by Cindy Skaggs
“Cops ever come out this way?” Ryder asked. He and Lauren were on the wanted list, so having the cops snooping would be hell.
“If they do, they’re looking for people or product coming in from Mexico. For the most part, we’re the forgotten out here.”
Ryder leaned forward, all deep focus. “You said survivalists train out here, so how are you setup for training?”
“Shooting range is two stories beneath our feet. There’s a tunnel from the main house to the range, so after today, no outside walks where you can be seen and/or identified. The armory is down there, away from the main house in case of an accidental explosion, although there’s a gun safe on the house side of the tunnels, just in case. PT and hand-to-hand training rooms are in the basement under the house.”
“Brother, you spent your entire fucking signing bonus outfitting this place.” Craft looked around with a new set of eyes.
“The bonus and every paycheck before and after. I was raised to believe in Armageddon, but I never figured to be a weapon for the other side. The fearless thing seemed like a good idea when I signed. Imagine a rebel armed with a military-grade armory and no fear.”
Rose had listened to the briefing in silence, but all he heard was how to defend their position on this plot of land. Rose wasn’t looking for another Alamo. He wanted answers. “Since you weren’t planning for medical experimentation, I don’t suppose you have a lab?”
Fowler shook his head. “We have a clinic, downstairs in the former nuthouse. And don’t use that phrase around Janet. She’s a mite attached to the ghosts.”
Rose let that one pass. “You got a place Debi can set up a lab? She brought equipment, we still have the water bottles to test and Echo’s blood.”
“She can set up in the clinic waiting room. Not sure what else to call it. It’s creepy as fuck down there, but all stainless steel, even some outside ventilation if she wants to get cosmic.”
“How about we start with whatever the fuck they shot into our veins.” Rose’s temper bloomed out of nowhere, out of one long-assed day that bled into the next. “Because as fan-fucking-tastic as this place seems, I’m not hearing anything about how to get out of this situation. They come looking and we can defend. Great. For how long before they bring in aircraft and turn this place into a motherfucking crater?”
Ryder braced an elbow on the table and gripped his forehead with two fingers like he was rubbing out the mother of all headaches. He was still bruised and cut up from his last altercation with Echo. His dominant hand was cut to shreds. “I hear you. This isn’t about World War III. Lauren’s here. Other civilians.” He nodded at Fowler. “You got an exit plan for your mom and the women?”
Craft shook his head. “Brother, they hear you talk like that, they’ll have your balls.”
“If I can’t protect my woman, I don’t have any in the first place. So what you got, Fowler?”
“The place is riddled with tunnels. Some end up absolutely nowhere. You ask me, the staff were as imbalanced as the patients here. We can study the schematics. Make sure the women know the exit strategy. There are two crappy vehicles waiting on the other end, but the engines will outrun anything outside of a racecar. Janet knows the plan. She can train the other women.”
“It doesn’t suck.” Rose stood, went to the white board, and grabbed a marker. He started to write notes as the spoke. “First priority, exit strategy.” He marked that with a giant checkmark. “What’s next, boss?”
Ryder grabbed a pen and notebook from the center of the table. “Two-pronged approach. First, we need to know what they did to us, if it’s reversible, and if we’re as unstable as they want us to believe.”
“Second.” Craft walked to the mini-fridge and pulled out water bottles, rolled them down the table for the rest of the men. “Who are we dealing with? We need a file on every surviving member of Team Echo, but they’re not working alone. They’ve got someone inside the Department of Defense. Who funded the research? Who were the assholes poking and prodding us before they cut us loose? And where the fuck is Captain Johnson? Because I don’t have a clue as to his level of involvement. Whoever is involved, we’re talking high-level black ops shit, and they’d rather bury us than own up to the program.”
