want me to get a backboard?”
“And any supplies you can find.”
Ace nodded and jerked his chin to the road behind the hangar Burton had just run from. “Jai and Ernie are right there, in case you were interested.”
Burton felt like he was moving in slow motion as he turned his head. Sure enough, Ernie and Jai sat in a… well, a semitorched SUV, Lacey’s gangly, hapless medic getting in the back seat as Burton watched. Ernie’s hair looked… crisp, and even from this distance, he could see scorch marks on Jai’s clothes. Oh God. They were singed, but… oh hell.
Alive.
“What the hell is Saunders doing over there?” Burton asked, his voice cracking. That’s not what he wanted to know at all.
“I think Rivers saved him,” Ace said, a tinge of admiration in his voice. “Everything I can see, the boy’s a hero.”
“Well, let’s save his man,” Burton told him and then rushed back to Rivers’s side. “Rivers!” Burton snapped, his voice like a slap to the face. “Move! Ace and I got a backboard—we’re gonna get him to the Jayhawk, you understand?”
Rivers nodded dumbly, and Burton and Ace secured Cramer. When Rivers did speak, it was pure practicality. “Is that the Jayhawk warming up?” he asked.
“I can fly it,” Burton said, kneeling by Cramer’s head while he belted Cramer to the board. “Just pull your shit together and follow us.” Ten minutes. The copter would get them to help in ten minutes, when the SUV would take them an hour. Half an hour if Ace drove. Judging by Cramer’s ragged breaths and the extent of his bleeding, Jackson had just negotiated to save his lover’s life.
And Hamblin had let him.
Burton couldn’t hate the guy—neither of them.
“Saunders is a medic,” Rivers mumbled, and Burton didn’t have the heart to tell him that he wasn’t much of one.
“So I fly, you and Saunders come with, everyone else meets us there. Let’s hurry—your guy’s breathing, but he’s gonna need a little help. Rivers, you and Ace get the board to the copter—it’ll be a squeeze, but you can make it fit. I’ll go get the medic. We got shit to do.”
Burton trotted across the field, hoping Ace and Rivers could get Cramer secure—Jayhawks weren’t known to be roomy. Part of him figured Sonny would help them, and Sonny could jury-rig anything that didn’t work on its own—but most of him was focused on the SUV.
“Saunders!” he called, getting the guy’s attention through the open window. “Go help the guy in the copter.”
Saunders looked at him in confusion. “But…. Oscar? Don’t you work for Lacey?”
“No,” Burton said, holding on to his patience. “I work for the actual fucking military. Now go help the guy bleeding, and I’ll see what I can do about getting you out of a court martial.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Saunders wailed—but he was getting out of the vehicle and heading toward the copters, so Burton let it slide.
Ernie was staring at him through the open window with ginormous limpid eyes, and Burton…. God, for this one moment he wasn’t a soldier or an operative or an assassin.
He was a guy damned glad to see his lover alive.
“Burton?” Ernie said softly. “Lee?”
“Get out of the car for a minute,” Burton said, voice shaking. “I gotta hold you. Just for a minute, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” Ernie messed with the latch and the door swung out, the rattle of broken glass echoing from inside the panel. Oh. That explained why the windows were all open. Jesus God.
Burton stared at him for a moment, swallowing hard before raising his hand to Ernie’s crispy, wild hair.
“There was a big ball of flame,” Ernie said apologetically. “I was driving as fast as I could, but Jai didn’t get the back hatch closed and some of it got inside. I think Jai needs bandages on his hands, but he said he’s got stuff at home—”
“Shut up,” Burton whispered, cupping both his boy’s cheeks. “God, Ernie. Please. Don’t… don’t ever scare me like that again. My heart stopped. My fucking heart stopped, do you know that? The explosion happened, and… and I thought you were dead and I wanted to go with you. I almost… I almost killed all the fuckin’ things, do you get that? ’Cause if you weren’t there on the planet, there wasn’t any reason to hold back.”
