“Wren, stop.” Ryker reaches out, the lightest stroke of his fingers over mine. “Take a deep breath. Count to ten.”
I jerk back, digging in my bag for my pill case. “Just…a minute.”
Ryker’s gaze never leaves my face as he waits for me to take my meds. “Anxiety or panic attacks?”
“Both.” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “I…don’t do well with new people.”
His deep chuckle brings a smile to his face, and he looks surprised at the expression for a moment before shaking his head. “I don’t do well with people in general. So you’ve got a leg up on me.”
“I don’t…I don’t know you. I shouldn’t—”
“I’m Special Forces. Or, I was. Now, I run a K&R firm in Seattle. Kidnap and Ransom. I get people out of trouble. Most of the time. You don’t have any reason to believe me, but…” He digs his hand into the pocket of his jeans, coming away with his wallet. Behind a credit card and hotel room key, he finds a picture, stares at it for a moment, and then passes it across the small table. “Recognize anyone?”
The photo’s wrinkled and faded, well-worn around the edges. Six men. All in full gear. Ryker’s easy to spot. He’s the biggest guy there. Except…he has a full head of blond hair. I slide my gaze back and forth between the photo and Ryker, trying to reconcile the man across from me with the man in the photograph. He could have been a model. Next to him, laughing, a younger Dax stares back at me.
“Oh God. You were with him. In…”
“Hell.” Ryker’s eyes dim, and his lips press together for a breath. “Dax was my second. The only other member of my squad to survive.”
What do you say to that? I’m sorry? That’s awful? I settle for a nod. “Dax doesn’t talk about it. He gave me the tl;dr version when he hired me, but—”
“Tl; dr?”
A wrinkle appears between Ryker’s brows, and I manage a smile. “Sorry. I forget not everyone speaks geek. It means ‘too long; didn’t read.’ Basically, the two-sentence summary.”
“Tl;dr. I like that.” Another long sip of coffee, and he frowns. “Whatever this is…are you sure you don’t want to go to Dax with it? He’s a good guy, despite kicking me out of his office.”
I snort into my mug. “I already did. He won’t help. The first time I ran into you, I’d just left him. He thinks I’m insane for wanting to go up against the Russian mob.”
A low whistle escapes Ryker’s lips. “You sure he’s not right?”
“No.”
“Then why…?”
I twirl the bracelet around my wrist. I don’t know how much to share. How much I can even get through without breaking down. The anxiety pill dulls my senses, but at least my heart isn’t pounding half out of my chest. Still…I hate making decisions when I feel like this. Exhausted. A little fuzzy. Alone.
Unable to share Z with this guy I just met, I hedge. “Personal reasons.”
With those two words, Ryker’s entire demeanor changes. Gone is the gentle giant offering a sympathetic shoulder. His multi-color eyes harden, and he runs a hand over his bald head. “If you want my help, you have to give me more than ‘personal reasons.’ I’ve been in this business a long time, Wren. Five years is an eternity in K&R work. I tried to save a guy from the Russians once. Out of forty-seven targets, I’ve only lost two, and the bratva killed one of them.”
I can’t do this. Can’t tell him about the letter Zion left me. About the other recording I didn’t play for Dax. “I’m sorry, Mr. McCabe. This was a mistake. I…I should go.”
Grabbing my messenger bag, I rise, a little too quickly, and teeter for a moment as Ryker’s hand shoots to my hip to steady me. “Wait.”
“No, I can’t ask you to get involved in this. It’s…too dangerous. Dax is right. This is…suicide.”
“You’re probably right, but—” he holds up his phone, “—at least let me call you a tow.”
“I’ll take the T home. I can deal with the car tomorrow. Th-thanks for the coffee.” Leaving said coffee still almost full on the table, I rush out of the shop, ignoring the deep voice calling my name.
6
Ryker
My room smells like honeysuckle. Or…maybe I do. Stripping off my shirt, I hold it to my nose. Yep. Wren. I should change. But instead, I shrug back into the black cotton blend and sink down onto the desk chair.
