Shadow of Doubt (An SBG Novel Book 2)

by P. A. DePaul

  The men jumped from their positions and captured her legs, snapping a set of cuffs already bolted to the bars on the iron footboard to her ankles.

  “Michelle!”

  She squeezed her eyes shut against the terror of what the spread position meant.

  A heavy weight pressed her body into the thin mattress, causing the breath to expel from her lungs. NO! She lifted her hips as best she could, hoping to force Raul to roll off.

  “Michelle. It’s—”

  She yanked against the cuffs, bucking frantically but still couldn’t make the bastard fall off.

  “Listen to me, Michelle. You’re safe.”

  Safe? She was only safe with—

  “It’s Jeremy Malone. Stop fighting me. You’re having a nightmare.”

  Jeremy?

  “That’s right,” he crooned softly. “Your Cappy.”

  She recognized his heady scent and filled her lungs with her hero, but the nostalgia did nothing to quell the hysteria rising with each breath. “Off. I can’t take . . . please move. I can’t . . . bottom—”

  Oh God. Oh God. Her brain spiraled as a fresh onslaught of panic closed in.

  Cappy’s weight instantly shifted, no longer pressing on top of her.

  Air filled her lungs and she blinked against the black spots. She didn’t immediately recognize the dark room but knew enough to realize it wasn’t the wooden hellhole she had sworn she was just in. Pivoting her head to the side, she jolted. Her face was mere centimeters from his.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his body now tucked alongside hers. “I didn’t think beyond stopping you from hurting yourself. Forgive me.” His breath tickled her cheek.

  She nodded, unable to do more, and rubbed the heart pounding against her ribs. Jesus Mary Joseph. She had done it again. Worse, she had flipped out on him afterward like a loony person. Tears slid from her eyes and she had to look away.

  “Talk to me.”

  She clamped her eyes shut, shaking her head. Mortification couldn’t begin to cover the jumbled emotions swirling inside.

  “Hey,” he crooned, his gruff voice a bittersweet balm against her raw nerves. “Don’t cry. You’re safe here.” He stirred as if to sit up.

  No. Not yet. Her hand shot out and curled against his naked bicep. He capitulated and rested his head against his crooked elbow. She wished she could see his face. She sensed he stared down at her but without any light, she felt at a disadvantage.

  He drew a finger over her cheek and she winced at the wetness coating the tip. Her feelings were too raw, too . . . much for her to sort out and confess this second. She had to shift the focus off of her until she could get her bearings.

  “Jeremy, please tell me what happened after you jumped off the helicopter. Why are you a ghost?”

  His whole body stiffened.

  ***

  That simple question doused world war three–clashing between Cappy’s mind, heart, and groin.

  “It’s three a.m.” He sat up, breaking her hold, and swung his legs over the bed. “You should try to get some more sleep.”

  Michelle’s soft, feminine hand darted out and gripped his forearm, stopping his momentum again from lifting off the mattress.

  “Don’t go yet, please.” Her low voice, raw with need, caused his skin to tighten and his dick to press against his pants. Her soft, ardent plea drilled into his senses and amplified the electric storm raging underneath her hand. He had to get out of here. The craving to kiss her again almost drove him insane with its urgency. In all his life, only this courageous, sexy woman made him lose control of himself like an adolescent boy. And despite the terror he had caused by holding her down to keep her from flopping off the bed, his resolve to keep his hands off was almost non-existent.

  She tightened her grip. “I can still feel the memory in the shadows. Talk to me. If you won’t tell me why you’re a dead man walking then at least tell me how you got the bastards.”

  Cappy froze, his mind a torrent of images and footage from that night. The staccato ratta-tat-tat of machine guns and explosions rocking the landscape filled in the soundtrack.

  “Is there something I should know?”

  The fear creeping into each word of her question brought him out of that hell.

  She sat up, pulling on his arm until he faced her—not that she could really see anything in the darkness.

  “Did the bastard responsible for this”—she waved a hand weakly at herself—“escape?”

  “No.” Cappy shook his head. “Ramon Osvaldo was executed.”

  “What about Raul?”

  Cappy’s stomach clenched. “I don’t know.”

  Her face blanched and a trembling hand flew to her mouth.

  Son of a bitch. She shouldn’t have to live with such constant terror. She was an innocent victim caught up in the typical maelstrom that made up his world. Goddamn, he hated knowing his presence was most likely the reason she was reliving her torture in Colombia.

  “Cappy?” she whispered brokenly. “What is it? What happened?”

  “I can’t say much about the mission, but members within Special Forces were selected to make up the elite unit I led. We weren’t the only team, nor the only military branch. Multiple specialized units made up of military and government agencies completed the larger contingent that night. I wasn’t briefed on all the members of the cartel.” He breathed in against the bad taste of failure swirling in his mouth. Before this afternoon, he had never even heard the name Raul, let alone known if the bastard had been killed or not. He’d have Ted secretly look into it ASAP.

  “Do you still talk to them? Your old unit, I mean.”

  The soundtrack blared back to life in his head and the video took hold.

