by Zoe Dawson
Chry managed to get some energy in her voice. “You were there, Neo. That is all that mattered. You’ve been here through all of this. You saved me already.”
His expression relaxed somewhat, and he managed a smile. “Don’t make a habit of it, Steele.” He stared at her a moment longer, assessing the situation. “We’re going to get some more fluid in you. It’ll help you to recover from your blood loss. Don’t argue,” he threatened.
Chry watched him. “You are pretty bossy.”
He grinned. “That’s right.” He sent the wonderfully cool cloth over her face again.
“Neo,” she said. “Stop fussing.”
He set the cloth aside and stretched out beside her again. “I was so angry that day. When I saw those guys around you, I almost lost it.” She turned her head to look at him and he met her gaze. “I needed to protect you…like I protected my brother.”
“You were just a boy,” Chry whispered.
“Maybe physically, but not mentally.” He stared back at her, exhaustion lining his face. “No one knows this, and I’ve kept it a secret even from you.” His expression sobered and he absently stroked her arm, his manner suddenly preoccupied. He hesitated, as though trying to find the right words, then looked up at her. “I killed my father the day he murdered Riley. Everyone thought it was because I was running away. But it wasn’t me running. I hated him and there was no way I was joining his club or being part of that vicious gang. Riley wasn’t either. He ran away that day because he was terrified, and I went after him to try to convince him that we had to plan, be smart, get away when it was safe. Pierce caught us in that vacant lot. He was in a drunken rage, and he knew I cared for my brother Riley more than anyone except Dean. But Dean was gone. That bastard took Riley’s life to make me suffer. Every time he looked at me, I think he remembered what he had done to my mom. I think somewhere in his twisted mind, he was sickened by it. I was a constant reminder.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry.” That was a weak platitude in the wake of what 2-Stroke had endured.
He swallowed hard, then looked down and continued to stroke her arm with an unsteady hand. “I put up roadblocks between us because I knew I was going to BUD/S. I knew then I was going to be a SEAL. I had to leave, Chry, or I would have gone crazy. Everything I had in me I channeled into becoming a SEAL. I didn’t care about myself. I just pushed so hard physically and mentally as a way to recover from what had happened. I needed to protect people. I needed to become strong in both mind and body. I had to stand up for the weak, find justice for the wronged, and do whatever it took to keep everyone safe. It was my lifeline.”
He met her gaze, his voice so strained it was barely audible. “I missed you like hell. Those first few weeks as your calls dwindled, then stopped, it was like a knife to my heart. But back then, I thought I had to break ties with my past to survive and move forward.”
“Now?”
“I’m in such a damned tangle that I’m not sure of anything when it comes to how I feel about you.”
She smiled at him through a sudden blur of tears, her chest aching with a surge of love, the feelings of being connected, intimate and present in his life overshadowed the pain of her injury. She had been totally vulnerable and without his help, she would have died. “I’ll take that for now. We’ll sort through everything when we aren’t running for our lives.”
She pushed at the covers as a wave of heat engulfed her, then shivered again as the air hit her exposed skin.
He stared at her for the longest time, then reached out and lifted a tendril of hair off her neck, molding his hand against her jaw. His face was cast in a solemn expression as he stroked her cheek with his thumb, then finally he smiled, his eyes filling with an intoxicating warmth. “Damn well, we will.”
She covered his hand with hers, her heart melting all over again. “At least I have your undivided attention. Tell me it isn’t just the gunshot wound.”
He gazed at her for a minute, then lowered his head and lightly brushed his mouth against hers. “I’m so aware of you it scares the hell out of me.”
She lingered against his lips for a brief, electrifying moment, then whispered, “I don’t have much resistance where you’re concerned.” Her head swam, but she couldn’t be sure if it was the fever or 2-Stroke.
He drew a breath and gathered her against him. “I don’t have any.” He didn’t say anything for several moments, then reluctantly eased his hold. He looked down at her, his eyes stark and direct. “You will be all right,” he said.
