Hard to Protect (Black Ops Heroes)

by Black, Incy

  “What I do know is that since they were eight, those two have been as thick as thieves, and not a whole lot of good has come from it. Boosting cars, pregnancy scares, drunken brawls, the police knocking on my door at all hours. You have no idea how much it cost me in bribes to keep their records clean. Two adolescent man-boys more wild than tame,” Helena ranted, her fist pounding the counter top. “But this? Drugs? I could kill them both.”

  Oh, boy. She’d only ever dealt with operatives. Spies and undercover agents trained not to react. She was more used to having to drag their feelings to the surface. This emotional tsunami was beyond her still newly minted practical, rather than academic, experience.

  “From when his own crack addict mother cast him out like a piece of rancid trash when he was just thirteen years old, I’ve loved Zac like a son. Homing him, clothing him, feeding him, protecting him… I trusted that boy, saw past the feral in him and made him part of my family. How bloody dare he hide from me the fact Will’s an addict? How bloody dare he deny me the chance to get my son help? And how bloody dare you—”

  “Helena, they’re a harmless Chinese herbal remedy. He didn’t want to compromise his return to duty so he withheld the fact he still had a problem with his side. I wasn’t aware he got them from Zac, but as close as those two are, Zac would cut his own arm off before harming Will.”

  “Much as I love Zac, he’s always had a jealous bent that merits watching. And pain? Why’s my Will in pain? The best bloody surgeons, that’s what they promised me when they wheeled him into theater. His body decorated with colored tubes, and little lights flashing through all that wet red soaking his green shirt. Christ, he looked like a broken Christmas tree.”

  “Helena—”

  “They promised me,” Helena said, her voice suddenly dropping to an agonized whisper. “Angel, they promised me. Promised me he’d be fine.”

  There was something so very wrong about a confident, vivacious, strong woman decked out in Christian Lacroix’s dramatic exuberance, suddenly losing buoyancy like a deflating hot air balloon.

  Skirting the counter quickly, Angel gripped the older woman by the shoulders. “He is fine. He’s just pushing himself too hard. The medics warned him that given the seriousness of the injuries he sustained, he’d never again reach the peak level of fitness required of an undercover operative. Will, being Will, took that as a challenge to prove them wrong. But he knows, he knows, his time in the field has a fast approaching expiry date. A desk job is the best he can hope for. He’s just having a little difficulty accepting it.”

  Helena reached forward and cupped her cheek. “Sweetheart, as determined as he is to succeed to Commander-in-Chief of Black Ops, he’ll never accept it.”

  The flicker of doubt she had about Will needing her to fully breathe edged forward. Ambition, success? With those driving him, did he even need lungs?

  Helena, her spine finding its usual perfect deportment, turned and crossed to the kettle. She filled two mugs. Then, with astonishingly steady hands, when hers were shaking like maracas—she brought them to the breakfast bar. “Sit,” she ordered. “Tea,” she said, sliding one mug toward her. “Cure-all for all that ails a person. Let’s talk.”

  Still standing, Helena blew across the surface of her steaming drink and then took a delicate sip.

  Angel, on the other hand, her knees trembling, seized a stool to perch on so she’d stay upright. With his career and ambition providing Will with all the emotional nourishment he needed, where did that leave her? What if she was already in love with him? Will didn’t do permanent. Was the risk of being with him now, worth the pain she might have to endure when he decided it was time to cut him out of his life?

  She chugged a mouthful of tea and spluttered inelegantly as the heat scorched her mouth.

  “From the day my son was invited to join the Black Ops branch of the Service, he’s had to run faster, shoot straighter, and fight harder than any other operative to prove himself. Because of me. Because of what I am. But did he let that prejudice break him? No. It just made him all the more determined. He’ll fight, no matter what odds are against him. Trust me, Angel, he will find a way to get what he wants. He always does.”

  He’d wanted her. He’d got her—too easily? He’d survived on half-breaths before. How long before he pushed her away and moved on?

  Helena slipped onto a stool and elbow on the counter, propped her chin on her hand. “You do realize he’s smitten, don’t you?”

