Rogue Officer: A Protector Romantic Suspense Standalone (Gone Rogue)

by Patricia D. Eddy

  She sobs behind the gag, shaking her head and trying to shrink back from Pavel, who’s spinning the small knife around and around in his thick, fat fingers.

  “Stop this, Dimitri! Please! You can do whatever you want to me. Cut me, rape me, send all those terrible photos of me to the media. I don’t care. But Marina did nothing to you!” I hold up my bound hands, pleading, but he just laughs and nods at Pavel.

  The tip of the knife pierces her skin just under her collarbone, and Marina’s weak scream is echoed by my own. Pavel yanks the blade from her body, and blood flows freely down her breast. Her eyes roll back in her head as Anton releases me, and I fall to my knees, desperately reaching for her, but Pavel leaps out of the boat, shoves at it, and I watch, helpless, as Marina floats away, unconscious, bound, and bleeding.

  “Come here, Sophiana,” Dimitri says, his tone full of triumph. “Crawl. On your knees. Now!”

  Pavel and Anton stand side by side, ready to hurt me if I don’t obey. But Dimitri’s already taken everything from me. My one chance at true happiness with Griff. My best friend. My freedom. He doesn’t get to take anything else.

  Bracing my hands on the rough wooden planks, I get to my knees, then to my feet. Pavel and Anton take two steps closer, and I retreat the same distance. I’m perilously close to the end of the wooden platform, but I’d rather jump into Lake Zurich and drown than let Dimitri get his hands on me again.

  “I will never kneel for you again.” Marina’s dying. Griff…for all I know, he could be dead too. I’ll die before I let him take anything else away from me.

  Dimitri throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, we will see about that.”

  Griff

  It’s dark, the stench of fertilizer and dirt surrounding me. I’m on my stomach, grass tickling my left ear. My head aches, and my arms…fuck. Stretching the fingers of my right hand as far as they’ll go, I find the hard, plastic zip tie binding my wrists.

  Voices. Not too far away. Laughing. The few minutes before I passed out play on a loop. Sloane tapping my glasses. Tears in her eyes.

  “Don’t fight and you’ll live. He promised.”

  Volkov. He found a way to get to her.

  Think!

  Raising my head, even two inches, makes the world spin and tilt on its axis. My left shoulder protests the movement, sending electric sparks shooting all the way down my back. Cufflinks. Dax gave them to me because, in his words, “They’re distinctive. But also useful. Just in case.”

  I need useful. But Sloane had to help me put them on. The fingers of my left hand are useless. My stump is completely numb, and that includes the rewired nerves that control my prosthetic.

  The first cufflink pops off and rolls away. Goddammit. It’s too dark in here for me to see a damn thing, and even if I could…the fucking thing is somewhere behind me. Those shitstains zip tied my ankles as well, so leverage is at a premium.

  One last hope. I find the other one, flip the toggle, and it lands in my palm. Thank fucking God. Pressing on the post, I breath a sigh of relief at the feel of the snap. What’s not so pleasant? When I stab myself in the wrist sawing at the zip tie. Ignoring the pain, I tighten my grip, working the tiny pocket knife back and forth until the plastic snaps in two, and my arms fall limply to my sides.

  Stifling my groan, I whisper, “Austin? Tell me you’re still listening. I’m fucked, man. Sloane’s gone. Volkov took her.”

  The glasses flicker once, and the sight of text scrolling across the lenses is the second most beautiful sight in the world.

  Police on their way. Ten minutes max. Have a lock on Sloane’s tracker. Marina’s went dead minutes before your glasses started transmitting.

  Ten minutes? Sloane doesn’t have that long. Slowly, an inch at a time, I get to my feet, and though my left arm is still useless, I rip at my right pant leg and slide the dagger from its sheath.

  I’m in some sort of gardening shed. Still on Baur au Lac property if I had to guess. And those two Russian thugs are making sure I don’t wake up and cause a scene.

  They’ll have no problem killing me if I do. Hell, they’ll probably kill me anyway. Unless I get to them first.

  Adjusting my grip, I creep toward the door. Asshole #1 and Asshole #2 are pointing at the bright lights inside the hotel, chuckling and making jokes about all the pretty people inside. How they haven’t even noticed the star of the evening vanished under their noses.

