On His Six

by Patricia D. Eddy

  Understanding dawns. “You want to impersonate Popov?” I take a step back, regarding West with unease. “Do you even speak Russian?”

  “Three, four words. Maybe? But my arm candy for the night is fluent.” He nudges Inara’s shoulder, and she glares at him. “You’re going to have to work on that expression. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  “I’m playing your bodyguard, Sampson. Not your date.” She snorts. “As if I could pull off the brainless bimbo in any universe. I’d kill someone before we got more than two steps inside the door.”

  “Hey, I was supposed to get married tomorrow. Cut a guy a little slack.” West smiles, but his eyes reflect pain.

  I can’t repay them for this. Ever. I’ll be in their debt for the rest of my life if we pull this off. Wren presses closer to my side, and her fingers graze my hip.

  “I can encrypt a video channel,” she says quietly. “So you can see each other without risking anyone intercepting the signal.”

  West meets my gaze. I have rules. No phones. No contact. Safer for everyone. But the idea of going four days without talking to Wren, seeing her, after what we’ve been through…I’d come out of my skin. At my single nod, West blows out a breath. “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

  “Inara and Royce too,” I add. “And can you set that up for us every job? Anything more than an in-and-out, at least?”

  “Yep. I can show you how to secure the connection.” Wren slides her computer closer with a quick glance up at me, and I press a kiss to the top of her head.

  “Back to Popov.” As much as I’d like to lose myself in Wren’s body or spend the next few hours simply answering her questions—or maybe asking some of my own—we have a job to plan, and the sun’s already gone down. “You know where he is? Because I don’t think we want the real Popov showing up at the door while the two of you are inside.”

  “Yep.” West pulls up a map. “He’s an hour away, in a little town called Roshchino.”

  38

  Wren

  The tension in the room is about to send me fleeing back to the pile of sleeping bags in our little sanctuary, but Ryker has my hand clasped in a death grip.

  “Promise me,” he whispers with his forehead pressed to mine, “you’ll stay close to Inara.”

  “I promise. I’ll be fine. She brought almost as much firepower as you did.” I try for a smile, but Ryker pulls me into a tight embrace, and I swear I feel him shaking against me. “Ry, you can’t be at my side for the rest of my life.”

  “Watch me.” His voice carries a rough edge, and suddenly I worry he’s serious.

  “Ryker McCabe. I’m not helpless.” Jerking away, or trying to, I meet his gaze, and he releases me. “I love that you want to protect me. And most of the time, I’ll let you. But Inara isn’t going to let anything happen to me. And you and West will be back in a couple of hours.”

  “I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers.

  “Care?” At his nod, I cup his cheek. “You’re doing a good job. Just…relax a little, okay?”

  He threads his fingers into my hair and pulls tight. The slight pinpricks of pain along my scalp make me feel alive, grounded, real, and I yield when his tongue traces the seam of my lips. The kiss is slow, sensual, and tender, so unlike the man he projects on the outside. I lose myself in the sensation, pleasure filling me all the way down to my toes. Until he sucks my bottom lip between his teeth, then pulls away.

  “I have to gear up,” he says, his voice rough. “Will you…” Pain fills his gaze, and he stammers as he tries to get the words out. “I mean…if you’re here…I…”

  “I’ll be in the bedroom. You need to focus on the mission.” I smile as relief washes over him. “I can read you, Ry. You don’t have to worry about asking for what you need. Just don’t shut me out.” With a quick peck to his lips, I head for our little oasis, though I don’t shut the door completely. I can still see him, his back to me, as he goes through his routine.

  Patting down his pockets. Putting on his vest. Guns. Dart gun on the right, pistol on the left. Extra magazines. Knife. Compass. Earbud. With each item, he pauses, his head bowed, and touches its destination twice as if he’s cementing its location in his mind.

  West sits cross-legged on the floor a few feet away, his eyes closed. Inara’s upside down in a headstand that would be the envy of yoga teachers everywhere. She’ll run comms while West and Ryker do the dirty work.