  “Smitten?”

  Helena nodded, smiling.

  The niggling doubts about Will retreated slightly. She liked the notion of Will be smitten. “He can be intolerably uncooperative and rude.”

  “As rude as naked in the Royal Enclosure at the Derby,” Helena, agreed. “Especially when he’s confronted by something he can’t fathom. He resented having to attend the psych sessions. He resented his attraction to you even more, probably tried to resist it, and failed.”

  Helena took a sip of her tea before continuing. “No disrespect intended, sweetheart, but Will could have demanded someone very much more senior and experienced than you to handle his therapy. He didn’t—because you’d already turned him on his head, something that must have made him very cross indeed.”

  Helena tilted her head and smiled. “Though, given the happy with which you bounced in this morning, I’d hazard a guess he’s past that, and is now feeling something quite, quite different.”

  There was nothing she could do to prevent the blush that hit her cheeks at Will’s mother’s unspoken innuendo about how she and Will had passed the night, so she changed the subject. “Did Will happen to mention when my blood results might be back?”

  Helena reached for her hand. “No. But you don’t fork out ten grand for slow… Scared?”

  Angel lowered her head, then figuring what the hell, raised her chin. “Just all the goddamn time,” she admitted.

  “Why? Because you were able to tap into something incredible inside you, which empowered you to bring down a monster raining down the worst of hell on your family?”

  Oh, Christ, Will had told his mother the truth about Cymion Gray. Hot tea slopped her fingers. She put the mug down, blowing quick exhales because doing so was supposed to calm and relax.

  “In telling me everything, he wasn’t breaking a confidence, sweetheart. He was giving me the option to ask you both to leave, because he sure wasn’t about to abandon you. And I’ll tell you what I told him. I wish I’d had the opportunity to meet that little wisp of a girl. And I wish to God, I’d had the opportunity to show her my awe.”

  “Awe? I killed a man, Helena. I damn near gutted him. Age nine.”

  “Yes, and the real tragedy is, that rather than you getting to put your foot on his chest and war-cry your triumph, you were crushed. Like a butterfly beneath a boot.”

  Helena leaned across the counter and tugged a hank of her hair. Hard. “It breaks my heart that you weren’t allowed to celebrate the incredible in you, Angel. Open your mind to the possibility that, like others who have defied the implausible by lifting cars or steel girders or by staying underwater longer than is deemed possible to save those they love, you are astonishing. In a way that is beautiful and special.”

  “How? When I’ve lived the best part of my entire life believing there is something wrong with me? That there’s a slither of something inside me that is so sinister, I can kill without hesitation?”

  “As would I in a heartbeat, if someone threatened those I love. As Will does, to protect. Let him bring all the fierceness of that little girl into the light, sweetheart. Trust him to take care of the woman that little girl became.”

  Dare she? She’d trusted and loved Rhys and that hadn’t worked out well. But what her brother had sought to control in her, Will seemed determined to liberate.

  She smiled at his mother. “I can only promise to try and give him that chance,” she shared, holding back: but God help him if he drops me as I lunge into this leap of faith.


  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A week of hiding out at Helena’s. Will absent most days for hours that stretched late into the night, only to return and sneak into her bed like a thief in the dark—sometimes dawn—tight-lipped beyond a grunted “been making things safe” when she asked what he’d been up to.

  And she’d given him that space. Just as she had when she broached the subject of the pills—which she hadn’t seen him take, but then Will was naturally covert—and he’d dismissed her concern with “Your long term safety first, then I’ll sort me,” because, frankly, it was hard not to. What with the demanding distractions he provided in the few stolen hours he spent with her.

  Distractions that shot color to her cheeks faster than the speed of light each morning over breakfast, when Helena queried politely—but with a knowing smile—whether she’d slept well.

  Not last night she hadn’t. She’d tossed and turned for reasons very different from Will’s enthusiastic explorings of her body. He hadn’t returned last night, and she’d missed him. His warmth, his unspoken but obvious conviction that he’d protect her, the strength and confidence he threw off, even while asleep.

