Dominate

by Godwin, Pam

  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  “Mm-hmm.” She pursed her lips, her expression skeptical. “What’s going on, Cole?”

  “Just an observation.”

  “Why that observation? Why now?”

  “Because Tomas isn’t here to take a swing at me.”

  “Fair enough. Thank you for the compliment.” Her cheeks rose. “I’m ready to do this. Are you?”

  “Yep.” A rush of energy buzzed through him as he grabbed the high-tech bug from the table. “Going live in three, two, one…”

  He activated the device and gave her a nod.

  Nothing indicated the bug was on, but the moment it detected noise, it would begin recording. Sound clips would be sent to an untraceable phone, and whoever monitored that phone would be alerted of the incoming recording within seconds.

  Basic spy technology, but so much more. This bug had been customized with high-speed transmissions, long-reach WIFI, and battery life that exceeded months—all built into a chip the size of a coin.

  That level of cutting-edge tech wasn’t obtainable outside clandestine groups like NSA and black ops. He’d been retired from the activity for so long he wasn’t up to speed on the latest tech. Hell, he didn’t even know how the bug functioned until he’d taken it apart.

  What he did know was that this tiny piece of tech was the key that would lead him to the threat.

  Or rather, it would lead the threat to him.

  “Where are you going?” he asked Rylee, following the script he’d rehearsed with her.

  “I’m sick of hiding, Cole.” She stared at the listening device, answering exactly as he’d coached her. “We’ve been moving around, running for months, and you still don’t know who planted those bugs in my house. Now you expect me to sit here in the damn desert and wait for something to happen? You don’t even know if they’re listening to us now.”

  While holed up in Missouri for the past four months, he and his team spent that time investigating and planning. Now they were back in Texas, ready to finish this, and she’d just given the enemy their location. On purpose.

  “This house is the safest place for us,” he said.

  “This house holds too many haunting memories for Tommy. We’re leaving.”

  “Where the hell are you going to go?”

  “Out of the country. Doesn’t matter.” She moved toward the door, deliberately distancing her voice from the listening device. “I came here for Tommy. I didn’t sign up for this, whatever this is.”

  “Rylee, wait.” He followed her out of the house and shut the door behind him, loud enough to be detected by the bug.

  The plan was set.

  Outside, Tomas sat in a doorless, topless Jeep Wrangler, his arm draped over the steering wheel and his golden stare locked on Rylee. “How did it go?”

  “Noticeably contrived.” She climbed into the passenger seat and kissed his rigid jaw. “I should’ve studied acting instead of psychology.”

  “You did fine.” Cole stopped beside the Jeep, sweating in the evening heat. “Doesn’t matter if it sounded hokey. They now know where I am, and when they arrive, they’ll believe you’re gone.”

  The last part was paramount. Someone tried to kill her once. He couldn’t risk her or anyone else getting captured and used as a hostage to control him.

  A glance at the Jeep’s cargo confirmed Tomas had packed everything they needed to camp in the desert for a few nights. He also had enough artillery to take out an army. Van, Liv, Luke, and Tiago were already in position, far enough away to not be seen, yet close enough to be here at a moment’s notice with guns blazing.

  Cole turned toward the house and spotted Tate and Lucia sitting in the dark on the flat roof. The instant they heard an approaching car, they would alert the team, aim their rifles, and lie low enough to be undetected from the ground.

  If the threat arrived by helicopter, they were all fucked. A view from the sky would mark the positions of his entire team in the desert.

  “Get out of here.” He tapped the hood and stepped back, watching Tomas drive off.

  As the taillights faded into the shadows of sand and desert buttes, he switched on the transmitter in his pocket. “We’re live. Do you copy?”

  “Loud and clear” came through his earpiece eight times, once for each of his teammates.

  They all carried receivers with sensitive microphones and wireless nano earphones that operated over a radio frequency like walkie-talkies. They would sleep in shifts, check in every hour, and wear the earpieces at all times.

  “Out.” He muted his mic.

