Ravaged River: Men of Mercy, Book 6: A Military Romance Series

by Cross, Lindsay

  “Finally loaded the history. Looks like Malik’s father is English and his mother is Saudi. He’s here on a student visa.”

  Merc was right—he wanted Hayden as much as he’d ever wanted her. The wanting hadn’t gone away. But maybe he had nothing left to offer her but a penchant for violence and nightmares that woke him in a cold sweat…

  “Did you say student visa?” he said, finally tuning back in.

  “Yeah, why?” Merc turned to him slowly, and Hoyt knew his head had to be throbbing too.

  “The first guy, the one in the Honda, he had a student visa.”

  9

  Hoyt ripped the door open and exploded from the Hummer, Merc’s heavy footsteps pounding the pavement right behind him. Hayden had disappeared from her post outside. Both men ran all out for the house, splitting the throng of people down the middle. The guy closest to them shouted and dove right out of their path, and the sea of partiers split as fast as the Red Sea before Moses.

  Hoyt rushed up the stairs and surged through the back door.

  Floppy frat boys shouted as Hoyt shoved them aside, a maniac with a savage need to find and protect Hayden. His veins filled with the boiling tar of rage, fury and fear; he jammed through the throng of brunettes and blondes, not even sparing a glance for the fake boobs poking out over their painted-on shirts or their five-inch fuck-me-heels.

  He burst through the open kitchen door and ground to a halt at the wall of vice he found there. Heat and sweat and the smell of beer permeated the air. A loud rap song pulsed across the floor, vibrating through his entire body with every beat.

  “I’ll check the upstairs.” Merc pushed off to the right, working through the crowd up the stair case. Hoyt froze in place.

  A cold sweat broke out on his flesh, despite the thermal heat in the room. A few women looked his way, did a what-the-fuck double take, and then scattered, getting as far away from him as possible. The nearest guys, either too drunk or too stupid to realize that his presence could spell their death, tried to shoulder together and block his path. Hoyt let out a low growl, the sound not nearly as feral as he felt, and the wall toppled.

  The crowd fell back in a loose circle.

  He scanned the living room, his gaze stalling every time it lit on a head of blonde hair, but where was Hayden? He couldn’t even sense her presence.

  The music seemed to ratchet up louder and Hoyt’s hands fisted at his sides. Those unlucky few who were still crowded in the middle of the room pushed backwards against the wall of people surrounding him, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the freak show as possible.

  “Where is Hayden James?” Hoyt forced the words past his tight throat. Though he’d attracted plenty of wide, frightened stares, no one responded.

  His gaze fell on the young brunette to his left and he stepped in her direction, intending to question her. The girl let out a shriek and forced her way back through the crowd.

  Hoyt fought the instinctive need to recoil. He knew his face was ruined. He knew how he affected people.

  “Leave her alone. What do you want?” When Hoyt spun around, he found himself facing the blond kid in the toga. The one who’d dared to lay his hands on Hayden earlier.

  A familiar flicker passed through the kid’s eyes when he saw Hoyt’s scar. But he didn’t scream, even though fear rolled off of him in waves. The blinding need to crush him hammered through Hoyt.

  Get it together, man. He’s better for her than you are.

  “Hayden James.” Her name was the only thing he could manage to say.

  The young man flushed but held firm. “What do you want with her?”

  “Where is she?”

  “None of your business.”

  Hoyt’s already thin-as-ice control snapped. Before he knew it, he had Adonis backed up against a narrow wall next to the stairs, his hand around the guy’s throat.

  “Where is she?”

  Frat boy’s eyes bulged and his face turned fire-red. Satisfaction slithered through Hoyt’s conscious.

  “Hoyt, drop him,” Merc came running down the stairs. College kids surrounded him and stared in horror, but Hoyt didn’t budge.

  “Hoyt Crowe, drop the boy now.”

  Hoyt snapped his head around to see Sheriff Lawson standing a few feet behind him. Arms at his sides, his right hand hovering an inch above his pistol.

  Hoyt snarled and whirled back to his victim, squeezing until the guy sputtered and coughed, desperately pulling at the unmovable fingers slowly cinching around his throat. “Not telling you,” he choked out.

