by Zoe Dawson
When he reached the door, he knocked. There was a general movement, then a stillness from inside. “Dean. It’s me. Open up.”
Immediately, the door locks disengaged, and the door opened in a yank.
“Iceman,” 2-Stroke said in greeting to the man who acted as Dean’s second in command.
“2-Stroke,” Iceman said. “You look like hell, man.”
“Screw you,” 2-Stroke said as he passed Preacher and nodded. The dark-haired man grinned and nodded back.
“Good to see you, kid.”
“I’m not a kid,” he growled. Then out of one of the suite’s rooms, Alek rushed him and threw his arms around his waist. “You’re safe. It’s good to see you, my friend,” he gushed.
2-Stroke smiled, some of his anger subsiding in relief at seeing the young boy. He cupped the back of his head and hugged him back. “I’m happy to see you too.”
Alek looked up and beamed. “Your friends saved me from Darko. They can get me to the US? To my relative, yes?”
“We’ll do the best we can, kid,” Dean said.
Aella stepped up to him. “Neo, we’re glad you survived. You saved my life. Thank you.”
He nodded. “It might have been a better idea for you to have stayed in Sarajevo. If Darko catches any of you, he will kill you.”
“We came to help you,” Aella said.
“And you did. You should take Alek and get out. We’ll find our own way.”
Dean’s eyes flashed, and he walked away from the window to stand in front of him. “Give us some privacy,” Dean said to the group.
“We’ll go get some grub,” Preacher said, motioning to Alek, Saint, and Aella. “Come on, people.”
Iceman said, “Boss?”
“Go with them. It’s okay.” When the door closed, Dean said, “What’s going on, little brother?”
“What did you give up getting here? Your career? Everything you worked for thrown away when I can take care of myself.”
Dean shifted his stance and set his hands on his hips. “That’s ungrateful and immature, Neo, and you know it.”
“What, Dean? What did you give up?”
His brother took a step toward him, jabbing at him with his finger. “Everything! Is that what you want to hear?”
2-Stroke gave him an exasperated huff, his jaw clenching. “I’m not looking for what I want to hear. I’m looking for short and to the point. So, spit it out. You came after me for a reason, and I’m sure it has more to do with our past than it has to do with you saving and protecting me and Chry.”
Dean swore and turned away, then turned back. “I wasn’t there for you when you needed me, and I wasn’t going to leave my brother to die at the hands of those bastards. The brass might take my trident, but I couldn’t live with standing around while my brother was tortured and killed. So, sue me.”
2-Stroke narrowed his eyes and stared at the back wall, trying to corral his anger. He had expected this, and it only made him sick at what Dean was going to lose, but he had to acknowledge that he would have done the same for his brother. “So, you threw away your career for me?”
He got into 2-Stroke’s face, Dean’s expression fixed like granite. “There was no other choice, no decision in this matter. You’re my brother.”
2-Stroke didn’t budge, standing up to his brother with just as much conviction. “And you abandoned us. You left us with that fucking madman and his vindictive wife. We were abused and terrorized while you were out saving the country.”
“I’m sorry, Neo. I’m sorry about Riley and what you had to do to protect the both of you. You’re right. I left. I wanted to escape. He was pushing me into the club, and I wasn’t going to play Dad’s damned games anymore. I wanted nothing to do with it.”
“He took his anger out on us. He was so damn pissed when you told him you enlisted and was leaving. He trashed the house for an hour. I locked us into Riley’s room until he was spent. He drank himself into a blackout.”
A look of anger and frustration on his face, Dean shook his head and stared off into space. Finally, he looked at 2-Stroke, the anger replaced by weariness. Dean cupped 2-Stroke’s neck and pressed his forehead to 2-Stroke’s, his grip tight. “I had no idea. If I had stayed, I would probably be in jail right now. If not for his murder, then for other crimes that MC committed in the name of brotherhood.” He shook 2-Stroke gently. “They had no idea what brotherhood, real brotherhood, means.”
