by Lea Griffith
It would be their only warning. Blade was injured. Remi’s only thoughts could be of her now. Something had happened. Her hair was shorn. Joseph had gotten to her somehow. Thoughts ran at her, clipped her brain, and retreated. The dark edges of her vision were collapsing, everything narrowing to that miniscule point of death right on Ken Nodachi’s forehead.
Nodachi’s eyes widened and Rand said, “Move, goddamn it!”
Both men took different directions, but Remi simply stepped back and leveled her gun on Nodachi. “In the corner,” she whispered.
There was that acidic taste again. She swallowed and took a deep breath. Blade struggled to stand, grabbing Remi by the shoulders, and holding on for all she was worth.
“Don’t shoot him,” her sister said in a clear voice. “He’s mine.”
Remi didn’t pay her any attention. How was her voice clear? She was beaten to within an inch of her life. Goddamn Joseph. Or Ken Nodachi.
The crystal clear sigh of metal over leather sang through the air and in a second’s worth of breath, Blade had Ken Nodachi’s neck under smooth, razor-sharp metal. Nodachi was a stupid man to not have removed her leather scabbard. That it had been molded to fit under her clothes was irrelevant. He should have checked her.
Remi shrugged. His bad. She relocated her sight to the man’s heart and waited.
Blade stood tall beside the enormous half-Asian man and laughed mockingly. “For all of your training, Mr. Nodachi, it seems even you can be overcome. Tell me where the boy is.”
There it was, drenching and cold, something Remi had never expected and was certainly not prepared for . . . fear. Blade’s voice was horrible in the silence of the underground room. It echoed off the walls, and Remi wondered if the man with the awesome steel blade at his throat had any idea what he’d unleashed?
“What the fuck is this—” Nodachi started only to be cut off by the blade slicing into the skin of his tanned neck.
“Let him go,” Rand said from the other side of the room. He’d leveled a nasty-looking Kimber Tactical handgun on Blade. He obviously had no idea what he was dealing with either.
Remi took a second to control herself, the fear that had slithered down her spine now a memory. They had work to do. The boy was gone. It was yet another obstacle in a course of many. They’d overcome it.
“He will not be let go until he tells me where the boy is,” Blade bit out. Her gaze found Remi’s and a question wavered there.
Remi nodded. “She will kill him and anyone who has information about the boy until she finds him. Doubt it not,” she said, now looking at Rand.
Silence stretched for long moments, taut and pregnant with all manner of things. It was Nodachi who broke it.
“He was gone when I got there. The woman guarding him was dead.”
“Bullet?” Her sister’s voice was a whisper, but it rang like a shot.
Remi nodded, never dropping her gun, never taking her eye from Rand. “He’s telling the truth.”
Another sigh of metal on metal, and the sharp point of the sword disappeared from the man’s neck. Blood stained his pristine white shirt, and Remi wondered why Blade hadn’t taken his head.
“Your truth saves you. The girl was dead—you’re sure?” Blade asked in a frigid voice.
“Head severed from a body full of bullet holes.” Nodachi’s gaze sliced over them both. His meaning was clear.
Remi nodded at him, then laughed without mirth. “I only ever make one shot, Mr. Nodachi. I never miss.”
Blade didn’t say a word.
“I need to know,” Remi reminded her.
“I do not—” Blade’s words caused the fear Remi had bottled to uncork and stream through her blood. “If I knew, he would be safe. It can only be Joseph.”
“What the fuck is going on here?” Rand interjected into the conversation.
Blade made a move and Remi stopped her. “No!” One word, but it was enough.
Her sister looked at her and cocked her head. Remi didn’t answer this unspoken question. She couldn’t. Not now.
“Your choice. But he’d be better dead. I believe I told you that the first time,” Blade murmured.
“We will not do this here, sister,” Remi hissed out and then turned to look once again at Ken Nodachi. “It would be best if you didn’t move until she’s gone. She’s wicked quick with her knife, and I’d hate for Dmitry to have to patch you up. Dmitry? Why don’t you come on in?” Remi nodded toward the door. “You, too, Mr. Collins, or may I call you Adam?”
