by HELEN HARDT
He swallowed hard and pulled his finger back out of the ring. As expected, his brain crowed while his heart screamed on the torture rack of memory. He waited, breathing hard, for the agony to end. He begged the wounds to bleed hard and fast, letting the anger get here and turn the pain into a scab. After that, he’d be able to move again. To function again.
“Hawk! Damn you, man!”
Anger moved in on the grief. Thank fuck. Fortunately, nothing got him more pissed off than Zeke’s mommy-hen act. After rolling from the bed, he tugged on his briefs and then stumbled across the room. The dirty light and sound of traffic beyond the thin shutters told him it was about midday. Or maybe his growling stomach did.
“Okay, why are your panties in a wad?” He glanced at Zeke after opening the door, the last of his grogginess obliterated by the lime green and banana yellow print of his friend’s tacky tourist ensemble. Z’s khaki shorts were baggy on his timber-log legs, which marched him into the room before Garrett could even think about reclosing the portal. “Don’t tell me you’re bored, with all of Bangkok out there for the taking. We don’t roll on this mission until nightfall. That gives you at least five hours to work your flogging arm and your kinky cock through a lot of cheap tail, my friend. I’ll bet the girls at Club Subjugate are missing you something fierce, Sir Zekie.”
“Sir Zekie. Aw. That’s cute, honey.” The guy kicked the door shut behind him. Zeke’s six-foot-six frame was only a couple of inches taller than Garrett’s, but the man’s mountainous build intensified the effect of his stature, especially in this room seemingly designed for people half his size. “As much as Chelsea and Chyna like my side-by-side spanking special, shit like that gets boring by myself. You tried the fun-filled dungeon field trip once. Think you want to sign up this time?”
Garrett snorted and flopped on the bed again. His friend wasted his breath with the memory. Yeah, he’d gone. Yeah, he’d tried it. Z had gotten him in a weak spot around the six-month mark after Sage’s death. He’d been desperate to forget the pain for a while, hoping “the magic of BDSM,” as Z called it, would help. More urgently, he’d been hoping to figure out the kinky-minded demon that had been crawling in the back of his imagination since…well, he knew since when. The secret would go with him to his grave. An occasion, God willing, that would come sooner than later.
Needless to say, he’d scratched the itch just fine that night. Or, as truth would have it, hadn’t scratched. That part wasn’t such a state secret, and it justified the response he tossed at his friend.
“You really think that offer’s relevant?”
Z shrugged. “Lots of water has passed under your bridge, dude. Maybe commanding a sweet little subbie will fire your rockets this time around.”
“No,” Garrett snapped, “it won’t.”
“Right. Because you’d rather stay here and just beat off after your wet dreams about Sage.”
“Fuck off.”
“It’s been over a year, Hawk.”
“Fuck off.”
“Fine.” Z pulled the faded Yankees cap off his head, revealing the miniature broadcasting station literally sewn inside it, before scrubbing a hand through his tumbling dark-brown hair. “Turns out free time just got drastically cut, anyhow. That’s why I’m here collecting your sorry ass.”
He’d just cracked open a lukewarm soda and was about to take his first guzzle. He stopped the can halfway to his lips and shot a quizzical look across the room. “What do you mean, ‘cut’?”
Zeke dropped into the room’s sole chair and shrugged. “CENTCOMM received a line of new intel. Seems we’re gonna be more effective going in to rescue these girls as the badass uniformed machines we’ve been trained to be instead of a bunch of American dorkgasms looking for some girl-next-door-type pussy.” He stretched his tree trunk legs out, crossing them at the ankle on the foot of the bed. “So as soon as you get your ass dressed, we’re buggin’ back to the embassy. They’re gonna let us change and get haircuts and shaves.” He scratched the scruff on his jaw. “Thank all that’s holy.”
Garrett cracked a dry smirk. “You sure it’s not just because you blew our cover with that shirt? Maybe somebody with half a brain looked at you and realized no normal person, even a dorkgasm, would willingly dress in that.”
Z looked at his getup with a frown. “What’s wrong with the shirt?”
“Oh c’mon. It’s hideous. It’s not yours, is it? Central gave it to you, right?”
“Yeah, uhhh, right.”
Zeke followed up his hasty answer by cracking one of the shutters and feigning interest in the activity outside. Garrett rose, shoved into jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and listened to the scene that his friend beheld. Scooters zoomed, taxi drivers argued, bicycle bells dinged, and food sizzled. All in all, it was a typical day in Bangkok—probably the same kind of day that ten American aid workers had been enjoying just six weeks ago, prior to boarding a plane for their mission in Myanmar.
The five men and five women had never arrived for their flight. Two days later, the men had been returned unharmed, spelling out the abductors’ purpose with more clarity than a Soi Cowboy titty-bar sign. Undercover CIA agents had been rapidly inserted on the case, and sure enough, after ample questions were asked and money was tossed around, they were invited in on the newest trend for discerning American businessmen looking for a good time in East Asia—American girls who would do everything a native girl would, at exactly the same price.
