It was that sense of cohesiveness that brought them all to a stop several minutes later when they heard the sound of something crashing through the brush ahead. Five weapons were silently raised from their different positions, assessing the potential threat.
Daryl held his breath, listening. It wasn't an animal, not the four-legged kind, anyway. That significantly upped the threat risk. Only what he was hearing didn't sound threatening. The steps were staggered, off-balance. Several fast ones, a hesitation, two slow ones. Fast again, then a small whimper as whoever was running—trying to run—stumbled and fell. Heavy breathing. Another whimper. The sound of shoes scuffing the underbrush as whoever it was pushed back to their feet. More running, louder now, the steps more uneven and halting.
A shadow broke free from the trees several years away. Small. Slight. Staggering. Recognition flared in Daryl just as the figure collapsed—and didn't move.
"Shit." He slung the rifle over his shoulder, moved forward the same time as Wolf did.
"It's Chaos's woman." Wolf dropped to his knees beside her, his hands running along her body, checking for injuries. "Zeus, her clothes are soaked. She's freezing cold."
Zeus dropped to one knee beside the woman, touched the fabric of the sweatshirt covering her. It was wet, the material already stiffening from the near-freezing cold air. "What the fuck?"
The other men joined them, forming a protective half-circle around the woman, weapons ready as Wolf rummaged through his bag and pulled out supplies. "Somebody give me their shirt. Now."
The other three men moved at once but Ninja was the fastest. The black overshirt hit the ground beside him as he yanked his thermal shirt off and tossed it to Wolf. Daryl caught it, held it as Wolf quickly cut the wet shirt from Lee's shaking body, replaced it with the shirt that still retained Ninja's body heat.
"Zeus, she's been out here a while. She's already hypothermic." Wolf's voice was calm. Low and controlled as he opened a package of hand warmers and placed them on Lee's chest before covering her with an emergency blanket. Daryl still heard the concern underneath, and the same unasked questions that were going through his own mind—
What the fuck had happened?
And where the fuck was Chaos?
He leaned forward, placed a hand on Lee's shoulder and shook her. Again, harder this time, until her lids fluttered open and her unfocused gaze drifted to his.
"Derrick—" Her voice drifted away and her eyes drifted closed. Daryl squeezed her shoulder, shook her again, even harder.
"Lee. Lee, I need you to wake up. I need you to tell me where Chaos is." His voice was sharp with command, demanding. Her lids fluttered. Opened. Closed. Opened again, nothing more than mere slits in a ghostly white face. Her gaze was still unfocused but she seemed to understand the question because her lips moved, the words barely a whisper that he had to strain to hear.
"They...have him. My...uncle. Please. Help...him."
What the fuck?
He exchanged a quick glance with Wolf, knowing he was the only other one who had heard. "Could she be hallucinating?"
"She could be—but I don't think so." Wolf nodded toward the barely-conscious woman. "Look at her face. Somebody hit her, more than once. And her clothes didn't get drenched by accident. Wherever this water came from, it wasn't a lake or a pond or a stream. Hell, you saw the map. There's nothing nearby that she could have fallen into. No reason for her to be this wet unless it was done on purpose."
"Fuck." Daryl pushed to his feet, slid the rifle from its position across his back. Normally, he'd leave Wolf here to look after the woman but he couldn't, not when his gut screamed that Chaos might need the man's skills more. "Mac, stay with Lee. Do what you can. Everyone else, let's go."
They moved out with deadly intent, their steps faster now but no less silent as urgency moved them forward.
One of their own was trouble.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Wolf slid into position beside Daryl, his eyes flat and cold, his face hard and grim. That told Daryl all he needed to know but he had to ask the question anyway.
"How bad is he?"
Wolf's mouth thinned into a grim line. "Bad enough I thought he was dead at first. Bullet wound upper left chest. What looks like a dislocated shoulder. Face is roughed up. Laceration across the chest, can't tell how deep because of all the fucking blood." Wolf paused, a muscle ticking in his tight jaw. "His wrists are bound and they've got him hanging from the loft."
