The guy shrugged and took a puff of his cigarette, blowing out the smoke in rings. “That was Hank’s shot. I had the girl.”
Well, Hank was dead now, thanks to Jock.
Arden’s voice traveled through the empty expanse of the warehouse. “This is all for nothing, really, this whole valiant rescue. The girl took off the patch like I asked her, and trust me when I say that you have no evidence on me that will stick. I have a good lawyer and bought out every judge in the district. Plus, once I leave here, you won’t find me for a good, long while. You’re not that good of a hacker, Brennan.”
Fury and helplessness warred in Roarke’s heart. All this time, he’d wondered if the law would be just, if he’d be able to get away with winning this mission with a clean conscience. There’d be no clean conscience now.
Wren had gone completely still, her gaze searching the warehouse. From here, he could see her trembling and the tear tracks down her face. The side of her jaw looked bruised, and some blood was on her T-shirt. Those fucking bastards. He wanted to tell her he was alive, that this would all be okay, that soon they’d be on the beach in the Caribbean with him slathering his tattoos in sunscreen and her running around in a bikini.
They’d be happy, so fucking happy. He wanted to believe that right now, more than anything.
His vision blurred as sweat dripped into his eyes. The saltiness stung the raw skin around his stitches. With a shaking hand, he reached into the holster at his belt and withdrew his handgun. He wiped quickly at his eyes and blinked to focus. Then he took aim, right at Arden’s chest. He had maybe one shot, one chance.
“Do it,” Arden said.
Roarke hesitated. Was Arden telling him to shoot?
Then the man beside him kicked over a barrel of slick liquid and, with a flick of his fingers, sent his cigarette soaring to the puddle.
The whoosh of the flames was deafening. From fifty feet away, Roarke had to cover his face at the sudden flash of heat and light. Gunshots rang out, pinging off the car frame he was hiding behind so he was forced to duck.
When the gunshots fell silent, he peered out. Arden and the man were running across the loft in the opposite direction, where steps would take them down and out of the warehouse out the back. Roarke raised his gun and took a shot, but the fumes from the fire distorted his view.
Wren’s shouts carried over the crack of the flames. “Roarke! Go after them!”
Was she fucking crazy? She was tied to a pole on a loft surrounded by flames. If the fire didn’t get to her first, she’d die once the loft crashed to the floor of the warehouse.
Roarke watched helplessly as Arden reached the bottom of the steps, moving fast. All this time, mostly all his life, Roarke had been fueled by revenge—for his parents and for his brother. If Arden got away, what was Roarke’s purpose? What was this all for?
Wren’s scream reached his ears again. “Roarke, fucking go! For Flynn!”
Roarke stood slowly as Arden reached the back of the warehouse door and flung it open. In the doorway, Roarke saw a helicopter touch down, the grass bowing with the force of its rotating blades.
Running after Arden—leaving Jock and Erick and Wren to fend for themselves—that wasn’t for Flynn. Roarke knew his brother well enough, knew how hard he loved, how much he cared for Roarke, that the decision to chase Arden right now would never be what Flynn wanted.
It wasn’t what Roarke wanted either. The icy fingers of revenge that held Roarke’s heart hostage loosened their grip with every pump of his hot blood.
He chose Wren over hate. He chose Wren over revenge. She’d proved to him he was more than a mindless mission. She’d been his mission all along; he’d just been too fucking stubborn to see it.
Shoving Arden out of his mind, he raced toward the stairs leading to the loft, taking them two at a time until he reached the top. A wall of fire raged in front of Wren, but he locked eyes with her through the flicker of the flames. She was struggling with the rope tied around her wrists, rotating her shoulders as she coughed and choked through the thick black smoke. The loft was creaking as the fire ate its way through the old, rotted wood. He was on borrowed time already, and the only way to get to Wren was right though the fire.
He walked back as far as he could, until the edge of his boot hit the edge of the loft. “I’m coming, okay?” he called to her. “Just hold tight. Try not to inhale too much.”
