by Zoe Dawson
“Come on, Mario Andretti. Let’s get out of here,” Striker said, clapping his brother on the back.
Saint, Aella, and Striker headed for the van. 2-Stroke simply bent at the knees and lifted Chry into his arms.
She dropped her head onto his shoulder. “You giving me the VIP treatment?” she whispered.
“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered back and walked with her to the bullet-ridden van. He tucked her back into the front seat and got in behind the wheel.
“Stay off the main road. We’re going to have to navigate from these back roads until we hit the border. Your team will meet us there,” Striker said.
“Copy that,” 2-Stroke said, satisfied that they had finally delivered a strong blow to Zasha and Darko. It was payback time, and everyone knew how much of a bitch that was.
15
Zasha couldn’t move. She was either paralyzed or stunned. She opened her eyes to find Darko’s face above hers.
“Baby? You okay?”
Suddenly her body was infused with rage beyond anything she’d ever felt before. She’d had the upper hand for such a long time. Getting punked by men and women who were out of their element, in a foreign country, and pursued by one of the toughest and most ruthless crime syndicates in the world made her want to tear them limb from limb.
Feeling returned everywhere, and she tried to rise as Darko, blood dripping from another gash on his face, helped her to sit up.
“Find them.”
“I already have a chopper heading this way. They will find them and then we’ll take them out, one by one until there is no one left.”
Then it dawned on her. “They are going for the border. Once they get beyond Republika Srpska, the full weight of the US can be applied in getting them free of us. We must catch them before they make the border.
Chry was jerked awake, jarring her side when the van rolled over a particularly rough part of the dirt road. She bit her lip and tried to muffle the sound of pain, but by the tightness in 2-Stroke’s shoulders, it was clear he heard her.
There was a tense, solemn atmosphere in the van. Aella was hanging tough after her bullet wound. Saint and Striker were vigilant and as ready for action as they always were.
She looked out the window and sighed. These were the places travel books told tourists to avoid. This country was broken into two regions, separated by the Dinaric Alps, with Bosnia to the North and Herzegovina to the south. They each had their own unique cultural histories but shared many similarities in language, ethnicity, culture, and identity. The ravages of the war, even now, were clear here in the wide, still green valley, surrounded by towering mountains. Empty, derelict and deserted houses, so many small graveyards, untamed and neglected land, untarred roads, tangled and overgrown orchards and full abandoned villages were the norm now instead of bustling communities and well-groomed working farms.
It made her sad to think that this countryside had once been home to many people now either gone, refugeed, or dead.
There was a small river with low, muddy banks that wound alongside them, sometimes widening, then narrowing. They passed several burned-out husks of cars, adding to the tense silence.
Originally, if they had stuck to the main road, it would have been a short hour to the border, but at this crawl it was going to take some time, possibly another hour. It was late afternoon now, and hopefully they would cross the border with Fast Lane and the cavalry waiting for them on the other side, effectively making them safe from any more attacks by Darko and Zasha.
Yet she was still anxious. Those two had never given up on them when they could have cut their losses. It was now very personal for Zasha and by association, Darko, who she had tight around her little finger. God, the bitch must be good in the sack.
Chry had spent most of her CIA career since she got out of college as an analyst. It was where her strengths really were the most applicable. She hadn’t been interested in field service, and now that she had been through one of the most harrowing experiences of her life, she was convinced that she was a much better analyst than she was either a SEAL liaison or operative.
As her mind wandered, she thought about how she’d gotten into this terrible mess. Zasha and Darko had attacked their convoy on the way to the airport in Prague, hitting the SUV she and 2-Stroke were in where he was letting her down kindly by explaining how they couldn’t get involved.
She looked over at him. Time in captivity had given him a rough, almost desperado look. His hair was a glorious shaggy mess of silky chestnut, and when the sun hit it, it shone a deep russet red. He’d trimmed the beard he’d grown back at the safe house, but it added age to his young face, enhancing his dark and dangerous look.
She thought he was gorgeous in high school, his face like that of an angel. His body was lanky but showing the strength and promise of the man he was going to become…had become.
Now, he was just Neo—courageous, fearless, tough, gentle, and broken. But with every breath he took, he’d overcome so much except that reconciliation he had to make with his brothers, the dead one and the living one. He had to come to terms that he meant the world to her and she loved him beyond his body or his looks. It was his heart and his soul that she wanted down to the very depths of her own soul, her soul that had been mated with his a long time ago.
However, it worked out. He would always be half of her.
She sidled across the seat and pressed against him, closing her eyes and resting her hand against his chest just to feel the beat of his heart. She had learned a hard lesson when he left. She’d learned that she could survive after Neo, but she hadn’t ever let him go. She was tired and afraid, but she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of revealing any of it. She barely had any resources left to draw on.
He briefly covered her hand, squeezing it, before returning to the wheel to keep it steady on the rough road. He was there sheltering her, providing her warmth and strength, taking care of her and keeping her safe.
Thirty grueling minutes later, he said, “We’re going to need to find some gas. We’re almost out.”