  Ryker whispers to himself, and I can’t make out the words, but his hands move up and down his body as he goes, and I think he’s confirming, yet again, that he has everything he needs.

  “Ready, Sampson?” he says when he’s done.

  “Hooyah.” West rises in one fluid motion, in direct opposition to Inara’s descent from her headstand. “Comms check,” he says.

  “Roger,” Inara replies as she moves to the table of computers. “Trackers on and transmitting. Romeo?”

  “Check. Loud and clear. You see anything out of place on the satellite images—”

  Inara snorts. “This isn’t my first trip around the sun, boys. Come back alive. With the target.”

  As Ryker opens the door, and West heads for the car, he glances back and meets her gaze. “Hooah.”

  “You can come out now, Wren,” Inara calls. “The boys are gone.”

  “I won’t distract you?”

  “Not right now. I’ll let you know when they’re getting close to Popov’s home. At that point, just keep quiet.” She offers me a tight smile and angles her head, indicating I should join her at the table. A few hours ago, Ryker found stools up in the attic, and I perch on one, my hands clasped in my lap.

  “Why did West say ‘hooyah’ while Ryker said ‘hooah’?”

  Inara huffs out a laugh. “Because there’s a long-standing rivalry between SEALs and Special Forces. ‘Hooyah’ is the battle-cry for the SEALs. ‘Hooah’ is for the army. Marines say ‘oorah.’”

  “What are you?” My cheeks heat as I hear myself. “I mean…what branch of the military did you serve in?”

  “Army. Same as Royce and Cam. And Ryker, really. Even though he ended up a Green Beret. Graham, our new guy, was a marine. Still is, I guess, since he’s in the reserves now. All we need is a Coast Guard alum and we’ll have a complete set.”

  On the screen in front of us, the two red dots signifying Ryker and West’s trackers travel along the route Inara mapped out for them. We fall silent for a while until we hear banging coming from the basement.

  “Not now,” Inara groans. “The little shit probably expects to eat again.”

  “I can bring him an MRE.” Sliding off the stool, I start for the kitchen before Inara grabs my arm. Her fingers curl around my elbow where the needle marks still throb—though more from the memories than physical pain, and I hiss until she loosens her grip.

  “Sorry. But…you should stay here.”

  Her gray eyes warn me she’s serious, but I need to talk to the kid. Need to know why he thought Kolya would ever let Elena go.

  “Ryker would murder me.”

  I straighten as much as my bruises will allow and try to force some strength into my tone. “Semyon was Zion’s best friend. And I just…I need to talk to him. He’s terrified of Ryker, and he doesn’t know the guys are gone. This might be my only chance. Ryker doesn’t need to know.”

  Inara sighs. “Leave the door open. If he makes a single move you don’t like, you scream. Got it?”

  “Got it.” I reach out and grab her hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “Thank you.”

  Turning back to the computer, she shakes her head. “Don’t make me regret it.”

  MRE in hand, I limp down the steps to the basement. It’s actually kind of nice down here. Cool, but quiet. On a dusty old mattress, Semyon sits, his hands bound in front of him, resting with his back against the wall.

  “I do not want trouble,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender.

  “Relax. I’ve…mostly forgiven you.” With a
jerk of my head back towards the stairs, I add, “Don’t make me call for Ryker and you’ll be fine. I brought you some food.”

  Like I’ve seen Ryker do a handful of times, I mix up the salt water that heats the meal, set the pouch inside until it’s warm, then tear it open and slide it onto a plate.

  “Here.” Setting the dish next to him, I offer him a blunt spoon. This meal’s a chicken pot pie, and while it looks more like a pale, beige brick than actual food, it smells pretty good. “Eat. And listen.”

  Semyon stiffens, but he picks up the meal and awkwardly tries to maneuver the spoon with his hands bound together. His quick hopeful glance up makes me snort.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I say, and he nods quickly, his whole focus on the brick of pot pie. “When Zion came back to me, he didn’t want to talk about what happened. Heck, until a couple of months ago, I didn’t even know he’d been in Russia.”