Ten minutes with her and I can’t get her out of my head. Probably because she’s the second person today to tell me to take a hike.
Being a loner never bothered me. My brother and I didn’t get along. Until it was almost too late. I spent a lot of time in my own head. Never knew what it was like to have a close-knit group of friends until I joined the 10th Special Forces Regiment in 2004. I had nine years with a group of the best men in the world. Until Hell destroyed us. Destroyed me.
My phone buzzes on the desk, and I glance down at the screen and snort. Inara’s blunt when she texts.
Worried about you. Check in.
I should answer, but what am I going to say? I’m worried about me too? I don’t know how to get my head back on straight?
“Fuck it.” I unlock the phone and send her a quick reply.
Doing fine. Enjoying Boston for a few days. Be back next week.
It’s all I’ve got. Maybe if I say it enough—that I’m fine—it’ll be true.
With nothing to do, I grab my laptop to check my email. But I find myself Googling “Wren Kane.”
Only a handful of results. A Facebook profile—heavily locked down—shows her smiling, her red hair on fire in the sun. A mention in a computer science journal lists her as a graduate of MIT, and I whistle. Smart little bird.
Why would she be going up against the Russian mob? And why the fuck would Dax refuse to help her?
I try my best to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach half the day. Even manage to leave the hotel and walk down to the Public Garden, but everywhere I go, the scent of honeysuckle follows me.
Finding a spot on a bench by the lagoon, I dial one of the few people I trust in this world.
“You’re the last person I expected to call,” West says. “Hang on a sec.” His voice lowers, and he tells someone—his fiancé, I assume from the tone—he’ll be back in a few minutes. “You want to explain why you’re not coming to our wedding?”
“I don’t do weddings.” Rubbing the back of my neck, I try to wipe away the shame crawling down my spine and settling in my gut. “You don’t want me there, man.”
“You saved my life in Colombia. Half-carried me through the jungle when I was bleeding out all over the damn place. Hell, you even found a back-alley veterinarian to dig the bullet out of my gut. Why wouldn’t I want you there?”
I can still feel his blood dripping over my hands. See his unfocused eyes as I wrapped duct tape around his waist to seal the wound—or try to. Hear myself as I ordered him to buck up and run.
“You’re a goddamned SEAL, Sampson. If you can’t run five hundred yards while bleeding from a stomach wound, you don’t deserve to wear the uniform.”
“Because I almost got you killed two weeks ago?”
West snorts. “That fucking shitstain didn’t land a shot anywhere near me. You on the other hand…need to work on your evasion skills.”
I let the dig slide because he’s right. “Look, I have some shit I need to take care of, okay? You and Cam don’t need me there bringing everyone down.”
Defeat tinges his next words. “Whatever. Why’d you call? I have a class to teach in an hour.”
“I need your opinion—and Cam’s tech skills.”
“You taking on a job?” He’s wary, but interest piques his tone. “Angel? Can you come in here?”
A few quiet words pass between the two, and then there’s a click over the line. “You’re on speaker, Ry.”
“Cam, I need some intel on a Wren Kane. She’s…I don’t know what she is. But she went to MIT for computer science engineering, and—”
“She
’s a hacker,” Cam says. “I met her once. She came out for an interview. Royce tried to tempt her away from wherever she’s working with a hell of a job offer, but something happened, and she told him she had to stay in Boston.”
“And the Nevsky Bratva?”
“Ry…” West blows out a breath. “Why are you asking about the Russian mob?”
“Because Wren Kane is wrapped up with them somehow. And she asked for my help. And then decided she didn’t trust me with the details and bolted.” Those pale green eyes haunt me, and I don’t know why I can’t let this go.
West clears his throat. “If they’re after her, she’s in deep shit. The Nevsky Bratva is the largest heroin operation in eastern Russia. They have bases in St. Petersburg and Moscow, and they’ve recently expanded to the United States. Miami and New Jersey. One of the guys from BUDS works for the CIA now. He told me some stories…”
“I was afraid of that. No wonder Dax turned her down.”
