Hard to Protect (Black Ops Heroes)

by Black, Incy

  Zac had been the one to find her. He’d also been the person to meet him at the airfield to break the news that Diana had killed herself—three fucking months after she’d done so—because the Service had deemed his undercover mission too critical to compromise by alerting him to the fact that his fiancée was dead.

  Something tugged persistently on the back of his T-shirt.

  “Will, I appreciate your need to play hero, but step aside and let me handle this,” she insisted.

  He’d never stepped aside in his life. Funny thing about those eyes of Angel’s, though. Stare into them long enough, and you’d hand over your soul. “Okay,” he conceded. “On the condition your brother puts the gun down first.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, he’s not going to shoot me or you for that matter,” she snapped, stepping clear to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. “Outside of throwing around nasty threats, he’s got no stomach for violence. Something, having known Rhys all my life, I can say with certainty. He—”

  “Stuck a needle in you without hesitation, not a few moments ago,” Rhys interrupted. “And you might want to reconsider who you give your allegiance to, Angel. I’m family. He isn’t.”

  Seriously? Rhys was going to try and pull the family card? What kind of brother shot his sister up with a deadly chemical? Will called him a foul name almost under his breath.

  Angel’s spine locked. Which, given her casual familiarity with strong language, spoke volumes. “I’m aware of that, Rhys,” she retorted. “But I trust him.”

  Will smirked at her brother.

  Angel jabbed him in the ribs—again. He was probably grinning too widely at Rhys. “Stop doing that, Sunshine, it hurts.”

  “I know,” she said. “And that persistent pain in your side? We need to have a little chat about that later.”

  Excellent. He could just imagine how that little question and answer session would go.

  “What now, Rhys?” she asked, turning back to her brother, her line of sight fixed on the barrel of the gun still pointing at them. She’d gone back to calm, for the moment, at least.

  “I need you to come with me so I can keep you safe.”

  “Nuh-uh, I don’t think so. Not five minutes ago, you were threatening to snap my neck.”

  At least the bastard had the grace to flush, the red climbing his throat and settling across his face.

  “It was the only way to stop Berwick from attacking me. I wouldn’t have done it. Please, Angel. You don’t know what it’s been like. Living with the constant humiliation that it was my baby sister who took down Cymion Gray because I was too busy pissing myself. Give me this chance to step up and prove I’m no longer that useless excuse for a man. Let me protect you.”

  The desire to smash in Rhys’s face flooded back. The sonofabitch was back to blaming her, subtly layering guilt upon guilt. Angel must have sensed his thirst for blood and sinew, because she hooked a restraining hand around his bicep.

  “But for you, Rhys, I wouldn’t need protection. Prove, instead, that you give one goddamn about me—let Will take you in, take us both in. Because the faster we run, the harder they’ll chase, and we need to end this.”

  “And have an accident befall us while they investigate who in the chain of command, aside from Butters, authorized the use of BT11? No, thanks,” Rhys retorted. “I don’t trust a one of them, including him.”

  Rhys waved the weapon in his direction. The idiot didn’t seem to appreciate that he wouldn’t be able to fire fast enough to stop Will from ripping out his trachea.

  And ordinarily, he wouldn’t hesitate. But Rhys had a point. “I hate to agree with your brother, but he’s right. We still don’t know who shot Butters. And we don’t know why he had to die. Until we do, we’re better off going it alone. So what’s your plan, Rhys?”

  Rhys smirked. “Well, for a start, don’t go getting any smart ideas about killing me. That is unless you want the contents of those files on the thumb drive I took spread all over the internet and making tomorrow’s headlines.”

  The man’s smug triumph had the hairs at the nape of Will’s neck on end. “What have you done, Rhys?”

  “Nothing…yet. But if I fail to reset the timer on my laptop by eight o’clock tonight, it’ll be clench-your-buttocks time for a tidy number of high-profile generals, admirals, and wing commanders, not to mention senior government officials. And, the public outcry over what’s been going on won’t just topple the government. It’ll tip the country’s military forces into anarchy.”

