Pagan rocked on the back legs of his kitchen chair, another cup of coffee in his hand. “Yes, but there’s not much in York’s file we don’t know. I’ve tagged Halen Diego, boss of the Dia de Muertos, to see what they have on York since most of his illegal business has been south of the border.”
“There’s got to be a reason Sullivan wants York put down, no questions asked.”
“Agreed, but whatever it is, there’s nothing in the dossier, and I didn’t find any bugs in this cabin, either. I did find a link between Sullivan and Tennyson when I was snooping around Sullivan’s email, though. They went to Yale together. Same frat house and all that bullshit.”
Interesting. That piece of intel went in Chance’s rear pocket for later scrutiny. He had somewhere else to be. “Make sure Suede stays hydrated and gets her meds. All I’ve been giving her are the antibiotic and anti-inflammatory on her nightstand. You got anything stronger?”
“Just what I usually carry.”
Chance shook his head. “Not whiskey. Her lungs are already compromised.”
“Then I’ll just keep her warm and fed. Half of recovery is rest anyway.”
“True.” Chance nodded at his closed door. “I’ll introduce you before I go. Gallo’s already in there.”
The chair scraped as Pagan shoved to his feet. His big hand threaded through his thick dark hair like he thought he needed to look good, and that irked Chance. He rolled his shoulder and let it go. Now was not the time to get possessive over a sick woman who wasn’t planning on staying once the weather cleared anyway.
Chance knocked softly as he re-opened the door. Sleepy and snug, with Gallo lying alongside, Suede offered a weak wave. “Hey, Chance.”
He nodded at her, shocked at how much he liked his name on her lips. “Suede Tennyson, meet my brother, Pagan Sinclair. He’s here to wait on you hand and foot until I get back, so keep him busy.” Chance turned to Pagan. “A bowl of soup for lunch would be a nice start.”
Pagan nodded, but the big ox seemed tongue-tied. His head kept bobbing, and there went that hand again, brushing over his head as if he could begin to tame his outrageous hat-hair.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Suede said. “Pagan, huh? That’s an interesting name.”
“Yeah, well…” Did Pagan just blush?
Chance knuckled his brother’s meaty bicep. “Say something.”
Pagan cleared his throat. “Howdy,” came out of nowhere.
Wasn’t that something, a big guy like him flummoxed over meeting a tiny thing like Suede Tennyson? Chance would’ve enjoyed the moment more if he hadn’t been leaving said lady with his horny brother for the next twenty-four hours. “Okay then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Don’t go,” whooshed out of Suede as Chance turned to the door.
“I’ll…” Pagan pointed beyond the bedroom door just before he exited, stage left, “be out there.”
Chance shot him a look for bailing, the coward. “I have work to do,” he told Suede in no uncertain terms.
“But I have a bad feeling, and I… I don’t want you to go. It’s too dangerous.”
Chance went to her bedside, sat down and gave her the talk he imagined thousands of SEALs gave their wives right before they deployed to places unknown. “I have work to do for our country, Suede. That’s the way I was made and the path I chose. I told you I’ll be back, and I will. You have to rest while I’m gone. Can you do that for me?”
She nodded. “Be very careful up there.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, his tone firm, “and you do what you’re told. By the time I get back, maybe you’ll feel good enough to join my brother and me in the living room. There’s a larger fireplace out there. It will do you good to be up on your feet.”
“I do feel better now that I’m warm.”
He placed a palm to her forehead. “Not today. It’s too soon. Pagan will make sure you get your meds on time so just stay put.”
Her lips pinched to a thin line, and Chance knew he’d better leave before he kicked Gallo to the floor and crawled into bed beside Suede. “You’re stronger than you know,” he told her.
A twinkle flittered from beneath her lowered brows. “I am.”
Chance pushed to his feet, meaning to walk away and let whatever was meant to happen, happen. Until he returned, she’d have to rely on Pagan. Chance would never intentionally jerk his brothers around, but things happened. The heart loved who it loved, and all that crap. If Pagan fell for her charms while Chance was gone, well, good on him.
Liar.
