by Logan Fox
“It’s fine,” she called out as quietly as possible. “We’re just getting a cab.”
“Well you can’t go and just leave your car out in this.” The woman turned back to her, looking exasperated. “What if it gets stolen?”
Oh god.
Her cheeks tingled as blood drained from her face. Someone stealing the car they’d already stolen. Would that be good…or bad?
“I…It’s really…you don’t have to—” flustered words fell from her mouth as she waved an unsteady hand toward the woman. “Please, we just—”
“Head gasket blew,” cut in Finn. “Just called a tow truck. They’ll be here in three hours.”
“Head gasket, eh?” Paul said. He gave a half-shrug, tipping a steaming mug against his lips. “Couldn’t have fixed that, Anna.”
“Could’ve gone and had a look,” Anna said, sounding disgruntled. She dusted her hands on her legs and gave Cora and Finn a sympathetic smile. “Let me get you two something to eat. You looked starved.”
“Thought they looked frozen,” Paul muttered.
Anna threw him a hundred mega-watt glare before storming off through a door that led out of the small dining area.
Everyone else returned to their conversations except for Paul, who stared up at the television mounted to a nearby wall as if he spent all day, every day, doing just that. Had he seen that news report on her disappearance? Was that why he kept looking at her as if he recognized her?
Finn cut off her view as he slid into the chair opposite her. “It a particularly difficult thing for you to do? Keeping your mouth shut?”
“Was I just supposed to ignore her?” Cora whispered back furiously. She leaned forward. “I think that old man recognizes me.”
“No shit. I’m sure everyone in here does.”
Her skin went cold, and this time it had nothing to do with their snowmobile drive through the snow. “What?”
Finn sighed, rubbing his hands over his face before taking a sip from the mug in front of him. He grimaced, and then gave her a long-suffering stare when she twitched her fingers at him, begging for an explanation.
“No one recognized you, Princess.”
She shivered. “Stop calling me that.”
“Soon as you stop acting like one.” Finn took another sip, grimaced again. “Jesus, you could clean car engines with this shit.”
Cora sniffed at her mug and wrinkled her nose. It smelled like cinnamon-flavored disinfectant. But it was hot, and it made her belly feel warm and gooey when it reached her stomach.
“How long until the cab gets here?” She didn’t ask about the tow-truck—she seriously doubted Finn had called for one.
“Three hours or so.”
“That long?” From what she could remember, the trip from Silver City to the road that turned up to the cabin took all of two hours.
“Outlying area,” was all Finn seemed interested in telling her.
She took another sip of that hot drink, almost scorching her tongue. “Lars said we’ll be in Texas by tonight.” She tried to keep her tone light—there was absolutely no reason why she should she have any opinion on the matter.
Finn seemed to feel the same way. He replied with a matter-of-fact, “Sounds about right.”
But the splash of heat in her chest was far from dispassionate. She slammed her mug down and stood. “I need the bathroom.”
Finn blinked up at her, a flicker of surprise in those blue eyes. “The—?”
“Yes. To pee? I’m human, I do that. Is it okay with you? Am I allowed?”
If he heard the sarcastic edge to her voice, he didn’t show it. He gestured past the pay phone he’d been using. “Think it’s down—”
She didn’t wait for him to finish. Conversation lulled for the time it took her to reach the door at the end of the passage.
The smell of potpourri filled the small bathroom. A tiny window looked out on banks of snow and frosted pines. A squirrel who’d decided to brave the cold sat on a nearby branch, twitching its tail like it was on its fourth cup of coffee for the day.
Cora washed her face in the porcelain basin, and stayed bent over for a few seconds. Why the hell did she care what Finn did? So what if he’d taken her virginity—he hadn’t planned to. She was just an extended one-night stand, wasn’t she?
He was probably eager to get rid of her. Worried she’d latch onto him like some needy, desperate—
A knock to the bathroom door cut off the thought. She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’ll be out now.”