"Shit." Daryl's own jaw clenched, his back teeth grinding together from the force. He mentally reviewed the layout Ninja had provided after doing a quick recon. A single open room, basic floor plan. No place to hide, except for the small bathroom to the right and the loft that ran across the back.
There were three targets, visually confirmed by Ninja's recon. Daryl lifted the thermal pocket scope to his eye and verified their positions. One person in the loft, another standing near the right wall. Neither of those two targets had moved much in the last five minutes. The third target was the most active, pacing back and forth in front of Derrick's still figure.
He dropped the scope, carefully looked at each of the three men with him, ending with Ninja. "You're sure there aren't any weapons?"
"None that are pulled, no. The two targets on the lower level are armed but the weapons are tucked at their backs. Didn't see anything on the target in the loft."
Which meant nothing. Not that it mattered—not unless they fucked up and their plan went sideways.
But it wouldn't. Daryl believed in the KISS method—keep it simple stupid. And there wasn't anything simpler than what they were about to do.
Taking out the targets would be easy: line up their sights, aim, shoot. One to the chest, insurance tap to the head. And they'd do it in unison, the shots timed perfectly.
Flare would take the guy in the loft. Ninja would take the man by the wall.
And Daryl would take the target near Derrick.
That freed up Wolf, who would move in and provide whatever medical treatment Chaos needed so they could get the hell out of here.
No, it didn't get much simpler than that.
Daryl nodded and they moved forward in unison, dark shadows blending into the night. Each man got into position, waited for Daryl's signal.
In three...
Two...
One—
It was over in ten seconds. Clean. Efficient—just the way Daryl liked it.
Wolf pushed past him, heading straight for Chaos. The grim set of his jaw was enough to make Daryl's stomach clench and he hurried forward, his knife already out to slice the ropes as Wolf supported Derrick's limp body.
He heard a small grunt, followed by a hoarse whisper that brought a surprised grin to his face.
"Jesus, that fucking...hurts."
Wolf choked back a harsh laugh as he eased Chaos to the floor and sliced through the ropes binding his wrists. Derrick flinched, the breath leaving him in a sharp hiss as Wolf slapped a bandage over the wound in his chest then examined the dislocated arm. "Always knew that Marines were a bunch of fucking crybabies."
"Fuck...you." Derrick shuddered, slid his gaze to Daryl. "Find Lee. She's—"
"We already found her."
Fear flashed through Derrick's eyes, quickly disappeared. "Is she..."
"She's fine."
Their gazes met, held for several long seconds. Daryl saw relief in the blue eyes staring back at him. Concern and doubt, as well. They both knew that fine left a lot open to interpretation.
Daryl reached out, squeezed Derrick's arm in silent reassurance. The other man grunted, closed his eyes and sighed. "Don't let her...see me...like this."
"Yeah, good luck with that."
Mac's gravelly voice came from the doorway. Daryl turned, frowned when the big man stepped into the cabin, Lee's shivering form curled against his chest. Mac shot him an apologetic glance. "It was either sit on her, carry her here, or let her come on her own. She wouldn't take no for an answer."
Mac moved closer, using the breadth of his large body to shield her from the sight of the two bodies sprawled on the floor. She wasn't looking at them anyway, her gaze was solely focused on Derrick, as if he was the only person in the room.
She struggled against Mac's hold, suddenly clutched his arm as he lowered her to her feet. She stumbled, quickly righted herself, took two staggering steps before dropping to her knees.
Then she reached out and grabbed his right hand with both of hers, tears streaming down her face.
Daryl pushed to his feet, averted his gaze to give them a semblance of privacy, noticed the other men were doing the same. All except Wolf, who was busy patching up Chaos.
"Come on. Let's get the hell out of here and go home."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Three months later.
Peace.
