by Kelly Fox
Genuine interest flares in his eyes. “A real live cowboy?”
I doff an imaginary hat in his direction and lay the accent on thick. “Yessir. My ranch has twenty thousand head of cattle and about a hundred horses.”
He buys the ridiculous story, and I know that I’ll have a warm bed for the night.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
I pick up my tumbler and raise the glass, draining it. “Of course, and… thank you.”
I fuck him with my clothes on, then leave his hotel room early the next morning and, at his insistence, let his driver take me to Charles de Gaulle. I grab the ticket that DB has waiting for me and take my seat at the window on a commercial flight, making a pillow of my coat of armor. The cute flight attendant offers a drink, so I ask for a gin and tonic and tell him to keep them coming.
Problem was, I never did stop.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jean-Pierre
There is something like horror that is cascading across Jake’s face, and I know immediately that he is triggered. Badly. He is as solid as a block of ice, still, as though he were a piece of art. I reach for his hand and squeeze it.
Animation returns to his form, and he rips his hand from mine, eyes wide, subtly shaking his head at me. It’s like he’s trying to tell me something with just his facial expression, and I can’t read it. He looks desperate, terrified. And there is something in the tone of Lucas’s voice and the wideness of his smile that I don’t like. At all. Why is he playing around with a Russian accent? It’s dark and… threatening. And why does he call him by the name that everyone knows that he hates?
“Jake,” I whisper against his ear. “Up or down?”
His body trembles and jerks at the contact. Slowly, with the smallest movement possible, as though his very survival depends upon hiding it, I watch his hand form into a fist and twist his thumb down.
It has taken me too long to account for it, but he is saying with his seizing body and shaking thumb that Lucas is one of the people who hurt him, and the thought causes a slithering in my stomach.
“Paris?” I ask, hoping beyond all hope that I am wrong.
Again, with the smallest economy of movement possible on a human being, he gives me one nod. One, single nod. He is a shaking, shivering mess in front of me, making a sound like he’s choking. What’s worse is the leer on Lucas’s face.
You see, friends are precious to me. Because I lost so many in the genocide. And this friend of mine has his hand resting on an enormous gun in his waistline, daring me to go after him. “Lucas, did you know who he was? Did you know who I was seeing?”
Ignoring my questions, he leans down and whispers into Jake’s ear. “They actually don’t care what I do with you, as long as I get rid of you. I wasn’t very good when I first met you, but I got better. Believe me, Jacob, this time you will break.”
A man in a red shirt is spinning his gun on the counter by the front entrance, and I’m trying to see if he’s got someone by the back door when Lucas’s miserable, dark chuckle invades my senses.
“I don’t know what you are looking for, Jean-Pierre, but I have a gun, and you have fancy yoga pants. Game over.” His Russian accent is making me doubt my reality.
He turns to Jake and says in that barbed-wire voice, “This doesn’t end well for you no matter what you do, but if you decide to come quietly, I’ll leave your national hero out of it. Resist and I’ll start with him before taking my time on you. It’s your choice.”
His words echo around this place that has become a sanctuary to so many, and I want to rip him apart. I want nothing more than to take care of Lucas the way I took care of Leopold’s attackers, but when I look at Jake trying so hard to pull himself out of panic, to ground himself in the moment, I have a moment of absolute clarity.
He doesn’t need a hero.
He needs a reminder.
Jake
I thought I’d put the worst of that horrible day in Paris behind me, but I was wrong. My ineptitude on that mission continues to fuck me over, and now it means that the man I love more than anything is in danger. I’m so fucking terrified and royally pissed. And tempted to follow Lucas’s order.
I look into Jean-Pierre’s eyes, silently asking for forgiveness, hoping he won’t hate me after seeing how weak I really am. The look he gives me back, however, is supremely confident. Within seconds, the spiraling messages of guilt and shame and terror lose steam and fall apart. He squares up his shoulders, and I match his posture, feeling the grounding weight of the chain around my neck, automatically waiting for his command.