  “Down,” Malone snapped into the throat-mic carrying his command to the rest of the unit. He flipped his NVGs up at the sight of a blazing ball of fire raging from a lookout post, lighting up the Amazonian hell. A section of the wooden steps crashed to the ground, causing sparks to fly. Cartel members ran across the open ground, their machine guns randomly firing at nothing. Utter chaos gripped the compound and Jeremy could actually smell the terror emanating from the lowlifes.

  Jacks had assured him he and his team had taken out the communications tower, effectively doing their part of the mission. That meant they had time to complete the rest of the Joint Commander’s orders of rendering the compound unusable and find all the contraband.

  Michelle’s mangled body rose in his mind again. He knew just where to start.

  Malone searched for the best way to access the wooden building located on the other side of the bedlam. No way could they take the quickest route. They’d have to stick to the forest. He stood in a crouched position and motioned for the rest to follow him. They hustled through the dense foliage, keeping as low to the ground as possible. They passed a score of dead bodies strewn along their makeshift path as well as encountered one of the SEAL teams headed for God knows where until they finally reached the abandoned wooden structure.

  “Ashes,” he instructed into the mic, pointing to the offensive sight and breaking out of the cover of the trees. His team ran ahead of him, Jacks clapping his shoulder as he passed.

  A barrage of vulgar Spanish streamed from a screaming voice as a dilapidated truck with wooden slats shoved into its rusting sides burst through the foliage on the other side and screeched to a halt. The contents in the bed rattled and clanked. In that split second Malone’s mind calculated the guy’s plan and he flicked on his throat mic. “BOMB!”

  Too late. The world exploded, throwing him back into the forest.

  “Jeremy.”

  His shoulder rocked, the motion cutting through the turmoil and commotion the memories always brought.

  “Cappy, that’s awful.”

  Awful? He blinked and tried to reorient his mind
from that past hell to the current one in the small room.

  Michelle slid off the bed, kneeled before him, and gripped his clenched fists. He couldn’t really see her face but caught a faint glimpse of unshed tears. “Were you the only survivor?”

  Son of a bitch. Had he actually recounted that scene out loud?

  “Was Jacks the name of the other guy in the room when you rescued me?”

  Fuckety. Fuck. Fuck. He had spilled his guts. His grinding teeth echoed in his eardrum. He forced his jaw to relax and cleared his throat. “No, ah, that was Jersey.”

  “Did he or any of the others make it out like you did?”

  That bad taste of failure flared to life again. “No.”

  Chapter 22

  Talon adjusted the new black baseball cap he had bought to minimize the bandages on his face and rested his head against the high-backed chair. Gazing out the living room window with the lights off, he could see the nighttime activity clearly. Not that anything worth looking at resided out there. Instead, he only had to peer up the hallway to find the drama.

  Cappy had bolted out of bed when ear-piercing shrieks blasted out of Michelle’s room. Moments later, the house became suspiciously silent and remained that way. With sparks flying between the two all afternoon, the man would have to be seriously dense—which Cappy wasn’t—or in major denial—most likely the case—to think he could keep his distance.

  Christ, that kiss he had interrupted earlier about steamed the sliding glass doors. That alone told him it would be up to him to keep the man’s focus on the Senator’s directive instead of allowing his teammate to be led astray. Nailing the woman tonight should help get the craving out of Cappy’s system; after that, all bets were off.

  Talon pulled out the thin leather strap he had knotted around his neck and stroked the three-headed spiraling dragon pendant. The team’s symbol, with each head representing strength, courage, and wisdom, meant they were tied together and looked out for one another. Even when a teammate didn’t believe he needed help.

  They had all agreed to wear the necklaces as a way to solidify their bond upon Wraith’s suggestion and he had sketched the three-headed dragon based on the tattoo above his left pec. The one he and his small crew had gotten in the days when he used to live on the streets, fighting to stay alive and avoiding the gangs.

  Having the pendant marked the team as his family. Seeing it nestled around Grady’s neck this morning felt like a slap all over again.

  Talon blinked away the moisture daring to fill his eyes at the memory of Wraith declaring her love for Casper. He refused to be a cliché by sitting in the dark, crying over a heartbreak. Hardening his heart and plotting revenge were more his style, though he had no plans to get even with Wraith. Casper, though? He’d like to go a second round with that bastard and fight with his usual dirty tactics instead of fairly like he did last time. But he doubted he’d get the chance.

  Better if he could just avoid the topic of love all together. What the hell did he know about it anyway? Every couple he had seen growing up seemed miserable. They usually ended in divorce . . . or worse, one killed the other to escape. If only his teammates would cooperate.

  Talon scratched the stubble on his chin. If he wanted to be objective, Michelle’s tall body did complement Cappy’s muscular, built-like-a-sparkplug frame nicely. But he’d go no further than that. The woman got herself mixed up in this mess for a reason. She wasn’t completely innocent, no matter how much Cappy protested otherwise.

  ***

  Michelle pressed her lips against his.

  Oh God, he wanted this so bad, but he couldn’t get in any deeper. Cappy jerked back and shot off the bed, inadvertently knocking her on her ass.