  Now, they waited.

  Cole returned to the house, keyed up and primed for battle.

  He lived for this shit—the tremor of looming danger, the rush of adrenaline, and the thrill in fighting for something meaningful. That was the reason he’d enlisted to become a Navy SEAL all those years ago—a decision that had hurdled him through the ranks and landed him in a unit so covert and off the record that it didn’t exist. At least, not to those who didn’t have the clearance.

  In the kitchen, he holstered a 9mm in the waistband of his jeans. A blade went into his boot. The rifles he set by the door. He left the listening device on the table to record his movements around the house.

  It could be days before someone showed up, depending on how far they had to travel. While he was in Missouri for the past few months, he assumed his pursuers had stayed in Texas, waiting for him to reemerge. They wouldn’t be far.

  He lowered onto the couch and measured his breathing, taking on the cold, competitive mindset that had accompanied him on every mission over the past fifteen years. He was nothing if not a soldier rooted in grit, preparation, and confidence.

  Grit rose from a place of deep purpose. Preparation came only through patience and tenacity. And confidence? That had been drilled into him through experience, training, and resilience.

  Kill or be killed. Didn’t matter what he faced or how badly the odds stacked against him. He believed in his ability to overcome.

  In most missions, he knew his enemies inside and out. But not this one. From this point on, anything could happen.

  A retrieval team would likely be sent for him. A few armed men. Maybe a dozen or more. That was the best-case scenario. If an army of thugs tried to take him by gunfire or physical force, the Freedom Fighters would rush in and wipe them out, save one. One breathing man was all they needed to torture for information.

  But if only one man showed up, that would mean his enemy wielded something more powerful than bullets. If he had any fear, it lay in that unknown variable, a potential misstep he hadn’t calculated, like an unforeseen hostage.

  Everyone he cared about was accounted for. Trace Savoy had Danni locked up in the tower of his St. Louis casino, claiming his security was as impenetrable as Cole’s safe house in Missouri. It wasn’t. Which was why Cole had demanded they stay at his house. Trace’s refusal to do so was infuriating and unfounded. Evidently, the uptight bastard didn’t trust Cole around his wife.

  Was it a valid concern? Maybe. Cole had no idea what he would do if he saw Danni again. Right now, all he cared about was keeping her safe.

  As for the rest of his friends, he’d spoken with Matias an hour ago. The cartel boss affirmed they were safely on his plane and on their way to Texas. When they arrived, they would wait at an undisclosed location until Cole gave them the go-ahead to approach.

  He hoped he wouldn’t need Matias’ assistance, but he wouldn’t reject it. Give help and get help. It was a crucial motto in his line of work.

  An hour rolled by, and radio check-ins were made. Then another hour, another check-in.

  With the use of a dedicated frequency and encrypted communication, their conversations transmitted over secure lines. As an added layer of protection, everyone used nicknames.

  Just before the third hour, Tate’s voice came through the earpiece. “Come in, chief.”

  Cole lurched from the couch and closed
himself into the bathroom, where the bug couldn’t hear him. “Go ahead.”

  “Eyes on incoming movement. A single light approaching from the east. Looks like a headlight.”

  “A motorcycle?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “On it.” His pulse kicked up. “Stand by.”

  “Copy.”

  One motorcycle.

  That wasn’t a goddamn retrieval team. It was something far worse.

  Returning to the front room, he peered around the window curtain, his neck tense and senses on high-alert.

  A bright light bobbed over the horizon and headed straight toward him.

  Only one.

  Goddammit. His gaze darted to the rifles by the door. Useless. Whatever the biker was armed with couldn’t be defeated with gunfire.

  His heart rate escalated as he stepped away from the window. Perspiration formed on his brow as he chambered a round in his pistol and returned it to his waistband.

  Bullets wouldn’t save them. Not from this.

  A tremor rippled through his fingers as he removed the necklace that hung beneath his shirt. He couldn’t risk losing Danni’s engagement ring.

