“Drink?” he asked.
“Definitely.”
It was smooth, whatever it was; it tasted expensive.
“How go the preparations?” Ian asked. His tone was calm, polite, and more relaxed than Aidan had heard it before. There was a certain air of ease between them now. A dispelling of the usual tension in the room. The common cause had given them a more equal footing, had made the differences less important.
“We found out where he’s being held, and my guy Fox thinks he knows the best way to get us in.”
Ian’s brows lifted in a show of mild interest, but there was nothing mild about the spark of his eyes. “Yes?”
Aidan grimaced. “That’s where I’ve got a problem.” He quickly outlined the idea of using female decoys. Carter had suggested recruiting Jazz, though his jaw had been tight with distaste at the suggestion. And that would leave Sam as the other pretend call girl. His own precious Sam, who loved him and taught Shakespeare to college kids, and who was willing to accept his baby.
“Hmm,” Ian murmured. “A dilemma.”
“A man doesn’t ask his woman to put herself in that kind of danger for him,” Aidan said firmly. “He just doesn’t.”
“A bit sexist, are we?”
“If it’s sexist to want to protect your girl, sure, yeah, I’m a sexist asshole.”
“What does she think of the idea?”
“I haven’t told her yet.”
“Why not?”
This was getting frustrating. “Because I’ve got a bad feeling she’ll jump all over it, to help Kev. And then what am I gonna do?”
Ian lifted his glass and swirled the contents, studying them with a frown. “It’s interesting, isn’t it? Instinctual. The man wanting to protect his mate. Spare her from the physical dangers of his world. Take the bullet for himself. Cover her with his body. Shield her.” His brows gave a little leap of disbelief. “It’s so highly discouraged in this day and age, and yet it’s arguably the most noble of male behaviors.” His eyes came to Aidan. “Take yourself for example. What have you to offer anyone, save your gun and your shielding arms?”
Aidan pulled his temper back, forcibly checked his reaction. “This is my club, my brother, my business, and my problem. If I involve her, and she gets hurt…” He couldn’t even think about it, much less voice it.
“You need not speak to me of guilt,” Ian said. “I’m all too familiar with it.”
“Shit.” Aidan sank back in the chair and rubbed at his temples. He had a monster headache coming on. “So that’s where we’re at.”
Ian sighed. “I’d offer the use of two of my office staff girls…but I wouldn’t trust them with your club’s business. Your call.”
“I only trust family.”
Ian nodded. “Should I be flattered?”
“If you wanna be.”
~*~
“Sam,” Mom said that evening as they cleaned up the dinner dishes, “I’m worried about you.”
They’d had Cobb salad with grilled chicken on top, and Sam scraped leftover egg crumbles into the garbage. “Why?” she asked, heart giving a little worried bump. She was never on the receiving end of these sorts of talks in her household. That was Erin’s thing, making Mom worry.
“I saw Aidan leave this morning,” Helen said.
“He came over late,” Sam said. “We didn’t wake you coming upstairs, did we? I’m sorry.”
“Samantha.”
There was no avoiding that tone; rarely used, but deeply respected. Sam looked at her mother and saw more than passing concern; a deep and sad sort of sympathy. “I know you love him, Sam,” Helen said. “And I know you haven’t ever loved a man, and you deserve that chance.”
“I sense a ‘but’ coming.”
Helen smiled. “I don’t want you to get hurt. And I like Aidan, I do, but I’m afraid he seems the sort who hurts people without even meaning to.”
Wasn’t that the truth?
Sam started to respond and was cut off by the ringing of her cellphone. It was Aidan.
“Can I come pick you up?” His voice was strained. “I wanna talk about something.”
Her stomach clenched, but she said, “Sure.”
When she hung up, she glanced at her mother.
Helen nodded. “Go. Have fun.”
