by Jo Davis
Blaze grinned, delighted at her fierce possessiveness. “Agreed. Even when we’re undercover, I’ll stick to that rule. But that’s for women. What about men? No problem with them?”
“None. Heck, I’d like to help you do Shawn myself.” She waggled her brows.
“That, darlin’, can be arranged. What do you say we get you dressed so I can take you home and love on you some more?”
“Sounds like a wonderful plan.”
After she was once again decked out in her eye-popping outfit, he let them out of the playroom, and they started down the long hallway toward the club proper. They’d taken only a few steps, however, when the muffled noises of a struggle reached his ears.
“Do you hear that?” he asked, tugging Emma to a stop.
“What — yeah, I do.”
They paused, listening. A deep voice came from the shadows at the far end, away from the club near the restrooms, harsh and dangerous. Another thump echoed down the corridor, followed by a frightened cry of “Stop! Please!”
“Shit,” he muttered. “Gotta check this out. Emma, go find the manager, Adam, and the bouncers. Hurry.”
They took off in opposite directions. As Blaze neared his destination the voice and the choked cries of distress became clear.
“You’re gonna pay for givin’ it to a master who ain’t me, you little whore!” Vincent, the asshole. Mean as a barracuda, dumb as a fence post.
Unfortunately, he was strong as a bull, and in a rage. Blaze rounded the corner to see Shawn pushed face-first into the wall by the restroom, pants around his ankles, the bastard’s thick cock poised at his entrance and big, meaty hands wrapped around his throat. The sub wasn’t making a sound any longer; the other man’s grip had completely cut off his air.
Shawn sagged, knees buckling, just as Blaze dove, tackling Vincent from the side and taking him to the floor. Caught by surprise, the man was slow to react and rolled to his back, his brain trying to catch up with the new turn of events. In that split second, Blaze saw the sweet boy lying on the floor, unmoving, and he unloaded his fists with a vengeance.
“You worthless fuck,” he sneered, knuckles connecting with Vincent’s jaw. “Scumbag. You like beating on boys? Try a man your own size.”
He pummeled the man with ruthless precision, easily deflecting the few blows the worm managed to get in. Vaguely, he became aware of pounding footsteps and shouts.
“Blaze, that’s enough! He’s down!”
Hands grabbed him, pulled him off the fallen man. He pushed to his feet to see Emma standing beside one bouncer, Thorn, who was crouched over Shawn. The other bouncer, Tiny, laid a hand on his arm.
“What happened, man?”
“Vincent had Shawn against the wall and was choking him, about to rape him.”
“He’s lying,” the asshole hissed through his split lip. “The little whore is mine.”
“Shut up,” Tiny said, delivering a kick to Vincent’s side. “Tell it to the cops.”
“Jesus Christ, I don’t think he’s breathing,” Thorn said, voice rising in panic. “Adam!”
“What the hell is going on?” Adam Langley, manager and head D/s master, jogged toward them, long black coat swirling around him.
“Master Vincent was choking Shawn, wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Blaze informed him, heart lurching.
Adam dropped to his knees beside Shawn and gathered the sub into his arms, black hair falling over big violet eyes filled with worry as he smoothed a fiery lock out of the sub’s face. “Shawn? Can you hear me?” Gently, he kissed the boy’s lips. “Breathe, baby. Come on, please.”
Shuddering, Shawn heaved a deep breath and coughed. A collective sigh of relief went up, and Blaze tucked Emma into his side. “Thank God.”
“I was so scared,” she whispered.
So, apparently, was Adam, who clutched the sub against his chest and murmured into his hair. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” he croaked, then coughed again.
“How long has this harassment been going on?” Adam demanded.
Shawn answered in a small voice. “A few weeks.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me?” When the sub cringed, Adam relented, but glared at the group in general. “Well, it damned well won’t happen again! That fucker is not to set foot in my club,” he said to Tiny. “Make sure everyone knows. And call the police.”
“Done.”