  Hoyt roared, “Where is she?!”

  Not even the pounding music could compete with his shout.

  “Hayden is on her way home. I just saw her pull out.” Lawson’s hot breath blasted Hoyt’s shoulder, his voice low and calm and about as soothing as a bucket of rusty nails prickling his destroyed flesh.

  Hayden was safe. The red haze lowered. Hoyt loosened his grip just enough for the toga boy to hit the ground.

  The kid gasped and retched. Hoyt stood over him, not really seeing him anymore, his chest expanding and contracting with force.

  Frat boy grabbed his neck and stood, lifting his free hand to point at Hoyt. “Monster.”

  Awareness slithered around Hoyt like a boa constrictor, strangling his air supply until it hurt to breathe. The panic gut-punched him and he almost doubled over. As if sensing his weakness, frat boy took a bold step forward and repeated, “Monster.”

  The crowd seemed to collapse around Hoyt, shoving him deeper into the pit of claustrophobia. Too tight. Shit. He went cold. Hot. The little bastard took another step toward him, but Merc locked a massive hand around the boy’s arm, bending it back like a wet noodle. “You think he was scary before? Keep pushing. He’ll nail your coffin closed with his bare fist.”

  Merc flung frat boy away and yanked Hoyt out of the room, Lawson nipping at their heels. Hoyt didn’t draw in a full breath until he was standing in the parking lot, facing his friend and the sheriff.

  “Want to tell me what that was all about? Cause I can guarantee you that boy’s parents are richer than dirt and will sue your pants off if given the opportunity.” Lawson crossed his arms over the tan police uniform, a hard gray gaze glinting at Hoyt in the night.

  “Nothing.” Except that wasn’t true. Hayden was his everything, and if she had been harmed…

  Hoyt turned to Merc. “You get a bead on the other one?”

  Merc shook his head in the negative. With the overhead light casting dark shadows over him, Merc looked like the grim reaper’s worst nightmare. Any sane man would take one look at the pair of them and take off screaming.

  But not Bo Lawson. The ex-marine either had a death wish or just plain didn’t care. “You two better tell me what the hell this is all about, or I swear to God, I’ll call the boy’s parents myself and give them a sworn testimony.”

  10

  A few minutes later, Hoyt and Merc watched the sheriff stride back into the house with a determined set to his shoulders. “You think the commander will rip our heads off for giving the sheriff his personal cell number?”

  “Nah, he’d rather field that call than have us explain the situation.” Merc pulled open the driver’s side door and climbed in.

  Hoyt jumped into the passenger’s seat. “What gives?”

  “You think I trust you to drive after that stunt? Plus, it’s my turn to have a go at this beauty.”

  “That punk deserved it.”

  “Sure, because he touched your girl.”

  “Dammit, she’s not mine.”

  “You keep telling yourself that.” Merc cranked up the vehicle and put her in reverse. “Log on to the computer and pull up those student visas. I have a feeling they’re sponsored by the same man.”

  Merc made a sharp turn and propelled the Hummer forward, sending the laptop sliding across the floorboards. Hoyt barely caught it before it slammed into the door. “Watch it.”

  Merc shrugged and lined
up with the exit to the parking lot. “A few more dings shouldn’t hurt.”

  Hoyt quickly pulled the case open, typed in the secure password and logged into the encrypted server. He didn’t need to pull the visa up to remember the name. He typed the information into the National Security Agency’s search bar and stared at the little green think bar as it slid across the screen. A few seconds later it stopped and a name appeared. “Professor John Latham.”

  Hoyt went cold. Latham’s name was on the other student visa. “Shit. He sponsored both visa’s.”

  “Sounds like Latham is who we need to talk to. Give me his address.”

  “Hold on, I need to make sure Hayden’s at home.”

  A horn blared behind them and Hoyt glanced back to see a low-riding Mercedes flashing its headlights and inching forward. “Wanna get him off our ass?”

  “My pleasure.” Merc put the Hummer in reverse and backed up, forcing the little sports car to back off or get flattened.

