Zero Hour

by Megan Erickson

  And this…this was when Wren went off script. Marisol had the files secure in her pocket. She’d make it back to the crew okay. But Wren? Wren had a mission of her own to complete. Of course, she hadn’t told anyone because Roarke would have shut it the fuck down. Actually, so would Erick. And Marisol. And Jock.

  Even Dade would have tsked her and told her it wasn’t the time. She was aware of that, but it didn’t change the fact that she was going to be really fucking selfish right now. Darren was passed out with his phone in his pocket, and Wren wasn’t letting that go without copying the SM card. And doing a little digging of her own.

  Once Marisol was out of sight, Wren dipped her chin so her lips were as close to the mic as possible. “Sorry boys, got some things to do. I’ll catch you back at HQ.” Then she turned off her camera.

  * * *

  Roarke blinked at the dark screen a couple of times while the van erupted around him. Even Jock stood up so fast that he slammed his head on the roof of the van. Erick was banging on the screen, chanting “motherfucker” over and over again, like the video feed would come back to life if he smacked it enough.

  Roark slowly rotated in his chair to see Dade watching him steadily, those eerie slate gray eyes all-knowing. He pulled the pen he was chewing out of his mouth. “She’s good, but this is stupid. And worse, I think she knows it and is doing it anyway.”

  Roarke closed his eyes slowly and pressed his headphones into his ears, muffling the sound around him. He had no idea why Wren was doing this, where she was, what she was doing, if she was safe. Nothing.

  Just silence and a black screen.

  This was worse than when she’d been with Darren on his date, way worse. He’d at least been able to hear her, and she hadn’t gone fucking rogue.

  Jock was back in his seat before Roarke could tell him what to do, and in seconds, the screens were back on, the security cameras showing real time. In the corner of one of the hallway camera frames, Roarke spotted Wren slipping back into the room where she’d been with Darren.

  Roarke tossed his headphones on the table in front of him and rounded on Dade. “Why?”

  Dade was quiet for a moment, rolling the pen between his teeth. “She’s got a mission of her own against Darren. You think he just happened to notice her in a crowd full of hot chicks? I mean, Wren is bangable as fuck—”

  Both Erick and Roarke growled.

  Dade rolled his eyes and kept going. “But it’s a little coincidental Darren picked her out of everyone, right? She played hard to get, but trust me, she wanted this to happen. She’s using you as much as you’re using her.”

  Roarke surged forward, aiming for Dade’s neck, but Jock held him back with a biceps the size of a tree. “Settle the fuck down,” he snarled.

  Roarke was amped up, his nerves tingling, ready to fight, punch, kick, anything. This wasn’t how he acted during missions, but this one wasn’t like any other. It involved every goddamn thing that was personal to him. His cool demeanor was shot through with flaming arrows. “Explain this shit to me, Kelly.”

  Dade shook his head. “Wren can tell you. I don’t run my mouth about other people’s business. Right now, I’m sure she’s copying his entire phone, and she’ll be on her way like you all planned. As long as this little setback doesn’t throw timing off.”

  Why did he seem so unconcerned? Roarke flared his nostrils, inhaling as much oxygen as he could, hoping it settled his blood. He was reacting emotionally, a feeling that didn’t sit well in his gut, but he couldn’t ignore it. He could, however, still think smart.

  Erick leaped up. “I can go in. I rode her bike here and hid it outside the gates for her, so we have a quick getaway.”

  Roarke studied Erick’s flushed face. Gone was his calculated friend. Erick was riding on a knife’s edge of panic, his hands shaking so badly that he shoved them in his pockets when he caught Roarke looking at them. Roarke shook his head. “I don’t think so—”

  “So we’re just going to wait to see what happens?” Erick was red-faced and sputtering. “Darren is going to wake up, and when he does, Wren needs to be out of there. Don’t you care?”

  Roarke steadily met Erick’s gaze with a level glare. “Don’t question how much I care about Wren. Do. Not.”

