Silent Knight: A Fog City Novel

by Layla Reyne

  Silent Knight

  A Fog City Novel

  Layla Reyne

  Contents

  Stay in Touch with Layla

  About this Book

  I. Brax

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  II. Holt

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  III. Brax

  Chapter 25

  Fog City Trilogy

  An Excerpt from Prince of Killers

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Layla Reyne

  About the Author

  Silent Knight

  Copyright © 2021 by Layla Reyne

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the copyright owner, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review.

  Cover Design: Cate Ashwood Designs

  Cover Photography: Wander Aguiar Photography

  Professional Beta Reading: Leslie Copeland

  Developmental Editing: Edits by Kristi

  Line & Copy Editing: Susie Selva

  Proofreading: Lori Parks

  First Edition

  May, 2021

  E-Book ISBN: 978-1-7341753-7-0

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7341753-9-4

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

  Content Warnings: explicit sex including light kink; explicit language; violence; instances and/or discussion of homophobia; and instances and/or discussion of depression and PTSD.

  Stay in Touch with Layla

  Join Layla’s Lushes

  Like Layla on Facebook

  Follow Layla on Instagram

  Never Miss a New Release:

  Newsletter, BookBub, Amazon

  Binge a Layla Series:

  Fog City

  Agents Irish and Whiskey

  Trouble Brewing

  Changing Lanes

  Table for Two

  Reading Order on Layla’s Website:

  www.laylareyne.com

  About this Book

  I won’t let anything happen to you.

  Fourteen years ago, Braxton Kane’s feelings were forbidden.

  As an officer, he couldn’t fall for an enlisted… no matter how much he longed for Holt Madigan.

  Now—as a police chief in love with a digital assassin—his promise to always protect Holt is becoming harder to keep.

  I’ll protect you.

  Holt doesn’t understand why his best friend has been pushing him away for months.

  But when Brax’s life and career are threatened, Holt refuses to allow the distance any longer.

  The Madigans protect their own, and Brax is family, whether he believes it or not.

  I won’t let anything happen to you either.

  Forced together, Holt realizes his feelings for his best friend have changed.

  His desire to explore the promise their single night together held is undeniable.

  His resolve to protect the man who has always protected him is unshakable.

  But if Holt wants a future with Brax, he’ll have to search and destroy the person who attacked him—before Brax activates the kill switch and sacrifices himself.

  Love and devotion. Friendship and trust. Family. It all comes down to this. Holt and Kane, together at last, in the final book of the Fog City romantic suspense series.

  For Rachel,

  who has been Holt’s biggest fan from day one.

  I

  Brax

  Chapter One

  Fourteen Years Ago

  Captain Braxton Kane stood at attention next to his commanding officer, waiting as a C-130 lumbered down the runway. Sweat dripped down his spine, and he squinted behind his shades, rays of blinding sun glimmering off the tarmac. The bird reached the end of the runway, engines revving a final time and kicking up a blast of heat hot enough to wilt the wild poppies that grew alongside the airstrip.

  The pilot cut the engines, and the ten or so seconds that followed were Brax’s favorite of the day. Before his ears readjusted and the sounds of the base returned. Before his brain realized it had been fooled into thinking he was cooling off as the plane’s heated gust dissipated. Before a new unit of soldiers disembarked and his chest ached at the truth that not all of them would board a plane home.

  Reprieve over too fast, Brax followed Colonel Ayers to the rear of the transport. As the handling door lowered, shadows were visible moving around inside the belly of the plane. Orders were barked, and the dark shapes formed two lines. Soldiers descended the ramp, side-by-side, packs on their backs, helmets in hand. When the last pair stepped into the light, Brax’s breath caught. Lodged itself in his throat with his heart. For the first time in years, he was glad for the searing sun overhead, glad it forced him to wear shades, and glad it left his skin a permanent shade of pink.

  The enlisted soldier at the end of the line was a giant of a man. Built like a linebacker, he was a couple inches taller than Brax, more than a few inches broader, and his skin was several shades more red. Sunburn more intense than Brax’s. Fresher too, bits of dry skin flaking off the soldier’s freckled nose. The lobster-red skin was an unfortunate, adorable clash with the bristles of reddish-blond hair atop his head. A contradiction, like the strong jaw belied by the dimpled chin. He was fucking beautiful—the most beautiful man Brax had seen in his thirty-six years on earth—and he was so fucking off-limits. Too young, an enlisted, straight for all Brax knew, and judging by the fear and pain that swirled in big brown eyes Brax could spend a lifetime getting lost in, too easy a target out here in the desert.

  On multiple fronts.