Adam gazed at the sub, his expression softening. “Seems you need a keeper, boy. And I’m just the right master for the job.”
“I–I didn’t think you wanted me.”
“You were wrong… and so was I.”
“Yes, sir.” The adoration on Shawn’s face said it all.
Well, damn. You had to love a happy ending.
Now, if Blaze could just save the world from annihilation and walk away with the girl? He’d get his rock-star cousin to write a frickin’ song about it.
Ten
Robert Dietz sat at the head of the table in the shitty little rat hole of an abandoned house and glared at his men. His top commanders, who’d failed to ensure that his headquarters was safe. Now he was stuck in this hellhole until another, better place could be secured, an almost impossible task when facing a ton of heat.
Yes, Ross would pay dearly for this — and much sooner than he believed. Even now, death was staring his nemesis in the face, waiting to collect another soul. He’d thought about ordering his man to take care of the AWOL Agent Foster as well, but decided she wasn’t worth it. The woman was of no importance, and her death would signify nothing.
Unlike Ross’s.
Oh, how he wished he could be there to witness the man’s demise in person, but that would be a stupid risk. He took only calculated ones.
Right now the most calculated risk of all was when and how to transfer the weapon to their foreign contacts, therefore making him an extremely rich man. The dictator overseas was getting restless and pissed, and they couldn’t afford to wait much longer. But neither could they make any mistakes.
Drawing himself up, he treated each man to a deadly stare before beginning. “Gentlemen, the clusterfuck at the estate was completely unforgivable. First, you allow a federal agent to hide among our ranks, and then you practically hand him our asses on a silver platter with apples in our mouths.”
Each man squirmed, no doubt sweating over who would take the fall. Allowing a small, humorless smile, he went on.
“Every one of you is to blame, yet none of you are willing to accept the responsibility. That, my friends, is plain bad business. Therefore, I believe it’s time for a demonstration — something simple to remind each of us the importance of paying attention.”
With that, he stood. Removed a pistol and a long silencer from inside his coat. He screwed on the silencer and calmly walked around the table, making certain his steps were slow and measured, like heartbeats echoing in their ears.
“Musical chairs, the Russian Roulette Edition,” he said. “Who wants to play?”
No one moved. Or breathed.
Finally, he stopped beside the chair of one of his men, a large man named Garr. Placing the muzzle to the man’s temple, he let the seconds lapse into minutes as Garr panted, sweat rolling down his fleshy face, too mired in terror to breathe.
Then he pulled the trigger — which snapped with a hollow click.
“Oh, my. No bullets. Well, waste not.” He met each pair of rounded, horrified eyes. “Now do I have your attention?”
Murmurs and nods in the affirmative met his question. As did the stench of Garr’s bowels.
Lesson learned.
Unfortunately for Ross, the next round would be loaded.
* * *
“Damn, I’m tired and hungry,” Michael Ross complained. “Can we discuss the rest of the details over dinner?”
Emma glanced at Blaze and Bastian, shrugging. “Fine with me. I could eat.”
The other two men agreed. Their final meeting
with Michael had dragged on into the evening, and by now — almost seven o’clock — they all needed a change of scenery and some food.
Michael pushed out of his chair. “Great! I’ll even buy. Think of it as a good-luck send-off for Mr. and Mrs. John Chase,” he said with a laugh.
For a moment, Emma stared at Michael. She hadn’t seen him laugh in ages, and it looked good on him. He was a damned sexy man, with all that sable hair artfully mussed and sticking every which way. Shaking herself, she got back to the subject. “Do I have to be Brandi? I’m so not a Brandi — sounds too much like Bambi.”
Blaze tweaked her nose, teasing her. “It’ll fit just fine when you get those blond bombshell hair extensions. You’ll be Brandi-licious.”
“Like Pamela Anderson,” Ozzie joked. “All that’s missing is the boob job.”
Blaze poked her playfully in the ribs. “And the oversexed, rehabbed rock star on her arm. Hey, maybe we should give Ash a call?”
