Taking Liberty: The Next Generation

by Edwards, Riley

  He thought I woke up because I’d had a nightmare. My heart swelled to epic proportions and I breathed deep, held it, then released it.

  “I wasn’t having a bad dream, honey. I don’t think I had any, did I?”

  Drake’s body went solid under mine and suddenly none of the stress management tools I’d learned were working. My anxiety level went through the roof—maybe I had a bad night and just couldn’t remember. Maybe I’d kept Drake up all night and he was upset with me. Maybe I…

  I didn’t get to finish my thought because I was on my back and Drake was staring down at me. Hair mussed, brown eyes warm yet full of concern.

  “Wherever you are right now in your head, stop. Look at me and relax.”

  Okay, he didn’t sound upset, he sounded worried.

  I inhaled slowly through my nose, relaxed my shoulders, exhaled through my mouth praying to God I didn’t have dragon breath that would send Drake running for the Listerine. And slowly I came back to myself.

  “Morning, baby.” He smiled.

  And there looming over me, Drake had never looked sexier.

  “Morning.”

  “To answer your question, no, you didn’t have any nightmares.”

  Weird. But good. That was good, right? Maybe I was getting better. Maybe the worst of them were over.

  I waited for him to ask what had gotten me stirred up but he didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward, kissed me on my forehead, and rolled off.

  “You wanna order room service or stop somewhere before we hit the office?”

  “I need to stop by my parents’ house and change.”

  “Figured as much. You wanna shower here or there?”

  “If I say here, will you join me?” Drake’s eyes narrowed and I couldn’t stop the giggle from erupting. “Jeez, relax. I was joking.”

  “Ha. Ha,” he mocked, not finding my joke the least bit funny, which only made me laugh more. “You know what they say about payback.”

  “Looking forward to it, big guy.”

  “You say that now. And I’ll remind you then—when you’re begging me to finish you off but I leave you hanging.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, I would and I will. With pleasure.”

  “That doesn’t sound like payback, that sounds like torture.”

  Drake rolled off the bed, planted his feet on the floor, and raised a brow. My eyes hungrily ate up all that was Drake—perfect male beauty. Sculpted chest, washboard abs, and a very large erection tenting the athletic shorts he’d slept in.

  “Oh.” I chuckled and covered my mouth so I wouldn’t bust out laughing like an immature schoolgirl.

  “No, babe, me bringing you to the edge then making you wait isn’t torture. But you know what is?” He pointed to his crotch and shook his head. “That,” he finished and turned toward the dresser with his open duffle bag on top of it.

  My gaze landed on his back and the beautiful tattoo that covered its entirety. I didn’t remember him having a tattoo and that back piece was something I’d remember not only because it was huge but it was also a true work of art.

  Three cloaked women. The first was facing forward. The other two flanked her but were in profile. Golden thread strung from one of women’s bobbin and slashed across the vibrant blue cloak of the woman facing forward. It ended in the hand of the third woman who was also holding a dagger. It was magnificent. Then I looked lower and there was a finely detailed spinning wheel. All of it was beautiful both in color and design.

  I crawled to the end of the bed for a closer look and my lungs started to burn. I came off the bed and Drake looked over his shoulder but I paid him no mind, I only had eyes for the woman on his back. Long brown hair that flowed wildly, delicate features. But it was the eyes—her eyes, my eyes, they were the same. Yellow-gold.

  My eyes.

  My hand moved and I traced one of the lines of thread.

  Three women. Thread woven between them, draping, flowing. A bobbin, a spindle, a dagger.

  The Moirai.

  The Fates.

  Then I looked higher near Drake’s shoulder. In the wisps and flowing line work that surrounded the women, inked there into his flesh were the words, Fate favors the fearless. I continued to study the lines and found more, My Moira. I couldn’t stop searching until I found another saying, Fate will find a way.

  I sucked in a painful breath and held it until it scorched my insides.

  “Liberty—”

  “Don’t turn around,” I wheezed. “When did you get this?”

