by James Tate
There's a light at the bottom, and the sound of voices … and crying?
I head down the steps because, fuck, curiosity's always gotten the better of me. Even though I know I shouldn't be doing this, I keep going, creeping my way down the steps until I find myself in a huge, cavernous crawl space filled with antiques and old pews. There are old oil paintings stacked in one corner, several rickety metal desks stacked in another. All of this stuff creates a maze that I have to pick my way through in the dark as I head toward the source of light and noise.
As I'm moving, I pass by a small locked room that, based on the piles of paper inside, and the ancient computer screen I can see through the windows, was probably an administrative office of some kind. I'm not two steps past it when the door shakes and the knob rattles. A man's face looms up out of the shadows and I stumble back, almost knocking into a pile of junk and catching myself at the last second.
"Goddamn it!" Hawke snarls, storming over to stand in front of me. But I'm so still, or maybe he's just not expecting me, so he doesn't bother to turn and see me there, crouching in darkness. "Shut the fuck up, for God's sake. You've got plenty of food in there and we'll see you right when you get out."
He glares at the man in the office window and then shakes his head, running his fingers through his short, dark hair.
"Mace, I'm off to bed, okay? Just … finish him off and we'll dump the body in the morning. If he doesn't tell us what we need to know tonight, he's clearly never going to."
"Sure thing," a deep, rumbling voice answers. It's a voice like mountains, strong and unyielding. Mace. My stomach twists to hear these two men talking about this captive man like his life doesn't mean shit. And by the look of him—the silver hair, the disheveled outfit he's wearing—he's clearly the missing priest.
"Thanks," Hawke breathes, and then he's disappearing around the corner and up the stairs. I try to remember if I re-locked the door behind me and then have a brief moment of panic when I can't decide if I did or not. For a few minutes there, I stay crouched, shaking and breathing hard, listening. But Hawke doesn't come back.
Instead, I start to hear that soft, whimpering sound again, followed by a curse. And it isn't Mace who's cursing. In fact, the person who's cursing isn't even doing so in English … but in Russian.
Peeping my head out, I crawl forward and peer around the edge of a bookshelf to see Mace, standing above a bloodied, bruised Dmitri. Most of his teeth are missing, his fingernails. And even though I know for a fact that he's a piece of human trash, that he killed his own wife in cold-blood for no reason, the whole scene sickens me.
"You cocksucking piece of shit bastard son of a whore," Dmitri chokes out, but the words feel almost hollow, empty, like he already knows he's a dead man. At least I know Mace and Hawke weren't talking about the priest, I think as Mace circles the chair where Dmitri's bound, his wrists shackled to a metal folding chair along with his ankles.
"All we need to know is the pecking order," Mace says, picking up a pistol and checking the magazine to see if it's loaded. "And then—"
"You shoot me anyway," Dmitri says, his voice as cold as ice, like a snake slithering down my spine. I never liked him. God, there were times when he looked at me, that I just knew he'd rape me if he could, hold me down and make me scream. The only thing that stopped him from doing that was fear of another monster: my own father. "A man like me has few qualities worth mentioning. Loyalty might as well be one of them."
Mace puts the barrel of the gun to my father's minion's head and just stands there, his handsome face stoic and frozen into a mask that lacks any hint of empathy or compassion. Not that I'd expect or want any for Dmitri, but just because I expected that out of Mace period.
Who the hell would've thought of him as the … err, extractor?
My dad likes to call his minions who torture people, his elves. Dumb as that sounds, as soon as you see him say it with that maniacal grin on his face, lips stretched wide, balding head shining in the light, you feel that chill down your spine, too. "They're Santa's little helpers," he'd joke, but it wasn't at all funny in context.
I'd seen his 'torture room' once, and I never want to see it again.
As much as I hated Dmitri, I didn't want to see this either.
"Last chance," Mace says, still holding the gun to Dmitri's head. "Tell me now, and I won't blow your kneecaps off before I kill you."