She nodded, her ability to hold onto lucidity slipping as her brain went fuzzy.
“Chry?” she heard from what seemed like a long distance and she couldn’t seem to open her eyes as heat and disorientation buzzed through her head.
She felt movement, then heard the door open.
“It’s about time. She’s lost consciousness.” 2-Stroke’s voice was strained.
“I’ll take good care of her.” That was Saint’s voice. She felt the blankets get displaced and the cool air on her skin. The sound of footsteps and then more voices.
“We had to be careful we weren’t followed.” That was Marta’s voice, and it was filled with apology.
“How is she doing?”
Chry struggled to recognize that voice. Wait. It must be Anika, who Dodger mentioned. A veterinarian. Right. She had the antibiotics.
There was a light touch on her forehead. “This is too high. Let’s get this antibiotic into her. In the meantime, Marta, get some ice into a bowl of water. We need to cool her down.” Who was that? Chry searched her mind, trying to remember. It came to her slowly out of the haze. Saint. “I brought some morphine, too.”
Oh, thank God. It was even better after she felt the prick of a needle in her arm and a languid, floating sensation came over her, the pain in her side subsiding. She hovered between sleeping and waking.
The next thing she knew, she was being lifted to a sitting position and 2-Stroke was saying, “Come on, babe. Open your mouth and swallow the pill.”
Chry opened her eyes, twisting her head as the fever took hold of her, waves of heat rushing over her like a wildfire. She felt the pill on her tongue, then obediently swallowed when the cool water touched her lips.
Then she was in 2-Stroke’s strong arms. She floated in the comforting feel of him until the shock of cold hit the heated skin of her legs. She cried out and tried to twist away from the icy touch.
“It’s all right, Chry. This is good for you,” a male voice said as she swam through the murk in her head. She opened her eyes to distorted faces and blobs of color, making her panic. She twisted some more, but strong arms and hands held her down.
“Neo,” she cried, calling for him in her stupor, her link with reality blurred by the high fever.
“I’m here, babe.” His voice came from beside her, soothing her as the chilly feel of cold against her legs. She gasped again, reaching out blindly and curling her arms around his neck. He was the only thing that anchored her to the world. If she let go, she might float away from him and never see him again.
Her irrational mind couldn’t grasp onto anything but the electric sensation of his presence, the strength of his muscles, the familiar scent of his skin, and the texture of his hair.
“She’s going to kill us,” she whispered over and over. “We have to fight. Take back our lives,” she pleaded as she found herself alone on a cold tundra, nothing but snow and ice spread out in front of her.
“Neo!” she shouted, but there was nothing but the frigid sound of the wind as it blew across her exposed skin. She ran, her feet like ice, until she fell into a deep, dark fissure with no bottom to stop her descent.
11
Striker stood at the window, the reflection in the glass showing Aella pining for Saint. Yeah, he knew when two people were getting it on. He thought fleetingly how long it had been since he’d felt that way about a woman.
The ones who didn’t count barely registered—the frog hogs and the
strap hangers made it easy to get his rocks off, but it didn’t fulfill something fundamental inside him. The last woman he could remember…the one woman he couldn’t seem to forget… Ophelia Barr had been a firebrand in high school. Five feet five filled with a force of nature that could be seen in her intense green eyes. Her hair had been auburn, chin-length, and more than a little tousled. She was always impeccably dressed in sensible clothes and neat as a pin, but even her sensible just-above-the-knee skirt couldn’t hide an amazing set of legs.
She had been class president, on the debate team, senior class editor for the school paper, and a math nerd. Had played the violin so beautifully, she’d made some of the teachers weep, a woman of substance even then. He had been a jock, wrapped up in the popularity that had followed him for as long as he could remember.
