On His Six

by Patricia D. Eddy

  19

  Wren

  Touching my swollen lips, I can still feel him. Taste him. And I want more. Ryker is one of the most infuriating men I’ve ever met. And I work for Dax Holloway. Pretty sure Dax has won the “Infuriating Man of the Year” award at least four years running. Not this year.

  Turning my attention to the servers I hacked last night, I open a connection to the dark web and send Inara access credentials and an IP address. If I have to open Google Translate for every directory name I come across, this job will take a month.

  Trapped in this house. With Ryker. For a month. An involuntary shudder runs through me—equal parts horror and desire. In a month, maybe I could convince him to open up to me. Or…he’d close himself off so completely, we’d end up never speaking again.

  For the next few hours, I write code, using bits and pieces of some of my older programs to cobble together a hack that should get me into the traffic camera network without anyone noticing.

  Inara helps, supplying a few translations here and there, but it’s the middle of the night where she is right now, and eventually, I tell her to get some rest. She doesn’t have any stake in this—other than being Ryker’s…friend? Coworker? I have a feeling even she doesn’t know.

  She signs off the video chat with a yawn, then changes her mind and leans forward so her face is close to the camera as she narrows her tired eyes. “Are you okay?” she asks. “Ry isn’t being a total dick, is he?”

  “Maybe sixty percent dick,” I say with a half-smile. “There’s a good guy under there somewhere. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”

  “Don’t let him off easy.” She runs a hand through her short-cropped hair. “I made that mistake a few months ago, and now…the wedge between us is industrial grade concrete instead of a pile of dirt. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to chip it all away.”

  “I won’t let him get away with shutting me out. I may look…” I wave my hand, a little unsure what I want to say.

  “Skittish?” She smiles. “You were so unsure of yourself when we first talked. Like you thought I was going to yell at you or something.”

  My cheeks flush, and I glance down at my bracelet, running my fingers over the beads. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. How did Ryker see the pattern when I never did?

  “I have an anxiety disorder. If I don’t take my meds regularly, it’s…bad. I get tongue-tied, then I start to wonder why anyone would want to talk to me in the first place. And then I do my best impression of Road Runner.” I don’t tell a lot of people about my illness. I’m not close to anyone except a couple of my coworkers.

  Inara nods. “My mother has anxiety. She was attacked when I was young, and after that night…” Her voice roughens, and she looks away, then murmurs to someone close by, “I’m all right.” Turning her attention back to me, she sighs. “Ryker…when the two of you were trapped in the Federal Building…I’ve only heard him that panicked once in all the time I’ve known him.”

  “When?” And why is she telling me this?

  “After West was shot. He was bleeding out, and we almost lost him. You’ve cracked through his outer shell, Wren. Keep going. You might be surprised what you find.”

  Ryker

  Pulling a green army jacket from my pack, I change my appearance for the third time inside a McDonald’s bathroom a mile from the cafe I spent the morning in.

  I don’t expect to find Elena or Semyon. Wren’s facial recognition software will handle that for us—if they’re even still alive. No. My entire purpose today? Reconnaissance. Learning patterns. When the kids come and go. Their communication methods. And scanning the buildings Wren identified for wireless signals, security cameras, and staff.

  Thanks to a second-hand store I found when I left the little cafe, Wren and I have five or six different changes of clothes now.

  With one final glance in the mirror, I tug the stained fedora a little lower and head for the car. I don’t want to leave the vehicle in one spot for very long, and I can’t risk being seen as two different people returning to the same piece of shit Ford.

  One of the phones vibrates in my pocket. Wren. The message sends a little thrill racing up the back of my neck.

  Got a partial match on Elena. Headed west from the intersection of Prospekt Bol’shevikob and Ulitsa Dybenko. Get a move on, soldier.

  My lips curve as I imagine her with her hands on her hips, her head cocked to one side, and those gold flecks lending fire to her eyes. She has Royce’s Loc8tion software loaded on her laptop, so she knows right where I am.

