“So, what changed?” Nate interjected.
“Assignment across the border.” This came from the doorway. Finn’s lilting Irish brogue. He didn’t specify which border as he sauntered over the threshold of the secret room in a fresh set of dark clothes. Was there a never-ending supply of black T-shirts and pants stashed at the riding center’s main building? The great thing about being in New York, at least, was that they all looked more like restaurant waitstaff than they did secret agents. “Jack and Lije actually let Gracie come along for that one. And she saved my life. After they fell arse over teakettle apologizing for being sexist gits, they cleared her for full active duty.”
“Aren’t you a vampire?” The word fell entirely too easily from Nate’s lips, which were pursed with confusion. “How would that even work? I thought your kind couldn’t die.”
“I’m not immortal. Or only susceptible to fire and stakes. Though religious icons do sting quite a bit.” A look passed between Finn and Nate that Neha couldn’t interpret. But then he continued, addressing the room as a whole as if he were teaching Vampirism 101. “I have a slightly extended life span due to blood consumption. It keeps all the parts in working order and such. Makes me stronger, faster. Quite grand, really. Problem is, if I’m wounded, I can bleed out in seconds. Then, I’m in trouble.”
“It’s similar to how hemophilia impacts a human,” Grace explained. “Since I had copious amounts of time to study my colleagues’ medical histories while on desk duty, I had supplies on hand for each of their needs. I knew what needed to be done for Finian and that was that.” There was no arrogance in her statement. Just the pure confidence of someone who knew they were the best at what they did.
Mack scowled from his little tech corner, pushing his laptop away from him. “Our young friend Danny was on desk duty. And look where he is now.”
“We’ll get him back, mate,” Finn assured, stretching out on the couch with his arms behind his head. Deceptively relaxed. “Him and Yulia Vasilieva.”
For the second time in as many minutes, Neha felt the threat of tears. It had to be the stress getting to her. The past week, the past several weeks, bearing down on her like a freight train. Or maybe it was just these people. Dedicated, deadly agents who looked out for one another no matter what. They really were a team. They trusted each other in ways that she’d never quite learned how to trust anyone. In the way that she’d thought she could trust Joe.
It was on the heels of that depressing rumination that the man himself appeared. Mack and Grace must have granted him access to the door, which was keypad-access only. Or maybe he’d just willed it open with the sheer force of his glower. Because, while he’d washed up and put on some actual clothes, Joe still wore that harsh, unyielding expression. The one that said he was here physically but locked away from her in every other way. He crossed his arms over his chest, another barrier, and stayed right by the door. As if he couldn’t wait to leave.
“Finally. The elusive Joseph Peluso. It’s about time we made your acquaintance.” Jack Tate’s voice came from the speakerphone in the middle of the conference table. She recognized it both from their meetings at the Third Shift offices and from the call in the SUV. Had he been listening in on them, watching them all this entire time? Neha could only hope not. Because she was sure that her face, her posture, had given away entirely too much of what was going on in her head.
Joe seemed to recognize Tate’s voice, too. Because he made a sound of disgust. “You. You were supposed to unfuck things. Seems to me you fucked them up even more.”
His rudeness didn’t seem to ruffle the Third Shift cofounder one bit. Tate maintained that even, neutral, morning-news-anchor tone. “Let he who has not killed six Russian nationals and brought us to the brink of political and bureaucratic nightmares cast the first stone.”
The entire planet was a political and bureaucratic nightmare right now, Neha wanted to point out. But she also knew better than to get involved in whatever petty dick-measuring contest was going on at the moment. Joe chafing at authority. Jackson Tate resenting a wild card. The boys could figure it out themselves. She had enough to concern herself with. Like their next steps. And surviving those next steps. Like Joe. And surviving Joe.
Finn, who Neha had long since decided was the resident troll—figuratively, not literally—was the one who actually spoke up to cut the tension. “As riveting as this little tiff is, lads, can we address it later? Perhaps with a bit of Turkish oil wrestling?”