  Hoyt grinned and pulled out his cell, dialing Hayden’s number by heart. He hadn’t used her number in months, but he still remembered every digit.

  She answered on the first ring, her voice hesitant. “Hoyt?”

  “Where are you?” He had to bite his tongue to keep from apologizing for the wrathful tone.

  “Why?” All hesitation was gone now.

  Hoyt sighed and scrubbed his calloused palm over his head. “Please, just tell me.”

  There, that was better. He’d managed to sound polite. So why was Merc looking at him with an expression of gleeful menace?

  “Why don’t you try none of your business?”

  Click.

  The line went dead.

  Hoyt pulled it away from his ear and stared at the screen in bafflement. “She hung up on me.”

  “I’d say our teammate’s little sister is a mite bit pissed at you.”

  “I apologized for my tone.”

  “Jesus Christ, man, did you expect her to be all happy, happy, happy after you dumped her like that?”

  Oh.

  “I guess not.” Hoyt shoved the phone back into his pocket and pulled up the professor’s address, stoutly ignoring the sinking feeling in his chest. This was the first time she’d seemed…well, mad at him.

  “With that attitude, I’d say it’s safe to assume she’s okay. Why do you care anyway? Weren’t you just telling me you don’t want her?”

  Don’t want her? I fucking can’t draw a breath without thinking about her. “Yeah. Here, take a right, then another right on Berry Road. He lives right next to campus.”

  Merc didn’t move, he just propped an arm on the steering wheel and turned to face Hoyt. “When are you going to wake up and smell the damn roses?”

  “Screw the roses. Let’s get to Latham’s house and find out whether or not he’s our local terrorist sponsor.”

  “Fine.” Merc slammed the Hummer into drive and did a ninety out of the parking lot.

  Hoyt’s shoulder slammed against the window. They sped down the lane, leaving the frat house behind. If only Hoyt could lose the memories of that place as easily. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the sight of those guys touching Hayden. And that word…

  Monster.

  It was exactly what he feared he’d become, and the word taunted him as Hoyt guided them to the professor’s house. This close to campus, streetlights illuminated the sidewalks and paved roads every few feet, almost negating the need for headlights. House after house sprang up on the left in between perfectly manicured shrubs, picture-perfect sidewalks, and lowlying iron fences.

  A place like this is where someone like Hayden belonged. Two kids and a dog. Barbecues in the backyard. A husband who clocked in to his boring job at nine a.m. and clocked out at five o’clock sharp, eager to get home to his wife and kids.

  Hoyt would have done anything to be that guy for her. He would have clocked out early every chance he got.

  But that possibility had vanished. It was a life for the old Hoyt. Not the man he’d become.

  He lived for his team now, for killing and vengeance. And he was going to start with a college professor who thought he could outsmart the U.S. government.

  “Turn left here. It’s the third house on the left.” Hoyt unholstered his pistol, dropped the clip and reloaded. In case things went south, he wanted to have as much ammo at the ready as possible.

  Merc pulled about a block down the road and killed the engine. Latham’s house hung back and to the left, the windows dark. Hoyt glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard—just after midnight.

  Merc pulled out his weapon and chambered a round. “Intel?”

  Hoyt reopened the laptop and pulled up a search. “Dr. Latham. Age sixty-seven. Wife deceased from cancer twenty years ago. No known living relatives or associates. Professor at Mercy University for thirty plus years. On the tenure track. Doctorate in psychology.”

  Hoyt stopped talking, and silence permeated the cab as the two soldiers stared back at the colonial-style brick house behind them. Dead wife, no friends, no family. Nothing to lose.

  Something like dread crawled through Hoyt. The small baggie of Valium in his pocket seemed to burn a hole through his jeans into his leg. He carried the pills to remind him he was just one dose from oblivion. From being that man who’d almost taken his own life in an act of desperation.

  One little white pill, and he’d be off the Team. That was all the motivation he needed to embrace the raw pain of his skin being too tight for his body.

  “You ready for this?” Merc’s hand covered the door handle. His body tensed as he waited for Hoyt’s response.