“How the hell are you”—a cough interrupted her—“getting to me?”
He pointed in front of him. “Right. Through. There.”
In a move he swore he did see John McClane make, he ran and leaped through the flames, holding his arms over his face. The burning heat licked at his back and his legs— thank fuck for rubber boots, thick denim, and his trusty leather jacket.
He landed on the other side of the flames and didn’t roll because he didn’t dare come into contact with the highly flammable oil coating the floor. He rushed to Wren’s back and immediately began tugging on the thick rope. It wasn’t tied well, but tight enough she couldn’t wriggle out of it herself. Part of it was frayed, where it seemed she’d been sawing away at it with her nail.
He ripped out the knot and tossed the rope away, catching Wren as she nearly fell to her knees. “Are you okay? Can you walk?”
She nodded, but he could feel the wheezing in her chest as he clutched her to him. “S-smoke.” She coughed and stared up at him with wide eyes and a face covered in soot. “Air.”
It was getting to him, too, but she’d been up here longer. He threw her arm over his shoulders and wrapped his arm around her waist as they made their way to the back stairs of the loft, the same ones Arden had used to leave. As they tripped down with heaving breaths, Roarke focused on the fact that Wren was alive, and so was he, and they were so close to getting the fuck out of there. He had no idea where Erick and Jock were, and he could only hope they had taken care of the remaining men and were safe and sound.
As they burst through the doors, they were nearly blown back by a blast of air. Wren’s hair whipped around them as Roarke glanced up to see Arden’s helicopter only about fifty feet in the air, twisting wildly. He stood still, watching it and waiting for it to speed away. Except it wasn’t leaving. It was descending to land.
Wait, no, it wasn’t descending it was…
“Holy fuck, it’s going to crash into the warehouse,” Roarke said. “Run!”
With his heart in his throat, he grabbed Wren’s hand and sprinted away from the building. The helicopter was heading right for it, and the mix of fire and gasoline was going to send a fireball to fucking Mars. There was no way Roarke was going to let anything happen to Wren now.
She kept up with him, surely in pure adrenaline survivor mode. Even so, he could see her gasping for air, stumbling as he tugged her along behind him. A crash sounded behind him, and he whirled around, scooping Wren into his arms and continuing to run in one smooth motion. The screech of metal and crack of wood was ear-splitting behind him. He had one good thought, that maybe they were far enough away, that everything was okay, when an explosion at his back shoved him off of his feet, bowing his back as he clung to Wren.
She wrapped herself around him just as he hit the ground, and they tangled in a ball of limbs while debris fell all around them. He grunted at the pain and wondered if his head really was in two pieces this time. Even so, he had the last-minute strength to grab Wren and cover her with his body as best he could. He wrapped his jacket around them and hoped the leather did him one last solid in this life.
Beneath him, Wren was still fucking breathing, and he panted against her hair. When the deafening sounds of the crash quieted to the crackling of flames, Roarke peeked out from beneath his jacket. The warehouse was still burning, the barely visible helicopter blades twisted among the wreckage. He sat up and immediately checked on Wren, stretching her out beside him. She was unconscious, and her eyes were closed, but she was alive with a steady pulse. He took stock of all her limbs and they all se
emed to be working normally, none bent at an odd angle.
He brushed her hair off her forehead, wishing he had some water. “Wren,” he whispered. “Little bird. Wake up, baby.”
He gripped her hand, pressed a kiss to her split lip, and ran his fingers over the bruise on her jaw. He was rubbing the soot off her face with his T-shirt when her eyes flickered open. Oh, thank Christ. She blinked at him a couple of times through bloodshot eyes. He had never been happier to look into those dark eyes. Her lips moved, but there was no sound.
She tried to sit up, but he placed a hand on her chest. “Hey, hold on. I’m not sure how badly you’re hurt.”
She rolled her eyes, a sass-monster even when she was barely conscious. “Everything hurts, but I can sit up, I promise.” She did so with a wince, and he helped her the rest of the way.
