“It was a lasso—the ‘Lasso of Truth,’” Jack clarified helpfully. “And if anyone has a whip, it’s you, my love—it’s most definitely you.”
“Why do you say that?” She looked up at him, bemused.
Jack caressed a finger across her cheek. “Because you have all the power, tesoro. All the control. Men worship you. Whatever you want, whatever you need—it’s yours if we can give it. That’s power,” he stated matter-of-factly. And he meant it.
Perhaps this was growth, he mused. Before Sam, Jack lived his life exactly as he liked. And he’d tried to go back to the selfish, self-absorbed prick he’d been when she’d left. But that skin didn’t fit him anymore. He was slowly but surely learning to compromise, to accommodate her needs not because he simply had to—but because he wanted to. In the quiet of her bedroom, holding her like this after so many months apart, Jack realized he’d begun to change in ways he’d never realized before. He was taking on a new form now—one that was built to walk beside her, to carry her when she needed. He was learning to absorb her pain, to take it into himself and transform it into something altogether different. Yes, he wanted her back, but more significantly—he was willing to do whatever he needed to for her to heal.
“I missed you,” Jack murmured, rubbing her cheek. “God, it’s so fucking good to hold you again. My arms have felt so empty—I didn’t even realize it.”
Samantha took a shuddering sigh. “I’m sorry I cried all over you, but it wasn’t an attempt to start something back up. My life is too messed up, Jack. I’m too messed up to be dragging you into this shit.” Her hand closed and opened against his shirt, worrying the fabric, like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to push him back or bring him closer.
“You didn’t take anything I wasn’t offering. And I want to stand beside you for this—”
“No, I have to do this on my own.” She shook her head.
Jack clasped her hand, holding her palm against his heart. “Why do I get the feeling you keep telling me to leave because you’re punishing yourself? Like you’re trying to go it alone because you think it’s what you deserve.”
Samantha frowned at him. “I’m punishing myself? That’s ironic coming from you. What were you doing after I left for Afghanistan?”
“Wallowing in self-pity,” Jack answered honestly. “You went to war and I hit the club. Not my finest moment—I admit it.”
“I hate that.” Samantha touched the bristle lining his jaw. “I hate that I fucked you up so bad you needed to get high to deal with it.”
“Just being with you is a contact high, tesoro.”
She frowned. “Not funny.”
When she made to move away from him, Jack brought her back within the circle of his arms.
“That was crass,” he admitted. “Mi dispiace.”27
Samantha was silent a moment, but when she finally met his eyes again, he saw the worry there. “You relapsed because of me. I drove you to it, didn’t I?”
“No, tesoro.” Jack shook his head. “I did this because of me. Because I couldn’t handle it, and as easy as it would be to blame you or our relationship, the fact is, this was always my problem, my addiction. It started because I liked it. Then I needed it. Uppers, downers, whatever. It’s always been easier than facing the issues. And now it’s time to just meet them head on, don’t you think?” Jack kissed her temple, relieved to be holding her again after these long and lonely months. He breathed in the maddening scent he loved so well. He’d never forget the scent of jasmine now. It was seared in his frontal cortex.
“What are we doing?” she mumbled into his shoulder.
“Coexisting,” he answered, not wanting to scare her off after the headway they’d made.
“I’m a fucking emotional yo-yo. I wanted to bite your head off when you arrived, and now I’m crying on you like the world is ending,” she lamented. “What the hell is wrong with me? I’m never like this!”
“You’re so practiced at turning off your feelings, tesoro,” he reasoned. “Of course it feels weird as hell when you finally turn them back on.”
She shot him a look. “Were you always so annoyingly self-aware?”
“I’ve been forced to do kumbayah therapy for several months. What did you think was going to happen?”
“Did it help you?” she asked quietly, tracing her finger down his chest. “Do you feel better?”
