On His Six

by Patricia D. Eddy

  Copyright © 2018 by Patricia Eddy

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editing by The Novel Fixer and Jayne Frost

  Proofreading by Darcy Jayne

  Formatting by The Novel Fixer

  Cover by Deranged Doctor Design

  Contents

  Just for you

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek - Second Sight

  Also by Patricia Eddy

  About the Author

  If you love sexy romantic suspense, I’d love to send you a short story set in Dublin, Ireland. Castles & Kings isn’t available anywhere except for readers who sign up for my mailing list! Sign up for my newsletter on my website and tell me where to send your free book!

  http://patriciadeddy.com.

  1

  Ryker

  The worst part of Hell? Hard to choose. The isolation? The screams of my men echoing off the walls? The ever-changing schedule designed to keep us all off balance, never knowing whether it was day or night? The God-awful scraps of food infected with maggots or dotted with mold? The smell?

  Not the pain.

  Pain can be controlled. I’ve learned to ignore the physical blows. The blades. The cigarettes. The troughs of dirty, parasite-infested water they shove my head into until I’m seconds from passing out. Electricity and fire are the hardest, but most times, I can at least dampen the agony of ten thousand volts shooting through my body or flames charring my skin by sending my mind somewhere else. Somewhere quiet and warm with no walls, where nothing is out of my control. My safe space. I’m there now. On the beach, in the sun. Waves lap softly at the shore, and birds fly overhead, their white and gray bodies graceful as they arc through the sky.

  Until I’m yanked back into the depths of the dark, cold caves under the mountains. Blindfolded, I hold my breath, listening for footsteps. For the jingle of keys or the scrape of a boot against stone.

  On my knees, my hands tied behind my back, I fight the dizziness. I don’t remember the last time I ate, and the only water I’ve had in the past twenty-four hours was licked off the walls of the hole in the ground they just pulled me out of.

  “Tell us what we need to know, Ryker. Then we can treat your wounds, send you back to your family.” The head interrogator, Kahlid, leans close enough I can smell the garlic on his breath. “We do not want to hurt you, my friend. But you must understand. We have no choice.”

  The punch to my liver sends pain exploding across my back. I start to fall, but the noose around my neck stops my descent, choking me, and I gasp for breath, wheezing until Kahlid grabs my chin and forces me back up to my knees.

  “Tell us, Ryker. Why were you in the mountains? What were you searching for?”

  In fifteen months, I haven’t said a thing beyond my name, rank, and every curse word I’ve ever heard—and some I invented just for this place. Pretending I don’t know anything…I gave that up after the first week. One of my men was so delirious before he died, he told them we were all Special Forces. Sepsis had a hold of him, and he didn’t know what he was saying. Hell, he thought he was talking to me. But I was gagged and bound a few feet away, watching as Kahlid ripped out his fingernails one at a time.

  “Go fuck yourself,” I manage, my throat raw and my tongue so dry it sticks to the roof of my mouth. “Quit wasting my goddam time.”

  The tip of the knife slices just under the blindfold, a scant millimeter from my eye. Blood drips down my cheek, splashing my chest and soaking into my threadbare t-shirt. What’s one more scar? I already look like Quasimodo.

  The door opens with a screech of metal, and I hear Dax breathing. He’s getting worse every day. Weaker. He can’t walk. Fuckers broke his leg two weeks ago, and though I set it—sort of—with a makeshift splint and some dirty rags, it’s infected, and the forced inactivity has driven him half-insane.

  “Watch…the leg…asshole,” he growls. Good. At least he’s still got his wits about him today.

  “Over there,” Kahlid says.

  I hold my breath and listen, trying to get a sense of where they’re taking him, what they’re doing. The last book I read before we found ourselves guests in the worst accommodations Yelp has ever seen was all about tricking your brain into remembering a shit-ton of information.

  I catalog everything. How Kahlid’s footsteps sound different from Basheert’s. The limp that marks Hamid’s walk. The sweet odor on the guards’ breaths after breakfast and how it differs from the scent of garlic they eat with dinner.

  Despite being blindfolded anytime they pull me out of my cell or the hole, I have a map of this place burned into my brain. The room we’re in…it’s twenty feet by thirty feet. Along one wall, there are hasps sunk into the rock they can tie or lock us to. The ceiling is low. The door, lower. If I don’t duck, I hit my head every time.

  I never duck. Can’t let them know what I know.

  Two sets of hands grab my arms and haul me to the center of the room. I’m a big guy—close to seven feet tall. Before…fifteen months ago…I was close to two-ninety. But now…I’ve lost at least fifty pounds.

  Kahlid pulls the noose over my head, and I swallow hard. I can’t stand the sensation of anything around my neck anymore. Not after the hundreds of times they’ve choked me until I’ve passed out.

  “Take off the blindfolds,” Kahlid orders.