  Shit. Fuck. The clever, stupid bastard. He had to get to that laptop. He had to get to that thumb drive. Fast. Pity he’d have to play nice with Rhys to do so. “Okay, so you get to live another day.”

  Rhys turned, opened his palm, and dropped his gun down the open stairwell behind him. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the clatter of the weapon tumbling the wooden stair treads. “Guess I won’t be needing that anymore… Oh, and given your obvious fondness for my sister, Berwick, I can pretty well guarantee I’ll get to breathe a hell of a lot longer than one more day.”

  Well, he was man enough to admit he was physically attracted to Angel, but to suggest he’d grown fond of her was carrying it a little far. She was just a professional responsibility…and, maybe, a friend.

  “What if Angel has an adverse reaction to what’s flowing in her veins?” Rhys continued, still with that smug-arsery he was so good at projecting. “Could happen. Today, tomorrow, next week, or three months after that. Who knows? Then who’s going to save her? You? Some team of medics, with no clue as to the chemical make-up of the modified formula? I don’t think so. No, you need me alive. I’m her only hope should things go—”

  “Adverse reaction? What are the chances of me suffering a psychotic break?” Angel cut in sharply.

  Her brother rubbed his nose. “I’m hoping zero.”

  “Just hoping, huh?” Her slow smile was so not sweet. “And are there any other side effects I need to be on the lookout for?

  A shrug this time. “Again, I don’t know. Not for certain. But your best chance of surviving whatever happens lies with me.”

  “Really? How long before this new BT11 kicks in? Do you have to top it up, or is one shot enough? How many vials of the serum have you got? What tests have you run? How, and where’ve you run them?”

  Rhys shifted his weight from foot to foot and swiped at the slick suddenly breaking across his forehead. “Easy,” he cautioned warily. “Losing your temper’s not going to help.”

  Talk about adding flammables to a hungry fire. He could practically feel Angel vibrating beside him.

  “Will my skin turn green, Rhys? Will I grow an extra arm or another eye? Will I sprout spikes, fangs, a tail? Will my hair fall out? Answer me, dammit.”

  Christ, her barrage of questions was relentless. He’d be proud to have her partner him in an interrogation.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t finished fully testing this new strain,” her brother admitted, looking less confident by the second.

  “Fantastic,” she spat. “Is there anything you do know, Rhys?”

  Her brother’s jaw tightened. “I know that if the modifications I’ve made work, you and I will be able to disappear with millions, even billions of dollars. I plan on selling BT11 to the highest bidder, and trust me, there are plenty of buyers out there in the market for super-soldiers.”

  “You can’t put a price on sanity, Rhys. What if I end up going bat-shit crazy? Fat lot of good those dollar bills will do me then.”

  “The first hint of something being amiss and I’ll reverse the effects. I’ve…I’ve…I’ve got a serum.”

  The bastard was so lying. Sweat dripping, shifting eyes, fidgeting. Liar, liar, liar.

  “Yeah, and who’ve you tested that on?” she demanded.

  “Please, Angel. You have to trust me.”

  Four furious strides forward and she stood nose to nose with her brother. “Well, it doesn’t look like you’ve left me much choic
e, does it, Rhys?”

  “I have a safe hideout all set up for us,” Rhys said, his relief clearly evident from the way he pulled Angel into a tight hug. “But it’s a bit of a trek to get there. You’re not invited,” he directed at Will coldly, across his sister’s shoulder.

  The thought of that man’s throat in his grip was getting more difficult to resist by the minute. “Do I look like a man in need of an invite, Rhys? Where Angel goes, I go.”

  He held the bastard in a silent eye-duel long enough for Angel’s stare to join the contest. Optically, he dared her to try and argue with him, too. Her safety, disabling that laptop, recovering the stolen thumb drive, those were his priorities.

  Then he’d figure out what to do about salvaging his career.

  “Suit yourself,” Rhys finally conceded, placing his sister at arm’s length. “Someone’s got to watch her when I’m not around. You want to volunteer to fend off an attack if she suffers a psychotic break, be my guest.”