She kissed her mom on the cheek, slipped on her jacket and ankle boots, and was outside on the patio when Aidan turned up, dark and sinister in his leather jacket and cut. He was carrying the spare helmet and leaned in to kiss her, lingeringly, as he passed it into her hands.
“You okay?” he asked as he pulled back.
“Uh-huh. You?”
“Maybe.”
He rode like a demon, the bike seeming to outrun the headlamp, the black road sliding away beneath them. House lights and business signs flashed past in bright pulses, too quick for her to make any sense of the town she’d grown up in. She knew these roads backwards and forwards, but it was different on the back of the bike. The only real thing was Aidan’s muscled torso between her arms, the warmth of his body she felt through all his leather. It was bitterly cold, and the night air found pathways up her sleeves, down into her collar. Her teeth were chattering by the time they pulled over.
“Where are we?” Sam asked when the engine cut off.
There was no light save the moon’s cool glow across the frosted grass. The shadowed bulk of a half-wall gave her pause; the pale light struck a patch of shine on what must be a window; where a roof should have been, jagged beams thrust toward the sky.
“It was a shooting range,” Aidan explained. “Dad brought me here before I was even old enough, let me fire his old .22 for the first time. It burned down about a year ago.” He twisted around so she could see the fast glimmer of his eyes. “Creepy, isn’t it?”
She shivered. “A little. But I’m not a wimp, Teague.” She elbowed him lightly in the back and he chuckled.
“Nah, I knew you weren’t.” He swung off and extended a hand toward her. “Come take a walk with me, baby.”
He pulled her up off the bike and tucked her against his side, a solid, comforting arm around her waist. Sam put her arm around his waist, and they walked in the shuffling, awkward gait of two people who didn’t want to be even an inch apart.
The ground underfoot crunched – gravel. In the distance, a small pack of coyotes started up a chorus of yips and yodels.
“Did you come here a lot to shoot?” Sam asked as they stepped over a fragment of charred plywood.
“Dad was like a drill sergeant. He wouldn’t let me have my own piece until I was proficient.”
“Not to agree with him, but that’s probably not a bad idea when it comes to firearms.”
He snorted.
“We’re not here to shoot, are we?” she asked, only half-teasing, squeezing him. “I’m not averse to learning, but I think I might need a little bit of light.”
She’d meant it as a joke, but Aidan squeezed her back, hand pressed tight in the innermost curve of her waist. “I do wanna teach you, but not tonight.”
Okay, she was starting to worry. “What is it?” she asked softly, and the coyotes answered her, screaming at the moon over whatever poor animal they’d killed.
He stopped walking and turned her in his arms so they faced one another. She could just make out his face, the brightness of his eyes, the high shine on his cheekbones and shadow of his stubble.
“I need to tell you something,” he said, voice heavy and official. “Ask you something, really. And I don’t want you to answer until you’ve thought about it. I mean, thought about it.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Yeah.” His fingertips pressed hard into the small of her back. “And, for what it’s worth, I hope your answer is gonna be ‘no.’”
“Just tell me.”
“We found Kev.”
A jolt moved through her, a sharp tightening of muscles and skin. “Where?”
“In a house. A big house, that belongs t
o a really bad guy.”
If that didn’t sound patronizing, she didn’t know what did, but she let it slide. “And?”
“Fox scouted it out today. Tight as a drum. But we got some intel that we think could get us in. The problem is…” He winced. “Shit, I hate this.” And then proceeded to tell her about Fox’s proposed plan of infiltration.
“They know Mags, and Ava, and all the old ladies. And we can’t trust a stranger.” His hands were now fists against her back, shaking with nerves and dread.
Sam took a deep breath. “So Carter’s girlfriend and I would dress up like hookers–”
“Not much of a stretch for Jazz,” he said, joke falling instantly flat.
“–and flirt our way inside so we can let you guys in the side door.”
“Pretty much. Yeah.” He lowered his head a fraction, so his eyes bored down into hers. “But Sam, baby, I don’t want that. Not even a little bit.”
