by Pam Godwin
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop.” He cupped her face and drew her mouth to his. “She’s a solution to a problem. That’s all. How badly do you want this hard drive?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“Yeah. You wanted it badly enough to capture an innocent man, lock him in the dark for thirty days, and torture him with the worst thrash metal song ever created.”
She cringed. “I said I regretted nothing, but I really do regret that. I’m sorry.”
“I survived. And I’ll take hot dogs and terrible music over that stonecutter any day.”
She wrapped her arms around his strong shoulders and rested her forehead against his. “So you’ll call Danni?”
“I’ll call Trace and have them meet us in Missouri. I have a safe house there.”
“We only have until Inauguration Day. Less than a month.”
“Danni will have you dancing like a pro in less than a week. Then you’ll get your Easter egg.”
Her heart melted, falling, crashing, and breaking open for this man. “Take me to bed.”
His eyes made hungry promises as he lifted her. “I’m going to take you on this table first.”
Hours later, Cole lay in bed, staring into the sleepy, sea-green eyes of Lydia Pictam. Such an exquisite creature. Arresting. Rebellious. Fearless. Mine.
He ghosted his fingers along the outer curve of her breast, savoring the soft noises each caress drew from her cherry lips. Every touch reinforced their connection. A connection forged so deeply inside him his bones thrummed with it.
After he took her on the kitchen table, he fucked her again in the shower. Still, he couldn’t stop touching her, looking at her. She was a dream. An erotic Christmas angel.
And a remarkably good listener.
He’d spent the last couple of hours talking her ear off. He told her everything, holding nothing back. Thurney Bridge, his fake death, Danni and Trace, his career in the activity, and his current endeavors with his vigilante family.
His activities and relationships with the Freedom Fighters fascinated her the most. Her questions were hungry, her attention enraptured. She wanted to meet them, get to know them, and she would.
After their shower, he’d made several phone calls.
The first was to Matias, requesting transportation on the private jet back to the states. He wouldn’t risk putting Lydia on a commercial flight. Not with Vincent Barrington gunning for her. Matias gladly agreed to pick them up the day after Christmas and fly them to Missouri.
He called Romero next, inquiring about PaulVer. No surprise that the kid knew of and admired the notorious hacker. Romero validated PaulVer’s expertise, saying that if anyone could break into the Romanian mafia, it was the Romanian hacker known as PaulVer Rize.
The final phone call was to Trace, the conversation terse and to the point as always. He checked in with Trace several times a year, but he never asked for anything. So his request had taken his friend by surprise.
“I need a favor.”
“Are you in danger?”
“No more than usual. I need you and Danni to go to the lakehouse.”
“Are we in danger?”
“No. But this is important. I’ll explain everything when I arrive in two days.”
“I’m not agreeing to this.”
“Yes, you are. This is connected to Thurney Bridge, but bigger. I haven’t asked anything of you in eight years. I’m asking for a week of your time. Danni’s time, actually. I need her to teach someone how to dance.”
“Who?”
“A woman.”
“Is she your woman?”
“In every way.”
“Well, fuck. Now you have my attention.”
“Don’t be a dick. Just be there.”
“We’ll be there.”
“It’s officially Christmas morning.” Lydia twisted her fingers in his hair, playing with the messy spikes. “Merry Christmas.”
“You need to sleep. We have a lot of planning to do today.”
“I’m all hyped up on adrenaline.”
“And candy.”
“And sex.”
He gripped her waist and tucked her in close. “I can fuck you into a coma.”
She groaned against his chest. “Definitely need a rain check on that.”
His thoughts flitted to the plan with the hacker, sparking a question he was meaning to ask. “Any theories on why he uses Easter eggs as his calling card?”
“Easter is a big holiday in Romania, and they love their hand-painted eggs. They empty the eggs and paint the shells, creating these fragile little artistic masterpieces. It could also have something to do with the Easter eggs used in computing and video games. You know, the hidden messages and secret responses that programmers love to sneak in? It’s like this guy wants to leave a mysterious trail, hoping someone will take the time to find him.”
