Damned (SOBs Book 4)

by Irish Winters

  “She’s the one, Chance,” Kruze rasped. “The only one.”

  He would’ve come up swinging and cursing, but he had no strength, and Jared was right. Kruze knew the protocol for carotid damage—if the injury had been a simple, clean cut, like a femoral artery opened during angioplasty, and if the vein had already been surgically glued shut. No lifting anything heavy. No strenuous exercise. Pretty much no anything for a couple days. That Jared mentioned re-sectioning meant Kruze’s carotid was probably severely damaged. The traumatized portion had to be removed, then the vein spliced back together like fixing a garden hose. And it needed to happen soon. But Bree didn’t have that kind of time.

  Kruze rolled to his side. He was going. Jared could like it or not.

  “Take it easy. I’ve got you,” Chance said as he helped Kruze roll onto his hands and knees.

  “Gotta go,” Kruze told the dirt. He was a banged up, dirty, sweaty mess of a man. Just getting onto his knees had taken everything he had left. Didn’t matter. Kruze ripped the IVs out of his arm and tossed them aside. He wasn’t important. Only Bree.

  “I’m with you, brother,” Pagan said. “I’ll carry you if I need to. Don’t worry. We’ll get you to Bree, then we’ll get you to Loring.”

  “No… thanks...” God, it was hard to breathe. Kruze glanced over his shoulder in time to watch Pagan pull the IV out of his arm and toss the bags at Jared. “You dropped the eggs. Broke ’em all… that time.”

  Pagan took a knee at Kruze’s other side, put one hand under his arm and helped Chance get him up on his feet. “Yeah, but I saved the bacon, just like I’m gonna save your bacon this time.”

  Finally upright, Kruze stood for a minute, fighting shadows, struggling to catch his breath and his balance. There was no time to waste, but there he stalled. Wasting what few minutes Bree had left. Images from that day in Panama roared back to life in ugly, vivid greens, blacks, and so much gawddamned red. “Please. Help me save her.”

  “Ah, guys.” Still kneeling on the ground, Jared pointed up at Kruze’s side. “That neck wound’s not his only problem.”

  “Shit, your side’s bleeding. What happened?” Pagan hissed.

  “He had a run-in with a loose screwdriver when they crash landed,” Chance explained tersely. “Already patched it once. Hold on.”

  “No! Lantz’ll kill her,” Kruze cried. He took a step to prove he’d go down fighting, but he was leaning heavily on Chance’s arm. His ankle collapsed, and he stumbled. Just like last time. Bree would die because the man she loved was useless. He couldn’t get to her!

  A gawddamned sob ripped out of his heart at the black cloud that had forever hovered over him. Kee-rist, why couldn’t it take him this time? Leave the girl, take the bastard who didn’t deserve to live!

  Pagan and Chance both ducked their heads under his arms, their beefy grip solid at his back, and hoisted him back to his feet.

  “Jared, call your guy in the sky,” Chance ordered. “Tell him we need that gawddamned chopper down here now, that you’re taking Kruze to his place. Tell him STAT or whatever magic word you need to make it happen. We’re not leaving Bree behind, and you’re coming with us. You can treat Kruze while we’re in the air.”

  Jared snapped to with a sharp, “Yes, Chief.”

  “Th-thanks,” Kruze whispered to his brothers, his strength damned near gone. “She loves me. She told me so.”

  “Then you’d better live long enough to marry that woman,” Chance muttered, just as the landing helo kicked up sand and spray from the river. “I’ve lost enough people I love in my life. I’m not losing you, too.”

  “You love me?” Kruze blinked. Men just didn’t say those things to each other.

  “Yeah, you dumbass. You’re stuck with Pagan and me. Deal with it.”

  Kruze’s head lolled on his shoulder, as his brothers each grabbed a leg and carried him to the helo’s open door. In seconds, they were inside. Kruze was wrapped in blankets, laying on a stretcher, praying he’d make it to Bree in time. Jared knelt at his side, packing the screwdriver puncture wound with something cold that immediately eased the pain. Kee-rist, what a relief.

  Pagan was glaring at Kruze. “Jesus H. Christ! All this time! Why didn’t you tell me how bad things went down in Panama? I’m your brother, damn it. But all this time… For all these years…” His voice cracked. He swiped his face and broke down. “You’ve been carrying this shit by yourself!”