  Fuck.

  I blink against the dim lights.

  Dax hangs from his wrists against the far wall, trying to balance on his one good leg. The left half of his face is bruised and bloody. Fuckers beat the shit out of him yesterday.

  “Sergeant Holloway. Welcome.”

  “Fuck you.” Dax spits in Kahlid’s general direction.

  “We want to offer you medical care, Sergeant. Dash.”

  Dash. Shitstain hasn’t once called him by the right name.

  “Life is full of disappointment. Get used to it.”

  I wait for one of the guards to kick Dax’s leg or punch him in the gut or something. Instead, Kahlid jerks his head in my direction. The closest asshole pulls a leather strap out of his pocket as the two goons holding me tighten their grip.

  After a quick jab to my jaw, the leather is pulled between my teeth and the strap bound tightly around my head. One of Kahlid’s favorite games. Torture one of us to make the other talk.

  We’re the only two le
ft. Hab only lasted a week here. Ripper…he vanished three months ago. And Gose…Kahlid gutted him right in front of me.

  But me and Dax…we always were the strongest. The meanest. The closest. Came up together. Trained together. Had our first kills within days of one another. There’s a bond you can’t break after seven years serving side-by-side in some of the worst conditions on this earth.

  The look that passes between us speaks whole paragraphs. And at the same time nothing at all. A mutual understanding. No one talks. No one breaks. No matter what.

  We signed up for this. Knew the risks. Left our goodbye notes in our footlockers back at Bagram. The final farewells to our families.

  A guard rips open my shirt. Damn thing tears like tissue paper. I don’t look down. The entire right side of my body resembles a map drawn by a second grader. Scars on top of scars on top of scars. These pathetic excuses for men have carved me up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

  “Tell us why you and your team were in the mountains. What were you looking for, Dash? That is all we want to know. Help me to help you.”

  “Fuck off.”

  The hiss of a blowtorch makes us both flinch. As the flames lick across my chest, I bite down—hard—on the leather and try to hold Dax’s gaze.

  “Don’t,” I try to say, but I can only manage a guttural moan as the edges of my vision darken. I shake my head, and the agony of burning flesh becomes my entire existence. With my next breath, I let the blackness claim me.

  I come to with a jerk and a shout—back in my bed in Seattle, the caves buried under several tons of rocks and six years. My captors are dead. The familiar scent of my apartment surrounds me, and my legs are tangled in the thin sheet.

  Sweat chills on my skin as I fumble for my water bottle next to my bed. The damn thing bounces to the floor with a clang, and water dribbles over the cement.

  “Fuck.”

  The bullet wound in my side throbs. Two weeks after the disaster that almost killed my whole team, I still can’t move like I want to. This forced inactivity is…taking me places I can’t go. Hab’s broken body. Naz begging me to kill him. One of my guards pleading for his life, then shooting me in the back five seconds later.

  The hell with Doc Reynolds’ advice. I need to hit something. Do something. Anything but stay here another fucking minute.

  I throw open the blackout drapes to reveal the Seattle skyline. When I bought this place, I gutted it down to the studs. It’s a fucking Faraday Cage in here. No electronic signals in or out—except the hardline and the cell repeater. No Wi-Fi. The windows aren’t bulletproof—I couldn’t afford that shit. But the special glazing ensures no one can see in. Not even when it’s pitch dark outside and I have all the lights on.

  Refilling the water bottle, I try to soothe my raw throat. Doesn’t matter that the stitches came out four days ago. I can still feel the blood soaking into my shirt. The white-hot pain as Doc fished a bullet fragment out of the wound, the iodine he poured over my skin.

  No hospital.

  No anesthetic.

  No trace.

  I’ve suffered through worse. In my line of work, injuries aren’t an “if,” they’re a “when.”

  Five times, I’ve been shot. Leg, back, shoulder, side, and arm. You never get used to the sensation. The pop as the bullet enters the body. The distinct lack of pain at first. After a few seconds, you feel like someone just lit a match inside you.

  Leaning against the counter, I close my eyes and take a couple of deep breaths. Images of West bleeding out in a veterinarian’s office in Colombia flicker until I shove them away.

  Too much blood in my life.

  On my hands.

  How could I choose this? Twice? I should have gone into private security with a cushy office like Dax, but no. I had to pick K&R. My hands curl into fists when I think about others rotting in the same type of hell I escaped from.

  Forcing my fingers to relax, I examine the scars and know, deep in my gut, this was my only option. Doesn’t matter how risky. If there’s a chance—and there’s always a chance—I consider the case.

  “Fuck.” I cradle my head in my hands, trying to ease the pressure building behind my eyes. “Since when did I become a liability?”

  I’m slipping. Losing my edge. Misjudging Coop. Ignoring my instincts. Believing my leadership could keep him in line. My mistake could have cost West, Inara, and Royce their lives.

