by April Hunt
“Let me cut off the ass from the northwest,” Rico tried convincing him.
Vince shook his head. “Pairs. You know the rules. We head off the guy from the north and then cut west to get the straggler.”
“And then we run the risk of him getting the fuck away. Come on, man. You know this is the only way to make sure we get every single damn one of those fuckers before they climb into a hole and disappear.” Rico got right in his face. “We got this. No fucking problem, man. Ball up.”
The smoke stench from their charred base still clung to Vince’s nostrils. All those soldiers—mothers, brothers, fathers, sisters. All heroes. All taken out in the most chicken-shit way imaginable.
“Fine. Let’s do this.” Vince fist-bumped Rico and returned his grin. “Watch your fucking ass, man.”
“Let’s do it.”
And they did. Seven fucking hostiles in ten minutes, a cakewalk for SEAL Team Five’s well-oiled machine.
“Watchdog.” Vince reached out to Rico via their comm system. “Do you have a status?”
“Maybe he can’t give away his position,” Callen, one of the other men, murmured as they stalked closer to where Rico had last announced his position.
“Watchdog, we’re coming in on your flank. Don’t fucking shoot us in the face.”
They cleared the turn, and Vince raised his arm to signal his men to stop and take cover. Up on a rocky embankment, a distinguishable swatch of desert camo draped over a boulder.
“Stay here,” Vince told his team and kept going, knowing his guys had his six.
The closer Vince got to the boulder, the more his stomach twisted in a fucking knot. It wasn’t a lone swatch of camo…
Rico lay motionless, a growing puddle of red coating the rock beneath him. There was no need to check a pulse. With his face white and chest still, it was clear the gaping slash across his throat had drained him of all blood.
“Oh, fuck no.” Vince’s stomach rolled.
To his left, dirt and stone shifted. Vince spun seconds before Rico’s killer jumped out from his hiding place, the knife coated with his best friend’s blood lifted high, ready to plunge into his chest…
* * *
Vince couldn’t fucking breathe. His chest tightened each time he tried sucking in a dose of oxygen, sharpening the pain to fucking panic levels before the desert heat slowly started melting away. Each passing second brought him more into the present.
Instead of the vast openness of the outdoors, white walls surrounded him—and a floor. His knees dug into the soft carpet beneath him. His thudding heartbeat, the soft tick of a clock, and something else filled the room—a garble.
Vince blinked, trying to fully identify both the noise and his surroundings, when something smacked against his shoulder. Frozen in horror, he stared at the sight of his hand wrapped around Charlie’s neck.
“Fuck.” He jumped up instantly, bile already coating his throat as she gasped and rolled, struggling to regain her breath.
Vince paced, unable to look at her. Goddamn. He’d not only knocked her to the ground and straddled her slender body, but he’d fucking pinned her to the fucking floor!
A series of raspy coughs had him reluctantly looking her way. Back on her feet, she still worked a little hard to pull in fresh oxygen—and she stared straight at him. Not wanting to scare her to death—again—he stopped a good three feet away.
“Are you okay?” he asked, voice gruff. If she wasn’t, he didn’t know what the fuck he’d do. When she didn’t answer, he took a step in her direction. “Goddamn it, English…are you fucking okay?”
She flinched back. It was a small move, but noticeable—at least to him. Vince closed his eyes and counted to ten. When he dared look at her again, she’d been the one to approach him. “What was that?”
“I fucking hurt you,” Vince croaked. He wanted to throw up, automatically touching the red welts forming on her neck.
“I’m fine.” This time, she didn’t flinch, or move. Her gaze stayed locked on him, and she let him trace his fingers over her skin. Her voice sounded huskier than normal when she asked again, “Navy, what the hell was that?”
Vince growled softly, dropping his hand. “You’re not fine. Look in a mirror and tell me you’re fucking fine.”
