by J. B. Havens
Rook chuckled. “That’s not polite.”
“Shut up,” I snapped as I turned into the clearing of Compound Two. Untouched and blanketed with snow, it was a virgin winter playland. The concrete bunker that housed the panic room was the only structure. We took down the movable obstacle course when winter set in. The wet snow would ruin it. Shutting off the Jeep, but leaving the key in it, I pulled my tactical hood up over my face. Anything to keep the biting cold of the wind off my skin.
I led the way to the range, brushing snow off the bench with a sweep of my arm. Flakes flew into the air, sparkling like glitter as the wind blew them away.
“You’re going to have to talk about it some time.” Rook cleaned his own bench off and laid his mags out.
“Maybe, but that day is not today. I get that you guys want to help, but you’re not. You’re just pissing me off.” I switched my safety off and tucked the M-4 into my shoulder.
He copied my actions, settling in around his rifle until it was an extension of himself. “You’ve got more stubbornness than common sense, girl.”
I didn’t respond. Instead, I slowly squeezed the trigger, the report of the shot echoing across the field and mountains. I took a deep breath and fired again on my exhale, loving the slight sting of the recoil against my shoulder. Rook’s rifle joined my own; we both kept firing until we clicked empty.
I pressed the release and ejected my mag, slapping a full one in automatically.
“Rook, don’t fucking call me ‘girl’.” I glared into his dark eyes. Frustration and anger continued bubbling so close to the surface, I felt as if I could snap at any minute, splintering into a hundred pieces.
“Or what?” He taunted me. “Not much you can do about it.”
I clenched my jaw, the cords in my neck standing out. Closing my eyes, I tried to breathe through my anger. I would have a hell of a time taking him down if I was healthy; doing it injured would be nearly impossible.
“For once, I’m trying to be nice here. Respect that.” I made it an order. Flipping on the safety, I carefully placed my rifle on the bench in front of me.
“Sure thing, girly.” He grinned at me, showing his missing teeth. “Or do you prefer babe? Is that what Jordon calls you?”
I gave no warning; I just dropped my rifle and rushed him, slamming my good shoulder into his stomach and planting him on his ass in the snow which rose up around us in a white cloud. I stayed on top of him, smashing my fist into his ribs, keeping my knee dug down into his gut.
“Oof,” he gasped as I landed another solid hit to his kidney. The pain was slowing me down. I didn’t react in time when he shifted quickly under me, throwing me over his head and into the snow. My breath was knocked from my lungs when I landed on my back. I lay there gasping for breath, unable to defend when he fell on top of me and pressed my hands flat into the ground near my head.
“Are you fucking done yet?” He growled, his face only inches from mine. His voice was tight with pain.
“No.” Pushing upward with everything I had, I head-butted him, the crunch of his nose loud in the otherwise silent compound. He howled in rage, rolling off me and spitting blood onto the snow. The red was shiny and bright, steaming in the cold.
“God dammit, Mic! You broke my fucking nose!”
My head was pounding from the blow, but the pain was the icing on the cake of my satisfaction. Slowly standing, clutching my own throbbing ribs, I stepped around where he remained kneeling in the snow. Gathering my rifle and bag, I shuffled painfully to the Jeep and started it up.
“You coming, Rook? Or are you going to stay out here in the cold, bleeding?” I was smug and I knew it. Oh fucking well.
The look he gave me would have burnt me to a crisp if I wasn’t so damn cold. He was furious.
“It would serve you right if I bled all over your spotless Jeep,” he gasped out, pulling a bandana from a pocket and squeezing his nose.
“Go ahead; you’ll clean it up if you do.” I carefully stowed my rifle and gingerly slid into the driver’s seat. “Hurry up; I’m leaving and it’s a long, cold walk back to the compound.”
“You’re such a fucking bitch,” he ground out, his voice sounding as if he had the worst cold in history, all nasally and clogged.
“Bitch I can handle, just don’t call me ‘girl’.”
