Hawk (Sex and Bullets Book 2)

by Jo Raven

  Yeah, he did. Damn, I wish I had his confidence.

  Then again, it’s not his woman and kid on the line. It’s not him who’s got to make sure those pesky details are exactly right.

  Not that it’s his fault. I’m the one who got myself into this mess in the first place, when I insisted getting kidnapped was a good way to find out some vital info.

  That was then. Now I have a woman and a kid. Baby. Whatever. My mind freezes, like every time I remember this little fact—if the woman still wants me, that is. If I play my cards right, if I make sure she’s okay, and apologize enough, then maybe…

  Maybe I won’t be alone anymore. I’ll have my own family. Layla is the one for me.

  ***

  The devil is in the details.

  I pat my right hip, then my left. All there. I touch the pen in the breast pocket of my blue shirt. Tap the brand new hearing aid in my ear.

  Okay. All set.

  I draw a deep breath.

  Let it out.

  “You sure this will do the job?” I straighten my shirt.

  “Yeah, so stop fidgeting. One might think you’re chicken-shit.”

  “Fuck you, Rook.”

  “Not in the mood today, baby.”

  “Just get my girl back safe.”

  “You got my word.”

  And that finally relaxes me enough so I can buckle in and we can take off. Storm is climbing into a car with Raylin, setting off on their own mission.

  It’s on.

  Rook settles back in his seat as the pilot takes us off the ground, and we fly toward the city. Somewhere out there is Layla. She’s probably scared to death.

  Hold on, babe. I’m on my way.

  Won’t let anything happen to you.

  Scrubbing a hand over my face, adrenaline pumping through my body like a wash of cold fire, I gaze below, at the landscape streaking by—the streets and the houses and the buildings and the parks.

  Soon enough we’ll find out if those details Rook hammered out will make the difference between a success and failure, life and death.

  Between a damn bad and a damn happy ending.

  ***

  “Just breathe, buddy,” Rook mutters as he parks the SUV at the given address to wait for the phone call.

  “I’m supposed to look tense,” I inform him. “If I look too fucking relaxed, they’ll suspect something.”

  Though there’s no chance of me relaxing.

  “Whatever happens…” Rook rakes his hand through his longish hair. “It wasn’t your fault. You can’t save the whole world, man. No matter what your grandfather told you. You can’t—”

  “Oh shut up, Rook.” Heat climbs my neck, and I guess there’s no avoiding punching him in the face by the end of the day. “This is my family, and I’m the one who fucked up, not you.”

  “Trust me,” Rook mutters. “I’ve fucked up pretty bad plenty of times.”

  “I’m not talking about your fucked up childhood, bro.”

  “Neither am I.”

  Huh. Filing this tidbit to investigate later when my head is in the game, I stare at my phone, willing it to ring already.

  “You all set?” Rook reaches over to check my hearing aid, and I slap his hand away.

  “Yes.”

  “Remember everything I told you?”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, Dad.”

  But he isn’t fazed. He grabs my arm and nods. “You know I love you like a brother, Hawk. Stay calm and focus on the plan. It will work.”

  Suddenly I’m kinda choked, because Rook never shows much emotion, and I don’t know how the hell to respond, so I just nod and pat him on the shoulder.

  And then my phone rings at long last, and I make a mad grab for it.

  “Jamie Fleming,” I say breathlessly.

  “Drive alone along East Cold Spring Lane, cross Loch Raven Boulevard, and then turn into Fenwick Avenue and second left into Northgate Road.” I repeat the directions in my mind as the man goes on. “Stop there and wait. We’ll come to you. Don’t even think about telling anyone where you’re going. Needless to say, if we see any suspect movement, Hawk Fleming, your girlfriend is dead.”

  The call disconnects before I crush it in my hand.

  Just as well.

  “Gotta go,” I tell Rook. “Northgate Road.”

  “Let me help you unload your bike.” He throws the car door open, but then he pauses and gives me a long look. “You’ve got this, kid.”

  “I’ve got this.”

  As if I have any fucking choice.