“I don’t need a mirror. I’m breathing. I’ll live. I’m fine. Now are you going to answer my question or are you purposefully going to act obtuse?”
This was why he never got involved with anyone seriously enough to warrant a goddamned sleepover. He walked away, needing space. “Never wake me up. Do you hear me? Leave me the hell alone.”
She followed him into the small kitchenette. “It sounded like you were being chased by Freddy Krueger. Pardon me for trying to help your big bloody arse.”
He spun around, nodding toward the now-noticeable finger marks on her neck. “My big bloody arse is just fine. Can you say the same? If you want to be fucking helpful, then the next time you hear Freddy Krueger chasing me, leave my ass alone and walk the fuck away.”
Charlie stared at him as if telepathically trying to pluck his nightmare from his head. It was gone now. Mostly. All except the part when he’d woken up with his hand wrapped around her throat. That image would be burned into his memory vault forever.
“You need to let it go,” he added through gritted teeth.
“If only that’s how I was wired,” Charlie muttered before adding, “But if that’s how you want to play it, fine. Pretend away. Deep breathe or count to ten or do that meditation thing you like doing, but I don’t have to stand here and listen to you talk stupid.”
She grabbed the key card to their room and stormed off.
“Where are you going?” he called after her.
“Wherever the hell I feel like it. I either need to punch you a few dozen times or run a million miles,” she snapped back. “Don’t wait up for me.”
Charlie left, her lack of presence making the room feel like one big fucking cavernous tunnel—and he didn’t know where the other side led.
Chapter Eleven
Charlie punished the treadmill for a good hour and, when that didn’t come close to working off her mad, she increased the pace and went for a second. Toward the end, the tight band around her chest finally started loosening.
She hadn’t been angry when Vince knocked her to the ground. She hadn’t been scared—at least not beyond the first few seconds of no oxygen. What she’d been most was worried. Despite how much he wanted it to be true, the man was definitely not fine.
She knew nightmares. For close to two years after her abduction, she’d slept with her room lit up like it was a spotlight for the Hubble. What made her furious was the whole I-shit-testosterone business—alpha freaking men.
Charlie smacked the off button on the treadmill and reached for a towel. In mid face-wipe, she glimpsed the tall figure standing just inside the hotel gym entrance.
“Voluntary physical exertion, Sunshine? And here I am without a camera.” Hands shoved into his pockets, Brock leaned heavily against the wall, watching. “How far did you just run?”
She shrugged. “Only twenty. I was going easy. It’s been a long day.”
“Ah. Brunch.”
“Yeah, brunch. It went about as well as you’d expect.” Charlie grabbed a bottle of water and downed half of it until she came up for air. “What are you doing here, Brock? More importantly, how did you know I was here, specifically? Or maybe I shouldn’t bother asking, considering your newfound friendship with Arturo.”
Brock didn’t look amused. “Actually, you trained Eric well in the art of computer-sniffing. He found out where you were staying, and it just so happens I used to date the cute security guard on duty. She was all too eager to help me out for old times’ sake.”
Charlie rolled her eyes. “Some things never change.”
“And some things do.”
Brock stepped into the room and, for a moment, he looked like her old friend, the twenty-two-year-old veteran
with a new outlook on life—and evidently, a new secret job. But had he ever been her friend? Or had she been a means to advance his career? His link to bringing down Arturo’s organization? Had he played her so thoroughly? Was he playing the DHS now?
Either way she approached it, he was a traitor to someone, which wasn’t a characteristic she held in high regard.
“What the fucking hell is that?” The deep bellow snapped Charlie’s head up. Brock stalked across the room, his eyes locked on her throat. “I’ll rip off his balls and put them in a fucking grinder.”
“Relax.”
“The hell I will. Is that fucking fiancé of yours upstairs? Never mind. I’ll find out myself.” In full rage mode, he turned back toward the door.
Charlie grabbed his arm. “It’s not what you think, so just back off.”