Stills sat quietly at the end of the table while they discussed strategy for the next hour or more, watching the interaction in silence, but he leaned forward as Rose finished writing notes on the white board. “You boys have bigger problems than you think. When I crawled out of my very pleasant distraction, I tried to look you up, but no dice. Called on a buddy who was on Team Delta, and he’s dealing with his own shit. These other teams, they’re not all good guys. The ones that are clean are dying off faster than an epidemic. Car accidents, drunk drivers, and a heart attack in a healthy thirty-one-year-old soldier.”
“You know, we always assumed that Lauren’s accident was caused by the guys who kidnapped her.”
“Good point, Rose.” A muscle ticked in Ryder’s jaw. “But it could have been Echo, given everything we know now. Were they trying to draw me back to the local area or kill her outright?”
“Four of them were in the bar that night. They might have taken it as an opportunity and assumed you were in the truck with Lauren.”
“Fuck.” Ryder threw his empty water bottle at the wall where it crashed into the waiting trashcan.
“Three points,” Stills joked.
The room went silent with the implications. Ryder nailed Stills with a glare that would shrivel the balls of a lesser man. “Stills, not that long ago, you told us to fuck off. You wanted to go your own way. There’s no fence to straddle here. You’re either in or you’re out.”
“I humped it down to Texas as fast as I could, which ought to tell you where my loyalty lies.” Stills leaned forward, his eyes narrowed and tight. “But given the fact that these fuckers killed one of my best friends and they’d like to do the same to me? I’m in.”
Ryder tapped a pen against the pad, the only sound in the room the soft whirr of the ventilation system. “We’re on lockdown here until we have a solid plan to take these assholes out for good. Rose, you take point on the scientific aspect. Figure out who and what and how of this designer drug. Craft, you’re on the intelligence gathering. Use your magic fingers to dig into some classified files. Who, what, when, why, where, and how, but especially who. Who funded the program? And if you come across any medical or scientific research, hand it off to Rose and Debi.”
“I’m not sitting on my ass out here in BFE,” Stills said when he didn’t get an assignment. “Give me something to do or I walk.”
“Stills, you have a contact on Delta, so start there. What’s the deal with the other teams? Who is involved? Are there any potential allies out there? Anyone with more information we could use? I want dossiers, locations, pictures. Strengths and weaknesses.”
“You want to know if they’re naughty or nice?” Stills asked, his stern features belying the joke.
“I want to know more than Santa Claus.”
Fowler stood at the opposite end of the table, legs braced apart. “I’ll take point on security. I know the layout and can keep us off the grid.”
Ryder nodded agreement. “I’ll coordinate big picture, reassign personnel as needed, pull in the women for anything that doesn’t require loss of life or limb. And if any of you fuckers tells Lauren I’m giving her light duty, I’ll slit your throat in your sleep.”
Craft chuckled. “It’s good to be back.”
Craft was right. They’d all gone separate ways after the Army had discharged them—medically unfit—and they hadn’t accomplished anything on their own but getting two good men killed. They might be in a world of hurt, but they weren’t alone. They were a team. Rose finished writing out duty details and tossed the marker to the table. “Live by the team, fight by the team.”
“Hooah,” the rest agreed.
“Now let’s grab some chow and get a solid night’s sleep.” Fowler led the
way out of the room, shutting off lights as he went. “I’ll show you the main tunnel back to the house. We’ve got perimeter guards that roam the property every night. There are alerts in place if anyone crosses the gate, touches the fencing, or comes within fifty yards of the manor or the barn. Electronics alert in the command post, my room, and Janet’s. We’ll know if anyone comes at us tonight. Not that I expect anything.”
“Too soon,” Ryder agreed. “But don’t get complacent.”
“Speaking of complacent.” Rose gestured to the dirty bandage covering Ryder’s palm. “Now that we’re settled, you need to clean that up. Stop by and I’ll make sure it’s clean and put on new bandages.”
“There’s a clinic in the basement of the main house,” Fowler offered. “I’ll show you when we get to the other side of the tunnel.
