Dominate

by Pam Godwin

  “Why? What does he get out of it?”

  “Purpose. Belonging.” Luke stretched out an arm, indicating the sprawling mansion. “This was built as a safe house. He told me that he used to let people in his profession stay here to recharge and regroup. He gave up that job for a girl, lost the girl, and now all he has is the house. A nine-bedroom estate with gear and tech, designed for people like us. He supports our cause, trusts us enough to bring us here. We give him purpose. A place to belong.”

  “Makes sense.” Tomas looked at Van. “You recruited him how long ago?”

  “Six years.” Van met Liv’s eyes. “When I hunted down Traquero.”

  Traquero, the slave buyer who brutally raped Liv in front of Josh.

  When Van had learned about the assault, he lost his fucking mind and dismantled his sex slave operation. Then he hired Cole to find Traquero so Van could kill the monster, which he did. Gruesomely.

  Cole didn’t show up again until a year ago, when Tate hired him to locate Lucia and retrieve her from Tiago’s clutches.

  “What do you think we’re dealing with, Tommy?” Luke scraped a hand through his messy red hair, his gaze focused. “This can’t just be about a jealous ex-husband.”

  “Occam’s razor. The simplest explanation is usually the right one, and the simplest explanation is Mason Sutton.” The tension at the base of his skull disagreed. “I feel like we’re overlooking something. Can’t put my finger on it.”

  “If Rylee hasn’t told anyone about the bridge except you,” Luke said, “how did the hitman know about it? What does it have to do with anything?”

  “We won’t know those answers until we have a motivation. We need the hitman’s identity and that of who hired him.”

  “That’s Cole’s expertise.” Van reclined back, propping a socked foot on his knee. “Depending on who’s behind this, it could take weeks to uncover.”

  “I talked to Matias an hour ago.” Luke traced a finger along the edge of the table. “If this gets drawn out, he and Camila will fly in with the rest of the team.”

  His friends were restless, itching for action and the thrill of a fight. And missing their other halves.

  “We need to put our heads together.” Tomas scratched his jaw, gathering his thoughts. “Paul Kissinger started watching Rylee six months ago. Three months before that, she filed a protective order again Mason. Paul found me through a tracking device on her truck. A standard device that is widely available. Far different than the tech that was planted in her house.”

  “Do we know when that tech was planted?” Liv asked.

  “Recently. The components are so new that Cole has never seen its kind before.”

  Her eyes hardened. “Do you think we’re dealing with two unrelated threats?”

  “The hitman made contact with Paul’s phone. We’re still waiting on the analysis from the call logs, but we know there’s a connection.”

  “It could be a criminal Rylee testified against,” Luke said. “Or a family member of one of those criminals. Someone with a vendetta against her.”

  “Or it could be any of the hundreds of traffickers we’ve taken out. We never leave loose ends, but mistakes happen.”

  “Whoever this is, they’re not after your emails. Rylee’s house hasn’t been ransacked. No one seems to be searching for the copies she made.”

  “Unless they already have them.” His insides tightened.

  Her house was compromised. At some point, very soon, he needed to get those email copies and talk to her about selling the property and moving to Colombia.

  He went back and forth with his friends for the next hour. The conversation circled, discarding theories and forming new ones. Eventually, Tate rapped on the window, announcing dinner, and they moved the discussion inside.

  Tate and Lucia had prepared a spread of Mexican food—enchiladas, tacos, and other fixings Tomas could name.

  Cole breezed around the large dining table, setting up numerous laptops, printers, phones, and other electronics.

  Behind him, Rylee stood at a giant whiteboard that had been wheeled in on a stand. The marker in her hand flew across the surface, listing evidence and timelines, drawing diagrams, and collating links between people, places, and events.

  While the seductive shape of her ass in those jeans tried to steal his attention, it was her mind that held him rapt, gripped in a state of awe. She’d managed to organize the tangle of conversations he’d just exchanged with his friends into an orderly, concise illustration.