  Hoyt patted his pocket, but no matter how much he wanted to curl up into a bottle of pills, he had to do his part to protect Hayden. Protect his team. Protect his country.

  Hoyt nodded. “Ready.”

  The two men eased around the side of the professor’s two-story brick house, melding into the shadows like they had been born and bred there. The backyard was a miniature replica of the front—trimmed boxwoods and landscaped dwarf trees. A paved back patio, bare of furniture. Nothing to mark that the man even lived here.

  Hoyt approached the back door and placed his hand on the cold brass knob. A faint beep filtered through the door and he paused. Another beep. “It’s wired.” As carefully as he’d reached out to touch it, Hoyt pulled his hand back.

  He didn’t want to set off any alarms with his less than stable fingers. “Merc?” Hoyt bit out, impatience lining his words.

  “Can’t do shit ’til you move out of my way, man,” Merc said.

  Hoyt stepped aside, allowing just enough room for his partner to squeeze past him and peer around the side window. “Looks like a model 7000. About a year old.”

  “Hello, can you disarm it or not?” Impatience clawed at Hoyt. He had to get inside, had to find out what this man knew. If the professor had helped Mr. J… well, the fucker would regret drawing his next breath.

  The lock clicked, Merc slipped inside, and Hoyt heard a long, low hum. “Clear.”

  Hoyt slipped inside without hesitation, quietly towing the door shut behind him and tripping the lock into place. They didn’t need an enemy sliding in behind them to pop a cap in the back of their heads.

  Hoyt’s gaze shifted left and then right. A plush well-lit library sprawled out to his right, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls and a huge rich wooden desk perched in the corner. To his left was a window-lined atrium filled with plants in vibrant shades of pinks, yellows and oranges.

  “Ahead.” Merc nodded and moved forward. Hoyt fell in behind him, pistol loaded and raised at the ready. There was a chance this was all a big coincidence, but an even bigger chance it wasn’t. He’d go in prepared, regardless if he scared the old man.

  Although the front of the professor’s house had been dark, the back was lit up like a Christmas tree. Merc listened at the white swinging door dead center in front of them and then pushed it open with his shoulder, quickly darting to the
right. Hoyt followed, shifting left, both of them with pistols raised. Darkness engulfed them. The only sound in the room was a slight drip, drip, drip.

  They entered a sprawling kitchen. A long formal dining table was straight ahead and to their right, and an island as wide as Hoyt’s living room was to their left.

  The hairs on the back of Hoyt’s neck lit up. He glanced at Merc, whose anxious expression mirrored his own reaction. Something was off. People didn’t normally turn off all the lights in the front of the house and forget about the back, not unless they had left in a rush. Or someone had stopped them.

  Merc gestured for Hoyt to hang left, and the men circled the kitchen. Drip. Drip. Drip.

  The water leaking from the faucet hit the aluminum sink, each drop exploding like a tiny detonation in the quiet space.

  His muscles twisted around his bones, nearly crushing them with torque and tension. They were too late. Latham was probably already on a private jet to Kandahar, courtesy of Mr. J. Perhaps he had already done his part by getting all of the players where they needed to be.

  Hoyt yanked open a closed door on his right. Laundry room. Clear. Then he returned to the kitchen. Merc stepped around the other end of the island and the two soldiers faced each other. Both went stiff at the same time.

  Merc holstered his weapon. “Shit.”

  So, Latham wasn’t flying to a life of luxury in the Middle East. The poor bastard wasn’t flying anywhere.

  Hoyt tucked his gun away and squatted next to the dead body. The light in the vent over the stove highlighted the single bullet hole in his forehead, assassination style.

  “Not good,” Hoyt said.

  Merc squatted near the professor’s head and touched his body. “Still warm. Couldn’t have been dead for more than a couple of hours.”

  “That means if Malik did it, he would have needed to come here before we saw him at the party. If it wasn’t him, then we have a fourth suspect.”

  “We need to call the commander, have our team run the suspects.”

  This wasn’t a little operation. Mr. J had already set the wheels in motion. He wouldn’t take care of his people, not in the way Hoyt had originally assumed. Mr. J never left loose ends. Ever. “We’ve underestimated him.”