Both men walked in, hands up in the air, and she grinned at Dmitry, whose eyes were like blue ice in his head. He wasn’t very happy with her. Oh, well.
“Mr. Beckett, perhaps you can join the little party over in the corner. I would hate to have to shoot to make my point.” Remi waved him toward the others. He was pissed.
And again, oh, well.
Remi glanced at Blade. “Joseph?”
The other woman ran a hand over her shorn hair and simply nodded. “He’s furious. And he knows we’ve moved against him. Jesuit gave her life to help me escape. She asked only that Phina be spared.” Remi was grateful she hadn’t killed the girl in Washington. Blade drew in a short, harsh breath. “They will mobilize in approximately two weeks, Bullet.”
“Find the boy, and we’ll have Joseph.”
Blade’s voice was a scythe in the quiet. “Joseph has the boy now, therefore he has me. I must move differently.”
Remi hardened her heart against the plea in her sister’s eyes. They’d agreed and known long before the boy had ever been born that he would be a tool used against them. Still, whatever had to be done would be done. “We move the same as we’ve planned. If Joseph has him, he will not harm the boy. You know this.”
Blade glared at Remi, and for the first time in her life, Remi felt another person’s hatred. It cut deeply. Different from Rand’s emotional hatred, this was a blooded sister’s hatred, and it stung, wormed its way into her confidence. Remi moved her hand, and in a heartbeat, had the gun trained on her sister.
Blade snorted. “You will not shoot me, Bullet.”
“I’ll put a slug in your leg and leave you lame—leave you here while I take his head with my bullet. Would you have me take that from you—your piece of him? Don’t try me, Blade.”
A rustle in the corner where the men were almost had Remi turning, but then she steeled her spine. No matter that the men had verification they now had two of Joseph’s assassins in their midst. Blade had to be Remi’s sole focus.
Blade shook her head and clucked her tongue behind her teeth. The sound was mocking and it grated.
“You’ve always been so hard, Bullet. But you forget I’m the one who held you when you cried for her.” Blade sidestepped to the doorway, cautious and wary, like a cornered animal seeking freedom. “You won’t shoot me any more than I would take your head.” She shook her own again, the gesture weary, and a signal to Remi that the toll was heaviest for this sister.
Out of them all, she had the most to lose. For Bullet, Bone and Arrow there was only life to be lost. For Blade, there was much, much more.
Remi dropped her weapon, left her arms loose, her stance wide, and prepared for anything. She’d come down here to rescue Blade but should have known the other woman always had a plan. Like the rest of Joseph’s first team, Blade needed nothing and no one. Remi glanced then at Rand Beckett. He watched the scene between her and Blade with interest, but his eyes burned as they met hers, and it stopped her breath.
Maybe there was something else for the woman who would have been Gretchen Dearborn, was sometimes Remi, but would always be Bullet. Maybe . . .
“Tell me, sister, is he for you?”
Remi ignored the question. It was simple; there was no answer.
“He mentioned her, Bullet. He wanted us all to remember. . ." Blade took a deep breath, shoulders rising then lowering, her pain conveyed in the tightening of her lips. “He wanted to remind us of our loss. He’ll never k
now that, in her name, is our purpose. He said to remember Ninka.”
A swift inhalation of air from the corner had Remi’s head swiveling, and she listened as Blade fled. The echo of her steps reached into Remi’s heart and pulled at old wounds.
Alone again.
“You’ll let her leave without incident, or I’ll not help you. Vous me comprenez?”
“If you’d given me a moment to explain why I brought her back, none of this would have been necessary.” Nodachi’s voice was a lash striking.
Remi felt lacerated inside. She needed out, needed to be away from this place where hope for vengeance sang in the very foundation of this house. It was too much to carry the weight of everyone’s hopes for justice.
She strengthened her will, remembering her reasons for being here in the first place. “You had her strung from the rafters, Mr. Nodachi. How fucking necessary was that? Whatever your purpose, you should probably realize the only way you caught her was because she let you. Did you not think it bizarre your grand luck at having two of Joseph’s first team in the same place at the same time?” She spit the question out, letting the words drip with her disdain.
