Destiny Calls

by Samantha Wayland

  Patrick stood close in the tight space, checking his gun and tightening the straps on his Kevlar vest. The pull of Patrick"s tight shirt over thick muscle caught Brandon"s attention. The shoulder holster made Patrick"s already impressive chest seem impossibly wide and for a moment, he just stared.

  Patrick cleared his throat and Brandon winced, looking up to find Patrick looking decidedly amused. Christ, he"d just been caught drooling over his partner at a police raid. Time to get a grip.

  His eyes met Patrick"s and his smile faded.

  “You ready?” Patrick asked while his eyes scanned Brandon"s equipment, lingering on his belt holster, scrutinizing the fit of his vest.

  Brandon felt remarkably calm, actually, considering what they were about to do.

  “Yeah, I"m ready.”

  He jumped when Patrick wrapped his large, warm hand around the back of his neck and pulled him forward. For one hysterical moment, he thought Patrick was going to kiss him again, right there in front of the rest of the entry-team and with the entire SWAT team just around the corner. Instead Patrick brought him close enough to not be overheard.

  “No chances, Bran. If it gets hairy, we"re out.”

  He nodded as best he could with Patrick"s hand clamped on his neck. “No chances.”

  Patrick squeezed once before letting go. Brandon let himself feel one moment of real fear, then he put it away.

  Patrick stood, his shoulder to Brandon"s on the sidewalk outside Bella"s, and waited for the signal that everyone was in place. When it came, they walked through the door as if they were any other customers. Except that they had four uniformed officers at their back and an entire SWAT team on the street.

  Just in case.

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  The hostess didn"t register what was happening until they were almost past her.

  From Brandon"s briefing on the way over, he knew this was Mario"s sister"s youngest.

  Tough luck, kid, you’re about to watch your uncle get arrested.

  She managed to sputter a feeble, “you can"t go down there” as they swung through the restaurant to the steps leading downstairs.

  This was where it could all go wrong.

  For the length of time it took Patrick, Brandon and their escorts to descend to the private dining room, they were single file, boxed in by the narrow walls and the doors at either end of the flight of stairs. If Benedetto was considering making a stand, this would be the time to do it. Surprise was their strongest ally. Ryanne had chosen a judge they all knew was as clean as they come, but once the warrant paperwork was run through the courthouse, the information could have been leaked back to Mario any number of ways.

  They knew he was here. The question was, did he know they were coming?

  Patrick would have given his left nut to have gone first, but he was so damn tall he had to duck to keep from smacking his head on the ceiling, which would have made him slow to draw his gun and a lousy shot to boot. Not to mention he would have blocked Brandon"s ability to shoot at anything.

  So Brandon went first while Patrick focused on what they were there to do and not the boulder of anxiety lodged in his chest.

  As soon as his feet hit level ground, he moved forward to flank Brandon, his ears buzzing with the deathly silence that rolled across the dining room. His eyes never stopped moving, roving over the tables, recognizing Benedetto family members, thugs, made men, ex-cons, informants, even Mario"s mother.

  Not one of them moved until Brandon had led their team forward and stopped in front of the table where Mario Benedetto himself sat.

  Then, like a well-rehearsed fire drill, the people at the tables closest to the stairs got up and left. Once they were gone, the next group stood. No one ran. No one said a word. It was like they were standing to take Communion on Easter. They let them go. If anyone had an outstanding warrant, they"d get picked up as soon as they hit the street.

  In the meantime, the fewer people locked into a windowless, single exit room with six police officers and god only knew how many armed thugs, the better.

  Brandon held out a tri-folded sheet of blue paper with his left hand. “Mario Benedetto, I have a warrant for your arrest.”

  All eyes swung to Mario.

  In the electrified silence that followed, Patrick caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye and turned to see a henchmen reaching under his coat.

  Oh fuck.