  Roarke’s tone must have penetrated Erick’s hysteria because his expression fell and he slumped back into his chair, letting his head fall into his hands. “Then what are we going to do?”

  Roarke stared at the empty hallway on the screen. He closed his eyes, imagining Wren in that mansion full of rich snakes who had enough money to make her disappear forever. She might have thought she knew what she was doing, but he’d be damned if he left her there alone.

  He trusted every person on his team, but he trusted himself the most. Roarke grabbed his coat and slipped it on. “Get the van back to HQ. I’m going in myself.”

  Erick’s face paled, and Dade made a snorting sound. “So you’re going to rush in like fucking John McClane and likely get her killed?”

  Roarke ignored the jab. “John McClane liked guns more than me,” he said, opening up the back of the van and hopping out. “He liked ethics more, too. See you, fellas.” He smacked the van on the back panel and darted into the hedges lining the street.

  As Roarke weaved his way among bushes and weird topiaries, he shook his head. Rich people loved their landscaping, and he appreciated the multitude of shadows to conceal his lanky frame.

  He’d scouted this wall several times, knowing there was a blind spot on the security cameras to the far right. Once he was there, he pulled a pair of small climbing suction cups out of his book bag. They soundlessly aided him over the wall, and he fell to a silent crouch on the other side. He was inside, the soles of his boots sinking into plush sod that probably cost more than most people’s salaries.

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and pulled up the program he’d developed to give him access to the gated community’s security system. The company used security cameras only at various points along the walls surrounding the homes, aimed toward each yard. He’d already recorded hours upon hours of night footage for each camera to loop on a feed should he need to enter the gates. With a few quick taps of his thumbs, he engaged the system to run his prerecorded footage so he could pass undetected. He hadn’t done that outside the walls, as the guards monitoring the cameras would notice more quickly if the same cars kept passing into the frame. But here? Where there was no activity but a few squirrels? No problem.

  Just like when he’d slipped Wren the earrings, he’d come prepared for this night. Not that he didn’t think Wren could handle it. If Roarke had learned one thing over all the years he’d been 6192, it was to be prepared for everything and anything. Every backup plan needed a backup plan. And that backup plan needed a backup plan.

  Once his system was running to hide his presence, he ran as swiftly as he could, crouched, toward the Saltner house. The small Glock in his boot holster dug into his ankle. He rarely carried a gun. In fact, he fucking hated guns. But sometimes in his profession, they were necessary. So he kept himself armed and hoped like hell he didn’t have to use it.

  The Saltner house loomed ahead, lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree. He could see figures in the floor-to-ceiling windows of what must be the ballroom, which took up the whole back of the house. His eyes immediately scanned for a red dress, even though he doubted Wren was in there. She was busy doing shit they hadn’t agreed on. How the fuck was he supposed to help keep her safe if she went off-script? She’d had plenty of times to explain her own personal agenda against Darren or the Saltners. Had she not trusted him? Was this whole thing between them a distraction she’d planned?

  He had to shut this anger off, stuff it down. Now was not the time to let it overtake him. The number one goal was her safety, and secondary was the success of this mission. A very, very distant third was his feelings over her decision to hide something from him.

  He stood behind a large maple tree with a trunk
as thick as his body and weighed his options. He couldn’t go storming in there like some vigilante. They’d probably shoot him, and he’d blow everything. But knowing Wren was in there right now, possibly in danger, was making him ill. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, hands clenched at his sides. He pulled a ball cap out of his back pocket, pulled it low over his eyes, and was about to call Jock when he got an incoming text. All it said was the word tracker along with a link.

  He opened it and a blueprint of the Saltner house unrolled on his screen. And there, in a side room on the first floor, was a red blinking dot. Jock must have put a tracker on Wren.

  Roarke smiled. “Gotcha.”

  He kept to the shadows as he rounded the house, creeping closer to that red dot—and Wren. Why was she in that area of the house? Darren was on the second floor so if her only mission was to copy his phone, why would she be in a small room on the first floor?

