Ready For His Rule--A WILD Boys Novel (The WILD Boys of Special Forces Book 10)

by Angel Payne

  John scowled. Deeply. He was used to knowing his team inside and out, down to the nuances in their voices.

  He checked their location. They were nearly at the light for Tropicana. A left could take them right out to McCarran, where her plane waited on the tarmac, but if security had been compromised, he’d advise a right, toward I-15 and Nellis. It’d take a minute, maybe less, for Sam to hook them up with proper clearance then transport back to DC.

  First things first. “Clarify.” The Escalade’s interior echoed his growl back, a leather-and-wood slap in the face. You’re not in charge, and this isn’t war. Through gritted teeth, he added, “Please.”

  Sol’s reply was prefaced by a weary sigh. “Itinerary change. We need you to head back.”

  “Back where? To the convention center?”

  He watched the reflection of his frown in the vice president’s narrowed gaze. “What?” She snapped. “Why?”

  “You heard the boss. Clarification, please.” Repeating the politeness was the easy part. Enduring the increased tension in Tracy Rhodes’s gaze wasn’t, even as he got busy disconnecting the audio jack to his earpiece, instead jamming it into the car’s patch.

  “Some idiot over here slugged too much juice into one power box,” came Sol’s voice through the car’s speakers. “They blew out the whole building, which crashed the drive on the sound system.”

  “Peachy,” John muttered.

  “Dammit,” Tracy layered atop that.

  “They’re out getting a whole new laptop to reprogram now,” Sol continued. “Sound levels have to be recalibrated, and we only have an hour until they let the crowd start to line up. Once that happens—”

  “Loose threads are more likely,” John finished for him. Yeah, even at a high-profile event like this. Even with a hundred pairs of eyes on the building’s exterior and a matching number on the inside. As circumstances went, the scenario wasn’t awful—and on a normal day, they might even be able to discuss a slight variation in plans—but this wasn’t a normal day. Paranoia had to be everyone’s middle name.

  Maybe it was time for Tracy Rhodes to be apprised of that too. John strongly weighed the risk of coming clean with her about the anonymous phone call, especially as she glowered at the speakers, standing proxy for Sol, as if she longed to punch the damn things in. “Sol. Dammit. Are you kidding me?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Rhodes.” To the guy’s credit, he sounded like he really was. “I wish I were. You know that. I wouldn’t cut into your daily time with Luke if it wasn’t important. If you want to walk onto that stage tonight with confidence—”

  “All right,” she snapped. “Fine. I get it, I get it.”

  Securing the comm line back into his headpiece, John sent a quick wrap-up to Wrightman. “Confirming itinerary change. Tigress on return.”

  Good thing he’d logged eleven years of disguising frustration. Intrinsically, he felt where the guy was coming from—Sol cared about his boss beyond simple security, invaluable for a political staffer at any level—but concern about what she did publicly had to start with the person she was privately. The woman needed a break, no matter how small. He observed it in the creases of exhaustion at the corners of her lips, and the heavy dip of her shoulders. Tension vibrated through every significant line of her posture. But most importantly, it drenched her gaze in raw, unguarded pain—emotion so stark, he doubted few had ever seen it.

  It sliced into him, cold as a steel blade. Humbling as a lead bullet.

  Making him react with equally honest instinct.

  He reached out. Gathered her hand inside his now. Once more, marveled at how small she was. Even struggled with the recognition, which was bizarre. This wasn’t new. Compared to him, most women were small. He’d spent most of his youth on surfboards, either Maki or Nani balanced on his shoulders, followed by competing on the wrestling teams in high school and college. After that, boot camp. Eleven years later, he was verifiably huge. None of it explained why Tracy Rhodes felt extraordinarily tiny—or why he was suddenly consumed by the need to shelter her with more than a hand. Then maddened by the recognition that he couldn’t. Not in the way it mattered most right now. By giving her back even a fraction of that private hour with Luke.

  No.

  Hold the fucking phone.

  He was Special Ops, dammit. Maybe not wearing MultiCams and slogging the swamp anymore, but he could still make the impossible happen. Most importantly, he wanted to make it happen. For her.