  “I started it the day after I got back to Virginia Beach.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are my fate. My destiny. And if I couldn’t physically have you, I was going to have you inked on my skin. My Moira. My Clotho. My Lachesis.”

  His present and his future.

  “You know it’s Lachesis who measures the thread to decide one’s destiny.”

  “Then I hope I measure up.”

  That was sweet so I smiled even though he couldn’t see me.

  “And Clotho is said to be the one who spins the thread, deciding when someone is born and when they die.”

  “Then I know my life is in good hands.”

  Drake started to turn but I wasn’t ready to face him so I quickly pressed my cheek against his tattoo, wrapped my arms around his middle, and held on for dear life.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I whispered.

  “Nothing to say.”

  “It’s beautiful. So beautiful it’s a shame it’s on your back and you can’t see it every day.”

  “Don’t need to see it. I know it’s there. Tattooed not only on my skin but on my soul. Believe me, Liberty, you’ve been with me every moment even if you weren’t there.”

  I felt the wet hit my eyes and didn’t bother trying to stop the tears from leaking from the corner of my eyes. Drake needed to know what the tattoo—no—what he meant to me.

  “Babe?”

  My arms around him tightened, Drake’s big hand covered my threaded fingers resting on his stomach, but he said no more.

  He knew.

  Drake was everything.

  “You’ve been with me, too,” I whispered.

  Even though we needed to get to work, which meant we needed to get a move on, Drake didn’t rush me. He let me take my time soaking in strength. Then he let me trace my name inked to his skin. After that I let him, but he didn’t let me go far. One hand clamped on my hip, the other tangled in my hair, then his mouth hit mine and he took.

  And took.

  And took.

  Until I was breathless from his kiss.

  * * *

  We made it to Triple Canopy on time, exactly on time, without a minute to spare. It was a minor miracle because from the time Drake had kissed me to the moment we’d pulled into the compound’s parking lot, I’d taken every available opportunity to kiss Drake.

  Some were playful. Some were sweet. Some were passionate. But however I’d started them, Drake had ended them and he’d ended them by taking over and making them deep, wet, and delicious. The man could kiss. I’d thought that the first time he’d put his mouth on mine, but what I’d learned since then was he could seriously kiss—like win awards for the magic he created with his tongue. That was true for all the places he used it. Though when he used it between my legs, that was gold medal worthy.

  I was not surprised when we found Trey in the conference room with Brady. Drake had called him when we left the hotel and offered to take him to the office but Trey told him he was already there. That was surprising—it had been early, way too early to be at the office—but Drake said when Trey was on the hunt, he was rabid.

  Apparently, Drake knew Trey well. There were papers and maps spread out all over the table and it looked like Trey had been at it for hours.

  “Your mom texted me last night,” Trey said conversationally, as if my mom texting him was commonplace. “She found something, and on a hunch, followed it. She h
it pay dirt.” There was admiration in Trey’s tone. “Gotta say, I thought you got your grit from your dad, but now I’m thinking you got it from your mom. The woman is scary smart.”

  That she was. Not only was my mom smart, her intuition was spot-on. That’s why my dad and uncles used her skills often. The men may’ve started the business, but my mom was the brains of the operation. They had another tech guy, but my mom could and did run circles around him. Considering Dylan Welsh worked for the NSA and did that straight out of college. Much like the way the CIA had approached my mom, recognizing she had talent—therefore the CIA wanted to exploit it—the NSA had done the same with Dylan. So with all of that, it was impressive my mom was better—and she totally was.

  “She is scary smart,” I returned. “But why didn’t she text me?”

  Trey tilted his head and stared at me like I was a few cards short of a full deck. Then the corner of his mouth curved up into a lopsided smile and I understood. Trey Durum was model good-looking but when he added the lopsided smile that turned into a playful smirk he was downright sinful.

  Wowzer.

  “Remember when we were in Bagram, we heard about the Eight Hundred?” Trey asked Drake, completely ignoring my question.