"You want me to beg? You have no idea what Konstantin would do to a rat. This is nothing." Mace doesn't even bother to respond to Dmitri's words, lowering the gun and blowing a hole through one of Dmitri's knees and then the other, just like that. Blood and bits spatter everywhere, and my head feels suddenly light and detached, like it's floating on the end of a string.
There are these few, awful moments where I can't hear anything but the booming sound of the gun, like the rolling of thunder. It echoes around the enclosed space, so loud that it makes me cringe. And I'm pretty sure Mace is using subsonic ammo and a suppressor, just like my father's men. Still, loud. Loud, loud, loud.
Just not as loud as the thundering of my heart, the sound of my thoughts.
I need to get out of here before it's too late, I think, but then, the booming noise fades and I can hear Dmitri making these animalistic keening sounds of pain. Mace raises the pistol again, and shoots Dmitri in the chest.
The same way my father shot Kisten.
I can't help myself.
I throw up all over the floor with a violent retching sound and then shove to my feet, knocking over some old music stands as I go, sending them clattering to the floor. I'm running from pure instinct then, taking off at a frantic pace that I know isn't fast enough, isn't good enough.
Mace catches up to me right after I leave the basement via the locked door and start to stumble my way down the aisle of the church. He tackles me in just the right way that I can see a flash of Saint Rita's painting before I fall to my knees with the big man on top of me.
"Talia!" he's shouting as I struggle and fight, clawing and kicking and biting like my life depends on it. It feels futile though, like Mace's muscles are made of steel. I'm so upset, I can't remember a lick of the training I went through today with Hawke.
Dmitri's chest exploding like a watermelon on a hot summer sidewalk.
Kisten's chest exploding.
I did that once, threw a watermelon off a picnic table and onto some cement. I was just a kid and it sounded like fun. The destruction was certainly something to behold, all those juicy, gleaming red bits everywhere. Like now. Dmitri, spattered across a basement wall … and Kisten spattered all over me.
"Calm down, Talia," Mace is grumbling, his dark eyes desperately trying to latch onto mine. Finally, he pins my arms above my head, and I give up for a moment, closing my eyes and reliving that horrible moment over and over again. As soon as my dad screwing the enemy, it was all over. For a while there, it was a bit of fun, a streak of danger and excitement.
But not to Konstantin Petrov.
He would've made my life a living hell if I'd stayed. And fuck, the only reason he let me run away in the first place was because he thought he could catch me. He still does, too, and I know it. Catch me, cage me, cut off my wings. Of course, he made me sit through that awful dinner party first …
"I don't want to be caged," I whisper to Mace, and he lets go of me suddenly, sitting back with a sigh and shaking his head. His long dark hair obscures his eyes for a moment as I sit up, my face wet with tears I hadn't known I was even shedding.
"I can't do this, Hawke," Mace mutters, and I have no idea what he's talking about. I sit there and stare at him for a moment until he finally looks over at me, our gazes clashing like lightning, sending sparks through a tumultuous sky.
"Can't do what?" I ask, but Mace simply shakes his head. "You killed Dmitri," I whisper accusingly. There was nothing else to be done with the man, I know that. He's a monster, and the second he got out of here, he'd have made it his life's mission to hunt down and kill
every single one of these men. Like a trapped viper, he had to be disposed of before he shared his venom.
"You thought we'd do anything else?" Mace asks, but no. No, I should've known this was coming, shouldn't really be surprised at all, should I? As I sit there with the big man with the massive arms and the wide chest, the kind face, and the shuttered expression, I remember him holding me, naked, on the floor of the bathroom while I wept.
Mace … is basically the opposite of Arsen.
"Why do you want me on your team?" I ask through weird, staccato tears. I'm not crying for Dmitri, obviously, or even for Kisten but rather … for the woman I want to be that I'm not sure I'll ever have a chance to become.
"We …" Mace starts, and I can hear a split-second of hesitation in his voice. "We had a woman with us before, and we work better that way. Too much testosterone makes a mess of things."
I raise an eyebrow, totally fucking skeptical, but then Mace stands and holds out his hand.
