Blue Blood's Trifecta

by Cheyenne Meadows

  "The hell it didn't." Anger laced his voice. "I was there, remember?"

  "I'm forgetting it ever happened," Ryan bit off between clenched teeth. The more he suffered Rogue's presence, the more he wanted another taste of the man, to delve to the source of why, after all these years, he found Rogue attractive and appealing when he'd never looked twice at a man before.

  "Listen, Blue Balls…"

  Ryan tensed at the hated nickname, taking a chance to shoot Rogue a severe frown.

  "That was one smoking hot kiss. It fucking happened and will again. Once we're finished here."

  Opening his mouth, Ryan started to retort, only for his timer to beep once, the sound of a lazy cricket. Pulling his focus back on the situation at hand, he crawled forward, aiming for the next area of cover: a landscaped area a few feet from the outside wall.

  Before they hit their mark, spotlights flooded the area with bright light, snatching away the advantage of moving in during the blackest night. Small-arms fire peppered across the open area, kicking up clods of grass and skipping off rocks as gunmen shot at shadows and movements. As a unit, the Wind Warriors surged to the marginal safety of a wall or corner of the stoutly built house.

  Ryan sprinted ahead, Rogue just in front, zigzagging now and again to lessen the chances of catching a bullet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the men in solid black fall to the ground. Another stopped, grabbed his arm, and dragged him to safety.

  "Spoon's hit!"

  The words sent an icy knife through his gut. He'd faced similar situations as an Army Ranger where a few men from his elite unit gave all in the line of duty. But, this somehow hit him harder, more personally. Rage and determination pushed him as he promised retribution for each and every injury or loss the team suffered. Good men shouldn't die because of greedy bullies intent upon feeding weapons to terrorists and drugs to kids.

  The bark of a powerful, long range sniper rifle caught his attention. As planned, Ghost took to the roof, laying out a barrage of steady fire, ensuring the team made their destinations with as little danger as possible. More than one too-eager guard met his fate by peeking out from cover.

  Swinging to the side of an entrance door, he kicked at the wooden barricade with the bottom of his boot. He rushed in the moment there was a gaping hole big enough to duck through, his gun at the ready, and Rogue on his six. He heard yelling, screaming, and heavy footfalls in between the rat-a-tat-tat of automatic gunfire. A loud boom rocked the wall, shaking the floor beneath his feet. Night's grenade launcher working on the north wall.

  Moving steadily forward, Ryan cleared a path inside, taking out more than one tango that stood in his way. Rogue broke off, heading to the left, searching a hallway, while Ryan stayed on course. Destination: Rossi's office located in the very center of the sprawling mansion. Through twists and turns, Ryan cautiously walked over debris, keen eyes constantly scanning the area all around, searching for bad guys, threats, and his goal. His gun heated to the point of boiling hot from continuous use. More than once he paused to shove another clip in, rearming for trouble sure to be ahead.

  Now and again a voice would sound in his ear, one of the Wind Warriors speaking in code, relaying information. As they communicated in Navajo, a language he and Rogue didn't understand, he ignored most of it. Night promised anything they needed to know would be translated to German for them. Until words crackled through the link he could understand, he fixated solely on his mission.

  Turning a corner, Ryan stopped for a split second, watching Rogue drop a smaller dark haired man with his knife. The up close and personal act stunned him into momentary stillness. Though they all received extensive training in hand to hand combat with everything from knives to martial arts to wooden sticks, seeing the skills used firsthand in a war situation took his breath as did the tall, thick-muscled warrior with a scowl on his face as he wiped the blade on the dead man's shirt.

  Shaking his head, he spun around, trotted forward to the nearest door, and kicked it open, barely jumping back in time to avoid a barrage of bullets spraying through the opening. Hugging the wall, he eased his gun around the corner and fired without aim, simply raining down a hail of bullets to take out anyone high or low in the room. Patiently waiting, he sucked in air and counted to five before entering the room in slow careful movements.

  One step. Two. A third. The sound of a safety clicking off and a trigger tightening stuttered his heart.