Ophelia wanted nothing to do with him, especially when he often gave her a hard time and pissed her off. He wasn’t a player, but Ophelia had been suspicious that a jock could not only be serious, but studious. He’d proven all of that to her. But then he’d made his career choice and said goodbye. He hadn’t seen her since. She was probably married and the president of some company, a reporter, or some high-level government official. She had a lot of potential. Hell, for all he knew, she could be opening every night at Carnegie Hall.
He smiled softly. He had been away so long from East LA, where he grew up. Whatever she had done with her life, he was sure it was something meaningful, substantial. Winning her over had taken everything he had, but high school was a microcosm of life, and transitions and change were inevitable. Going into the Navy was his way to give back, something she had pounded into him. What kind of mark would he make on the world? Where did he stand and what did he stand for?
He smiled again and shook his head. He wondered if Ophelia realized what an influence she’d been on him.
He remembered how sweet her lips had tasted and every dip and curve of her delectable body. Those things he couldn’t forget even if he wanted to—and he had tried to over the years.
He rolled his shoulders to work out the kinks. The five of them were chomping at the bit. Striker wanted to hunt down Darko and that bitch Zasha, but Fast Lane told them to stay put and in hiding. If they were being hunted, it was best they lay low until they were ready to make their move.
“How much longer are we going to keep our tails between our legs?” Iceman asked. “Preach is going to think he’s not doing his job if he’s not getting shot at.”
Preacher laughed softly. “Yeah, I’m getting a complex over here.”
“I want to take them out,” Aella said, her voice laced with steel.
“Yeah, now you’re talking,” Preacher said.
“We stay put…for now. Chry has been shot and she’s fighting for her life. We can’t make a move until she’s ready to travel.” He’d wanted to talk to Neo but limiting communication unless it was required had also been deemed the wiser move.
It seemed that their past was coming to a head, not only with him, but with his brother as well. He couldn’t imagine what Neo had endured at the hands of Darko, Zasha, and their thugs, but he was certain it had pushed his brother even closer to the edge. He’d buried so much, too much for a fourteen-year-old body to handle. Dean was concerned that all the bitterness, anger, and despair would spill over even Neo’s formidable walls. Dean wanted to be there for him in every way, as backup, as his big brother who had failed him so miserably when he was young, and even as a punching bag to express every bottled-up emotion.
Aella stood up. “How is she doing?”
“So far, according to Saint, she’s holding her own. Fighting the infection like hell.”
She came over to him and said, “How bad is it?”
“Bad enough. It won’t be long before Darko and Zasha regroup. My little brother did a number on them back at the river. They aren’t soon going to forget what it feels like to be on the bad side of a SEAL. When the time comes, we will be ready.”
“Damn straight,” Aella said.
2-Stroke sat at the bedside while Chry battled her fever. Something ugly was building in him, and he was finding it more difficult to sit here watching her fight. He clenched his fists and looked up as Marta came into the room. Saint was on the other side of the bed keeping his attention on his patient. He refused to leave Chry. Anika had gone back home to her husband, telling them if they needed more antibiotics to let her know.
“I brought you something to eat,” Marta said, holding out the plate. 2-Stroke’s jaw clenched, and it was all he could do to stop himself from backhanding the dish out of her hands. He felt detached, disconnected, as if he were someone else watching his life unfold.
He looked up, trying to smile his thanks but failing totally. He fixed his gaze on Chry again, knowing something was going to have to give.
Chry called out something unintelligible, and he bolted to his feet, a cold, numbing sensation engulfing him. He went to her, but she didn’t react to him.
“She’s caught up in the fever. She’s fighting like hell.”
“She wouldn’t do any less,” he murmured, smoothing his hand against her feverish forehead. She had to fight. He needed her. He didn’t realize how much until the reality of her… He couldn’t finish the thought. It wasn’t going to happen. The thought of Chry ceasing to exist was too painful to contemplate.
Unable to see, he gouged at his eyes, guilt slicing through him. It should have been him who had taken the bullet. Always unable to protect the people that meant the most to him, he was once again helpless.
