Enemy Mine (The Base Branch Series Book 1)

by Megan Mitcham

  He pried her left hand off his vest, placed it over the wound and applied pressure. “Hold tension on that for me. I know it hurts. You’re so damn brave, Sloan.”

  She peeked out from his neck and smiled, her bottom lip quivering. “I didn’t get the codes from his neck. I was tying him up to come rescue you.”

  “Love, that was my job. Fat lot of good I am at it.”

  “Sexist. Sometimes men need rescuing.”

  Yeah, Baine could use a rescue right about now. Because if anything happened to her he’d…

  Baine hugged her tighter then pulled his phone out of the back pocket of his vest and held the button for Law.

  His friend answered. “Clear outside.”

  “I need a HELO now. Whatever you have to do to get one. Call in Devereaux’s goons and we’ll take em’ out. Call in a favor. I don’t care.”

  “Fuck! Is she okay?”

  “For now. Hurry though.”

  The dead silence of a disconnected line hung in Baine’s ear. His friend would do everything in his power to help. Now Baine had to contend with the impotence of watching Sloan suffer and being unable to help. He’d rather lose a limb than see her suffer. The sadness in her eyes when they were children haunted his dreams and now…

  “Baine.” Her scratchy voice yanked his attention to her face. He dropped the phone next to the gun and scooted the damp hair from her forehead. His thumb ran the ridge of her cheek down her jaw.

  “I’m here and not going anywhere.”

  Her thick lips crinkled in pain and she breathed short rapid breaths.

  Please God, don’t let him have stabbed a lung.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just…”

  “Stop apologizing. You did, and are doing, nothing wrong.”

  A tear escaped, sliding down the side of her face before falling into her hair. “No matter what happens…”

  Baine opened his mouth, but the look of wild desperation in her eye told him to shut the hell up.

  “No matter. I want you to know I wouldn’t change a thing about coming here, being with you.”

  A teardrop landed on her honeyed skin and it took him a minute to realize it had come from him. Pussy. She needed him to be strong.

  The corner of Sloan’s mouth curved. “I need you to promise me one thing.”

  “I’ll have to hear it first.”

  “Why?” she breathed.

  “You don’t get a dying wish. Because. You. Are. Not. Dying.”

  Her right hand released his vest and slid up to his face. Her cool hand cupped his rough cheek.

  “Promise me you’ll get all the assholes in that black book and make them pay.”

  “Done. But I want you to come help me when you’re ready.”

  They both heard the whop whop of the whirlybird. And he wondered how in the hell Law had pulled that out of his butt so quickly, but he wouldn’t complain one bit.

  He leaned down and kissed Sloan’s head. Her skin lacked its usual warmth and when he sat up he watched in stunned horror as her eyes rolled back into her head.

  “Sloan. Sloan!”

  With his hand cradling the nape of her neck he eased her to the floor. He ignored the scream of pain in his leg as he kneeled over her. Baine placed his left hand over her wound where hers had fallen limp at her side and with his right felt for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  He couldn’t feel a fucking thing because he was totally numb. He readjusted his fingers and tried to calm the roaring ocean in his head.

  After what seemed like a million years in suspended animation, a feint pulse caressed his finger.

  He had to move. Now.

  Baine bent to scoop her into his arms and heard footsteps, at least five sets, rushing down the hallway. The big desk wasn’t the best cover, but these guys were coming fast and he didn’t have time to move either of them.

  Reeder in hand, Baine aimed at the door and waited.

  37

  Law opened the door with both his hands up where Baine could see them. Flanking and filing behind him were four men in brown tactical gear armed to the eyeballs with M-4’s, side arms, grenades, and blades. Baine’s gun didn’t waiver. He only regarded his friend. Was Law a hostage? His hands were up like one. Then again, he could’ve presented like that so Baine wouldn’t shoot him accidentally. The two in the front lowered their weapons while the two in back ignored him, scanning the hallway at the ready. One big mother in the front, as big as Law and not much off Baine, split from the crowd, stepping over Kobi toward him and Sloan. His blue eyes were wide as fucking dinner plates.