  As she worked, he made them both plates of food. Cole hadn’t stopped messing with his equipment to eat, so Tomas made a plate for him, too.

  Setting the heaping dishes on the table, he approached her back and dragged his nose through her soft hair. “You’ve done this before.”

  “Well, I’ve spent a lot of time holed up in cubicles with detectives, but they don’t use evidence boards like this. Everything goes into advanced computer programs. It’s a more efficient way to connect findings.”

  She tapped the marker on her chin, staring at her work. Her other hand absently drifted behind her to rest on his hip. It was a simple thing, just a casual touch, but it meant so much more. It was familiarity, comfort, and connection. It was everything.

  “Right now, the one currency we have to work with is time,” she said. “There isn’t a serial killer on the loose or an abducted person held somewhere. No one’s breathing down our necks. So I thought the board would be helpful to kick around ideas.”

  “Is this what you were discussing with Cole?”

  “No.” She laughed uncomfortably and turned around, her eyes watching Cole head toward the hall for more supplies. “I talked to him about you, me, my failed marriage, and the woman he built that dance room for. Relationship stuff. I did the talking. He indulged me by not kicking me out.”

  “He was listening.” He stroked his thumb across her pillowy lips. “Listening to a beautiful, brilliant psychologist.”

  “Oh, my God.” She laughed again. “I’m a terrible therapist. Therapists listen.”

  “You listened to me.”

  “And changed my major because I thought I could fix things.” She touched his face, his gaze soft with affection. “Some things don’t need to be fixed.” With a small smile, she turned back to the board. “This has always been my dream. Investigation. Profiling. Criminal justice.”

  “You’re in the right place for that. With us. I know it’s too soon to make demands—”

  She snorted. “You’ve been making demands since day one.”

  “Quit your job.”

  “Done.”

  “Just like that?”

  “I took a sabbatical because I hate that fucking job. The detectives pull me into their sit-downs when they have questions, but I’m never part of the analysis or action. I watch from the sidelines, bored out of my mind. When I drove into the desert, I was searching for so many things. A new life, friendship, happiness, possibilities…” She pressed her lips against his chest. “You.”

  He was a goner. Utterly, completely lost for this woman.

  Pulling her close, he wrapped his arms around her and scoured his fumbling brain for something profound to say. “This is nice.”

  Lame.

  “This is nice.” She hugged his waist and perched her chin on his breastbone, smiling up at him. “I love the growly, aggressive, tough-guy thing you have going on, but it’s also nice to just be able to touch you like this, to hold you without expectation or agenda.”

  Dishes clinked, voices murmured, boots scuffed—the din of family coming together for a meal.

  He held her until she pulled away, turning back to her evidence board.

  “Eat.” He grabbed her shoulders and turned her toward the table.

  She sat with a harrumph and ate with a smile in her eyes.

  Cole returned a moment later, found his plate, and carried it to the board.

  “This is great, Rylee.” He took in her detailed list
s and diagrams, the fork absently digging into his food. Then he went still. “What is this?”

  “What?” Rylee wiped her mouth and joined him at the board.

  “These words.” Cole pointed the fork at the guesswork she’d made from the hitman’s dying gibberish. “What does this mean? The bridge?”

  “That’s what he said. I don’t know.” She stood taller, defensive, her expression tightening. “He said he was there because of the bridge. The rest…I don’t know. It sounded like Thursday or thirsty or—”

  “Thurney.” Cole’s whisper shuddered the air, and the plate in his hand slowly tipped.

  “Yes. That’s it. What—?” She grabbed the dish as it tumbled, unable to stop its descent. “Shit!”

  Enchiladas and dishware exploded across the floor, but Tomas wasn’t interested in the mess. He was interested in Cole’s stark, ghost-white expression as the man spun, scanning the room for something.

  “What does Thurney mean, Cole?” Tomas stood, his adrenaline spiking.

  Cole’s shell-shocked eyes landed on a pile of burner phones. He snatched one and turned away as he punched in a number and held it to his ear.

  Who the fuck was he calling?