  “Sorry.” He scrambled to lift her to her feet, then paced toward the window. The full moon reflected against the dark, empty cottage next door. He turned, deciding to discipline himself with some old fashioned self-loathing. “I guess you just got the answer to the question you hurled at me earlier.”

  Deep creases formed on her forehead. “Answer?”

  “Yes,” he said through clenched teeth, “I do know what it’s like to have someone’s death on my conscience. Try having five.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Stupidly, he allowed her to slide against his body and cup his cheek.

  “What do you have to be sorry about?” he fired back, angry he told her what had happened and angry he had allowed it to happen in the first place. “It was my fuck-up.”

  She caressed his face. “You did it to avenge me.” She pressed her breasts against his bare chest, the thin long-sleeved T-shirt doing nothing to hide her hard nipples.

  His dick surged against his zipper and he inhaled her scent. God, she was beautiful. He gripped her hands framing his face. The guilt and the memory of killing his unit were now a part of him. That he lived while they had died following his orders served as a reminder that he was responsible for everyone around him. He didn’t deserve to be comforted and he for damn sure shouldn’t be tempted by the desire blatantly radiating from her body.

  “You call it avenge, I call it murder,” he retorted, squeezing her hands. “It was my responsibility to keep those men safe, to ensure they made it back to their families at the end of the mission.”

  The yellow flecks in her bronze eyes deepened. “You didn’t murder them, Jeremy. The Osvaldo Cartel did.”

  “Splitting hairs. My selfish order led them into that trap.”

  Somehow she shifted closer and he didn’t have the strength to pull away a second time. Their chemistry connection speared through him, exactly like it had six years ago in that hellhole. What was it about this woman that made him weak? Made him want to throw out all his arguments to stay away from her?

  She rose on her toes, her eyes searching his as she leaned in. “Then I’m selfish for rejoicing in hearing that building no longer exists.”

  He could have stopped her, should have stopped her, but anger and remorse churned heavily together, making him want to lash out. Blame her for his fucked-up lapse in judgment all those years ago. Punish her for undermining his self-control now and causing him to want something he couldn’t have.

  He closed the small gap and crushed his mouth against hers. Her lips parted and he delved inside, savagely taking control. His tongue dueled with hers, imposing his dominance and fueling his lust for more.

  She moaned and he captured the vibration, allowing it to dance along his tongue as he consumed her mouth. She tasted even sweeter than earlier, causing his blood to boil.

  This is wrong. He angled his head to deepen the penalizing kiss and dropped his hands to squeeze her full breasts through the fabric. Goddamn it, he needed to end this—

  Michelle gripped his shoulders and met his conquering tongue with her own, matching his uncontrollable hunger. Fucking A. His dick jumped, pushing against her stomach.

  He lifted the back of her shirt, sliding his fingers underneath her waistband, molding his fingertips against her skin.

  She stiffened and wrenched away, uttering a small sob. One of her hands flew to the bottom of her throat and the other over mouth.

  He curled his hands into fists, breathing in and out heavily. Those goddamn bastards. The hard ridges under his touch had been numerous in that small section he sampled. They had treated her like an animal and he had been no better now.

  “Fuck.” He swiped his palms up his face and rested them on top of his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost control like that.”

  “I think it was mutual,” she replied, dropping her hands, but he watched them tremble.

  “Maybe, but I take the blame. It’s not your fault what happened to my men and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

  “Taken it out on me?” she repeated, still shaking.

  “Yes. I meant what I said earlier. We can’t do this. I sho
uldn’t have touched you—”

  “Because I disgust you?” she hurled at him out of nowhere, moisture forming in her eyes.

  He blinked. “What? Wh—”

  “Why did I fool myself into believing you’d be any different?” The tears fell freely down her cheeks and he had no clue what the hell he said to cause such a strong reaction.

  “One small taste of what riddles my body and you—”

  “Now wait just a goddamn minute,” he thundered, finally getting a clue. “You wrenched away from me. You stopped the kiss.”

  “It would’ve only been a few more seconds before your gag reflex took over and you’d have bolted out of the room.”

  Her words felt like a slap. “Bullshit. My vow to not touch you has nothing to do with your scars,” he snarled. “You hear me? Nuh. Thing.”

  She lifted her chin, her watery eyes glinting with disbelief. “Going for Humanitarian of the Year? Part of that trying to convince me you’re still as attracted to me as I am to you?”

  Trap. No matter how he answered he lost. Damn heart-to-hearts. He sucked at this. There’s a reason no one came to him for a shoulder to cry on. He had no experience doling out soft words and honeyed phrases. Honesty—well as much as he could provide when he was undercover—was all he had.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said with cold dejection, turning toward the window. “I think I’ve had enough for the night. I’d like you to leave.”

  Son of a fuck. He couldn’t allow her to think any of this was her fault. “I’ll go,” he answered softly, hoping to bring the tension down a notch. He was eight kinds of stupid for even thinking about admitting his next words since it would only bring her heartache when he had to walk away, but fuck it. She needed to know. “But you need to understand something first. I want you so bad it’s all I’ve thought about since you tried to smile at me in Colombia, then it roared back to life when you opened the door to room number nine, and I’m still thinking about it now.”