  Rustling from behind me stops me in my tracks. Fuck. Not another threat. But when I turn, my eyes now adjusted to the darkness, I make out another prone form. Jacob. Dropping to one knee, I feel for his wrists and ankles and cut him loose. But he’s still barely conscious. They must have hit him a lot harder than they hit me. Or he didn’t try to play “out cold” like I did.

  Five minutes.

  The bright green words flash once on screen, then disappear. “Not waiting,” I whisper.

  With one final glance out the crack in the doors, I know what I have to do. A well-placed kick sends the left-hand door crashing into Asshole #1, and he hits the ground knees first. Spinning around, I sink the knife deep into #2’s throat, my position at his side the only thing saving me from being drenched in the arterial spray.

  He’s dead in under a minute, so I return my focus to the first guy. He’s on his feet again, a gun pointed at my head. “Dimitri said you could live. As long as you were no trouble. Now? You are trouble.”

  “Dickhead, do you really want to fire a gun two hundred feet from one of the biggest and most secure parties in Europe? The police would be on you in a heartbeat.” His moment of hesitation is all I need. Rushing him with my left shoulder dropped, I jerk up at the last minute, sending my titanium elbow joint into his chin.

  A bone cracks, he whimpers in pain, and my knife finishes him off, sinking deep into his chest over his heart. “Shoulda’ thought about body armor, man. I did.”

  Under this shirt? A thin layer of Kevlar. Not even Sloane knows about that.

  “Send me directions to Sloane’s tracker,” I snap as I take off at a run towards the front of the hotel.

  Wait for the police.

  “Fuck no. The second I find a cab, I’m going. Send me the goddamn address. Now!”

  Bootsvermietung und Seelounge. Utoquai 6.

  “Jacob’s in the shed. Where I just was. I think he’ll need medical. Send the police to Sloane’s location, but I’m not waiting for them if I get there first. And for fuck’s sake, tell them if they make a move without me being there…they’re going to regret the day they were born.”

  Rounding the front of the hotel, I spot a line of cabs all waiting to take partygoers home. One of them…yep. There’s that distinctive scrape on the front bumper. Elias.

  I yank his passenger door open and drop into the seat next to him. “Bootsvermietung und Seelounge. Utoquai 6. Get me there in half the time it would take anyone else and it’s a five-hundred franc tip.”

  “Yes, Mr. Griffin. Right away. But…” His lined face takes on a few more wrinkles as he stares at my bloodstained white shirt. “Do you need medical treatment?”

  “Not my blood. Drive, man! The woman I love is in danger, and if we don’t get there in the next few minutes…”

  Elias answers by wrenching the wheel hard to the left and peeling out like he just earned a spot in the Indy 500. Maybe—if we’re fast enough—I can still save Sloane’s life. If not, I’m taking Dimitri down. Even if that means I go down with him.

  Chapter Thirty

  Griff

  Exactly four minutes later, Elias points. “It’s right up ahead on the right.”

  “Cut the lights.” After a beat, when he doesn’t answer, I growl, “Headlights. Off. Now.”

  My phone buzzes in my inner vest pocket, and I tap my watch to answer the call as the cab comes to a stop just outside a mostly empty parking lot.

  Rain falls lightly, and I scan our surroundings until Ripper’s words appear on my lenses. “Pulled the FaceTime call Sloane was on when
things went pear-shaped. Sending the relevant bits to your phone now.”

  “Mr. Griffin?” Elias asks. “Are you all right?”

  “Not in the least.” Turning to him, I rub my left shoulder. Pins and needles. That’s all I have. Until I can get full sensation back, my left hand’s useless. “There’s a former human trafficker asshole somewhere on these docks. He’s kidnapped my girlfriend and her best friend, killed her agent, and probably a whole lot of other people over the years, and I have no idea how many people he has with him.”

  The taxi driver’s eyes widen. “You are not serious.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding? I’m CIA. Highly trained, but right now? I’m compromised.” Yanking up my left sleeve to reveal the titanium forearm, I fight the frustration, the anger at how fucked up I am. “Two of the asshole’s men knocked me out and tied me up back at the hotel, and my left arm—what’s left of it—is numb. I can’t do a damn thing with it until I regain full sensation, and Sloane doesn’t have much time left.”