  “He call you.”

  “From a blocked number.” A ghost of a smile touches my lips. “He was a smart kid. Knew if I found out where he was, I’d come get him.”

  “I wish…” Semyon stares off into the corner of the basement, his meal largely forgotten. “I wish I had someone who cared for me like that.”

  “You do.” At his disbelief, I risk patting his shoulder. “Zion. He left me pages and pages of emails. I guess he’d written them every couple of days during the years he spent with Kolya, but never sent them. He talked about you and Elena all the time. How you used to clean up his vomit when he’d take too much. How you took a beating for him once when he’d screwed up some delivery for Kolya. And the dumplings. That kid loved dumplings.”

  Semyon’s lower lip wobbles.

  “He loved you like a brother. Leaving you here…that was his biggest regret. If there’d been any other way…”

  The boy’s eyes turn glassy, and he sets the spoon down. “He abandoned us.”

  “No.” I shake my head, then take him by the shoulders so he looks me in the eyes. “Elena got him out because Kolya was going to kill him. She made him promise not to come back. When Kolya found out what she’d done, he beat her so badly she couldn’t even stand. And then he sent Zion a video showing him how he’d hurt her, threatening to kill him if he didn’t come back. And sell you and Elena. Zion didn’t think twice about it, Semyon. He told Elena he’d get you both out. But Kolya got to him first. Zion was a smart kid. And he made sure if anything happened to him, I’d find his messages—and I’d come get you.”

  Tears well in Semyon’s pale blue eyes, and he sniffs loudly. “And then I betrayed him.”

  “You didn’t know, kid. I…I wanted to blame you.” I finger the abrasions around my wrist from the ropes Kolya used to tie me up. Anxiety tightens its icy fingers around my heart, and I draw in a deep, shuddering breath. “You’re just as much Kolya’s victim as Z. Or Elena. Or…me. Sit tight for a little longer, and then we’ll all get out of here, okay?”

  Choking back a sob, Semyon nods. “Thank you…Wren. Zion say always you were…how does it go…? In his angle?”

  “In his corner?” I chuckle as Semyon offers me a weak smile. “For a long time, Z was the only family I had. And family always has each other’s back.”

  39

  Ryker

  The hour-long drive passes in a blur. A handful of cars on the motorway, yellowish cones of illumination from the occasional light posts breaking up the total and complete darkness, and a surprisingly comfortable silence between West and me.

  As soon as Wren told him she could hook up a video chat for him, his entire demeanor changed. Well, no. It changed when I approved the call.

  No unauthorized communications. One of my many rules. And while I won’t go so far as to tell my team they can bring their personal mobile phones with them, I can’t imagine how I’d feel if I couldn’t talk to Wren—at least every day or two. Not now.

  “That’s some hard thinking you’re doing, Ry,” West says as he pulls off the motorway onto a side road and cuts the lights. We both flip on our night vision heads-up displays, and the lonely country road is painted in blues and greens and grays.

  “Why’d you stay?”

  “With Hidden Agenda?” He taps his earbud. “Fifteen minutes out, India.”

  “Roger that. Satellite images are clear. But they’re on a ten-minute delay.”

  West clicks off comms and glances over at me, one brow arched.

  “Yeah. With Hidden Agenda. Clearly, I’ve been an ass since I got out of Hell.” I pat down my vest again, double and triple checking my equipment—as best I can in the cramped sedan. There aren’t many cars big enough for my six-foot-eleven-inch frame.

  West’s laugh confirms that yes, I was a complete asshole. But he shrugs. “I needed the money at first. Insurance for the kids’ program at the dojo is highway robbery. But,” another turn, and he slows the car down to a crawl, “after I got shot, when you and Inara were practically holding vigil at that dirty veterinary office in Columbia, I realized what I’d been missing.”

  “You were missing bullet wounds and duct tape? Sweating your balls off in a tropical jungle? Wading through a river and then pulling leeches off your ass?” Snorting, I lean forward to peer out the windshield. Any unexpected movement could be a threat.