“We’ll find him. The question is, will he help us? I assume he’s motivated by money? How did you plan on paying him?”
“Is it that obvious that I’m broke?”
“I’ve been watching you for a long time. I assumed your money was running out.”
“Oh, it ran out. That’s why we came back to Ireland. We decided to sell this house and use the money to keep going until we finish.”
“Don’t sell it. I’m funding this venture going forward.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t, and I’m doing it.” He ran his hand through her hair, thinking through the logistics. “How much does a hacker like PaulVer charge for one of these heists?”
“PaulVer doesn’t charge anything. He’s already filthy rich. If the job interests him, he’ll do it pro bono. And trust me, the job will interest him. There’s nothing these black-hat hackers love more than sticking it to the man, especially if the man is a greedy, corrupt, self-serving politician.”
They talked a little longer about the hacker. Then they drifted into stories about their tattoos, explaining how each one came about and the meaning behind them.
As she fell asleep in his arms, he felt untroubled, clearheaded, and happier than he ever remembered being. She rejuvenated his soul, elevated his spirit, and gave him a new reason to fight. It might be cold and dark in this tiny room, but there was beauty in it, inspiration, and a promising future.
She was all those things, and he was so damn glad he’d taken the risk.
Cole woke Christmas morning with a hard-on. Nothing unusual about that. What had changed, however, was the soft, warm body rubbing up against it.
Lydia stretched with a lazy, drawn-out hum in her throat. Her colorfully inked arms reached overhead, her sweet ass shimmying and shaking as she extended her body to its full length.
She did all this in the cage of his arms. Then, in one fluid motion, she turned so that she was astride him, wearing nothing but a beaming smile.
“Good morning.” He smiled back, spellbound by her beauty.
“Nothing says good morning like morning wood.” She rocked her hips, teasing her pussy along his rigid length.
Her hair, wildly tangled and gloriously red, tumbled down her chest, inviting him to twine it around his fingers and pull her down for a kiss.
With a nudge of her jaw, she flicked her tongue along the seam of his lips, urging him to play.
He pinched her nipple hard and chased the gasp inside her mouth. Then he chased her hot little tongue. They kissed slowly, languidly, in a greeting of sighs with no expectation beyond the pleasure of closeness.
Leaning up, she took her lower lip between her teeth and dipped her chin to her chest. “Other than my brother, who doesn’t count, I’ve never woken beside a man.” She snapped her head up, eyes wide. Then she scrambled out of bed in a sudden burst of energy. “Where is he?”
“Who? Mike?”
“Yeah. He should’ve called.” She yanked the curtain aside, spilling light into the room, and searched the worn carpet. “Where’s my phone?”
“Here.” He spotted it on the floor beside the nightstand, where he must’ve knocked it off last night.
He tossed it to her, waiting as she unlocked the screen.
“No missed calls. Dammit, Mike.” She dialed and held the phone to her ear while sliding on her silk robe. “Voicemail.” Her brows knitted together as she left a message. “Come home. You’re worrying me.” She disconnected and dropped her arms to her sides. “He should’ve returned by now.”
“You said he was getting laid.” He yanked on his shirt, keeping his voice calm despite the shiver in his veins.
“I know, but it’s Christmas.” She turned and faced the window, her hair falling in rampant waves of red down her back.
Gray, watery light washed the sky, illuminating thin patches of ice on the house behind hers.
“I’ll go look for him.” He pulled on his boots and strode out of the bedroom. “Do you know where he went?”
“No, but he wouldn’t have gone far.” She followed him into the kitchen. “Somewhere on foot. He doesn’t have a car or money for transportation.”
He found his jacket and beanie on the floor and pulled them on. The gun sat securely in the coat pocket. He left it there, not wanting to alarm her.
