Men of Mercy: The Complete Story

by Cross, Lindsay

  “Don’t think she’s at work anymore,” Merc said.

  “Think she went home already?” Her apartment wasn’t too far, he could be there in five minutes.

  “Nope.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Merc pointed to Hoyt’s left. Hoyt followed and his gaze landed on Hayden, leaning against the fence in the back of the party. He pulled around and parked two rows back, far enough she couldn’t see him, but he could see her. Every inch of her and her figure hugging outfit.

  He guessed somehow, in his muddled state of awareness, he chose to forget she wasn’t his to protect.

  “We might need that steering wheel later.” Merc's sandpaper-rough voice jerked Hoyt back to the present.

  Hoyt loosened his white-knuckled grip and eased back into his seat. “Just checking to make sure it worked.”

  Merc grabbed his laptop, which they’d rescued from the floorboards of the ruined Jeep, and snapped it open. “Sure is a nice upgrade from your last vehicle. Think you can keep from destroying this one?”

  Hoyt gave Merc a death stare and then turned his attention back to Hayden just in time to see a guy get up the nerve to approach her. And when he did, the blood froze in his veins.

  “Run him, now.” Hoyt's throat constricted and he palmed his 9mm.

  Merc lifted his phone, took a picture, and then downloaded it to his laptop, a process that took all of ten seconds, but felt like ten hours. “Running now. Hold on. We need to know what we're dealing with before you start blasting into a crowd of kids.”

  Hoyt knew he was acting like a newbie, but this was Hayden. He forced himself to relax back into the buttery leather seat, but he didn't tuck his gun back into its holster.

  “Got it. Name's Malik Hussein. Raised in England. Been in the country for almost six years studying psychology. He graduates in a few weeks. No flags, no terrorist connections.” Merc kept scrolling.

  The guy lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. Hoyt nearly punched through the windshield. His head started to pound with a migraine, the pressure hard and steady. Dammit. He needed to be numb again. He could handle that, even just normal anger. But Hayden had this way of evoking feelings in him. Feelings that were very different from anger, which meant he was no longer equipped to handle them.

  He used every single ounce of restraint he had left not to rip out of the Hummer and tear across the parking lot. He grabbed the steering wheel and gripped it like an anchor, knowing that if he let go, he'd lose control.

  “Dammit. I think the processor got damaged,” Merc said. “The screen just froze.”

  Hoyt grunted a response. He was too busy staring at Hayden to give a more collected response. There was a newcomer to Hayden's little man party, a dopey looking blond guy in a toga. The dark-haired student, Malik, stayed for a second and then broke off and walked into the house. But Hoyt’s attention was on the blond idiot who’d scooped Hayden up into the air and was spinning her around.

  A heavy boulder bounced up from Hoyt's stomach and into his chest. He rubbed his sternum…Hard.

  Forget doing the right thing and letting her move on. He set down the pistol and grabbed the door handle.

  This guy was obviously not a terrorist, but he was seriously encroaching on Hoyt's territory.

  What territory? You told her you didn't want to see her ever again.

  He let his hand slide from the door handle.

  The guy set Hayden on her feet and stepped back, giving Hoyt a clearer view of his features. Blond hair, decent build, tan skin. Like a younger, better-looking version of Hoyt.

  Hoyt glanced in the rearview mirror and cringed. The jagged scar running down the left side of his face made him look like some twisted version of the Joker.

  As always, the scar itched and Hoyt lifted a finger and gently ran it down the scar’s smooth shiny length, catching the barest tremble of his hand in the mirror.

  He’d bet anything that the frat boy in the toga didn't have scars disfiguring his entire body.

  Hoyt tried to swallow past what felt like a tight fist clenching his throat. By appearance, the guy was the perfect replacement for him. Easy smile, good-looking, comfortable with Hayden.

  Just like Hoyt had been before he was tortured on Crowe Mountain.

  Just like he could never be again.

  “You want to stop caressing that pistol? I don't think the locals will take it too well if you start capping civilians.”