“It’s pretty damn hard to misconstrue fucking finger marks. Christ, Charlie. After all these years, you still haven’t figured out the difference between a good and bad decision? Where’d the fuck you find this asshole? A prison yard?”
“You’re not in a position to question my decision-making. After all, I did see you playing the part of my uncle’s lapdog.” At Brock’s tightening jaw, she continued. “What? You didn’t think I’d call you on it? The Brock I knew couldn’t wait for the day when the entire Franconi organization went under.”
“Yeah, well. The Charlie I knew would’ve never let a man do that to her”—he gestured to her neck—“and live to tell the tale.”
Charlie scoffed. “We both know the Charlie you knew was a whole lot of talk and not a lot of action.” Which was one of the reason why she’d been determined to become full-fledged Alpha. Never again would she let herself feel that helpless—be that helpless. “I don’t have to stand here and explain things to you. Leave Vince alone, or you’ll find out how much I’ve changed.”
“Fine. He’s a swell fucking guy. Wouldn’t lay a hand on you. That doesn’t mean he’s not a bastard for bringing you back here after everything you went through.”
Charlie turned away, both so he couldn’t read her face and to get her room key so she could get the hell out of there, but it was too late. He’d seen.
“Goddamn it, Char. He doesn’t know, does he?”
His incredulous tone stoked Charlie’s already brewing emotions. “No! Because it’s nobody’s business but mine.”
“What the hell are you trying to prove? Do you not remember that night? Because I sure as fuck do. I’ll never get the image out of my head of you shoved into that filthy fucking crate, bloodied and bruised and prepped to be shipped God knows where.”
“I remember it all in explicit detail. I don’t need you repainting the picture for me,” Charlie snarled, wincing at how dry her throat had become. Five days. That’s how long the authorities said she’d been gone. “You mean in the hospital.” Charlie forced her voice calm.
“What?” Brock looked momentarily confused.
“You said you’d seen me in the crate, but you didn’t come until I told the authorities to call you—after they’d already taken me to the emergency room.”
“That’s what I meant,” Brock lied oh-so-effortlessly. “The cops told me what those bastards had done to you. It still makes me sick to my fucking stomach.”
That wasn’t what he’d meant, Charlie knew, and it confirmed the fact that he’d been there when she’d been found.
She finished her water and tossed the empty bottle into the recycling receptacle in the corner of the room. “Is there anything else you want to discuss, because I have to say, sliding down memory lane wasn’t exactly in my plans for the evening.”
“If you’re not going to leave Miami, then you need to be careful.” Brock stepped closer, gripping her chin between his fingers.
Charlie didn’t need a map to read Brock’s mind. “I may not have much love for my uncle, but even I can’t link him to what happened twelve years ago. It could’ve happened to any young woman in Miami.”
“But you’re not just any young woman, Char. You’re Arturo Franconi’s niece.” He dropped a chaste kiss onto her forehead, something he’d once done a million times over…but it had been so long, and he’d done it so effortlessly, it took her by surprise. “Just be careful, Sunshine. I may not be around when you need saving.”
“Good thing I’ve gotten used to saving myself.”
* * *
Vince pushed his arms out in front of him and breathed through his nose. His muscles automatically glided through the repetitive motions as he shifted his torso to the side and did the same off to the right. Inhale and flex. Exhale and push.
Meditative tai chi was about as close as he got to drugs. His muscles now craved the beautiful, stress-relieving movements. That’s what he sure as hell needed after watching Charlie storm out of the room two hours ago.
The door had closed, and there’d been an unfortunate incident where a vase met the floor. He’d regretted it the moment the glass left his fingers, but by then, it was too late. So he’d cleaned the mess, gotten rid of the evidence, and prayed a little meditation would sort out his head before Charlie returned.
If she did.
Their balcony suite, which conveniently overlooked the beach and the front of the hotel, allowed for prime viewing of everyone who came in and out of the resort. Even a few floors up, there’d been no mistaking Brock Torres and his merry band of hoodlums.