  He stopped once he was within ten feet of the room and crouched behind a hedge. Saltner had his own video security for his house, but Roarke didn’t want to take the time to deal with the outside cameras, not while Wren was so close. Alarm bells in his brain told him to get her safe now. In the back of his mind, he knew this was dangerous, that he should take his time, but this was what Wren did to him. She made him take risks.

  He glanced around for security cameras, and made a cursory glance at Jock’s diagram. This seemed to be a dead spot, so he should be okay. With a deep breath, he made a dash from the safety of the shrubbery to the wall of the house and flattened himself against it, turning his head to listen. He was beneath the window, and when he strained his ears, he could distinctly hear voices. Plural.

  A man’s voice, so low that it was muffled but still detectable through the thin glass of the window.

  Then a higher-pitched voice. Wren. He’d know her cadence anywhere.

  He heard no other voices, just those two, and his heart began to thump in his throat at a rapid, parading beat, threatening to choke him.

  Wren’s voice grew louder, and he could pick out words here and there. “Wasn’t feeling…well…Resting…driver…me home.”

  The male voice again, this time tinged with…Roarke’s blood boiled. This guy was trying to pick her up. And from the sounds of it, Wren wasn’t free to leave. Her voice was more insistent now. Irritated.

  Roarke crouched and slid under the window. From there he checked his phone again. She was against the far wall, so most likely the guy had her cornered. He held his phone up and angled it so it would show what was going on inside the room, and he took a quick picture. When he checked the picture, sure enough, the man’s back was facing the window.

  Roarke lifted his head inch by inch until he could see inside.

  Wren stood with her back against the far wall. Roarke could barely see her because most of her body was blocked by some suit with slicked-back hair. He had one hand propped on the wall by her head, the other casually stroking her arm.

  Roarke took a chance and flashed the light on his camera. Wren’s eyes darted toward the window before she looked away quickly to cover up. The man kept talking, oblivious to what was going on as Wren slowly lifted her gaze again and met Roarke’s.

  She shook her head, just a slight jerk, before once again focusing on the man in front of her. She held up one finger at her side, close to her body. And Roarke sat tight. He knew Wren wanted him to trust her to get out of this situation, and while he trusted her abilities, he didn’t trust her judgment, not with this off-script stunt.

  “…Hard to get…,” the man said. And he gripped her neck and went in for a kiss.

  Roarke saw red. He grabbed a rock on the ground, intent on breaking the damn window—detection be damned—when the man dropped to the floor with a thud, holding his hand between his legs. He shouted, “Bitch!” as Wren leaped over him, her dress billowing around her as she sprinted to the window. She unlocked the window and threw up the sash. “Get me the fuck out of here,” she growled as she threw a leg over the windowsill and slid out.

  Roarke caught 110 pounds of satin and crystals and a warm, whole Wren. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, hold her close, and breathe her in, but there wasn’t time. He closed the window with a bang and grabbed her hand before sprinting off into the shadows.

  Wren kept up surprisingly well in her heels. Her hand clutched his like he was her lifeline, and no fucking way was he letting her go. Any second, he expected to hear sirens, wondering if that man saw him or just thought Wren was some crazy woman who kicked men in the nuts and leaped through windows when threatened. Darren had been due to wake up minutes ago, and Roarke was sure he’d call the police, depending on how well Wren had covered her tracks. As of now, she was his date who went home after he passed out. Whether he believed that was another story.

  She panted along beside him, and he swore their breathing was so loud that they’d clue everyone in to where they were.

  They ran the entire way to the wall of the gated community. He pulled out suction cups from his backpack and handed them to her. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from asking her what the hell she’d been doing.

  A bit of guilt flashed in those brown eyes before she scaled the wall and threw the suction cups back down to him.

  Once he dropped down on the other side, she whispered, “Where’s the van?”

  He shoved everything back into his backpack and grabbed her hand again, leading her to a shadowed yard. “It’s gone.”