  In the next breath, he barked into the phone, “Call me back on a secure line.”

  He hung up and stared at the device as muscles flexed across his back.

  “Cole.” Liv broke the silence. “What’s going on?”

  The phone buzzed, and Cole lifted it to his ear. “Your location?” A pause. “Lock it down. Where is she?” He gripped his hair, his voice plunging into a seething roar. “Fucking get her. Bring her to the safe house!” He pivoted, pacing, listening to whoever was on the other end. Then he slammed to a stop. “No, goddammit. I want her here. It’s Thurney. Yeah, you heard me. I’ll be in touch.”

  He disconnected, and a sharp, icy hush lanced through the room. Tomas didn’t breathe. No one did as Cole stood frozen, staring at nothing.

  Then he turned toward the table, slowly, too calmly, and slammed the phone down on the surface, smashing it into pieces. A collective flinch rippled the air.

  “Thurney Bridge.” Cole raised his eyes, divisive and chilling. “It’s where I lost my life.”

  A thousand questions piled up as Tomas put together everything he knew about Cole Hartman. It wasn’t much. The man had more secrets than friends.

  One question was answered, though. Thurney Bridge, wherever that was, wasn’t Rylee’s bridge.

  As that detail clicked into place, her lips parted, her gorgeous silver eyes round and glassy. She had nothing to do with this. At least, not at the foundation.

  Someone had connected her to Cole and put a hit on her.

  Why? Who was Cole Hartman?

  Tomas had learned some things about the man over the past two weeks, but nothing about losing his life on Thurney Bridge. Except he remembered a conversation they’d had in the desert.

  I was sent out in the field for a while. Mistakes were made, and I was forced to fake my death to protect her. By the time I cleaned up the mess, quit the job, and returned home to her, she’d fallen in love with my best friend.

  Whatever Cole was mixed up in—then and now—put Rylee and the entire team at risk.

  “Are we safe?” Tomas met Cole’s eyes. “Right now, in your house, are we safe?”

  “Yes.” Cole straightened and ran his hands down his face. “This is the safest place in the world.” He surveyed the room, taking in the disbelieving expressions around the table, and sighed. “The man I just called was my handler. He was also my best friend until he married my fiancée.”

  “That sounds deliciously nasty.” Van didn’t smile.

  “The point is, while Danni is no longer my…” Cole’s hand clenched. “While she’s no longer mine, I still protect her. She was a target during my last mission. A mission that ended with me taking a bullet on Thurney Bridge. Now she’s in danger again, and there’s nowhere I’d rather her be than in this house.”

  Tomas was surprised to finally hear the name of the mysterious woman who’d leveled Cole’s world.

  “Is she coming here?” Rylee tilted her pretty head, concern softening her eyes. “Did your best friend agree to bring her?”

  “No.” One word and Cole’s face clouded over.

  “Let’s go back to the bullet,” Tomas said. “Is that when you faked your death?”

  “Yeah. I was wearing bullet-resistant clothing. High-tech stuff.” Cole tapped his sternum. “The bullet broke skin, fractured ribs, but didn’t enter my body. I fell into the river below and swam out of sight. If I hadn’t faked my death, the perpetrator would’ve killed Danni.”

  “Where’s the perpetrator now?” Rylee asked.

  “She’s in prison. That is a fact I can one-hundred-percent guarantee. I monitor her status. She’ll never see daylight again.”

  “You were shot by a woman?” She arched a brow.

  “She was my partner,” he growled, his eyes dark and murky. “A traitor to the agency.”

  “Which agency?” Tomas leaned over the table. “No more secrets, Cole.”

  “Those aren’t my secrets. It’s classified, and sharing classified information is punishable by law.”

  Tiago’s dark laugh turned all heads toward the corner of the kitchen, which was darkened merely by his presence and the deadly look in his eyes. “You can’t scare this group with threats of your law.”

  “It’s not my law.”

  “Who the fuck cares? The only law we follow is our own. You’re one of us. Now tell us what you were involved in.”

  “Espionage.”

