by Misty Evans
Hunter was already bleeding back into the shadows. Connor felt the itch too—the one that signaled he was about to enter the action.
Two years, three months, and fourteen days since that fateful day. His PTSD demon chuckled deep inside his head, waiting, ready to reach out with the icy cold hand of fear and clamp down on him.
He jiggled his shoulders, rolled his neck. He had to stay loose, stay calm. Cal and Beatrice were depending on him.
But Sabrina wasn’t easily put off. “The best way you can help us is to set off that distraction,” he told her. “Once things are under our control, I’ll give you the all-clear over the comm.”
She reached out and touched his arm. “Be careful, okay?”
He stepped away from her touch. “Get going.”
“Connor…”
Before he realized what she was about to do, she threw her arms around him, making him once again go motionless.
“Please,” she whispered, her warm breath on his neck. “Please, be careful.”
And then she was gone, disappearing into the woods with a set of fireworks and explicit instructions that Connor was pretty sure she wasn’t going to follow.
Chapter Six
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CAL WAS BLEEDING heavily. He swore through gritted teeth as he pulled himself across the living room floor. He’d used Beatrice’s scarf to tie up his thigh, but blood had already seeped through that and he didn’t have anything to use for his arm.
He was definitely going to have to sand the floor and restain the oak after he’d bled all over it.
The woman and her goons had fled the house, but their van was still out front. They weren’t leaving until they got what they wanted.
Beatrice.
All to get back at him.
They obviously hadn’t expected B to be in labor.
Or to come out of the bedroom firing.
As a SEAL, he’d seen some pretty crazy things. None, however, topped his pregnant wife—on the verge of giving birth—saving his ass from a terrorist.
Good thing Maria had been armed and able to help him get her back into the bedroom. Of all the ways he’d imagined this birth could go, an ambush to kidnap his wife and unborn child had never entered his mind.
Ebba Nielsson. He remembered her father and brother. The senior Nielsson had run a legitimate international antiquities business but his son had dabbled in black market pieces, a go-between broker for terrorists who raided and stole priceless artifacts in order to sell them and fund their activities. Hans and Steffen had both died during a raid to take out a sheik named Zayed. Ebba had been left with the family business and some pissed off terrorists on her heels.
Unfortunately, she’d followed in her brother’s footsteps and had taken the antiquities business fully into the black market, making her one of the women of Interpol’s top 100 wanted criminals.
Cal’s SEAL team had only been after Zayed. Ebba was correct about Hans and Steffen being unfortunate collateral. Hans wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the sheikh’s compound when the SEALs landed. Steffen either. Steffen was there for a private party involving the high-ranking leaders of an international trafficking ring. His father, having discovered some of Steffen’s illegal dealings with the sheikh, crashed the party only minutes before the SEALs did, in an effort to confront his son. The sheikh made it out alive. So did a few of the terrorists who were now being detained for their crimes against the US and France.
Hans and Steffen did not.
Now Ebba was here for revenge.
An eye for an eye.
Cal had killed her family. She was here to kill his.
White-hot anger surged through his system. Over my dead body.
Beatrice and his child were innocent of anything he’d done over the years. The deaths on his head were justifiable, all except Hans Nielsson. Hans had been an unfortunate bystander, but the SEALs hadn’t even known he would be there. There was no way he would let his wife and child pay for that unfortunate accident.
Cal used the wall to shove himself into a standing position. Where was Hunter? Had Connor managed to raise anyone to help them?
The pain from his gunshot wounds was tremendous, but he ignored it. “Hunter, do you read?”
A man’s voice came back, but not one he expected.
“Zeppelin, this is Slash. Coldplay is engaged. I’m on your flank. Over.”
Slash. Connor was here.
Cal tipped his head back against the wall. The kid had major PTSD after the torture he’d suffered at the hands of 12 September. Having sprung to life on September 12th, 2001, less than 24 hours after 9/11, the group was young in terms of militant fanatics, but they were ruthless and stayed well hidden—as opposed to their terrorist counterparts who constantly sought the world’s attention. Many of the “anonymous” international crimes committed in the past ten years were most likely the doing of 12 September.
If it weren’t for Beatrice and all the therapy she’d had Connor involved in, he’d probably be curled up in a fetal position in some psych ward.
Or dead.
“Good to hear your voice, Slash,” Cal said. “Tell me you brought guns and SFI backup.”
“Copy that on both counts, sir,” the kid replied. “Your attackers appear to have retreated but are still in range. Anything I should know about before I come in?”
Connor had been routinely brutalized after his capture and he’d been forced to witness the torture, and eventual death, of two of his teammates as well. Cal knew he carried their deaths on his conscience. Not something a man ever got over, especially not a SEAL.
Connor’s whole unit had walked into one giant trap and that’s how Connor and his two buddies ended up prisoners. Cal couldn’t blame the kid for being gun shy about walking into another.
“None that I know of. I’m slightly immobile, so I don’t have clear intel on the back door. Be careful.”
“Copy that. Are you injured?”