“It’s not a good idea for you to walk out of this house in the daylight.” She stepped toward the window that faced the street and eased back the curtain. “If Vincent’s men are watching…” She gasped, squinting at something outside. “What…is…? Oh, my God, that’s blood.”
As she tore away from the window and darted for the stairs, he slipped by her and yanked back the curtain. The third-story view showed the pathway to the street. Snow blanketed the trees, the front yard, the pavement, and…
He stopped breathing. That was blood. A dark red trail of it from the street to the front door of her house. Footprints surrounded crimson splatter. Stumbling, falling impressions from shoes.
“Lydia!” He took off down the stairs, hitting the second level to the sounds of sliding locks. “Don’t open that door!”
She opened the door.
Then she stumbled, clapped her hands over her mouth, and released a shrilling, keening wail. “Nooooo! Not my brother! Oh, God, please, no! Not him!”
The sounds coming from her made his blood run cold. His muscles went taut, and his pulse skyrocketed as he bolted down the remaining flight of stairs.
Drawing his gun, he watched in horror as she fell to her knees on the porch, making herself a wide-open target for whoever was out there.
Lydia! Inside! Now!” He leaped over the final steps, weapon raised, and hooked an arm around her chest, dragging her back inside.
As she kicked and screamed and tried to claw away from him, he took in the grim scene.
Mike lay face down on the porch, half on, half off the short stoop, with an arm outstretched, reaching toward the door. The dusting of snow on his lifeless body suggested he’d been there a while.
Gunshot wounds were visible on his calf, lower back, and right shoulder. He’d been shot from behind, but it couldn’t have happened nearby. They would’ve heard the report of gunfire.
That meant Mike had run here with those injuries. Given the trail of blood that led down the street and around the corner, it was a miracle he’d made it home.
The shooter was out there somewhere, probably waiting nearby. In Mike’s attempt to reach Lydia, he might’ve inadvertently led the threat right to her door.
She wailed in Cole’s arms, her legs buckling and her hands grappling, trying to get to Mike. It fucking hurt—the sounds of her agony, the sight of her brother, the goddamn fucking needlessness of it. His chest burned. His throat closed, and his training took over.
She had a vicious amount of strength as he muscled her backward, fighting to keep her out of view of the doorway. With her back to the wall, he flattened an immovable hand against her chest. His other imprisoned her chin, forcing her shattered gaze to his.
“I need you to push it down,” he said sternly. “Push it way, way down where you don’t feel it. It’ll be there later, but right now, I need you to bury it, Lydia. Bury it and focus. I need you alive and with me.”
She stared at him out of glazed eyes, not seeing him. Not seeing anything but hopelessness.
“He’s my rock.” Her face collapsed. “My world. He’s all I have left.” A sob ripped from her throat, followed by an avalanche of mewling convulsive gasps.
Any minute, someone would drive by and see the body on the porch. The saving grace was the overnight snow. It would discourage people from wandering out this morning. And it was Christmas. Most were tucked around their decorated trees, opening presents and listening to holiday music.
“Look at me.” He tightened his grip on her jaw until her eyes cleared and locked on his. “You have three minutes to go upstairs and pack what you need. I know you can do this. You can do it because you’re strong as fuck, and you want to live.”
She shook her head, knocking more tears loose. “Every day at his side was a good day to die hard.”
“You know what?” He put his face in hers. “Today is a good day to live hard because that’s the only way we’re going to avenge his death.”
That got her attention.
She gripped his wrists and worked her throat, swallowing down the sobs. More tried to rise, overwhelming her breaths. She whimpered, choking, and her gaze started drifting away, toward the door. He was losing her.
“Breathe with me, Lydia. In and out. In and out. Just like this.” He inhaled, exhaled, slowly, loudly, forcing her to follow along. “Good girl. Keep breathing. In. Out. Focus on my breaths. There you go.”