  ***

  Pulling on my helmet and my leather jacket, I climb on my bike. At least this is a good feeling—the first good feeling I’ve had since Layla walked away and the fucking bastards got her.

  My heavy biker boots rest on the ground. My hands grip the handles.

  I’m as ready as I’ll ever get for this trip back into hell. Revving up the engine, taking one last deep breath, I push the kickstand and get rolling.

  In the time between the first phone call I received at Storm’s estate to the second call in the car with Rook, we took care of a few things. Like the GPS tracker Rook stuck to my bike, in case the address I was given doesn’t prove to be the final one.

  Among other things.

  Fuck, this is nuts. Rook’s plan is on par with my suicidal one that ended up with me tied up in that basement—but thankfully I don’t have much time to ponder the level of craziness because I’m already turning into Northgate Road and slow to a stop, planting my feet on the street and balancing the bike.

  I pull off my helmet and let the icy wind whip my hair across my face. The street looks empty.

  Scratching at my beard, I climb off my bike and kick the stand into place, then walk in a circle.

  My phone starts buzzing in my pocket before I’m done.

  Cursing, I fish it out and connect the call. “Yeah? I’m here.”

  “Of course you are.” I can hear the sneer in the voice and my other hand clenches into a fist. “Leave your bike where it is. Walk to number thirty-two and take the elevator to the third floor.”

  Click.

  Dammit.

  The street narrows in my eyes, darkening at the edges. True tunnel-vision, complete with a soundtrack—the mad pounding of my heartbeat in my ears.

  “Number thirty-two, third floor,” I repeat as I stride down the street, my boots thumping on the sidewalk and tap my hearing aid/ear-piece, hoping Rook is receiving me. I spot the number and climb the steps to the building entrance. The door is open a crack. “Going in.”

  Sweat is running down my back. The vest is a bit too tight, but Rook insisted, and hell, I’m following his plan to the letter. If I die because I changed one iota, he’ll haunt me forever.

  Entering the elevator feels too normal under the circumstances, but I obey those orders, too, and curse everyone under my breath.

  I really fucking need to punch through something, or someone. Controlling myself when the door opens will be the greatest challenge I’ve ever faced.

  Because they grabbed Layla. Scared her. Maybe hurt her.

  If they fucking hurt her, I’ll make them regret the day they were fucking born.

  The elevator doors open silently, and I step out onto the landing. A second later, a gun is shoved into my face.

  Big fucking surprise.

  The guy pats me down one-handed, checking for weapons, but he finds nothing, like I knew he wouldn’t.

  “This way,” he says, his face shadowed by dark stubble, his clothes unremarkable and dark enough I don’t see any stains.

  I let him prod me through an open door into a dimly-lit apartment with the drapes drawn. With my hearing aid, I feel confident enough to close my eyes for a moment, drawing in air, listening for sounds—like screams and sobbing.

  Sniffing for smells—like blood and fear.

  Nothing, apart from muffled male voices behind another door and a faint odor of sweat emanating from the guy pointing the gun at my bac
k.

  “Where’s Layla?” I grind out.

  “She’s not here,” he says. “She’s just been released nearby where your friend is waiting in his car.” He prods me with the gun. “Is he still waiting there, huh?”

  I turn around. His gun is a semi-automatic. “Layla is here.” I know it my gut. Nothing else would make sense. “Set her free, and you won’t get hurt.”

  He starts to laugh. It begins with a low snigger which turns into a loud guffaw. “You still don’t get it, do you? What the Organization is. How powerful it is. You think you can walk in and make demands. You think we’d hesitate to kill you.”

  I calmly walk toward him, toward the gun. Oh I’m calm. Calm like the eye of the storm. “You’re not the fucking boss of this operation. You have no clearance to kill me. Take me to Layla.”

  My chest is all but pressed to the muzzle of the gun, and this gamble will pay off or death will be swift, at least.

  Fuck.

  Then a familiar deep voice says from behind me—like déjà vu, dammit:

  “Welcome back, Mr. Fleming.”

