Double Cross (Hard Target Book 1)

by James, Silver

  “We’ll take care of him, ma’am. Just sit back and relax. We have a long flight ahead of us.”

  Cory lost track of time. She dozed off, only to jerk awake. Duke looked awful. His skin had a gray pallor and sweat beaded on his forehead and chest. He was so terribly ill. She touched the shoulder of the man next to her.

  “How high is his fever?”

  “Hundred and four.”

  “That’s too high.”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’re aware of that. We’re working to bring it down.”

  She fretted, watching Duke and the two PJs working on him. She wanted to do something. Needed to do something. Cory owed this man her life and despite their differences, despite everything, she wanted him healthy and whole. And she wanted him to kiss her again.

  Dawn tinged the sky ahead of them with pastel colors. Dark blue ocean painted with white froth skimmed beneath the helicopter.

  “Won’t be long now, ma’am.” The lieutenant’s voice murmured in her earphones.

  Curious, she leaned forward to see better. Her first sight of the aircraft carrier left her in awe. The ship was huge—gigantic flight deck, towers, truly a city cruising over the sea. Her gaze strayed to Duke. He didn’t look any better. The PJ working on him glanced her way and shook his head. No change. She knew they’d get him stabilized on board the ship, and then he’d be transferred to a military hospital. He’d be all right. He had to be.

  The helicopter swung around and began its descent. Cory tightened her grip on the nylon harness at her back.

  When they landed on the aircraft carrier, a man in a dark suit stood on the deck. He yelled above the sound of rotors as she was escorted to him.

  “Dr. Prince, I’m Leonard Cohen, with the State Department. You need to come with me.” He gripped her upper arm and tugged her toward a plane perched nearby, its propellers tilted skyward.

  Cory followed even as her attention remained focused on the helicopter as they unloaded Duke. Dragging her feet, she stumbled and then resisted, jerking free of the man’s grip to run toward the stretcher. She touched Duke’s cheek then bent to whisper, “I’m sorry I didn’t save you.” After brushing her lips across his, she straightened and glanced at the PJ. “Take care of him.”

  “Done deal, ma’am.”

  She stood rooted to the ship’s deck until the group carrying the stretcher disappeared through a door.

  “Dr. Prince?” The State Department official looked out of place in his tailored suit and sounded impatient and irritated. “Our plane is waiting.” He didn’t turn loose of her this time, hauling her toward the Osprey.

  Numb, she allowed him to manhandle her. She was exhausted and filthy. Heartsick. Men had died. She’d killed one. Cudjo might have been a monster but still…she was a doctor. She’d always believed it her duty to “First, do no harm.” Even if it wasn’t actually part of the Hippocratic Oath, that phrase summed up her feelings about being a doctor. She stiffened, refused to get into the plane, turning to stare at the door through which Duke had disappeared. Right. First do no harm. She stared at her hands, seeing the blood that would forever stain them, seeing Duke’s ravaged face, knowing she’d been the reason for his injuries.

  Something broke inside her. I’m sorry would never be enough.

  Chapter 7

  COLD. TEETH-CHATTERING, bone-chilling cold. He survived Arctic training. Could take down a Russian soldier at two miles after camping in the Siberian wasteland for a week. But he wasn’t in the Arctic. Africa. Fucking Africa. The mission. His team. Eye-searing lightning. Ear-bleeding thunder.

  Pitch black. A voice singing in the distance. “Hello, darkness, my old friend.”

  Floating, borne on the wings of the Valkyrie. Warrior. Valhalla. Home. Heat. Searing, bone-melting heat. The desert. No. Fever. A cool hand, a familiar voice.

  “I did all I could.”

  Nothing…

  “You stay with us, big guy. Stay alive. Help is coming.”

  Darkness…

  “Yes, all right. I’ll leave.”

  Murmurs in the shadows.

  Cool hand. Soft. Feminine. He pressed into the touch, groping in the dark.

  “Shh. Rest easy.”

  Shaking, sweating bodies, his sliding in and out of hers. No light. No sound. Only her touch, the feel of her to keep him anchored, firm thighs cradling, round breasts pillowing.

  Sound and fury. Scorching wind.