  Chance picked up where Pagan left off. “Low blow, Kruze. We’re all we’ve got left. There are no more Sinclair brothers but us, do you understand? We’re in this together. From now on—”

  “Unus por omnibus, omnes pro uno,” Kruze whispered.

  “Damn straight,” Chance hissed. “All for one and one for all. We are the Sin Boys. All three of us! Not two. Three, damn it!”

  Kruze closed his eyes. His brothers were there with him. They’d make sure he saved Bree. If he couldn’t do it, if he died on the way, they’d save her for him. The Sin boys together were nothing to mess with. Harvey Lantz had no idea how soon he was going back to Hell.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Bree’s mouth went dry. She didn’t think the gun Harvey was holding was a shotgun. But it could be. The rifle only had one barrel. Weren’t all shotguns double-barreled? Lord, she didn’t know. So she did what any idiot would do when facing immediate death. She turned and ran back down the hall. Back into Kruze’s office. Whirling on her toes, she slammed the door shut behind her and locked it, thankful Lantz hadn’t shot her in the back. He could have.

  Trapped, with time running out, she shoved Kruze’s office chair out of her way, dropped to her hands and knees, and scurried into the crawl space under his desk. Just in time. A wicked blast roared into the room. Sounded like a train. Flying splinters and clouds of sawdust blew over her head and hit the wall behind her. Oh, Lord, Lantz was there.

  Fear climbed up Bree’s spine, paralyzing her. Her ears were buzzing. She spit splinters out of her mouth and choked on the dust. It was everywhere. This was the end. She’d never see Robin or Kruze again. Was he even still alive? With every thunderous beat of her heart, Bree begged God to take her and let him live, and that he’d remember what she’d told him to tell Robin if she didn’t make it.

  “I know you’re in here!” Harvey’s voice boomed.

  Where else would she be? Bree scrunched her shaking knees up to her chin, holding her breath, knowing that gun of his could easily reduce the front of Kruze’s desk to wood chips and shavings, just like it did the door. Then Lantz would do the same to her. This was where she’d die, inside Kruze’s house, but not in his arms. Forever lost to her daughter and the man she loved. Make that adored. Lord! If she’d only said yes when he’d asked her to marry him. Everything would’ve been different. She could’ve at least given him that.

  Harvey banged his gun on the desktop and ordered, “Get your ass out from under there, Banks. Stop playing hard to get, you bitch. You’ve got some place else to be.”

  Bree cringed. She could feel the evil pouring off him. Like slimy mud. Like death. He was standing so close. She hated him for everything he’d done to her. Every lie, every cover-up, for tracking her, for sabotaging Kruze’s plane. For what he’d done to Robin and her parents! They’d suffered every single one of those horrible sixty-three days, worried out of their minds, not knowing where she was, if she were even alive. But mostly for poor Mehmet! He’d died. For what? So greedy pigs like Harvey Lantz could get richer? For cowards like Damon Vick, who would’ve murdered her child—a helpless little girl!

  Bree shook her head, needing to calm down before she did something stupid. She had to think smart. What would Kruze do? He wouldn’t die a coward’s death, hiding under his desk, that was for certain. No, he’d at least be on his feet when the end came. He’d die fighting, giving back as much as he could, as long as he could. Well, then…

  She sucked in one last nervous breath of freedom. This was it.
With her heart pounding a noisy Morse Code to the universe, Bree put a sweaty palm to the floor, intent on facing the bastard who would’ve had no trouble killing her sweet, little Robin. Bree would’ve gotten right to her feet, if her head hadn’t bumped something hard beneath the desk alongside the pencil drawer.

  Putting both hands on whatever it was, she found what she’d thoroughly searched his house for. A pistol. Hanging right there. Under his desk. She ran her fingers along its cold, steel barrel and textured grip. A flat, square magnet held it in place. How clever. How fortuitous. How gawddamned righteous. Did she dare? Hell, yes.

  Puffing to get her hair out of her face, she traced that deadly weapon’s grip with her fingertips, then jerked it off the magnet. It wasn’t even in a cup or a rack. Once she had it in her hands, she cradled the pistol against her chest, as if it were Kruze, not just a gun.

