Ruled

by Angel Payne

  “No,” she echoed, because now he hadn’t heard her. They were still headed the wrong direction down the tunnel, down a strange side hall in which the gray bricks gave way drywall and paint and the air smelled of exhaust and gasoline—nowhere near the basement laundry room they’d passed before. “John, I’m not going to—”

  “You sure as hell are going to.” In any other time or circumstance, that succinct growl would’ve had her belly fluttering and her pussy clenching. Right now, it only made her yearn to yank away, turn heel, and run back into Bastille like the batshit brat he was making her feel. If only this were that simple. If only she really could lead him on a merry chase through a bunch of kink role play rooms, finally letting him catch up and punish her in any wicked way he saw fit…

  But yeah, this was her off night too.

  Because this nightmare was really happening.

  Thoughts she had no damn time to process because hell was hitting too freaking fast. Even in Rayna’s runners, she was breathless keeping up with John’s wide, efficient strides. Even forcing her mind into crisis mode, she had to blink against disbelief when he whipped one of his burner phones out of a side pocket and barked five unfathomable words.

  “It’s Franzen. We’ve been made.”

  At the end of the hall, there was a wide glass door. Through the pane, she spotted rows of parked cars—beyond the cobalt-blue Hellcat and steel-gray Jag XKR-S idling in front of the lobby. Max and Garrett, having somehow disappeared during her brain’s flight from sanity to panic to fear, paced in front of both front bumpers like textbook goons from a gangster movie. It was an improvement from the horror show comparison, at least—turning damn close to a joyous chick flick when she spotted Gem and Ronnie seated in the back of Garrett’s Hellcat.

  They both flashed her elated grins, while raising hands with two fingers up and two down, thumbs extended. Their version of love, the American Sign Language way. As thoroughly as Tracy longed to answer by dashing over, yanking open the door, and crushing them both into hugs, she was hyperconscious of the exact situation they faced right now.

  We’ve been made.

  It meant that at any moment now, some lunatic—perhaps the same one who’d set the explosives in the villa at the Bellagio—could jump out from anywhere, ready with even more of his fun fireworks. With Franz still on the phone, only Max and Garrett had eyes on the entire garage. The job usually required a Secret Service army of ten.

  “You think I fucking know how it happened, Sol?” The fury in Franz’s voice shot through his body, though when Tracy squeezed his hand in support, he returned the pressure. Such a strange, seemingly insignificant gesture—but as soon as her heart flipped twelve different directions because of it, curtains raised on a much bigger mental vista. Suddenly, it was like she balanced atop a hundred-foot flagpole at the edge of the Grand Canyon.

  Was this what her life was going to be like until the next election? And beyond that, even if she decided not to submit for reelection? Would she always be hiding now? Always wondering if the next parking garage—or movie theater, or airport, or hotel villa—was hiding assassins in its shadows, waiting to toss a bomb into her belly or fire a bullet into her brain?

  If so…how was she going to handle any of it without John?

  No.

  How was she going to handle even the normal days without him?

  Yeah, even when he was like this. Perhaps especially like this, with his stance like a gladiator, his glare like a lion, and his voice—dear God, how his voice sizzled through her, even now—like an avenging angel from the wrong side of the celestial tracks.

  “Tell you what, man,” he sneered into the burner. “Why don’t you tell me how it happened? You’re determined to do it the right fucking way, after all. Come on; I’m interested to hear this. Tell me where I’ve genked up. Nothing I’m not used to hearing—but you know that too, don’t you? Lend me thy great and powerful wisdom, Mr. Wrightman. I’m all fucking ears.”

  Tracy could tell he wanted to pace. She didn’t dare let him go. He kept up his side of the grip, but maybe that was because he was so preoccupied. Damn. He berated Sol to the point of composing a full masters’ thesis on the subject.

  Wait.

  What?

  He really was berating Sol. A lot.

  Taking the time to do it. Right now.

  With his gaze glued to…

  Max?