  Nothing…

  “Master Chief Reagan’s lucky.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s alive.”

  “But at what cost?”

  Nothing…

  Darkness. Beeps. Whooshes.

  Her hand in his. Fingertips brushing hair off his forehead, lingering to trace his cheek and jaw. Lips pressed to his, breath mingling. Tears. Hers. “I’m sorry.” Long fingers squeezing his. “I couldn’t save you. I tried. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Don’t cry, princess. Whatever it is, we’ll get through it.

  Nothing…

  “Damn, Duke. Welcome back to the land of living.”

  The voice jerked him back to the here and now. Or least he thought it was here and now. Holding onto the memories was like trying to hold a fistful of sand.

  “Tank?” Technically, the voice calling in the dark belonged to a dead man.

  “Right here, boss.”

  “Where the fuck am I?” His voice grated like rusted hinges in his ears. Water. He’d give his left nut for a drink.

  “You’re in Brooke Army Medical Center.”

  “Fuckin’ Army. I’m a Navy SEAL.”

  “Damn straight you are.”

  “What’s wrong with my eyes, Tank?”

  “Yeah, about that. Lemme get the doctor. He can explain.”

  A man arrived while Tank held a glass for him, fitting a straw between his parched lips. “Drink slow, Duke. Been awhile since you’ve been awake. Your body might not take well to the change.”

  Fuck. How long was awhile? He sipped sparingly, listening to the drone of the doctor’s voice. Retinas. Burned. Explosion. Scarring. Blind. Nonsense words tumbling on a hamster wheel.

  “Where is she?”

  “Who, boss?”

  “The princess. She was here. Where’d she go?” She would explain, fill in the void of memory and experience.

  The nothing claimed him again before he got the answer.

  Days melted into nights. Time was of no consequence when sunlight and moonlight were interchangeable in the dark…

  “Yo, boss man.”

  A strong hand gripped his shoulder, another voice from the land of the dead. “Cali Boy?”

  “Yeah, Duke. It’s me.”

  “Are you real?”

  Snickers. “Yeah, dude. I’m real.”

  “Did everyone get out?” Silence stretching too long, the tick of a clock filling the void, tense breaths taken by the man next to the bed. Dalton didn’t want to answer. He knew. Duke was positive then, the scene that was the last thing he saw real. “How many?” Heavy breath. Slight shake in the hand still gripping him. He waited. He was a sniper. Snipers could wait forever, even when the world went to shit in a hellish blaze of drone-fired Griffin missiles.

  “Tank n’me. We survived. And you.” Rustling cloth. “That’s it.”

  “Where’s the princess?”

  “Princess? Who’re you talking about?”

  “The doctor without borders. She was with me there. Here, too.”

  “The doctor wasn’t with you, Duke. You’ve been way out of it. Fever dreams. They brought you out several days after us. Alone.”

  Alone. No. Not so long as she was with him. And dammit, she’d been there. He’d kissed her, held her cradled in his arms, pulled the fucking trigger when her hand shook too much to take out Cudjo. He drifted on the cushion of pain medication, trying to fit the flashes of memory into the ragged puzzle of his brain.

  Dalton’s voice called to him. “Gotta go, chief. Tank n’me. We’ll be
back, now you’re awake.

  Silent and in the dark, he’d wait. She’d return, ignite the sparks to light his way.

  She was real if only in his dreams. Same as Tank and Dalton. Dead. All of them. Poison. Copper. Cookie Monster. All of them blown to shit. Wilco. The princess found Wilco. Dead. She’d set him free, to float down the River Styx to Hades. No. They were Navy SEALs. Warriors. They deserved a send off with Valkyries and an all-expense-paid trip straight to Valhalla.

  “Duke?”

  Female voice. Soft. He furrowed his brow in concentration. He knew that voice. Or did once.

  “Master Chief?”

  He clenched his fist. Warm fingers slid over his hand.

  “Can you hear me?”

  He thought he said “yes,” but his mouth didn’t seem to be working right.

  “I can’t stay long. They’ll find me. I know you don’t want me here. I’m sorry, Duke. Sorry for everything. You have to get better. You have to get well. People need you. I need you.”

