Fiona pressed closer to him. “They had us in this room, and I knew they were going to separate us. While Tianna was scratching the tracker out, everyone was talking about their significant others. I mentioned you. So damn glad I did.”
“Me too.”
“I want that.”
“Want what?”
“I want to find her. She said her boyfriend is a retired NFL player.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Maybe he’ll give me some memorabilia,” Jock muttered. “For saving his woman.”
Fiona laughed. “According to Tianna, that man is into her, like way into her. He’ll probably give you his freaking Super Bowl ring.”
Jock craned his neck to look at her. “Does her man have a freaking Super Bowl ring?”
“I don’t know. They hard to get?”
Jock threw back his head and laughed. When he stopped, he held her gaze with a grin. “Yeah, they’re kinda hard to get.”
“I knew that,” she said. “I just wanted to make you laugh.”
“Succeeded.”
“I wasn’t sure I’d get to see you laugh again.”
And there it was, leading right to the talk he knew they’d been heading for. “Wasn’t sure I was going to laugh again, to tell you the truth.”
She propped her chin up with her fist on his chest. “I’m glad you said what you did, before I left. I wanted to save the other girls and get back to you. I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to manage, and for some time, I wasn’t sure I could. But then I couldn’t imagine you having to learn about something happening to me. Not after our talk.”
“Not sure there’d be much left of me if something happened to you.”
“Tell me,” she said quietly, and he knew what she was asking. Still she explained. “I don’t know about your family, or what you did before you became…this. You didn’t come out of the womb six-foot-whatever-you-are with a scowl and a beard, did you?”
“No.”
“Tell me,” she whispered.
So he did. He told her about his mom, how she’d raised him and his brother on her own. How they’d been forced to be adults before they should have been. How Jock joined the Army at eighteen, and his brother got himself a scholarship for journalism because he was nosy and could write like a demon.
“Got deployed to Iraq and got in deep with a local terrorist cell. Dismantled them, but not enough. There were stragglers. My brother came over on his fucking own—freelance—to get the story of what my men and I did. Remaining terrorists of this cell figured out who he was, what he was to me, and they executed him.”
She gasped, and her face went white as snow. Jerking to a kneeling position, she held the sheet to her chest and placed a hand on his. “Jamison, my God, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
“That’s how I met Roarke. I left the service, found some private contractors—ex-military—who were working off the grid. I was hired by them to take down the rest of these terrorists, and Roarke had been hired, too. We met, killed them all, and after that, I got drunk one night, told Roarke everything. It’s why he asked me to help him with his brother. He knew.”
Her hand was so warm on his chest, and for the first time, when he thought about it all, he didn’t want to carve out his heart with a knife. It hurt, it fucking hurt so bad to spew those words, but he welcomed the pain because it was so much better than the numbness. How had he thought numb felt good? It wasn’t good. Not at all.
So he placed his hand over Fiona’s and said more. “Not the greatest man. Also spent some time as a hired hitman.”
Her eyes bugged out. “I’m sorry?”
“I only took certain jobs, men who were shit criminals who slipped through the system, but it still wasn’t good what I did—playing judge and jury. Did that for a few years then went back to freelance hacking. That’s what I do now.” His hacker name—Jock—along with Roarke’s and Erick’s—had been floating around the Dark Web for years. They were known as gray hat hackers, which meant they were willing to flirt with the law with their hacking if it resulted in the greater good.
Fiona’s fingers curled into the hair on his chest, and her eyes shifted beyond his shoulder. He didn’t panic, but he felt the anger rise. She’d fucking asked, hadn’t she? He’d warned her…
“I told you,” he said through clenched teeth, and her gaze shot to him. “Told you not to go digging. So if this is too much for you, then I fucking warned you. You wanna look at me now like I’m—”
She didn’t let him finish, didn’t let him work himself up into a rant. She pressed her lips to his. Then her other hand came up and brushed through the coarse hair on his face. “Stop,” she whispered against his lips. She didn’t have to say that. He was done. “I was processing. That’s all. You said you’re done with that?”