2-Stroke agreed completely. He sighed, his shoulders relaxing, still in his brother’s fierce grip. A surge of love for him replaced all the other noise in his head. The bottom line is Dean gave up everything to be here for him. How could he really fault that? It went a long way in repairing some of the wounds between them. “You think that coming here makes up for it?”
Separating from his brother, 2-Stroke tucked his hands in his pockets. “No, I don’t. But I wasn’t going to repeat my mistake and leave you and Chry to fend for yourselves.”
2-Stroke looked away. There was so much more to say, but he’d gotten a lot of his thoughts out. It would have to do for now. He’d stayed away long enough. 2-Stroke folded his arms, smiling slightly. It did his heart good knowing that Alek was safe. He couldn’t have carried one more kid on his conscience. “You saved Alek.”
“Yeah, he was in a cell and his uncle was going to kill him when he got back from killing you and Chry.”
“Do you think it’s going to be worth it?”
Dean looked away and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath that seemed painful to him. “Yeah, it will.” He opened his eyes and 2-Stroke realized it was going to be tough on him, but he was square with his decision. “Some things can’t be undone, Neo. I know that. But moving forward is all we can do. Don’t shut me out again. Can you promise me that?”
“I can promise you that I will talk about what happened with you when we have the time to work it out. All these years, I’ve held it inside and gone nowhere. We can make a new start. We’re brothers, right?”
“Damn right.” Dean one arm hugged him hard and 2-Stroke returned the embrace, holding on as tight as Dean was holding him. “How is she?”
Tightening his jaw against the jolt of pain, 2-Stroke closed his eyes, the sudden thickness in his chest crowding his breath. “She’s holding on, but she’s in bad shape. We won’t be able to move for at least a week…if she pulls through.” The hollow sensation in his gut spread.
“She will pull through. She’s tougher than the both of us.”
2-Stroke nodded. “You guys be careful and keep a low profile like Fast Lane said.” He heard the sound of motorcycles again. “The Kamchatka Bears are here, and I think they’re working for Darko. They’re all over the place looking for me and Chry.”
“Copy that.”
“I better get back.” He pulled up his hoodie and started for the door.
“You be careful, too, little bro. We have some things to discuss.”
By the time he left the hotel, 2-Stroke’s anger had settled into a lump in the pit of his stomach. He consoled himself with the fact that Dean was here. He’d come to help him. It was significant that he was willing to give up everything he loved and worked for to save his little brother. 2-Stroke didn’t want that for Dean, but it was out of his hands. The Navy didn’t approve of their sailors going off on unsanctioned rescue missions, especially when they could set off an international incident.
But there was no negotiating with Darko and Zasha. He and Chry were dead as soon as the pair found them. There was no more leniency in them. He could have only hoped the helicopter crash would have taken care of their problem, but from the numbers of the Bears riding roughshod in this city, it was clear to 2-Stroke it would be a matter of time before they found them.
He avoided the Bears easily, and about halfway back to the safehouse, it started to snow, big fat flakes that floated down like feathers. It coated the trees and the sidewalk, lampposts and cars until there was nothing but a blanket of white.
He approached the house, taking several precautions to make sure he wasn’t followed, then slipped inside the back door and locked it. Chry was still unconscious when he got upstairs to the bedroom, but her color was a bit better.
“Are you all right?” Saint asked.
“I’m better. So, Saint, give it to me straight. How is she?”
“I believe the bullet missed internal organs. She’d be showing signs if she was bleeding internally. I don’t believe that’s the case. The infection is the main concern here. We’re doing what we need to do to keep her alive and recovering. She has to fight off the infection, then I can stitch the wound.”
“We have a problem. It looks like there’s a motorcycle gang on Darko’s payroll. Soviet, ruthless. When can she travel?”
“Well, I would prescribe that she rest for four to six weeks, but since that’s not possible with our circumstances, she could travel in a week at the very least.”