  A hand cupped his cheek, lips brushed his. His dick liked that feeling. Okay, he liked it too.

  “Princess.” He breathed the word as the nothing swallowed him whole.

  Lightning stroked across his vision, jagged flashes across pitch black. Blind. He was blind. But he was fucking breathing. Duke ripped the IV needle from his arm and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His head swam, which was weird given he couldn’t see a damn thing. He ran his hands over his face. Thick beard. But no bandages. How long had he been in this fucking bed?

  The beeps that had been part of his consciousness for what seemed like eternity set up a squawk. Squashing the desire to pound the machines until they shut up, he waited for his head to clear. He wasn’t stupid enough to try to stand up. Yet.

  First things first. A pair of pants. The date. And was the princess real or just a dream? His ears picked up a heavy tread coming closer. Metal rattled on metal and disturbed air brushed against his bare skin.

  “Damn, boss. Look at you, sittin’ up and everything.”

  Duke almost passed out. That voice hadn’t been his imagination. “Tank?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What the fuck, man?”

  “Let me get you a wheelchair. We’ll get out of here for a little bit.” The footsteps moved away, leaving the meaning of Tank’s words stretching in the silence.

  Thirty minutes later, Duke had pants—of a sort. Scrub bottoms and a tee shirt were a damn sight better than a hospital gown. A nurse had checked the site of his IV and agreed that he no longer needed constant fluids, so long as he ate and drank sparingly until his stomach adjusted. How long had he been out of it?

  She fussed about him getting out of bed, much less going outside, but Duke bullied her into agreeing. He was sick and fucking tired of the damn bed, of the drugs, of being sick. The nurse called the ward doctor who reluctantly agreed to a foray outside.

  Tank pushed the chair, keeping up a running travelogue about the ward, nurses, doctors, direction of travel and all other pertinent information to get Duke acclimatized. Changes in air pressure, level of noise. Scents. Rather than overloading, his brain clung to the stimuli, separating and processing each one like a drowning man clinging to a life jacket.

  Ding

  Elevator. Change in air again. Greased cable creaking as the car descended. People got on. Got off. Floors slipped by, and then Tank pushed him out. Duke expanded his senses to match the open area. Atrium, he guessed. The brush of rubber wheels against hard flooring scraped the outer edges of his hearing, muffled by the voices rising and falling in the wide space surrounding him.

  Automatic doors opened with a whoosh, and then sunshine fell on his face. He tilted his head back, soaking up the warmth.

  “How bad is it?”

  Tank continued pushing him along a sidewalk. In the distance, traffic sang a siren song he ignored.

  “You almost died, Duke. More than once.”

  “How long?”

  “Almost three months. You…man, you’ve lost almost seventy pounds, and you can guess at your muscle mass. They did PT while you were out, but…fuck, Duke. Not good.”

  “What happened, Tank?”

  “How much do you remember?”

  “Most of it. The village. Dr. Prince.”

  Tank’s hand clamped on his shoulder. “Shhh.”

  “What?”

  “That’s not a name you know. Capisce?” The words barely registered in his range of sound, and that said something given how sensitive his ears had become.

  “Yeah.” What the hell was up with that? He remembered Dr. Prince. Remembered taking her into the river and going downstream after the missile attack. He’d find out the truth eventually.

  “How’s your hearing?”

  Ah. Unfriendly ears. “S’good.”

  “I don’t want to keep you out in the sun too long, boss. You look like a ghost, and you don’t need sunburn on top of everything else.”

  “Tough shit. I need the fresh air.”

  Pounding footsteps rushed up from behind them. Duke tensed, waiting for an attack.

  “Dammit, Tank. You were supposed to wait until I got here.”

  Dalton. Duke’s bowels almost loosened in relief. He hadn’t dreamed their voices, there in the weird nothing in between unconsciousness and waking. A hand brushed his shoulder, paused for a squeeze then moved off.

  “Good to see you, boss.”

  “Cali Boy. Thought you were dead. Tank too.” Duke’s voice cracked as he said the words. Emotion welled in his chest, choking off his breath.

  “Takes more than that little misadventure to kill us, dude.”