  Patrick"s hand was on the butt of his gun, his thumb rolling over the safety, releasing it, when Mario held up his hand. The air seemed to crystallize around them, 47

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  then the henchman put both hands palm-down on the table where everyone could see them, bringing the tension in the room back to pressure-cooker from near nuclear meltdown. When the thug smiled, Patrick considered pulling his gun anyway. He hadn"t known a smile could be so fucking sarcastic.

  Jesus. They needed to link Mario up and get the hell out of there. Every instinct he had was screaming it was time to go.

  Brandon took a step forward and addressed Mario again, his voice calm as he tried to keep things moving. “Please stand up.”

  Mario smiled. “My good man, you don"t think I"m going to let you drag me out of here in front of all these people without at least making sure you"ve got more than a piece of paper in your hand, do you?” He shook his head, his eyes rolling, as if to say, the young are so naïve. Brandon"s calm façade didn"t even crack. “Please hand that supposed warrant over to my lawyer. It"s quite fortunate for you he"s here.” A big man stood up and Patrick had to purse his lips to clamp down on his reaction. Nerves made him want to laugh when he really fucking shouldn"t—it was a lifelong affliction. But come on. The lawyer had slicked-back black hair, a gold Rolex and a two thousand dollar dark blue chalk-striped Italian wool suit. Why didn"t the guy just have “Defense Attorney for the Mob” embroidered on his back?

  The lawyer took his sweet ass time reading every damn word of the arrest warrant.

  Jesus. Hurry up.

  A trickle of sweat slid down Patrick"s back. It was warm in the room, heat pouring from the kitchens on the other side of the wall, and his Kevlar was tight and hotter than hell.

  The bastard was stalling. For Christ"s sake, warrants were cookie cutter documents and Patrick would bet his life that this character had read one before. Probably with his own name at the top.

  Finally, the dickhead lawyer turned to Mario. “It"s legit.” No shit. Patrick was fast losing his patience. They needed to leave. Now.

  Mario looked at his lawyer for a moment before facing Brandon. “Good for you, young man. It seems I"m coming with you.”

  Brandon, ever the cool diplomat, nodded. “Thank you, sir. If you"d please stand.” Mario complied and Brandon moved to usher him forward, shooting Patrick a look, then addressing the uniformed officers. “Read him his rights and cuff him.” The trigger-happy henchman"s hands immediately disappeared off the table.

  Patrick couldn"t see what he was doing, but the man"s left lapel was rippling.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Instincts screaming, Patrick pulled his gun and took aim.

  “Don"t do it,” he barked, hoping like hell the stupid shit would listen, even as he moved to shield Brandon in case he didn"t.

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  The only sound that followed was four guns being drawn from their holsters. With his back to everyone but the henchmen and the lawyer, he prayed to god all those noises had come from the good guys. He could hear one officer, bless his cool fucking head, had kept both hands free and was calmly cuffing Mario"s wrists while continuing to drone the Miranda rights.

  Perfectly still, he kept his eyes locked on the henchman. He and Brandon were wearing wires. If either of them said “gun”, the entire SWAT team would be down those stairs in thirty seconds. Thirty seconds was a long fucking time when you"re a sitting duck in the middle of a dining room.

  Brandon"s back came up against his. �
��Mario, you don"t want to do this. Tell your man to stand down.”

  Patrick imagined he could hear the clatter of combat boots as the SWAT guys poured out of their vans. They wouldn"t come in until called, but a comment like that was enough to get them to the door.

  Mario must have heard them coming too. “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice that of the gracious host addressing his guests, “please put your hands on your tables where these fine officers can see them.”

  Patrick watched as his favorite asshole slowly brought his hands back into sight.

  Thank Christ.

  They managed to get Mario and all the good guys out of there in one piece, although Patrick didn"t holster his gun again until he was out on the street. He stood to one side and watched as they loaded Mario into the cruiser and hauled him away. Once the car was around the corner and the crowd began to disperse, he let out the breath he"d been holding.

  Brandon wrapped a hand around his arm. “You okay?” Patrick wasn"t sure what he was. His heart was pounding and he felt twitchy as hell.