He held still, watching her power through the anguish until her legs regained strength, firmly holding her up. Her shoulders squared. Her jaw stiffened, and her breathing evened out.
“Christ, you’re so fucking strong.” He grasped her nape and brought their foreheads together. “You’ve got this. Three minutes. Go.”
He stepped back, and she walked stiffly up the stairs, moving quickly, up and around the corner.
Returning to the doorway, he stayed out of view and scanned the perimeter. No movement. Then he stepped outside and quickly rummaged through Mike’s clothes while keeping an eye on the street.
Both of Mike’s guns were holstered, suggesting he’d been caught unaware and didn’t have time to fire off a shot.
Cole collected the weapons, a wallet, phone, and… He pried open Mike’s frozen hand and lifted a small wrapped present.
A Christmas present with a tiny red bow.
“Goddammit, Mike.” He pocketed the gift in his jacket, his chest aching. “This is going to fucking hurt her. She’s going to mourn you for the rest of her life.”
But she wouldn’t do it alone. Cole would be with her in whatever capacity she needed.
Once he’d gathered everything he thought she would want to keep, he piled it in the entryway and surveyed the snow-covered surroundings.
His blood heated with the sprint of his pulse, every instinct inside him demanding swift action. They needed to go before someone called the gardai. They needed to disappear, but Lydia didn’t have a car, and cabs didn’t travel through here.
They would have to flee on foot.
With Mike’s murderer on the loose.
He twisted at the sound of her footsteps on the stairs. As he shifted to turn back to the front, a resounding boom cracked the air. The gunshot discharged from the street and splintered the doorframe an inch away from his head.
His lungs emptied. He aimed the pistol and dropped low to the ground, his senses reaching for Lydia.
“Stay down.” He thrust a hand behind him, stalling her descent on the stairs. “Lock the door behind me. Do not open it until I return. Understand?”
“Cole—”
“Lock the door!” Adrenalized and laser-focused, he slipped
onto the porch, ducking low and shutting the door behind him.
At the sounds of engaging locks, he melted into the shadows of the hedgerow lining the property.
Surrounded by parked cars, icy trees, wheelie bins, and terraced houses, he probed the spaces between, frozen in wait for some sign of movement.
Then he saw it. Across the street between two houses, a man dressed in black stood out in stark contrast against the wintry backdrop. The dark clothing would’ve aided him last night, but in the daylight, it only helped Cole.
He bolted toward the shooter, weaving in and out of cover while refraining from squeezing the trigger until he had a clear shot.
Then he fired. Missed the target. The man spun around the corner of the house while blindly shooting back, forcing Cole to wait behind a car for breathless seconds until the thug stopped spraying lead.
A moment of silence. Then Cole gave chase.
The gunfight moved through the quiet neighborhood. Bullets pelleted cars and shattered house windows. He didn’t aim at homes, conscious of civilian casualties. But his adversary didn’t give a fuck. The bastard ran down the street, heedlessly swinging the gun behind him and shooting everything in a vicious sweep.
Somewhere in the distance, Christmas music played. A car horn honked. Stomping footsteps rang out—the shooter’s, Cole’s, and others in the periphery, stampeding in the opposite direction.
He chased the man for blocks, jumping fences, crossing icy yards, dodging passing cars, and racing down busy avenues. Meanwhile, Dublin 22 stirred to life. And several streets away, the blare of sirens erupted.
The gardai were coming.
Given the fast approach of the sirens, he had thirty seconds tops.
Up ahead, the shooter ran into a wide intersection. Cole trailed him, twenty feet behind. The man abruptly stopped at the center and pivoted, weapon raised.
Cole halted in the street with no nearby cars or trees to take cover. With no choice but to engage in this standoff, he trained his pistol with both hands and met the man’s eyes.
Timing was everything.
“I don’t want to shoot…” He squeezed the trigger mid-sentence.