“But there’s no one else.” Her voice was reasonable, even. But her pulse was thundering in her ears; her skin prickled.
“There’s not.” It sounded like an apology.
The coyotes had quieted, but there were other night sounds around them, indistinguishable chatter and whispers, crunching through leaf litter she couldn’t see.
“Say no,” Aidan urged, giving her a little shake.
But she couldn’t. Her lips wouldn’t form the word. “You can’t abandon Kev,” she said instead.
Even in the dark, she could see the pain writ wild across his face, the deep lines and grooves of stress.
“He would come for you,” she said. “He’s your family.”
“But so are you,” he countered. “And how can I risk one member for another?”
Her heart squeezed. “You wouldn’t be risking me. I’d be risking myself.”
He didn’t answer, but made a distressed sound deep in his throat. Sam put her arms around his neck and held him close, her head resting against his chest. “What was it I said before? You live life and I write about it. My writing can’t help you now. But I can.”
Thirty-Five
“What’d you tell King?” Fox asked as he rummaged through the duffel bags set up on the tailgate.
It was the next morning, and the tall tangled grasses of the cattle property were hoary with frost, their breath misting in the early light. If Walsh was still at home he would doubtless hear the gunshots and come to inquire. Aidan had anticipated that and already made a phone call.
“I told him I wanted to try out that ammo Candy brought with him. Said I’d be up here a while.”
“Good.” The Englishman nodded and started pulling out hardware. “Alright, my lovelies. Are we ready to learn?”
“They’re not your lovelies,” Carter said. It was a whole new Carter, this new one who Jazz was leaning against. Older, harder, more ferociously determined. Aidan had to approve.
Fox’s brows went up. “Whatever, mate.”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Sam said, and Aidan glanced sideways at his old lady. She was dressed for work because she was headed there afterward: dark skinny jeans, tall boots, a warm sweater under her wool coat. She’d worn her contacts, so there wouldn’t be any glare on her lenses, she’d said.
As he studied her profile, wanting to kiss her, she turned her head and met his gaze. Her smile flickered with nerves. “Don’t be too disappointed if I suck at this.”
“I won’t be disappointed. And you won’t suck.”
She turned to Fox as he approached her, squared up her shoulders, and proceeded to rise to the occasion…just as Aidan knew she would.
The paper targets were set up behind the barn, only a dozen or so paces away because, as Fox reasoned, the girls wouldn’t be shooting from a great distance. The Englishman was a patient, focused teacher, and he drilled them with a .38, a nine mil, and the little single-shot gut guns they were given to wear in their boots.
Jazz shrieked the first time the .38 kicked in her hands.
Sam jumped a little, but pressed her lips together in fierce concentration and fired again and again until she could hit within inches of the bulls eye every time.
When they were smooth and relaxed, Fox pulled out his own .40 and .45. “In case you end up with one of their guns,” he explained. “I want you to be able to grab anything up off the floor and use it.”
Aidan hadn’t even thought of that. A chill rippled down his back at the thought.
The frost was beginning to melt, the sunlight sharp and bright as it slanted in their faces when Fox announced the lesson over. “Twice more before we go in,” he decreed, and headed back to the clubhouse in the truck.
They’d left the two bikes on the far side of the barn, parked in the gravel, and Aidan hung back, let Carter and Jazz get a head start.
“You’re okay with the guns?” he asked Sam as they walked, slowly, kicking at stray pebbles. The grass swished wetly around their legs.
Sam slid her cold hand into his, lacing their fingers. “Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of all the scary moments in my life, firing a gun doesn’t make the list.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m sure.”
“It’s not too late to say no.”
She sighed. “Yes it is. Do you think I could live with myself if I walked away now?”
He wanted to argue with her, but didn’t. It was no use; they’d only keep going in circles around one another.
Tense with frustration, he towed her around the barn just as Carter was firing his bike up. The guy waved, and then he and Jazz were gone, the tailpipes echoing long after they’d disappeared from sight.
