Damned (SOBs Book 4)

by Irish Winters

  She had to do something. She couldn’t just sit there and wait. Jumping to her feet, Bree raced up the masterfully crafted, polished oak staircase that took up an entire wall of the lavish living room. Throwing the door to Kruze’s bedroom suite open, she ran to his closets, searching, searching. Clothes, boots, jackets, winterwear—no, no, no! Lord, where were all of his guns? She spun on her heel, facing his California king bed. Where would a SEAL keep weapons? Did he have a special room? A vault or something just as impregnable. A safe?

  That actually made sense. Bree opened every closet door and searched every dresser drawer, every wooden chest, every shelf, and every room she came across. Still nothing. How could a man who loved weapons not have left one where she could find it?

  Bree remembered then. She was supposed to call the number on that business card. Running back to the office, she dialed as quickly as her shaking fingers allowed. The phone rang once. A gruff man with a deep, grating voice barked, “For God’s sake, Sinclair, the PJ’s already in the air! He’s coming to you on a gawddamned helo out of Loring. He’ll fast-rope down when he gets there. What more do you want?”

  “I… I…” Bree shattered into a million pieces with the angry man she didn’t even know.

  “Ms. Banks. Brianna. Is that you?”

  “Yes. P-Pagan said to tell you STAT. Kruze is hurt. Berfende shot him, and I… It’s all my fault!”

  The man’s hostility turned to buttery maple syrup. “Ms. Banks, it’s me, Senator Sullivan. You did real good, and I’m sorry I yelled. Don’t cry, please, don’t cry, ma’am. I hate to tell you this, because I know it’s the last thing women want to hear at times like this, but Kruze needs you to calm down. Can you do that for him? For me?”

  “Yes,” squeaked out of her. For the love of God, she was bawling her eyes out. Couldn’t think straight. How would she ever tell Robin her daddy died? That would kill her little girl. Just the thought of Kruze dying was killing Bree.

  “Okay then, let me tell you what I know about the situation in Maine, young lady,” Senator Sullivan continued firmly. “Yes, Kruze has been shot, but his brother Chance is with him, and he’s already packed the wound with QuikClot. Do you know what that is?”

  “No, what?” How would she ever know something like that?

  “It’s a hemostatic agent that immediately stops blood loss and prevents hemorrhaging, Brianna. It causes a chemical reaction that rapidly absorbs the moisture out of blood and damaged tissue. Hell, I’m no scientist, I only know it supplies an injured body with everything it needs to slow the bleeding. Hence, its name, QuikClot. Plus Chance wrapped a CAT, a Combat Application Tourniquet, around Kruze’s neck, which, of course, he couldn’t wrap as tightly as he needed, but he had to do all he could to—”

  “His neck?” Lord, that sounded horrible! “He’s bleeding out of his carotid?”

  “Not sure, ma’am. But one of his HVTs got a shot off and nicked his neck. But Chance is a trained medic. All SEALs are. He knows what to do, and he only used the CAT because Kruze had a previous injury on his left side Chance had to deal with. He couldn’t keep pressure on Kruze’s neck and take care of that at the same time. Trust me. Things are not as bad as they sound.”

  “Then why’d Pagan tell me to tell you STAT?” Bree was back in panic mode. Her body had turned into one gigantic, throbbing ache.

  “Because a neck wound’s always life-threatening, and it’ll be dark in less than an hour in Maine. Pagan and Chance need to get him home before nightfall. I’m sure he’ll rest easier once he sees you.”

  “I love him!” Lord, she was yelling at a United States Senator.

  “I believe you.” The stronger her voice grew, the mellower his became. “It’s about time Kruze found what he’s been searching for. Sounds like you’re the one.”

  “Pagan said the same thing.”

  “I’m sure he did. Kruze Sinclair hasn’t been himself for years, young lady. We’ve all known something horrible happened, but he refused to talk about it. He must feel safe with you. Hope someday he’ll finally open up and tell you what’s eating him.”

  He already has… “I can’t lose him,” Bree murmured, sounding more like a helpless little girl, instead of the resourceful woman she used to be.