“Everything okay?”
She swung around and banged her fist against the door. “You ever hear of privacy?”
There was silence from the other side of the door. If he walked away, she couldn’t hear it. Her chest rose and fell as she bit down on the inside of her lip and glared at the wood like she could develop x-ray vision and see him behind it.
Why the hell did Finn mess with her head like this? Santa Muerte knew the last thing she needed right now were cobwebs and strange feelings drifting through her body. Her father was missing—possibly captured by a rival cartel. Those same people after her, too.
Now was not the time for her to act like some silly, lovestruck fool.
She had to be strong. Focused. An ice-queen that ruled her a kingdom of frost and snow with an iron-fist.
Even if she didn’t have a damn clue how to go about it.
Gees, what the hell had been in that drink?
12
Slap me silly
Their mugs were empty. The plate of bread and thin soup Anna had brought them long devoured. Cora alternated between watching the crackling fire and the television while Finn watched her. She seemed to be in a sour mood; had been ever since Lars had arrived. Was she that pissed that the man had so easily disarmed her?
It might have been the best thing to happen to her. The girl had this erroneous idea that she was a Mexican Xena. Confidence was good, but only if you had the experience to back it up.
She didn’t.
Whatever training Bailey had given her hadn’t been enough. She could barely handle a gun and she knew just enough moves to be dangerously cocky.
But it wasn’t his place to interfere. He wasn’t her father, her lover, her friend. Their relationship was a simple one—he protected her until he’d delivered her to safety.
Finn let out a harsh breath through his nose, leaning back in his chair and cracking his knuckles.
Where the fuck was Lars?
Cora turned her head a little, just enough so she could peer at him from the corner of her eye. One finger idly twirled a lock of black hair. There was a storm in her eyes. From the way her mouth twitched, she obviously wanted to say something, but decided to hold it back instead.
He wanted to touch those lips again. To feel them against his flesh. To have those sharp little teeth of hers grazing his skin.
And why? What on earth had made this girl latch onto his mind like a parasite? His skull already had a basement with a beast inside, he didn’t need another unwelcome presence. It wouldn’t like sharing that space with anyone.
We’ll share, came a quiet purr. We’ll keep her close. Burrow into her skin. Lick the inside of her bones—
Who was he kidding? Nothing about this arrangement was simple.
He thought back to what Lars had said. That, in a few hours, she wouldn’t be their problem anymore.
Finn almost laughed.
That’s what he’d thought Tuesday night when he’d arrived at Swan fucking Manor.
He had a feeling he and Cora Swan were far from done. Maybe all the shit he’d been through the last ten years had burnt cynicism into his bones, but he knew something would happen. Another blown out tire. A desperate scramble from watching eyes. Something would keep them together.
Cynicism…or something else?
You want to taste her again. Feel her moving under you, struggling, panting, begging for—
He pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes so
hard, stars dashed his vision. There was an ache inside his chest. An urge to do violence. To destroy something—a delicate flower, a songbird, an enemy skulking in the shadows. He had to get out of this cramped room, away from Cora’s permeating citrusy scent.
Finn rose, pushing back his chair with the back of his knees. It drew Cora’s eyes, and a few of the closer patrons. He managed a strangled, “Gonna check if I can see—”
“Looking for me?”
He spun. A relieved breath whistled past his lips—one he didn’t realize he’d been holding. It could have accounted for that pain in his chest, for all he knew.
Lars studied him for a moment before flickering to Cora, the television, the fire, the other patrons. Analyzing the room, and comparing it with some internal checklist or something; fuck knew.
“Took you long enough,” Finn said, trying to sound casual, knowing it sounded too tight.
“You happen to notice all the fucking snow while you blasted through it?” Lars shot back, gesturing to someone behind Finn’s back. When his attention settled back on him, it was for a moment too intense, too direct. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing,” Finn said as he slumped in his chair again. The thing creaked a warning at him, but it held. “Cab should be here in an hour.”
