Man Hunt

by Misty Evans

  Even with his injuries, blood gushing from different wounds on his face and hands, Ryker was beautiful to behold. He vaulted over the chair, barely missing landing on her, and threw the knife at the guard’s back.

  It landed between his shoulder blades and he cried out, falling to his knees then to his belly, his hands reaching back, trying to pull the blade out.

  Ryker, panting heavily, pulled Mia to her feet while pointing the gun at Karl and Hinch.

  She wobbled, and he held on to her, easing her down into the chair. “The first one of you that looks at me the wrong way gets a bullet between your eyes,” he said to the two men.

  Karl had finally gotten free from Hinch, and he scrambled over the second bodyguard as he lunged for the open doorway.

  Ryker looked back at her and rolled his eyes. “They never listen.”

  He strode forward and shot Karl in the back of one knee, the man screaming as he fell. Ryker stepped over the man who was losing consciousness as he was still trying to pull the knife from his back. With the butt of the gun, he knocked the bodyguard unconscious, then planting one foot on him, reached down and yanked the knife out.

  Wiping the blood on his pant leg, he walked back to Mia and motioned to her bound hands. Kaiser’s screams continued to echo in the large room. One flick of the knife and she was loose.

  Kaiser pulled himself into the hallway, still trying to escape and leaking blood everywhere. Ryker handed her the knife so she could cut the tie around her ankles, then he strode after Karl.

  He filled the doorway with his broad shoulders and she heard the second gunshot. Her ears rang, but she could still hear Karl's cries. He wasn't dead, but he was in agony.

  Hinch managed to sit up. He glowered at her, his voice strained. “You’re going to pay for this, you little bitch.”

  She rose from the seat, the knife handle hard and solid in her hand. Slowly, she stalked Hinch, pleased when he scooted backward, his hatred replaced with fear as he stared at the knife.

  “You’re the one who's going to pay,” she said quietly. She let her gaze drop to his crotch as she ran a finger over the blade. “Preying on young girls, especially ones who can't speak for themselves. Your friends covering it up, finding an excuse to fire me to keep me quiet. You're done, senator. You're going down, one way or the other, and personally? I'm happy to neuter you right here and now.”

  His back hit the stone wall, nowhere else to go, and she was close—so close—to making good on her promise.

  A strong hand grabbed her wrist before she could bring the knife down, and she hissed. But then, she was in Ryker’s arm’s, and he was kissing her.

  Hinch made to grab the gun from Ryker's hand, but without breaking their connection, Ryker knocked the man silly, sending him to the floor unconscious.

  Mia couldn't believe it. She glanced around, her chest heaving. They’d taken out all of them. She gently touched a bleeding cut on Ryker's cheek. “What now?” She asked.

  He took her hand and drew her out of the torture room. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the sound of the elevator, people hurrying down the corridors. The hall was dark, but there was light coming from that end. Mia tensed and Ryker pulled her close, easing her into some shadows and raising the gun.

  Lights bobbed and flickered over the stones as their visitors drew near. Someone called, “Ryker? Mia?”

  Men dressed in tactical gear rounded the corner on the heels of Parker’s voice.

  Mia slumped. Ryker lowered the gun. The cavalry had finally arrived.

  “We’re here,” he called. She went to move forward, thinking Ryker would come with her, but he faltered.

  “Ryker?”

  He leaned over, hands on knees, coughing. His breathing was ragged.

  She put a hand on his back and leaned down to look in his face. The shadows were thick, but she could see the strain there. “What's wrong?”

  Before the next beat of her heart, Ryker went down.

  Chapter Thirteen

  High-level operational techniques

  * * *

  Ryker woke with a start and barked a holler when his ribs protested at the jerky movement. The odors of alcohol and bleach invaded his nostrils and a background beeping noise made him grit his teeth.

  His eyelids wouldn’t cooperate and he spit curses under his breath, reaching out with his hands. Just as he finally managed to slit one eye open, he felt the warmth of a familiar hand sneaking into his.