  It went into the pack he kept in the back bedroom, safely stowed. Then he drew in a deep breath and stepped outside.

  The mic on his transmitter remained on, his team silent and listening, waiting on his command.

  The rumble of a single-cylinder engine vibrated the air as a BMW motorcycle approached, taking its time. The rider wore a black helmet and appeared small in stature, at least half his size. He realized why as the bike rolled up beside him.

  Slender hands gripped the handlebars, connected to feminine arms sleeved in more tattoos than he had on his entire body. In the moonlight, vivid colors of ink formed so many artful designs it would take him hours to make out all the images.

  The biker shut off the engine and left the headlight on, illuminating the desert behind him. No visible weapons. No immediate threats on the horizon. She appeared to be alone.

  Three feet of space separated them. He was close enough to grab her and physically overpower her. Or shoot her point-blank with the 9mm in his hand.

  “Right about now, you’re calculating your next move.” A sultry Russian accent crooned from the helmet as she lowered the kickstand and slid off the motorcycle. “You activated my bug, Cole Hartman, and here I am. But you weren’t expecting a woman. This, I know.”

  You veren’t expecting eh voman. Zis, I know.

  He certainly wasn’t expecting a Russian woman. He didn’t have enemies in that part of the world. But he’d worked there. The activity operated only outside of the United States, and since all his missions had been overseas, he spoke seven languages with superb fluency. Including hers.

  “I’ll help you decide your next move.” With each syllable, she pulled her tongue to the back of her throat, adding friction to the H sounds and hardening the Rs. “If you shoot me, your friends will die.”

  “Which friends?” he asked in Russian. “I don’t have many.”

  The helmet cocked, paused. She seemed startled that he spoke her language.

  She was probably a low-ranking myrmidon, a subordinate who carried out orders unquestioningly. Most likely, she was chosen for this task because she was a woman with an attractive figure, her purpose to lure and disarm. She wouldn’t know anything about him beyond what they’d given her to complete the job.

  “I’m not talking about your two friends on the roof,” she said in Russian. “They can lower their rifles. They won’t need them.”

  His scalp tingled. How did she know Tate and Lucia were there? Aerial thermal imaging? If that was the case, the position of his entire team was compromised.

  Unease slithered down his spine, but he didn’t spare Tate and Lucia a glance.

  Instead, he switched back to English so they could follow the conversation. “You have an infrared drone up there?”

  “I have eyes everywhere,” she purred.

  Maybe she was bluffing, but either way, his team knew what to do.

  “Come in, esé.” Lucia’s voice barked through the earpiece. “What’s your 20?”

  “Same,” Van said. “All present and standing by.”

  “Any drones?”

  “Eyes on the sky. No bogies in sight. No hostiles on the ground. All clear. Try not to get yourself killed, mija.”

  “Roger,” she said. “Out.”

  Relief swept through Cole as he turned back to the woman. “Tell me who you work for.”

  “No.”

  “Remove the helmet.”

  “This, I can do.” She reached up and started unbuckling the straps.

  Dark jeans caressed her toned curves, the waistband rising high to her midriff and exposing a sliver of smooth, pale skin. The denim folded into wide cuffs at her ankles, and Gothic boots sported random buckles that served no practical purpose.

  Her cropped corset looked more like a strapless bra, with black and white polka-dots that clashed with the colorful artwork on her arms. The bodice clung to the round swells of her tits, clinching an hourglass figure that needed no clinching.

  Her top dipped so low it exposed a red bird inked across her breast, its beak lost in her ample cleavage. A swallow bird. Vintage in its design. With vibrant swirls and elaborate filigree, the chest piece looked so fucking enticing on her perfect rack it demanded his stare, ensnared it, and wouldn’t let it go.

  Until she removed the helmet.

  Piles of thick, bright-ass-red hair tumbled out, bouncing off her shoulders and falling around her inked arms. Eyes of sea-green stared out of a face so feminine, so delicately formed, that her flawless ivory complexion didn’t appear natural.

  Nothing about her appearance looked real. Or soft.