Holding up his pinky finger, he smiles and says in his slow, rich voice, “Jake. Remember who you are.”
A goofy Lion King reference in the middle of an active situation is probably not the method I would have used, but… oh.
Oh.
There’s one critical detail that Lucas has forgotten, and maybe it’s because, until this very moment, I kinda had, too. You see, I was a fucking black-ops specialist, and I was damned good at my job. My intelligence-gathering from a throwaway op stopped ambushes and saved lives. More importantly, this isn’t Paris. I’m not in this alone, and he’s not flanked by three muscle-bound Spetznaz operatives. He’s still a low-level grunt with a parlor-trick accent and a weak constitution, probably the embarrassing nephew of someone impressive, and he’d sucker punched me when I wasn’t looking.
The more I think about it, the more I know in my guts that he should be dead already. I have seen several versions of this in my career, and it embarrasses me to no end that he got the drop on me. I would bet my shiny, new truck that someone else ran the intelligence and told him that he had to go clean up his mess. Point in fact, he’s tucked his Glock into his waistband, just asking to have his dick shot off. His even lower-level buddy is twirling his Desert Eagle on the counter like a fidget spinner. I can’t fucking believe that they haven’t both died from their own stupidity at this point.
Yeah, I’d told DB that I didn’t do wet work anymore, but there are exceptions to every rule.
I pause, scanning Jean-Pierre’s face, just in case this next bit doesn’t work out the way I want it to, and then I wink at the love of my life.
Jean-Pierre, the sun around which I would gladly orbit for the rest of my life, sees me in that moment. Really sees me. The dark, the light, the failures, the successes, all of it. He pauses for a hairbreadth of a moment, then opens a large palm toward Lucas, a go-ahead gesture accompanied by a smug grin. His trust and belief in me make me soar.
I return my focus to Lucas and hold my arms out, the way one might if one were being handcuffed. You see, the gesture he should have been looking for is hands up. Hands forward is going to be a problem for him, one his fucking little pea brain hasn’t quite sussed out yet. He reaches for my hands, and with a subtle lean I cause him to miss, and then pick the Glock from his waistband like the Dickensian orphan that I am.
Before anyone can react, there’s a loud noise that fractures more of my psyche, and a black hole, approximately nine millimeters in diameter, that appears in the middle of the red shirt’s forehead. Clearly not a fan of Star Trek, or he’d have chosen different fucking attire for this mission.
I stare at the smoking gun in my hand, wrestling past the numbness that threatens, feeling the ground under my feet as though it’s the first time I’m understanding gravity. The man calling himself Lucas gags at the blood, then falls gracelessly on me, grabbing for the gun, knocking it out of my hand, sending it skating across a smooth bit of flooring. I distantly register the sound of the back door, then pounding footsteps like thunder across the gym.
The numbness blinks away in an instant, and using another subtle, intrinsic move, I step into Lucas’s stride, throwing him slightly off balance. Before he can recover, Lucas is ripped away from me, his face going purple, his pale eyes bulging as Stephen Benning uses his bulky strength and that one good arm of his to choke him into submission.
Vein Porn for the w
in.
Ivan, Benning’s one-armed friend, is not too far behind and gets on the floor, twisting his legs with Lucas’s, pulling Lucas’s foot under his armpit as he levers his own foot against Lucas’s chest, locking him under control.
I stumble back from the scrum and into Nick, who’s holding the discarded gun like he’s never left the service. He grunts as he steps around me and continues his sweep of the gym. His jaw is locked, his eyes rove the space like a predator, and he barely acknowledges my presence. Yeah, coulda used him in Paris.
As I step back to give Nick space, I bump into Jean-Pierre, whose large arms automatically pull me to him. I want to get back into the thick of it, but he holds firm, a soft “Mon corbeau mortel” spilling from his lips. My deadly raven.
Lucas continues to struggle unsuccessfully against the four-limbed combination of Benning and Ivan, and at the same time, the Bash Brothers burst through the door like twin Viking heroes, guns drawn as they clear the room. They both laugh when they see that Lucas is on the floor, being held by the power combination of Ivan and Benning.