Grace smothered a sound that might have been a laugh against her palm, playing it off as a cough and then clearing her throat. “Finian’s right,” she said. “We have Mr. Peluso safe and secure. Everything else on that front can be sorted out later. What do you need us to do for Danny and Ms. Vasilieva, Boss?”
Tate spent the next few minutes briefing the group, sending digital copies of building schematics to all his agents’ smart devices. But it all boiled down to a pretty simple plan. One that involved her and Joe being bait.
“Fuck no!” The words exploded from Joe like grenades mere seconds after the implications set in. “Neha is not going back out into this colossal shitshow. There’s gotta be another way to get your people out.” Because, of course, he still wanted her wrapped up in a cocoon, kept out of harm’s way. As if that could somehow make up for all the harm she’d already been put in the path of.
“It’s not negotiable, Mr. Peluso.” A second voice came over the comm. Lower pitched, with a thick Cockney accent. Elijah Richter. “You’re not in charge here. We are. And this is the most efficient way to execute the mission and keep casualties to a minimum.”
“I’m in,” Neha said clearly and emphatically. “He doesn’t speak for me.”
“Nobody asked, but I’m in, too,” Nate volunteered, which comforted her a great deal.
They traded rueful grins across the table. Maybe she’d been wrong about not having a team. About not having anyone outside family who she trusted like Third Shift’s people trusted each other. Because here was Nate, as ride-or-die for her as he was for Dustin.
“Peluso?” Tate prompted from the speaker. “Does that change your position?”
“Yeah.” Joe looked none too thrilled about giving the affirmative. He growled and slapped the door with one palm. “I’m not about to let my legal team go off and get killed while I sit here with my thumb up my ass, am I?”
They probably weren’t going to be his legal team for very much longer. But Neha felt her chest tighten with a flicker of hope just the same. Maybe Joe believed in her, believed in them, after all. Perhaps Danny and Yulia weren’t the only ones they would rescue tonight. Perhaps they could salvage this thing they’d built between them. And then he glanced at her…and Neha felt that tiny bit of hope turn to ash. Because there was nothing but sadness and regret in his gaze.
Chapter 32
The little meeting broke up pretty quickly once the boss man and his buddy finished the marching orders and got off the phone…which meant Joe had to stop leaning on the door. He moved to let the blond guy out while Grace—the woman who Finn would not shut up about on the drive over—went over and unlocked the weapons cabinet on the opposite wall. “Gracie’ll cut you as soon as look at you,” the vampire had said with admiration. Turned out she’d stitch you up, too. That didn’t shock Joe at all. Because Neha was like that. Strong and take-no-shit but caring and compassionate.
If only she hadn’t picked him to care about. Joe sighed and scrubbed his face with one hand. Watched Grace stock up on fresh weapons and issue two handguns to Finn. “One for you, one for Mack,” she said. “Don’t be selfish.”
“Selfish? Me? You know I’m a giver, love. Or at least you would if you’d let me show you…”
The vampire somehow managed to leer at both his Third Shift coworker and Feinberg simultaneously. Only one of them blushed, and it wasn’t Grace. Great. Joe’s lawyer had a crush. Seemed li
ke they were all a little bit fuckstruck. That couldn’t be good for a mission. Look at him and Neha…how compromised they’d gotten. How compromised they still were.
She pushed her chair back and rose. Joe couldn’t help but drink her in for a few seconds. Hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, long-sleeved T-shirt, skin-tight workout pants pulling his eyes down to the long lines of her legs. Not the most protective gear for an operation, but she would be able to run. And she looked beautiful. Beautiful and determined. “My .22 is at the office in Hell’s Kitchen with the rest of my stuff,” Neha directed at Grace. “I assume you’re not authorized to give me a temporary replacement?”
That earned a brusque nod in response. But Grace pulled a few KA-BARs from the cabinet before swinging the door shut and turning the key. “How comfortable are you with knives?”