  Baine zeroed in on him. “Don’t take another step.” The guy drew up, but stared at Sloan. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Is she…” The guy looked too pained to even finish the thought.

  “Last chance. Who are you?”

  That caught the blond’s attention, drawing his sharp chin and narrow eyes to Baine for the first time. “CIA operative Ryan Noble. Sloan’s partner. I know you as Baine Kendrick, son of that piece of rotting flesh. Who are you, really?”

  US? It fit with the weapons and the type of chopper they flew, if his eyes and ears didn’t deceive him.

  “Baine Kendrick McCord. British Intelligence. Show me your creds.”

  The guy reached two fingers into his back pocket, took two measured steps forward, and reached his hand out to give it to Baine.

  “Open it. My hands are full right now.” No way was he taking his hand off the gun or Sloan before every doubt was erased from his mind. His gut told him the bloke was a friendly. The sheen of moisture covering the hard guy’s eyes said as much. Then again, he could be one hell of an actor.

  The eagle-emblazoned card read Central Intelligence Agency, United States of America, Clearance Code: 102708102412KDS, Issue Date: January 2010, Operative: Ryan Noble. Baine looked at the bottom right corner for the red BB that emblazoned his own credentials and found it. He, Ryan, Sloan, and Law were all Base Branch agents. The only difference was in what part of the world each was stationed. Policy mandated they identify themselves as Intelligence agents from their respective countries of birth. No one could know they were Branch operatives, but sometimes they needed to identity themselves with authority.

  “What’s her favorite color?” Baine couldn’t be too protective of Sloan.

  The guy’s brows quirked. “Revenge. She doesn’t give a shit about colors, unless they’re vital to a mission.”

  Baine eased his gun down, but watched for any movement behind Ryan, who motioned one of the guys forward. “Get the I.V. in her and we’ll book it.”

  A chappie with as many freckles on his face as Baine had hairs on his head stepped forward with a first aid kit, placed it on the ground near Sloan’s feet, and got to work unloading the supplies he needed.

  Ryan dropped to his knees across from Baine. He reached a shaky hand toward Sloan and Baine had to stop himself from biting it off at the wrist. When Ryan found her pitiful pulse his jaw tightened. “Damn it, partner, you hang in there.” Then he turned to Freckles. “We gotta move fast.”

  A moment later, Baine and Ryan’s gazes tangled as they spoke atop each other.

  Ryan with, “What the fuck happened? Is it a shot or stab wound?”

  Baine accompanied, “How the fuck did you know she was in trouble and why the hell didn’t you draw on me?”

  Both men’s jaws screwed down as they sized each other up. Ryan gave first. “We’ve been three clicks east, hidden in the gorge, since Slo dropped. She sent the signal at nineteen hundred. We moved according to the plan, two hours after.”

  His bronzed fist clenched. “I tried for one hour. I talked her down from three, but there was no getting her to come off more.”

  Baine looked down at Sloan and smiled as an invisible band cinched a notch on his chest. “I know exactly what you mean. The damn woman’s a force of nature.”

  “Didn’t draw on you,” Ryan continued, “because it looked as though you’d alr
eady been shot in the heart. And your partner sweet-talked us as soon as we touched down.”

  Baine eyed Law who stood quietly in the far corner of the room, face tight, but eyes sympathetic. “I failed her,” he said in answer to Ryan’s earlier question. “Didn’t get here in time. She got cornered and my…the fucking monster stabbed her with a letter opener.”

  “From the looks of the place and your leg, I’d say you had your hands full trying to get to her,” Ryan said.

  “Ready, sir,” Freckles piped up.

  “Let’s move,” Ryan barked.

  Both Baine and Ryan bent to scoop Sloan. The pretty boy bit his lower lip and shook his head. “It’ll be easier if we don’t have to transfer her at the HELO.”

  “Then we won’t,” Baine growled. “I’m taking her all the way.”

  Still that blond hair flopped back and forth. “No can do. Against regs and about fifty other international laws.”

  “Fuck em’,” he ground through clenched teeth.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Ryan huffed. “If you want her to live, let her go.”