  Diving to the floor behind a Swiss cheese looking desk, he felt the searing jolt of a bullet hitting him hard in the center of his chest. Breathing became a chore as he labored to draw oxygen into his burning lungs.

  "He said you would come. Stupid American." A heavily accented voice chastised as a small handgun was aimed in his direction.

  * * * *

  Rogue's gut clenched at the scene before him. Without hesitating, he raised his automatic weapon, sending a hard wave of bullets through the side wall, toppling the blond man instantly.

  In seconds, he raced to Ryan's side, quickly checking him for wounds. "Ryan?" He patted his chest and rolled him with strong hands, searching for blood or injuries.

  "I… okay. Breath… knocked… out." Ryan managed to force out between short pants. His face spoke of sharp pain mixed with relief. "Thanks."

  Rogue slapped him on the back with a small grin. "Damn, Ranger. I'm glad you're wearing Kevlar. Without it, you'd be toast." He held out a hand to his former comrade, finally able to breathe once more. Watching Ryan fall before his eyes rivaled a horrendous nightmare, one he never wanted to see come to fruition. They had too much unfinished business between them for it to all end before it started.

  "Me, too." Ryan took his hand and let Rogue pull him to his feet.

  While a bit unsteady for a moment, Ryan seemed to quickly gain his strength and balance.

  "Ready?"

  "Almost." Pulling what appeared to be a cell phone out of his pocket, Ryan strode over to the dead man, grabbed his hand, and ran his first finger across the screen. A moment later, he shook his head. "It's a Rossi. Not the Rossi."

  "Huh?"

  "According to finger print records, it's his brother Nael."

  "Which means the guy we're after is still on the loose."

  "Bingo." Ryan looked around the room. "Let's see what we can find and pack out of here in the next couple of minutes. Maybe we'll get lucky."

  Without another word, and constantly checking the doorway, Rogue dug through the battered desk, dragging out files, which he stuffed under his shirt. Ryan did the same, managing to slip a laptop under his vest along with a couple of business cards. With time running short and Rogue's neck hairs standing on end, he motioned to Ryan.

  With a nod, Ryan started toward the only exit in the room. Rogue stepped in front, instinctively assuming the lead. He didn't care if Ryan made faces or called him four letter words. His heart couldn't stand another near crisis like before. The only way to prevent it was to face what came first, move swiftly, and hope they didn't run out of lead before making it to the nearest exit.

  Sounds of war enveloped them. Explosions, the bark of gunfire, the yell of men all told of a desperate situation, one spiraling down the drain as they stood there.

  Lark's voice broke through the link, yelling for Loco. Twice she called with no answer. Only silence.

  Rogue's gut churned at what the lack of response more than likely meant. "Shit," he whispered to himself, feeling the mission falling to pieces.

  "Bryce's down!" Night injected in between heavy pants.

  "Fuck." Ryan muttered behind him.

  Lark came across again, her voice full of pain and anxiety.

  "Damn it," Ryan spit out behind him. "We have to do something. Anything. They're cutting us down like target practice dummies."

  "What I wouldn't give for Tempest and her missiles right now." An image of the petite brunette flashed before his eyes. He wondered if he would walk away from such a fiasco and ever see her again.

 
; "Air strike coming," Night rattled off in English, breaking his rule of no communication except in Navajo or, in today's case, also German. "Balls to the walls. Everyone out. Now!"

  Not bothering to ask questions, Rogue surged from the room, jumping over overturned furniture, piles of debris, and a body here and there, sprinting back the way they came. He heard Ryan right behind him, his boots crunching heavily on the floor, his breathing hard.

  Finding a gaping hole where a wall once stood, Rogue gestured and raced for it. Once they hit solid ground, both he and Ryan ran flat out, putting as much distance as possible between them and the compound. Hitting their previous position in a ditch, he slid to a stop, lying flat on his belly, firing now and again to provide cover for the other Wind Warriors still exiting the building. One hobbled, another trotted, but held one arm to his side. The last one, presumably Night, carried another man covered in solid black in a fireman's hold over his shoulders. All crept into the pre-dawn, searching for shelter.

  "Fire!" their leader ordered. "Incoming!"