  But she’d never tell anyone about Panama. That was Kruze’s secret to share. Knowing that he’d opened up to her, just her, lit a fire inside Bree’s nervous heart. Senator Sullivan was spot on. Juliana’s ghastly death had eaten Kruze alive all these years. Bree had sought counseling as soon as she could after she’d returned home from Turkey. But most days, she still felt like one of the walking dead. What must Kruze have felt like, after all the years of holding that much agony inside, never sharing? Not even with his brothers. He must’ve felt like a disgusting loser, especially since they’d both married. They’d all been SEALs. Surely they would’ve understood. Yet he’d only shared the worst failure in his life with Bree.

  “You recently survived one hell of a terror ride all by yourself, didn’t you?”

  She nodded, her heart set on the stubborn man in her life. Kruze had opened his heart to her. Just her. Which made the telling more precious than gold. The humility of his priceless gift stuck in her throat, choking her. “W-what else can you tell me, sir?”

  “You don’t know?” Senator Sullivan asked, then corrected himself and said, “Never mind. I don’t suppose you would.”

  “I don’t know what? Tell me.”

  He cleared his throat. “I can’t go into specifics, ma’am. Just know that Kruze will be home soon. I’ve received word our PJ is on the ground—”

  “What’s a PJ?” Surely this US Senator wasn’t talking about pajamas.

  “PJs are Air Force Special Warfare Pararescue specialists. They’re highly-trained medics who rescue and treat downed military personnel all over the world, even in combat. They’re brave as hell, ma’am.”

  That made her feel a little better. Folding her legs, Bree sat on the floor and listened. It was either that or fall down.

  Senator Sullivan continued. “Their motto is: These things I do that others may live. Sounds a lot like what the Sin Boys do, if you ask me. Trust me, Kruze is in real good hands.”

  “He rescued me right out from under those rebels’ noses,” Bree said quietly. “I was in Turkey. Josephus kept me in a hole. It was… it was awful.”

  “I know, honey, and I’m sure sorry you had to go through that. Who do you think sent Kruze to get you?”

  “You did. I know he works for you, but who asked you to send him to me? How did you even know where I was? But you must have. Kruze rescued me the same day you sent him to find me. Did you know that?”

  “That’s what he was supposed to do. But as far as who asked me to bring you home…” Senator Sullivan cleared his throat again. He was hedging. She could tell. “Let’s just say he’s one helluva good friend of mine. I’ll introduce you someday.”

  “I’d like that. Thank you.”

  “Now, I don’t want you taking this the wrong way, ma’am. I try real hard not to be sexist, but my secretary tells me I’m old generation, and I am. I know that and I own it, but—”

  “I think we’re all a little sexist, Senator,” Bree said quietly. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, the guys will be hungry when they get back. It’ll be late, and I was hoping—”

  “I’d fix them something to eat while I wait? I’d love to. It’s the Golden Rule, sir. It’s not sexist. It’s kindness.”

  “I’m going to have to remember that.”

  “Of course, now if you’d asked me to fix breakfast, lunch, and dinner because I’m just a woman, and a woman’s place is in the kitchen, you do know there’d be hell to pay, don’t you?”

  Senator Sullivan’s big, delicious laugh seemed to fill the distance between Bree and him. Because of the mellow Texas twang to some of his words and his rich baritone, Bree pictured him sitting in his office wearing
a white cowboy hat.

  “Yes, ma’am, I do know that. Even an old fart like me knows a woman’s got the right to find her place in the world, and it isn’t necessarily in the kitchen. How’s that little girl of yours? You raising her to be just like her mother?”

  “Yes, sir, I am,” Bree answered. “I hate to ask, but is there any way you can get in touch with my parents and tell them I’m okay? I haven’t had time to call them, and my phone was bugged and—”

  “I’ll do you one better. Hold on a second. I’ll get them on the line and…”

  Bree listened to her phone click and Senator Sullivan shuffle until…

  “Mommy?” Robin asked.

  Tears filled Bree’s eyes at the sound of her sweet daughter’s voice. “Hi, baby.”

  “Whatcha doing? Nana! Grampa! I’m talking to Mommy!”

  By the time Bree finished lying to Robin, her mother and dad, telling them she was fine, she felt better. She’d steered clear of mentioning Kruze, just said he was out hunting with his brothers, which was mostly, sort of, true. Then she cut the call short and promised she’d call again as soon as she could.