  After I secure my pack in the trunk, I turn and start strolling east. This part of St. Petersburg is close to the river, so I make a show of taking a few photos of the boats and the bridges. Just another tourist out for a walk. But behind my sunglasses, my gaze never stops moving.

  There. Three men flank her, all in suits. Ill-fitting ones that don’t bother to hide the bulges of pistols at their hips. One of the assholes has his hand on her arm, and from the way she’s holding herself, he’s squeezing the muscle to the point of pain.

  Her face is blank, dark sunglasses covering her eyes, and her blond hair shines, done in a fancy up-do with tendrils curling around sunken cheekbones. If she weighs a hundred pounds, I’ll eat this hat.

  Turning, I hold my phone up, faking a selfie with a big smile, but the camera records Elena as I shift forward and back, trying to get just the right shot. I mutter to myself, complaining about the angle and the sun and the glare off the water until they’re only about ten feet away.

  “Excuse me,” I say to Elena in a thick, German accent. “Can you help me? A photo for my brother? He will not believe I am here.”

  One of her bodyguards—or captors, there’s no way to tell for sure—growls, “No,” and the entire group picks up their pace. The man closest to me had his hand under his jacket the second I started to speak, and the one holding Elena tightened his grip, drawing a gasp from her lips. Given how seamlessly they moved, they’re pros.

  I follow at a discreet distance, crossing the street and stopping at a news stand—cliché, but useful—when they reach a large, ornate building with white-washed masonry and bars on all the windows. Wren’s research listed this place as a former hotel, now owned by a shipping company.

  From my vantage point, I can’t see inside the heavy metal door as they enter, but they practically have to drag Elena over the threshold, and as the door starts to close, she says something to the guards, a vicious expression on her face, and wrenches her arm free. The brute grabs her throat and squeezes, and she scratches at his hands as the heavy metal shuts with a loud thunk.

  Fuck. If we have any hope of getting Elena out of there, we’re going to need some help.

  Wren

  I can’t sit still. Seeing Elena on a mall surveillance camera sent my heart rate shooting up and anxiety coiling in my chest like a snake ready to strike. Where are my pills? Ryker wouldn’t let me unpack anything—in case we have to leave at a moment’s notice—and I tear through my bag, shoving clothes and protein bars aside until I find the small bottle.

  Five pills roll across the floor as I win the battle against the flipping child-proof cap, and I scramble for them, landing on my knees with a thud that sends a shock of pain lancing up my thighs.

  Why hasn’t Ryker texted me? I want to call him, but I know I can’t. Distracting him at the wrong moment could get Elena killed. Or worse. Both of them.

  Forcing slow, deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth, I pray the pill takes effect soon. My daily meds keep the generalized anxiety under control, but the panic attacks…they’re a different animal. One I can keep in a cage as long as Ryker’s with me.

  Needing to do something, I go back to the translations Inara sent. Along with the street names that led me to Kolya’s buildings, half a dozen other words stand out, and I do a search of Russian internet service providers.

  “Holy mother of pearl!” A tiny company with a website that looks like
it belongs in the eighties matches one word—ryba—and I scan my master list of everything I found in Zion’s files. Yes.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m in. Fifty-seven separate unread emails wait for Zion, and my eyes start to burn as I realize he’ll never see them.

  “Oh God.” Elena didn’t just send a video asking for Zion’s help. She copied some of Kolya’s financial records. Z’s spreadsheets. He didn’t just sell drugs for Kolya. He helped the man with his bookkeeping. Elena even found bank statements. There’s enough here to keep an accountant busy for months. How the heck did she get all this?

  Most of her messages are in English, and as I scan through, still too tense to process her ramblings, I open an email with a photograph attached.

  Four women huddle together in a room. Dressed in plain black dresses, bruises dot their arms, legs, and faces. Their eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and they look like they’re scared to death.

  The entire message is only two sentences long.