  There was enough adrenaline in his system that he was almost numb from it. He wasn"t even sure if he still had legs. And even if he didn"t, he was pretty sure he could have run all the fucking way to New York and back. He needed to get away from all these people.

  “Yeah, I"m okay. Let"s get out of here.” He turned and strode down the street without looking back.

  Brandon was immediately at his side. “Are you sure you"re okay?” He really wished Brandon would quit asking him that.

  Stumbling to a halt, he realized he"d almost walked right past his own damn truck.

  He turned to Brandon. “Why the hell are you so calm?” Brandon"s only answer was to hold out his hands. They were shaking. Violently.

  “Jesus. How the hell do you maintain that fucking calm appearance? You look like it"s just any normal fucking day.” Patrick ran his fingers through his hair, intensely 49

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  aware of his holster and the vest and how they restricted his movements. “Shit. I can"t believe I drew my gun.”

  “You"ve done it before.”

  He shook his head and unlocked the doors. “Not like that.” He climbed into the driver"s seat, waiting for Bran to get in on the other side and close his door before saying anything else. It wasn"t exactly the sort of shit you talked about on a busy street.

  Taking a deep breath, he tried to get his head screwed on straight. “I"ve only pulled my gun a handful of times and this was the first time I had to point it at a human target.”

  Human target. Stupid. He"d have taken that man"s life tonight if he"d had to. Human target was a nice way of making it seem less personal. What a joke that was. Turned out killing someone was pretty damn personal.

  Turning over the engine, he floored the gas and flew into the stream of traffic, eliciting four honks and a finger gesture. His knuckles white on the steering wheel, he whipped around corners and gunned it where he could. Brandon held on, watching him with something suspiciously like sympathy on his face. It was really pissing him off.

  He needed to burn off some of the adrenaline. Driving like a total asshole wasn"t helping as much as he had hoped.

  Brandon"s voice was careful. “I hate to keep asking this, but are you sure you"re okay?”

  Patrick looked over at Brandon and something in him snapped. Cranking the wheel hard to the right, he roared into a public alley barely a foot wider than his truck, slammed on the brakes and threw the transmission into park. Turning, he released his seat belt before reaching to unlatch Brandon"s. Brandon stared at him, eyes wide, like he was a complete raging maniac. Which, actually, he pretty much was.

  He wrapped his hands around the shoulder straps of Brandon"s vest, enjoying the way Brandon"s mouth dropped open.

  “What the hell are you—?”

  Patrick shut him up by hauling his ass across the bench seat and kissing the holy bejeesus out of him.

  What a day.

  It had been hours since they"d arrested Mario Benedetto, but Brandon couldn"t settle. He"d been out walking, trying to shake the last of the adrenaline and calm his churning mind for the better part of an hour. The cool autumn breeze and tang of the salty harbor air helped a little.

  Turning the corner, he started down another busy street. It was a Sunday night, but the bars and restaurants were open and he found some distraction in watching the people come and go. Still, though, his thoughts raced.

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  Destiny Calls

  Nothing was going to stop him from replaying that kiss over and over again.

  It had been incredible. Once he"d recovered from the shock of Patrick manhandling him, he"d given as good as he got. And he"d gotten a lot.

  Like a couple of teenagers, they"d grappled with mouths and tongues and hands in the front seat of Patrick"s truck. Bullet-proof vests and gun holsters were probably the only thing that had kept their clothes on.

  He"d thought Patrick was going to eat him alive, his lips and tongue demanding.

  Patrick had been at the edge of his control and Brandon had loved it. But then the damn man had gone and changed it up on him. He"d eased back. Gentled. Instead of devouring him, Patrick had brushed his lips gently, again and again, before pulling his lower lip into his mouth and sucking on it tenderly.

  Brandon"s eyes had rolled backward in his head with each tug until Patrick had released his swollen lip with a little pop and nibbled and licked his way across his mouth, taking his time, then slowly sinking in deep again.

