Broken

by Rebecca Zanetti

  She couldn’t move.

  He lightened his hold so she could go.

  She stayed in place, wondering. Curious. Not even remotely willing to get off his lap. “The second is up,” she whispered.

  For answer, his fingers tightened, and he jerked her to his mouth. Then he devoured her. The kiss was hard and carnal, deep and commanding. He delved deep, holding her in place, conquering with just his lips.

  She sighed and kissed him back, planting her hands on his chest and slinging one leg across him so she could straddle him. They both groaned when she pressed down on his cock.

  A pounding on the door had Wolfe standing and turning to drop her on the sofa. “Where’s my gun?”

  * * *

  Wolfe scrambled for his gun, his mind fuzzy. “Get in the bedroom and lock the door.”

  “Wolfe? Open this damn door,” Angus Force bellowed, pounding harder.

  Wolfe’s shoulders went down as Roscoe bounded out of the bedroom and barked twice in happy greeting. “I’m coming,” he yelled. “Hold your horses.” He turned to a wide-eyed and rosy-lipped Dana. “You’re gonna want to go to bed, I think.”

  Her smile was a dare. “All right. You should join me later.”

  Sounded like a good plan. Why fight it? “Go. Now.” He let her pass before striding over to open the door.

  Force shoved him back two steps and stomped inside, his green eyes ablaze and darker than usual. “What the holy fuck are you up to?”

  Currently Wolfe was trying to force his hard-on away, but it wasn’t cooperating. He moved past Force and walked into the rain, noting the steam rising from his skin. It took several minutes, but he got his body under control. He turned back, went inside, and found Force sitting on the sofa petting his dog.

  “All better?” Force snarled, no doubt having seen Wolfe’s state.

  Wolfe nodded. “Yeah. Your timing is actually excellent.”

  “Yours isn’t,” Force said, grinding his back teeth. “Did you, or did you not, get in a car chase ending with gunshots and two injured men?”

  Wolfe stilled. “How did you know that?”

  Force ripped a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket and tossed it over. “BOLO for a truck matching yours as well as a guy with a gun matching you.”

  “Huh.” Wolfe scratched his head. “Didn’t know anybody saw me.” He’d checked the area for cameras and hadn’t seen any, but he had been driving fast, shooting, and then smacking a guy around. “Guess I should store the truck for a little while. Am I on camera?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” Force set his jaw. “Why aren’t you more concerned? Surely somebody got your license plate.”

  “Oh.” Wolfe wiped rain off his forehead. “I bought the truck with cash and used a fake ID, so the title isn’t in my name. The plates are stolen from a different state, and I’ll switch them out right now.”

  Force’s head jerked. “Well, now. Aren’t we the careful criminal?”

  “I try,” Wolfe said dryly. “You quit drinking yet?”

  Roscoe’s ears twitched.

  “No,” Force said, scratching the pooch under the chin. “You offering?”

  “Yeah.” He dripped water on the carpet as he walked into the kitchen and poured whiskey into two tumblers. He returned and handed one to Force, looking the man in the eye. “Slainté.”

  “Slainté.” Force tipped back a healthy swallow.

  Wolfe dropped into the adjacent chair, which had come with the house. “Have you gotten your hands on Candy Folks’s autopsy report yet?”

  “Still working on it.” The kitten dodged from behind the sofa and jumped onto Force’s lap, digging his nails into his jeans. “Kat. Take it easy.” He scratched the kitten between the ears. “I don’t have connections in D.C. any longer, but Raider does, so he should have the report sometime tomorrow.”

  Wolfe let the whiskey warm his belly. “What about the safe house?”

  “Not yet, but again, working on it.” Strain showed in the lines around Force’s eyes. “We may have to put her with Jethro.”

  The hair on the back of Wolfe’s neck stood up. “Absolutely not.” The charming Brit would make a move, and he wouldn’t know how to protect her from a monster like Rock.

  Force swirled his drink in the glass. “If you’re not interested, you shouldn’t care.”

  “He’s a professor, for Pete’s sake.” Wolfe shook his head. What in the world was Force thinking? This British dude had him confused.