Yanking zip ties out of his back pocket, the one who is a doctor takes over and trusses Lucas up, tossing him over his shoulder. The twin who is the electrical engineer checks the body behind the counter. “Is this dead guy one of ours?” I shake my head, and he pops the guy up on his shoulder, much like I’ve seen him do with a huge tire over at the Corner of Heavy Things. With not a single bobble under the dead weight, he joins his brother, and they forearm bump Benning and Ivan, then walk out the back door.
The rumble of a big truck engine catches my attention, and we follow them outside. A scowling, solidly built salt-and-cinnamon-haired man jumps down from a huge double-cab white truck and helps Dr. Viking wrangle the still-struggling Lucas. A black woman with braided hair opens the tailgate and holds out a tarp for Engineer Viking, who tosses the dead guy into the bed and quickly wraps him in the tarp, then pulls the cover over the length of the bed, locking it in place. The twins jump in the back seat, the redhead and the woman with the braids jump in the front, and she salutes me before they drive off. Not sure I give a fuck about where they’re taking him, but I do have a few questions for my friend DB.
Then again… not my circus, not my monkeys.
I turn my attention back to Jean-Pierre. “Should I call the police?” he asks, his voice full of awe and pride.
I put my hand on his, trying to figure out what to say as Nick sidles up next to us and provides the cold truth. “He’s not going to be handled through the judicial system, buddy. So no, do not call the cops.”
Nick glances up at the window and makes the “come on” gesture. Seconds later, an angry Elijah makes his way down the stairs.
“I could have helped, Nick. Not my first rodeo.”
Nick’s face goes soft, a stunning difference from the lock-jawed determination of a few minutes ago, and he moves a rogue lock of hair out of Elijah’s eyes. “It wasn’t about whether or not you could help. It was about the fact that I’d never be able to concentrate if I knew you were in danger.”
The disgruntled look melts from Elijah’s face, and he reaches up for a kiss, which… yowsa, Nick returns with heat.
Giving them a moment, Jean-Pierre and I walk back into the gym, both of us still a little shaky. We turn our attention to the fabulously limbed duo, who seem to have forgotten that we exist. Ivan’s lip is busted from where Lucas’s boot caught him, and all of Benning’s prosthetics have gone slightly catawampus. Benning reaches out to wipe the blood from Ivan’s lip as Ivan goes about adjusting Benning’s various prostheses, murmuring about how the violent takedown had rubbed the skin around one of Benning’s leg stumps raw. He strokes the delicate skin and bites his lip, upset. Benning smiles and runs his hand through the younger man’s hair. “It’s okay, khairaa. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
Jean-Pierre leans and whispers in my ear, “Are you seeing this?”
I turn to him, kinda shocked. “I know, right? What was that last word?”
He shrugs and we laugh at… everything, then kiss each other deeply, letting the adrenaline bleed out.
“Dammit. You couldn’t wait one more week?” I startle at Elijah’s voice as he and Nick walk in, and I look up in time to see him handing a crisp five-dollar bill to Nick, who smiles broadly as he snatches the money away from his boyfriend. I didn’t have the heart to tell him we’d already been together for a few weeks at this point.
“Nick, I—” Nick holds up his hand, interrupting my attempt at an explanation, or at least an apology for killing someone in his gym.
“Your friend DB called me. On my private number,” he says, sounding mildly accusatory, “and minutes later we heard the shot, so I called Roly and got down here as soon as I could.” Nick pats his new prosthesis and seems pretty pleased with its performance.
At that moment Roly comes running into the gym, executes a sweep of the space, then sees Jean-Pierre kissing my cheek and bangs his fist down on the counter. With a reproachful glare, he asks, “You couldn’t have figured your shit out last week?”
“Y’all do know that someone died here, right?” I ask, gesturing at the three of them.
Elijah cracks a smile that is five kinds of wrong. “Eh. Some people just need killing.”