A light hand settled on his shoulder, giving him a hard squeeze. “Come on. Sit down. You need something to eat and about ten hours of sleep,” Marta said gently. “She isn’t in this battle alone. We’re here to help her. We just have to give it time for her body to fight back.”
2-Stroke exhaled unevenly and shook his head. “No. Thanks. I need to get out of here for a while. Get some fresh air.” He needed to see Dean before everything went crazy and he didn’t get a chance. If something happened to either of them, this thing between them would be lost. He couldn’t handle the thought of not getting it out in the open. It was important that he know everything 2-Stroke was feeling right now.
He also needed to get away from here because Chry’s illness was out of his control and he couldn’t watch her suffer one more minute without losing it. He needed some activity.
Making a supreme effort, he turned and tried to smile at the woman and his teammate. “Thanks for helping,” he said, his voice thick.
He turned and headed for the door, not sure how much longer he could hang on to the rising pressure in his chest.
The control was out of his hands, and that scared the hell out of him.
He donned a hoodie and a leather jacket over it, one he’d found in the closet. Pulling up the hood, he slipped out the back door into the frigid night. Moving around to the front of the house, his senses were on full alert.
He stopped when he heard roaring in the distance. Sounded like powerful motorcycles. He stiffened. Russian-made? There were plenty of outlaw groups in the Soviet Union. What were they doing here in Banja Luka?
He opened the fence to the house and stepped onto the sidewalk and started for the heart of downtown. After going several blocks, he made it to the main thoroughfare. He stopped to get his bearings. The hotel housing his brother and the others who had come here to help him was to his right.
But several bikes parked along the street caught his attention. He pulled the hoodie closer around his face. It could be paranoia telling him that these guys might be looking for him and Chry. But just because he was paranoid didn’t mean he couldn’t be right.
He passed along the gleaming machines and caught sight of a bear claw. Kamchatka Bears, associated with the Kremlin and aligned with Republika Srpska, a would-be state born in bloodshed during the Balkan wars.
It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility that Darko and Zasha had close ties to the governme
nt here. Darko was filthy rich and linked to many government leaders throughout The Balkans. It dawned on 2-Stroke that’s why they flew to northern Bosnia. It was precisely for the reason of keeping the Americans from rescuing them. All he had to do was make a phone call and the territory was closed to them.
The back of his neck was tingling, and he stopped dead when Arkadi Popov, nicknamed The Pope, stepped out of a nightclub with several other bikers. They were all dressed in black leather, covered in tats, a silver bear claw embossed on their matching jackets. The Pope, sporting a silver crucifix dangling from his thick neck, pulled on a pair of black riding gloves.
“I am displeased with your progress. Find the SEAL and the woman or deal with me,” The Pope said in Russian. 2-Stroke dropped his chin, well aware that if this group were looking for him, they would expect to find him in the company of a woman. Chry was back at the safehouse continuing her fight to beat off the infection from a bullet from the guy giving orders to these thugs. Darko.
He clenched his fists at the thought of the tall Serb, his hands itching to relentlessly pummel him. He dropped into a doorway and leaned against the frame, watching as the five of them straddled their bikes and started up the vehicles, adding to the already numerous motorcycle engines sounding all around him.
The Pope’s motorcycle club was out in force…all of them looking for signs of him and Chry. As soon as they pulled away from the curb, he turned and headed in the opposite direction back toward the hotel.
Stepping inside, he went for the elevators and pushed the button to Dean’s floor. At the next stop, the doors opened, and two bikers with the same silver bear claw got in. 2-Stroke stood in the back keeping his face averted, breathing a sigh of relief as they got off on the next two floors. No doubt meeting with others.
When the elevator stopped on Dean’s floor and the door opened, he stepped out. He walked down the hall, continuing to keep his face out of sight of the cameras. He had no idea what kind of surveillance the government had in this town, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.