  Who returned the scrutiny by rolling a finger in the air. Then added a new motion, as if pulling a zipper sideways—the universal television production symbol for drawing a conversation out.

  What. The. Hell?

  “Done there, sparky?” he gritted into the phone. “Don’t let me harsh your groove, hot stuff. I mean, the great and powerful Sol Wrightman knows exactly how to do all this subterfuge shit, doesn’t he?”

  He finished that part by throwing his gaze down at her—though the incensed fire she expected to find in his gaze was nonexistent. She felt her lips fall open as he stared harder.

  Looking as if Sol had just told him someone had died.

  What the hell? Tracy repeated it by mouthing it now but once more came up against the Great Wall of Franzen. The flint in his jaw now defined his whole stature. The bizarre sheen continued in his eyes.

  On the other side of the car, Max kept up the TV production hand signals. Suddenly, that changed. He nodded sharply then jabbed both thumbs into the air.

  The second he did, John switched up the dialogue with Sol as well. “Hey. Hey. I don’t have time for any of this, asshole.”

  Asshole?

  Before she could funnel the shock into so much as a glance, he barreled on. “I’m taking her someplace safe—clearly safer than this. Don’t expect to hear from me until it’s publicly reported that you’ve caught the Vegas bomber.”

  Why she was dumbfounded that he ended the exchange there, using his thigh to help him break the burner in two before hurling it into a trashcan, was a mystery for unraveling another time. There were bigger issues here to tackle—namely, what the hell was going on upstairs, what the hell had just happened here, and where the hell was her son—than to worry about Franz’s lack of social graces.

  At the moment, she wasn’t feeling fond of the bullshit herself—especially when the man let go of her hand, pushing at the small of her back toward Max’s Jag. Hell. He chose now to roll out one of the best moves in the alpha male playbook? She wanted to enjoy it, damn it—not be struggling to accept this might be the last time she’d ever feel it. The last time he’d be touching her, period. She wanted him to be escorting her to this piece of automotive porn for a glamorous date involving booze and chocolate and sex, not as a getaway car to—

  Where?

  She stopped in the space between the open passenger door and the car itself. Looked at Max, his thunderous expression still the same, and then at Rayna, who’d already climbed in and buckled up in the Jag’s back seat, worry glistening in her huge emerald eyes. Finally, she swung a new gaze back, at the other waiting car.

  And came to a sudden, distinct recognition.

  None of this had happened randomly.

  This was a coordinated effort—as in, someone had worked out a plan, gone over it with the guys, and ensured it would all happen.

  As in, someone had practically expected their hideout to get blown.

  As in, the hulk now standing in front of her, due to the furious spin she executed on his hulking, scowling form. “Franzen.”

  His hand, now at her hip because of her whiplash move, dug into her flesh like his fingers had turned to I-beams. “Tracy.”

  “Uh-uh,” she fired at his equally iron tone. “No way are you going dragon on me right now.”

  He splayed more I-beams against her other hip. “No way are you calling an inch of what happens right now.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  More flint etched its way over his face. “Not at liberty to discuss with you, ma’am.”

  Not at—
>
  Ma’am?

  Her jaw plummeted. “Are you shitting me?”

  He didn’t even blink. “Get in the car, Tracy.”

  Even as he ordered it, Max was already doing just that. The guy turned the engine over and revved it, as if deliberately adding a grating backup to his friend’s logic.

  Yes, damn it. Logic. She’d have readily accepted a root canal over admitting it, but Franz’s urgency wasn’t just smart. It was necessary. The longer she stood here trying to pull rank she didn’t really have over him, in any version, the more precious seconds went by without him getting out of here and up to Zeke…

  And Luke.

  God. God. Her boy. Her sanity.

  He’d be safest if she got the hell out of here. It was a brutal truth she couldn’t rewrite—one Franz had already forced himself to confront.

  But how? And when?

  When he hadn’t been between the sheets—and in the shower, and on the desk, and in the laundry room, and on the couch—with her, he’d been spending valuable time with Luke, hours she’d treasured as much as all their intimacy. So when had he carved out more hours in those days to develop this escape plan with the guys, just in case? And why did she glare harder at him now, only to be slammed by the most insane instinct for that effort? The feeling that he’d actually known just in case might become just a matter of time?