Quiet.
Two things he used to enjoy—in moderation. The same way he used to enjoy this house. It had been his sanctuary. His escape. As recently as a few months ago, he'd walk through the front door, close it behind him and stand in the entranceway. Close his eyes and feel the silence of the house welcome him home. Here, he was free to be himself. Here, he didn't have to bother with small talk or making conversation or being part of a team. He didn't have to answer to anyone or explain what he was doing. Where he was going. And he sure as hell didn't have to explain why he'd done something.
That was one thing he missed about his previous work. Hell, maybe it was the only thing he missed, that autonomy. Being his own boss and not having to answer to anyone. Yes, he had superiors, but they were, for the most part, faceless names. He was given an objective then it was left up to him to decide how to meet that objective. Once it was complete, he'd make a report then move to the next one. There was accountability, of sorts—but no rules.
Being part of the team at Cover Six Security wasn't like that. For one, there was an actual team. For another, the names weren't faceless. They worked together—as a team. There were rules they needed to follow—as a team. There was accountability—as a team.
And they looked after each other—
As a team.
That had annoyed the living hell out of Derrick ever since Daryl had approached him and asked him to join CSS. But now—
He was smart enough to realize that he probably wouldn't be here right now if not for that damn team. At least Daryl hadn't rubbed it in his face...much.
Jesus.
That didn't mean he was eager to give up his sanctuary. His solitude. He was, for the most part, still a loner. Probably always would be. But the woman buzzing around his house didn't seem to know that.
No, she knew—she just didn't give a shit.
Derrick ran a hand down his face, rubbed his knuckles against the two-day growth of stubble on his jaw. Blew out a deep breath and stared at the woman moving back and forth in front of him.
"TR, what the hell are you doing now?"
Her hectic pacing finally slowed, just long enough that she could frown at him. "Trying to figure out if I need to rearrange your furniture."
Derrick blinked. Pursed his lips. Sighed again and wondered if she was fucking with him. Finally gave in and asked the obvious. "Why would you need to rearrange my furniture?"
"Because I'm not sure I like it the way it is."
Derrick frowned, studied the living room. Sofa. Loveseat. Recliner. Television set. The requisite number of tables and lamps. Hell, he even had artwork on his walls. Expensive artwork—originals, not copies. There wasn't a damn thing wrong with his living room and he happened to like it just the way it was—even if the walls did sometimes feel like they were closing in on him.
That sensation was relatively new but he'd get over it eventually. As soon as he was up to full speed.
Well, as soon as Zeus was convinced he was up to full speed. They were still arguing about that, three months later. Derrick had fully recovered from the injuries, with nothing but a few new scars and an occasional twinge in his left shoulder. In fact, the bullet wound had healed faster than the dislocation because it had been a clean shot, missing bone and tendon or anything else vital.
Now that he was healed, Derrick was chomping at the bit to get back in the field and do something. Yeah, he enjoyed computer work. Enjoyed creating programs and playing with security systems. Of pushing the boundaries and hacking software just to see if he could. But it was a hobby, just something he liked to dabble in when he got bored. Yeah, he was good at it—damn good—but that wasn't his fucking job.
At least, it hadn't been, up until three months ago. He'd pretty much been relegated to computer work after that night in the cabin...
His mind immediately detoured around those memories and moved back to the woman currently struggling to move the heavy trunk placed against the wall. The very, very pregnant woman.
Derrick shot to his feet and grabbed TR by the arm, pulled her away from the truck and glared down at her. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Mac says I'm nesting."
"Then go home to do that. This is my nest and I happen to like it just the way it is."
TR placed both hands on her hips and tilted her head back to meet his gaze. Pale blue eyes shot fire at him yet she still somehow managed a believable pout. "I can't. Mac won't let me."
Derrick dropped his gaze to her very round belly then led her over to the sofa. "So you think I will? What are you trying to do, get him to kill me?"