“Done being pissed at the world, yet?” He checked his nose in the mirror. The blood was slowing a bit, but he would need a new coat and shirt for sure. Bright red painted the front of him. Nothing bled quite as bad as face wounds—I knew that from experience. The thought drew my hand to my cheek.
“Maybe. Was fucking with me worth the broken nose?”
“I didn’t think it would go that far. I thought we’d trade a few punches, and I’d get the upper-hand and a chance to talk some sense into you.”
“How’d that work out for you, huh?” I laughed at his scowl. “You made the same mistake everyone does—you underestimated me.”
“Ya think?” He turned to me as we came to a stop at the barracks. I was dropping him off at Doc’s office. His eyes were swollen and bruised already. He’d be sporting double shiners and a very swollen nose for a bit. “This anger you’re holding onto isn’t serving any purpose. You need to get it out of your system and actually deal with what happened to you. Being pissed off all the time is just pushing us all away. It’s okay to feel scared or insecure after what you went through. No one is going to think you are weak for having emotions, least of all us.” He gestured to his nose. “You’re obviously just as capable as you’ve ever been. Think about it.” He climbed out of the jeep and slammed the door shut.
I wonder what he’ll tell Doc Hamilton? I thought to myself. I’d find out soon enough, I supposed.
****
Rook watched Mic drive up the hill and walk into the mess hall. It was nearly time for dinner and Beatrice didn’t like for them to be late. But he would be, and there was no help for it. He felt a trickle of blood ooze down his face and pressed harder on the bandana.
Flinging open the door to Doc Hamilton’s office, he stomped the snow off his boots as best he could, the motion echoing in his throbbing temples. Mic was hardheaded in more ways than one.
“Doc?” Rook called, figuring the man was in his apartment at this time of day. He heard a door open and a quick rush of sound from a TV before the door slammed shut.
Hamilton took one look at him and waved him back. “Follow me, son.”
Rook took a seat on the table and waited while Doc put on gloves and grabbed some gauze.
“What happened?” he asked as he pulled the bandana off Rook’s nose. Blood flowed out in a narrow stream, dripping off his chin onto his lap.
“Broke it,” he ground out in pain as the physician squeezed his nose, trying to stop the blood a little.
“Don’t be a smart-ass. Who or what broke your nose, son?” He tossed the bloody gauze aside and placed his thumbs on either side of the broken nose. “Take a breath and hold it. This is going to hurt.”
“Just fucking get it over with, Doc.” Rook gasped as the pressure in his face intensified and agony burned in his nose. There was a crunch he felt down to his toes and a pop as the bone snapped back into place. Tears streamed from his eyes, mingling with the blood on his face. Groaning softly under his breath, he kept still while the doctor put more gauze into his nose and ran tape under his nostrils. Then he added a wide piece of tape across the break on the bridge of his nose.
“There now, all done. So you were saying?”
“I was?” Rook tried to get down, but Hamilton stopped him with a hand to his chest.
“Spill it. You’re not going anywhere until you do.” He moved away from Rook and began rummaging around in a cabinet full of white plastic bottles.
“Mic head-butted me.” There was no point in keeping it a secret.
“Really? How did that come about?” The older man handed Rook a bottle of pills, which he promptly set back down on the counter.
“She tackled me. I had her pinned on her back and she head-butted me to get away.” Doc Hamilton put the pill bottle back into Rook’s hand, but the younger man slammed it down again. “I don’t want the fucking pills! Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Fine, be a stubborn ass. So I think it’s safe to assume you were antagonizing her in some way, right?”
“Right again.” Rook moved to the sink, running water onto a towel and cleaning the blood off his face and neck.
“Care to explain why?” Hamilton crossed his arms over his chest and propped his back against the door.
“Not really, Doc.” Rook rinsed the towel out and scrubbed over his beard again. The blood was dried in it. Dammit.
“Wouldn’t have anything to do with her anger issue would it?”
“If you’ve got it all figured out, what the hell are you asking me for?” Rook snapped, throwing the towel into the sink.