Ernie gazed at him, mouth slightly open, black smudges on his cheeks and nose. “Have faith, Cruller,” he said, voice low and sweet. “I’ve loved you when all I knew about you was thunder on the horizon. Now that I know you, I love you even more.”
Burton nodded, closing his eyes against the worry, the fear, and he groaned, pulling Ernie tight into his arms.
“Burton!” Ace called, trotting back from the copters. “You gotta get a move on—he’s not doing so hot!”
Burton pulled away reluctantly and placed a gentle kiss on Ernie’s forehead. “See you at home,” he said.
“We’re going to the hospital to be with Rivers,” Ace told him as he headed for the driver’s seat. “He needs someone—Cramer goes south and he’s gonna fuckin’ lose his shit.”
“See you at the hospital,” he said softly.
Ernie grinned. “You can tell me more about how I keep you from killing all the fuckin’ things,” he said happily. “That’s pretty damned romantic, don’t you think, Ace?”
“It’s damned near flowers and chocolate,” Ace said, and Burton didn’t hear the rest because he was heading for the Jayhawk, pulling his phone out to talk to Jason as he went.
Places You Can’t Go
ERNIE STARED at Jackson Rivers in dismay as he crouched on the floor of the bathroom, bleeding from a really nasty series of cuts on his hand.
They’d gone back to Walmart so Jai could drive Ace’s SHO back to the garage and Ace and Sonny could pick up some food and clothes for Rivers. By the time they’d gotten to the hospital, Cramer was in surgery and Rivers was….
Well, Rivers was losing his shit. As he told them, his voice wrecked, that hospitals were a weight pushing on his chest, stopping his breath, Ernie had a sudden real and terrible fear.
Rivers couldn’t be fixed.
Ernie had always thought he had his gift for a reason. His gift had given him Rivers and Cramer, but Cramer was in surgery and Rivers was…
Broken.
He wished suddenly, fiercely, for Burton, but apparently Burton had to take the medic guy back to his superior and wrap up all the loose ends in the world, and the one thing—the one thing—Ernie thought he could do, well, Rivers wasn’t letting him do.
“I’ve got it,” Rivers mumbled, standing up and cleaning his hand. Ace and Sonny and Ernie dogged his heels as he stumbled into the waiting room, and Ernie heard the nurse there tell him where the chapel was—and threaten to put him in the psych ward, and promise to call up a stitching station so she could tend his hand.
; Ace, Sonny, and Ernie were left staring at each other and guarding the big bag of takeout Ace had bought on the way there.
The oppression in Ernie’s head wouldn’t go away. He was a heartbeat away from curling up and sobbing, his head hurt so bad, when suddenly there was a pop! Like when people went up too high on a mountain or an airplane.
It was like pressure being released, and Ernie almost cried again—but this time from relief.
“What?” Ace asked him, watching his expression change with perception.
“He’s… crying. Praying. Something. I thought his head was going to pop open, but he’s… I don’t know. Trusted something.”
“I’m sorry,” said a female voice from the door. “I’m looking for Jackson Rivers—he’s here for my son, Ellery Cramer?”
Ernie looked up and saw… well, a goddess, really. Brown eyes crackling with intelligence and a long face with a bold nose and chin, this woman had the bearing of a queen and an expression of high expectation.
Ace stood up to go greet her, and Sonny hid behind Ace’s shoulder.
“Mrs. Cramer?” Ace asked, surprising Ernie.
“Yes, sir? You know me?”
“I… I know your son. He’s still in surgery, ma’am, I’m sorry. We don’t have any news.”
Mrs. Cramer nodded regally. Her hair was scraped back into a severe ponytail, and only the gray roots at the base told Ernie she was older than thirty-five. “And Mr. Rivers? My son’s associate?”
“Jackson’s in the chapel,” Ernie said, drawn to this woman forcefully. It wasn’t just that her presence was magnetic—he missed his own parents so badly sometimes. This woman had an air about her—sort of like she could be everybody’s mother if only the world would move to her bidding.
“The chapel?” And the surprise in her voice indicated she really did know Jackson Rivers.
“Yeah—the pressure released, so he must have figured out what to do there.”