  …

  Rhys hadn’t been joking about his hideout being a trek away.

  Her heels sticky and aflame, Angel tried not to limp. Hard, when the stiff leather of her boots had rubbed her skin raw. And Rhys, twitchy as all hell and snarky-mean as a result, seemed oblivious to everything but the urgency for less complaint and more speed. Which she could appreciate, had they not been scrambling a parkour circuit from hell across London for the past two bloody hours.

  A plate-size lump of concrete dipped beneath her boot. Not for the first time, Berwick snagged her coat collar to keep her upright. Yes, she’d relegated him back to surname status. A punishment, first, for insisting he accompany her and Rhys—what kind of stupid was that? Second, for shadowing her every move—too damn close.

  She’d lost count of the number of times their feet had tangled, her nearly sprawling on her face. What, did he think she was about to sprout a second head? Or worse, did he think she was a fragile piece about to shatter under the weight of knowing her blood cells were probably mutating given the noxious chemical mix Rhys had pumped into her body?

  “Stop grabbing me,” she snarled, wrenching free.

  Berwick held up his hands. “Just trying to help.”

  Breathe. “You staying behind would have helped. You could have gone for backup. That would have been the smart, not to mention professional thing to do.”

  Will shook his head. “And risk Rhys getting shot before I’ve had a chance to dismantle his laptop? I don’t think so. And what if I couldn’t find you again?”

  His explanation made sense, not that she was about to tell him that. She pulled a gargoyle face at him and stumbled after Rhys.

  Bastard car parks. Bastard building sites. Bastard hoardings in need of clambering. Bastard stinky concrete stairwells and walkways. Bastard blisters… But at least Berwick had taken note and was giving her a wide berth.

  “Final stretch is through there,” Rhys called—finally, finally—pointing to a narrow, waist-high oval gap bent into a vertical run of high metal railings topped with razor wire. A steep bank fell away on the other side, down to a tunnel mouth and railway tracks.

  Well, the men might fit through the “opening” if they angled sideways, but not her. Not with her bust and arse, not without difficulty, and never with her dignity intact. “After you two,” she invited, stepping aside. Some humiliations were best avoided, and Berwick watching as she tried to squeeze and heave through a constricting gap was one of them.

  Rhys bounced on his toes, growling with impatience at the delay.

  Will declined her offer.

  Eyes skimming her backside—which didn’t jut out that much—his lips twitched. “You might need help.”

  And, she did. Need help, that was. It took Rhys’s tight grip of her armpits and Berwick’s insistent palm on her behind to squeeze her through the narrow gap. Which was about as much fun as having her butt cheek slapped with a red-hot skillet. But still way better than hearing Rhys say, “Watch the tracks; they’re electrified,” at the mouth of the tunnel.

  “Berwick,” she gulped. “I’m afraid that given I dislike the dark, confined spaces, and not knowing what’s going to happen three minutes ahead of me, you’re about to meet a side of me I’m not very proud of. Best brace.”

  Rhys snorted. Will, ever consistent, stared at her, giving nothing away.

  “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she muttered, following Rhys into the dark.

  The tunnel was long, dark, and suffocating. Also narrow, so that when a gust of tepid, stale air whipped at them—which it did with alarming regularity—they had to sandwich their bodies tight into rank-smelling maintenance hollows a mere two-and-a-half feet deep, whenever a train zipped by.

  Which, of course, meant Berwick had to press hatefully close. All hard, tight muscle, and annoyingly composed. Even when her fingers clawed at his shirt as she hung on tight, her hair whipping him in the turbulence.

  Dicing with their lives, they followed the gradual downward gradient for half a mile before Rhys called a halt to their deadly game of Chicken with the trains.

  “Right, from here on in, it’s going to be rough,” he warned, his foot on the lowest rung of an all-but-hidden, blackened-iron ladder. “Ten feet up, there’s a crawl space. It’s pitch black but safe enough. I have glow sticks and a head torch at the other end for our descent.

  Descent? “How far do we have to crawl?” she asked dry-mouthed, her diaphragm straining.