  Damn.

  He shivered, trying to shake off the memory of how it had felt to be held like that.

  He was no virgin, god knew, but he"d been almost paralyzed with shock and need, completely rolled under the wave of desire and Patrick"s kisses. Brandon, the one who"d fantasized about kissing Patrick for more years than he cared to remember, had simply closed his eyes and let Patrick take them wherever the hell he wanted.

  It had been quite a trip.

  When Patrick had finally released him, Brandon had slumped back against his door and stared at his friend. Patrick had looked as confused as Brandon had felt. And as aroused. His chest tight, he"d waited for Patrick to say something incredibly stupid to ruin what had just happened.

  Patrick, though, hadn"t delivered. Instead he"d calmly put the truck into drive and pulled out of the alley. As Brandon had righted himself to put his seat belt on, Patrick had glanced at him once before refocusing on the road. “Why don"t you come over for dinner tomorrow night? I think we should talk.”

  Elated and terrified, Brandon had agreed. The rest of the car ride had passed in remarkably companionable silence.

  There had been hours of paperwork and backslapping and general celebration before Brandon finally escaped and made his way home. Only, one look at his empty bed and he"d known sleep wasn"t an option.

  Now, walking along the streets, he tried to figure out what he wanted. As he rounded another corner, he stood looking at the Blue Door Tavern and laughed out loud.

  The scene of the crime. He thought back to just over a week ago when he"d kissed Patrick for the first time. Or, rather, Patrick had kissed him. He remembered standing in 51

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  line, trying not to look at Patrick in those tight jeans and the snug sweater Destiny had given him last Christmas.

  He stared at the Blue Door hard, as if it might give him answers. But the truth was he already had them.

  He wanted them both.

  Goddamn Destiny. She"d put this stupid idea in his head and it just wouldn"t quit.

  He hoped she"d meant it, because if the offer still stood, he was accepting.

  Standing on the street corner, he tried to ground himself in spite of his racing pulse.

  He wouldn"t be foolish and lose sight of the fact that Destiny was asking him to join her or, god willing, them for sex. Not love, not commitment, but sex. Only.

  Even as he thought it, he knew he was screwed. These were hi
s best friends. Hell, he was more than a little in love with them both already and well he knew it.

  So, was he a first-rate idiot to even be considering this?

  Yes!

  The risks were huge. Professionally it would be an unmitigated fucking disaster for him and Patrick if the Boston PD ever found out. But he"d successfully kept his personal life private for years. He knew how to play the game and there was no way they were going to find out now.

  No, the real risk was the likelihood of getting his heart broken. And goddamn it, he was going to go for it anyway.

  For the first time in days, the uncertainty was gone. It was still big. And scary. But he knew what he was going to do.

  Feeling a hundred pounds lighter, he turned away from the Blue Door. He cut over one block to the quiet side street and the most direct route home. He"d barely made it fifty feet when pair of strong hands grabbed his arm, wrenching it painfully behind him while another pair planted squarely between his shoulders blades and shoved him down. Hard.

  Thrown to the pavement faster than he could get his free hand up, his forehead cracked onto the cement slab of the sidewalk. Stars winked bright in his eyes, pain exploding through his skull while he scrambled to push himself up. He was immediately thrust back down with a vicious yank on the arm, pinned once more behind him. This time his cheek took the impact.

  The entire side of his face was on fire.

  What the hell was going on? Thrashing violently, he managed to roll onto his side and look up at the three men standing over him. Two looked enraged. One looked terrified.

  Struggling to free himself, he swung out his foot but met nothing but air. Even as he fought to roll away, to get loose of their hold, he tried desperately to memorize everything he could about his assailants, blinking furiously to clear the blood from his vision.

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  Young, maybe in their twenties, the biggest no more than twenty-five. Dark hair, dark eyes, a cross tattooed on his arm. The kid next to him looked half starved, his eyes darting, his body twitching. Another tattoo. He compulsively scratched one arm.