  “Uh, Griff? Who are you talking to?” Ripper asks. “The police found Jacob. He’s got a concussion and at least three broken ribs. He fought—hard—when they took Marina.”

  Pulling out my phone, I show Elias the screen before I respond. “Rip, I took a cab to the boat rental place. We’re parked just outside the parking lot. There’s a single car—license plate ZH 443999—parked close to the docks with a guy sitting behind the wheel.”

  Elias taps my left shoulder. Thank God the sensation’s coming back.

  “Hang on, Rip,” I say.

  “I was not always a cab driver, Mr. Griffin,” Elias says with a sly grin. “I have done many things in my life. And I have loved. My wife and son? They are my whole world.”

  “Which is why as soon as I finish talking to my team—” I wave the phone, “—you’re leaving.”

  “No.” He sits up a little straighter. “I was a member of the Swiss Armed Forces for seven years and was trained as a medic. May I touch you?”

  “Yeah.” I’m not sure what he’s about to do, but my phone tells me the video has finished downloading, so I tap to open it. The words scroll across the bottom of the screen. Is that…a boat Marina’s in? Shit. Setting her adrift so she can bleed to death?

  I’m about to tell Elias I can’t wait any longer when his hands wrap around my left shoulder. Strong fingers dig into my upper back, and I feel a subtle pop, then a zing of pain, like sparks dancing along my skin. But seconds later, the pins and needles fade, and though the arm still feels weak as fuck, my thumb twitches at my command.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask, turning to face the man.

  He smiles. “Something I learned from another medic. Pressure points to increase circulation. The cots we had to sleep on were not comfortable. Many soldiers complained of their arms going numb at night.”

  “Thank you.” Shoving my phone back inside my vest pocket, I pull out my wallet. My left hand is just functional enough to cradle the leather billfold so I can grasp the wad of francs with my right. I don’t know how much is there. At least five hundred. Thrusting the money at Elias, I nod. “You’re a good man. Go home to your family.”

  He starts to protest, but as soon as my wallet’s back in my pocket, I get out of the car, give him a little wave, and head for the shadows along a chain link fence.

  There’s no cover. No trees, only the one car. How the hell am I supposed to get down the dock? Lights glow from inside a building down at the end, and I’d bet my life that’s where Volkov has Sloane and Marina.

  Trapped in my world of near-total silence, I don’t hear the cab until it passes me, heading right for the only other car in sight. Shit.

  Elias, no!

  But the cab blocks my view of the other car—blocking their view of me as well—and I take off at a run. Elias drives slowly enough I can catch up easily. Staying low, I keep my right hand pressed to the side for balance, and when the cab stops, we’re less than twenty feet from the other car.

  “Who are you?” The words scroll across my lenses, the unknown voice appearing in italics with a #1 in front of it.

  “I am supposed to pick up a fare here,” Elias says. “A woman? Have you seen her?”

  The man is brave as fuck, and I don’t know how I’ll ever thank him. Besides doing whatever I can to make sure he stays alive. Pulling the knife from its sheath once more, I round the back of the cab and spring for the big Russian with his hands on his hips.

  Balling my left hand into a fist, I swing, catching him in the jaw, and the solid impact reverberates all the way to my chest. Titanium packs a hell of a punch, and blood spurts from his lips, along with at least one tooth.

  I’m not interested in keeping anyone alive. Not knowing what Volkov’s done. But I’m on foreign soil, so I keep the knife as a last resort. Landing a second jab to the asshole’s cheek, I stagger back as he collapses to the ground.

  “Go,” Elias says, waving me toward the dock. “I have ropes. He will stay down.”

  Only taking the time to spare the cab driver a brief nod of thanks, I rush down the long wooden dock, my steps as light as possible. God, I wish I could hear. Could tell if I’m being quiet or sound like a herd of elephants.

  Close enough to make out shadows moving inside the boathouse, I slow, creeping forward one careful step at a time.

  Red text on my lenses. Fuck. Sloane. “I will never kneel for you again.”