“I do and I don’t,” he admitted, clasping her closer as he rested his head in his hand. “I’m better, but I see how much stupid, ridiculous shit I did in the time we were together. I just didn’t know how to handle us—to handle you. I’d always been in control in all my relationships. I’d always been the dominant personality. Then you come along and toss the apple cart. To say I handled you leaving badly is a major understatement.”
“I’m bad for you.”
“No, quite the opposite,” Jack disagreed. “I was being a prick. I only wanted to love you on my terms, and I tried to force you into living a life I was comfortable with.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Who are you and what have you done to Jack?”
Jack kissed her nose. “Yes, I’m telling you I was a selfish and conceited jerk. You put everything on the line to protect everyone else, and I couldn’t stand by you for that?” He recalled how pale and small she looked lying in that hospital bed, his jaw tightening. “I thought you died, tesoro. Those were the worst hours of my life, imagining my world without you in it. Rehab and cleaning out just gave me the time and perspective I needed to validate that realization.”
Samantha was quiet a long time. When she finally spoke, she said, “Jack—I miss you. I won’t lie to you and say I don’t miss us, but I’m not sure I’m ready…” she fiddled with his shirt. “I mean, I don’t really know what I want right now with everything that’s happening…”
“I know that, tesoro.” He squeezed her closer, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I’ll wait.”
She bit her lip, looking into his eyes. “And if I’m never ready?”
Jack smiled gently. “Samantha, you’re worth the risk.”
They looked at each other for a long time, communicating silently, their eyes sending smoke signals. Jack could tell she was wondering if she could trust him to keep his word, and he was hoping she’d give him the chance to.
*
S A M A N T H A
The game was set and ready. She recognized the jet and ivory chess set her father had brought back from India, each piece so intricately carved that Sam could see the individual expressions on the King and the Queen quite clearly.
“Do you want to be white or black?” her father offered. He sat across from her, legs crossed casually, his fingers resting against his temple as he waited patiently for her to answer.
“White,” Sam answered readily, moving her pawn to D4 on the board.
Her father moved his pawn to D5.
She immediately moved a second pawn to C4.
“The Queen’s Gambit,” he said, identifying her opener as the hint of a smile played at his lips. “Your favorite move.”
“Because it’s aggressive,” Samantha responded blithely, meeting her father’s steady gaze. She’d forgotten how dark his eyes were—a deep, nearly black, treacle that made them virtually impossible to read. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but when she looked into her father’s eyes, she could only discern her own reflection.
“You like this opening because you enjoy controlling the center,” he observed, taking her pawn. “Even if it means sacrificing early on.”
“It’s a temporary setback,” she replied.
“Wars can only be won when you’ve set up a long-term advantage.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t mind losing a pawn, Dad. I know I’ll get him back eventually,” she argued, shifting another piece on the board.
“Your long-term strategies can only be achieved through tactics, and your tactics are based on your previous plays,” he told her.
&n
bsp; She frowned. “What are you saying?”
He met her eyes. “Don’t let your desire to win blind you from what you’re required to sacrifice to get it. Haven’t you lost enough, Samantha?”
“What’s sacrificing a little now to gain the bigger win later on?”
“What are you winning?” her father asked, pointing toward the board. “What have you lost?”
She watched, horrified as blood covered the board, seeping around the jet and ivory, thick and viscous. Her father stood, knocking over the table between them, so fast that she couldn’t even grasp what was happening. He stepped forward, but it wasn’t her father anymore. Lucien Lightner stood in front of her, leering like the devil. He clutched her throat, picking up her up as she grappled uselessly against his hold.
“Wake up!” he shouted, shaking her. “Wake up!”
*
April—Early Morning
Wyatt Ranch, Texas
S A M A N T H A
Sam startled awake, jerking hard like she was breaking a fall. Jack’s arms tightened around her briefly, sensing her distress in his sleep, but he didn’t wake. She watched his eyelids move for a moment as her heart pounded, the dark fan of his lashes closed as he remained lost in his own dreams. As she slowly calmed down, she registered the hazy dawn light filtering through her windows, peeking over the edge of the horizon in a soft golden glow.