At the door, Chance glanced over his shoulder. Suede had straightened in the bed, and yes, by hell, she was watching him. There wasn’t a man alive who could miss the hope shining in her eyes. Of course, Pagan would fall for her. They’d make a handsome match, one of those fairytale endings. He still had his looks. What was not to love about the big teddy bear?
Big, fat liar.
Suede lifted one hand and blew Chance a tiny kiss from those poor ragged fingertips. In return, he winked. That was all. It was just a wink. A guy thing. Winks didn’t mean anything.
Bull. Shit.
He closed the door on the woman he now knew for certain he’d lay down his life for. Damn. Leaving her was nearly impossible.
“You didn’t tell me she was gorgeous,” Pagan accused from his kitchen chair, all ten of his fingers drumming the closed lid of the laptop like a piano keyboard.
“She’s not,” Chance shot back at him in a whispered growl. She’s stunning. Sexy. Out of this world.
“And she needs lunch? Shit man, what’ll I fix for a woman like her? A can of Campbell’s soup won’t cut it. She’s used to caviar and fancy stuff.”
“She’ll eat whatever you put in front of her, but yeah. Some kind of soup would be best.” That was what Scarlett had always fixed her boys when they were sick, right before she told them, no, you’re not staying home from school because of a little sneeze and a sniffle. Good try, but drag your butt to class.
A smile teased Chance’s lip remembering his spitfire mother. She would’ve liked Suede, and why the hell that notion popped into his hard head, he hadn’t had a clue. All these thoughts about obedient wives and bossy mothers had to stop. Suede was leaving, not staying. THAT was the way it was.
At his front door, he paused long enough to gear up. He stripped down to his boxers and donned a pair of synthetic thermal underwear from his supply closet. A light woolen sweater and pants combo came next, then another all-in-one thermal suit, a heavy breathable jacket and pants. The key to surviving winter ops began at the fundamental level of knowing how to keep warm and dry even when a guy sweated up a storm.
Settling down to the bench next to the closet, he donned two pairs of woolen socks and knee high gaiters to keep the snow out of his boots. He rolled the gaiters up his shins, then stuffed his feet into a pair of ruggedized hiking boots with built-in cleats meant for glacier climbing. Chance topped his outfit off with a gray bandana tied at his neck, an insulated winter camouflaged jacket, and a gray woolen beanie for his head. UV-protective snow goggles went inside his chest pocket.
Winter camouflaged pants, white snow boots, climbing gear, his usual dozen or so weapons and supporting ammo. It either went on him or into his bag. Lastly, he grabbed a couple coiled ropes for the trek ahead. His gear bag already contained enough energy bars and several liters of water to see him through the next twenty-four, as well as a decent supply of foot warmers and a thermal pad if forced to sit a while.
Before he zipped up, he ran a wire from the fully charged transmitter in his pack to the receiver in his ear and stuffed a gray balaclava in his hip pocket. The nylon back rifle holster went next, then his AR, fully loaded and ready to mince meat.
“Can you hear me now?” Pagan asked, tapping the mic he always wore on his collar just to irritate Chance.
That earned a glare. “You know damned well I can hear you. You’re standing two feet away. Comm check me once I’m outside, why don’tcha?”
“Here, you’ll need this” —Pagan slapped a tube of lip protection in Chance’s open palm— “to keep those manly lips ready for action when you get back.”
“Shut the hell up.” Chance slapped the tube away, pissed Pagan reminded him that he was going and she was staying. “Keep this frequency open. If you find anything more on York, pass it along. Or Tennyson and Sullivan, too. Got it?”
Pagan grinned. “Trust me. I’ll take care of everything while you’re gone.”
Not what Chance wanted to hear, especially if too much of that care extended to Suede. “And don’t forget to feed Gallo. Can you do me a favor? I still owe him for finding Suede like he did. Give him a chunk of that roast in the fridge after I leave. He’ll like that, but chain him on the porch, so he doesn’t come after me. He’d like that, too.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Pagan growled. “Now take off. I’ve got work to do.”
Chance thumped his brother’s wide bicep, stabbed his hands into his climbing gloves and opened the door. “Until tomorrow,” he signed off.
Pagan turned serious then. “Any trouble, any at all, you 9-11 me.”