  “Hello, hotcakes.”

  Light from a window made Mia look like she was glowing. She was so damn beautiful, he wondered for a moment if he were dreaming.

  Or maybe, he’d died and gone to heaven.

  “Mia?” He croaked, his voice harsh and rough. “What the…Where am I?”

  “The hospital, silly. You may act like a superhero, but you're still human with cracked ribs, twenty-six stitches, and a blood infusion.”

  The pain in his ribs could be worse, would be, if not for the meds he knew were dripping into his veins. “Parker?”

  Mia understood, just like always. “Took three SEALs to cart you out of the dungeon, but they managed to get you into the ambulance. Apparently, your broken rib punctured a lung, barely, but still, probably when you went flying over that chair. Also, the knife wound to your thigh caused significant blood loss. You gave me quite a scare.”

  He chuckled slightly, grimacing at the pain. His chest could hardly move, bound tight to keep the ribs in place. “I gave you a scare?”

  She patted his hand as if he were a child. “I had everything under control, but I do appreciate the fact you’re incredibly skilled with a knife.”

  A wink. A grin. Her eyes danced with mischievousness.

  He reached over and caressed her cheek. He wanted to know what happened to Kaiser and the rest, but first… “Jaeger?”

  Again, his lack of full sentences didn't faze her. “Safe and sound right down the hallway. You've been out for twenty-four hours, thanks to the doctors keeping you knocked out and happy, and Beatrice flew Chloe here too. I want you to meet her. I believe both of them are playing Go Fish with Connor and Trace.”

  The SEALs who’d been on the plane with them, probably the same ones who’d carried his ass to the ambulance. “First name basis? No longer using their…codenames?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, that grin still in place. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

  Yes. No. “I don’t…share well.”

  She threw her head back and laughed, the bright sound making him smile. “I'll keep that in mind, but just so you know,”—she leaned close, her breath tickling his face and smelling of mint and coffee—“you're the only SEAL for me. The only spy too.”

  Her lips caressed his, soft and warm. He relished the brief touch and ached for more.

  She brushed hair from his forehead. “France, Germany, and several other countries have brought charges against Karl. He and Enya are looking at a long stay in prison, no matter which they end up in. Josefina is in the wind, but Parker says we'll find her. She's trying to nail that sheik too.”

  “Good. And Hinch?”

  Her chest expanded on a deep breath. “Formal charges are being brought against him today. The evidence we gathered is the biggest part of it, but also, I'm personally bringing a civil suit against him for what he did to Chloe. Cassandra Donovan is going to help me. Thanks to the Queen B and her connections, there'll be a congressional investigation into his friends at the CIA. More than a few heads are going to roll.”

  “Seems like a good plan to get your job back,” he teased.

  “I'm never going back there.”

  “No?”

  She shook her head. “I have a new job, if I want it, with Nemesis.”

  He squeezed her hand. “You’re a natural in the field. Make sure Beatrice gives you decent assignments.”

  She cocked her head and raised a brow. “I'm not going without you. Partners, remember?”

  He had no idea where his futur
e lay. He still had to think about Jaeger. Beatrice had made a lot of promises—ones he expected her to keep.

  There’d be time to discuss that later, but his heart felt heavy at the thought of leaving Mia.

  “What about the girls?” His voice was growing stronger. “What happens to them?”

  She smiled big. “It took some convincing, but I managed to get Beatrice to agree to bring all four to the United States and help them get their citizenship—another thing Cassandra is taking care of. I don't think Beatrice is too happy with me, but I refused to leave them out in the cold. The casino is shut down, and that alone put hundreds of people out of work. I couldn't stand the thought of those girls ending up on the streets again, or some other predator coming along and taking advantage of them.”

  Of course, she’d gotten her plan past Beatrice. “You’re the most amazing person—woman—I’ve ever met.”

  She gave him one of those quick kisses again. “You bet your ass I am. Don't you ever forget it. How many women do you know who’ll hide a rat bone in their underwear?”