  He could suddenly breathe again, but now he wanted to know everything. His nerve endings were all but buzzing in the bubble of silence surrounding the three of them as they continued down the sidewalk. They continued in a slow amble, but now the traffic noise was louder.

  “We figured you were dead too, Duke. You and your princess.” Tank’s low voice rumbled like the delivery truck passing by.

  “Then you know she’s real.”

  “Roger that, but we couldn’t say anything. Not in your room. It’s bugged.”

  “Are you shittin’ me?”

  “Not about serious crap, boss. The boy found the microphones and the camera in less than five. Impressed even me.”

  Dalton took up the tale. “That night, at the river. By the time we realized the UVAs were there, it was too late. The first missile had already hit. Tank and I ducked, but I saw you with the doc headed toward water. We hit the water not far behind you. Tank saw you go under when the second Griffin hit.”

  “Yeah. Figured you’d float the doc out of the way and come back. We snagged a submerged log and waited. Took awhile before the drones left. When we came out of the water, we found out why.” Tank’s voice turned to gravel. “They were all dead. Except Wilco. We couldn’t find him. Still haven’t.”

  “I had his dog tags. In my pocket. What happened to my clothes?”

  “We’ll find them, boss. What happened to Wilco?”

  “Don’t know for sure. The prince—Cory…she found him. He was dead, legs blown off. She collected his tags and shoved him back into the water.”

  “Fuck, Duke. Why the hell did she do that?” Dalton’s anger heated the words to scorching.

  “I was wounded, Dalton. Blind. She got me under cover, went back to the river to get water. She couldn’t bury him. She couldn’t leave him in plain sight. She did the best she could.”

  Duke heard the man rub his head. “She took off. Just left you.”

  “No. She didn’t.” Duke might have holes in his memory, but he was positive of that. They continued to walk around the perimeter of the hospital while he told them his side of the story. “I remember Boomer’s call. I remember being on the helo. I remember her kissing me goodbye. She’s out there, but she didn’t leave me. I’d be dead without her.” He finished to stunned silence.

  A few minutes later, T
ank spoke. “We looked downstream a mile or so, but found no sign of you. The drones came back so we went under and headed upstream. Found a UN Aid convoy and caught a ride to Khartoum. Walked up to the marines on the gate, introduced ourselves, and we were back in the US a few days later. We reported to a very surprised Commander Allen.”

  Dalton interrupted. “Yeah, dude had been told we’d all died. Interesting that.”

  “Yeah. Interesting.” Duke’s energy was flagging, but his brain was humming. “Nothing is adding up.”

  “We’ve noticed.” Tank stopped pushing Duke’s chair. “Those were American UVAs.”

  Dropping to his haunches beside the chair, Dalton added, “And it wasn’t a friendly fire fuck-up.”

  “What now, Duke?” Tank sounded lost, odd for the big man.

  “I wish to hell I knew.”

  Chapter 8

  TEN MONTHS. It took him ten months to finally park his ass at the bar in Mother Goose’s. The first three of those months he barely remembered. The other seven were spent dealing with blood, sweat, and finally tears. By a long and circuitous route, Duke had found his way back to Key West.

  “Here. Have a glass of self-pity.” Mother herself slid a glass of scotch in front of Duke. He knew what she was doing by the sound of glass scraping on wood and the smoky scent of the alcohol.

  “Not what I’m drinking.” He couldn’t even work up the energy to reach for the sweating beer bottle at his elbow. The jukebox added to his pissy mood by playing Cole Swindell’s “Ain’t Worth the Whiskey.” And wasn’t that the damn truth.

  “Oh? Could have fooled me.”

  “Dammit, Mother. I didn’t come in here for this crap.”

  “Then get your ass off my barstool and get the hell out, Duke.”

  “I’m fucking blind, Mother.”

  “Yeah, and?” There was no pity in the relentless woman’s tone. “Bear, get your butt over here. This whiny-ass SEAL needs an escort to the door.”

  The big bartender clapped his hand on Duke’s shoulder, but he shook it off. Raising his head, Duke turned in the direction of Mother’s voice. “Did I piss in your Wheaties or something? I’m not a SEAL anymore. The Navy gets all twisted up when their snipers can’t see their fucking target.”