She didn’t take her eyes off his face, and she ran her fingers over his forehead, nose, cheekbones, and lips before finally moving to the gauze that covered his stitches. “I knew you weren’t dead.”
He pressed a kiss to the heel of her hand. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, you couldn’t be. Because I hadn’t told you I loved you yet, and there was no way in hell you were dying before I could say that to your face.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and touched his forehead to hers, wondering what Flynn would say now, if he’d be proud of Roarke, if he’d be glad he finally had someone who made him feel something other than anger. If he’d be happy Roarke had finally convinced someone to love him back. “I love you, too.”
Something crashed behind them, and he jerked away from her to see that a wall of the warehouse had caved in.
“So,” Wren said, and he turned to watch the flames dance in her eyes, “Arden was in that helicopter, right?”
“I think so.”
Her eyes shifted to him. “How do you feel?”
“I can’t say I’m sad. But I can say, I think Flynn would be okay with this outcome. Arden’s outcome, and ours.”
She smiled at him. “He used to tell me when we were teenagers that he wished you’d let me in.”
“So it took me a long time—a revenge mission, and a fiery rescue—but I did it.”
Wren laughed but then broke off with a coughing fit. Roarke pulled her to her feet. “Your brother and Jock were with me, by the way. They should be around the front of the warehouse.”
A throat cleared, and Roarke whipped around, drawing his gun and pointing it at the sound.
Erick stood at the edge of the trees with his hands up, with Jock next to him looking irritated. “Put the damn gun down,” Jock growled.
Roarke did, just as Wren choked out a sob and flew into her brother’s arms. He picked her up and spun her around.
Jock approached Roarke and nodded his chin at the destroyed warehouse. “Saw Arden get in the chopper. Took off and a few minutes later, seemed to lose control.”
Roarke peered at him. “What do you think happened?”
“Hacked?” Jock shrugged. “But it wasn’t me.”
Wren and Erick had fallen silent, and Roarke glanced at Wren’s face, which had now drained of color.
“Um”—her hands twisted in front of her—“I have a confession. A couple.”
Roarke raised his eyebrows at her.
She spoke quickly, her words running together. “I didn’t fix the patch. I made a fake program to make it look like I did, and it was Maximus who bought the zero-day, so if anyone brought that helicopter down it’s him.” She ended out of breath and bent over coughing. Erick pulled a water bottle out of his back pocket and shoved it in her face. She drank greedily while watching Roarke over the rim.
Maximus. Of all the goddamn hackers, he had to be involved. Dade had warned him when this all started that it could go higher than Arden Saltner. He just hadn’t known it would go all the way to the very top.
He glanced behind him again at the fire. “So, Maximus knew you didn’t really remove the patch?”
“Guess so,” Wren said.
“Thinking Maximus doesn’t take too kindly at paying three million for an unusable zero-day,” Jock said.
Erick was looking up at the sky, like Maximus was going to drop in on them any minute.
Roarke sighed. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. If Maximus doesn’t know who we are yet, I’m not waiting around for anyone to figure it out.”
Jock didn’t look convinced they were in the clear. And if Roarke was being honest with himself, he didn’t either.
Not at all.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Wren and Roarke sat in the back of the car while he valiantly tried to keep his eyes open. They’d stopped at a McDonald’s drive-thru and inhaled some burgers and fries. Wren wanted water. Bottles of water. She could still smell the soot in her nose, her mouth, her hair, and her clothes.
Roarke slumped against her shoulder, and she eased him down until his head landed in her lap. The side with his bandage faced her, and she winced at how filthy it was. She didn’t remove it though, because nothing in this car was clean; better to wait until they were somewhere more sterile.
She surveyed his jacket, checking for any burn marks. Surprisingly, it was in decent shape. Despite all the time they’d spent together recently, she hadn’t seen him sleep, not since they were teenagers. His face was less harsh, the tension lines smoothed, and it took her back all those years to when she’d peek in on him and Erick when Roarke slept over in Erick’s room. It was the only time Roarke lost the scowl, the ever-present aura of distrust.