  At his blank look, she explained, making him laugh through the pain again.

  “Ryker?” Her face went serious, her voice dropping. He felt his heart drop along with it. “There’s something else you need to know.”

  “What?”

  “It's about Jaeger.”

  Everything in him tensed.

  Kaiser would spend the rest of his life in prison, but were they going to take Jaeger away from him? “What is it?”

  She pulled out a folded paper from a pocket in her jacket and showed it to him. “Beatrice ran a paternity test.”

  Confused, he stared at the paper, not understanding.

  “Jaeger is not Karl's son.”

  “What?” Now he was really confused.

  “Petra must have known,” Mia said. “She may have been afraid Karl would find out and kill her, maybe Jaeger too.” She shrugged. “We’ll never know for sure, but you didn't take Jaeger away from his biological father. You saved him from a monster who might’ve made his life a living hell if he found out Petra had an affair.”

  For a long moment, Ryker stayed silent, letting all the pieces fall into place. “Kaiser suspected the boy wasn't his, that's why Petra got so nervous and needed to get away from him. He was so adamant to get the boy back, I wonder if he suspected who the father was and wanted to use Jaeger for leverage of some kind.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him. For now, Beatrice is working on the legalities of you adopting Jaeger officially. Since there’s no biological parent in the picture, and you’ve already been acting as his guardian, she thinks it’ll go through smoothly. Plus, she’s Beatrice.”

  Didn’t that say it all? “I’m not going to be arrested for kidnapping?”

  “Over my dead body! You, me, Chloe, and Jaeger are going to be a family—if, you know, that’s what you want.”

  Gods above, of course he did. A real home, a real family. Jaeger would be safe now, they could settle in one place. He’d grow up like a normal kid. It was almost too much to wish for.

  Ryker shook his head. “How did I get so lucky?”

  “It isn't luck,” she said. “We deserve this, both of us. Chloe and Jaeger deserve this.”

  He kissed her. “I love you.”

  “I love you too, but there’s just one thing.”

  Uh oh. This should be good. “Anything. Name it.”

  “I kinda, sorta promised Jaeger Mite could come live with us. One of Beatrice’s men, Jon, rescued him and brought him to his place in Virginia where he trains rescue dogs.”

  Oh for… “I’ve been trying to lose that dingo for months, you know.”

  “He’s no dingo. We couldn’t bring him to America if he was since there are laws against that.” She grinned. “He’s just a dog, and sorry, but I can't seem to say no to you or your kid.”

  He cupped her shoulder, touched her face. “Good, because I have one condition to this plan of yours.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Marry me.”

  “Marriage?” She sat back and chewed her bottom lip. “For real?”

  “Do I look like I’m acting? Marry me, Mia. For better or worse.”

  Her smile said she knew very well he wasn’t kidding. “You’ve only known me a week. Kinda rushing things, aren't you?”

  “I’ve known you forever, at least that’s how it feels, and fieldwork counts for weeks, not days. Months, even. Those kinds of situations bring out the best—and worst—in people, and you passed with flying colors. At least promise me you’ll think about it. I’ll wait, no matter how long it takes. I’m not letting you get away from me.”

  He could hear her response in his head—yes—before she said it out loud, leaning forward to kiss him thoroughly.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” she said, grinning, “hotcakes.”

  Enjoy this sneak peak of Man Killer!

  Capitalize on the weak link

  Somewhere near the Mediterranean

  * * *

  “Prisoner is escaping! The King Killer is escaping!”

  The words over the intercom, in English and French, became muffled as Navy SEAL Mick Ranger walked through fog created by flash bangs. The concrete floor and high ceilings of the prison echoed with the shouts of his fellow jail mates intermingling with the guards. The loud alarm grated in his ears, and in harmony with it, a red strobe light pierced the fog.

  “Quadrant five, lock down!”