“Done,” he answered swiftly.
“It’s past,” she said softly. She pulled back, and he noticed the sheet had dropped and pooled around her waist. Her gorgeous tits were on display, pink nipples begging for him to touch.
“J,” she called softly.
He jerked his face back to hers. He wrapped his hands around her hips, picked her up, and settled her onto his lap. She squealed but didn’t protest as her legs straddled him. She gave him a look that was a cross between an eye roll and a flirty side-eye. “I love you,” he announced.
Her expression immediately warmed. “J…”
“I told you that shit, and I’m glad I did, but it’s still there, still inside me, and it always will be. And that’s something I guess we’ll deal with over time. I don’t know when it will happen, that something reminds me of him or the pictures I had to see of how he died, because straight up, it was ugly. And that’s guilt I live with every day, that I’m the reason they took him.”
“Jock—”
“I don’t want to hear different because it doesn’t matter. I’ll feel guilt always. I feel guilt now having a woman like you in bed with me when what’s left of my brother was cremated so I could scatter him in our hometown lake.”
“You don’t deserve to be miserable just because that happened to your brother. You don’t deserve to live like a cyborg. You can be happy and still mourn him. The guilt and grief makes you human. And for a while there, I wasn’t so sure you were human.”
He laughed softly. “I wasn’t so sure I was either.”
“But you are,” she leaned into him, so soft and so sweet, that blond hair all around them, blue eyes shining. “And I love you.”
He kissed her again because he wasn’t sure when he’d ever tire of it. Not ever. That kiss turned into more, where he worshipped her body until they both came.
After a dinner that they ate sprawled in bed, he tucked her into his side. She fell asleep first, but Jock stayed awake staring at the ceiling. There was something bothering him, something he was missing. He couldn’t figure it out. He scrolled through his phone, checked all his contacts. He even texted Tarr, who didn’t respond, so he figured he was out on a job.
Then Fiona burrowed further into his side. So he didn’t bother her with the light of his cell, he turned it off and rolled into her. He slept, but he didn’t sleep easy. Even though Chamberlain and all the men were in FBI custody, Jock wasn’t taking any chances that Maximus would get word and issue another threat. Jock had an uneasy feeling the war had started, and it wouldn’t be done until Maximus had touched every one of their crew. Tomorrow, Jock and Fiona needed to pack and get the fuck out, somewhere away from all of this. Then, maybe then, he’d relax.
* * *
Erick Lee sipped his coffee and set the travel mug down in the cup holder of his Challenger. He’d been on duty all night, watching Jock and Fiona’s townhouse. Roarke had been worried about him when Erick volunteered to pull night duty, but Roarke didn’t know Erick averaged three hours of sleep every night. He was fueled on coffee and a burning fire in his gut that he hadn’t been able to extinguish ever since Flynn was kill
ed. The hot anger was just there, flaming constantly, keeping Erick awake but riding a knife’s edge of pain night and day.
So really, Jock and Fiona were doing him a favor letting him watch their townhouse, giving him something to do. He had his radio on, Princess Nokia’s “G.O.A.T.” playing softly.
Parked on their side of the street a few houses down, he kept his eyes on the house, constantly scanning. He knew Jock wasn’t settled. Erick wasn’t either. All online chatter showed that Maximus knew what had happened with Fiona and the FBI. Would Maximus retaliate? Erick had no fucking doubt. But for now, maybe they’d all get a reprieve. Still, he wasn’t taking chances, which was why he was watching Fiona and Jock until they could get out of town.
Movement caught his eye in his side mirror. Something small was slinking across the road. The crouched prowl of the four-legged animal let him know it was a cat. Then it stopped suddenly and craned its neck over its shoulder, into the bushes alongside the townhouse beside Jock’s.
