On His Six

by Patricia D. Eddy

  Ryker glances at Dax, then shrugs. “Stick-Up-His-Ass will take a Diet Coke. But I’ll have a beer.”

  “Fuck you,” Dax says. “I need a beer for this conversation.”

  I can’t move, my mouth hanging open slightly at the venom—and something else—I hear in my boss’s voice. He’s always been a little lost, but watching him with Ryker is eerie. Like he’s a ghost of his real self. After seeing the photo Ryker carries in his wallet, I think maybe the Dax I know is a ghost of who he used to be.

  “Wren? Sit down. Ry, get the beers.” Dax reaches for my arm, coming up just short, and I clear my throat to let him know where I am.

  Ryker strides into my kitchen and rummages in the fridge while I take Dax’s arm and lead him to an overstuffed chair across from the couch. “Chair,” I whisper, and he nods, though his movements are stiff as he takes a seat.

  Shutting my laptop, I clutch it to my chest when Ryker swaggers over with three beers clutched in his beefy hands. Despite his size, he moves with a grace I’ve rarely seen in men—only Dax and Ford can glide soundlessly across the floor like that. Training, Ford once told me.

  “Mind if I sit?” Ryker asks, gesturing to the cushion next to me.

  “Uh…sure.”

  Once everyone has a beer, Ryker lifts his bottle. “Hooah.” Dax frowns, and silence hangs in the air. “Fine. See if I care,” Ryker mutters. Turning to me, he arches a brow. “So…tell us about the Nevsky Bratva.”

  “No.” I take a long pull on my beer as the two men stare at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You didn’t change your mind about Z in the past eight hours, Dax.”

  “No. I didn’t. I’ve known way too many guys pulled under by addiction. Zion had the same demons. The need. The craving. The desperation to just…escape. To feel good—or maybe nothing at all. To not hurt anymore.”

  “You didn’t know him.” The lump in my throat roughens my voice, and I suck down another swallow of beer. “Zion was clean. Going to meetings every day. He got a job. He promised me he’d never go back to that life.”

  “Can we start from the beginning?” Ryker settles back on the couch and stretches his long legs under my coffee table. “You did a hell of a lot of dancing in that coffee shop, sweetheart. Tell me what we’re dealing with. All of it.”

  Ninety minutes, another round of beers, and the leftover pizza later, I’m worried I’ve said too much. Or not enough. “This girl’s in trouble. So’s her brother. And Zion promised to get them out of Russia.”

  “And how the hell did he think he was going to do that?” Dax asks.

  “Me.” I risk a glance at Dax, see his expression, and can’t help the small, frustrated sound that catches in my throat. “Fine. You. Us. Second Sight. Remember when Z called me at work? A month before he showed up at my door?”

  “You said he was high as a kite.”

  “He was. Kept talking about getting passports for all of them.” Flopping back on the couch, I play with my bracelet. “The next day, Kolya told Elena he was going to kill Zion. She…she convinced one of Kolya’s generals to fake Zion’s death.” I open my laptop and pull up Z’s last message to me.

  Firefly, I’m so sorry. When Elena told me what Kolya was going to do, I had to leave her and Semyon behind. I hated it. But…she made me promise I’d never go back to Russia. She begged Misha to give me an overdose—but not enough to kill me. Just…make me look like I’d died. I don’t know why he agreed. He dumped me in a little town a couple hours away, and when I came to…I couldn’t think straight. I took a bunch of pills—I don’t even know what they were—and puked my guts out all over a car. And then this grandma comes out of the house next door and starts yelling at me. I was so messed up, I told her everything. She’s the reason I came home.

  When I saw Elena’s video, I wanted to tell you. But…then I got Kolya’s message, and I knew I had to get out of town. He never lets anyone go, and I can’t put you in danger. I’m uploading all this from a little internet cafe in Quincy. I’m going to get as far away from Boston as I can, and then I’ll call you. If he doesn’t find me first. I’m sorry I won’t be there for court. I know I’m letting you down. But this might be my only chance to stay alive. I love you. -Z

  Ryker

  Glancing at Dax, I try to get a read on him. But after so many years, I’m lost. So I swallow my pride and ask. “Dax? Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  He snorts. “There’s no proof this girl is even still alive. I know you want to believe the best about your brother, Wren, but without any evidence Zion was murdered…what the hell do you expect us to do about this?”