They’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms, on top of her quilts, curled toward each other like petals of a peony. Sam was still holding onto his t-shirt, no longer damp with her tears, but wrinkled from her fist where she’d gripped him like her life depended on it. In the early light of day, her face flamed with embarrassment. She felt inert and tender from her earlier grief. How was it that nighttime brought out her weakest, most wanton self? The loneliness nearly unbearable; her heart so full of sorrow she thought she might drown in it…
Jack had walked back into her life right when she could hardly stand the prison of her own body, trapped as she was within its limits since Afghanistan. To be held by him, to be comforted within the confining pressure of his arms—it was a such an immense relief after months of struggle. Being close to Jack again was both painful and relieving, like running across hot sand and into cool water.
Samantha ran her fingers across the tightly loomed muscles of his shoulders. Jack had always been achingly beautiful to her, but now, as the sun lit the room, she could see the discipline in the angles and hard lines of his face and body. He’d changed since she’d last seen him, furious and bewildered as he tried to argue her out of leaving him in Chicago. He was still passionate and demanding, but there was something else… a sort of focused devotion and care—like he loved her enough to play by her rules. And that scared the shit out of her, because if she was halfway honest, no one had ever loved her like that before. Not ever.
Her dream returned to her even though the details were already slipping through the sieve of her consciousness. Sam wondered momentarily if her father was speaking to her from the grave or if her subconscious was running wildly through the streets, screaming its uncertainty.
She slipped back, careful not to wake Jack as she moved off the bed. She dressed quickly, picking up her phone off the dresser before leaving the room, shutting the door as quietly as she could manage.
Alejandro opened the door to Ryland’s room just as she passed it.
“Morning,” he said as he finished shrugging his gun holster over his shoulders.
“We need to talk.” Sam pushed him back into his room, surprising him.
“Words no man ever wants to hear…. Especially before coffee.” Alejo could have easily resisted her, but he didn’t.
“I want to call your sister—” she started before glancing around, startled. Sam hadn’t set foot inside Ry’s room since he died. Hannah had converted it into a guest suite. Ry’s twin bed and the trundle Carey had slept on most nights had been replaced by a California King, and the walls had been painted a soothing blue. Gone were the toys and posters of Ry’s heroes. She looked up at the ceiling where she’d pinned glow-in-the-dark stars to the ceiling when he was still afraid of the dark so he’d have constellations to fall asleep to every night. Those too were just a memory.
Ryland’s ghost wasn’t haunting her here. It was just a place now. A place that vaguely reminded her of him, like the distant refrain of a song she loved.
“Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind, or are you going to stare at my shit?” Alejo’s amused voice snapped her out of her reverie.
“Something’s been bothering me about this deal with Lightner, but I can’t put a finger on it,” she admitted to him. “I want to talk to Rox again—puzzle it out.” She pulled out her phone, dialing Rox over speakerphone.
“Svetlana’s Sexy Hotline,” Rox answered in a surprisingly good Russian accent. “What is your pleasure?”
“Lucien Lightner’s head on a spike,” Sam answered readily.
“Kinky. I like it,” Rox purred.
“I’m on the line too and you’re fucking traumatizing me,” Alejo declared.
“Are the guys in Israel yet?” Sam asked.
“Just landed. Avi’s on his way to pick them up now,” Rox informed them, back to business. “Sam, I don’t know whether to thank you for sticking me in a house full of stupid hot guys or if I should be, like, really aggravated.”
Alejandro made a gagging nose.
“Bit of both is fair,” Sam answered, smirking at him.
“So you’ve got the ‘something’s on my mind’ voice going,” Rox remarked.
“Something’s been bugging me about this op, and I need your particular talent for looking at all the angles, since I’m not there to see them myself.”
“What’s up?”
“First, Lightner goes through the immense expense, pain, and trouble to change his face, and yet he shows up on radar with a known arms dealer for what?”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Rox drawled. “He’s running low on cash and he needs to make a big play.”