“Roger that,” Chance agreed. “Keep your ears on.”
Pagan tapped the side of his head where his twenty-four-seven earpiece rested deep inside his ear canal. “You got it. And Chance…” He turned earnest then. “I will take good care of Suede. You know that, don’t you?”
Chance nodded. “Later, brother.”
Chapter Fourteen
Chance had always knocked first, but Pagan just opened the bedroom door and whistled for Gallo like invading a woman’s privacy was no big deal. The big dog bounded off the bed without so much as a goodbye glance, and Pagan slammed the door without saying a word.
Suede fidgeted, wondering if Chance was already gone. Tired and sleepy, she couldn’t settle down knowing he might be on his way into a vicious storm to confront an even more vicious man.
No one knew Lionel York like Suede did. The man was heartless. He claimed he’d been faithful since they’d hooked up, but she had her doubts. He knew too many models and celebrities, and he spent too many unexplained nights away from his penthouse suite. Who’d Chance think he was to take on York all by himself, Superman?
He just might be.
She leaned back into the pillow where only an hour ago Chance had lovingly kissed the hell out of her. Touching her tender fingertips to her lip, she sent a prayer to the God she hadn’t spoken to in years. I know I don’t have any right to ask favors, but could you please keep him safe? For him. For me too.
That should’ve settled her nerves, but it didn’t. Tired of lying in bed, she eased both feet to the floor, determined to be up and moving by the time Chance returned, if she was still here.
Suede lifted to her feet, bound and determined to be mobile. She took a minute to stretch her arms over her head, her back muscles protesting all the way down to her butt. Her bones popped and cracked, or maybe those were her muscles. Wow. That fall could’ve ended her. Surprised it hadn’t broken anything, she arched backward, clenching her shoulder blades to determine how she felt. Except for the burning sensation in her thigh, not too bad.
With no clothes to change into, she shuffled over to Chance’s closet like an elderly woman, her soles flat to the floor and using the mattress, then the footboard for support. As much as she was beginning to care about Chance, he didn’t need someone like her. The quicker she got out of his life, the better off he’d be.
Now that she’d used it, her thigh hurt like she’d been burned with a red-hot poker, but she persevered. Her lungs were still tight with congestion, but she wasn’t about to waste time lying around healing.
Opening his closet revealed your every day basic wardrobe for a guy who liked flannel, denim, and, umm, gear bags? He’d taken two with him, but three more packed and zippered canvas bags lined the far back corner of his closet behind a row of polished boots lined up as if for inspection, their laces stuffed down their throats. The funny guy had a touch of OCD. Jackets, sweatshirts, and hoodies hung neatly on the clothes bar at her right; jeans were straight ahead on pants hangers, and shirts were to the left. Funnier still, everything looked clean and ironed.
A drift of his manly scent—wind and sunshine—tickled her nose. For a moment, Suede closed her eyes and inhaled, thrilled to have some small part of him in the room with her, one she wished she could take with her. If only. She’d learned long ago that life was one disappointment after another, and this man? Tempting, but Chance Sinclair was clearly heartbreak in the making. He wasn’t York, but she was still Suede Tennyson, and love stories were fucking fairytales. Umm, damn. Darn. Not swearing was going to be harder than she’d realized. But hey, Chance wasn’t there. He hadn’t heard her. This time.
The time to leave was now before he returned. She didn’t need a hero. She needed a new life. Yeah, I’ve got it bad, only this time I like the guy. Which meant she needed to go. Yes, she’d liked Chance enough to kiss him, but that was all the more reason to get out of his life before she ruined it. Wasn’t that what Mom always said? Before you came along everything was perfect?
An overflowing wicker clothesbasket in the corner of his closet completed the intimate picture of the man who’d rescued her. Suede lifted an olive drab flannel shirt to her nose. Since none of his pants would fit, this single shirt would have to do until she located her clothes and laundered them. But the scent of Chance clung to the weave in her hands. Suede couldn’t help but bury her nose in the shirt and take a deep, make that two deep breaths of his masculine scent. God, it was addicting. Her heart thudded at the memory of his body wrapped around hers. His pepperminty breath in her face. His big warm hands. And this smell...