  But she’d also worried about him, the anxiety knotting her stomach.

  Yes, he’d called her on the secure cell phone he’d given her to share that the Commander was back. That they’d arranged to meet on safe territory—Jack’s London home—and that their discussions would likely run through the night, so he’d only see her in the morning. But the hilarious picture of a ginger cat mid-ball lick, one hind leg high over its shoulder, and looking all annoyed at being disturbed, he’d texted immediately after his call, alarmed her.

  He’d been too quick to brush aside the trouble he was in, overflowing confidence that the end justified the means even if that meant protocols being breached.

  Sure, but that odious principle cut both ways and was widely shared. Not least, by those carcinogenic bastards riddling the MoD. Who’d stop at nothing to save their own skins on the pretext of serving the public interest. Even if that meant deleting a too-smart-for-his-own-good agent. An asset turned liability, because he dangerously knew too damned much and had a reputation for not being shy about “fixing” things he deemed wrong—with a long range rifle.

  Sitting at the kitchen counter sipping her first coffee of the day with Helena, Angel surreptitiously felt for bags beneath her eyes…and found them. Lovely. Bloody Will.

  She reached for her third freshly delivered pastry—standard fare for breakfast in Helena’s house—and started nibbling, resentful that she should have fallen victim to comfort eating. She wondered how long Will’s ardor would last if her arse swelled to the size of a battleship. Probably about as long as—

  The man himself exploded into the kitchen, pulsing energy and elation.

  He hauled her off her stool—and in front of his mother—kissed the living daylights out of her, with full tongue action and all.

  “Mmmm, toasted apricots,” Will hummed appreciatively, smacking his lips when finally needing to come up for air. “I’ve got good news, and I’ve got fantastic news.” He laughed, catching her as her knees buckled from his onslaught.

  Guiding her safely back onto her stool, he stole her coffee, emptying her mug in one.

  “Nope, changed my mind,” he said slamming the mug back down on the counter and hauling her—again—into his embrace. “I want to hold you while I share the fantastic news.”

  This, as she’d discovered during the down-times he’d been forced to take when whatever he was doing to keep her safe—but refused to discuss—hit a lull, was Will. Once off the clock, the emotions he’d tamped down for the day burst free, and he had no hesitation sharing. If he was pissed, boy, did you feel it. If he needed attention, he got it. If he needed space, you gave that, too. If playful, you played. If elated, you flew. If lazy and content, you drifted in that warmth with him. He was exhausting, he was unpredictable, he was vital, he was life—so long as you steered clear of questioning him about his job, his health, or their future together.

  Then, he’d just use sex to shut you up—something he was very, very good at—just as he did whenever she broached the subject of whether he’d braved reading Diana’s journal yet. Something he really needed to do, if he was to stand any chance of resolving his trust and guilt issues. He may not like the answers he’d find in that journal, but it had to be better than continuously torturing himself with the question of why Diana had killed herself, and not knowing.

  Right now, however, he was exhilarated. Vibrating elation.

  “Share what?” she asked cautiously, trying not to be seduced by his exuberance. Not when his need to censor what he shared felt a little too much like control rather than protection.

  “Your blood results came back. You’re in the clear. Not even a hint or trace of BT11 in your system or anything else for that matter.”

  “Wh…what?”

  Her heart quit her chest and separated into a thousand atoms that swooped the cathedral height of the kitchen, only for the pieces to drop mid-soar and scatter black across the white tiled floor. “Th…that’s impossible.”

  His hands loosely linked across her lower back, he joggled her to break her bewilderment and get her breathing again. “Not if Rhys faked us out… You’re in the clear, Sunshine.” He laughed.

  Her hand dropped from his chest and rubbed the spot tingling her thigh. Rhys had definitely stuck her with something. “But—”

  “He lied, Angel. He couldn’t risk you refusing to go with him, so he lied. I don’t know what he shot you up with, maybe some harmless vitamin, but your blood work came back as unexceptional, normal.” Another little jostle from him. “Hey, that’s good news, sweetheart.”