Aidan didn’t realize he was staring into space, every muscle locked, until Sam spoke to him.
“You have to climb out of that place in your head,” she said quietly. “The one where you’re knotted up with guilt.”
Her eyes shone with such a clear blue-green light when he looked down at her. Her expression reflected none of his turmoil and doubt. She’d made peace with what was going to happen.
“It won’t help us now,” she continued. “You’ll only be distracted, and if we’re going to pull this rescue mission off, we have to be one-hundred-percent committed.”
He had no idea how he’d managed to suck her into his life, but he was damn sure he didn’t deserve her. “You never shoulda given me a chance,” he told her.
Her brows lifted. “And you never should have doubted my capacity to love you completely.”
Okay. Damn.
“We’ve both made mistakes,” she said. “But we’re going to have to put them completely behind us and just look forward.”
How serious and honest she looked. The sight of her stirred up a slow warmth behind his breastbone. “Sounds logical,” he said, wanting to smile.
Sam did smile. “Oh no. Nothing about us is logical.”
~*~
Twice more they took the girls to the property to shoot, and by the end of all three sessions, Sam and Jazz were admirable shots. They decided to move the day before Thanksgiving. That day dawned overcast, silver light heavy at the windows.
In the warm shelter of Sam’s bed, Aidan turned his face into his old lady’s throat and whispered, “Are you ready?”
He thought she shivered and doubted it was from the cold. “Yes. I’m ready.”
~*~
In Ghost’s life history, there existed a handful of moments in which the heaviness of failure had overcome him, and he’d felt himself begin to crumble beneath its weight. One had occurred when his first marriage ended. Another when he’d recognized the mistake of separating Ava and Mercy. And now there was this one. They weren’t going to get the money together. He’d realized it that afternoon, sitting across the table from a bloodshot Walsh. There would be no easy way of getting Tango back, and they were going to have to launch a full-scale attack against the enemy. It would be bloody and inexact. They would lose brothers.
Failure. And failure was inexcusable i
n a president.
The sun was sinking as he walked into the back door at home. He was grateful for the warm light of the kitchen and all its normal homey smells of food and flowers. He didn’t tell Mags often enough, but he would be forever thankful for the way she’d brought a sense of home into his life. He’d never had that before her; she worked hard at it, and most days he walked right through her magic without acknowledgement.
That was shitty of him. Funny how failure had a way of sharpening his priorities.
“Babe?” he called, toing off his boots in the rack, shrugging off jacket and cut. “Something smells good. What is that?”
Her voice sounded behind him, low, throaty, and not what he’d been expecting. “Pot roast, if you’re hungry. But maybe you’d like a little appetizer?”
A prickling up the back of his neck as he turned, the good kind. A fast pulse of anticipation deep in his belly.
And then he caught sight of her.
Holy shit.
She transported him back through time, all the way to the day they’d met, that cool fall afternoon outside the liquor store. The Maggie standing before him now, one hand braced in the kitchen doorjamb, was the Maggie of his violent mid-twenties’ obsession. She wore a denim miniskirt that hugged her hips and flashed every inch of her long pale legs. Black boots. White tank top that left nothing to the imagination. She’d teased her thick blonde hair. And her lips – bright flawless red.
His mouth went dry, and every drop of blood in his head fled to places south.
“Mags.” He advanced on her slowly, taking in the low-lidded eyes that had first snagged his attention all those years ago. All she was missing was the cigarette. “You feeling nostalgic?”
“Hmm.” Her smile was mysterious, knowing, full of feminine power. “A little bit.”
“Any particular reason why?” When he put his hand on her waist, he felt the surge of electricity in his blood that had accompanied all those first forbidden touches between them. He always claimed to have been shocked and appalled when he’d learned that she was only sixteen. He had no attraction to underage girls; he’d been disturbed when she’d told him.
Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) Page 34