  ***

  Sandivar.

  “I thought you’d have fled town,” I say, turning around. He can’t see my new earpiece, and I want to keep the advantage for as long as possible. “You should have.”

  “I could say the same about you.”

  “Where is Layla?”

  He sighs as if I’m tiring him. He waves a hand. “Bring out the girls and tie him up.”

  Girls? Plural?

  More guys enter from another room, ropes in their hands, and I need to keep them away from me.

  “Why didn’t you leave?” I press, taking a step toward Sandivar—and away from his goons. “You could be in Brazil by now. Or Europe.”

  “Nah, I like it here.”

  “You’ll get caught.”

  “Boy.” He shakes his head, amusement in his eyes. “You still don’t get it. The Organization is standing. You took out a few pawns. But you’re still in the dark.”

  “Are we?” I give him a thoughtful look. “Are you sure?”

  He frowns, clearly not liking this new game. “You’ve given up control, Hawk. You came here. You shouldn’t have. I have no interest in playing with you any longer. You can say my trust has expired. You and the girls die here to give an example to other wannabe heroes in this city.”

  My blood freezes, moving sluggishly under my skin, and a shiver racks my body. I begin to tell him he can’t kill Layla, that we had a deal—but I need to stop kidding myself. He holds all the cards, and I’m desperate to get Layla out of this alive.

  I’m at a disadvantage. I’ve always been at a disadvantage since I met Layla, since I fell in love with her, since I found out about the baby, and now it’s too late to change the rules.

  Nor would I want to. Don’t wanna go back to a world where I don’t have Layla. Just the thought of her, her warm embrace, her laughing eyes, her belief that I’m a good person, her sweet laughter, melt the ice in my veins.

  Another door opens, and a girl I’ve never seen before steps out. She’s pretty, I note absently, in an olive-skin, dark-hair and eyes sort of way, and she looks terrified.

  Behind her follows Layla.

  Everything in me stills as I watch her. She looks… beautiful. Even pale, her eyes wide with fear, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. Her hair is falling in a messy cloud around her face and down her back, her clothes—plain jeans and a black sweater—cling to her generous curves.

  Her pretty mouth trembles and then falls open on a gasp when she notices me.

  She doesn’t look mad at me anymore. She looks… happy to see me and scared to death all at once.

  “Let them go,” I tell Sandivar. “They were never part of this game.”

  “Wrong.” He flicks his wrist and the goons approach me more. “You made them part of this game, Hawk. Their death, their pain, will be on you.”

  “They don’t know anything the police don’t already know.” Keeping my temper in check is a struggle. “Let them go. That will earn you good points in court.”

  He lets out a dry chuckle. “Always so sure of yourself. Since you were a kid.”

  I refuse to acknowledge the crawling feeling on my skin at the knowledge he watched me since then, when I had no clue about this mess. “You don’t know shit.”

  “Your grandfather knew me. Army connections. He told me you’d never turn like your father and mother had. That he’d made sure of that.”

  Yeah. He only dropped the weight of the whole world on my shoulders.

  And now what? With Layla and this other girl still here, and all these guns being waved around, how am I supposed to do a thing?

  Fuck you, Rook, you and your clever plans. Fuck the details—because how am I gonna take a risk with the girls here?

  The girls are standing close to the apartment door, though. They aren’t tied up. They can run. If I create a distraction, then maybe they can escape. Maybe—

  “Hey, asshole.” Layla throws herself at the guy with the gun. What the fuck is she doing? She—

  The other girl throws herself at one of the other guys who’s fumbling with a gun at his hip.

  Time is slowing down. The fight is on.

  Focus.

  Now Sandivar is pulling his gun, a sleek handgun, and I’m running straight at him, sliding out the blade from my pocket and shouting, hoping the earpiece is still working, “Rook, come in now!”

  Sandivar curses as I swipe the small blade over his hand, forcing him to let go of the gun. I try to take him hostage with the blade to his neck—I bet Rook could’ve done it, dammit—but he slips out of my hands like an eel and slams a punch to my kidney that makes me cry out. Then he hits my wrist, and the blade drops from my numb fingers.