  Her heart pounded for an entirely different reason now. She was going to live, even if she had to kill Harvey Lantz to do it. It was him or her, and she had more reasons to live. She had an honorable man to make love with and a little girl to love. Damn Harvey Lantz for forcing this godawful decision on her. But he’d asked for this. And he was going to get it.

  She’d never shot a weapon before, and this cold, black pistol was a frighteningly powerful, dangerous thing to behold. Yet Kruze handled his weapons with skill and ease, almost as if they were simple extensions of his fingers and hands. Of his heart. Which strengthened Bree’s resolve even more. That was all this weapon was, an extension of Kruze’s heart, and she was right then holding his heart in her hands. It was almost as if he’d put the pistol where and when she’d need it. Well, guess what Mr. Harvey Lantz? She was going to live!

  Could she shoot him? Bree honestly didn’t know. There was only one way to find out.

  “Raise your hands, you fuckin’ bitch!” Lantz bellowed as soon as he saw she peered over the desk. “Let me see both of them! Now, gawddamnit! Show ’em to me!” He was spitting mad. The barrel end of his rifle bobbed up and down like a fishing pole with a fish on the end of it. Good. He was nervous, too. Knowing that strengthened Bree’s resolve even more.

  She slapped her empty palm to the desk, then lifted to her feet. Keeping the pistol in her other hand and out of sight, she told Lantz, “You bastard, you sent Vick to kill Robin and me.”

  “I did not!” he spat. “That was all Damon’s idea.”

  “Liar!” She was up on both feet now, the pistol still undisclosed at her side. “I was there. I heard you tell him no one can come out of this alive but Banks. You ordered him to kill everyone with me. You said, ‘I don’t care if it’s her damned kid!’ I heard you!”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Lantz aimed at her head. “Hands. Now. Where I can see them. Or so help me, I’ll kill you right here, right now.”

  “As opposed to taking me somewhere else to kill me?” she screamed. “If you’re so ready to see me die, then do it. Now. Right here!” Bree didn’t think Lantz had the balls to do his own dirty work. “Kill me while the cameras are running, Lantz. Or didn’t you know that? Kruze Sinclair isn’t as dumb as you. This place is full of video and listening devices. You’re being taped, Mr. Harvey Lantz. And right now, you’re live and broadcasting!”

  Lantz thought he was the most dangerous animal in this room? Guess again. Bree was that mother bear protecting her cub. Willing to die. Just as willing to kill.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Hurry,” Kruze begged. His gut was killing him, and not because of that damned screwdriver. But because he knew Bree was in trouble. Call it osmosis or premonition or, oh hell, call it magic. He just knew, gawddamnit.

  “Touchdown. You’re home,” Chance barked, as he jumped to the ground and dragged one end of the stretcher to the chopper’s side door. Pagan managed the other end while the rotors whirred overhead. They’d landed between Eagle Lake and his place, but not at the tiny airfield.

  Kruze blinked at the one and only Sinclair jetpack stuffed inside the helo. That had to be how Pagan had shown up out of nowhere. Kruze meant to tell him thanks, but by then, Jared was on the ground, ordering Chance and Pagan to carry Kruze through the forest to his house. Or cabin. Whatever you wanted to call it. It wasn’t as large as Chance’s lodge in Montana, but Kruze had built it on the same concept. Safety first. Even if you had to dig tunnels in bedrock to ensure the people you loved the most lived. But Bree hadn’t known about any of those fail-safes. Pagan probably hadn’t had time to tell her.

  “I can walk,” Kruze insisted. But no one listened. He found himself bumping along like a halfwit while his brothers carried him through the trees. Every step forward jostled, but Kruze was beyond caring about himself. They could carry him, but he was damned if he’d let Chance and Pagan fight his battle for him. This time he’d end the bastard who’d thought he could torture and kill Bree. That he could sell her to some asshole from Turkey! The feral need to rip Lantz apart and dig his worthless heart out of his ribcage—with his bare hands!—was a strong motherfucker to restrain.

  But Kruze had to get home first, and for that, he had to rely on his brothers.

  “Hang on. Almost there,” Pagan huffed.

  “I need my pistols,” Kruze growled from beneath that damned oxygen mask. What the holy fuck? He tore the thing off and shoved it out of his way.

  “Figured you would.” One by one, Chance pulled both Kruze’s Glock 17s out of his inner jacket pocket and handed them over, grips first.

