Damned (SOBs Book 4)

by Irish Winters

  “Are you both there?” Chance asked.

  “I’m not,” Kruze replied as he shrugged one arm into Vick’s vest, then readjusted the rope to slide his other arm in.

  “You’re talking code. What’s going on? How much trouble are you in, and who’s there with you?”

  Chance always asked too many questions. “I’ve got something to do before I come in. While Pagan’s taking care of my first request, I’ve got a package for you to pick up at…” Kruze checked his current coordinates on his sat phone, then passed the intel along to his brother. He glanced at Vick when he told Chance, “Be quick about it. Ran across a sow with three cubs this morning. This jerk isn’t going to last long.”

  Vick deserved whatever happened to him. Let him worry whether Kruze’s comments were truth or fiction.

  “Check,” Chance replied. “Pagan will retrieve Bree. I’ll collect your package. Are we talking dead or alive? Male or female?”

  “He’s alive right now,” Kruze answered, picking up Vick’s weapons, and stowing them into the vest pockets. “He’s a former SEAL turned mercenary. Works for Harvey Lantz. Don’t turn your back on the bastard.”

  “You got a name?”

  “Damon Vick, editor by day, hitman as needed.”

  “I’m on my way. Where will you be?”

  Kruze turned in the direction of the river at his right. He couldn’t see it through the trees, but he could hear it. “Been thinking of doing a little white-water rafting.”

  “You be careful,” Chance growled.

  “One more thing. Need someone to extract a young woman and her family from Eastern Anatolia. Name’s Derya Najjar. Father’s Benjamin. She’s the subject of the human-interest story Bree sent Vick before this shitstorm hit. Lantz might be gunning for Najjar, too. Need to play this safe.”

  Vick’s head bobbed. “Thanks, man. Good idea.”

  “Got it,” Chance said. “If Sullivan doesn’t have anyone in the vicinity, he’ll pass the intel to someone who does. Next problem?”

  “That’s enough for now. I’ll be home for supper.” Sinclair code for expect me after dark.

  “Copy that.”

  “Harvey Lantz has joined forces with General Berfende. They plan to bomb Ankara, Turkey, tomorrow. Lantz supplied the plutonium. Berfende supplied the nuke. It’s currently located at…” Kruze turned to Vick.

  “It’s just outside his compound in Eastern Anatolia. West side. Parked alongside the stone wall. You need directions? I can draw a map.”

  Kruze lifted an index finger to shush Vick before he thought he had a snowball’s chance in hell of being treated like a friendly. “Tell the boss to check Berfende’s palace grounds in Eastern Anatolia. A trailered nuke parallel-parked should be easy to spot. Derya Najjar can be located there, too.”

  “On it. Sullivan’ll be pleased.”

  “And…” Kruze stalled. He’d shut Chance and Pagan out of his life these last several years. To be asking favors of them now felt—off. Like he had a lot of nerve. He went for broke anyway. “Take care of my girl, brother.”

  “Bree’s already family. I’ll tell Pagan not to scare her when he drops in on her.”

  Kruze stared at Vick as he said, “Anyone looks sideways at her, kill ’em.”

  “Copy that. I’ll keep the lights on for you.”

  “Thanks, Chance. Copy that.” Kruze signed off and tied his end of the rope to a nearby tree, keeping Vick’s neck stretched. Not tight enough to cut off his breathing, just enough to keep him incapacitated until Chance showed. “You’ll be safe here for a while.”

  “Who the fuck are you guys?” Vick asked, his voice tight and dry.

  Kruze looked down at the man he still might need to kill. “Former USN SEAL, Petty Officer First Class Kruze Sinclair, Mr. Vick.” There was no way he’d extend the professional courtesy of rank to this asshat.

  “Shit!” Vick dug both boot heels into the ground until the cords in his neck turned rigid. “I’ve heard about you Sin Boys. That was your brother you were talking to, wasn’t it? That was Chance!”

  Kruze dipped his head once. “Chance Sinclair, yeah. He’s coming for you.”

  “Jesus! I’d be better off fighting bears! Let me out of these shittin’ ropes!”

  Kruze took a knee at Vick’s side, then tied the bandana that had once been around the guy’s neck, up over his big mouth. “The only reason you’re still alive is because you told Lantz ‘Brianna’s a good kid. She doesn’t even know what she’s done.’ Don’t worry. Chance’ll know what to do with you,” Kruze said.