  The desire that churned in Brax’s gut morphed, the ache in his chest intensified, and a new objective settled on his shoulders. Took root in his mind and spiraled through his veins. He’d do whatever it took to make sure this soldier walked back up that ramp and made it home when his tour was over. Of course that’s what Brax wanted for every soldier in every unit that rotated through under his command, but it was more than want where this soldier was concerned. It was a need. He couldn’t explain it, but after more than a decade of service, he trusted his instincts.

  “Welcome to Afghanistan,” the colonel greeted, and Brax tore his hidden gaze from the enlisted stranger.

  Just in time to accept the clipboard full of paperwork the transport officer shoved into his hands. As Ayers briefed the new soldiers, Brax flipped through the papers. He checked the cargo manifest—all looked in order—and signed to acknowledge receipt. He removed the roster file from the clipboard, then handed the clipboard back to the officer who would work with his base counterpart to offload the cargo. Brax flipped open the roster file, checked the number at the top of the page, then counted
the soldiers in front of him.

  Match.

  His gaze drifted again to the enlisted soldier at the back and to the insignia on his uniform. Chevron with a rocker, private first class. But which one was he? Brax squinted against the sun to read his name patch.

  MADIGAN.

  Irish descent. Made sense with the ginger hair, freckles, and lobstered skin. He’d known a few Madigans back home, but this kid didn’t look familiar. He scanned the roster again. Private First Class Holt Madigan, San Francisco, California. Not one of the New York Madigans he knew. Twenty-years-old. Fuck, too young was right. Sixteen years between them. Brax had almost double the life on him, double the experience, including in the army, as evidenced by the apprehension lingering in Madigan’s eyes and the tremors rippling through his at-attention frame. Fighting every instinct to shift on his feet and hitch his shoulders, channeling all his nervous energy into the balled fist at his side. He reminded Brax of the giant chestnut racing ponies his grandfather used to bet on at the track, always jittery in their stalls right before a race. Brax wondered if a gentle hand—

  “Captain Kane will take it from here,” Ayers said.

  Brax snapped shut the folder and snapped shut his mind to reckless impossibilities.

  Ayers departed and Brax stepped forward, lifting his shades. “Welcome, soldiers. I’m Captain Braxton Kane, your unit leader for the next six months here at Camp Casey.” He took a moment to meet each soldier’s gaze, his eyes clashing—and holding—with the big brown ones at the end of the line. “I’ll be taking care of you.”

  He told himself he wasn’t talking to only PFC Madigan. It was a lie. One he’d tell every day for the rest of his life to see Holt Madigan’s broad shoulders relax, his puffed-out chest collapse from a held breath expelled, and the fear in his eyes chased away by a too tempting warmth Brax had put there.

  “Where’s Madigan?”

  Before anyone in the gathered unit could speak, the raid sirens blared again. Brax didn’t flinch, the sound familiar to him, but only a few months off the plane, several troops covered their ears while others instinctively crouched, taking cover from the incoming danger the sirens warned of. With half the soldiers hunched over, the absence of the unit’s physically largest member was even more noticeable.

  Not that Brax hadn’t already noticed. The quiet, giant of a man was the first soldier he always looked for any time the unit gathered for instruction, meetings, or maneuvers, any time Brax entered their bunk for announcements or inspections, any time he watched them dine from across the DFAC where the officers ate separately. Ninety days had done nothing to dampen his unwise interest and overprotective feelings for PFC Madigan. Neither had the scant words they’d exchanged. A dozen at most, outside of call and answer, but as far as Brax could discern, Madigan barely spoke to anyone. Only the minimum words necessary.

  Which was not how the private approached the rest of his duties. Madigan was always exactly where he was supposed to be, perfectly at attention, executing his tasks and maneuvers with eerie efficiency. Almost like he needed to be there, like he derived some peace from the routine. Definitely like he had premilitary training. His file backed up Brax’s speculation. Top of basic training in weapons handling, marksmanship, and close-quarters combat. The snipers were eyeing him for their unit once he advanced in rank. Brax didn’t think it would be a good fit. Not with the pain and sadness that still swirled in Madigan’s eyes, casting a lure of vulnerability that Brax was helpless to resist. Had that vulnerability gotten Madigan into trouble tonight? Brax wasn’t a fool. He knew hazing went on among the enlisted soldiers. Granted, Madigan was huge and had the skill set to take care of himself, but would he fight back if one of the jackasses on base—and there were plenty—harassed him? Attacked him? Was that why, for the first time in three months, PFC Madigan was not where he was supposed to be?