“That’s about all we have, I think. The people looking for us won’t rest until they find us.”
Feeling like his purpose was clear, he nodded toward Marta. “I’ll take the food now. I need to keep strong.”
“Then you’ll rest?”
“After I take a turn with Chry so both of you can have a short break.”
Marta handed him a plate and Saint squeezed his shoulder as he passed. “We’ll be right back.”
Chry twisted and turned on the bed, caught in the terrible hold of her fever. The anger he had experienced at the hotel was gone, replaced by a haunting ache that sat squarely in the middle of his chest. He set the plate aside, the heaviness in his chest expanding. Clenching his jaw against it, he bent down and gathered her to him. Her hair was like silk against his skin as he cradled her upper body in his arms.
“It’s snowing outside,” he said. “You always wanted to see snow. Remember? You used to say growing up in LA was the pits. You wanted to sled and ski. We did ice skate though at the local rink. You with your rosy cheeks and that infectious laughter.” The words poured out of him, his voice breaking. “I was on the outside looking in all that time. I was in shock and numb over Riley’s death and watching Pierce die from my own hands. I was heartsick about Riley, but I was glad that Pierce was dead. It seemed wrong but felt so right. He deserved it. Didn’t he? Maybe my judgment is flawed. Maybe I can’t be a neutral observer. Tell me he deserved it.” The pain intensified and he gasped. “Don’t leave me, Chry, please,” he whispered. “I won’t leave you again. I promise. I was such an idiot thinking that I didn’t matter. That I had to sacrifice everything to make it all right in my head. But I’m all right now. I do matter. I matter to Dean and to the Navy and to all my brothers in arms. But most importantly, I matter to you,” he muttered fiercely, all the tears he’d never shed burning down his face, soaking into her hair.
He was unraveling, releasing all those compartments, all the pain and the frustration and the guilt. Letting it all pour out of him until he was an empty vessel to be filled by Chry and the love she had for him, filled by the knowledge that the brotherhood would never let him down, filled with the certainty that he couldn’t control anything but his own mind, comforted by his brother’s sacrifice and commitment to him. He was confident that he understood what had been holding him back all these years. Ten years of holding on to the grief of his younger brother’s death, the horror of killing Pierce, the hatred he had for the man who, through violence, had sired him. He might have been born in violence, dedicated his life to carrying out the orders from his superiors to take that violence to others who would hurt them, but he was more than that. So much more with her. He needed her, the other half of him. He rocked her against him, whispering her name and holding her.
In spite of the shape she was in, there was always hope. He wished like hell he could stop feeling as if they were living on borrowed time.
12
Iceman looked over Striker’s shoulder and said, “What is it you’re working on?”
“A plan to get us out of here as safely as possible.”
“Ha. The sheer number of Bears out there isn’t boding well for a clean getaway.”
“I know. But we’ll do the best that we can.” He leaned back and rubbed his hands over his face. He’d been up working out the details and doing some late-night recon to get the lay of the land. Banja Luka might be the capitol of Republika Srpska, but it was a small city compared to Sarajevo. The middle of town only took up a small amount of the city. He’d ghosted to the consulate but couldn’t get close enough to talk to anyone there. The Bears were thick around the structure. He was sure the consulate was aware of the added numbers of bikers but were in the dark about why. Unless he was mistaken, the Navy wasn’t going to announce to the diplomats there were SEALs in the area that might need sanctuary.
It wouldn’t matter. As far as he was concerned, going to the U.S. Consulate was their best hope right now. “Preacher, Aella. Front and center.”
The two adults came out of the bedrooms, both in different levels of waking up. Striker wasn’t sure what to do with Alek. He wasn’t a combatant like the rest of them. He was a kid, not exactly innocent in that he had helped 2-Stroke and Chry escape and brought the wrath of his uncle down on him. His uncle had lumped Alek in with the rest of them. An enemy he needed to eliminate.