“How comfortable do you think?” Neha arched an eyebrow, effortlessly catching one of the blades the other woman slid across the table. Hilt first. “I’m Sikh. We’re warriors and protectors by nature.”
It was a great line. You’d never know she hadn’t ever used a knife as a weapon. Joe didn’t enlighten Grace to the truth, didn’t ruin the totally boss moment. He had no clue about the exact words of whatever Neha had been taught, but he could guess the theme. Serving her people, helping others, no matter the cost. Too bad he’d learned just how high the price really was. And when the secret room started to empty for real, with Neha the last one out, he had to say something. Anything. “Hey. Hey, Doc. Can you wait a minute?”
Up close, her eyes were a little red. He could practically smell the salt of dried tears on her skin. But she would be damned if she let him see them fall. She did stop for him, though. One hand on the door handle, the other on the doorframe. “What do you want, Joe?” she asked, sounding so fucking exhausted that his own bones felt heavy.
There were a million things he could say in response. I want you safe. I want for this day to have never happened. I want to rewind two years. I want to rewind twenty. I want to run into you on the 7 and ask for your number. He picked the easiest one. The thing he’d never been afraid to confess, because it was right there in his pants, hard and obvious. “What I always want when I look at you.”
Even without his supe senses, he would’ve heard her sharp intake of breath. Seen her teeth sink into her lower lip. And how her lashes fluttered as she blinked. But the way she drew herself up, shook off that instant physical reaction, was just as clear. She wasn’t like him. She wasn’t gonna let her inner animal take control. “Do you still regret everything? Do you still think I don’t belong here?”
As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t lie to her about this. He’d never lie to her about wanting to protect her. Even if it meant protecting her from himself. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
She flinched. And then she just nodded, like she expected it. “Then we have nothing to talk about.”
Bullshit. They had a million things to talk about. He would never run out of things he wanted to discuss. But first and foremost was the apology he owed her. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for how I talked to you back at the park,” he said softly. “I was an asshole. And that thing about killing people who looked like they could be related to you...that was really fucked up. I was wrong to lay that on you.” So very, very wrong.
Neha nodded again, her posture tight, like she could uncoil and snap at any moment. “Yes, you were. It was an extremely shitty thing to say. I won’t pretend it didn’t hurt. Not this time.” She exhaled in a huff, wearily rubbing at the creases between her eyebrows and letting her shoulders drop. “Would you kill my brothers if they were standing right here in front of us? Shoot my father or my uncle?” It was her shrink voice. Asking horrible questions that she absolutely had a right to know the answer to.
“Fuck no,” he said without hesitation. “Of course not. But I killed a lot of brothers. A lot of sons. And for what?” The disgust crawled up from his gut and sat in the back of his throat. “Oil or some shit? So America could lord it over the rest of the world? I did ugly things for the worst reasons, Doc. Over there and over here. Right in front of you. To you. And it’s not anything I’m proud of.”
The expression that crossed her face reminded him of being across the table from her at Brooklyn Detention. Scrutinized. Studied. Seen. “It’s not my job to absolve you for all of that, Joe,” she reminded gently. With more grace than he’d earned. “I can’t forgive you or the military on behalf of every brown casualty of war. You know that’s unfair. That’s impossible. Only you can make peace with what you’ve done. All I can do is believe you’ve changed and believe you’ll do better going forward. Do you believe you? Do you believe in us?”
Now he faltered. No easy, immediate, response. “I…don’t know.” It wasn’t enough.
He felt the anger in her when she brushed against him on her way out the door. She was vibrating with it like the third rail on the subway tracks. Like he’d get electrocuted if he touched her. He touched her anyway. Caught her wrist and took the current shooting up his arm. And maybe he sent it back to her in a closed circuit, because she shuddered and whispered his name. That one tiny syllable was all the incentive he needed to haul her in to him. To lean down and take her mouth. They’d almost died so many times, and the Reaper still had their number on speed dial. He couldn’t not kiss her one more time.