His eyebrows rose and his nostrils flared. The red tint on his cheeks attested to his anger and chagrin. “Did you think to hold us both?” She rounded on him but left the gun at her side, the temptation to shoot him too strong.
“He didn’t think,” Adam said. “She was in trouble, hurt and crying when we walked in and discovered her over the decapitated woman. We darted her and brought her here. It’s that simple.”
She spoke though her throat felt raw from holding back her rage. “Because she let you. You are too arrogant, and it will cost you much, Mr. Nodachi. More than you’ve already lost.”
“Take your finger off the trigger, Bullet. Go back to your room,” Rand said in a soothing voice.
“Fuck you, Mr. Beckett. I don’t need your pity right now. Keep it for yourself. You’ll need it to warm you when the fires of your revenge are banked.” Remi turned then and walked from the room.
One foot in front of the other, she gave up the desire to fight for that moment and walked to her room. Blade would be safe. For now it was enough.
Tomorrow she would deal with the fallout from tonight.
Chapter Eighteen
Rand hadn’t slept well. Fuck that; he hadn’t slept at all. The men had all gone over what happened with a fine-tooth comb, trying to piece together the events in Shanghai and make it fit with what little information they had about both Bullet and the assassin called Blade.
To have absolute verification a team of female assassins had been let loose on the world hadn’t been nearly the gut punch he’d expected. Women were universally the more vicious gender. Cross a woman and hell had no fury to compare to her rage. But Bullet’s face as she’d spoken to Blade had been so sad, so resigned.
It had triggered a need in Rand to soothe, but there was still a large part of him that couldn’t see Gretchen Dearborn as anything other than a killer. Granted, it wasn’t the largest part, but it was there. He wanted her like people in hell wanted ice water, but the fact remained she’d killed and would kill again—indeed, had ties to his family’s killer.
Rand stopped at her door, knocked softly, and entered. She had no expectation of privacy here. The worry ran through his mind that he should probably show more intelligence than just walking in on her. She was armed now, as he hadn’t confiscated her weapons.
He snorted. Had she no guns, she was still as deadly as anyone he’d ever met. Something in the air set him on alert, and he halted after crossing the threshold. She was huddled in the corner, wrapped in a blanket and mewling softly. Alarm chased through his bloodstream, potent as it lifted the hair on his arms. He pulled the Kimber from his waistband and began searching the darkened corners of her room for a threat.
There was nothing. That she had yet to wake concerned him. Bullet was never without full cognizance. It seemed even when she slept, she did so with one eye open. He walked over to her and nudged her foot with his.
She moved immediately, sweeping with her legs and taking him to the ground. He rolled and glanced up just as her foot connected with the side of his head.
He partially blocked it, but it threw him for a second. “It’s me, Bullet,” he growled as he pushed up and prepared for her attack.
His voice must have gotten through because she stopped her advance, normally light-blue eyes dark and turbulent with something that looked a lot like panic. She stopped and retreated back to the corner she’d been in, sinking down on her haunches and breathing deeply.
A fine layer of sweat filmed her creamy skin, and the sunlight left her shrouded in gold, wild red hair a glorious halo around her pale fine-boned features.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, and sank down to sit Indian-style on the floor.
Rand held up his hands after he put his gun back in the holster at his back. “You’ve got to stop attacking me,” he replied ruefully.
“Maybe you should stop sneaking up on me.”
He didn’t respond to her acidic retort. Instead, he ventured into territory that had him wondering if he’d lost his mind. “What were you dreaming about?”
She looked askance at him, clearly taken by surprise. “I don’t dream.”
Her simple answer disturbed him. “Beg to differ with you. You were just crying like a scared child in your sleep. That’s probably why you didn’t hear me come in.”
She dropped her eyes from his, stared at her hands. “I don’t dream.”