Saint checked his phone. “It’s a risk, but there’s a turnoff up ahead that will take us back to the main road and there will be a gas station on the righthand side about fifteen minutes away and is about twenty minutes from the border. In and out and we can skedaddle to safety.”
“I’m all for skedaddling,” Aella said with a soft smile.
Saint, still looking at his phone, nudged her, aware with his grin that she was teasing him.
“I’m waiting for him to say something like, ‘That dog won’t hunt,’” Chry said.
“He has said he’s from the holler, and it’s just over yonder,” 2-Stroke said. “The twang was thick. Only ever happens when he’s shitfaced.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Saint said as everyone laughed.
She loved the look they exchanged. It was clear how close they were and had become through all this. The brotherhood, indeed. She could only be grateful that he’d had these guys on his side. It assuaged the ache in her heart that he had been alone. Maybe now he could dispense with the walls and give them all a real chance at knowing him.
Chry looked out the windshield and suddenly noticed the heavy smoke coming from the hood of the van. She reached over and grasped 2-Stroke’s arm, but he’d already seen it. The van sputtered, smoothed out, then sputtered and as 2-Stroke pulled over to the side of the road, died.
“Well fuck,” Saint said. “Let me see what we’re looking at here.”
“You know engines?” 2-Stroke asked.
“Do I know engines?” he said with confidence. “I had some souped-up rides to transport my moonshine. I know cars.” He opened the side door and stepped out into the cold. “Pop the hood,” he said as he slid the door closed.
“Wait,” Striker said. “There’s a place over there where we may be able to get some spare parts. It’s getting dark, and I say we wait in there until Saint gets this thing running. Then when we’re done, we can
skedaddle to the gas station.
“I like that plan,” Aella said. “That place looks defensible.” She got out and came around the front and she and Saint murmured to each other.
“All right,” 2-Stroke said. “We’ll recon that abandoned farmhouse, then if it’s safe, we can hole up there.”
2-Stroke and Chry exited the van and came around to the front while Striker started grabbing bags.
“What’s the verdict?” 2-Stroke asked.
“Radiator hose,” they said together.
2-Stroke smiled. “Looks like the two of you are fixing the van.” He looked around. “We should probably hide it.”
They pushed the vehicle into the cover of the thick foliage, the branches of the trees reaching up high as the forest stretched out all around them while Chry stood near the bags on the road, then headed her way.
2-Stroke brushed a soft kiss against her temple when he reached her. “Lean on me.”
She grabbed his coat and slid against him. He stared at her for a moment. “We’re tougher than they are,” he murmured.
She made a soft sound and he caught her along the jaw and tipped her head back so he could see her face. His gaze was intent, but there was an odd smile hovering around his mouth, as if her look saddened him. She didn’t answer him, only nodded, guarding her own vulnerability for his sake.
The expression in his eyes softened a little, and the corner of his mouth lifted with a trace of wry humor. “They can go fuck themselves.”
That made her laugh, and with that laughter still on her lips, she kissed him hard and quick.
She walked with him supporting her as they all left the van, the waning light limning them all in a golden light, making them look almost transparent, like half-forgotten memories.
Saint moved slowly to the back of the house. It looked like something out of a horror flick, but he suspected that any ghosts that were here had moved on. The silence of the approaching dusk was eerie, and it set him on edge, his shoulders tight. Aella stuck close to him. 2-Stroke and Striker had gone to check out the barn. His gaze roved over the immediate area, looking for anything that could trip them up. He stepped forward. Turning to Aella, he said, “Stick close, darlin’.” He set her hand on his shoulder. “Walk where I walk.” He carefully checked the back door for any wires or booby traps and found nothing.
But when he heard the telltale click, and felt the pressure plate beneath his boot, he froze.
It was a good thing Aella had quick reflexes and was focused.
“What’s the matter?” she whispered.
“I just stepped on a land mine. Let go of my shoulder and back up. Go get 2-Stroke.”
He felt the pressure of her hand slip from his shoulder. “Zach.”
“Go, Aella. There’s nothing you can do. 2-Stroke is our EOD Tech. Get him.”
He heard her footsteps recede as she followed their route around to the front of the house. He heard her shouting.
Minutes later, he heard footsteps. “Getting yourself into a bind, man?” 2-Stroke said as he walked around to the front of Saint, his eyes steady and confident. “Let’s see what we have. Don’t move.”
He crouched down and took several seconds looking over the mine. “Pressure plate. You’re very lucky it didn’t detonate.” He looked up at someone behind Saint’s shoulder. “I need you to shove your knife in the ground across from the mine.” There was movement behind Saint, then Striker was at his left side. “You got any det cord, bro?”
Striker pulled some from his vest and handed it over. Using the combat knives as anchor points, he tied the cord across the plate, then looked up at Saint. “You ready?”
Saint nodded and jumped off when 2-Stroke said, “Go!”
He landed on the ground next to his buddy.
“You can cross that off your bucket list,” 2-Stroke said with a grin.
Saint grinned back. “Yeah, let me catch my breath.”
“Hey, I saved your babymaker and those handsome good looks.”
Saint hooted a relieved laugh. “All the ladies thank you,” he said.