  Was it? Her brother hadn’t just been a liar; he’d been a genius, and determined to profit from BT11. “Whatever he shot me up with could be lying dormant. Waiting for the right trigger before kicking in.”

  Will’s hold tightened. “As well as recovering the communications and names of all those involved in the BT11 debacle from the laptop and thumb drive, Richard Ballentyne cracked a hidden file containing your brother’s journal. In which he debated the possibility of modifying the original formula, And. Rejected. It. Absolutely. And, knowing the side effects of BT11, there is no way he would have exposed you, so You. Are. In. The. Clear.”

  She cut him a sharp look. So irritating when he emphasized a point like that, leaving little pauses as if her brain lacked sufficient speed to assimilate the simplest of things.

  Her temper started to simmer. Yet more lies from Rhys. What kind of fucked-up brother did that to his sister? Weaving an insidious web of deceit for damn near two decades. He’d taken her love, abused her trust, and twisted things precious into sickening stupidity.

  She fisted her hands. “What about those caged rats in the tunnels?”

  “Rhys only changed his mind about pursuing an adrenaline enhancement program after he’d injected those rats. His writings suggest a crisis of conscience. And given that he alone knew the exact formulation for BT11, which he kept locked in his head, it died with him.”

  “Some conscience,” she pointed out coldly. “He was ready to auction off the original formula knowing the devastating effects it would have on anyone injected with it.”

  Will wiped his face of all expression. “He was desperate. He knew that for the two of you to disappear without trace, he’d need a bank vault full of money.”

  “Why are you defending the indefensible?” she demanded.

  “I’m not. But your brother’s dead, and you’re hurting, I’m trying to make it a little easier for you to accept that despite the fucked-up choices Rhys made, he never stopped honoring that scar on your palm. He. Loved. You, Angel.”

  Loved her? As if that was a valid excuse. Something good, rather than a dead-weight of responsibility. Like her inviting that monster Cymion Gray into the family home to slaughter her parents, because she loved them and wanted to impress them.
Like her letting Rhys shoulder the blame for Gray’s hideous evisceration, because he loved her, and that’s all she’d had left to cling to. Like her swallowing Rhys’s lies about his work without question, and then protecting him when justice came a-knocking in the form of the Service, because she loved him. Like her letting Will risk his career for her because there was some hope of love there, too. What the hell good was love when all it did was corrupt?

  “Did you know they found a letter in Cymion Gray’s pocket justifying his rampage?” she forced out on a dry laugh. “That in it he wrote how he loved his dead wife and children, killed by a drunk driver while he was serving undercover in Colombia, too much to condone the existence of happy families after what had been stolen from him. How’s that for broken? Want to excuse him, too, Will?”

  She jerked free from his hold and paced to the other side of the kitchen.

  “Angel—”

  Swinging around to face him she thrust up a palm to ward him off as he stepped toward her. “Don’t, Will.”

  And, of course, he ignored her warning to let her be, his arms banding tight around her. Only when he pressed her face to his neck did she become aware of the tears running her cheeks. Christ, she’d needed Will that close to let her know she was crying, because she sure as hell hadn’t worked it out on her own.

  She raised her head and angled so she could see him. “How could he? Why would he do that to me?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know, sweetheart. But maybe in that crazy, brilliant mind of his, he truly believed what he was doing would keep you safe. Just as he’d promised you when he cut your hand.”

  “Do you know what level of insanity that hits?” she sniffed, swiping wet—that would not stop—from her cheeks.

  “I didn’t say it was rational, Sunshine. But think about it. You knew too much; the threat to your life was pushing in from all sides. Even Butters, the one man with whom your brother might have been able to negotiate, had been shot dead. Rhys needed to get you clear, but maybe, having watched you and me enjoy a moment in the woods, he feared your trust had shifted to me. That you wouldn’t voluntarily go with him so he could take care of you as he’d promised. So he pretended to shoot you up with BT11 knowing you’d have no choice but to go with him after he said only he could neutralize any side effects.”