  Us. The word gives me pause until I realize he’s talking about his company. Not me. Sitting across from him, it’s easy to fool myself into thinking no time’s passed, and we’re still on the same team.

  Wren meets my gaze for only a second, but the fire in her green eyes shocks me. “Help me find her. I’m close. I have enough for facial recognition. I just need to get to St. Petersburg. Traffic cameras, government surveillance systems, identification cards…plus Z’s notes…I can find her. Then we can get her out.”

  “Why?” I ask. “This girl’s nothing to you. A drug lord’s punching bag of the week.” As I say the words, I try not to cringe. I don’t like the idea of abandoning Elena there, and I don’t even know the kid. Never leave a man behind. It’s our code. It’s why I got into K&R. Because Dax and I got left behind and look where it got us.

  “My brother loved her.” Wren fiddles with her bracelet, staring down at the purple and green beads. “And he promised her.”

  “You’re willing to risk your life—the lives of your coworkers—because of a promise?” I ask. “Do you have a death wish?”

  Wren blows out a breath and turns to me. “No. I don’t. But promises mean something to me. Our mother ran out on us when Zion was thirteen. The day she left, Z was sick. Pneumonia. I came over to spend time with him, and as soon as I walked in the door, Mom took off. Z was crying, and the last thing Mom said to him was, ‘I’ll be back in a few hours. I promise.’”

  Draining the last of her beer, she starts peeling off the label in long, narrow strips. “After three days, the police in Atlantic City called and told us she’d been arrested for vehicular homicide. She was drunk off her ass and killed three people.” Wren’s voice cracks, and she slams the bottle down. “She died in prison eighteen months after her sentencing.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say and fight the urge to take her hand. I don’t do comforting. But something about this woman calls to me. Begs me to be…better. Someone I’m not.

  “Don’t apologize.” Wren gives me a sidelong glance and shakes her head. “She never contacted us or responded to any of my repeated attempts to see her. That’s not the point.” Clenching her fists for a moment and squeezing her eyes shut, she forces out a breath. “When I got the call about the arrest and looked up the charge, I knew she was never coming home. I had to tell Zion. And the two of us agreed we’d never use the words ‘I promise’ unless we were sure we meant them. In ten years, Z never went back on a promise. Not even when he was at his lowest. He’d say, ‘I swear’ or ‘Scout’s honor’ or ‘You know it.’ Not ‘I promise.’ But he said the words to her…and he said them to me. He promised he was clean. That he was never going back to drugs. Ever.”

  “I promise I’ll come back for you, Dax. But if I don’t go now, we’ll both die.”

  “Ry…don’t leave me…”

  I look over at Dax and wonder if he’s reliving the same memory. “I’ll get Elena out,” I say before common sense can overrule me. “Give me all the info you have on her and keep working from here. I’ll go to St. Petersburg and find her.”

  “You won’t find her without me.” Wren straightens her shoulders. “It’ll be a heck of a lot easier for me to hack the systems I need if I’m on-site.”

  “No. You’re staying in Boston. I can’t protect you in Russia.”

  “Unless you’re prepared to lock me aw
ay somewhere by force, you can’t stop me. And I’m pretty sure the two of you aren’t that stupid.” Wren pushes to her feet, and her little dog leaps up and runs to the door, rearing up on her hind legs and begging. “I have to take Pixel out. You can stay here and we can talk more when I get back, or you can leave. The door is self-locking,” she says as she jingles her keys in one hand and holds the dog’s leash in the other.

  When she slips into the hall, I stare up at the ceiling. “You know how to pick ‘em, Dax. She’s…”

  “Headstrong? Loyal? Altruistic?” He chuckles. “Fucking stubborn?”

  “All of the above.” Wandering over to her second-floor window, I peer out into the April evening. Wren lets the dog scamper from tree to tree, the little thing sniffing and occasionally looking back at her. The street’s deserted, the neighborhood quiet well past nine at night.