  He says he is going to sell them. And if you do not come back, he will sell me with them.

  20

  Ryker

  When I let myself in the back door of the safe house, my mood instantly lightens. Even though I know she’ll want to talk—something I don’t now how to do—the thought of seeing Wren…touching her…kissing her…it kept me going today.

  “Wren?”

  She doesn’t answer, but I hear scrambling and a muffled curse—or what passes for a curse with her—from the living room. I find her trying to extricate herself from one of the sleeping bags, her cheeks pale and her eyes dull.

  “Did you get Elena?” she whispers and then topples over.

  Catching her in my arms, I haul her close, breathing in her sweet scent. We’re both using cheap hotel soap, yet she still smells like honeysuckle. And her hair. Fuck. No one’s hair should be this soft. “Whoa, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”

  “P-panic attack. Took a p-pill. Sometimes…I get…dizzy.” She sags against me, resting her cheek against my chest. “Stop distracting me. Where’s Elena?”

  “In Kolya’s fortress. With a shit ton of security.” Easing her down to the couch, I don’t expect her to shove at me, and my foot catches in the crumpled sleeping bag. I go down, hard, on my ass. “Fuck, Wren. What was that for?”

  “For not…getting Elena!” Her breathing takes on a raspy edge, and she clutches at her sweatshirt like it’s choking her. “She knows…too much. Kolya’s…going to kill her.”

  “What?” Shaking my head, I shove my questions to the back of my mind. Right now, I have to get Wren to calm down. Meds or no meds, she’s on the verge of another panic attack, and I’m not going to get through to her unless she can breathe normally. “Never mind. Come down here.” With my hands locked around her wrists, I tug her off the couch and into my lap. She resists for all of a second, then yields, collapsing almost bonelessly into my arms.

  “She…took a picture…of the girls he’s selling. And…there’s so much…more…” A single, choking sob escapes her lips, and when I brush her hair away from her face, tears brim in her eyes. Tears. Despite being almost kidnapped, recounting her brother’s death multiple times, and traveling halfway around the world to a country where she doesn’t speak the language with a guy who looks like Quasimodo on steroids, she’s shed exactly one tear before tonight. One. And now…she’s barely holding it together.

  “Shhh, Wren. Let it out, baby.” Something twists inside me when she shatters, and as she cries into my jacket, I do the only thing I can. Protect her until the storm passes.

  “Goddammit,” she mumbles, and I draw back enough to meet her gaze.

  “You just swore.”

  “I’m…I know how to swear.” An indignant pout curves her lips, and she tries to extricate herself from my grip, but I’m not letting her go anywhere. “I don’t cry. I haven’t cried in…I just don’t. I hate crying.” Her cheeks flush a deep shade of splotchy red. “Please let me go.”

  “No. Talk to me.”

  Her snort riles my anger, and I stare up at the ceiling, counting to five so I don’t lose my temper with her. “I know I suck at conversation, okay? When you spend fifteen months having the shit beat out of you every fucking day just so you’ll talk, it…does something to you. But that doesn’t mean I can’t listen.”

  Her bloodshot eyes shine with fresh tears, and I risk loosening one arm so I can wick them away. “You’re safe with me, Wren. Whatever Kolya’s doing, we’ll stop him. But we have to be smart about it. And me busting into his fortress with no idea what I’m going to find…that’s not smart. We need help. And a plan.”

  “But—”

  With a finger to her lips, I stop her protest. “Tell me what meds you need right now. Then after you take them, we’re going to eat something and you can fill me in on what you found.”

  She doesn’t move, and I arch a brow. “You’re still panicky. I can feel your heartbeat, sweetheart. Your breathing’s choppy and your pupils are half blown. Don’t argue.”

  “Xanax. The blue ovals in my pill bottle. Just one.” Her resistance gone, she leans back against the couch, sniffling quietly.

  I go into the kitchen for a glass of water, and when I come back, she has her knees pulled up to her chest, staring at her darkened computer screen like it’s going to bite her.