  Franzen pushed forward. Smacked a determined hand against the right side of the driver’s seat. “Hey, man. Change of plans again.”

  The guy tossed a smirk over his shoulder. “That so?”

  “Yeah. That’s freakin’ so.” Before his spine hit the leather cushion again, he’d opened the line back to Sol. “Wrightman, this is Dragon again. Come in.”

  A measured pause, in which Franz swore he could feel the man’s agitation from across the miles. Get ready, sugar pie. Here’s where you earn your paycheck.

  “Wrightman here. Go ahead.”

  “Minor change to route. We’re proceeding to the hotel for a brief stop.”

  Another pause, undoubtedly filled with any number of cuss word combinations from the man at the other end. Franz was almost sorry to miss it. Sol struck him as an impressive cusser.

  With a blast of static, the line reopened. “Negative,” Sol barked. “That is a large negative on the request.”

  “Isn’t a request.” His ass would likely be torched and booted back to Seattle within the hour, but the sedition was worth it. After a hit of the gorgeous, grateful tears in Tracy Rhodes’ eyes, he was sure. Yeah. Worth it. “It’s a necessity.”

  “Clarify. Now.” Not a second of down time prepped the command this time.

  “The vice president has…uhhh…spilled…coffee.” The word was practically a shout but not a lie, thanks to the woman who popped the lid off her drink then dumped the contents on her luxurious skirt. “Yep,” he declared, spurred by the truth, “coffee. A lot. Everywhere. She needs to change, unless you want her rocking some weird new modern art on that stage tonight.”

  “Someone can bring her new clothes,” Sol snapped.

  “Uhhh, sorry. Repeat, please. Lost you on that?” He forced his gaze ahead while stammering it. No way would he pull off the charade if he even glanced at the softly giggling woman a couple of feet away.

  “Franzen!”

  “Still not getting anything, man. Damn, what’s wrong with this thing?”

  He pulled the earpiece out. And left it out.

  “Franzen.”

  Sol’s bellow was drowned in the magic of Tracy Rhodes’s laughter.

  Worth it.

  The conclusion smacked him even before she did. Damn good thing, since he didn’t expect or see the force of her sudden embrace.

  Or maybe it wasn’t such a good thing.

  Surprises and he had never been on the best of terms, even when they were “good” ones. You want too much, Keoni. Hell. If he had a buck for every time Mom had repeated the mantra to him… Because you give so much, keikikāne. But expecting the same in return, it shall only bring you pain.

  So he’d grown up and learned how to control the surprises. All of them.

  Until Tracy Rhodes.

  Who gripped his neck with unbridled trust. Who pressed herself against him with fervent intention. Who flooded his nostrils with the scent of her citrus shampoo, along with a perfume blended of ginger, jasmine—and coffee. Like he needed a damn drop of the stuff, after the adrenaline spiking his blood, the alarm twitching his muscles, and the reaction taunting his instincts.

  Fight or flight? Evaluate the adversary. Assess the risk. Then retreat or retaliate. Contain or exterminate.

  What if the answer was neither?

  What the fuck did he do when the answer was as unpredictable as her—as all the incredible effects she had on his system? When all he could do was lift a stupid hand to the middle of her back, returning her gratef
ul grip as if he patted a damn dog, when he craved a lot more.

  So much more…

  You like it when I pull your hair like that, kitten?

  Yes, Sir. Thank you.

  You want me to pull on other things, too? Like these pretty nipples?

  Ohhhh yes, Sir!

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Saved by the beeping security gate.

  As the Bellagio’s ornate gates swung in for the car, Franz dropped his hand and eased his body back. The woman fitted so perfectly to him, from the waist up anyway, relaxed her hold too.

  But not all the way.

  She stayed close enough for him to catch the silver flecks in her pupils. To watch the dimples-inside-the-dimples appear beside her expressive lips. To stifle a groan as those lips parted, displaying a smile that somehow bridged the gap between girl and woman. Between friend and—

  What?

  Did he want to know?

  Hell fucking yes.