  “Fuck no,” he says with a chuckle. “The way a close-knit squad feels like a family. I saw it with you and Inara. And when I wasn’t sure I was going to live, and the two of you took turns with the ice packs and blood transfusions…I felt it too. I love Cam. She’s my heart and soul, and I’d die before I’d let anything happen to her. But I need you and Inara in my life too. I’m a SEAL. You know how it is. SEALs, Special Forces, Rangers. They burn it into you. ‘Never leave a man behind.’ You don’t find that closeness, that total and complete loyalty anywhere else in life. I won’t go back to the SEALs—even though there are some days I miss my old life more than anything—I can’t do that to Cam. But I can do this.”

  “Thank you. I…don’t say it enough. Or…at all.” Running my gloved fingers over the beads around my wrist, I take a deep, centering breath. If we pull this off, we’ll be one step closer to getting the fuck out of Russia. And I need Wren to be safe.

  West pulls the car off the road and parks behind an overgrown row of hedges five hundred yards from Popov’s home. At 2:00 a.m., he should be asleep—and easy to capture. Except we have no idea what type of security he has around his estate.

  “Going in,” I say as we exit the vehicle. “No chatter.”

  “Roger that,” Inara replies, as calm as ever. As the slight hiss of the static clicks off, I shut out everything except the mission. West gestures to the right with two fingers, then circles his wrist. After I repeat his motion as confirmation, I start creeping towards the house.

  Fifteen minutes later, we’re fifty yards from the back door. I flip on the thermal scanners on my heads-up display. A large patch of red on the top floor. A smaller orange glow downstairs is fading. Maybe a fireplace or heater. It’s diffuse, larger than a body would be.

  West pulls out the signal jammer and flips it on. If Popov has an alarm system, this should short it out. After a flurry of hand signals, we rush the house, West with his dart gun at the ready, me with my lock picks.

  The tumblers click one after another, and then we’re in. An overwhelming smell of onions makes my eyes water, and I signal to the left. Clear the downstairs before we approach what we hope is a bedroom.

  Inara can see everything through the camera built into my display, and I find the source of the thermal reading—a massive cast iron stove in the kitchen that’s still warm to the touch. Everything is meticulously clean, not a pot or knife out of place.

  The living room whispers opulence, with rich velvet and thick carpets—perfect for muffling footsteps. After checking another three rooms, including what appears to be Popov’s office, I meet West at the stairs.

  I have a hundred pounds on the former SEAL, and though the stairs feature the same thick
carpeting as the rest of the house, I hang back, letting West navigate the rise and check for creaks.

  When he makes it to the top without a sound, I follow. Popov’s bedroom door is cracked, and we angle glances inside. Two targets. Satin sheets pool around the woman’s hips, and her obviously fake breasts point directly at the ceiling.

  Popov sleeps on his side, loud snores shaking the walls. Blankets cover most of his body, making my shot that much harder.

  Holding up my left hand, I start the countdown. Five…four…at three, I wrap both hands around the pistol grip and draw down on Popov. We keep the count and fire within a millisecond of one another. But my shot hits the edge of the blanket, and Popov jerks, coming alive with a roar as the woman screams. Before she can even untangle her legs, she slumps back against the pillows, unconscious.

  My second shot grazes his arm. I’m too close, and he’s too quick for me to hold my ground. I take a jab to the cheek, whirl away, and come back with an uppercut to his jaw as West hits him squarely in his bare—and heavily tattooed back. Popov grasps for the dart, spinning around, and for good measure, I send a second dart into his naked ass.

  “And stay down,” I mutter. “India, two targets down. Wrapping this shit up and heading to you.”

  “Roger. Everyone okay?”

  “Fucker got one good lick in, but pretty boy here’s just fine. He won’t embarrass you tomorrow night.”

  Inara’s throaty laugh carries over the feed. “Double-time it, Romeo. Night doesn’t last forever.”