  Force tipped back the rest of the booze. “He’s a professor now. Used to be MI6.”

  Wolfe drew up short. “No shit?”

  Force nodded, stood, and headed into the kitchen to reach into the top cupboard for the bottle. “Yep. I’m sure he doesn’t want that getting out with his fresh start on life and all of that, so keep it between us.”

  No problem.

  Wolfe caught movement from the corner of his eye, and he partially turned to see Roscoe drop low and shimmy silently across the living room, stopping in the middle. That was odd.

  “I’m not your girlfriend, but do you want to talk about Dana?” Force emerged from the kitchen.

  A split second before it happened, Wolfe realized the dog’s intent. “Force—” His buddy tripped over the sprawled canine, his arms windmilling as he started to fall. The glass and bottle went flying.

  Wolfe jumped up and snagged the bottle before the dog could. He held it up high.

  Roscoe yipped and sat on his haunches, his gaze on the bottle. The glass hit the carpet and bounced. Roscoe leaped for it, shoving his nose in and licking wildly before turning his attention to the carpet to suck up any remaining whiskey.

  “Damn it, Roscoe.” Force planted a hand on the coffee table and shoved himself to his feet.

  Wolfe calmly poured himself another glass. “You really need to get that dog some help.” He handed his glass over. “Oh, and Dana and I need the weekend off. Apparently, we’re going to a wedding in Tennessee.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dawn arrived hot and humid with the hint of another summer storm in the air. Wolfe sprawled on the sofa with the dog snoring on the floor, once in a while emitting whiskey farts. Wolfe had alternated all night between wanting to join Dana in the bedroom and desperately wanting to join Dana in the bedroom, but he’d peeked in on her, and she’d been sleeping peacefully. Finally.

  He let his hand flop off the sofa to rest on the dog’s head, his eyes closing for a short nap. He had to get a little sleep so he could function during the day, and he’d avoided it during the darker hours of night. Light peeked in through the blinds, so it was safe to let his guard down for a few minutes.

  He could taste the dust before he saw the dirt road around their medium tactical vehicle. Behind them was an older truck that held four of his teammates. Rock had gone up ahead in a motorcycle to scout for mines, his specialty. Wolfe looked sideways at Billy, a good ol’ Southern boy from Alabama who still had fresh bruises across his dark forehead and was one of the best intelligence gatherers in the entire service. “I’m not used to riding in the MTV,” Wolfe said, itching to get on a motorcycle, speaking in Dari to keep fluent.

  Billy snorted, and his hands relaxed on the wheel before he replied in the same language. “Rock got to the cycle first.”

  Whatever. Wolfe stared out the thick window as they passed by a village of brown mud compounds outside Khost city, wondering how many Taliban-affiliated families lived there. The barren hills around them promised more dust and heat as the day wore on.

  He rolled his neck as the vehicle bumped over potholes in the barely there road.

  Billy sighed. “Man, I’m still pissed. That boxing match yesterday didn’t help with the anger.”

  Wolfe turned back toward his brother. “Yeah. I get that.” Although he usually banked anger low and dealt with it when it exploded. “We lost two guys hauling in that heroin, and having it stolen is an insult.” They had a line on a key player in the trafficking routes, and
his unit specialized in hunting. “We’re good at evidence collection.”

  Billy drove around a large rock. “Evidence collection. Man, I’m getting tired of our euphemisms. Evidence collection, wet work, the gray zone. Why don’t we just say we’re going to fight this guy and scare or beat the crap out of him until he gives up the information?”

  “Because we’re too classy,” Wolfe retorted, straightening as Rock came back into view, riding toward them and giving an all-clear sign. He relaxed again.

  There was a moment of silence before the world detonated.

  An explosion rocked the truck behind them, and Wolfe instantly pivoted, trying to see what had happened. “Turn around. Fast.”

  Billy yanked the wheel and thumped off the road, hitting several rocks before turning and heading toward the burning truck and spirals of black smoke billowing into the sky.

  Wolfe scouted the area, saw no one, and jumped out of the MTV, running toward the hissing metal. “Cover me.”