  With one final pat to Vick’s blistering mad face, Kruze stood and headed for the river. The bloody hole in his side had turned into one helluva pissed-off son of a bitch. He was running out of time. But Bree came first. She didn’t have to marry him for him to die for her.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Bree jerked upright, suddenly cold. And alone. The blankets pooled at her hips. Kruze wasn’t beside her. She called for him anyway, “Kruze? Where are you, honey?”

  Cocking her head, she stilled, sure a noise had awakened her. But he wasn’t in the cave, nor was he sitting on the narrow ledge outside. The noise couldn’t have been made by him. Where’d he go? Had he left her? He wouldn’t do that, not now, would he? His bag was still where he’d left it. That had to be a good sign. She hated the doubt and betrayal that slithered so easily back into her soul. He’d asked her to marry him; he wouldn’t just leave the first chance he got, would he?

  He did before…

  No, he’s changed. He has every reason to stay. We have a daughter, and he loves me.

  Then why isn’t he here?

  Bree ran a quick hand over her braid, fighting fear, her head still cocked, her ears straining for his answer. Once again, she’d given Kruze everything. Baby Bean! They might’ve made another baby!

  How dumb are you?

  “I’m not stupid!” Bree yelled at her insecurity. “He loves me. He told me so, and I believe him. I love him.”

  She’d just worked up a good head of steam when a hefty black shape dropped from above onto the narrow ledge that led into the cave. Whoever this guy was, he was so big that he blocked all the daylight. Frightened, she scurried into the farthest corner of her hideout, dragging Kruze’s bag with her. She fumbled the zipper, needing a weapon. Her poor heart was pumping too hard. Damn it! Why hadn’t she accepted the little pistol Kruze tried to give her?

  “Bree Banks?” the guy asked, his voice deep, growly, and—kind. When he lifted one arm over his head, a bright, over-powering beam lit the entire interior of the cave, blinding her.

  Lord, he knows my name! Lifting her hand to block that horrendous beam, Bree asked, “Wh-who’s asking?”

  Whoever this guy was, he had the grace to set the light on the floor with its beam pointed up. Bree could see better now. Shaggy, black hair. Bearded and built like an ox. Dressed in black everything, jacket, beanie, and boots—like Kruze. He was so tall and wide that he blocked the only way out.

  “It’s just me, Bree. Kruze sent me to take you home. Pagan Sinclair at your service.” Folding his sunglasses, he slid them into his jacket.

  “You talked to Kruze? Where is he? Is he okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He just has a couple things to take care of right now, but he’ll be home shortly.”

  Man, Bree wanted to believe Pagan, but once again, she was trapped with no way out. Lifting to her feet, she planned to shove him over the edge if he lied. “If you’re his brother, tell me something personal about him.”

  Pagan stayed where he’d landed. “Umm, he’s an ass.”

  That made Bree smile. “Everyone knows that. Something else. Something unique.”

  “Well, err, okay. How about… umm…” Pagan ran a hand over his head. There was something familiar about how his elbow ended up over his head that reminded Bree of Kruze. It wasn’t just a simple hair-fluffing drill, but more like he was trying to h
elp his brain work better. “Okay so, how about this? Kruze used to be a damned good Navy SEAL, but something happened on his first deployment. He got hurt, came home, and spent a couple days in the hospital. But he won’t talk about it. He’s never been the same, and he won’t share. Hence, he’s an ass.”

  Whoa, that was spot on. Made Bree wonder why Kruze thought he couldn’t tell his brothers about Juliana. Yet he’d told her. Had he told his mother? So many questions. “Okay, so who’s Chance?”

  “Chief Petty Officer Chance Sinclair is my oldest brother, ma’am. Kruze is second in line. His rank, Petty Officer First Class. I’m third, Petty Officer Third Class, but I’m the handsome one in the family.” He shrugged. “Guess it sucks to be them.”

  She couldn’t resist asking one more question. “Who’s your mother?”

  “That’s easy!” Tenderness filled Pagan’s reply. “My mom’s world-famous author Scarlett Sinclair, and she always liked me best. Still does, but… she’s gone now.”