Striker offered him his hand and Saint rose. “Let’s not have any more drama,” he said.
Saint nodded and the small group dispersed, except for Aella.
“Hand to shoulder,” she asked, her voice husky, shadows in her eyes. He nodded and turned toward the steps to the back door.
Climbing them, he turned the knob and pushed the door open as Aella’s hand tightened on his shoulder. He could feel the weight of her presence behind him. She was as tough as he first thought she was. Tougher. She had gotten under his skin.
It was a wreck inside, cracked, peeling paint, broken chairs, rusted appliances, the floor pitted and uneven. The air was heavy with a musty odor coupled with rot and decay. It saddened him that this had once been a thriving farm, this house once sheltering a hardy and happy family…before war. Unfortunate and probably targeted casualties.
War. So far it had taken up most of his adult life.
Each of them lived in the bubble of their own experience, beliefs, circumstances, wants and needs. Here in Bosnia/Herzegovina those beliefs had led to a monstrous war. People like the ones who had lived here had paid the price. Sadly, that price was always too damn high.
“Clear,” he said softly.
She squeezed his shoulder in acknowledgment as he turned and headed up the stairs, checking each step as he climbed. There were two bedrooms at the top and both of them were empty, the beds nothing but frames with the mattresses gone.
“I think we need to speak to the manager,” he said, straightening from his Special Forces hunting stance.
“What do you think the possibility might be of getting extra towels.”
He chuckled and turned to her. Meeting her gaze, he just enjoyed being in her presence. “How’s that arm?”
“Hurts like a son of a bitch. If I could just have five minutes with Darko and Zasha, I’d show them a cage match they’ll never forget.”
He cupped her jaw. “Are you trying to get me hard?”
“Keep it in your pants, Bartholomew. Talk like that will distract me.” Her voice sounded watery. “We’re just a couple of adrenaline junkies.”
“I’ll save it until later.” He caressed her skin with soothing strokes.
Her eyes shone in the fading light. “What do they say about adrenaline?” She pulled him closer and kissed him, lingering over his mouth, her eyes moist. “It’s addicting?”
“Hmm,” was all he could manage.
“Yo!” Striker yelled.
“Up here. It’s clear. The barn?”
“Also, clear,” Striker said as he came into the room and Aella stepped away. “There are a few old clunkers and a tractor behind the barn. Not sure if they will have anything we can use.”
“Good. We’ll take a look.”
He and Aella left the room and exited out the front door. 2-Stroke was helping Chry into the house. His teammate had it bad, he thought. Then he looked at Aella as she sidled off toward the barn and sighed. That woman had the most toned and compact body he’d ever seen.
She turned and looked at him over her shoulder and said, “We’re on a timetable here, Bartholomew.”
The next thing he knew, they had salvaged a few hoses from the cars and made it back to the van. He lifted the hood and they got to work on replacing the hose. Using his combat knife, he cut pieces of each usable hose.
“Now how do we cobble them together?”
“There is one thing we all carry in our kit without fail,” he said with a grin. “Duct tape.”
He pulled a roll out of his jacket pocket and started rolling it around the hoses. “This is going to be a patch job. I hope this holds.”
“I hope so too.”
He looked over at her grimy face once they had jimmied the hose into place and taped the shit out of it.
His self-discipline vanished. His control shattered, and he crushed his mouth to hers, devouring her with the d
emanding pressure of his lips and aggressive invasion of his tongue.
When he pulled away, he burrowed his face against her damp neck, a raspy groan escaping him. Aella threaded her fingers through his hair, so sweet and affectionate, while her heart beat rapidly against his chest. Then she turned and pressed her lips near his ear.
“You are so addicting,” she whispered, and he heard the lazy smile in her voice as she stroked her fingers along his nape.
Addicting didn’t even come close to describing what he experienced with her. He squeezed his eyes closed, unable to believe what had happened with her. Unable to believe that he’d let things go this far when he knew better. His body was on fire around her. But the sexual tension between them had set him off from the beginning, now it was more…so much more.
And he was fucked and not in a good way.
2-Stroke stood at the window, his breath fogging the glass. He rubbed at his unshaven face, half-awake and feeling as cranky as hell. It was cold, dark, and the fact that he hadn’t gotten much more than an hour of sleep didn’t help his mood. The darkness outside the window infused the oddly empty house with more than a nighttime silence. It was as if the people who had lived here had been eradicated, and the loneliness of the derelict place was palpable.
Combat naps weren’t out of the ordinary for SEALs, but his lack of sleep had more to do with his vigilance regarding Chry. He was sure it was an echo leftover from both his brother’s death and the way he’d protected her before he went off to BUD/S. Maybe the guilt from leaving her without telling her was eating at him.
He would kill for a cup of coffee right now. Black and hot. The cell phone Marta had given him chimed, and he snatched it up before the second ring. What idiot was calling at such an early time? Grabbing his coat, he left the room, went downstairs and out the door to the front porch.
That idiot was Fast Lane. “Sitrep?”
“We’re making slow progress, but we’re close…another thirty minutes if we’re lucky and the van doesn’t tank again. Zasha and Darko are still looking for us. Of that, I have no doubt.”