Her hands came up, like she was going to shove him away—and god knew she should’ve—but she grabbed fistfuls of his T-shirt instead, anchoring herself as she arched up on her toes and gave as good as she got. A couple weeks ago, he thought he’d imprinted on her. That it was some animal thing, his wolf wanting to mate for life or some shit. And maybe it was that. But she’d imprinted on him, too. She needed him. She needed this. Just as badly as he did. She licked into him, battled and beat his tongue, nipped at his lower lip hard enough to open up one of the barely healed cuts. Fuck, it was hot. Joe groaned and cupped the back of her neck, holding her steady as the kiss burned hotter and wilder and practically blew off the top of his head.
He wasn’t shocked when she chose that exact moment to stop it. To pull back just enough to stare at him with those big brown eyes that saw everything and too much. He wasn’t shocked, but he wasn’t prepared either. Scrambling to catch his breath and collect his spilled wits. Pushing back the wolf scratching at the door and willing away the erection that was still way too obviously tenting his borrowed jeans. And she just watched him. Her lips swollen, skin reddened by his stubble. Her palms sliding down his chest and then, finally, shoving at him like he’d expected her to in the first place.
When she spoke, her voice was as steady and direct as her hands. “Let me go or keep me, Joe. You can’t do both.”
“I’m a man and I’m an animal. You can’t live with both,” he pointed out almost immediately. ’Cause this tug-of-war…it was about more than just wanting to keep her. It was knowing he couldn’t. And accepting how damn unfair it was of him to drag her into his life. To do this to her all because his instincts and his altered DNA said,“She’s mine.”
Neha just shook her head, the anger back in her expression along with disappointment. “It’s not your call—what I can or can’t live with. That’s my choice to make. Even if it’s a bad choice, it’s still mine. You can’t take that away from me out of some overprotective, sexist sense of obligation.”
Joe got it and didn’t get it at the same time…which probably summed up his entire forty-odd years of dealing with women. But understanding women, understanding her, had never been as important as it was right now. “So…what? I just let you put yourself in danger because it’s sexist to stop you? I let you get hurt? I let you die when I could’ve prevented it? Look at what happened to Kenny,” he reminded her. The slab. The sheet. The waxy, cold skin riddled with bullet holes. His stomach lurched with the memory…and at the idea of ink-black hair spilling across that coroner’s table. “I can’t go thr
ough that again. Not with you.”
Neha dashed tears away with the backs of her hands. Maybe they were rage tears. Maybe they were for him, or for Kenny. “I ache for you, Joe. I hate that you lost him. I hate what it did to you. But what if I don’t get hurt, Joe? What if I live? What then?” she demanded, raw and hoarse and one hundred percent on the money. “Can you go through that with me?”
Could he imagine their future? Could he promise her one? Did he think he deserved that? There were dozens of things wrapped up in that one intense question. Joe knew what she wanted him to say this time. Hell, it was what he wanted to say. But he couldn’t make the one tiny syllable—the same number of letters as his name—leave his lips. It was too much. Too soon. Too terrifying.
And she wasn’t surprised at all. “That’s what I thought.” She shrugged, sighed audibly, and again rubbed at the furrowed spot between her eyebrows. All signs of exhausted acceptance. What was worse than that, though, was how she glanced up at him and then out through the door. Like she was already looking ahead, because she had no other choice.
This time, when she walked away, he didn’t try to stop her. But he followed. He would always follow her. Because he couldn’t stop himself either.
* * *
Yulia’s head felt like it was stuffed with wet wool. In reality, her veins were stuffed with some sort of tranquilizer. Something meant for large zoo animals. Her brother purchased such things in bulk from a black-market distributor. Mere minutes after her previous dose had worn off, Aleksei had waved one of his goons over to administer another injection. Heaven forbid she have enough strength to attempt a change, to attempt an escape…to dare to fight his authority. To dare dream of being more than his meek, dutiful rybka, content to swim in his personal fishpond.
Bears ate fishes, her brother had reminded her as the flunky jabbed the needle into her arm once more. “We do what we must to survive.”
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