  Bree hurried to apologize. “That was mean of me. I’m so sorry for your loss, Pagan. Kruze tells me you love all of New York City’s delis.”

  “Never pass up good food, ma’am. Yeah, that was kinda mean, but I don’t mind talking about Mom. She’s been gone a couple years, so it’s easier now. Mind if I come in?”

  “Sure.” Bree waved him forward. “Sorry, but I had to be sure.”

  He unsnapped the rope she hadn’t realized he’d been hanging onto, then tossed it behind himself and stepped inside, ducking before his head hit the ceiling. “Cozy place you got here. It’s small, though. Don’t suppose I could persuade you to come with me?”

  Bree wrung her fingers. It was easy to see the brotherly resemblance between Pagan and Kruze now. Pagan was as big, his shoulders as wide and his body as thick, and his hair was black and curly. But Kruze’s features were finer, prettier. It was like comparing a massive bull to a racing stallion. Both were built for power, but Kruze was lightning. Pagan was thunder.

  She stalled, not sure why those foolish metaphors popped into her head. “I don’t want to leave. I’m not sure where Kruze went, but I know he’s coming back for me.”

  Pagan nodded. “He wants to, yes, ma’am. But he’s dealing with a couple things, and he wants you safe now.”

  “What’s going on? Did Damon Vick find him?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s the other way around. Kruze intercepted Vick, got the drop on him. Chance is on his way to pick up Vick right now. He won’t bother you anymore.” Pagan cocked his head, a funny sparkle in his eyes. “Man, you’re sure pretty. Looks like Kruze finally found who he’s been looking for all these years.”

  Bree blushed. “You mean me?”

  “Yeah. You.” Pagan ran a hand over his head again. “Been worrying about him a long time, ma’am. Damned glad to meet you.” He stuck a hand out, and Bree accepted the gesture. But panic flared once Pagan’s much larger hand wrapped around hers. PTSD made every little thing so hard!

  Pagan must’ve understood. Graciously, he released her and stepped back. “Or…” He looked around the narrow cleft in the rock where Bree and Kruze had taken refuge. “Guess we could stay here until he finishes what he’s doing.”

  “What’s that?” Bree asked nervously.

  Pagan grunted. “The usual. He’s going after a couple jerks, some guy who thinks he’s an authentic Turkish general and his kiss-ass stooge.”

  “General Berfende and Josephus? Good Lord, no. They’re here? Kruze is going after them? Now?”

  “No worries, Miss Banks. He’s pretending he’s Vick. Not sure what he’ll do next, but if I know Kruze, it won’t be pretty. Not since they threatened you. They did, didn’t they?”

  Bree nodded. “And my daughter. Lantz told Vick to—” Darn. She’d done it again; said too much, too soon.

  She snapped her mouth shut. At least she hadn’t told Pagan that Kruze was her daughter’s father. Yet. But she hadn’t planned on mentioning Robin to Kruze, either. That was the problem with lies. Eventually, the truth caught up to the liar, and here she was. Unable to keep track of everything she’d said, but never going to out Kruze. He could do that himself.

  “Aw, you got a little girl?” Pagan’s voice turned to sugar and honey. “What’s her name? How old is she?”

  “Robin. She’s three.”

  “My wife wants a baby real bad,” Pagan admitted. “But it’s not happening fast enough for her. Every month gets harder and harder. We’ve both been to her doctor, but there’s nothing wrong with either of us. Pal just needs to sit back and relax. It’ll happen when it happens.”

  Pagan was easy to talk with. Bree wished she could offer him coffee or something. Which was bizarre, offering anything. It’s not like he was a guest in this measly cave.

  “Umm…” She stalled, caught between leaving Kruze or waiting for him.

  “We’ve only got a few yards up these rocks to go, Bree,” Pagan said quietly. “I rappelled down, and I brought a harness to take you up with me, if you’re ready to leave. There’s no way you can fall. All you’ve got to do is hold on tight until we get over the top. You can even keep your eyes closed if you want. No hurry, no worry. You say when, and I’ll take you home.”

  Bree summoned her courage—and her trust. If Kruze wanted her to go with Pagan, then she would. Glancing around at the few things they’d brought with them, she said, “O-o-okay then. Let’s go home.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Kruze heard them before he saw them. Two loud-mouthed imbeciles arguing from the mid-size hovercraft now skimming the shallows on his side of the churning river. They were making enough noise, he could hear them over the hovercraft’s engine and the river.