  “Oh, we will see about that.” An unknown voice. Volkov. It has to be. The door’s mostly closed, and I take out my phone, turn on the camera, and angle it just enough to see the inside of the boathouse.

  Ice runs through my veins, and I shove my emotions down so far, I might never be able to find them again. It’s the only way I’ll survive this—that Sloane will survive this. She stands tall at the end of a long wooden platform, her hands duct taped in front of her. Two men advance on her with Volkov standing fifteen feet away, his cold stare fixed on the woman I love.

  Marina’s nowhere to be seen. Shit. I send Ripper a quick text.

  Get search and rescue to the lake. Marina’s not here.

  Three large, very angry, very powerful men. One strong-as-fuck woman with her hands bound, and me.

  “I’ll jump,” Sloane says.

  No!

  She’ll drown. That dress. Unable to use her hands.

  Screaming.

  The word flashes three times before it disappears, and I shove the phone into my back pocket. Now or never. Sliding the knife from its sheath, I test the weight. I can do this. For Sloane. Because no one is ever going to hurt her again.

  Angling a quick gaze around the door, I pinpoint my two targets. Volkov stands too close to a wooden beam for me to get a clean shot, and the other two—Pavel Andrei and another dude I don’t recognize—carry Sloane by the arms as she kicks wildly. “Let me go! Or just kill me already!”

  Oh, hell no. As the three round the end of the wooden platform and turn towards Volkov, I throw the knife. It sails end-over end until it finds its target. In the unknown man’s lower back. He drops Sloane’s arm, falls to his knees, and struggles to reach the knife.

  Off balance, Andrei shoves Sloane towards Volkov, and pulls a gun from his shoulder holster. Two shots splinter the wood inches from my head, and now…all I have left is the small pistol inside my vest. And ten bullets.

  “Griff! Run!”

  I ignore the red text and pull the weapon from the holster. Backing up, I wait for Andrei to charge. And he will. The man’s been arrested a dozen times because without someone else in control, he’s too fucking stupid to pull off anything more complicated than assault and battery.

  The moment he rushes through the door, I fire, and though my left hand is only good enough to help steady my right, the bullet hits its mark. The back of his head. He’s flat on his face—what’s left of it anyway—in less than five seconds.

  “If you want Sophiana to live, you’ll put down the gun.”

  Volkov.<
br />
  If I drop my weapon, we’re both dead. “Sloane? Talk to me.”

  Fuck. No reply. Ripper sends a message to my glasses telling me the police are five minutes out, but that’s four minutes Sloane doesn’t have.

  Stepping out from behind the door, the gun aimed where I last saw Volkov, I draw on all the anger I’ve kept locked up since the attack that stole so much from me.

  The fucker has one arm around Sloane’s torso, pinning her arms in front of her. With his other hand, he presses a knife to her throat. She strains, her head pressed against Volkov’s shoulder to try to escape the sharp blade, but it’s no use. Blood seeps around the shiny metal. He hasn’t hit her carotids yet, but one flinch—hers or his—and he will.

  “You won’t get away with this.” I don’t dare take another step closer. “The police are on their way. Search and rescue will find Marina, and you’re all alone now.”

  The other thug is still alive—technically—but he’s barely moving now, and a large pool of blood spreads out around his prone body.

  “You can kill me, American,” Volkov says with a smile that makes me want to kick his teeth in. “But this whore will die with me.”

  “Call her that again and I’ll make you suffer before I end you. Let her go, and I’ll put one between your eyes. Nice and quick.” My left arm throbs with every beat of my heart, but my anger and desperate focus give me the fine control of my prosthetic fingers I need to line up my shot.

  The knife glints in the overhead lights, and Sloane’s lips move even as pain flits across her face and more blood trickles from her neck to her chest.

  “I love you.”

  Seeing those words—knowing she feels the same way I do—it lets me believe I can do this. I have to do this. For her. So we can have our forever. “Trust me, sweetheart. I’m going to get us out of this.”

  Volkov laughs and drags Sloane back another few steps. But he can’t do that with the knife held as tightly to her neck, and the second it lifts slightly, she swallows hard and shudders against the big man.