“An hour?” Lars ripped up the sleeve of his parka, baring a skinny, blue-white arm. The man had as much military training as Finn had, if not more, but he’d never been able to bulk up. That despite twenty-mile runs each morning. Two hours of strength training. Several cross-fit sessions a week. His muscles became harder, but not bigger. “Jesus, fuck. And here I was rushing.” Lars grinned at him and then turned that grin to Cora, where it promptly melted. “You okay there, bunny?”
“Stop calling me that,” she said through her teeth.
Anna arrived with a steaming mug, and then hesitated. “Lars?”
“In the flesh,” Lars said, taking the mug from her and sliding into the chair between Finn and Cora.
“Why, I thought you and your friend were only coming out next month again?”
Lars took a noisy sip from the mug, and gave the woman a wide smile. “Had a few days off. Thought I’d hunt a little. Air out here does amazing things for the lungs.” He waved a hand at Finn. “And you finally get to meet ‘my friend’, Finn.” He put airquotes around the word, with another wide grin.
“Well, slap me silly.” Anna put her hand on the back of Finn’s chair, leaning around to see his face. It’s good to meet you, Finn. Lars here talks about you all the time.”
“All the time?” Finn repeated woodenly, throwing Lars a glare.
“All good,” Anna said with a laugh. “All good. Can I get you two another round?”
“Oh, no—” Cora began.
“Thanks, but—” Finn said over her. They both stopped talking.
“Bit of an acquired taste, I guess,” Anna said, sounding utterly despondent.
“I love your hot toddies,” Lars said enthusiastically. “And bring them another round—they’ll learn to love it too if I have to force another three down their throats.”
Anna chuckled as she walked away to fetch their order.
“Lars—” Finn said, but the man waved away his protest.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.” Lars took another pull at the mug looking as if he was actually savoring the boozy drink before swallowing it down.
Finn shook his head, and caught Cora watching him. He shifted in his chair, and let out a massive sigh when Anna brought another pair of mugs over to their table.
“So now we wait,” he murmured, taking a sip and wishing he hadn’t.
“Now we wait,” Lars said, and then turned that insufferable smile of his on Cora. “So, bunny, Finn ever tell you the story of how we met?”
Finn shot him an incredulous stare, but Cora was already shaking her head, golden eyes rapt.
“Lars, no.”
“Oh, it’s a good one.” The man grinned at him, completely ignoring the pleading look on Finn’s face. Then he reached under the table and gave Finn’s thigh a hard squeeze. “You’re going to love this.”
13
What happens in Syria
Syria was the kind of dry-hot that left a person’s skin feeling like beef jerky. What used to be saliva had turned into some weird gummy paste inside Lars’s mouth. It made opening his mouth difficult.
Wasn’t like he needed to; there was no one here to speak to, even if he wanted.
Plus, he had other things on his mind. Like how he’d finally gotten a sight on his target.
It had been a long shot, him coming out here. So much so, he’d been given a direct order not to. But he knew the intel was good, if vague, and his company had been on the sidelines for too long already. He itched to get a move on, and if he could take out one of the targets on his hit-list, his superiors would surely forgive his lapse in obedience.
Well, that’s what he was hoping, anyway.
Fuck it, they should never have drafted him in the first place if they hadn’t wanted him going rogue. He’d tried warning them.
He let out a steady breath and spent a few seconds running through his calculations; wind speed, distance, caliber, the thickness of a human skull. Right through the third eye would be nice—that was his signature shot, after all—but with this guy, he’d settle for anywhere lethal. Maybe he could line up—
The target—a Syrian national with ties to a terrorist cell his company had been stalking for over three weeks now—came in sight of the open doorway of a clay house.