“Nothing serious,” Cal lied. His vision was blurry and he felt lightheaded.
“Is Queen B injured?”
“Negative. I believe she’s quite pissed, though.”
They shared a chuckle, then Connor sobered. “Sir, I have a problem at the back door.”
Cal’s body felt like it weighed more than it did. He leaned heavily on the wall and locked his knees so they wouldn’t give out. “What is it?”
“Infrared laser points around the perimeter. Is this part of your security system?”
Laser trip wires? He hadn’t gotten around to installing that level of security yet. “Negative. Source?”
“Not sure.” Cal heard the faint sound of movement as Connor must have been following the trail. “Ho boy.”
The last two words were said so quietly, Cal almost didn’t hear them. But they came out like a curse and that made his heart dip into his solar plexus. “What is it, Slash?”
What he got back was a long pause that made Cal push off the wall and start putting one foot in front of the other. It was more like dragging one foot behind the other, but at least he was moving.
“You’re wired, Zeppelin.”
“Wired as in…?”
A heavy sigh. “A bomb, sir.” Connor’s voice was tightly controlled. “You’re wired to blow.”
THROUGH HIS NVGS, Connor saw the web of infrared trip wires leading to a tiny bomb positioned on the southeast corner of the house.
Invisible to the naked eye, the thin threads would set off the bomb if anyone tripped them, going in—or out—the door.
So the group sat out front, waiting to pick off anyone who tried to come out that way, and they’d used the laser wires to ensure that anyone going in or out the backdoor would trigger the bomb.
Either way, Cal and Beatrice were screwed.
“Talk to me, Slash,” Cal’s voice said over the comm. “What kind of bomb is it?”
Connor backe
d away slowly from the building, his breath coming in short, hard gasps.
Billie Argon.
Saul Kohen.
Every day, Connor saw their faces. Every night when he closed his eyes, they were in his dreams.
His two best friends. His brothers-in-arms.
Billie had been the explosives expert. He’d often told Connor the only thing he needed to know about bombs was that they were volatile little bitches and tended to kill you.
Steer clear, he heard Billie say to him. Call in someone who knows what he’s doing.
“Slash?” Cal’s voice cut through the mental chatter. “You there?”
Connor wiped sweat from his forehead and eyed the device on the corner of the house. “Working on it, sir.”
A small box, barely bigger than a brick, was attached at the base of the house. He stepped closer and his already narrow window of time got smaller.
Tiny red numbers flashed on the top of the box.
A timer.
Counting down with less than seven minutes on it.
Sorry, Billie. No time to call in that expert.
They had to go out the front. Connor hadn’t heard any sounds suggesting Hunter had incapacitated the men in the van. Hunter hadn’t commented on the bomb predicament either. Was he dead or simply not in a spot to speak without being overheard?
Connor hoped it was the latter.
But how the hell was he going to get Cal and Beatrice, not to mention the midwife, out of the house before that bomb went off?
Beatrice was in labor. Cal was injured, probably pretty badly even though he wasn’t copping to it.
The oak tree above Connor swayed in the breeze, sending a shadow over the house. Connor glanced up and saw a large branch, as big around as he was, stretching toward the roof.
Six minutes and counting.
In the distance, he heard the distinct pop-pop-pop of fireworks.
Now or never. He hit the stop watch button on his phone, hustled over to the tree, and started climbing.
Chapter Seven
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ABOVE HER, BEATRICE heard glass break.
At least she thought it was glass. Her head swam and her thoughts were constantly being hijacked by the pain cramping her belly, back, and inner thighs. “God…damn…it!” she yelled.
Huff-huff-huff. Long breath in. Huff-huff-huff.
Cal’s voice floated to her from far away. The sound of footsteps running, pounding. Someone yelled. More voices. A bang-bang-bang on the bedroom door.
“You’re doing good, Beatrice,” Maria said. “But I think we should find you something else to hang on to.”
The midwife’s cool hands took the gun from Beatrice’s grip, replacing it with a small rubber ball.
While stout, the rubber collapsed under the pressure of her fingers. “No…good. Give me…my gun.”
“No. Focus.”
So much for the warm waters of her birthing tub. So much for having her husband nearby, holding her hand and breathing through the contractions with her. “Who’s knocking on the bedroom door?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
Seriously? They were under ambush, Cal was injured, and Maria was telling her not to worry about it?
On her next inhale, she threw the rubber ball at the far wall as hard as she could. “Give me my fucking weapon!”
Maria ducked as the ball zoomed by her head. “So you can accidentally shoot me? I don’t think so.”
“Either get Cal,” Beatrice huffed, “or give me my gun.” Huff-huff-huff, inhaaaale. “One or the other.”
“It’s almost time to start pushing. I’m not leaving you.”
Pain surged up her spine and her back arched, lifting her off the floor and pillows Maria had tucked under her. “Ugggghh.”
Maria said other things to her, comforting things, but Beatrice’s vision went white and all the noise blurred. For long moments, she was locked inside the contraction, the pain forcing her to ride its wave whether she wanted to or not.