"Come with me," he says, his dark gaze locked on mine. "We'll get some coffee … and I'll tell you about Portia."
My eyes look first at Mace's hand, then his face, his hand again.
I reach out to take it.
Curiosity killed the cat, right?
Nobody ever quite said what it did to the pussy though.
Chapter 15
MACE
The last thing in the world I want to talk about right now is Portia. But I can tell that seeing me shoot Dmitri is really fucking with Talia's head, and for the first time in a long time, I want to take care of someone.
"Are you sure we can be up here?" she asks, standing at the edge of the tiny rooftop deck and peering over the railing. The breeze picks up the long chocolate-honey strands of her hair and teases them around her face, sticks them to her lips. She pulls them away with two fingers and glances over her shoulder at me.
"You think we'll get sniped or something?" I ask, but there's not much of a chance of that. Clearly, Konstantin Petrov and his people have no idea we're here—not the team or his daughter—or else he'd have already stormed our castle gates.
"Never put it past Daddy," she says with a sour bite to her voice. The wind is sticking her black tank top to her generous curves, highlighting a narrow waist and large breasts. She's luscious and plump as fuck, and I can't imagine why Hawke wants to turn her into the thin, lean, mean fighting machine that was Portia.
Natalia moves back over to the tiny table and sits in the chair next to mine, picking up her coffee cup in small hands and putting it to her lips as I marvel at the shape of her fingers, the length of them. I've never noticed a woman's hands like this before, not once. Not even when I thought I might be falling for Portia.
"So tell me about this mystery woman/nurse/invaluable member of the team?" she asks, running the tip of one finger around the rim of her coffee cup. She pauses suddenly and glances up, like she's just thought of something. "You must have a name for your team, right? Like some sort of moniker?"
"Hawk Security, Personal Protection, and Asset Management," I say with a slight smile, "but no 'E' on the end of Hawk this time."
"HSPPAM," Natalia sounds out and then crinkles her tiny triangle of a nose. I've also never fucking seen a woman's nose as cute before. There must be something seriously goddamn wrong with me. "H-spam is not a good team name. How about something cool like Alpha Team?"
"How about Hawke Security, but with an 'E'," I add, because that's pretty much how we refer to ourselves. My tongue runs across my lower lip on accident, and I lean back in the chair, my cock hardening and lengthening inside my black cargo pants. Can't help it. When I look at Natalia, everything inside of me just seems to spring to life. And when I say everything, I mean everything.
"Hawke Security," she says, tucking some hair behind her ear and taking another sip of coffee. "I can work with that. So. Tell me about this Portia chick. Who was she?"
"She was an ex-marine who also worked as a psych nurse. She's the one who … well, let Arsen out of his cage so to speak. She literally freed him from a mental institution and they went on the run together."
Natalia looks up at me with this wild expression of confusion, like she's never heard anything so bizarre in her damn life. And this, coming from the daughter of a Russian mob boss. Yep. She's clearly fallen for Arsen's charms, too. I can tell that without even asking, and it makes me curl my lip. I know what women see when they look at the handsome, tattooed son of a bitch. But does she know how goddamn dangerous he is?
Does she know how goddamn dangerous I am?
"Okay," Natalia hazards, turning to face me, her knee bumping mine and making me shiver. Hawke commanded me to fuck her, but I want it to be more than that. I want her to want me, to put some trust in me even though I don't deserve it. Because the things I like to do in bed require a whole hell of a lot of trust.
"The two of them started running con jobs until they picked the wrong mark—a man that Hawke had already been hired to deal with. He caught them both, but just barely. And then offered them jobs. I was already working for him at the time, but Colt and Weston came along later."
"So why does everyone talk about Portia like she was some sort of goddess?" Natalia asks, her voice husky and inviting. I want to sink into it and swim, let myself drown and then drag her under right along with me.
"She was our …" Words fail me. I'm not big on words. I'm not a man who likes to talk much at all, really. "She was ours."