  I’m about to turn back when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. A shadow darts out from between the buildings, too fast to be anything good, and instinct kicks in. “Hostile!” I shout as I sprint for her door. Curling my hand around the stairwell railing, I use my momentum to carry me halfway down, then jump the last four stairs, hitting the building’s door at full speed. Pixel growls, then there’s a muffled scream, a male curse, and a smack.

  “Dose her and get it over with,” a tense voice snaps.

  I’m almost to the corner of the building when I hear Wren moan. “Nnnooo…”

  Shit. They’re taking her. I press my back to the wall. Plan. Assess. Act.

  “Fucking bitch bit me.” This from someone older. Or bigger. The tone deeper.

  “Get the dog. Take it back into her apartment and grab her computer,” the first voice orders, jingling keys. “Meet me at the car.”

  Angling a quick glance around the corner of the building, I make out two men. One hefts Wren over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and the other reaches for the dog. But Pixel has a little fight in her and latches on to the man’s hand. Perfect distraction.

  In three steps, I lay the dog’s new chew toy out with one hard uppercut, then move on to the asshole holding Wren. “Let her go, or you won’t walk again for a very long time.”

  Wren slides to the ground, unconscious, as he reaches behind his back. But I’m too well-trained to be intimidated by a kid who can’t be more than twenty-one. Ducking my shoulder, I ram into his gut, sending the gun clattering to the cobblestones as we hit the ground.

  “Big mistake.” Grabbing him by his skinny arms, I lift him and then slam him back down again, driving the air from his lungs. “Who sent you?”

  A metallic tapping sounds from the front of the building. “Call the dog,” I shout.

  “Pixel. Come.” Dax whistles, and the ball of fur takes off for the door.

  The kid spits in my face, and I roll my eyes. “You see me, right? I could rip you in half and not even break a sweat. Who. Sent. You?”

  “You’re dead, big man. You and the girl. I won’t tell you shit.”

  “Suit yourself.” One more punch and he’s unconscious, and I pat down his pockets, hoping…yes. Zip ties. No good—or bad—kidnapper ever leaves home without them. When the two men are secured, I move to Wren.

  A goose egg swells on her cheek, but her heartbeat is steady. “Wren? How deep are you under, sweetheart?” She doesn’t answer when I brush her hair off her forehead. After a sigh, I mutter, “Pretty deep, then.”

  “Ry. Sit rep,” Dax calls.

  “Two hostiles. Restrained. Wren’s unconscious. Get your ass over here.”

  Tap, tap, tap. Dax’s cane skitters over the cobbles as he slowly makes his way down the alley. “Pixel’s tied up inside,” he says. “Cops are on the way.”

  Gently, I lift Wren into my arms. “I’m getting her out of here. These idiots wanted both her and her laptop.”

  “Fuck. Go. Call me when you’re secure. I’ll get her computer and call Ford to take the dog for a few days.”

  “Any chance you can keep her name out of this?” I ask as I settle her against my chest and dig for the keys to my rental.

  “Not likely, but I’ll try.” Dax claps his hand on my shoulder as I start to move past him. “I don’t know how to forgive you for ghosting, Ry. But I’m damn glad you’re here. Keep her safe.”

  I nod before I remember he can’t see me. “I will.”

  8

  Wren

  I’m floating. Why am I floating? Something firm and warm moves under me, and I try to force my eyes open, but they don’t want to obey. A little moan coils in my throat, and the thing under me moves again.

  “Shhh, sweetheart. We’re almost to the room.”

  The room? I don’t understand. “Mmmy…head.”

  “I know. I’ll get you some ice in a couple of minutes.” There’s a beep and a click, and then I’m not floating anymore. A warm hand cups my cheek, and I finally manage to pry my lids open. “Ryker?”

  “Good. Do you know what day it is?”

  “Of course I know what day it is,” I snap as I push myself up to sitting. And fall over when I’m suddenly on a tilt-a-whirl. “Crap on a cracker.”

  “That’s not a day of the week.” Ryker takes my wrist, and as the room comes into focus again, he checks his watch. “Who’s the President?”

  “I don’t have a concussion. I got punched in the face.”

  I got punched in the face.

  As the words register, and the memories come flooding back, I start shaking. “I got punched in the face. And drugged. And—” I swallow a sob. “Where’s Pixel?”