At the crest, something broke. Not inside her, but outside of the closet. Wood splintered, the voices amplified.
Cal.
Maria’s gaze snapped to the closet door. There was no lock on it, but she’d used two of Cal’s belts to tie the doorknob to the built-in shelving. She’d also taken two of the metal poles from the shelving and ran them across the door, one each at the top and bottom, locking each of their ends into the shelves on either side.
Something hit the door, making it pop open half an inch and causing Maria to yelp. Beatrice would have yelped herself if she could have mustered the energy.
One dark eye peered through the crack, locking on Beatrice, prone on the floor.
“Open the door!” the man commanded, even as he threw his weight against it again, jostling the metal poles.
“In`al abuk!” Maria yelled.
Beatrice wasn’t one hundred percent sure, but she thought the Hebrew saying translated to your father should die.
In other words, fuck you.
She could second that.
Except the man was snugging the end of his handgun through the crack, the ugly black end of the barrel pointed at her.
Maria raised her weapon.
“No!” Beatrice said, kicking at her hands.
Too late. Maria fired.
The man fired at the same time.
Boom! Boom!
Move!
Before she could roll to the left, a fresh contraction seized her.
She felt the whiz of the bullet as her body bowed, lifting her belly into the air.
Boom!
She waited for the sting of the bullet. The pain.
Death.
All went quiet.
Outside anyway. Not internally as her womb continued to seize.
Through the pain and the breathing, she peeled one eye open.
The man at the door was gone. One of the poles had slid from its hangar and fallen to the floor.
Maria was down, blood splashed across her neck, her shoulder. Her gun had fallen from her hand.
Defying the white-hot torture spearing her body, Beatrice shifted enough to touch the cool metal.
A little more…
Her fingers dug into the carpeting, nails stabbing into it. Closer, closer…
Got it!
Huff-huff-huff, breeeathe.
A shadow darkened the doorway.
Beatrice raised the gun, her eyes blurring with hot tears. “Go to hell!” she shouted and started firing.
THE DOOR EXPLODED in a series of fragments as bullets ripped through the flimsy wood.
“Beatrice!” Connor yelled, dragging the dead man at his feet aside. “It’s me. Connor!”
Sabrina had distracted the attackers. Hunter had disabled the van and taken out two of the four people inside.
“And that makes three,” Hunter said in Connor’s ear.
Okay, make that three of the people inside.
“Save that bitch Ebba for me,” Cal growled over the comms.
At that moment, the man himself stumbled into the room, barely able to stand or speak. In a slice of moonlight coming through the window, Connor saw sweat running down Cal’s face.
He’d lost a lot of blood, and the pain showed.
“Beatrice,” he panted. “How is she?”
“She’s shooting at me,” Connor said.
Hunter chuckled in his ear. “That’s B for you.”
Cal grimaced as he shuffled forward. “What’s the status of the bomb?”
“Whoa, there. Steady.” Connor grabbed Cal before he toppled over. Carefully, he moved him to the bed. “I couldn’t diffuse it. You sit here and I’ll get Beatrice.”
From the closet, a guttural, primal cry rose. “CAL…LAN!”
“I’m being paged,” the man said with a loopy grin. “How much time do we have?”
Better not to tell him. “The
best thing you can do, sir, is to get your butt out of here. I’ll get Beatrice.”
“No can do. She’s my—”
Crack! Connor didn’t wait for him to finish, kicking the closet door in. “Don’t shoot me, boss!”
The wood splintered and he pushed the sections away, knocking a metal pole to the floor and nearly hitting the midwife.
Maria groaned from her spot on the floor and Connor pulled up short at the blood covering her.
Three people. He had three people to get out of this house and one of them was…
His gaze swung to his laboring boss and quickly darted away.
Because, ho boy, that was more than he needed to see of Beatrice Reese.
“I have to…push!” she screamed. Her face was pulled taut, teeth gritted. Her knees were bent and her legs spread wide.
Shit, shit, shit. What the hell was he going to do? Cal and Maria were in no shape to help him, and he couldn’t just throw Beatrice over his shoulder and haul ass.
“Coldplay, come in. Now!”
“On my way, Irish. Hold onto your panties.”
He reached down and grabbed Maria by her wrists, dragging her body out of the closet. He laid her by Cal’s feet. “I’ve got three people to get out of the house and that bomb’s going to explode in…”
He checked his watch and swore loudly.
“Get Beatrice out,” Cal commanded.
At the same time, Hunter said, “Beatrice goes first!”
Connor was already back inside the closet, but it was a no-win situation. He couldn’t drag her across the floor; that would take too much time. And he couldn’t pick her up and carry her in her current state.
We’re fucked.
How many times had he thought that in the field? Too many to count.
And yet, here he was, still standing.
He was lifting a writhing Beatrice into his arms—which was no easy task—when Hunter ran in. “Side to side.”
“Come on,” Cal yelled from the bedroom as Connor shifted to let Hunter help. They each took an arm and leg, and together they ran as Beatrice yelled obscenities and Cal dragged Maria across the bedroom floor.