“Dax…Holloway?” West asks. From the tone in his voice, I can imagine what he looks like right now. Brows arched, hands on his hips. Blue eyes dark. “Ry, is that why you went to Boston?”
I don’t want to admit my failings, don’t want to have to explain how Dax kicked me out and told me he never wanted to see me again.
“Um…” Cam says. “Who’s Dax Holloway?”
“The only other survivor of Hell. My best friend before I fucked everything up. And Wren’s boss.”
West whistles. “So, let me get this straight. You went to Boston to try to fix things with Dax. And somehow, you meet one of his employees who has a problem with the Russian mob—and her boss—and you’re going to help her out?”
“No.” I start to pace, digging my fingers into my palm, using the pain in my joints to help me focus. “Maybe.”
The call switches off of speaker, and it’s just West on the line with me now. “Listen, Ry. I know shooting Coop left you with some new demons. I’m not going to pretend to know why or how to help. But if you’re going to tangle with the Russian mob, don’t do it halfway. And don’t even think about doing it alone. You need us, we’re there.”
No way in hell I’ll call West or Inara for this. Not after everything I’ve put them through. But since admitting that will only lead to a fight—one he’ll never win—I sigh. “If I make a move, I’ll let you know. Thanks, West. And…congratulations. Beers are on me when I get back.”
“Just come back alive,” he says.
“Hooah.”
After a solitary lobster roll on the waterfront, I take a walk to try to clear my head. But though I set out with no destination in mind, I find myself outside Dax’s office, staring up at the sixth-floor windows.
Until the front doors open, and a white cane emerges, followed by the man who spent fifteen months on the other side of a stone wall, tapping out messages to try to keep me sane.
Dax strides with purpose, a man who knows exactly where he’s going and probably doesn’t need the cane any more than he needs me in his life. I fall into step a dozen yards back, staying behind him as he weaves through a throng of people, pauses at a stoplight, and then sets off across the street.
Outside one of a dozen identical buildings in the North End, Dax does a one-eighty, leans against a tree, and stares right at me. “If you think I can’t hear you, Ry, you’re a damn fool. You’ve been on my six since I left the office.”
Fuck.
I shove my hands into my pockets as I approach. “What gave me away?”
“You’ve worn the same aftershave for fifteen years. Caught a whiff of it when I left the office. And you apologized twice when you almost ran into people three blocks back.”
When I’m on mission, I never miss a beat. But here…I’m out of my element. “Instructor Taylor would’ve had my ass.”
“Damn straight. You want to talk more, you follow me inside. You can borrow some gloves.”
Twenty minutes later, still wearing my jeans and t-shirt, but barefoot, I step into the boxing ring. Dax, dressed in basketball shorts, his chest bare, ducks under the ropes. Without his glasses, his eyes reflect the overhead lights, milky pupils and pale irises trying to track my movements as I circle him. But he’s slow, a step behind me as I keep my footfalls quick and soft.
“I had coffee with Wren Kane today.”
Dax sends a jab in my direction, coming within an inch of my chin. Weaving to the side, I catch him in the gut with a quick right cross. “Want to tell me why you refused to help her?”
“None of your business,” he says as he throws a hook that sends me spinning into the ropes. “You trying to spy on me now?”
“No.” My jaw throbs, but I use the momentum from the ropes to right myself and reset. “I don’t give a fuck who she works for. But she’s scared. And desperate enough to confess some of her troubles to a stranger. So…want to tell me why the most decent guy I’ve ever met—who happens to own a security firm—would refuse to help one of his own?”
“Because she’s grasping at straws to make sense of her brother’s death. When the truth is,” grabbing hold of my shoulders, Dax pulls me closer and knees me in the gut, “the guy was a drug addict.”
My uppercut sends him sprawling back onto his ass. “Shit.” Extending a gloved hand, I tap his arm, but he bats me away and rolls to his feet.
“I can handle my own,” Dax mutters. “Now fight, dammit.”
Half an hour later, I’m wheezing. Flat on my back. Staring up into Dax’s triumphant face.