“Called in an anonymous report,” Jock said. “Cops should be all over that warehouse in a minute. I’m not gonna trust what they tell the press, but I’ll check the records. Make sure Saltner was in the chopper.”
“We were watching it the whole time though,” Erick said. “There’s no way he could have gotten out.”
Jock shrugged. “Still checking anyway.” His phone rang, and Jock brought it to his ear. “Yeah.”
The car fell silent while Jock listened to the caller. When he spoke, he used about three sentences to describe everything that had happened, including Saltner’s death and the fact that they were on their way home. He fell silent again. Then without a word, he handed the phone to Wren. She frowned at it.
“Marisol,” Jock said.
She grabbed the phone. “Marisol!”
“Fuck, it feels so good to hear your voice!”
“Good to hear yours, too,” Wren said as Roarke stirred on her lap but stayed asleep.
“Everyone okay? Roarke was messed up when he left…”
“He needs his wound cleaned, and I could use an ice pack.”
Marisol hesitated. “For what?”
“Saltner gave me a nice backhand. It’s fine. I’ll live, just hurts.”
“I’m glad that fucker is dead, or I’d kill him.”
“You and me both. Look, we’ll be at HQ in about a half hour or so.”
“Great, Dade and I are waiting. Well, I’m waiting, and he’s sleeping.”
Wren smiled. “Yeah, I can picture it. And I’m so glad I get to see your faces again.”
“Yep, see your face soon.”
Wren handed the phone back to Jock and stared out the window. The only thread left untied was Darren. She’d handed over his phone files to Jock, but they hadn’t had time to go through them or match them up to any information they’d already gained.
With Arden Saltner dead, there was no way the crew would be able to stick around. And with Darren still blowing in the wind, Fiona was at risk.
“Jock,” she called.
He twisted around in his seat and met her gaze with his deep brown eyes. “FBI has Darren under surveillance. It’s only a matter of time.”
She blinked at him. How did he— “Okay, one day we are going to discuss how you read minds. But that day is not today. How the hell did the FBI find out about Darren?”
“Dade sent evidence to the police last night. They got a warrant for a property he owns in
Pennsylvania. Found loads of footage and paraphernalia. He crosses state lines with the girls, so it’s a fed case.”
“Do you think…” She swallowed. “Do you think Fiona is okay?”
“Got a friend watching her,” he said. “Anything happens, he’ll call me.”
Wren relaxed a bit. “I’ll call her as soon as I can.”
Jock watched her for a minute before nodding and turning back around.
As the car rumbled to a stop at HQ, Roarke finally stirred. His eyes seemed unfocused, and Wren worried about a concussion. “How many fingers am I holding up?” she asked, throwing up a peace sign.
He shot her an irritated look as he sat up and stretched his arms over his head. “I don’t have a concussion, just groggy as fuck and in need of some goddamn painkillers.” He glanced at her and did a double take. He turned her jaw with gentle fingers. “That fucking bastard.”
She nodded. “I could use some painkillers, too.”
He’d been shot and had stitches in his head, but he looked most in pain studying her face. He pressed a kiss to her jaw, right over the bruise. “Let’s debrief with the crew. Then we go home, sleep for twenty-four hours, and get the fuck out of DC.”
A small shot of exhilaration raced through her stomach. She’d always dreamed of jetting off with Roarke. The dream was slightly sexier than the reality, because the present held very real danger. Still, she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else right now. “Yeah, that’s a deal.”
When they walked into the basement, Dade was awake, watching them under hooded eyes, his ever-present smirk on his face. Marisol threw herself at Erick and Jock but hugged Roarke and Wren much more gently. She immediately took Roarke away to clean his bandage while Dade handed Wren an ice pack.
He stood in front of her with his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels, as she placed it on her face with a wince. “I saw what you did with the patch.”
“How was my work?”
“Good.” He scratched the corner of his mouth. “Maximus will dig. He took out Saltner, and he will come find us. You do know that, right?”
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