Everyone groaned.
“What? I thought it was funny.” Blaze strutted from the office, inviting her to stare at his ass.
Ogling his fine body was one of her favorite pastimes; learning the ropes, literally, in his dungeon was the other. The man knew how to tie a wicked knot and torment her until she screamed, for sure. But she pushed away those yummy thoughts. If she didn’t, she’d never make it through dinner.
The six of them drove separately, except for her and Blaze, since they’d arrived together. They followed their boss to a nice steak and seafood restaurant and, once inside, were immediately escorted to a private dining area, away from prying ears. Michael must’ve called ahead. They settled around the table, and the waitress took their drink orders and left. Michael then set about grilling them again on their specific roles, their check-in and safety procedures — you name it. With regard to this assignment, the man practically knew the color of their underwear. But with what was at stake, he couldn’t afford not to.
What she found most interesting during the evening was the polite tension between Michael and Bastian. When Michael wasn’t looking, the pain-filled gaze Bastian slid toward the man made her heart clench as she wondered what on earth had transpired between them in the past. When Bastian became distracted by questions or comments, the look Michael directed at his friend and colleague was riddled with guilt.
Didn’t take a crystal ball to figure it out — Michael was straight. Bastian wasn’t. And whatever had happened between them had left a divide in its wake the width of the Grand Canyon. She felt sorry as hell for them both.
“It seems we’re all on the same page,” Michael concluded, and gestured to her and Blaze. “You fly to Washington, D.C., first thing in the morning. Get yourselves integrated with Dietz’s moneymen at the Velvet Underground ASAP and get us the information we need.”
“Easy as pie,” Blaze joked. “It’ll be Rambo meets Die Hard times two.”
“Minus the part about blowing up shit,” Bastian put in. “Remember that.”
Ozzie snickered. “At least you get the girl while we have to sit in the stupid van. Wanna trade places?”
“I think not. Can’t blame you for asking, though.”
By the time their meals arrived, the business conversation had turned to more relaxing topics, such as when the hell any of them would be able to take a vacation — somewhere around the twelfth of never — and who at SHADO was getting laid by whom.
Now, that produced an interesting reaction. Ozzie and Willis immediately grumped that they weren’t getting any, while Bastian’s gaze snapped to Blaze, and her lover winked in return. Michael’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as he glanced between them.
Oh, boy, dinner and a show.
Ozzie and Willis didn’t even notice and Ozzie chattered away like a magpie on crack, making her wonder how her adorable friend ever became a covert agent. He’d definitely missed his calling as a gossip columnist.
“Damn, that was good,” Michael said, reaching for the bill. “I was starving.”
“You don’t have to pick up the tab,” Blaze protested. “We can pay for our own dinner.”
“Oh, you’re going to pay, all right. Think of this as a perk from me before I send you on a dangerous job.”
“Well, when you put it like that…”
Their mood was optimistic as they left the restaurant and said their good-byes, then split up and headed across the parking lot to their cars. It was getting late, almost ten-thirty. The lot was nearly empty, the night clear. Emma reached for Blaze’s hand and was about to comment on getting packed for their early flight when a car screeched into the parking lot.
And roared straight for Michael.
“Look out!” she screamed.
Michael spun but had no time to react as the dark sedan braked next to him. An arm appeared out the driver’s window, the glint of a gun visible in the assailant’s hand.
Pop, pop, pop.
Three quick shots, their boss’s body jerking. Crumpling to the asphalt.
She was already running toward Michael as the sedan sped away. Barely heard Blaze’s voice yell, “I’m going after him! Stay with Michael and call McKay for help!”
His Viper revved to life and peeled out, but Emma’s focus was on Michael. Heart in her throat, she dropped next to him just seconds before Bastian and Ozzie ran over and did the same, encircling him. Willis fired off a couple of rounds at the fleeing vehicle, to no avail.