  Kruze was looking through the dark black lenses of Vick’s sunglasses, a sweet pair of Ray-ban Aviators. He’d already stashed Vick’s rifle, and popped two antibiotic tablets, hoping they’d take the edge off the disorienting buzz in his head. Fever had a good hold on him, and he needed to rest more than anything. But first… Kruze needed to end two of the three men in that hovercraft. Maybe all of them.

  He lifted a hand in greeting to get the pilot’s attention. With a single nod, the guy steered Kruze’s way. He was slender and young, maybe twenty-something, dressed in Carhartt-brown cold-weather gear, a red ball cap, and dark glasses with reflective rainbow lenses. The logo of a local white-water rafting company sat high on the kid’s jacket sleeve. Maine Extreme River Tours. That cinched it. The kid would live.

  Once he powered down, the hovercraft was still in shallow water. Didn’t matter. The eager bastards behind him clambered over the side and jumped into knee-deep, ice-water. Dumb asses. Waterproof rubber boots would’ve been smart, but both Berfende and Josephus had chosen style over common sense. They half-stumbled, half-walked toward the rocky shore.

  Kruze stuck his chin at the pilot and called out, “Thanks for ferrying these gentlemen out here today. No need to stay for the return trip. I’m flying them out. Have a good day.”

  Relief washed over the young man’s face. Without a word, he maneuvered the hovercraft into an abrupt reverse, stepped on the gas, and hightailed it back downriver.

  Kruze sized up the men wading to shore, needing the next few minutes to play out in his favor, with them thinking they were in charge. Berfende was wearing a name-brand, fleece-lined jacket over black designer jeans and fancy black suede boots. He had no weapons on him, as far as Kruze could see. Not that he thought the general was harmless, but Berfende didn’t stand out like his glow-in-the-dark companion.

  Josephus wore a bright-yellow, glow-in-the-dark ski jacket, the kind made of slippery nylon fabric that hissed with every step he took. It’d surely keep his upper body warmer than Berfende, but it would also alert every wild creature within spitting distance that a walking buffet had come into the forest. Josephus’ dress slacks and trendy leather boots portrayed the same ego as Berfende’s.

  Kruze extended a gloved hand in welcome an
d addressed the sour-faced bastard who’d just stepped on shore. “General Berfende. Pleased to meet you. I’m Damon Vick. Harvey Lantz said you were coming. Glad you made it.”

  Berfende stalked past Kruze with his chin up, ignored the handshake, and headed for the pines. Once there, he sat down with both legs spread and stared at Josephus. Who promptly ran to his general and knelt at his feet, unzipped his boots, and poured the water out. It was comical, the arrogance of some men, the stupidity of others. But a guy couldn’t cure stupid, and Kruze didn’t have time to waste.

  “You gentlemen didn’t bring any gear, any drinking water with you?” he asked loudly, knowing damned well it would tweak Berfende’s pride.

  Worked like a charm. Berfende bristled, shoved his soaking wet foot into the boot Josephus had just emptied, nearly knocking him on his butt. “You will address me as General Berfende!”

  Kruze raised both hands, placating the tyrant. “Sure. No problem. General Berfende it is.” Mental note: Not guys, not asshats, just a fake rank. Got it, you lying bastard.

  “We were not told we needed gear,” Berfende continued angrily.

  “Mr. Lantz said that you would take care of everything,” Josephus added, his voice whiny and weaselly, his eyes the same. The man had a wide, fat nose. Made him look cross-eyed.

  “Where is she?” Berfende roared. “Where is the American woman, Brianna Banks? I do not see her, and why did you dismiss our transportation without my approval? I will have you burned alive for that.”

  Josephus leaned into Berfende as if to offer a word of advice, but Berfende cut him off. Shoving Josephus aside, he climbed to his feet and declared, “Know your place, Mr. Vick. I rule. You do not. Bring her to me now.” He stuck his finger at the rocks at his feet.

  Kruze crossed both arms over his chest and stared Berfende down. His face was tanned and wrinkled. His eyes were dark and deeply set. He was tall and lean, gray-haired and maybe around fifty years old. It was hard to tell. Life was hard in Eastern Anatolia, and it showed. He could’ve been in his mid-thirties.