  No, goddammit. No.

  “Thank you.” Magically, her two words saved him from that Purgatory. They were soft but casual, dragging them solidly back into the friend zone. For her strength, he was tempted to thank her.

  “You’re welcome,” he said instead—finishing with an arched brow of warning. “I can’t guarantee you’ll get a full hour, though. Sol won’t believe you took that long to change your clothes.”

  “What? A gal can’t linger?”

  A multitude of things came to mind as a comeback to that—but not a damn one that would help either of them. He simply let his gaze narrow enough to show her that if she “lingered” anywhere in his vicinity, it wouldn’t be to primp for an arena of up-and-coming entrepreneurs. It’d be for his eyes—and cock—alone.

  After he hit her with the look for two seconds, her breath snagged. That sparkling gaze flared.

  And he glanced away.

  Because you haven’t pulled enough cards out of the dumb shit deck already, that you have to go making Dom-guy eyes at the fucking vice president of your country?

  Like that would work out—never.

  On that heartening note, he re-squared his shoulders. Raised his stare back to her, snapping on the mien he’d always saved for officers way above his pay grade. She sure as hell met that qualification.

  “If you change fast, you and Luke can probably get in a good twenty minutes,” he issued, and felt good about it. Yeah; he’d stuck that landing solid, with authority but not arrogance. Okay, maybe a little arrogance. He skewed toward Deadpool, dammit, not Captain America.

  Rhodes jumped herself to a new level of his esteem by respecting that. As exciting as it had been to dance at the edge of flirtation, it was time to back off. Not wise to waltz on a precipice when the canyon was as big as DC politics. “I can work with twenty minutes. That’s enough time to check homework and catch up on his girl problems.”

  He narrowed his gaze again. Way different motivation. “Girl problems? What about the groupies?”

  “Hello?” She parried. “You think the groupies are puppies?”

  “Point to Rhodes.” He ticked the air with a finger. “But he’s a good-looking kid. Seems smart, too. And has kick-ass taste in music.”

  She slid a wry look. “Says the guy who argued Sondheim with me?”

  “Says the guy who also jams on Green Day, U2, and hip-hop. So…American Idiot, Spiderman, and Hamilton for the point?”

  Her lips quirked. “Given, renaissance guy.”

  John shrugged. “Or a guy who’s spent a lot of down time waiting on orders for the last eleven years.” But sure as hell not in digs like this. Just the private portico entrance to the villas, with its ornate tiled fountains and marble statues, was luxury he’d never seen. This was a long damn way from sleeping on rocks.

  Wasn’t tough to observe how Rhodes barely gave it a second glance. Was the princess feigning indifference, or had she gotten used to the high life after a year in office?

  He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. The first half of it came as they approached the entrance, and her glances grew more impatient. By the time Shep set the Escalade’s parking brake on the Italian stone driveway, her agitation was tangible.

  Not uncaring. Or jaded. Just a mother desperate for twenty minutes of solitary time with her kid.

  Shep remained where he was while the agent in the passenger seat, a stocky Irishman named Donald, exited the car. As he stopped, hand on the backseat door, Tracy twitched like a shopping addict on Black Friday.

  Donald didn’t budge. He knew not to until Franz gave the all-clear.

  John wasted no time unfurling all six-and-a-half feet of himself from the car. As he did, all five senses jumped to high alert. Every moment of the trip before this was left behind, his energy funneled into instincts that’d kept him alive since joining the elite corps of Special Forces Group One.

  Sight was his strongest ally. He swept keen eyes over the driveway, up to the rooftops, through the clean-trimmed Cyprus trees and lavender bushes, even into the depths of the fountains. All seemed peaceful.

  Too peaceful.

  He opened his ears next. Received nothing in return but the soft trickles of the fountains and the distant rush of Strip traffic.

  Calm. Too damn calm.

  What was it? What was out of place?

  He’d studied the villa’s layout during the plane trip down from Seattle, along with mentally updating himself on the schematics for the convention center. He’d also reviewed the extra intel Bommer forwarded. These villas had dedicated housekeeping, butler, and food services. Why didn’t he see or hear any of those personnel? Shouldn’t they be out here to greet one of the most “VIP” guests they’d ever had?