  Holy shit.

  The realization twisted in deeper, feeling like a corkscrew to her chest.

  Had he known? Had he sensed—perhaps even gotten some intel to back it up—that this horrible shoe might really drop? Had he continued screwing her, charming her, dominating her, and consciously kept this from her? Had he seen her most terrified tears, fulfilled her most filthy fantasies, and demanded the most brutal honesty of her soul while holding back this vital information about the people trying to snuff her life?

  And if so, why did he even think she wanted him near her now?

  And damn it, why did he pick that exact moment to lean over, staring in and reading every shred of that fury across her quavering face? Why the hell did he make her feel like shit about it without even trying, with double daggers jabbing vertically between his eyebrows? Why was she even tempted to reach for him as the hurt stretched across his face, ticking his jaw and clenching his teeth?

  She looked away. She had to. Like that did any good. He loomed so close, every one of her viable sightlines was consumed by him—every one of her breaths was full of the potent command of him.

  Damn him. Damn him.

  “Tracy.”

  “What?”

  “You have to trust me.”

  She swallowed heavily. Because she had to. Because if she didn’t, the bile would invade her tone more than it already did. “I know.”

  What the hell. Maybe she’d still puke, just for the hell of it. Not inside Delphine, though technically Max was a culpable accomplice here and deserved the mess in his car—but hurling on John’s boots was such a superior idea, in so many ways…

  Also not an option. Not now.

  Now, just like so many other times when just giving up and getting sick was a temptation better than chocolate mousse and Dwayne Johnson combined, it just wasn’t a damn option.

  Now, like those other times, she had to bracket her spine with steel, command her chin to lift, and grit back the tears until her teeth hurt. Her boy, hiding and horrified somewhere in this building, needed her strength.

  Even the strength to leave him.

  And damn it, the strength to trust this man with his life. This man who, despite hiding a vital truth from her, still somehow had her trust. That made less sense than refusing chocolate and Dwayne, but there was even less time for therapist shopping right now. And the last time she checked, dead women didn’t need therapy.

  She wanted to need therapy.

  She wanted to live.

  And she had to get out of this alive, if only for one damn, driving reason. She wanted it so badly, she spoke it into existence from between her locked teeth.

  “I’m going to find a flogger and use it on you after this, Captain Franzen.”

  She braced herself for his just-try-it grin. Maybe even the preening arch of both his brows. She hadn’t prepared for the meaningful heat turning his gaze to darker smoke—or for the touch he joined to it, a swift brush of knuckles over her cheek, accompanied by words he merely whispered but might as well have shot from the gun on his back.

  “And I’ll be looking forward to it, my love.”

  Nine seconds of his breath.

  Nine bullets to her heart.

  Nine explosions of shock. Of joy. Of elation. Of incredulity.

  Of swearing she was going to flog him harder for pulling this shit on her in this damn moment.

  This all wrong, but suddenly so right, moment…

  Just before the world detonated around them.

  Pop, pop, pop.

  Blam, blam, blam.

  Many times in the past, especially since she and Luke had moved in at Observatory Circle, she had heard fireworks in the summer and worried they were gunshots. She now knew the difference. She’d never have those summer skitters again, not after hearing the real thing. The shots blazed with sharp violence, echoing with sickening surety against the parking garage walls. Not after identifying the inevitable chaos latched to it. The frantic rush of racing boots. The acridity of fried lead. The spike of panic on the air. The bellows, deep and demanding, of soldiers jacked by adrenaline, dazed by explosions, and consumed by violence.

  And one more sound.

  One gutting her to the point of true, undeniable nausea.

  The shouts of a fifteen-year-old, forced to grow up by years because terrorists were chasing him. Shooting at him.

  Shooting to kill.