The tunnel was one of those horror movie deals with painted concrete walls and a light every ten feet that flickered. Craft raced ahead, jumped up to clang one of the hanging lights so it swung back and forth on rusty, creaky hinges. “Asshole,” Rose muttered. Last thing he needed was the thought of this damn tunnel when he was sleeping in a haunted freaking hotel for the criminally insane.
The tunnel ended in the former root cellar. Fowler pointed the opposite direction. “Clinic’s down that way. If you come down here on your own, keep to the central hallway until you’ve studied the blue prints.”
A short set of steps led to the back pantry of the kitchen. They dished up stew and buttermilk biscuits and sat down for chow like they’d never left the team. Rose scarfed down a bowl before he realized how much time they’d spent on the other side of the compound. He glanced at his watch to make sure the clock was right. Debi was long past due for another pain pill. “Shit.” He scraped back from the table, put his bowl in the dishwasher, and headed out.
Craft intercepted him at the doorway. “Where are you going?”
Hell, he knew that look. Craft was digging in, ready to screw with him. “My room. Move.”
Craft’s forehead wrinkled as he thought long and hard. “Isn’t there someone else’s room down that way?”
“Yes, dumbass, I’m going to check the patient before I hit the rack.”
“Patient? You mean Debi?” Craft looked around Rose to the audience still sitting at the long farm table. “Do you suppose he thinks that calling her the patient makes her less hot?”
“I think they’re playing doctor,” Stills suggested from the safety of the kitchen.
“Laugh it up, dickhead.”
Craft shrugged and moved to the side. “I was just seeing what was what. Because if you’re not interested, that bartender is one fine—”
“Shut it.” Rose body checked him into the nearest wall. “One more word, and we’re taking it to the mat.”
“My bad.” Craft raised his hands in surrender. “Rose has called dibs.”
“Can’t call dibs on a person.” Ryder took a sip of sweet tea. “At least that’s what Lauren tells me.”
“Amateur. You can’t tell a woman you called dibs. Defeats the purpose. Take me for instance, if I called dibs on Camy...”
Rose crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t need to threaten. There were rules. Sisters were off limits. Period.
“Why you gotta be like that?” Craft asked.
“Didn’t say a word.”
“Exactly. The eyebrow thing and the arms. A threat was implied.”
“Bet your ass.”
Craft frowned at Rose’s response. “O-kay. Different example. Take Rose here. If he called dibs in front of the patient.” Craft added the emphasis to the word and waggled his eyebrows. “She would have him by the balls.”
“Fuck off.” Rose stormed down the hallway to the sounds of the team laughing it up at his expense. He let it roll off, because he had bigger problems to worry about. Craft was right. Rose was a walking hard-on around the bartender, but he damn well knew better than getting involved right now. Anyone close to him was a target. His future was not bright, and Debi was a non-combatant. Still, one look at her and his dick stood at the position of attention. The woman had him by the short hairs. God help him when she figured it out.
Chapter Thirteen
Debi zoned out in the dark, not quite awake, not asleep. The giant divot in the center of the bed said some big dude had slept there, leaving a superhero-sized imprint large enough to swallow her whole. She rolled downhill every time she was almost asleep, pulling the stitches and yanking her awake.
A sliver of light under the door widened as Rose peeked into the room. “Why aren’t you asleep?”
Debi blinked against the glare. As her eyes adjusted, she pushed off on her good side to sit up, then scooted back to lean on the pine log headboard. “Lauren and I are planning an all-nighter. Booze, friends, a couple strippers.”
“Why is every answer sarcastic with you?” He stepped inside and closed the door, leaving them with only the sliver under the door for light.
“Sarcasm works for me.” The inability to see his face brought out something unexpected. Honesty. Maybe it was the pain pills. “Because the truth is often hard, and most people are looking for an easy answer. Sarcasm lets them laugh and move on without getting involved.”