  “Got it,” Billy yelled, already out of the vehicle, crouched near the rear, no doubt with his gun out.

  Two men had been thrown free and were both lying against rocks to the north. Wolfe reached the truck and ripped open the door, burning his hand. Flames flashed down his side and pain flared, but he ignored it all and dragged Jack from the truck, shoving him to safety. Wolfe reached in for Booker and dragged his limp body, still burning, across the seat to safety.

  He was turning to help them when a second explosion rocked the area. His ears compressed and his brain ticked in the microsecond before he was blown through the air, the light disappearing as he landed with a pain he could feel to his soul.

  Night was falling when he awoke, parts of his body numb and parts in excruciating pain. Sucking in dust, he rolled over, biting his lip in agony. His team. Where was his team? He used his elbow to force himself to sit. His gut lurched and he turned to the side to puke into the dirt, his lungs and ribs screaming the whole time. He turned and saw Jack facedown in the dirt. Grunting against the pain, he crawled over to his friend and felt for a pulse.

  Nothing, and Jack was cold.

  The sound Wolfe made felt like it came from the depths of hell. He checked Booker, who was also dead.

  Then he passed out for a while, waking to look at the stars. Blood dripped into his eyes, and he wiped it away, struggling to sit up and move toward the two men who’d been thrown from the blast earlier. His vision faded, and he fought against passing out again.

  They were dead, too. Saul and Jose. Gone.

  That left Rock and Billy. Where the hell were they? He couldn’t stand, so he crawled past the still burning truck toward the MTV, seeing a prone body. Billy? He’d been away from the explosion. Why was he down?

  The world wasn’t making sense, and an ominous ticking sound echoed between Wolfe’s ears. He reached Billy to find a bullet hole neatly placed in the back of his large head. In the back? There hadn’t been insurgents near—he would have seen them.

  “Rock?” Wolfe croaked, looking for the motorcycle. It was gone. So was Rock.

  Wolfe let the ground take him again, awakening briefly when troops arrived and then again in a medicopter. He wanted to tell them to leave him with his team, but his voice wouldn’t work.

  The dream morphed to the hospital in Germany where he’d recuperated. To the moment when the investigators determined that Rock had been the inside guy who’d stolen the heroin and killed the team. Anger had propelled Wolfe to heal and survive, at least temporarily. There would be justice.

  The dream again changed direction, this time to images of Dana in the woods, in that pink corset, in his bed. An explosion rocked through his house, and she screamed as she was burned.

  He sat up on the sofa, gasping for breath. Sweat soaked his chest. His hand trembled as he wiped his eyes.

  Nothing would stop him from protecting her. Then, he would find justice.

  * * *

  Dana ignored her headache as Wolfe drove through the thick air to their office building. They’d both been silent on the drive in, and the inscrutable expression on the man’s face hadn’t encouraged discussion. This close to him, her body hummed with need, now that she had firsthand proof of how well he could handle that need.

  He parked near the door and turned toward her. “We’ll leave around three for Tennessee.”

  She paused in the midst of reaching for the door handle. “Huh?”

  “For the wedding. We can drive about four or five hours today, stay somewhere in West Virginia for the night and get on the road in the morning. I’ll have you at your folks’ by noon, which is when your plane would’ve landed.” He opened his door, his voice matter of fact. “The wedding is at five, right?”

  She tried to make sense of his words, opening the door and stepping down. Heat blasted her. “What in the world are you talking about?” She shut the door and jumped over a puddle before reaching the cracked sidewalk.

  “I need to be armed and don’t have time to get permits to fly. Plus, I don’t want a record of me flying.” He opened the back door, and Roscoe bounded out, spraying water. “The dog is coming, too, and he doesn’t like airplanes.”

  None of this was making sense.

  She turned at the entrance, her mind reeling. “You don’t need to go with me to the wedding.”

  He reached her, looking dangerous today in black cargo pants with a matching shirt. “We can argue if you like, but I am taking you to Tennessee if you’re still going.”

  The mild headache turned into a pounding annoyance. “I’m not agreeing, but I don’t have the energy to fight with you right now.” She needed to drink the coffee he’d bought her.