  “About seven-hundred yards. I’ll help you when you reach the end, but… Well, just don’t look down.”

  Don’t look down? What the hell did Rhys mean by that? He knew she hated heights. She glared at her brother’s disappearing behind. Hating him. Scared for him. Aching for him.

  Where had the Rhys she’d once idolized gone? Where was the fantastically brilliant, patient, kind, encouraging brother she loved? A man who would once have cut his own arm off before harming her.

  “I’m not doing it. I’d rather go back,” she called up to him.

  A fierce gust of hot air from an oncoming train did its best to rip the clothing from her body.

  “The ladder now,” Rhys yelled. “It’s that or be swept to your death.”

  Berwick stole her right to choose. Seizing her hips, he catapulted her upwards. Rhys caught her wrist and dragged her clear.

  A nano-second later, his language vicious, Berwick landed on top of the pair of them.

  Rhys, exercising a few choice obscenities of his own, shoved and kicked his way free. She couldn’t see him—too dark—but she heard him start his crawl.

  “You okay?”

  She couldn’t see Berwick, either, but there was no mistaking his fury. His frame was tight, his breath—a furnace blast against her cheek—sawed with the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “I will be when you get off me,” she panted, her pulse still at warp speed.

  His weight lifted, the prelude to a violent and thorough full-body caress, his hands tugging, shaping, lifting, and kneading.

  She slapped at his roving hands to stop the trespass. “For God’s sake, what the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Yeah, you’re fine,” he grunted. “Nothing’s broken. So move. Rats are known to be inquisitive.”

  Again, she forgot her promise to mind her tongue around him. “Fuck.”

  Shuffling onto her front, she pushed onto all fours and scrambled forward, leaving behind a good few layers of skin from her palms on the coarse brickwork.

  Berwick didn’t let up. When she flagged—lungs burning, her cramped limbs begging for mercy—he chivvied, teased, ordered her onward, even slapped her bum a time or a hundred, when she ignored him.

  And, she forgot Rhys’s warning not to look down when she finally—thank you, sweet baby Jesus—reached the end of the crawl-way, her elbows and knees locked rigid with fatigue.

  Straddling a broad steel pipe suspended across a wide circular shaft, his face lit by a sickly green effervescence, Rhys snapped a glow stick and added it to
the bouquet already in his hand.

  One slipped from his clasp.

  She watched it plummet, down and down and never-ending down, occasionally knocked off course by tangled cables and jammed metal beams.

  She didn’t hear it hit bottom. OhmyGod. OhmyGod. OhmyGod.

  She reversed away from the deep, dark fall, crashing into Berwick.

  Berwick shifted past her and stuck his head through the three-foot wide but low semi-circular opening. “What the fuck, Rhys?”

  “Where we’re heading is much farther underground. Way, way, way down there. Hope you can rappel.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hands on his hips, Will allowed himself to take a breather. He should have anticipated Rhys would pull a fast one and been ready for it.

  He cast a disgusted look at his surroundings. Small wonder Rhys Treherne had been impossible to find, the capillary system of tunnels buried beneath London—miles of different levels long abandoned and bricked up—was a smart hiding place. Not one he’d have chosen, not the way the aged brick walls trembled under the traffic of the busy underground rail system flowing over, under, and to each side of the facility—which was a tad disconcerting. But Rhys hadn’t done a bad job of carving out a haven for himself in the small tessellation of rooms, which he figured hadn’t seen use for decades.

  After a quick introduction of their accommodation, Rhys—the sneaky bastard—had side-stepped to the front of the vertical floor-to-ceiling iron rods that ran the front length of the small suite, locking the only door—more iron bars—against him and Angel.

  “Going on a supply run,” her brother had said, pocketing the huge key. “And with wifi not available this deep, I need to return to the surface to deactivate the timer on this. He’d waved a laptop at them.

  Rhys hadn’t shared when he’d be back—but he’d been gone for what felt like eons. So Will had set about putting a Plan B in place—finding a way out—in case Rhys failed to return.