  A missile with a fiery tail streaked across the sky, exploding immediately on impact with the deteriorating structure. Kaboom! A ball of fire rose from the home. The ground rumbled and shook like a seven on the Richter scale. Smaller explosions and the pings of bullets from an obvious weapons arsenal took up the song of destruction. Rogue curled into a ball facing downward, feeling the sting of debris pelleting his prone body. Glimpsing to the side, he found Ryan in the same situation, shielding his face as hot pieces rained down upon them.

  Peeking out, Rogue found a crater where the home once stood. No basement or tunnels remained, only a big blob of waste materials. Beside him, Ryan scurried to his feet, darting over to where Night lowered Bryce to the ground. Rogue followed at a trot.

  "How bad?" Ryan asked, reaching out to pull Lark into a tight hug.

  Loco nodded toward Spoon. "He took one in the arm. That's what happens when you're old and slow."

  For all the teasing, Rogue could see the lines of worry on Loco's face and the concern for his friend.

  Spoon flipped him off, but didn't argue.

  Ghost wandered up, his pale eyes taking in the situation even as he remained mute. Stepping back, he kept his gun at the ready, his gaze raking the entire area.

  "We thought you…" Lark trailed off.

  Loco grinned. "Nah. Lost my link in a scuffle. Damn tango squashed it under his boot."

  Bryce sat on the ground holding his knee, his face a testament to sheer pain. "Damn steps. Saved my life when I tripped down them. Missed a bullet but busted up my knee."

  Rogue kept a watch on all their backs as they checked in with one another, comparing notes, and formulating a new plan. The hum of chopper blades pulled his attention to the sky. Sure enough, a very familiar remodeled Huey hovered over the still burning compound, their eyes and ears from above, as she watched over them.

  Tempest. First thing he would do upon seeing her would be to spank her delectable ass for disobeying his orders to stay home. Right after kissing her senseless for coming to the rescue. Sending a salute to the air, he looked back at the small group.

  Though dirty, disheveled, and covered in black face paint, Lark leaned in and kissed Bryce soundly. The heady cure must have worked, judging by the wide smile on the former Marine and present day detective's face. With Ryan's assistance, he stood gingerly, keeping weight off his injured leg.

  "Let's go home," Night announced, taking Bryce's other side as they hobbled to where their vehicle was stashed. Everyone else fell into line with Ghost pulling up the rear.

  Chapter 22

  Cale, Night, Ghost, Ryan, Lark, and Rogue sat around a small table at a local hamburger joint. Having just scarfed down dinner, they turned to the pressing matter at hand, their thoughts with the two injured members of the team sitting in the hospital.

  Ryan released a tired sigh. After the raid in the wee hours of the morning, he'd spent most of the day up to his armpits in red tape, paperwork, and questions with no answers. Nigel Rossi had disappeared from under the FBI's nose. What little information Spoon pried from his brother's computer while sitting in a hospital bed brought about more anxiety and worries than it banished.

  "The contracts are already bought and paid for. They will continue despite the death of Rossi."

  "Names?" Ghost spoke for the first time since they sat down.

  Ryan nodded. "Spoon coaxed two names from Rossi's files. He's not positive they're hit men, but it looks promising."

  "Write them down." He plucked a napkin from the holder and pushed it over to Ryan.

  Ryan arched an eyebrow at the brown haired man with the pale blue eyes, but did as he asked, adding in every detail he could recall, anything to help track the potential killers faster.

  Ghost jotted down a number on a napkin and exchanged with Ryan. "I'm going hunting." With those words he tossed his trash in a waste can, strode through the side door, jumped in a nondescript black SUV, and drove off. In a blink, he vanished from sight.

  Everyone watched him go with mixed expressions on their faces.

  "What's his story?" Ryan asked.

  "No one knows. He says little, stays invisible most of the time, and never misses," Night answered after chewing the last bite of his hamburger.

  "What branch?"

  "SEAL Six."

  Cale whistled low. "Top of the line."

  Sipping his drink, Night took a moment to reply. "His service records are spotless, which part isn't sealed. Graduated first in his class in sniper school. Even the instructors never had a clue where he was. Thus, the name Ghost."