  “We need more than that,” Liv sang in an eerily melodic voice that crashed into a spine-tingling command. “Trust us, Cole.”

  Cole paced to the windows and laced his fingers behind his neck. The entire room seemed to strain toward him, tense with anticipation.

  He made them wait, building the silence into a volatile, rumbling thunderstorm. Fingers drummed. Shoes tapped. Molars sawed. Patience thinned.

  At last, Cole turned and faced them, decision made.

  “I retired from a special unit, a clandestine group, that goes by many names.” He folded his hands behind him, feet braced apart, voice monotone. “OGA, ISA, Optimized Talent, Gray Fox… Whenever there’s a classified spill, the designator changes. But those inside refer to it as the activity. I was a deep undercover operative, deployed to foreign nations to collect information. Crucial information. The kind that changes the outcome of wars. Or prevents them, as it were.” He rolled his neck, cracking it. “I was the eyes and ears in the shadows, and I was fucking good at it. Until Thurney.”

  Tomas’ head pounded as he came to terms with what they were dealing with. The Freedom Fighters had taken down some scary motherfuckers, solidified a trusted relationship with the Restrepo Cartel, and learned the ins and outs of the criminal underground. But top-secret espionage and government corruption? This was way out of their league.

  “What happened on Thurney Bridge?” he asked.

  “I was embedded deep within the enemy’s ranks. But the enemy, as it turned out, was my partner. She was ambitious and power-hungry and turned her back on her country to make some money.” He gripped his neck. “Everyone connected to her was apprehended. No stone left unturned. The activity was thorough in this.”

  “Not thorough enough,” Van drawled. “Someone knows about Thurney and put a hit on Rylee, who happens to know everything there is to know about us.”

  “I can’t even begin to guess who it is or what they want.” Cole’s gaze swept over the laptops and gear that littered the long table. “I need to sit down, pore through the findings, and make decisions on how to proceed.”

  “We need to do that.” Tomas pointed a finger around the room. “We’re not from your world, and we don’t know shit about your tech. But we’re your team now. Train us. Put us to work.”

  “All right.” Cole nodded, his expression thoughtful, maybe even
relieved. A split-second later, he snapped into full-on work mode. “We need to scrape through every detail of my last mission. Identify the actors—enemies, allies, informants, and everyone in between—and run a cross-connection between those actors and Mason Sutton, Paul Kissinger, and Daniel Millstreet.”

  “Daniel Millstreet?” Rylee asked.

  “The cunt you killed in the motel room. I received confirmation on his identity an hour ago.” He strode toward the mess of food he’d dropped on the floor.

  “I’ll get it.” Tomas held out his hand, itching for something to do. “You’ll tell us how you found his name?”

  “I’ll show you everything.”

  Over the next two weeks, Tomas sat side by side with his team, absorbed in congressional documents, private phone records, and handwritten reports of Cole’s undercover missions. Handwritten by Cole. Godawful penmanship. The scrawl was so terrible it made Tomas’ eyes cross. It was also really goddamn impressive.

  Under U.S. law, Cole couldn’t make copies of briefings or anything related to his job. But on the heels of each operation, he’d written everything down by memory, filed it meticulously, and kept the notes in his armory.

  Cole hadn’t just given them the key to his entire life. He’d literally put details of national security in their hands. In the filthy hands of vigilante criminals.

  If that didn’t say trust, nothing did.

  The first week of digging through reports was an eye-opening experience, the entire team engrossed in their newfound knowledge of government inner-workings.

  The classified intel didn’t interest Tomas, but it opened a portal into Cole’s extraordinarily unique skill set. Bottom line, Cole was a master at milking information. He knew how to talk to informants, manipulate dangerous adversaries, and use social engineering to obtain what he needed.

  He no longer had access to government systems and confidential records, but he never needed that access. He only had to identify who had the access and massage them into unknowingly leaking the information he was after.

  That had been the core of his job in the activity. He slipped behind enemy lines, deep undercover, and went to work, befriending and inveigling.