Suede took one last sniff of his shirt. Turning slowly so she didn’t fall down, she headed into the bathroom. Leaving him was going to be just as difficult as not swearing.
*****
The thing about owning the mountain in your back yard, which Chance did, was that he’d climbed it plenty while working alongside the crew that built his cabin, dug his basement, and excavated his escape tunnel. None of the hardhats he’d hired knew they’d worked alongside the picky owner of this land and the cabin they’d built back then. He’d liked it that way. For the most part they’d been blue-collar, honest hard workers, his kind of people.
Still recovering from the injuries of his last mission and his abrupt departure from the TEAMs, he’d found that sweat labor was best eased at the end of a long, blue-collar day by a good stiff climb to the highest peak on Old Man Mountain. A man could breathe there. The air smelled cleaner. Purer. It cleared his head.
It was during one of those climbs when he’d taken the face without safety gear, hand-over-hand and toe-to-toe with the mountain, setting anchors and pitons as he climbed. On the reverse climb, he’d laced a network of black nylon ropes, hammering more pitons where needed. On another evening, he’d networked another fifty or so anchors and ropes at intermittent angles until he’d created a nearly invisible interlocking escape grid to fall back on if needed. A man couldn’t have enough alternate getaways the day his enemies caught up with him, but now? He could move experts and novices up these cliffs in record time.
Chance snowshoed to the base of the frozen falls in the middle of the storm that wouldn’t quit. He stowed the showshoes on his back, pulled his balaclava over his head, donned his goggles, and up he went.
The sturdy ropes held fast. The roughened grip of his climbing gloves made certain of that. In less than an hour he was topside, sweating like a beast but warm. The wind at the peak crested around forty knots per hour, fresh gale force on the Beaufort Wind Force Scale. If he’d been out on the sea with this stiff wind, waves would’ve been choppy and running between eighteen and twenty-five feet high. The foam off those waves would’ve smacked his face and watered his eyes.
As fierce as it was now, the snow came sideways in hard-driven pellets, not flakes. He leaned into it, fighting Mother
Nature’s northwesterly attempt to shove him off the mountain. It was, after all, hers.
The old hunting cabin stood due north of his position, its windowless backside against the storm. Chance took that direction to keep his bearings. At fifty yards, he paused. The cabin was within reach. No lights glowed from within, not that he’d expected York to use the place.
Drifts banked up to the low roof on the windward side, making it resemble a Hobbit’s hovel from Middle Earth instead of a fifty-year-old foursquare hunting cabin. What was left of the chimney on the roof was buried as well, and ice caked the windows. Leeward wasn’t much better, but the doorway was passable.
Cocking his head to listen for any animal life inside, Chance gave the door a good shake, certain that any noise he made would be lost to the wind and would go undetected by York. The handle broke free in his hand, but that was just as well. He’d fix it later.
Ducking inside, he surveyed his only shelter. Cold. Barren. Good enough. The table he’d hauled up in pieces during the summer still stood under the window to his left. He’d chopped and stacked the cord of split pine logs to his right, but there’d be no cozy fire tonight. The snow on the chimney made certain of that.
His snowshoes went on the inside hook beside the door for easy access. He wouldn’t leave them outside to give himself away. The broken door handle would do that if York’s men came looking, which Chance doubted. His gear bag went to the floor by the nearest table leg.
Chance spent all of five minutes de-icing the windowpane before he got serious. His tripod and rifle took up residence in the center of the table, aimed out the now clear-as-a-bell port in the window. Visibility was still zero in the storm, but the only clearing on top this mountain lay twenty-one yards straight ahead. That was where York would be holed up in a heated modular unit, waiting out the storm. Chance planned to be ready if Mother Nature cooperated and the storm died down. He only needed one shot.
To make certain his gear stayed put and undisturbed, Chance stepped out in the blizzard and paced off ten feet from each corner of the cabin. He doubted York’s men, probably all city boys, would be inclined to check the perimeter of their camp on an afternoon like this. North, south, east, and west, Chance placed one of those pesky beacons. The shriek it emitted wouldn’t have bothered Pagan had he broken the beacon’s beam because he knew the shutoff code to disable them.
Angel: An SOBs Novel Page 11