“Yes, you—”
“I don’t dream, Mr. Beckett, I remember,” she whispered, and then jumped to her feet, her body a thing of fluid beauty in the early morning sun.
That she was standing there in nothing more than a tank top, sans bra, and soft, white cotton panties had him breathing heavily. He cursed his body’s response, anger shooting through to replace the lust.
“You know, you make a lot of those cryptic statements. ‘I don’t dream, I remember,’ oh and another personal favorite, ‘bodies are tools to be controlled by strong minds.’ Tell me, Bullet, who the fuck taught you these things? Who fucking hurt you?”
She closed her eyes, but her pain reached across the distance between them and grabbed his heart, suffocating him.
He gasped in a breath, and before he could check his movements, he was cupping her face in his hands and lowering his mouth to hers.
It was soft kiss, a gentle melding of his mouth to hers. She relaxed against him, and he barely contained a shout of primal joy. She made him feel things he’d never felt before, not even for Lily. His wife.
Her name didn’t bring that instantaneous agony it normally did. Oh, the hurt was still there, but it was tempered with plumeria, silky cream skin, and hair the color of sunset. It was something he couldn’t dwell on. Instead he focused on Bullet.
He felt the wetness on her cheeks and sipped at the tears that fell. Her diamond bright eyes opened on his, and what he saw there made him want to kill Joseph Bombardier in a whole new way and for a whole new reason . . . for her.
“Your pain breaks my heart, and that’s frightening. I didn’t think I had one anymore,” he said against her lips.
“I’m a killer, Mr. Beckett. You should never hurt for me.” Her voice was resolved, and in it was years of loss.
“If I could stop it, I would. You have worked for him, killed for him. I should hate you, but I—”
Silence held sway as he tried to stop the flow of his words. This was wrong. It could never be.
“You what, Mr. Beckett?”
Her gaze pinned him, and he felt bitterness that he wanted to answer her at all. Then it was replaced as her eyes flared, and he was caught in her heat, her pain.
“I . . . don’t,” he growled, and then took what she was offering.
He tasted her deeply and didn’t allow her tongue to run from his, instead sucking it into his mouth and pulling deeply on it. She moaned, and he tas
ted that sound too, felt a shudder ripple through her body as the echo of it moved under his skin.
He lifted her tank top off and turned her quickly, giving her no time to think. His body was pounding a demand to have her under him right now, and nothing, not her objections or his, was going to get in the way.
She grabbed his shoulders and levered herself up, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling his hair as she tried to get closer to him. The heat between her thighs called to him, and he pressed forward even as he laid her on the bed.
He settled into her body, soft curves cradling his hardness, and her scent made him dizzy with need. She shifted under him, pulling at his shirt, and in seconds she had it over his head. He allowed the break between their lips for the sake of the coming contact between their bodies.
When it happened, he hissed in a breath and she moaned, the sound reverberating through the room and feathering over his body in tiny pinpricks of vicious lust.
“Me toucher,” she whispered frantically, rolling her hips against his, her body a sinuous ribbon of cream on the blue of the coverlet beneath her.
“I will,” he vowed. He neither knew nor cared what she’d said; it was the tone of her voice that spoke of her need.
He’d damn well meet those needs and embed himself inside her. No part of her would be able to forget he’d taken her.
He lifted up and she sighed, reaching for him. He smiled, knowing it was more of a grimace, but he didn’t care. Her eyes were closed, the dark auburn of her lashes making shadows against her pink cheeks.
She was fucking gorgeous. Not classically. Her face was too willful for that. Her lips were succulent, but that stubborn chin spoke of arguments that would last all night but end with the sweetest of lovemaking. His dick screamed at him, begged to be released from the constriction of his jeans. Patience, he willed. Patience.
“J'ai besoin. Arrête ça!” She writhed beneath him so beautifully, breasts rising and falling, nipples berried and begging for his mouth.
“What are you asking for, I wonder,” he mused aloud. She didn’t respond, and he drew a line down the valley of her breasts to her bellybutton with his forefinger. The silk of her skin was a temptation all its own, but he wanted what lay between her thighs too badly to be deterred.