It was several hundred feet away from where Lars was; he’d found a niche in one of the rocky crags that surrounded this outpost and had wedged himself in nice and tight. With his sand-colored fatigues, he blended into the rocks like a chameleon.
Three steps led down from the hut. By the last step, he’d have a good idea where the man’s head would be.
He could probably get off two rounds, if he fired in quick succession.
Hopefully, he’d only need one. These Syrians were jumpy folk. If he missed, the guy would turn and high tail it straight back inside, no doubt.
The man took the first step, twisting to speak to someone behind him.
The second step.
The third—
“Lars!”
A bullet almost left his chamber. It was a close thing, and his entire body reeled with the almost-shock of not shooting someone he’d already imagined snapping back from the momentum of his shot.
“The fuck?” he hissed as loud as he dared. Sound carried in the desert, especially in a valley like this. He recognized the voice—Milo Finn, one of the assault personnel in his company.
But it seemed the man’s only goal had been to scare the bejesus out of him. He said nothing as he grabbed Lars by the shoulder and tried to yank him up.
“Fuck off,” Lars growled, tugging his arm free. He glanced at Milo over his shoulder. “The fuck you doing?”
“Have to leave,” the guy said mysteriously.
Was that what all the radio chatter had been about? Had something gone down? He’d specifically ignored it—getting into the right position could take up to an hour sometimes, and he’d wanted to be ready when his target showed his ugly mug.
Like he just had.
Lars spun back, but his target had moved around the back of the building and out of sight.
“Fuck!” he whispered fiercely. He swung back to Milo, who was busy shoving his gear unceremoniously into its duffel bag. “Lay off, you fucking Neanderthal. You’ll damage it.”
He rose—their position was slightly shielded by an outcrop of rock, so no one from the target site should be able to see them—and grabbed an empty water bottle from Milo’s hands. “I said, lay off!”
“Gotta move,” Milo said. The man had a deep bass of a voice which kinda worked with his massive frame. He would make a shit sniper though; too much muscle to try and hide from inquisitive eyes.
“Listen, I just fi
nished getting set up. Whatever it is, it can wait.”
But muscle-man Milo wasn’t budging. He grabbed Lars’s sniper rifle from its stand and tossed—TOSSED!—it into the fucking duffel bag like it was nothing more than a bunch of sticks.
“You fuck head!” Lars fell to his knees beside the duffel, wrestling with Milo in an effort to get him to stop chucking his shit into the bag.
And then came the noise of someone nearby cocking a gun. It might have been easy to mistake for the metal grinding and chafing against itself inside the duffel bag, but Lars had excellent directional hearing when he needed it.
Milo turned to him, eyes the exact shade of the desert sky behind him.
Lars put a finger to his lips, and Milo let his head sag to the side as if to say, No shit.
They waited breathlessly, neither daring to move from their frozen tableau; Lars still gripping Milo’s arms, Milo with his hands inside the duffel bag.
Arabic voices came next; low and urgent. Lars thinned his mouth and glanced around. There was at least one escape route—if Milo didn’t mind scraping some skin off his ass sliding down the other side of this rock outcrop. It would put them out of danger, but he hadn’t scouted that side of his position—it could lead anywhere or nowhere. Trapping them, or setting them free.
He waved at Milo, and abandoned his gear as he crept as silently as possible to a nearby cleft in the rocks. Milo followed cautiously. Because he didn’t trust him, or because he was worried of making a sound? Lars didn’t blame him—it was difficult enough keeping his slip of a body from brushing rocks, but for Milo it had to be goddamn near impossible.
He half-slid, half-clambered down the cleft in the rocks. When he glanced up, Milo was staring down the side of the small cliff with wide, disbelieving eyes.
Shit.
Lars beckoned him furiously, but Milo shook his head.
Seriously?
Lars made a spinning motion with his finger and then stabbed at the ground. Milo looked over his shoulder, and visibly steeling himself, began climbing down after Lars.
Jesus Christ, the guy was slow.