Fuck, for all he knew, Charlie could be downstairs at the hotel bar, reminiscing about old times with the ass-hat himself.
Behind Vince, the suite door opened.
Vince sensed Charlie’s eyes moving over him as he slipped into another pose. Five minutes passed before she cleared her throat. “We need to talk.”
“Talking defeats the purpose of clearing the mind,” he said, being purposefully asshole-ish.
“Then unclear your mind and stop for a bloody minute,” Charlie snapped.
He almost ignored her—almost. Turning around, he fought not to wince at the welts on her neck. They were still pink, in the obvious shape of a handprint, but there was a chance—though slim—they wouldn’t bruise.
“How long have you had them?” Charlie questioned pointedly. “And don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you don’t know what I mean. The night terrors.”
He knew what she meant. He folded his arms over his sweat-laden chest and waited for her to realize that her efforts to get him to talk weren’t going to work.
She realized it quickly, giving an exaggerated sigh. “You want to play the macho card and don’t want to talk about it with me? Fine. But there are people out there who specialize in treating PTSD.”
Which Vince knew. Anyone who’d ever put on a uniform was warned of the downside of fighting for your country. He clenched his jaw until it creaked—but remained silent. Hell, he didn’t know what to say, and even if he did, he sure as hell wasn’t about to purge his nightmares onto her. The fact that they’d touched her as much as they had ripped a hole in his gut.
Charlie waited one breath, then two. Tossing her hands up in the hair, she stormed toward the bedroom. “Forget I said anything, okay? Forget I even care, and continue letting your bloody nightmares control your life!”
“Thanks, I will,” Vince quipped, without an ounce of humor.
Charlie whirled around, anger sparking in her dark eyes as she stomped back. “And you say I’m a stubborn arse?”
“Among other things…but it’s not personal, English. It’s not something someone like you would get.”
“No?” Her anger changed to something else, something Vince couldn’t register until the words stumbled out. “For days, weeks…hell, months or more, you avoided going to sleep at every turn, right? Even now, you function on as little sleep as possible because as long as you keep moving, keep your mind busy, it’s easy to delude yourself into believing everything’s fine and dandy.”
She paused, studying him, and continued to glare. Her throat seized, working harder at getti
ng out her words. “But it’s not sunshine and bloody roses, is it? It’s hell and brimstone. Every time you close your eyes, you invite the shadows back into your life, and once they have you, they drag you under like fucking quicksand.”
Vince listened. He watched. And then he realized—she wasn’t speaking about him. If this was the only glimpse she was going to give him inside her own troubles, he’d take it.
Charlie subtly avoided eye contact. “It was bad. I get it. Maybe someone got hurt. I get that too. But you’re not doing yourself—or anyone else—any favors by not talking about it.”
“Spoken like someone who has some quicksand of their own, sweetheart,” Vince pointed out. At risk to his digits, he cupped her chin and slid her gaze back to him, and surprisingly, she didn’t tug away. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you left Miami? After years of being under Arturo’s controlling thumb, what happened to finally make you head for the hills?”
Charlie’s guard snapped back up in an instant. Pulling her chin from his grip, she drilled him with a look that could’ve frozen lava. “I wasn’t talking about me.”
“I think we both know that’s the not the case. We’re both fucked up. You just don’t want anyone pointing it out to you. I’ll tell you what, English. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“There’s nothing for me to show.”
“That’s how we’re playing it?” Her lack of trust conjured a rush of anger. “Then I guess you’re going to have to deal with my broody silence—and remember to leave me the fuck alone when I’m sleeping.”
“How did you manage working with a SEAL team? That’s like five living and breathing humans who you have to trust on a daily basis.”
At the mention of his former SEAL team, Vince neared his boiling point and stepped close, matching her glare for glare. “You know jack shit about my team.”