  “Okay.” He opened the door.

  Maybe the coffee and a few moments would get her back on track so she could focus. She held her breath in the elevator until it reached the bottom, waiting for Roscoe to run out before following him.

  Serena was working at Mal’s desk, mumbling to herself without looking up at them.

  Wolfe slid a sugar-laden latte next to her before working his way toward the back room. “You can have my desk, Dana. I’ll be in the second case room.” Without looking back, he disappeared into the room.

  Dana fought the very real urge to stick her tongue out at him and sat instead, tugging her laptop from her bag and letting Serena mumble in peace.

  She worked for several hours, trying to track down Frank Spanek, using her cell phone to reach out to friends of Candy who might’ve known something about the story she’d been working on. Nobody knew a thing. She also tried to track down the three female CEO’s, managing to interview two of them on the phone, which didn’t help much. Theresa Rhodes was the only one on her list she couldn’t reach, and the woman’s assistant refused to give the location of her sabbatical. She’d much rather meet each one in person to gauge their expressions.

  Dana’s mind kept returning to her sleepless night and that kiss from Wolfe. Her cheeks filled with heat.

  “You okay?” Serena asked, diagramming on a notepad while sitting at the unclaimed desk.

  She nodded, surprised the woman had realized she was in the room. “Yeah. I’m fine.” Not really, but she didn’t know Serena well enough to confide in her.

  Serena tapped her pencil on the desk. “I’m really sorry about your friend. Force mentioned your loss when I got in earlier.”

  Dana’s throat hurt from crying during the night. “Thank you. We should have the autopsy results soon.” She rubbed her aching temples. “You have any drugs? Advil?”

  “Drugs?” Serena pushed away from the desk. “That’s it. The symbols—the first part anyway—correspond to some sort of equation.” She ran into the first case room, her tennis shoes squeaking.

  Dana followed, her hand pressed against her left eye. This headache had better not turn into a migraine.

  Serena moved to the taped-up notes. “That’s it. Right there.” She looked frantically around and then picked up a chewed pencil that Dana ha
d forced Roscoe to drop earlier. “The code is quite elegant. Every symbol corresponds to a number, which corresponds to a letter minus three.” She rapidly began deciphering the notes, jotting down letters beneath the symbols. “Smart woman.”

  Wolfe leaned back in his chair and kicked his massive boots up on the conference table, nudging thick case files to the side. Lines of stress cut into the sides of his mouth. “What is happening?”

  Dana dropped her hand and waited for her aching eye to focus. Serena formed words beneath the symbols and letters.

  Serena finished with one page and turned. “I have phrases in note form but no story. The phrases indicate a problem with Theresa Rhodes and her company.”

  Dana nodded. “I figured we’d find notes that she’d turn into a story when she was ready. That’s how many of us write.” She moved closer. “Did Candy find corruption at Rhodes’s sports company? Maybe embezzlement or tax evasion or something like that?”

  Serena frowned. “Well, kind of.”

  Dana read more. “Any other CEO’s mentioned?”

  “No,” Serena said.

  Dana leaned in closer. “The word ‘heroin’ is everywhere in Candy’s notes.”

  Wolfe’s boots dropped to the floor with a loud thunk.

  Dana read out loud. “Heroin from Afghanistan?”

  Wolfe stood to read over her shoulder. “More than ninety percent of illicit heroin is from Afghanistan’s opium poppy harvest.”

  She glanced sideways. “Really?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. What do you think I was doing in Afghanistan for so long?”

  Her skin prickled. “How the heck should I know? You don’t tell me anything.”

  “Fair enough.” Apparently, Wolfe had returned to being reasonable. He leaned closer to read the deciphered page and then stiffened. “We need to find this CEO Theresa Rhodes.”

  “Yes.” Serena leaned back and studied the entire wall. “I have a feeling this page is kind of a table of contents, so I’m assuming one of these other pages corresponds to her.”

  Wolfe rolled his neck. “What does a CEO of a sports company have to do with heroin?”

  Dana looked at the many pages. “Well, let’s decode them.”