  Brax ordered the troops into formation. They’d gathered at their designated location, awaiting orders as to where they were needed on base in case the first line of defense failed to divert the threat. More often than not, the camp’s front line held or the threat was just that, a threat, but if the threat became a reality tonight, and if the front line didn’t hold, and if Madigan was alone somewhere, injured… Or he could just be in the head. Or getting laid. In either of those situations, though, Brax would have expected Madigan to yank up his pants and assemble with the rest of his unit. Instead, Brax was missing a soldier.

  “Has anyone seen PFC Madigan?” he asked again.

  A chorus of “No, sirs” echoed in reply.

  “Nothing, Bailey?” he said to Madigan’s bunkmate.

  “It’s dark, sir.”

  “Not that dark.” He gestured at the full moon overhead. “I think you’d notice if he were in his bed when you jumped down from yours.”

  “He wasn’t, sir.”

  Worry spiked.

  “I thought he was ahead of us,” Bailey added.

  Spiked higher. At most, Madigan would have been out the door a half minute sooner than the rest of his unit, and if that were the case, Brax would have seen him as he’d approached. Brax’s reaction to the sirens was immediate, whereas new soldiers typically experienced a brief disorientation before their training kicked in.

  “You missin’ one, Captain?” a major asked as he circulated through the gathered groups of soldiers.

  “Clearing the bunk,” Brax covered. He’d spent much of his career as military police before deciding he wanted to focus on better integrating new soldiers, not disciplining those who stepped out of line. That’s what would happen to Madigan if Brax had given the major any other answer, and Brax was fairly certain that further isolation, an interruption of the routine the private thrived on, was the last thing Madigan needed.

  The major nodded, seemingly satisfied with the explanation. “Take your unit to the armory. Resupply detail until the threat has passed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Brax’s thoughts didn’t stray far from the missing member of his unit even as he marched the rest of them to their station. Brax waited long enough to make sure his soldiers were well handled and well behaving, then slipped out. Using the shadows and increased base activity as cover, he hustled back to the unit’s bunk, checking the bathrooms, showers, and DFAC on the way. No sign of PFC Madigan.

  Toward the outer edge of Camp Casey, the unit’s bunkhouse was dark inside, only a faint glow from the moonlight making the outline of furniture visible. Maybe he’d been too harsh on Bailey. He kept the lights off, per protocol and per his covert intentions.

  “Madigan, you in here?”

  No response. He waited another moment for his eyes to adjust, then carefully moved around in the dark, walking the center aisle between the bunks and checking top and bottom beds. Nothing. He checked the storage room at the end of the bunkhouse. No missing private there either. He crossed back to Madigan’s bunk and laid a hand on his rumpled sheets. A trace of warmth lingered. He palmed Bailey’s bed above. Roughly the same temp. If Madigan had been out of bed before the rest of his unit, it hadn’t been for long.

  “Private, if you’re in here, come out.”

  Silence.

  “You’re not in trouble.”

  More silence.

  Fuck, if Madigan wasn’t here, where the fuck was he?

  Brax headed for the door. His hand was on the knob when the raid sirens blared again. And something shifted behind him.

  Inside the bunkhouse.

  He whipped around. “Madigan, you in here?”

  Another shift, and if Brax wasn’t mistaken, the scraping sound had come from under Madigan’s bunk. He hadn’t bothered to look there; no way the hulking private would fit.

  He crossed the room again and sat on the bottom bed of the bunk next to Madigan’s. “You under there, PFC Madigan?”

  A beat of silence, another, then a quiet, gruff, “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t expect it’s too comfortable for a guy your size.”

 
; “No, sir.”

  “You want to come out?”

  “No, sir.”

  While this hadn’t happened with one of Brax’s soldiers before, he’d heard tell of others. Some COs got angry, flipped beds, and shouted the soldier down for insubordination. Brax didn’t see how scaring a poor kid who was obviously already terrified was gonna help anyone. Yes, the military required discipline, but leading people also required understanding and compassion. Not every situation was black and white; there was a fuckton of gray out there.

  Brax slid off the bunk onto his knees, then, mimicking a push up, lowered himself onto his stomach on the floor between the bunks. One look under Madigan’s bed and warring urges ripped Brax in two. Part of him wanted to laugh. Madigan was definitely too big to be hiding under the bed, his nose practically stuffed into the underside of the mattress. The other part of Brax, the stronger of the two urges, wanted to reach out and comfort the young man. Wanted to cover his balled-tight fist and wipe the tortured expression from his tear-stained face.

  The sirens sounded again, and Madigan’s entire body clenched, shaking the frame of the bed. His knuckles blanched, and another tear leaked from the corner of his tightly shut eye.