“Pushing her right now may not be the best idea. She’s more vulnerable than she knows.”
Pointing at his own chest, he raised his voice in agitation. “I was there, dammit! I saw the direct aftermath of her captivity! I saw how she was tied up. I stitched her fucking face back together. If anyone knows what she’s dealing with, it’s Jordon and me. You’d do well to remember that, Doc.” He resisted the urge to pick the smaller man up and move him out of the way.
The doctor held his ground when Rook tried to invade his space. “Fine. How did she react after she hit you?”
“She was okay—better than she’s seemed since she was in Mexico. If breaking a nose makes her feel better, I’m lining all the others up to take their turn. Now get out of my way.” Rook pushed the doctor aside so that he could wrench open the door, nearly pulling it off its hinges in the process.
“Come back and see me if the headaches are too bad,” Hamilton shouted at his retreating back.
Chapter 3
He watched from the barracks as Rook left the clinic with a bandaged face. The soldier had been out with Mic and came back bleeding. Things were getting more interesting around here by the day. He would soon be able to make his move and put the bitch in her place. Bea Michaels would live to regret the day she crossed him. He wasn’t stupid like those cartel assholes. He wouldn’t confront her out in the open; it would be suicide to do so. No, he was smart—no one realized how smart—he thought, as he caressed the knife on his thigh. He’d strike when and where she least expected it; and when she was running in fear, he would be there to push her over the edge. He would get his moment to place his boot on her throat.
He couldn’t wait to see the light leave Mic’s eyes. The anticipation of hearing her rasping last breaths had sweat beading on his forehead and his pants tightening on his crotch.
He brushed his red hair off of his sweaty face and pulled his hood back up on his head. Checking his watch, he noticed that he was running late. His surveillance would have to continue after his shift. Getting kicked off the compound for tardiness would be detrimental to his plans.
He could do his job in his sleep; these other fucks were so slow and stupid. They had no idea there was a wolf hiding in the sheep pen.
****
I sat with Pierce and Jordon, digging into dinner with a gusto I hadn’t felt since we got back from Mexico. Something inside of me had clicked back into place when Rook’s nose had been smashed. I didn’t know what it was, but I wasn’t going to take the time to analyze it too much.
The door opened, and a blast of cold rushed inside, followed by a bandaged Rook.
Flynn gaped at him and couldn’t pass up the opportunity to mouth off. “What the fuck happened to you? Run into a door? Fall down the stairs? Or did you slip in the shower?”
“Pick one. I don’t care,” he grumbled, his voice sounding thick and strange with the gauze shoved up his nose.
“Well, that’s no fun.” Flynn went back to his dinner, mumbling under his breath.
“Mic, he was with you, wasn’t he?” Pierce asked as Jordon sat next to him, listening intently.
“Yup.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. If I told them that I had broken his nose, I’d have to explain why.
Jordon snorted and finally spoke. “That’s it, huh? Did you do it, Mic?”
“Yes, she hit me,” Rook snapped, slamming his tray of food down hard. “I had it coming. Now fucking drop it.”
“Well done, Mic!” Flynn crowed while clapping his hands. “I’ve wanted to bust his face for a while now. Do we all get a turn?” He was grinning, but the other men’s expressions said they were gravely concerned.
“No. Like Rook said, he had it coming. It’s done. Leave it.” I drank my iced tea, avoiding everyone’s eyes. Wanting to change the subject, I turned to Jones. “Any news?”
“No. Nothing,” he replied, returning his attention to the hockey game on the television behind me.
“Fuck. We need to interview one of those girls from the basement. Russia is a big fucking place. We need something to go on.” I was frustrated. These types of cases went cold quickly. We didn’t have time to dick around, or the men who had sold the girls would be long gone.
Jackson stepped into the room from the kitchen. His presence commanded our attention. He did a double-take at Rook but didn’t ask what had happened. Instead, he held up a folder. “Finish eating and get to the war room.”