  “She’s fine. Dax is taking her to Ford’s for a couple of days.”

  “What did they give me?” I rear up again and grab his muscular forearm as his brows furrow. “Ryker, tell me. What did they give me?”

  “I don’t know. Some sort of sedative. Why? Are you allergic to—” His eyes darken, the colors shifting to a deeper hue as he searches my face.

  “No. I just…Zion. My mom had an addictive personality. So does—did—Z. I don’t…I can’t…” I start to hyperventilate, and my heart hammers against my chest so hard I think the thing from Alien is about to burst forth and kill both of us.

  “Look at me, Wren.” His voice turns rougher, demanding, and he presses my palm to his chest. “Breathe with me. In. Out. Match my pace.” I try, but I can’t stop wheezing. “Slower. Listen to my voice. In. Good. Out.” He covers my hand with his until the world slows and rights itself again.

  “Flippin’ flapjacks. Fudgsicles. Cracker Jacks.”

  “Oh fuck. I knew it. You do have a concussion.” Ryker slides his arms under me as I choke out a laugh. “What?”

  “I don’t really…swear.” That doesn’t clear anything up, and he carries me halfway to the door before I manage to stop him by squeezing the back of his neck. “Those…are my curse words.”

  “Seriously? Are you religious or—”

  “No. But Mom was a pre-school teacher…before.” I swallow hard as memories threaten. “Anyone can say fuck. Flippin’ flapjacks? Now that’s unique.”

  His laugh seems to surprise him, and he sets me back on the bed. “This is not the night I thought I’d be having.”

  Without thinking, I try to rub my right eye. It’s hot and itchy, but when I touch my cheek, the pain blooms across my whole face. “Oh God. That…ow.”

  “I’ll get you some ice. Stay there.” He points at me, his eyes narrowing. “I mean it. Do not move. And don’t touch the phone.”

  “I’m not an idiot. Two guys just tried to kidnap me off the street.” I regret my words as worry tightens tiny lines around his eyes, but after a heartbeat, he nods and heads for the door. Letting myself sink back against the pillows, I try not to relive those terrifying few seconds. The rough hands. The scent of cigarettes. The salty taste of the guy’s palm as I bit down.

  Dammit. My laptop. If Ryker and Dax left my apartment unprotected, everything Zion sent me is probably…well, no. The guys who tried to take me might have it, bu
t they can’t access it. Not without a hell of a lot of work and a hacker as good as I am.

  Closing my eyes, I try to recall as much about them as I can. I don’t hear the door open and close, and gasp as Ryker slides a hip onto the mattress. “Here.”

  The bath towel ice pack he holds to my cheek feels like heaven and hell at the same time. Cool and comforting, but the pressure is almost too much. “Is…what if it’s broken?”

  Ryker sits back. “Follow my finger. Don’t move your head. Any more dizziness? Nausea?”

  “No. How the hell did they find me?” My voice cracks, and I pull my knees up to my chest. “What…happened to them?”

  “I knocked them out. Dax called 911 and stayed on-scene. I need to contact him now that we’re…as safe as I can make us for the moment. This hotel room isn’t in my name—and even if it was, there’s nothing linking the two of us…together.” Ryker probes the edge of the bruise, his fingers gentle. Scars wind their way up his forearms, intertwined with tattoos of skulls and barbed wire. “You’re okay. Nothing’s broken.”

  “You’re sure?” The headache currently splitting my skull disagrees with his assessment, but I’ve never had a broken bone before.

  Shadows dance across his face, dimming the light in his eyes. “Fifty-four.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve had fifty-four bones in my body broken. I’m pretty sure.” He shakes his head and stands.

  “Oh my God. How?”

  “Don’t ask me that.” Ryker heads for the window as his fingers dance over his phone screen. He parts the curtains, angles a glance down at the street, and his shoulders visibly relax. Taking a seat in the desk chair a few feet away, he leans back and crosses his legs at the ankles. “Tell me everything you remember about the fuckers who tried to take you.”

  Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself and draw my knees up to my chest. Now that I’m safe, the adrenaline’s wearing off and my anxiety starts to creep back in. “I…you don’t have my bag, do you?”