  He wasn't sure where this prison was located—could be Panama or Portugal, Malaysia or Vietnam—but he had been waiting two years, sixteen days, and seven hours for the guaranteed rescue the United States had promised him. One long fucking time in Club Hell, but he’d been in worse. His last king killer stint, and subsequent breakout, had occurred in Qatar. Fucking turd of a place that had been as hot and smelly as Satan’s balls.

  He suspected from the quality of this prison—which was still piss poor—and the lack of weapons on the guards, that he was somewhere in France, close to the Mediterranean. Although he'd been kept in solitary confinement for most of his stay, he’d heard the smooth, nasally sound of French being spoken amongst the guards, along with the harsher edge of Spanish and the sing-song of Italian. A regular trifecta in the melting pot of European prisons.

  A guard dressed in black and carrying a bully stick emerged from the fog, a ripple of red light sweeping over the sweat on his face. As the man lifted the weapon, Mick stepped into his personal space and disarmed him in two moves. He used the stick to knock the guard in the back of the head, sending the unconscious man to the floor.

  The French had a good idea not arming guards with guns. Weapons could easily be taken away and used against them. Like the man at Ranger’s feet.

  Instead, the sprinklers overhead could release gas that rendered prisoners unconscious. It seemed to work like nitrous oxide—laughing gas—effectively quelling any uprising. Another point to whoever designed the place.

  Guards had oxygen and masks. As the overhead lights blinked to alert the staff the gas was on its way, the alarm continued to rip the air. Mick relieved the guard of his tank and protective mask right before the sprinklers cut loose. He checked quickly for other weapons, found nothing but cigarettes and a lighter. He tossed the cancer sticks aside but pocketed the lighter.

  France was a good distance from Northern Africa and the mission he’d completed that had landed him here. He’d known from the start he would most likely be captured, but that had been part of the deal. If he took out King Babiker Nassir and survived, the US government would rescue him.

  King Killer…he hated the nickname but guessed he’d earned it.

  He’d set his affairs in order before he’d gone on the mission, fully expecting to die. He'd ended the King’s reign and his plans to become the next bin Laden, but the gig had landed Mick in prison.

  The stairs leading to the roof appeared ahead and he jogged toward them, keeping the oxygen mask in place
. Pounding footsteps were nearly on top of him before he heard them over the alarm. He whirled as two guards came into view, facemasks on, one aiming what appeared to be an Uzi at him.

  Guess they do have weapons.

  Surprise registered behind their masks, the guards expecting to find him lying on the floor asleep, he supposed, and Mick ducked as the armed one fired.

  The flash bang haze was clearing, the gas evaporating already, and he was still a good fifteen steps from freedom.

  Grinning at the guards advancing on him, he raised his hands in a surrender gesture. Closer, he mentally urged. The shot had been a warning, nothing more. They weren’t intent on killing him—the death of a US Navy SEAL on their hands would get them in hot water—but nevertheless, he didn’t need a gunshot wound slowing him down.

  Closer…

  Freedom. He could taste it on the tip of his tongue, smell it in his nostrils. Fresh air, decent American food, a soft bed.

  And women. Let’s not forget the smell, taste and feel of a warm, willing woman. He’d missed that most of all.

  The guard with the gun stayed several feet back as his partner yelled commands at Mick. His voice was thick with a French accent and muffled by the mask. “Turn around! On your knees!”

  Mick did as instructed, taking one more deep suck on the oxygen. As expected, Frenchie ripped the mask off his face, dropping it and the small tank onto the concrete floor. He grabbed one of Mick’s wrists to pull his hand behind his back.

  As the guard went to grab the other wrist, Mick locked onto him instead, bending forward hard and throwing the guard over his back. He crashed headfirst into the bottom of the concrete steps.

  Before the guard with the gun could react, Mick snatched up the oxygen tank, rolled, and nailed the man in the shin.

  The sputter of gunfire erupted—pop, pop, pop—as bullets smacked into the concrete walls and the metal railing of the stairs, echoing in sharp contrast to the blaring alarm. Mick came up swinging and clipped the guard on the chin, followed by a jab to the nose.