“But is this a big enough play?” Sam countered. “He just set off a bomb in London that’s shoved him so far into the international spotlight, he might as well become phosphorescent,” Sam continued. “If Lightner’s going to gamble, he’s going to make it count. I can’t help but think London was a set-up for something bigger.”
“If he was that good, he wouldn’t have gotten himself shot,” Rox replied blithely.
“Yeah, but was that enough to derail him off whatever the bigger plan is?” Sam pondered aloud. “He may not have accounted for you, but he did manage to escape in the end, didn’t he?”
“So what are you thinking?” Alejandro asked, piping in.
“I’m thinking he’s already on watch lists—so what does he have to lose?” Sam responded.
“Go big or go home?”
Sam nodded. “Lightner’s an audacious son of a bitch and he’s more than a little nuts, but he’s not an idiot. This set up at Ashdod—it’s highly risky. So many things could go wrong. He knows that. So why take such a big risk over some rocket launchers and mortars?”
“You think he’s got a ballsier play?” Rox asked.
“The man has a taste for theater. We saw that in London and Rio. And he’s a sidewinder. He’s going to want us all looking one way while he goes another.”
“So what’s his endgame?” Alejo interrupted. “What do you think he’s got for a Plan B?”
“That’s what I don’t know,” Sam sighed, rubbing her brow. “Rox, that’s what I need you to plan for. I can’t shake the feeling we’re missing something. We’ve got to cover all our bases.”
“Are you kidding me?” Rox replied, incredulous. “This port is a rat maze. There are twelve piers, four additional berths for roll on/roll off ships, and half-a-million square meters of storage space with special reinforced containment warehouses, not to mention the passenger cruise ships flowing in and out of here.” She sounded exa
sperated, like she’d spent all night working a puzzle with a mess of missing pieces. “Lightner’s got so many accessible alternate plans, there aren’t enough letters in the alphabet.”
“The other thing is, with the exception of kidnapping Jack and Mitch, Lightner’s rarely shown up to anything in person. Or if he’s shown up, it’s where you least expect him.”
“So you think he won’t do a deal in person?” Alejo asked.
“I think he’s too slippery to leave anything to chance,” Sam answered. “Look, I know you guys are setting up the plan today and I trust you to execute. But Rox—you need to think like him. He’s sneaky.”
“Like you, manita,” Alejandro added.
“Ha ha, asshole,” Rox drawled. “Very funny.”
“No, he’s right,” Sam agreed. “You’re an illusionist. So is Lightner. What would you do if you wanted to get your cake and eat it too?”
“It’s fucking hard to disappear anywhere with heavy artillery,” Alejo commented.
“I rarely agree with your brother, but he makes a good point.” Sam met his eyes as she spoke into the phone: “Ask yourself, Rox—what does Uzi Dichter have that’s worth an absolute fortune, and is small enough and light enough, to get in and out of with?”
*
April—Same Time
Wyatt Ranch, Texas
J A C K
Jack stepped away from Alejandro’s bedroom door, careful not to make a sound as he padded down the stairs. He took a sharp right toward the library, avoiding the kitchen so he could exit out of the library’s double-doors into the garden, unseen by Hannah or Grant.
He had awoken nearly immediately after Samantha had left the room, looking for her sleepily, his fingers trailing over the warm space she’d occupied, her scent in the air like a faint whisper. Jack sat up when he heard her and Alejandro talking in low tones in the hall. His hand was already on the door knob when he heard her say that she wanted to speak to his sister.
Jack was groggy from sleep, but that triggered some kind of faint memory. He’d met Alejandro’s little sister once or twice back when Alejandro would train at the boxing gym in Little Italy. Since they were about the same weight and height, his father used to pair them together for sparring sessions. Alejandro was a natural and a quick learner. He had incredible speed and was quick to attack, and Jack recalled only just managing to best him in the ring because he had more experience. But all that was years ago. Jack thought he recalled Alejo bringing a kid sister to the gym a few times when he couldn’t find someone else to watch her, but he wasn’t certain.
Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three Page 28