  Heavy black eyeliner winged out from the corners of her large eyes. Her lashes were so dense and long he knew they were fake. Even the white stone piercing on her upper lip was an imitation of Marilyn Monroe’s beauty mark.

  Cherry red gloss stained her lips. Plump, sinful, smiling lips. The longer he stared, the wider she smiled. She damn well knew the effect she had on men.

  Her beauty was bold, arresting, and deliberately, garishly exaggerated. With her makeup painted on in aggressive strokes and her mermaid hair so shockingly red, he suspected she spent more time primping than firing a weapon.

  From head to toe, she exuded a rockabilly vibe, blending old-school rock with Goth subculture, like a retro Russian pinup girl with a wartime air. She would look right at home sprawled on a Soviet tank, wearing nothing but garters and that ruby red smile. Seductive and freaky and one-hundred-percent artificial.

  What did she look like beneath the hair dye and caked-on cosmetics? He trusted her beauty as much as he trusted her.

  “While your eyes are bulging from your head,” she said in her thick accent, “the clock is ticking. You will come with me now.”

  Someone had bugged Rylee’s house, sent a hitman after her, and killed three innocent people, and this woman was involved.

  The plan had been to lure her here. Not get himself captured.

  He laughed. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “You will, Cole Hartman.” She removed a large-screen tablet from the pack on her motorcycle and handed it to him. “Turn it on.”

  His lungs caved in, and alarms rang in his head. He stared at the offered device, unable to move, crippled by memories.

  Eleven years ago. Thurney Bridge. He’d faked his death, lost his girl, and destroyed his life—all because of a video on a phone.

  He couldn’t guess what she would show him on that device, but whatever it was would force him to his knees.

  No. Fuck no. Not this.

  It couldn’t be a threat to Danni’s life. Not again. Trace swore she was safe.

  The woman huffed with impatience and powered on the screen, displaying a paused video. “Push play.”

  “Rot in hell.” He aimed the pistol at her face, inches fr
om her painted lips.

  She didn’t flinch or bat a fake eyelash. Instead, her mouth curved up. Her tongue poked out, and she slowly, fearlessly, fucking shamelessly licked the end of the barrel. All the way around the tip she went. Then she drew it between her filthy, lush, red lips.

  His dick twitched, heating his anger past the boiling point. He yanked the gun away.

  “We’re out of time, tigryenok.” She pouted. “Watch the video.”

  She pressed play, and as much as he wanted to smack the device from her hand, he was still a soldier. A disciplined operative. Logic over emotion, his mind was in control.

  The video showed a tarmac and private airplane hangar, the camera hovering from somewhere overhead. Before it zoomed in on the plane and the people boarding it, he knew exactly what he was looking at.

  Matias, Camila, Josh, Amber, Kate, Martin, Ricky, Tula, and Vera. The nine Freedom Fighters who were on their way here.

  His throat closed, panic spiking.

  How had she obtained this footage? Whoever watched his friends hadn’t stopped them from boarding. He’d spoken with Matias after they were in the air. They were safe.

  Unless another aircraft was following them.

  She switched the screen, displaying a new video. “This is a live feed, streaming from an armed drone.”

  The drone was in motion, high in a pitch-black sky, and locked onto a target. Equipped with night-vision cameras, it provided an undeniable view of another aircraft coasting at a distance ahead of it.

  She tapped on the screen, controlling the drone’s camera and zooming in until the tail number on the aircraft’s cowling was legible.

  He recognized the number instantly and knew it was registered to Matias’ plane.

  An ache swelled in the back of his throat.

  Van’s wife, Tiago’s wife, Liv’s husband, Lucia’s sister—every person on that aircraft was irreplaceable. They were family.

  The team on the ground was listening through the radio, but they didn’t see what he saw. They didn’t know their loved ones were in danger.

  Didn’t matter. They were his people, too.

  Cold purpose numbed his chest as he slipped a hand into his pocket and discreetly muted the transmitter, preventing his friends from hearing what came next.