  “Yeah, the go-to guy.”

  “Right. And when we were in Abu Ghraib, same thing. You wanted something, you asked the Eight Hundred.”

  “I remember. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Roman Kushnir is the Eight Hundred.”

  “Come again?” Drake muttered.

  “Roman’s the Eight Hundred,” Trey repeated as if saying it again would somehow make sense the second time around.

  “I don’t know what or who an Eight Hundred is,” I rejoined.

  “The Eight Hundred is the man who can get military personnel anything they want. Booze, porn mags, cigarettes, dip, weed, street drugs, pharma, whatever you want, he’ll get it for you,” Trey explained.

  “Why do they call him Eight Hundred?”

  “Stupid name, but the only beer he smuggles is Olde English 800 forty-ouncers.”

  Yeah, that was a seriously stupid name. But then again, I guess no one cared what they called the man who could get them what they wanted.

  “No shit?” Drake moved to the table and started pushing papers around.

  “No shit,” Trey returned. “Don’t know how Blake found it, like I said, she’s scary smart. I’ve combed over everything she found and damn if she isn’t right.”

  “Why the hell would a man who moves guns, ammo, and supplies every terrorist organization with whatever they need bother with booze and porn mags?” I asked.

  Trey smiled like he had a really great secret. It was nice to see him happy and excited. Even if that excitement was about Roman. Though, I suspected it was more about being a step closer to finding and taking him out. Which in that case, I totally understood.

  “Dear ol’ Uncle Marko takes a huge cut of the guns and ammo. And when I say huge, I mean he pretty much takes it all and leaves Roman with shit.”

  “Earning his place,” Drake announced. “Proving himself to the uncle, hoping to work his way to a larger cut. So in the meantime, Roman needs money, he’s got the connections so he starts a side hustle of his own. Something the uncle can’t take a cut of.”

  “Winner, winner, chicken dinner,” Trey whooped.

  “God, you’re lame.” I laughed.

  Trey’s gaze sliced to me, a panty-melting smile firmly in place and he proved me wrong. The lopsided smile wasn’t what garnered him attention, it was this smile that did it. And I wondered if he understood that if a woman saw that, no matter if it wasn’t directed at her, she’d approach. She’d take a chance even knowing she’d probably get shot down just to have him smile at her that way. It wasn’t all about his looks—it was that playful, devil-may-care smile.

  Then I remembered the pain in his voice when he told me no one saw him. He thought that, and maybe that was true a lot of the time, but I’d bet he’d become so jaded over the years he missed the ones who saw that smile and wanted their shot at getting to know him so they could bask in the warmth they’d feel if he’d turn that smile to them.

  I felt sorry for him. He’d never feel what I felt for Drake if he didn’t open himself up. And the way he’d spoken on the phone to me about women, he’d never do that. He was perfectly happy keeping himself locked away.

  It’s a crying shame.

  “I could tell you about all the ass I tap—”

  “Please don’t. Drake bought me an awesome blueberry muffin and it’s still digesting. I’d prefer it not to make a reappearance in the form of vomit. Which it will if you continue.”

  Drake was completely ignoring this banter, fully engrossed in looking at the intel my mom had given Trey.

  “How’d Roman find Liberty?” Drake asked the million-dollar question.

  “Still working on that. Lenox, senior that is, came by earlier. They got ahold of Wick and asked him to personally question the Marine.”

  “Wick’s still in Golan Heights?” I inquired.

  This surprised me. Wick didn’t spend a lot of time OCONUS.

  “No. The Marine unit is back in the States.”

  “And Wick agreed?”

  “He was already at Twentynine Palms getting ready to sit down with Staff Sergeant Gannon.”

  “So, Wick put it together and didn’t fuckin’ call Levi?” Drake barked.

  “Did you think he would? He was adamant none of Liberty’s family knew. And just to say, Lenox said Wick was beyond pissed they were poking around.”

  “If this shit blows back on Liberty,” Drake growled, but luckily didn’t finish what he was going to say because my dad and Uncle Lenox walked into the room.