"No. Besides, he wouldn't kill you, not if I told him not to."
"Thanks for the reassurance. I'm touched." He moved into the kitchen, grabbed the carton of milk from the refrigerator and poured a glass. TR had been craving milk for the last month, vast quantities of it, so he made sure to keep a lot of it on hand.
Because she'd been spending a lot of time here lately, stopping by several times a week, if not more. Usually Mac was with her but occasionally, like this afternoon, she was alone. Checking in on him like she had last year when he'd been shot. Keeping him company. Annoying the living hell out of him.
Poking her nose where it didn't belong and trying to get him to talk about things he had no intention of talking about.
He returned to the living room, only a little surprised that she hadn't completely rearranged it while he'd been getting her something to drink. He handed her the glass then took a seat across from her.
She smiled, took a sip of the milk then balanced the glass on her stomach. "I talked to Lee this morning."
An invisible band tightened around his chest, squeezing his heart. His lungs. Derrick uncurled his hands, pulled in a slow breath. Released it. "You look tired, TR. You've been doing too much. You should call Mac and—"
"She's moving."
"—have him pick you up."
"Didn't you hear me? I said Lee is moving."
Derrick dropped his gaze, focused on a speck of white marring his black tactical pants. Lint. He frowned, flicked it off with his middle finger. Smoothed his palm over his right leg.
"Derrick!" TR's voice, holding a hint of impatience and irritation. "Lee is moving."
"Yeah. I heard you the first two times."
"And?"
"And, what?"
"Aren't you going to do anything about it?"
"Why the hell would I do anything about it? Of course she's moving. She needs to move. That place Daryl arranged for her was only temporary."
"Don't you want to know where she's moving to?"
"If she wanted me to know, I'm sure she would have told me."
TR snorted. "Yeah, right."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"How is she supposed to tell you anything after that stupid stunt you pulled?"
"TR—"
"Don't TR me. How is she supposed to feel comfortable telling you anything when you pretty much made it clear you wanted nothing to do with her?"
"That's not—"
"Really? Then when's the last time you saw her? When's the last time you talk
ed to her?"
Derrick ground his back teeth together and stared at the abstract painting on the wall. At the swirls of reds and blacks and bright blues. There was nothing calm about the painting, about the explosion of colors and frantic strokes. The artist had titled it Chaos.
And it fit. Fit him. His name. His life.
Jesus.
He hated that fucking painting. Always had. But he kept it around as a reminder of the choices he'd made. As a reminder of who he used to be. Who he still was.
Chaos.
That was him. His life. And he had no business dragging anyone else into it. Especially not someone like Lee.
The last time he'd seen her had been a week after that night in the cabin. She'd stayed with him until he'd been whisked away at the hospital and poked and prodded and stitched and X-rayed before being taken back to surgery. She'd been there when he woke up, huddled under a pile of blankets. Sitting by his bed, her face pale and withdrawn, the stitches at the corner of her mouth a dark line against her skin. Her hand had been wrapped around his, her trembling fingers threaded with his own.
But they hadn't talked. Neither of them had. There was nothing to say. Not then, not until later.
And when that time had come, he'd made sure to completely fuck it up. To thoroughly sever whatever connection they had—and not just the connection they'd been building online for the past eighteen months.
TR leaned forward, waved a hand in front of his face to get his attention before sitting back. "I still don't understand why you did what you did. Why you ended things that way."
"TR, there was nothing to end. We weren't together."
"But you were. And you still could be if you hadn't totally messed things up."
"No, we couldn't. TR, there was nothing there—"
"OhmyGod, you are such a liar and you know it!"
"Dammit, TR, enough." He pushed to his feet and stormed toward the kitchen, swore beneath his breath when he heard TR following him. He reached into the refrigerator, grabbed a beer and slammed the door closed before uncapping the bottle with one angry twist of his hand.
The Warrior: DERRICK (Cover Six Security Book 4) Page 18