  She doesn’t argue when I hand her the pill and water and sits quietly while I mix up a couple of the better MREs—the ones West always snags for his fiancé because of their hard-as-a-brick brownies.

  “Steak and potatoes,” I say. “Tomorrow, I’ll grab McD’s.”

  Wren stabs a piece of meat with her spork and sniffs it. “I haven’t had McDonald’s since Z and I were kids.”

  “One of the most reliable places to eat when you’re in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and don’t speak the language. A Big Mac is always a Big Mac.” Her small smile rights my entire world, and I look away. What am I doing?

  It’s a relationship, stupid. Like normal people have.

  Well, maybe not like normal people. Normal people don’t hide out in Russian safe houses eating MREs with the mob after them and enjoy their nights.

  “Tell me about him?” I ask.

  Wren glances down at her wrist, and if she didn’t have the spork in her hand, I know she’d be running her fingers over the beads. “He was a good kid. Quirky,” she says. “He loved Harry Potter and soccer. When he was eight, he ‘rescued’ a bird that flew in our window. Tried to convince our mom it was a parakeet.”

  “What was it?”

  “A pigeon. That chubby bird pooped all over the living room before Mom got home. Z had to wash the dishes by hand for a solid month before she forgave him. She took the racks out of the dishwasher and everything.” Light dances in Wren’s eyes, and she leans back against the couch, her shoulders finally dropping from up around her ears.

  “My…brother hit a baseball through our neighbor’s window when he was twelve. Pop made him clean Mrs. Sylverton’s house top to bottom every week for a year.” Shock at my own admission sends me digging in my MRE for the last drops of gravy, though the damn things only ever last me five minutes.

  “You have a brother?”

  “Had.” Pushing to my feet, I head for the kitchen, dump the empty pouch, and dig another one out of my rolling duffel bag. Except, I’m not hungry anymore, so I brace my hands on the sink and stare out the back window into the darkness.

  Until she finds me. I should have known. And dammit. She’s still unsteady on her feet. “Come on. You’re wiped.” I sweep her up into my arms as she protests, but she rests her head on my shoulder.

  “You’re not getting out of this conversation,” she says, and though she’s obviously out of sorts from the meds, there’s an edge to her voice warning me she won’t let me off the hook, no matter how loopy she is.

  “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Except into the sleeping bag. With you. And without most of these clothes.” Setting her down on the couch, I
drop to a knee and pull off her boots. “My brother followed me into the army.”

  Slowly, savoring every inch, I run my hands up her legs to the waistband of her leggings. Touching her grounds me, and I can see Paul’s face without the guilt and self-loathing that so often accompanies my memories. “His unit was on patrol outside Fallujah. Roadside bomb.” Her pants land on top of her boots. “He died instantly.”

  “I’m sorry, Ry.” Soft fingers skate over the back of my neck, and she pulls me close enough for me to feel her breath ghost across my cheek. “Were you close?”

  “Yes and no. We were seven years apart. Didn’t have a damn thing in common. But the year before I enlisted, we started to connect.” With a shake of my head, I pull back the top sleeping bag, then wrap my hands around her waist and ease her down. “No moving,” I say sternly as I rise and undo my belt. We don’t speak until I lay each weapon, tool, and piece of gear in precise order down on the low coffee table.

  “Are you always this…organized?” Wren asks.

  “With my equipment? Yes.” This isn’t a conversation I want to have. All the possibilities running through my head every time I close my eyes. “You ready to tell me what had you so panicked earlier?”

  She looks up at me with those pale green eyes, and the slightest shimmer warns me this isn’t going to be an easy conversation. “Will you hold me?”

  Shedding my pants and folding them neatly next to hers, I slip under the sleeping bag with her. “All night, sweetheart.”

  Wren

  Despite how close we are—physically—Ryker still hides under the tight, black t-shirt. I shed my flannel as he arranged an arsenal on the coffee table, and I’m down to my panties and tank.