  One look at their stormy faces told me they weren’t coming to the conference room to spread good cheer and salutations.

  “Wick pulled that shitheel out of his rack and after some middle-of-the-night coercion, Gannon spilled,” my dad cut right to it. “He took the pictures. He knew he couldn’t touch Liberty when her bodyguards were around, so he did the only thing he could do—plotted to get her out of the Army. Drake, too, since he was protecting her.”

  “Bodyguards?” Trey asked.

  “You and your team. He was pissed his brother-in-law was dead, blamed Liberty, and thought he’d teach her a lesson why women had no place in the special forces world. His first attempt was hindered when Drake showed up at the hangar. Every time after that, either Drake or all of you were with her so he couldn’t get to her,” Dad continued, his face getting redder and redder as he spoke.

  That creeped me out. Not that Ball’s brother-in-law blamed me—that I understood. But it freaked me out the guy had been stalking me and I hadn’t noticed. And he was taking pictures.

  Creepy as fuck.

  “What about Roman? Does Gannon know him?”

  I glanced at my dad, who looked like he was getting ready to blow. Not just a head gasket but a nuclear reactor getting ready to meltdown.

  “Dad?” His eyes came to me and I flinched. There was so much raw hurt it was hard to look at. “Daddy, I’m fine. Whatever Gannon tried to do, Drake and the guys stopped it. I’m standing right here, safe and sound. There’s no reason to get worked up—”

  “Worked up? Darlin’, worked up is a memory. My daughter was hunted. She was stalked, captured, and tortured because of something I did. And I’m not worked up. I’m murderous that some shit-for-fucking-brains staff sergeant made it easy for the man hunting her to find her because he told Roman your goddamn name. He broke every operational security rule set in place to keep our servicemembers safe for a motherfucking case of beer. If Wick didn’t already have Gannon locked up where he’s now untouchable to me, I would put his fucking ass six-feet under.”

  It was safe to say, the meltdown wasn’t imminent. It hadn’t just begun—that bitch was on fire.

  “Dad, you know what happened to me is not your fault. And it’s
not the uncles’ fault. You four had an objective and you carried it out. No one knew the Roman you took out had a son. Well, Wick apparently did, but none of you had the first clue.”

  “And there’s the problem, Moira. We should’ve known. I should’ve known. How the hell can I protect you if I’m—”

  “Stop!” I shouted.

  There it was again—protect Moira. God, when would they all understand they had protected me?

  “My whole life I was free to be me. We all were—me and the cousins all got to live carefree and some of them wild under the umbrella of your protection. You all made it safe for us to be what we wanted to be, grow up how we wanted, fall down, get back up, learn lessons, and thrive. All because you and the uncles made it so. You all protected us. You still protect us. You taught us to protect each other. But something you forget—most importantly you taught me to protect myself. You are not God. You are not all-knowing. There are things out of your control and this is one of many.

  “I was so very wrong to blame you all. I was not right in the head. But I’m getting there, I’m getting back to me and I’m doing that because once again that umbrella is up and it is safe under there. It’s so fucking safe, Dad, I can heal. But I’ll never be able to do that if I know you blame yourself for something that was not your fault. I’ll keep that guilt and I’ll wrap myself up in it knowing the best man I know feels like shit for something he didn’t do.”

  My dad was still staring at me, but some of the hurt had crept out and warmth stole the icy shards.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry. I know I said horrible things. I knew—”

  I got no further words out because my dad crushed me to his chest and wrapped his arms around me, making me safe in a different way. Wordlessly, he released me from the guilt. All was forgiven. God, my dad gave good hugs—always had.

  Nowhere better than in his arms, except for Drake’s. But that was only because Drake held me like I was his woman, precious, cherished, loved. Dad felt those same things but in a different way. To him I’d always be his little girl. His baby.

  “You wanna run that by us again? Gannon told Roman Liberty’s name?” Drake seethed, breaking the father-daughter moment.