  "He looks sad. Scary, but sad," Lark said.

  "He looks like he's lived through hell and has the T-shirt to prove it," Loco muttered in awe.

  "He looks like an assassin," Rogue pointed out. Night's gaze met his. The flatness said he hit the nail on the head with his observation. Rogue rethought his philosophy on fearlessness. If there was a man who exhibited the skill, it was the man known only as Ghost.

  "What are we going to do?" Lark tossed out the question plastered on everyone's face.

  "Let Ghost do what he does best and watch our backs."

  "I don't like sitting on my hands and waiting for some marksman to hunt me or my family down," Cale growled.

  "Me either. He gets anywhere near Oakley and I'm going to…" Loco started in.

  "If nothing else, we can work on those same leads Ryan gave to Ghost. Track them down ourselves. Pass along information." Lark tapped a finger over her lips. "Try to stay a step ahead of him."

  "Good idea." Ryan jotted down what he knew on a handful of napkins, passing one to each person.

  "We're not without resources." Night nodded. "Ghost is without question an expert. But any directions we can provide might be appreciated."

  Rogue nodded. "So we scatter?"

  Lark checked her watch. "I need to get back to the hospital across the street. Dillon is watching the guys, but he'll want to be getting home to his pregnant wife soon."

  Cale grinned. "Poor guy. He's steamed about Night grounding him, but beside himself with joy at impending fatherhood."

  "He's needed at home more than here." Night shrugged before his face turned serious, checking off each person in attendance. "Watch your backs. Find out what you can. Report in anything you come across, no matter how small."

  "What about Ghost?" Lark asked.

  "He'll beat us to the tangos, I guarantee," Night answered, stood up, and led the rag-tag team out the front door.

  Chapter 23

  Rogue hitched a ride with Ryan for the trip home. Both sat in silence most of the way, occasionally tossing out topics of conversation that quickly dried up like a rain puddle in the Sahara desert.

  Ryan drove, his attention on the road while his mind whirled with thoughts, his body still humming with the aftereffects of adrenaline. Too jacked up to go home and sit in front of the television, he posed possibilities to himself, searching for an appropria
te outlet. Unfortunately, Rogue sat in the passenger seat, two feet away, his wide shoulders and thick upper body just an arm's reach away. Too close, yet not close enough.

  What am I thinking? How many times had he asked himself that same question since he agreed to give Rogue a lift and then couldn't keep his gaze off the highly masculine hunk next to him. Dozens. How many times had he questioned his sanity in the same amount of time? About the same number.

  Releasing a long sigh, he pulled to a stop at a red light. Unable to resist, he turned to Rogue, trying to read his body language. Tension still rode his former Army buddy hard, if the tight muscles, tapping fingers, and clenched jaw were to be believed. Not surprising after the hell they went through a couple hours ago. Yet, Rogue's deep brown gaze kept skipping over, as if he were checking out Ryan, trying to figure out some puzzle.

  That makes two of us.

  Gesturing to the next road, Ryan asked, "This the one?"

  "Yep. Brick front. Third on your left."

  Pulling into the driveway, Ryan absently noted the tidiness of the landscaping and front yard. Recently cut grass appeared thick and full, all the same height, like a lush green carpet. Three large trees provided shade, drawing attention to the covered front porch of the ranch style house. Instead of a normal street, Rogue's home sat on more of a side road where a cluster of houses lay separated by a few acres, giving each plenty of space, and a feel for country life, while remaining close to all the provisions city life held.

  "Want to come in for a beer?" Rogue pulled on the door latch, cracking his door. Pausing, he stared at Ryan, waiting for a reply.

  He shouldn't. Not now. With both of them revved up, needing a release for the pent up emotions and adrenaline from their mission. He didn't trust his behavior with a man who confused the dickens out of him, cranked up his libido, and pushed his buttons way too easily. Maybe when he was in complete control, under different circumstances.

  Something flickered in Rogue's eyes. Hurt? Concern? Regret? Whatever the case, Ryan's gut clenched. "Sure." The word slipped out before he could bite it back.