  Flipping on the coffee maker, I catch sight of the crumpled postcard on the counter. The damn thing showed up last night.

  We hope you’ll join us at Libations at 2:00 p.m. Sunday, April 25th as we say our vows. Appetizers will be served.

  No gifts.

  Cam and West

  I should go, but I can’t bring myself to RSVP. The idea of spending an afternoon celebrating love—an emotion I’ll never understand—leaves me cold. I don’t know how to face them. West and Inara—my team. Not after my fuck-ups. And I don’t mingle. Don’t do casual conversation.

  The night West and I cleaned up Coop’s mess, we talked more in six hours than we had in months. And in the two weeks since, I haven’t spoken a word to a soul other than the doc.

  The rich scent of coffee fills the open kitchen. Leaning against the counter in only a pair of briefs, I run my callused fingers over the new scar on my side and scowl. In a few weeks, it’ll blend in with all the rest. The stripes across my back. The burns along my chest. The rough, pebbled flesh down my right arm.

  I flex my hands, trying to work out the customary aches that always accompany morning—or the rain. If I didn’t love Seattle so much, I’d move somewhere warmer. The fuckers who ran Hell broke all of my fingers more than once, along with a lot of other bones, and I’ll never be pain free.

  Once my coffee mug’s full, I wander over to my laptop. Plugging in the internet cable, I wake up the machine and check my email.

  Great. Another message from Inara.

  Ry,

  West and I are meeting Graham at the warehouse for some drills tonight at seven. Come join us. We’re all going a little stir crazy.

  Inara

  I can’t. Fuck. I’m a piece of work. One hundred percent asshole. I tried. After cleaning up the mess in the rail yard after our last mission and seeing the doc, I came back here, showered, and then forced myself to head to University Village. My worst nightmare. Buying Royce a new phone and watch nearly killed me. All those people. And then I walked into H&M and asked the clerk for two casual women’s outfits in size six. Pretty sure the girl thought I had someone tied up in my basement. I don’t know what possessed me, but Inara lost everything in the fire that burned down her house and almost killed her and Royce. And since Coop targeting her was my fault to begin with, I had to do something.

  After I click reply, I stare at the blank screen for a full five minutes before I figure out what to say—and do.

  I’m headed out of town for a few days. Need to clear my head. After West gets back from his honeymoon, we’ll start regular training sessions again. Use the warehouse whenever you want. Expense a couple of cases of water and energy drinks. I’ll reimburse you. Don’t get soft.

  No pleasantries. No emotion. Just the facts. That’s all I can give her. The coffee goes down too quickly, and before I know it, I’m on my third cup and looking at flights to Boston. Dax, the only other member of my squad who made it through fifteen months of Hell, lives in Back Bay. He’ll understand.

  At least…I think he will. We haven’t talked in…longer than I want to admit. But shit like we endured bonds you for life. And if he doesn’t, at least I won’t be here where ghosts haunt me at every turn.

  Though the sun’s only been up for an hour, the three-hour time difference means Dax answers on the second ring.

  “Ry? Seriously? You’ve got some nerve calling here.”

  The anger in his voice sets me on edge, and I stare up at the ceiling, fighting against the instinct to hang up on the asshole. “Yeah. Seriously. You gonna cut me some fucking
slack, or do I hang up right now?”

  “I’m not the one who went dark for six years. Half a dozen calls, unanswered. Twice as many emails. I figured you were either dead or…fuck. I don’t know.”

  My heart pounds hard enough I feel the beat in my ears and behind my eyes. I’m a solid guy—muscular—two hundred and eighty pounds. And right now, I feel like I’m about to crumble into a million pieces. “Been busy,” I snap. “Hidden Agenda doesn’t run itself. If you’d joined me, you’d know that.”

  “Well, maybe if you’d…goddammit. I don’t have time for this shit. What do you want?”

  “Nothing, apparently. Take care of yourself, Dax.” Jabbing the phone screen, I sever the last, thin thread that bound us together.

  Wren

  The hard knot in my chest makes breathing difficult, and I fumble for the little plastic container in my messenger bag. My monitor’s glow casts the office in an eerie blueish light, and I scan the lines of text that scroll by as my thumb flicks the little catch on the box.

  Before I can fish out one of the little pills, an alert pops up on my screen.

  MATCHING RECORDS DETECTED

  “About damn time,” I mutter as my fingers fly over the keyboard. Two entries, four hours apart. ATM receipts. “Stupid, Billy. Really stupid.”

  Five minutes later, I head for Dax’s office. My boss sits with his back to me, staring out the window—or pretending to. “He’s in Burlington,” I say after I knock twice. “Or was, three hours ago. I caught him withdrawing three hundred from an ATM on the corner of Wilson and Fourth.”