  Fucker.

  Turning, I bowl into him, before he has a chance to pull out the damn gun—but obviously someone else has had the time because a shot booms, and a bullet slams into the wall by my head.

  Barely feeling the sharp shards of drywall striking my skin, I pummel Sandivar in the stomach, then the face, and he punches back, hitting my still bruised jaw.

  Ow. I felt this one.

  Where’s Layla? A quick glance to the right shows her to be in the hold of one of the men, struggling, blood running from a cut on her cheek. She kicks the man in the shin and manages to push away from him. Then she has nowhere else to go and curls up in the corner.

  Jesus.

  I need Sandivar to get the others to stop. Rook was insistent on this, and he was right. They are pawns. He’s the knight, if not the king.

  So I draw back and go for my other blade, but before I can slide it out, I see another guy lifting his gun, pointing at Layla—and this time a howl bursts out of me.

  No.

  Ducking under Sandivar’s arm, I grab his legs and throw him down, then catapult myself at Layla. At the very last second, I have the presence of mind to not crush her completely, bowing over her—and several shots go off at once.

  My body jerks before the pain hits. One. Two. Three times.

  Three bullets.

  Fire burns into my back, my chest, filling me up until I can’t breathe. I can’t draw air, my body bowing, coming apart, shattering.

  “Layla,” I choke out her name, but it’s barely audible.

  Then I’m falling on her, into her, and she’s sobbing my name as I sink into her scent and warmth, darkness sweeping over me in a great calm wave.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Layla

  I thought I knew fear and desperation before, but I didn’t. There’s nothing like watching the man you love getting shot in the back and collapsing to the floor to put things into perspective.

  I love him. Like I’ve never loved anyone else.

  And he’s dead. Dead trying to save me.

  Whispering my name.

  I can’t breathe. A sob is caught in my throat. He came back for me. Was going to give himself u
p for my freedom. And died saving my life.

  He does care about me. All this wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t run away instead of staying to talk, and now…

  I’m holding on to his slack body that’s slumped over me, my heart hammering in my chest. I think I’ve run out of tears, because although I feel them burning the back of my throat, they never come.

  We’re all going to die, I think, and try to see Dorothy. A guy has her pinned to the wall, and she’s still, so still I can’t tell if she’s alive or dead in his hold.

  Dorothy…

  I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry I’ll never talk to my mom again, never see my friends at college. Never kiss Hawk again.

  Oh God, I’m sorry. I’m—

  The apartment door bursts open and men in dark uniforms step in, holding big automatic guns. Their sleek helmets gleam.

  The fight with Sandivar and his men is very brief. I think the shock of seeing them come in was their downfall. They stared for a moment, like I did, and in those precious seconds, the uniformed men disarmed everyone.

  To my huge relief, Dorothy slides down to the floor and hugs her knees, gulping air. She’s alive. Thank God, she’s alive.

  Another guy walks in, then, tall and dark-haired, his gaze sweeping the apartment. I know him well, and the tears slide into my voice, roughening it when I speak his name.

  “Rook!”

  “Layla. Oh fuck, Hawk…” He drops to his knees beside us and pulls Hawk off me. I try to resist—I don’t want to let go—but I am no match for Rook’s strength. He rolls Hawk over and starts unbuttoning his thick shirt.

  “It’s too late,” I try to tell him. “He got shot, in the back.”

  Rook says nothing, throwing the shirt open, and I blink, at first not understanding what I’m seeing.

  A light gray vest that seems packed with rigid plates.

  A bulletproof vest?

  Rook undoes the straps and pushes it off Hawk’s shoulders, then rolls him on his stomach. Where I expected to see bloody holes, there are dark bruises.

  “Devil is in the details,” Rook mutters grimly and sits back. He taps something in his ear. “Send up the paramedics.”

  Oh God. I put both hands over my mouth as I watch Hawk’s back rise and fall, rise and fall, a subtle, graceful movement.