“Copy, Master Sergeant,” the men replied as one. I remained silent, trying to swallow down my racing heart and spiking adrenaline. That folder could mean only one thing—we had information on the girls.
Quickly taking care of my tray, I followed Jackson into the war room.
“Please tell me this is what I think it is.”
Jackson crossed his arms over his chest and glared at me. That damn folder dangled from his fingers, tempting me to grab it. “We’ll get to that in a minute. What happened to Rook’s face? And no fucking bullshit. Tell me the truth.”
“I head-butted him.”
“Don’t make me play twenty fucking questions,” he growled.
“He was pushing me about Jordon. Called me ‘girl’.” I air-quoted it for good measure, wanting to make sure that I laid the sarcasm down thick. “I tackled him; he tossed me; then I head-butted him. End of story.”
“Now isn’t the time, but we are going to have a conversation about you and Jordon.” Jackson sat and opened the folder.
I was saved from responding when the team filed into the room. I took a seat to Jackson’s left, while Jordon sat beside me with Rook directly across. The rest of the team filled in the other chairs. I winced after getting a good look at Rook’s face. His nose was twice its normal size and purple bruises colored the skin under both eyes.
“You look like shit. I almost feel sorry.” I smirked at him and he gave me the finger.
“Enough out of you two,” Jackson barked. “I expect this kind of behavior from Flynn; not you, Mic.” Flynn tried and failed to look offended. “Shut your fucking pieholes, the lot of you; and listen up. We have something to do and only twelve hours to do it.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, forcing my smile down. Jordon kicked my ankle under the table and glared at me.
“If you’re done, Staff Sergeant? I’d like to get started.” Jackson opened the folder and held up a photo for all of us to see. It was the girl from the mansion, the one with the dead eyes. She was clean and bandaged and was wearing new clothes, but still looked broken inside. Her eyes were so blue they seemed to glow, but their depths were flat. Her hair had been shaved so that it would grow back evenly. Although she was nearly bald, she was still strikingly beautiful. The bruises decorating her face were beginning to fade. There was a cut bisecting her eyebrow and her lip was split. The violence that had been done to her contrasted with her beauty, making the symmetry of her face even more apparent.
“This is Rozalina. She’s willing to talk to us about how she got to Mexico. The others are either in no shape to talk or won’t.” Jackson passed the folder to me. Opening it,
I flipped past her picture to the reports—which included a doctor’s exam, a psych evaluation, and a transcript of her initial interview with the FBI agents who transported her to the States.
“When?” I asked, not looking up from the file. I skimmed the medical report—the list of her injuries was long—various bruises, lacerations, and other minor wounds. The rape kit they’d performed was negative. There was also a blood workup. She had tested negative for STDs, but was severely malnourished and anemic.
Jackson tapped a pen on the table while he waited for me to look up. “You can go see her as soon as we’re finished with the briefing. She only agreed to speak with you, Rook, and Jordon.”
“Where is she?” I wasn’t entirely surprised that she only wanted to talk to her rescuers. After what she had been through, too many men around her at once would no doubt frighten her.
“She’s been transported to the local hospital for now. When you’re finished interviewing her, she’ll go back to the safe house. Even I don’t know where that is. The FBI has complete control of her.”
I passed the folder to Jordon, who flipped through it quickly. He then slid it across the table to Rook, who opened it and set the papers aside. He looked at her photo, studying the picture like he wanted to memorize it.
“What about the rest of us?” Jones asked, tapping his palms against the table. It was unusual for him to be anxious about anything.
Jackson sighed heavily. “I need you to be ready to cross-check any information they bring back. I want to trace her back to Russia and figure out how she was bought, transported, fucking everything. I want a name or a place to start.”
Flynn pointed to himself and Pierce. “What about us?”
“Nothing for the moment.”
Pierce punched Flynn in the arm and stood. “Looks like I’m going to kick your ass at Call of Duty again, buddy.”
“You wish you could kick my ass. You cheat, fucker!”
The two left the room, bickering as they went.