  Thank God for brothers. Kruze never thought he’d feel that way again. But there he was, being carried into battle by the men who’d only ever loved him. Who’d always had his back. Who knew that what he was doing was damned stupid and could end him, but who were helping him do it anyway. All because of a woman. His woman.

  “She’s the one,” he told Chance, his throat and lips so dry he could hardly get the words out. Inadvertently, he’d crossed both pistols over his chest. The pose of murdered lawmen from the Old West. Kinda fitting...

  Chance and Pagan lowered the stretcher a few feet short of his front porch. “I know,” Chance wheezed. “I can tell.”

  “Take it easy getting up, brother,” Pagan warned. “Your front door’s blown apart. Someone’s inside.”

  BOOM!

  “Bree!” Dying or not, Kruze rolled off the stretcher, scrambled to his feet, and took off staggering. Up the steps. Through his blasted front door. He’d reverted into a primitive man, needing to lick the blood of his enemy off his fingers. Just as he cleared the entry, some asshat down the hall to his right screamed, “Or so help me, I’ll kill you right here!”

  Harvey Lantz...

  “Like fuckin’ hell,” Kruze growled, the Neanderthal inside unleashed, the deadly hunter on track. Chance and Pagan were on his six, breathing hard.

  “As opposed to taking me somewhere else to kill me?” All three Sin Boys froze at Bree’s vehement reply. She was taking on Lantz by herself? “If you’re so ready to see me die, then do it. Now! Right here! Kill me while the cameras are running, Lantz. Or didn’t you know that? Kruze Sinclair isn’t as dumb as you. This place is full of video and listening devices. You’re being taped, Mr. Harvey Lantz. You’re live and broadcasting!”

  Clever. Intelligent. Brave. “Fuck, I love that woman,” Kruze growled. He’d never been so steady or focused as when he kicked through what was left of his office door and ran smack into Lantz’s rear-end.

  First mistake: Failure to maintain complete operational awareness. Lantz assumed Bree was the only threat. Guess again.

  “Honey, I’m home,” Kruze growled, his voice gone lethal.

  Lantz swung his rifle around. Like he stood a fuckin’ chance. Second mistake: Never bring a long gun to close-quarters combat.

  The bastard got a shot off, but he never stood a chance of aiming, not with Kruze already in his face. The round went wild. Kruze didn’t hesitate, just lifted his hand and bludgeoned one side of Lantz’s head with his Glock, then col
dcocked the bastard with his other pistol. The son of a bitch went down on all fours. His rifle skittered across the floor.

  Kruze glared at Bree on the other side of his desk. She was a quivering, shuddering mess. The subcompact Ruger LCP in her hands was shaking plenty, too. Kee-rist, she was so damned beautiful.

  Bree set the weapon on the desk, the barrel pointing at the wall, and ran to him. “Kruze!”

  He opened his arms, ready to catch her. Until that rat-bastard Lantz rolled over and bellowed, “She’s got to be with Berfende! You can’t have her! She’s mine!”

  Kruze saw the knife and acted instinctively. Grabbing Bree’s wrist, he spun her back into his chest and turned to his bookshelves. His entire body curled protectively over her. His arms sheltered her one last time. Robin needed her mom more than she needed him. Hell, she didn’t even know who he really was yet.

  “I love you, sugar,” Kruze whispered, prepared to die that they might live.

  “And I love you,” she cried as she burrowed deeper into him, her head bumping his chin. It hurt so good.

  Instead of a stabbing slice to his kidneys, a deafening BOOM! exploded behind Kruze. He hoped to God he wasn’t so hyped-up on adrenaline that he wasn’t feeling the bullet with his name on it, ending him. He’d totally expected Lantz’s stabbing blade until—

  “You son of a bitchin’ pig!” Pagan bellowed. “Get your ugly ass up, so I can kill you again, you motherfucker!”

  “It’s over, Pagan,” Chance said, his voice the only steady one in the room. “It’s done. Let’s get Bree out of here, brothers.”

  Kruze glanced over his shoulder. The barest smile tweaked the corners of Pagan’s mouth. Baby Brother’s chest heaved like a blacksmith’s bellows, and his brows were knitted like a line of thunderclouds over killer-green eyes. His glare was as deadly as fuck, and both pistols still aimed at what was left of Lantz on the floor. Baby Brother had just saved Bree.