“Your father?”
Well, wasn’t he a perceptive one? “No. Every drunk who ever walked into my bar.”
“Your old man a drunk?”
“I have no idea.” She’d never seen him outside of the university. Never been to his house. There was no fake family Christmas. They didn’t even share a last name. “Sarcasm is my native tongue and the world has given me a plethora of material. Hate to waste it.”
“You’re not as tough as you want to believe.” His voice sounded nearer, but the deep darkness made it impossible to see the outline of his large frame.
Her heart beat against her chest, which was still bruised from the panic attack. Every breath hurt. “I’m not as weak as you think.”
“I don’t think you’re weak.” The bed dipped under his weight.
“No?” Her voice came out breathy. She lifted her knees to rest the sling against. “I do. Think I’m weak.” Damn, the truth spilled from her mouth like coins from a slot machine. She’d sought out her father, because she hadn’t been enough on her own. She’d wanted, needed maybe, her father’s approval. And that ship had sailed. The panic attacks that had haunted her youth had only gotten worse around her father, and in the end, the attacks were one more reason he despised her. Her screwed-up parentage was a Freudian wet dream.
“You’re not weak.”
The tone flat warned her not to argue, but the darkness pulled the truth from the depths of her soul. “I’d have done anything to win his love.” To her, that was the definition of weakness.
Rose ran a finger along her good arm causing a shiver to run through her body. “It should have been the other way around. He should have moved mountains for you.”
The knot in her throat was too large to speak around. A single tear dripped down, but she didn’t swipe it away, because it would mean losing Rose’s gentle touch. She could smell him now, masculine and sexy. She’d never been closer to another human soul, or more certain that she didn’t deserve it. A dozen sarcastic comments crawled up her throat to push him away, but she swallowed them along with the lump that never truly left.
She twined her fingers through his and held on, because she needed his warmth, his touch. She needed him. They stayed that way, holding hands across the big bed, until a nap jerk twitched her body and yanked their hands apart.
“You should get some sleep,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.
Her body said yes, while her mind said hell no. She couldn’t be alone with her thoughts right now. “Rose, will you sleep with me?”
Crickets.
“Oh, God, I didn’t mean...” She smacked a hand on her forehead. At some point she wanted the soldier in her bed for something more than sleep, but tonight she simply needed company. “I mean�
��”
“I know what you mean.” The box springs squeaked when he stood. “I’ll make you a deal. Take another pain pill, and I’ll stay and keep the pressure off your injury.”
“Another pain pill. Afraid I’m going to take advantage of you?”
“Don’t fall back on sarcasm.”
But it was the one thing she was really good at. “Look, the last pill made me the most morose human being on the planet. Another one might turn on the waterworks.” And the last thing she wanted was to cry all over Rose. She wasn’t a pretty crier.
“Tears aren’t a weakness. Take the deal.”
The image of him standing over her, bulging arms crossed over his massive chest was born out by his shadow at the end of the bed. “Fine, but if I cry on you, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”
“I’ve got six sisters. Tears stopped scaring me years ago.”
“Oh.” That made sense. He’d probably seen some ugly tears, too. She reached out a hand toward him, a risky move since she could have touched any body part, but finally found his hand. “I’ll take it if you stay.”
The rattle of pills forecasted his movements before he handed her a pill and a bottle of water. She swallowed it while his clothes hit the hardwood floor. The sound was quite possibly the sexiest thing since a striptease. He settled into the center of the bed and eased her next to him. Quick moves had one pillow rolled under her sore arm to take the weight off. One of his arms curved under her head while the other cinched around her waist drawing her close to his tight body. The musculature against her back was the stuff of dreams and she was too sore to take advantage of it. The universe had a cruel sense of humor.
She wiggled to get her body into place, her legs brushing against the cotton of his boxers. “Are you wearing the green and blue paisley?” She licked her lips. “Those are my favorite.”