  “I love you, sillykins,” she told Robin. “Mister Kruze and I will see you soon.”

  “Okay,” said the most innocent, trusting child in the world. “Take good care of my boyfriend, Mommy.”

  “I will, and you hug Nana and Grampa for me. Bye, Robin.”

  “Bye-bye!”

  Bree could have cried when Sullivan came back on the line. “Listen,” he said. “You call me any time you want to, you hear?”

  “Thank you, sir. I will.”

  “It’ll all be over soon, young lady. Kruze will be back before you know it. When you see him, tell that man of yours I’m damned proud of him.”

  “I will. Thanks for everything.”

  “Been my pleasure. Goodbye, Ms. Banks.”

  “Goodbye, Senator Sullivan.” Bree disconnected the call and took a deep, cleansing breath. She hadn’t realized it then, but Kruze had given her a unique gift while they’d sat together at the Morristown Community Center. He’d shared the most horrifying experience of his life, and Bree now understood why he could be so unbearably bossy. He needed to be in control. What happened in Panama must never happen again. He could never fail another woman like he’d failed Juliana. That explained his womanizing, too. He hadn’t been able to love anyone after the way he’d lost Juliana, and Bree couldn’t blame him.

  She’d been just as helpless to save the sweet, gentlemanly, Turkish photographer who’d gone with her to Eastern Anatolia. Mehmet’s screams would haunt her until the day she died. Was Juliana still haunting Kruze? Of course she was.

  “Poor Juliana,” Bree whispered. “Poor, poor Mehmet.”

  Lifting to her feet, she set the phone back in its charging dock. She had some thinking to do. Might as well do it in the kitchen while she worked. She’d just stepped out of Kruze’s office and onto the polished hardwood hallway floor, when the front door burst open. Harvey Lantz stood there, the rifle in his hands pointed at her.

  Oh, Lord…

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Kruze opened his bleary, grit-filled eyes to find the whole gawddamned Sinclair family staring down at him. Chance on one side, Pagan on the other. Some stranger who smelled like sweat and antiseptic was all but sitting on his lap. Had to be a medic, since an oxygen mask was now plastered across Kruze’s face.

  “There he is,” the guy said, like Kruze waking the hell up was a good thing. “He’s coming back to us. Good, good. Keep breathing. Deep breaths. Slow and steady. Pagan, can you hold that bag up a little higher? Thanks. Good tourniquet protocol, Chief. Sure glad you were here when he went down. That CAT was one hell of an extreme solution, but I don’t think we could’ve saved him if you hadn’t used it.”

  Sandy brown hair, piercing brown eyes, the guy was jittery, running on adrenaline. He kept running his hands over Kruze, checking stuff. The stethoscope under his shirt. The damned blood pressure cuff squeezing the crap out of his upper arm. What felt like a rigid cast wrapped around his neck, suffocating the shit out of him. Whose idea was that? The CAT was essentially a woven nylon belt with an attached windlass, that could be tightened once wrapped around a bleeding wound. But Kruze had never heard of one being used on a guy’s neck before.

  “Yeah, well, extreme conditions call for extreme solutions. Had to deal with the bleeder on his side,” Chance explained. “You scared the shit out of me.” He directed that accusation at Kruze. Were those tears in big brother’s eyes?

  “Worried the crap outta Sullivan, too,” the medic added. “Glad I was on duty today. Damned helo hovered right over the top of you guys. Thought I was going to land in the river when I fast-roped down. That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever done.”

  Kruze blinked up at his brothers. They both looked like shit, but Pagan was pale as a ghost. He’d turned into a walking, talking IV stand, holding two bags, one red, the other clear. Surgical tubing ran from his other arm. How the hell did he get here so fast? Was he donating blood? Now? Shouldn’t he be laying down?

  “Kee-risssst…” Kruze tried to cuss, but the word came out too soft inside the oxygen mask, more like a whistle, not his style at all.