  “No.” It burned her throat, which felt as small and meaningless and helpless as the rest of her body. “Nnnooo.” Now it was a moan, strangled by panic and horror. A sound that disgusted her. It was supposed to have been his name.

  Luke.

  Luke!

  But she couldn’t force the syllable out. Her tongue was made of rubber. Her lungs were useless blobs. She only knew she couldn’t unclick the seat belt and bolt out of the car faster—

  Only to be thrown back in.

  Locked back in.

  Chained back down.

  By the monster she kicked at. Clawed at. Yearned to tear apart, limb by goddamn limb, and then squash the caramel mess of his body into a giant cosmic food processor. The bastard deserved worse. He tied her down. Pretended he did it to “help” her. Who stroked her cheek and called her his “love.”

  His love!

  He didn’t love her. Not after this. Not after planting his big, controlling hand in the middle of her sternum, glaring at her like a wild animal to be tamed, and ordering, “Goddamnit, Tracy! Stay!” Especially not after lifting the dual torches of his eyes, locking that glower into Max, and yelling, “Get them the fuck out of here. Now.”

  “No.” Her shriek unclamped her throat. “No, damn it. Luke. Luke!”

  He grabbed both her shoulders. Shook her until she looked directly at him again. “He’ll be safe. I swear it, ku`uipo. I swear it.” He breathed hard, pumping fresh blood to the gash down one of his cheeks. She seized a schism of comfort. Knowing she’d inflicted that damage. “Max is taking you someplace safe. They won’t look for you there. I’ll bring Luke to you at the same spot. You have to go!”

  He didn’t wait for her reply.

  As usual, the dragon’s orders were law.

  And as Max stomped on the gas, peeling the Jag out of the garage and into the streets of midnight-drenched Seattle, Tracy forced her soul to sit down with her heart’s warring factions over that damn edict.

  She really, really hated him.

  She totally, completely trusted him.

  What the hell was she going to do without him?

  The thought had definitely not been her plea for a trial run on that answer.

&nbs
p; Life, in its disgustingly evil way, had delivered anyway.

  Twelve and a half hours ago, she was riding in an elevator with the man, feeling as giddy as a college girl on her first date. Steel and concrete had been her confines; outside there’d been one of the world’s largest cities, bustling and vrooming and chaotic in its nightlife rush.

  Two hours after that, she’d looked up at the canopy of stars over Mount Rainier, while climbing into yet another sightseeing helicopter. Her mood had been as dark as the thunderheads sneaking over the back of the famous peak, as Sam Mackenna piloted the aircraft south…

  Across Oregon…

  Far into California…

  Until sweeping in over the ocean, sparkling as brilliantly as those Rainier stars, and landing in the huge meadow over which she now peered.

  There were two helos parked in the grass now. Their blades drooped, the engines long since silenced. Only thirty minutes had passed between the two landings, officially the longest half hour of her life. But as soon as Ethan Archer touched down the second helo and her very alive, very animated fifteen-year-old had bounded onto the grass, her agony melted into inconsequence. She hadn’t even minded about barely understanding the kid, letting Mia and him jabber as if they’d ridden fifteen roller coasters in a row. Apparently, barely escaping from mystery terrorists in a hail of gunfire, followed by a hell-bent-for-leather ride through the streets of Seattle and then a midnight helicopter ride over two state lines and hundreds of miles, was second only to ziplining in the world of teenage cool.

  Reeducating the kid—and that would happen—could come later. For now, knowing there was nothing or nobody here to harm him, aside from a few curious bunnies and squirrels in the meadow, brought a rush of peace she would not complain about. A serenity she didn’t even know still existed…at least not for her.

  What did that say about the path she’d chosen for her life?

  About what she now subjected Luke’s life to?

  The rolling hills, glowing sage and amber in the burgeoning dawn, gave her no answers. They extended for miles, finally blending with the glimmering sea, an equal enigma for enlightenment. At the moment, she was beyond caring. The sun, finally breaking into full light, proved why they called this place the Golden State. The morning wind, whispering across the meadow, lulled her into enjoying a long breath in and then out. Then another.