  “Gone? Are we walk—”

  He pulled her bike out from behind a white pine in the yard of a nearby house. “No, we aren’t fucking walking. Now get on so we can get the fuck out of here.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and she turned a glare on him just as they heard sirens. “Fuck,” he whispered, hopping on the bike and starting it up. Wren grabbed the helmet he handed her, gathered her skirt, and hopped astride the bike. As soon as she wrapped her arms around him, Roarke sped off down a side street, narrowly avoiding the police cars.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Wren’s bike vibrated between her thighs as she clung to Roarke’s chest. She curled her fingers into the worn leather of his jacket as the cold zipper rasped along her palms.

  She’d underestimated Roarke. She never thought he’d hunt her down at the Saltner estate. And everything would have been fine if Franklin hadn’t cornered her when she was almost out the door.

  She might have done irreparable damage to her cover, but she wasn’t about to go along with whatever Franklin wanted, not while Darren was minutes away from coming to. She’d texted him to let him know she wasn’t feeling well and left, and made a chastising comment about him drinking too much.

  She’d tried not to be terrified when Franklin had her back against the wall. She had some self-defense skills, but the smell of whiskey on his breath and the press of his body against hers had sent her nerves into overdrive.

  Roarke had come for her. He was furious, evidenced by the tight clench of his jaw and his slightly reckless driving of her bike. But he’d still come for her.

  She thought they’d go to HQ, but Roarke wasn’t driving in that direction. Instead, he turned down a side alley and coasted the bike onto a small concrete pad next to his Mustang. Were they at his place? He turned off the bike and twisted at the waist, jerking his thumb to tell her to get off. She swung her leg over and pulled off her helmet, still confused as to why they were here and not HQ. She opened her mouth to ask why, but he was already striding toward the door, his boots crunching on the loose macadam. With her head down, she followed him as he opened the door.

  The adrenaline was still fueling her, and nerves skittered over her skin like ants as they walked into a large room—his apartment. He tossed his keys on his kitchen counter, tore off his jacket, and with an explosive overhand throw, whipped it at the wall.

  It hit with a slap, and she jolted at the sound as he turned on her. “What the fuck, Wren?” He gripped his white T-sh
irt over his heart. The veins in his neck stood out and strands of his hair fell over his eyes. “We send you there to get information, and you go dark on us? Do you even understand what it felt like when that camera shut off? When I had no idea if you were okay or not?” She’d never seen him like this—emotional and vulnerable and so damn wrecked. Now that he was in the light, she could see his lips were ravaged from biting them, his eyes bloodshot. As he stared her down, his entire body was shaking. “And fuck, I show up to pull you out of that hellhole, and some rich asshole has you pinned in an empty room.” He tore his hands through his hair so it stood on end. “I don’t trust any of them. They could have taken you to another location—”

  “I’m sorry,” Wren blurted out. Her heart felt split in two—her promise to her old friend warring with the need to soothe Roarke.

  “Are you?” he asked, his tone vicious and accusatory, his words spat at her like daggers. “Because Dade said you had this planned all along, that you’re using this mission as a vehicle to carry out your own—”

  “That’s not true!” Roarke could say what he wanted about her, but how dare he act like her love for Flynn wasn’t the driving force behind this. She flung a finger at him. “You don’t get to make up shit in your head or listen to Dade. The truth is that yes, I’ve been casing Darren for a year. Yes, I caught his eye on purpose. But my number one priority is Flynn’s mission. Marisol already had the Saltner files, so I was free to get what I needed.”

  “What. Do. You. Need. Exactly?” Roarke spoke through clenched teeth.

  “I can’t…” No, she’d promised. “I can’t tell you.”

  Roarke’s dark brows lifted almost to his hairline. “You can’t tell me?”

  “I promised a friend, a very good friend, that I’d get evidence on Darren for her.”

  Roarke spread out his arms. “Do you see anyone here? Anyone? It’s just me, Wren. You can tell me. I can help you. We can help you.” His face changed, from incredulous to determined, as he began to stalk toward her. “Because I’m going to make one thing very clear, Wren.” She had to back up because he wasn’t stopping. “You’re not going to put yourself in a situation like that again.”