Erick tensed and followed the cat’s line of sight. He always listened to animals, goddamn always. They knew shit, could see and hear better than humans, and had a sixth sense. If that cat heard something in the bushes, then Erick was watching, too. Of course it could be a squirrel, a rat, another goddamn cat, but the more the feline in the road stared and hunched, the more Erick felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Then the cat took off, running away at a dead sprint.
Fuck. Fuck him. He pulled his ball cap low over his eyes, grabbed his gun, and shoved it into the back of his jeans. He’d parked where he did for a reason—he could duck out of the passenger side and immediately be surrounded by a line of trees that would lead him down to a backyard, where he could then sprint along the backs of a few houses until he reached Jock’s. First, he’d check out what was moving in the bushes in the townhouse beside Jock’s.
So with a deep breath—that was what he did—Erick scooted to the passenger side and opened the door enough for his wiry frame to slither out. He ran in a crouched position down the line of trees and across a few backyards, using more trees as his cover. When he reached the townhouse next to Jock’s, he drew his gun.
The lights were off in this house. No sound, no nothing. Same with Jock’s. This had probably been stupid. He glanced back at his car. No movement there either. He took a deep breath and raced to the corner of the townhouse. There he plastered himself against the wall, gun at the ready. He heard it then, the breathing. A human was breathing. What fucker was hiding in the bushes? What kind of low-rate shit was this?
Erick counted to three in his head and turned on his heel, gun drawn, voice firm. “Hands up.”
The bushes moved. No human emerged. “Look motherfucker—”
He didn’t get the rest of his threat out because a body crashed into his from the side. He swung his gun around, ready to fight, but he never got the chance. A face loomed over him, and all he caught were high cheekbones, full lips, and red hair curling out from around the edges of a baseball hat. Then something smashed into the side of his head and he wasn’t seeing anything anymore.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jock opened his eyes with a start. Something was wrong. He felt it deep in his bones even as Fiona lay next to him, her head on his chest. He’d insisted she get dressed before she fell asleep, and now he was so damn glad he did.
He heard it then, a creak, one soft footfall somewhere in the house. Sundance was in the bedroom with them and perked his ears. Jock made two decisions. Save his woman and dog. While Sundance would defend them, he knew whoever was in that house knew what they were doing. They’d kill Sundance, and if Fiona saw her dog die in front of her she’d lose her mind. He slipped out from under the sheets, guided a confused Sundance into the adjoining bathroom, and locked the door. There. Done. Next was Fiona.
He heard another creak. The stairs. Motherfucker. He tugged his jeans on and shoved his gun in his back waistband. He shook Fiona, and her eyes blinked at him, a smile creeping across her face until she got a good look at his body language. Then she stilled, instantly alert. Yeah, she’d been through some shit and knew when it was going down.
“Someone’s in the house. Gonna hide you. Do what I say.”
She nodded. He picked her up and walked over to the closet. The top shelf was narrow but sturdy enough to hold her. Crazy, because it wasn’t as safe as he’d like but short of throwing her out the window, he had no choice. He pulled down a blanket, helped her climb onto the shelf, and shoved the blanket in front of her. She didn’t say a word the whole time. “Hold that in front of you to cover yourself. Whatever you do, no matter fucking what, do not say a word. You hear me?”
“Jock,” she finally whispered, her eyes shining wet and bright in the moonlight.
“Don’t, Fiona.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded.
“Trust me, baby.”
“I do.”
“Love you.”
She choked out an, “I love you too,” and then he closed the door. She’d be able to see through the downward angled slats through the closet door. If Jock went down, he wasn’t confident she was hidden well enough. So he texted Roarke: Got trouble, come quiet and armed.
Jock didn’t know how many were in the house or who’d sent them. All he knew was he felt bad intentions, as weird as that was to think. He took a moment to worry about Erick but couldn’t dwell because he had to focus on himself. Still, he hoped to hell his buddy was okay.
He drew his gun and wrapped his palm around the grip, finger on the trigger. He stood with his back beside the bedroom door. And he waited.