That's about all I want to say on the matter. Portia lived and worked with five straight men who didn't get out much, and she had a healthy appetite for sex. Maybe not as healthy as Natalia's, but strong, vibrant … creative. She wanted to please us, and we all wanted to fuck her. Hawke and Arsen … there was something more there between them and Portia, something I never quite got to experience.
I wonder if I might be experiencing it now.
"You want me to join your team … and be yours, too?" she asks me after a long, quiet moment, looking up at me from under a thick fall of dark lashes. "Is that what this is? You're making me Portia's replacement?"
"Hawke says you want to kill yourself," I tell her blatantly, because what the fuck is that all about? She can't kill herself, not when I've just decided I like her. Mace … doesn't like people easily. I can be mild-mannered, I can take care of shit, but I'd rather kill most people than smile at them.
It's easier to put a gun to someone's head and pull the trigger than it is to deal with all the bullshit that comes with human emotion.
"I don't want my father to get ahold of me." Natalia looks up, her amber-brown eyes meeting mine with this pleading, desperate sort of look. "If he does, I don't even know if I'll get the pleasure of dying. I'll be a bird in a gilded cage, a doll in a fancy little house. He'll play with me, he'll let his men play with me …" Her voice trails off, and she shakes her head, putting her fingers to her temples. "So if it's between death and Daddy, I choose death."
"What if it was between death and joining us?" I ask, tapping my fingers on the tabletop. The wind twists around the church spires, teasing my skin with icy gusts. Natalia shivers, but I don't budge. I just sit there and stare at her. "If you're going to give your life up anyway, why not give this a try?"
"I am giving it a try," she defends, giving me this saucy little look that makes the beast inside my chest growl. He wants her. He wants her so goddamn badly, like a male that's found his mate. And he'll do anything to have her. "I shot my father's own men and saved Weston, trained with Hawke, fucked everybody here except …"
There's a long pause where she just stares up at me.
"Everybody but me," I growl out, squeezing my hands into fists and trying to hold back a sudden rush of need and want. There are so many things I want from this girl, but it's not fair to put them all on her, not all at once. My desires are just … not as fucked as Arsen or as domineering as Hawke, but I definitely have unique tastes.
"You want to rectify that." It's not a question, but Natali
a picks up her coffee and then finishes it off as she waits for me to respond. "I think I might be a sex addict. Also, possibly, a coke addict."
"We're all addicted to something," I say as she pushes her cup away and gives my half-empty one a glance.
"What are you addicted to, Macey?" she asks me as I look her over and let everything I'm feeling reflect in my eyes.
Hunger. Lust. Need.
"Justice—at any cost. I'm so addicted to justice that sometimes, I do things that are unjust to get it. Doesn't make sense, I guess, but it's the need I always slake."
"Hmm," Natalia says, walking backward toward the exit. "But there are other needs to slake, no?"
She turns and heads toward the door.
I wait for a moment and make a decision.
If she goes into my bedroom, I'll go for her.
If she doesn't, I'll let her go and I'll never touch her again.
Because I'm almost afraid to see what'll happen if I do.
* * *
Two sides of me war as I head back inside and down a small flight of stairs, around the corner and into the main hallway. I make my way to the second door on the left and push it open with my palm.
The room I'm using used to be set aside for storage. There's a large bed crammed into one corner, but also heaps of old shit from the church. It's a fucking junk room with a massive wooden cross leaning against the wall, casting a shadow over everything.
And then there's Natalia, sitting on the smooth blankets of my perfectly made bed, staring up at me.
She's almost looking at me like she thinks I'm going to be tame.
Makes me feel bad. Makes me wish I were tame. But maybe, just maybe, this girl could tame my heart in a way Portia never did?
"Stand up," I say, my heart pounding. Natalia gives me a look, but she does what I ask anyway. In fact, she looks almost eager to be doing it, like she enjoys pleasing others, submitting. Maybe she likes being told what to do in the bedroom? I've long since learned there's not a lot of correlation between what someone's like in the real world and what they're like during sex.