  “No talking. Stay down, lay down. Keep still until we’re ready to move you,” the medic ordered, his big hand as heavy as a rock on Kruze’s chest, holding him flat to the ground. Not like that was hard to do. Kruze couldn’t even make his tongue and lips work right. “You’re hooked to three IV lines: one saline, one from your brother, and the last the O positive I bought with me. Got another bag if you need it, but I think your brother hooking you to himself the second he got here did the trick.”

  Pagan thumped his chest. “You got the good stuff in you now.”

  Kruze would’ve laughed if he hadn’t felt like crying.

  “You’re severely dehydrated,” the medic continued. “It’s a good thing Pagan showed up when he did. You came damned close to knocking on heaven’s door, buddy.”

  Kruze knew that Guns N Roses song, but whoever this stranger was, he had it wrong. Kruze wasn’t headed for heaven. Not even Valhalla. That legendary place was reserved for heroes who died in combat, not some bastard who let the people he loved die. He deserved to die alone. If not today, well, then it didn’t matter when. If his carotid was blown, death was a given. He was surprised he’d lasted this long.

  One blink, and it seemed Chance time traveled. All of a sudden, he was blocking the sun and leaning over Kruze, damned near spitting in his face. “You’re not alone, gawddamnit. Why can’t you get that through your big, dumb head, brother? You were never alone!”

  Kee-rist, did I think that out loud?

  “You’re still dumb as shit, though,” Pagan muttered.

  Kruze strained to see his baby brother, but there was so much gray fog blurring the view. “Hey,” he whispered, weak as shit. Still talking inside the mask.

  He’d no more than uttered that one word, when Chance flipped the mask off his face and stuck a straw between his lips and ordered, “Drink. This here’s the PJ Sinclair sent, Jared Lock. Soon as you’re stable, he’s taking you back to Loring. A helo’s waiting nearby. Sullivan wants you in a hospital.”

  “No.” Something was damned wrong with that picture. Kruze huffed through his nose and turned his face from the straw. “Bree. Where’s my Bree?”

  Chance cocked his head as if he’d heard something interesting.

  “She’s home,” Pagan spoke up. “She’s safe, don’t worry. Took her there myself.”

  Kruze lifted up on his elbows as far as he could. He was missing something. Something he’d heard before. Something Vick said...

  Bastard said he’d be here by now...

  Not coming...

  Got a problem to work out...

  “Hafta go,” Kruze mumbled. He was pretty sure Bree was that problem, and Harvey Lantz was going after her.

 
Chance put a hand on his shoulder. “Be still, damnit.”

  Kruze found himself looking at blue sky again. “No. Can’t lose her again.”

  “You never lost Bree,” Pagan chimed in. “She’s at your house, waiting on your sorry ass.”

  “He said ‘again’, Pagan. I think he’s talking about someone else,” Chance said. “Aren’t you?” he asked Kruze. “Who else did you lose?”

  “Yeah. Juliana. Panama. Can’t lose Bree, too.”

  Chance’s chest heaved with a damned big sigh. His nostrils flared as he stared into Kruze’s eyes. It was almost like looking in a mirror. Same black hair, only Chance’s was cut short. Same deadly glare, only Chance’s glare was soft brown instead of green. He still carried a few nasty scars on his face, neck, and head from the mission that ended his Navy career. Kruze’s scars were hidden in his heart. Invisible, but deep as fuck.

  He stared back into his older brother’s wise, amber eyes. “Lantz’ll never let her go, Chance. He tracked us here. Blew up my plane. He knows where she is. I hafta save her.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Kruze slapped his hand to his chest. “Because my heart hurts. It’s been dead for years, but right now, it’s screaming. It hurts, brother. I hurt. Bree brought me back to life. She’s in trouble. I can’t lose her, too. Help me. Please, God, help me!”

  Chance’s glare shifted to Jared. “Get him ready to travel. I know it’s not smart, but sometimes smart’s not the right thing to do.”

  “Look, I’m not a doctor,” Jared answered sharply, “but at the very least, your brother needs surgery, especially if we’re dealing with a perforated carotid. He’ll need re-sectioning of that artery and primary anastomosis, and he needs it as soon as possible, not later. This kind if wound is nothing to mess with. It’ll never heal correctly without surgery. This is serious stuff, guys.” Jared looked to Pagan for support. “You can give him all the blood you want, but he could still bleed out.”