“Oh, God!” Bastian cried. He pushed aside his friend’s coat and ripped open his white dress shirt, rapidly being soaked bright red.
“Bastian,” Michael began, choking. His eyes were glassy as they found his friend.
“No, don’t talk. You’re going to be okay, do you hear me?” Bastian’s voice broke and his chest heaved. Desperately, he pressed on a chest wound with both hands, trying in vain to stanch the flow.
“You’re in charge now.” Michael coughed, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “This has Dietz’s fingerprints all over it. M-make that sonofabitch pay — swear it.”
Bastian nodded, tears streaming down his face. “If it’s the last thing I ever do, I swear it.”
“Good. And Bastian?”
“Yes?” The man swallowed hard and wiped his eyes, visibly struggling to keep it together.
“I’m s-sorry,” he whispered, voice fading as his eyes closed. “Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive! You never lied to me.” He shook his friend. “Michael? No!”
Emma’s shaking hand went over her mouth. Their fallen leader’s breathing was shallow and raspy, and blood was spreading around his body with frightening speed. She was no doctor, but anyone could see that if McKay’s team didn’t get here soon, Michael wasn’t going to make it.
“Please hang on,” Bastian pleaded. “We need you.”
I need you. That’s what Emma heard in his stricken voice, and the tears she’d been holding in finally escaped.
“McKay and his team are almost here,” Ozzie said, flipping his cell phone shut. “Can’t get the medical helicopter in between all these buildings, so they had to bring the van.”
That would take too long. They all knew it.
She waited with her friends, praying Blaze caught the assassin and Michael would survive to see justice served. Silently, she added her promise to Bastian’s.
If it was the last thing she did, Dietz would pay for this.
Blaze raced after the dark sedan, running red lights, dodging oncoming traffic. His mind was focused to a laser point on nothing but catching the assailant and wringing every bit of information from his sorry hide.
And then killing him with his bare hands.
The image of his boss and friend being gunned down in cold blood threatened to wreck his concentration, but he pushed it aside. He couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not now, tomorrow, or the next day. Not if he was going to burn out this nest of rats and exterminate them like the vermin they were.
An important key to get
ting that done was the man ahead, driving like a bat out of hell, trying to shake Blaze off his tail.
No such luck, asshole.
The sedan took the ramp and entered the freeway, no doubt hoping to lose him in an all-out race, or hoping he’d wipe out. Spotting an opening in traffic, he shot the gap and floored the accelerator, closing the distance between him and the sedan. It was a dark Infiniti, he could see as he drew near and began to pull even with the driver’s side. Jerking the wheel, he slammed into the other car, causing it to swerve.
The driver, a big bald man, bared his teeth and stuck his arm out the window, firing off two shots. Blaze ducked as his passenger’s window exploded in a shower of glass, then sat upright, swerving just in time to miss rear-ending a car that wasn’t flying at one hundred miles per hour down the interstate.
“Jesus.” Close call.
He pushed it to catch up again, and rammed the Infiniti’s left rear quarter panel, not giving the assassin another shot at him. Christ, they were attracting all sorts of attention, having an all-out battle on the highway. Someone had probably already called the cops, and he absolutely could not let the police get into this situation. SHADO didn’t officially exist, and neither did its agents.
To involve the cops would entail a helluva problem making them shut up and go away, especially without learning that American citizens were under a direct terrorist threat.
He had to get this bastard off the road. Now.
Up ahead the road was all clear of traffic. A sharp embankment lay off the right shoulder of the highway. He wasn’t going to get a better chance.
Gunning it once more, he hit the rear of the sedan again and this time cut the wheel all the way to the right. The other car fish-tailed and spun around. Blaze kept coming, using his car as a battering ram, and together they hurtled down the embankment in a spray of flying shrapnel, tires squealing.
The Infiniti rolled once. Twice. Then came to a stop right side up, the driver slumped forward. Blaze leaped from the Viper, sparing a sorrowful look for his mangled pride and joy, and then turned his attention to the unconscious henchman.