Roly and Nick look at each other, then send expectant eyebrows in my direction.
“What?” I ask, looking behind me.
Nick hands me back the gun I’d nicked from Lucas. “You still going to pretend that you washed out after the Naval Academy?”
I mean, obviously not. The Russians sent someone to kill me; they don’t reserve that kind of attention for just anyone. “Pretty sure the cat’s out of the bag on that one.”
He presses gently, concern on his face. “Gonna tell us what you were up to?”
I glance at Roly. “Maybe one day.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jean-Pierre
Benning and Ivan, who seem to have carpooled to the early-morning class, leave in Benning’s car. We put out a cancellation notice for the class and make our way up to Nick and Elijah’s apartment, where we sit next to Roly on the comfortable couches as Jake calls his friend.
“DB.” The exhaustion of a thousand lifetimes can be heard in the way he says his friend’s name.
“Jake, buddy, I’m so glad to hear your voice.” His is rough as he says this, knowing that we’d come too close to a bad outcome. “The twins filled me in.”
Jake knuckles away a few tears. “Just so you know, you’re on speakerphone with trusted people.” Everyone in the room says their hellos, and Jake continues. “How exactly did the twins come in like big damned heroes?”
“They owed me a favor and were already on the way. Then I couldn’t get you back on the phone, so I told them to go in swinging.”
Jake nods, then asks, “We need to figure out next steps. What’s our sitrep?”
“I can’t say much, except that you’d run afoul of the cousin of some scary motherfuckers on the Russian side.” I grip Jake closer to me as DB continues. “But whatever organization the twins work for is way fucking scarier.”
“You mean the black woman with the braids and the middle-aged white dude? The redhead?” Nick asks, incredulous.
DB whistles sharply. “They sent those two? Fuck, the Bash Brothers weren’t playing around. You seriously need to comp them whatever they’re paying in gym fees. They brought in the two scariest motherfuckers they have.”
Nick disagrees. “But the twins are way more—”
“Trust me, dude. Of all the people to meet in a dark alley, stick with the twins.”
I ask Jake for the phone and speak into the microphone. “DB, this is Jean-Pierre.”
“Hi, Jean-Pierre. What questions do you have?”
“I don’t know any of these people. I don’t even know you. How can I be certain that my beloved is safe? How do we know that the Russians won’t come back and try again?”
Roly smi
les and mouths beloved? and I pull Jake closer to me, kissing his temple, and he leans into my shoulder. I nod and he and Elijah both put their hands to their mouths, eyes shiny.
“That’s a good question, and the unfortunate answer is, certainty isn’t a game we can play here. But I trust the twins, and if they give the all clear, you can take that to the bank.”
“Have we been given the all clear?”
“Not yet. And that’s kinda what I wanted to talk about. It’d be good if you have a place where you can chill out; that’ll give us a chance to run down the rest of the intel.”
Heath has a large piece of land that houses several rental properties out by Fredericksburg. “So, if I have access to a remote cabin, are you saying that would be ideal?”
The line goes quiet for a minute, then DB replies, “I think that might work. I’m not a fan of remote, but I certainly wouldn’t be mad if you stayed out of Austin for a couple of days.”
Nick leans in and asks, “What about the gym? Should I shut it down for a couple of days as well?”
DB laughs. “Honestly, if it were anything but a gym lousy with combat vets, I might be tempted to have you close for a few days as well. But, as I understand it, two of your regulars helped hold Lucas down while the cavalry arrived.”
“True story—and those guys only have four limbs between the two of them.”
As Nick and DB finalize the call, I lean over and whisper, “Jake, let’s go pack for a weekend away.”
Jake looks at me, a small smile playing across his lips. I know it amuses him when I tell him what to do out here in the real world. Still, I notice that he tends to do as asked because I think he’s figured out that he gets rewarded for it when we are behind closed doors. “Sounds like a plan, my love.”
The guys around us shuffle around uncomfortably. Roly is the first to speak up. “Wow, didn’t know you were already going all in on the love talk.”