  Hoyt hadn’t even realized he’d picked it up again. He forced his fingers to unwrap themselves from around the pistol and holstered the weapon. Even though he'd never admit it, Merc was right. He couldn’t deal. It had been a lot easier to tell Hayden to move on with her life from the confines of his bedroom, through Jared. Actually seeing her with another guy was an entirely different matter.

  And it was something he’d better learn to deal with real quick. He had no right to ask her to be with him again when there were still so many scars on his body and soul, no right to beg her forgiveness after leaving her with no real explanation.

  He needed to remind himself that Hayden James deserved to be with another man. A better one. His gaze found the rearview mirror again. Look at yourself. If you really care about Hayden, you'll leave her the fuck alone.

  Never touch her again, just like he'd promised Hunter.

  “I know it's not my place, but I don't think Hayden's bothered by the scars. As a matter of fact, most women kind of dig them.” Merc's deep voice drew him out of his vortex of self-loathing.

  Hoyt glanced over to see Merc shifting in his seat. “You get hit in the head harder than I thought?”

  “Have you looked at me lately? It’s not like I’m freaking James Bond on the cover of GQ, badass because I've got a little scar,” Hoyt snarled.

  “James Bond doesn't have shit on you. He's a character played by a fucking actor. You’re the real deal.”

  “Well, the real deal makes babies cry and little kids hide when I go out to grab a bite, so why don't you back the fuck off.”

  A savage violence unleashed itself in him. He needed to hit something, and right now the best option was beating the shit out of his friend. Even if Merc was the deadliest assassin in the entire Special Forces. The rage ripping through him right now didn't know reason.

  Merc leaned back and arched a brow, his casual I'm-not-really-scared-of-you look pissing Hoyt off even more. “I'm not the only one who’s tired of seeing you walk around pouting like a three-year-old girl who lost her Barbie.”

  He might as well have bitch-slapped Hoyt across the face. Pouting? He was doing the right thing. He was putting her needs before his own, whether she understood that or not. “You think I like giving her up?”

  “I think you're scared. Your whole life you've had things handed to you on a silver platter. Now that things are getting hard, you're buckling under the pressure.” Merc crossed his arms and any semblance of light-heartedness disappeared from his demeanor.

  The rage rushing through his veins exploded. “Easy? When I was a little kid, my aunt locked Jared and me in a closet and tried to beat and starve us to death. We escaped and had to survive in the woods alone for months, and then we had to survive the foster system after that. Easy? You've lost your mind.”

  Merc’s hand suddenly shot out and pushed Hoyt against the driver’s side door. Hoyt tried to struggle, but his friend’s strength seemed superhuman.

  “Exactly. That’s the reaction I was looking for,” he said, the side of his mouth tipping up in a sardonic grin. “You’ve survived more hardship than any man I know. This is just another notch on your belt. Pull your head out of your ass and fight. Fight for what you want. Because the Hoyt Crowe I know doesn't just give up. He destroys anyone stupid enough to stand in his path.”

  The laptop beeped and Merc jerked back, yanking the computer into his lap.

  Hoyt rubbed the sore part of his neck where Merc had grabbed him. It would take him a while to process his friend’s words. “W
hat's it say?”

  “Finally loaded the history. Looks like Malik's father is British and his mother is Saudi. He's here on a student visa.”

  Merc was right—he wanted Hayden as much as he’d ever wanted her. The wanting hadn’t gone away. But maybe he had nothing left to offer her but a penchant for violence and nightmares that woke him in a cold sweat...

  “Did you say student visa?” he said, finally tuning back in.

  “Yeah, why?” Merc turned to him slowly, and Hoyt knew his head had to be throbbing too.

  “The first guy, the one in the Honda, he had a student visa.”

  Chapter 9

  Hoyt ripped the door open and exploded from the Hummer, Merc's heavy footsteps pounding the pavement right behind him. Hayden had disappeared from her post outside. Both men ran all out for the house, splitting the throng of people down the middle. The guy closest to them shouted and dove right out of their path, and the sea of partiers split as fast as the Red Sea before Moses.

  Hoyt rushed up the stairs and surged through the back door.