Whoever was in his house was good. Not as good as him, or other men he’d worked with, but good. Anyone else wouldn’t have heard a thing, wouldn’t have felt what Jock felt. But Jock wasn’t anyone else, and those two footfalls had given him a heads-up.
He went to that mental place where he’d been before Fiona, when he’d had to work, to kill, to hurt. He didn’t want Fiona to see him like that but he had no choice, not if he wanted to keep them both alive. He kept his breathing steady and let his veins freeze over with the numbness he’d welcomed for so long.
The bedroom door didn’t open. Jock watched the doorknob and waited. Based on his estimation from the sounds on the stairs, whoever was in the house should be at the door by now. Why weren’t they opening it?
He stayed put, but his heart began racing, the ice not working like it used to, not when he had so much on the line, not when he knew Fiona’s warm and very much alive body was in the room, counting on him to protect her.
Just when he considered walking out of the bedroom himself—something he didn’t really want to do because then he’d be exposed at all angles, rather than here in the bedroom where he knew his back was safe, the doorknob began to turn. Slowly, ever so slowly. He hadn’t locked it because it wasn’t fucking normal to sleep with a locked bedroom door. He wanted this guy to think he and Fiona were still in bed. Easy hits.
Jock wasn’t going to be a fucking easy hit. The door began to swing inward and still Jock waited, his gaze waiting for a body part, any fucking body part.
A foot came through first, clad in a big black boot. Jock took aim and fired right at the toe. Blood sprayed and a man screamed, “Mothershit!”
Jock flung the door open the rest of the way, pulling the body through and onto the ground. He brought his gun around, ready to finish off the job, when something cold pressed against his temple. “Don’t, motherfucker.”
Jock froze. The man on the ground writhed in pain, knee pressed to his chest, dark liquid oozing out of his boot. Jock didn’t move his gun, which was still trained on the guy’s head, but he slowly looked out of the corner of his eye to see another man, watching him with cold, dark eyes.
As much as Jock wanted to finish off the guy on the floor, he couldn’t. Then he’d get shot, and Fiona would be vulnerable. This, he knew, was about him—his hit leftover from his enemies after he’d taken out the terrorist cell
that killed his brother. This was his past rearing up, big and ugly, and now it was putting Fiona at risk, too. He hoped they didn’t know about her, and they kept their focus on their target—him.
Except Jock couldn’t understand why the man with the gun trained on him hadn’t pulled the trigger yet. If this was a hit, why wasn’t Jock dead already? He didn’t recognize either guy but that wasn’t new. They all hid their faces to keep their identities a secret. Getting made meant getting dead. Still, the man on the ground smelled new, fresh, damn near amniotic. The man with his gun trained on Jock had the dead eyes of someone with experience. That made Jock happy because that meant the man wasn’t going to be sloppy. But that made Jock not happy because that meant the man was good.
Sundance was losing his fucking mind in the bathroom, barking his damn head off, scratching at the door and throwing his body into it.
“Tell that dog to shut it, or I shoot it,” the man with the gun announced.
“Sundance, enough!” Jock shouted.
Sundance stopped but continued to whine in a low tone. It seemed that was okay because the man didn’t give another order.
“Fucking shoot him already!” the guy on the ground hollered. “He put a bullet in my foot!”
“Shut up,” Dead Eyes said, not taking his eyes off Jock. “You’ll be fine, and if you whine about it one more time, I’ll put a bullet somewhere you won’t whine about at all.”
That shut up the injured guy fast.
“Now get the fuck up.”
The man slowly stumbled to his feet and then with a sneer, reared back his fist and slammed it into Jock’s stomach.
He saw it coming so he didn’t tense. He absorbed the blow, and to be honest, it wasn’t that bad. It took the breath out of him, but he could take a punch. He could take a lot.
Jock knew two things—one, he could maybe take these guys right now. If he failed he’d fuck up big. They’d find Fiona because her hiding place wasn’t that great. So two, he had to let them do what they wanted to do. He had to let them draw it out, and he just hoped he was still breathing with all his limbs by the time Roarke came.
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