“You done proving you can still get it up?” I ask as I push to my feet. “Or do you need to take a few more shots at me before we can have a goddamned conversation?”
“You lost. To a blind man. Of the two of us, I’d wager you’re the one who needs the little blue pills.”
“Never have, never will.” I hold out my hands to the attendant so he can remove my gloves. Ducking out of the ring, I grab a bottle of water from a cooler and drop onto a bench. “But I know when I’ve been beat.”
“Care to repeat that?” He joins me, feeling his way carefully along the wall until he finds the seat next to me.
I punch him in the arm. “You heard me the first time.”
We sit, the bruises aching, until Dax sighs. “Wren is the most logical woman I know. If she’s determined to go after the bratva, no one’s going to stop her.”
“Then why won’t you help?”
Dropping his head back against the wall, Dax swears under his breath. “I’ll meet you out front in ten minutes. We’ll go see her together.”
7
Wren
My cold pizza sits untouched as I watch the second video—the one I didn’t get a chance to show Dax—for the fifth time. On the screen, a pretty young woman with sad blue eyes sniffles and holds an ice pack to her cheek.
“I am scared, Zion. Kolya is not himself. He is convinced everyone is spying on him. And…the money…most of it is gone.” She dabs her eyes with a tissue, then pauses with a whispered curse and sets the phone down.
Clipped footsteps race across the floor, a door opens, closes, and then she lowers her voice. “I must be quick. He will be back soon, and he will want to fuck.” The girl—Elena—chokes back a sob. “Ana is gone. Kolya…sold her. He made so much money. Now…he talks about selling more. I do not want him to sell me. If he finds out what I did…he threatened me many times after you escaped. Me and Semyon. And the way he looks at Semyon now—I am afraid Kolya will sell him too. The man who took Ana…he hurt her badly before he paid. There was so much blood.”
Elena presses her lips together and glances over her shoulder. “Can you help me, Zion? Please? I am foolish, I think. Asking a boy to rescue me. You are safe in America. But you are my only hope. You once said you could get me and Semyon out. Your sister would help. Is that still true? I hope it is.” A loud crash sounds from the next room, and Elena gasps. “Please hurry.”
The video ends, and I close my eyes. What am I missing? Rewinding, I mute the sound,
focusing on Elena and the room around her. There has to be some sort of clue who she is beyond her first name.
Two piercings in each ear. Dirty blond hair. Wait. As she moves the ice pack around on her cheek, a tattoo peeks out from her sleeve. Except…it’s a freakin’ butterfly. Only the most common tattoo ever.
Unable to stifle my frustrated moan, I run my fingers along Zion’s bracelet over and over again, needing the repetition and the comfort of the warm beads to distract from the utter defeat enveloping me.
Two quick raps on my front door make me squeak, and I leap off the couch. Taking a deep breath, I try to calm my racing heart.
“Wren? Open up.”
Dax? I’m so confused—and angry he won’t help me—I forget my momentary panic and throw the door open. Only to stare directly into a black t-shirt stretched over the broadest chest I’ve ever seen.
My gaze trails up, and shock strangles the words in my throat. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
“Nice to see you too, sweetheart,” Ryker drawls. “Mind if we come in?”
I step back, and Pixel barrels in from the bedroom. My feeble attempts to stop my dog from welcoming the unexpected guests fail miserably, and I barely manage not to step on her. Off balance, I stumble, and Ryker reaches out to steady me.
“Three times in one day?” He arches a brow, and I step back.
“I was doing just fine,” I mutter and snap my fingers so Pixel stops yipping and jumping around Dax’s legs. Despite not being able to see her antics, he manages to expertly avoid her little paws as he follows Ryker into my apartment and shuts the door.
“Um. Can I get you…I have beer and uh…red wine and Diet Coke.” Entertaining isn’t…me. I can hang with the guys all night long after a hard job. Drink half of them under the table if I really want to, but only when we’re in a big group. Me alone with my boss and the tank I ran away from this afternoon? Not my comfort zone.
On His Six Page 5