  It was a solid blow to Baine’s head. Like a mallet met him center between his eyes, his hands slacked to his sides. Ryan hefted Sloan easily, murmuring in a calm, reassuring tone as he hurried from the room. The stampede of boots receded from the stairs, through the foyer.

  Next the whoop whoop dimmed.

  And still Baine stayed on his knees, collapsed back on his heels, paralyzed. The litany carried on. Let her live. Let her live.

  38

  Holy fuck on a fox. It’d been seven hours. Most broke within the first thirty minutes of his ministrations, but this chav showed backbone Baine didn’t have time or any more patience to entertain. He needed to get this shit wrapped up so he could get to Sloan. It’d been two miserable months since she’d been wrenched from his life. He ached for her. Her touch. Her smile. He also hurt for sleep. For peace. But he wouldn’t go to her without completing the task she’d asked of him. She deserved that much from him. A whole damn lot more. But at least that much.

  He dropped the bloody pliers back on the metal table with a clack, dismissing his swollen knuckles and sore forearm. “I believe I’ve been going about this all wrong, Miguel.” Baine stood in front of the man, zeroing in on the defiant gaze settled in his well-worn face. “You will tell me who bought the last shipment or you will regret it for the rest of your miserable life.”

  Baine turned to Law who stood guard at the door. As the words flowed from his mouth he hated himself a little more. “Bring the girl. If he doesn’t care about his own wellbeing, perhaps he cares about hers.”

  Law nodded curtly, but his eyes glittered with rage. He hated what Baine had become too, but he obediently left the room. Baine turned to the master of one of Mexico’s largest cartels and saw the first wave of emotion roll across his features, breaking the smug facade he’d hosted since they’d dropped in on his operation yesterday.

  Miguel Castillo’s lower lip quivered. “You call me a monster, but you are no different. You will hurt an innocent girl to get what you want.”

  The man was right. He was a monster, and he would.

  What the bloody hell have you become?

  No. He was better than Miguel. The man had slaughtered hundreds of innocents to get what he wanted. Drugs. Weapons. Money. All for Devereaux Kendrick. Baine was putting an end to that.

  But at what price?

  Law stepped inside the room with Rosanna Castillo. Both her tiny hands wrapped around the big man’s forearm. She seemed totally at ease even as he led her blindfolded into the room. Law guided her toward the metal table behind Miguel. Every muscle in her father’s body tensed. He thrashed against the bonds at his ankles and wrists, causing fresh blood to pool beneath his arms. Jaw working with fury, his head jerked left and right, trying to see what horror lay in store for his beloved, but the head restraints refused to give.

  Baine smiled and walked around Miguel.

  Quietly the man whispered through the saliva and blood. “Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia: El Señor es contigo.”

  Baine chuckled and despised the sound.

  The girl joined her father. “Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.”

  Her sugar-sweet voice raised every hair on Baine’s weary body. His voice ground the word. “Amén.”

  Miguel drew a ragged breath.

  Baine ignored Law’s scowl, turning his attention to the little girl of maybe five or six years. “Hola Rosanna, me llamo Baine.”

  “Buenas noches Baine. Mi nombre es…” Her forehead creased behind the dark fabric. “Oop, sabes mi nombre.”

  He continued in her native language. “Yes, I know your name. I know your mommy’s name, your daddy’s. I even know little Nicolás.” The girl smiled and Baine’s stomach churned. Acid rose into his throat and for a moment he thought he would not be able to call it back.

  After a full body shiver, he continued. “Would you like to play a game with me, Rosanna?”

  “Sí,” the girl giggled.

  “Wonderful. Give me your hand.” With a toothy grin she placed her tiny palm against his. “Great job, Rosa.” Gently he placed it on the cold table next to the hacksaw, pliers, and knife. “Now, I want you to spread your fingers out wide, just like this and hold as still as you possibly can.”

  Her mocha hair swooshed as she nodded enthusiastically. “Sí, señor.”

  Baine grabbed the blade and began tapping a star pattern around the girl’s fingers. “Very still now,” he reminded.

  Again she nodded.