  Floppy frat boys shouted as Hoyt shoved them aside, a maniac with a savage need to find and protect Hayden. His veins filled with the boiling tar of rage, fury and fear; he jammed through the throng of brunettes and blondes, not even sparing a glance for the fake boobs poking out over their painted-on shirts or their five-inch fuck-me-heels.

  He burst through the open kitchen door and ground to a halt at the wall of vice he found there. Heat and sweat and the smell of beer permeated the air. A loud rap song pulsed across the floor, vibrating through his entire body with every beat.

  “I’ll check the upstairs.” Merc pushed off to the right, working through the crowd up the staircase. Hoyt froze in place.

  A cold sweat broke out on his flesh, despite the thermal heat in the room. A few women looked his way, did a what-the-fuck double take, and then scattered, getting as far away from him as possible. The nearest guys, either too drunk or too stupid to realize that his presence could spell their death, tried to shoulder together and block his path. Hoyt let out a low growl, the sound not nearly as feral as he felt, and the wall toppled.

  The crowd fell back in a loose circle.

  He scanned the living room, his gaze stalling every time it lit on a head of blonde hair, but where was Hayden? He couldn't even sense her presence.

  The music seemed to ratchet up louder and Hoyt’s hands fisted at his sides. Those unlucky few who were still crowded in the middle of the room pushed backwards against the wall of people surrounding him, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the freak show as possible.

  “Where is Hayden James?” Hoyt forced the words past his tight throat. Though he’d attracted plenty of wide, frightened stares, no one responded.

  His gaze fell on the young brunette to his left and he stepped in her direction, intending to question her. The girl let out a shriek and forced her way back through the crowd.

  Hoyt fought the instinctive need to recoil. He knew his face was ruined. He knew how he affected people.

  “Leave her alone. What do you want?” When Hoyt spun around, he found himself facing the blond kid in the toga. The one who'd dared to lay his hands on Hayden earlier.

  A familiar flicker passed through the kid’s eyes when he saw Hoyt’s scar. But he didn't scream, even though fear rolled off of him in waves. The blinding need to crush him hammered through Hoyt.

  Get it together, man. He's better for her than you are.

  “Hayden James.” Her name was the only thing he could manage to say.

  The young man flushed but held firm. “What do you want with her?”

  “Where is she?”

  “None of your business.”

  Hoyt's already thin-as-ice control snapped. Before he knew it, he had Adonis backed up against a narrow wall next to the stairs, his hand around the guy’s throat.

  “Where is she?”

  Frat boy's eyes bulged and his face turned fire-red. Satisfaction slithered through Hoyt's conscious.

  “Hoyt, drop him,” Merc came running down the stairs. College kids surrounded him and stared in horror, but Hoyt didn’t budge.

  “Hoyt Crowe, drop the boy now.”

  Hoyt snapped his head around to see Sheriff Lawson standing a few feet behind him. Arms at his sides, his right hand hovering an inch above his pistol.

  Hoyt snarled and whirled back to his victim, squeezing until the guy sputtered and coughed, desperately pulling at the unmovable fingers slowly cinching around his throat. “Not telling you,” he choked out.

  Hoyt roared, “Where is she?!”

  Not even the pounding music could compete with his shout.

  “Hayden is on her way home. I just saw her pull out.” Lawson's hot breath blasted Hoyt's shoulder, his voice low and calm and about as soothing as a bucket of rusty nails prickling his destroyed flesh.

  Hayden was safe. The red haze lowered. Hoyt loosened his grip just enough for the toga boy to hit the ground.

  The kid gasped and retched. Hoyt stood over him, not really seeing him anymore, his chest expanding and contracting with force.

  Frat boy grabbed his neck and stood, lifting his free hand to point at Hoyt. “Monster.”

  Awareness slithered around Hoyt like a boa constrictor, strangling his air supply until it hurt to breathe. The panic gut-punched him and he almost doubled over. As if sensing his weakness, frat boy took a bold step forward and repeated, “Monster.”