He explained his plan, and after their agreement, he headed off to the safehouse. He was a little wary of seeing his brother again after their heated argument had brought up so much they needed to talk out regarding their past. But the gates were finally open and once they got everything out, they could begin to heal.
Striker thought about what it was going to mean for him once they went to the consulate and were caught up in the political machine. 2-Stroke was right. He could lose his command and his trident, but he wouldn’t change a thing in striking out into the forbidden Republika Srpska to save his brother, to let Neo know how important he was to him. Whatever it took, he wasn’t going to let down his brother again.
He slipped out of the hotel and noticed a whole phalanx of riders roaring down the thoroughfare. Before long, they were going to be staking out the hotels. Zasha didn’t really know for sure whether the SEALs were in Banja Luka, but he was sure she and her partner were cooking up plenty of nasty surprises for them.
He would be a fool to underestimate her.
He went to the back door of the house and knocked. Before long, 2-Stroke came to the door, his gun drawn. He relaxed when he saw it was Striker.
“Hey,” he said as he entered the kitchen. “I need to run a few things by you, Marta, and Saint.” 2-Stroke called up the stairs and soon the two of them came down. “How is Chry?”
“Responding to treatment. Her fever is down but hasn’t subsided. I expect it to break tonight. That’s my hope,” Saint said.
“And her ability to travel?”
“I still say she needs at least two more days to recover from the effects of the fever. We don’t want her too fatigued. Then another day for some additional healing. It wouldn’t be enough, but sufficient to allow her to travel. I know time is of the essence.”
“That’s good news.” He leaned against the counter. “So, I’ve done some recon on the consulate, and we’re going to have to clear a path. Once inside, we’ll need to contact our government pronto. I have a feeling Darko and Zasha aren’t going to honor the sovereignty of the building. They are straight-up thugs who have no compunction about thumbing their noses at traditional and lawful rights of us as American citizens, even in our own consulate.
There was a collective agreement.
“All right, then we should be set for three days from now. I will check in with you before we finalize the plan to make sure Chry can be moved.”
Saint and Marta headed back upstairs to tend to Chry.
“We good, bro?” Striker asked.
“Yes, but I’m still concerned about the number of Bears who are filling up this town. It’s going to get hairy if they start house sea
rches or find you guys at the hotel. I’m worried about Alek.”
“I get your concern, but we’re going to have to hold out as best we can. Get in touch with me if you get any kind of funky vibe. We’ll need to be fluid here because of Chry’s injury.”
They fist bumped and Striker left the house.
Two days later, Striker was just about to eat some lunch when his comm went live.
“Master Chief, this is Iceman. We’ve got a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“We had a run in with the Bears… We’ve got ourselves the leader here.”
“Where is that?”
“In the hotel basement, off the beaten path.”
“I’ll be right there,” he growled. “Recon isn’t snatch and grab, Ice.”
“I know that, boss, but we got a window of opportunity, and Preach and I grabbed him up. This might be a good thing. We could get information out of him.”
“Potentially. If he talks.”
Striker went down into the bowels of the hotel away from people and activity until he found them holed up in a small storage room. The Pope was tied to a chair and his face was bloody, his lip split and still bleeding.
He pulled out his sidearm and a short cylindrical tube. He started to screw it onto the sidearm.
“I’m going to ask you just once for information. If you give us what we want to know—”
“You’ll let me go,” The Pope said in a gravelly voice, then laughed softly. “We all know I’m not leaving here alive.”
Striker finished tightening the silencer onto the handgun. “Okay, you’re right. We can’t let you go. So, my offer is to make this as painless and quick as possible. Your choice.”
“Some choice,” he spat out blood onto the floor and worked his jaw. He was quiet for a moment, then sighed. “I have no allegiance to Darko Stjepanić and Zasha Vasiliev. Both of them are anarchists. My pledge is to Russia, and nothing I can tell you will compromise the motherland. What is it you want to know?”