  The taps grew louder. Faster. The tempo rose. And rose. Until it sounded like an S.O.S. on speed. Baine nodded to Law who leaned close to the girl’s ear. The pace reached a fevered pitch as drips of sweat rolled off Baine’s nose. Three. Two. One.

  The girl’s scream ripped the room in two.

  And Miguel Castillo screamed. “Cezar Vilaro!”

  Rosanna clamped off her scream and tilted her head. “Papá, when can I see Uncle Cezar?”

  Baine punched the man in the jaw and watched his body go slack. “Rosanna, you played the game very well. I think Law can find you a treat in the kitchen.”

  She squealed in delight. Her two perfect hands reached toward Law. Clamping him around the wrist she hurried him toward the door, listing all the toppings she wanted on her ice cream.

  As soon as the door closed behind them Baine collapsed to his knees. His sob split the room nearly as loudly as Rosanna’s scream had. He hung his head as his shoulders shook and his chest heaved.

  I have turned into the very thing I hate most in this world. My father.

  Baine only had one more bastard to deal with before he could go to Sloan. Cezar Vilaro. But how could he go to her as this monster? She would hate him. Hate what he’d become. His entire body hurt from wanting her, but better him hurt than her.

  39

  Sloan winked at Ryan as she tightened the straps of her overnight pack and adjusted the waist of her loose fitting khaki’s. In the dull light of the Blackhawk’s belly she watched Ryan’s glare intensify. If the last week was any indication, the mean squint of his brow was permanent. It hadn’t let up since Commander Tucker briefed him on his current mission.

  Ryan turned away from her with a dramatic snap of his body. He huffed like a petulant child before catching the latch in his grip and wrenching the heavy hatch back.

  Her fist met his shoulder in a solid knock and she hollered above the whirling blades of the HELO. “I’ll be fine. See you tomorrow at twenty hundred.”

  She sat gingerly on the metal floor. Each day she could do more and more. No thanks to Tucker or Ryan, who’d practically taken up residence in her crappy apartment and hovered at the office. When they weren’t mother-henning, she’d jogged short distances and lifted with her legs and arms at the Branch facility. She could even tighten her core, but it hurt like a mother if she twisted or slum
ped. Yep, abdominal exercises were still a month or so off. If the infection hadn’t set in, she could’ve been operational by now. But she shouldn’t worry about that and just be glad to be among the living.

  Sloan waited for her shoulder bump from Ryan and one final comment about how crazy she was for dropping into Sierra Leone alone and in her “condition.” Even Tucker thought she was nuts, but had okay’ed the personnel and supplies for her journey. He, more than most, understood her need to confront the past and release the demons that had lived inside her for the better part of twenty years.

  When Ryan’s fist didn’t come she looked up. He stared intently at her, his face an unreadable mask. Her breath stilled in her chest. She’d always been able to read Ryan. It made them perfect partners. In the field they didn’t need words. Just a quirk of a brow. A shift of the eyes.

  But now his eyes bore into hers with a depth she’d never before seen. His hand nestled under her jaw at her pulse, which beat like a tribal drum. He held her loosely as his head dipped low, then stilled, his thick lips only an inch from her own. She tried to swallow, to speak, but hell if her mouth hadn’t gone dry as the ground of Namibia.

  Ryan’s eyes never hid behind his lids, not even to blink. At this lover’s proximity Sloan noticed the near white-flecks fracturing his pale blue eyes. The sheer opposite of Baine’s steely blue. His face drew nearer and his warm lips brushed over hers then back again in the most painfully sweet embrace.

  Sloan’s heart shivered. Not in love or anger, but sadness.

  His lean body withdrew from her space, a small smile playing across his mouth. “I love you, Sloan.”

  Sloan swallowed the clump of sand clogging her throat. “I love you. But I’m in love with Baine.”

  That beautiful smile didn’t falter. “I know.”

  “Then why…” Her head shook, unable to form a coherent though with the structure of her world shifting under her feet yet again.

  He chucked her shoulder with his fist. “I’ve always loved you as a partner and friend. Then I almost lost you to that.” He pointed toward her stomach. “And I’m losing you to Kendrick, McCord, whatever the hell you wanna call him.”