  The crowd seemed to collapse around Hoyt, shoving him deeper into the pit of claustrophobia. Too tight, shit. He went cold and then hot. The little bastard took another step toward him, but Merc locked a massive hand around the boy's arm, bending it back like a wet noodle. “You think he was scary before? Keep pushing. He'll nail your coffin closed with his bare fist.”

  Merc flung frat boy away and yanked Hoyt out of the room, Lawson nipping at their heels. Hoyt didn't draw in a full breath until he was standing in the parking lot, facing his friend and the sheriff.

  “Want to tell me what that was all about? Cause I can guarantee you that boy's parents are richer than dirt and will sue your pants off if given the opportunity.” Lawson crossed his arms over the tan police uniform, a hard gray gaze glinting at Hoyt in the night.

  “Nothing.” Except that wasn’t true. Hayden was his everything, and if she had been harmed...

  Hoyt turned to Merc. “You get a bead on the other one?”

  Merc shook his head in the negative. With the overhead light casting dark shadows over him, Merc looked like the grim reaper's worst nightmare. Any sane man would take one look at the pair of them and take off screaming.

  But not Bo Lawson. The ex-marine either had a death wish or just plain didn't care. “You two better tell me what the hell this is all about, or I swear to God, I'll call the boy's parents myself and give them a sworn testimony.”

  Chapter 10

  A few minutes later, Hoyt and Merc watched the sheriff stride back into the house with a determined set to his shoulders. “You think the commander will rip our heads off for giving the sheriff his personal cell number?”

  “Nah, he'd rather field that call than have us explain the situation.” Merc pulled open the driver’s side door and climbed in.

  Hoyt jumped into the passenger’s seat. “What gives?”

  “You think I trust you to drive after that stunt? Plus, it's my turn to have a go at this beauty.”

  “That punk deserved it.”

  “Sure, because he touched your girl.”

  “Dammit, she's not mine.”

  “You keep telling yourself that.” Merc cranked up the vehicle and put her in reverse. “Log on to the computer and pull up those student visas. I have a feeling they’re sponsored by the same man.”

  Merc made a sharp turn and propelled the Hummer forward, sending the laptop sliding across the floorboards. Hoyt barely caught it before it slammed into the door. “Watch it.”

  Merc shrugged and lined up wit
h the exit to the parking lot. “A few more dings shouldn't hurt.”

  Hoyt quickly pulled the case open, typed in the secure password and logged into the encrypted server. He didn't need to pull the visa up to remember the name. He typed the information into the National Security Agency's search bar and stared at the little green think bar as it slid across the screen. A few seconds later it stopped and a name appeared. “Professor John Latham.”

  Hoyt went cold. Latham’s name was on the other student visa. “Shit, he sponsored both visa’s.”

  “Sounds like Latham is who we need to talk to. Give me his address.”

  “Hold on, I need to make sure Hayden’s at home.”

  A horn blared behind them and Hoyt glanced back to see a low-riding Mercedes flashing its headlights and inching forward. “Wanna get him off our ass?”

  “My pleasure.” Merc put the Hummer in reverse and backed up, forcing the little sports car to back off or get flattened.

  Hoyt grinned and pulled out his cell, dialing Hayden's number by heart. He hadn’t used her number in months, but he still remembered every digit.

  She answered on the first ring, her voice hesitant. “Hoyt?”

  “Where are you?” He had to bite his tongue to keep from apologizing for the wrathful tone.

  “Why?” All hesitation was gone now.

  Hoyt sighed and scrubbed his calloused palm over his head. “Please, just tell me.”

  There, that was better. He'd managed to sound polite. So why was Merc looking at him with an expression of gleeful menace?

  “Why don't you try none of your business?”

  Click.

  The line went dead.

  Hoyt pulled it away from his ear and stared at the screen in bafflement. “She hung up on me.”

  “I'd say our teammate's little sister is a mite bit pissed at you.”

  “I apologized for my tone.”

  “Jesus Christ, man, did you expect her to be all happy, happy, happy after you dumped her like that?”

  Oh.

  “I guess not.” Hoyt shoved the phone back into his pocket and pulled up the professor's address, stoutly ignoring the sinking feeling in his chest. This was the first time she’d seemed...well, mad at him.