  He extended his hands out a little, palms down, fingers extended. The air itself was still. Too still.

  “Franzen?” Donald’s brogue was gruff but soft. “We all cl—” He clipped it short when John raised a hand, fist closed tight. Full stop.

  He took measured, nearly silent, steps toward the front of the car. Heel-toe, heel-toe; distributed weight; ninja silence. When Donald locked him with a significant gaze, he flung back a battle spear of a stare, forged with a solitary message.

  Something’s not right.

  Donald jerked a nod. Shep repeated the action when the spear stare hit him.

  Franz looked over to Tracy again. Her face was distant, pale, and troubled—but trusting. Filled with complete reliance on his instinct—

  Which still conveyed just one thing.

  Something. Is. Not. Right.

  More tires sloughed onto the driveway. Shit. The Escalades bearing Tracy’s two girlfriends, a slew of other staffers—

  And Luke.

  Who, like the fifteen-year-old being led by his small head instead of his big one, ignored his security detail to bound like a boss from his vehicle. Wasn’t tough to decipher Luke’s confidence. Popping her head out in his wake was a little blonde, freckles across her nose and a lopsided grin, who gasped upon glimpsing the private backyard and swimming pool.

  “Luke! Ohmigawd! This is where you’re staying?”

  “Only until tonight, when my mom’s done with that thing at the convention center.”

  Smooth. The kid pulled off humble yet confident in the same line. John made a note to commend him—as soon as he murdered him. “Luke. Dammit.”

  The teen rolled his eyes. “John? Seriously?”

  “Seriously. Get back in the car.”

  “Gah. Dude, I thought you were cool.”

  “Lucas Levane Ryker Rhodes.” The charge, louder than it should’ve been due to a suddenly unrolled window, seized Franz’s gut like it clearly did the kid’s. “Get back in your car, or this week’s allowance doesn’t happen.”

  Franz stomped to the open window. Flung a glare inside the car. “Know what else won’t happen if this window isn’t closed in ten seconds?”

  Thank fuck the woman filled the rest of that in. She wasn’t stupid—m
ost of the time—but her blind spot was definitely her son. That much was proved as she hit the button, raising the bulletproof glass back up.

  If only her offspring would be as smart.

  Not in the cards, even after the threat of allowance deprivation. “This shit is so lame,” Luke huffed.

  “Hey.” Franz jabbed a finger. “Language. Especially in front of a lady.”

  “But you just—”

  “You’re costing everyone valuable time,” John bellowed. Irretrievable, perhaps priceless, seconds. “Get back in the car, Luke.”

  “And don’t move your arse until I say so.” The order, issued by a brogue thicker than Donald’s, came from the guy now surging out of that car. Though his ginger hair turned to fire in the sun, the brilliance didn’t touch the enraged blazes in Sam Mackenna’s eyes. “Do ya have a brain to claim in that thick skull, ya hormonal numpty?”

  Luke kept up the fume. Franz almost began to feel for the kid. Sometimes a guy had to choose what won, their good sense or their fury. Rarely did the two blend well. “Sam! Shit.”

  “Language.” Sam helped on the growled repeat.

  “Whatever,” Luke retaliated. “We were just here a few hours ago, yeah? You think the boogie men really snuck in between then and now, and—”

  “Stop.” The Scot’s jaw emulated a cliff from his native land. “Before I’m tempted to show ya what a boogie man really looks like. Now both of ya, back in the car.”

  Luke jabbed his own jaw. Okay, Tracy had been right. The boy had it bad for his little girlfriend if he was openly defying orders from a guy like Sam, who now really looked ready to pull out a broadsword for the cause. But as Mackenna jumped to the ground, locking the teens back in behind him, he swung an expectant stare back over to Franz—

  Exposing the deeper knit in his brow.

  John had no compunction about copying it.

  Something still didn’t feel right—but a feeling was all it continued to be. Nothing his senses returned as hard evidence was adding up to anything but confusion.