Tonight, the assholes running the racket were going to find a new surprise waiting for their sorry dicks. Garrett’s blood surged with the anticipation of delivering that surprise. He hoisted his pack, slipped into his “lazy American tourist” loafers, and then cocked his head at Zeke.
“You gonna sit there moping because I called your shirt a fashion disaster? Come on, Fashion Sparkle Barbie. Let’s depart this fair establishment.”
To his perplexity, Zeke didn’t budge. He closed the shutter with unnerving calm. “Just another sec, Hawk.”
The gnat of suspicion in his senses morphed into a mosquito. “What is it?”
“Sit down. There’s one more thing we gotta discuss.”
The mosquito started biting. “No,” Garrett snapped, “there isn’t.”
Without looking back at Z, he went for the door and had his hand on the knob as his friend’s rejoinder hit the air.
“You don’t get to load up for the op unless we drill down on this.”
Garrett watched his fingers go white around the knob. Officially he and Zeke were equal rank, but his friend’s tone clearly pulled a top dog on him. That only meant one thing.
“Franzen put you up to this, didn’t he?”
Z lowered his legs and then balanced his elbows on his knees. When he lifted his head, deep assessment defined his stare. Garrett almost rolled his eyes in return, but he caught sight of himself in the dusty mirror over the bureau. His hair, a nice gold when it was clean but the color of a worn dishrag now, was as rumpled and long as Zeke’s brown waves. His eyes also looked like rags—blue ones that’d been used on muddy boots. His skin was sallow. He hadn’t slept well in over a year, and it showed in every wrinkled, grungy inch of him.
He scowled. If he was Franz, he’d likely have a few concerns about adding his name to the mission roster too. It didn’t matter that he’d proved himself on over three dozen ops in the last year. He knew the concern was for this trip. He didn’t have to be told why. But he’d put up with the formality anyway.
“Yeah, okay,” Zeke conceded. “The captain and I had a brief talk about your involvement on this one. You’re a key piece of the team, Hawk. We could really use you. Even though you look like crap, your reflexes are still the best on the squad. You’re able to make smart snap judgments even if the shit gets thick and the op goes sideways.”
Garrett dropped his pack and leaned against the door. “Are you planning that much on this one taking a detour?”
“No. Hell, no.” Like the protest about the shi
rt, his friend’s answer flew out suspiciously fast. “It’s just—we’re gonna be deep in the forest on this one, G. I wouldn’t be surprised if we come across fucking Jurassic Park or something.”
“You know Jurassic Park is technically off the coast of Costa Rica and not Thailand, right?”
“It’s sick that you know that.”
“It’s pathetic that you don’t read.”
His buddy’s stubbled chin gave way to a grin. “And it’s nice to see you getting pissy about something.” In a murmur, he added, “Maybe there’s hope for your humanity after all, Hawkins.”
“Shut up and get to your point.”
Zeke let the smile fall. “Okey dokey, Prince Charming.” He rose and crossed his arms. “To be frank, the captain and I are concerned about your focus on this one.”
A needle of irritation joined the knives in his chest. “That’s never been an issue before.”
“We’ve never been called to retrieve hostages before.”
Garrett snorted. “Yeah, what about that? The Rangers and Delta getting their nails done or something?”
“You think I know or care? The op is what it is. More importantly, the hostages are what they are. American women, many with fair hair and eyes.” Z leaned forward, intensifying his gaze. “I need to know you can keep the emo lockbox down on this, G. Complete objectivity. These girls will be terrified and traumatized, but our main objective is to get them to safety using any means necessary. The conditions will be shitty and the time frame will be worse. I need to know you can do that. I need to know you’re gonna maintain your edge.”
Garrett pushed off the door in order to take a determined stance. He bolted his stare into Zeke’s, unwavering in his purpose, unblinking in his concentration.
“You think I’m gonna go cookie crumbs on you because some girl looks like her?” He shot out a bitter laugh. “You think that alone would do it? You really don’t remember what Sage and I had, do you?”
“Why do I need to? You’re doing the job to stellar perfection for me and half the world.”
“And?”
Zeke’s eyes slid shut and his mouth tightened, his version of contrition for the accusing words. “You haven’t let go of her. You still got that goddamn ring hiding between your tags, which should be secured to your bootlaces, assface, not your sorry neck. I can write you up faster than—”
Garrett cut him off with a derisive laugh. “Oh, that would be entertaining.”
“I’ve got genuine concerns here, Garrett.”
“Got it, Oprah. Can I get you a tampon for that now?”
Zeke closed the space between them in one wide step. His jaw went harder beneath his stubble. “What you can do, damn it, is look me in the eye and swear to me that you’re squared with the personal shit and are solid to go on this op.”
Garrett notched back his shoulders and set his own jaw. He confronted the stare of his friend again. He’d seen those hazels oiled with booze, gunned with adrenaline, bleary with exhaustion, afire with exhilaration, and likely a thousand other things. But this was one look he always treated with respect. This was a stare of the guy who would be at his side out there in Jurassic Land, holding the gun that could save Garrett’s life. He’d be counting on Garrett to do the exact same.
“I’m solid,” he said. “And you know I’d tell you otherwise, Z.” The last shrouds of his dream fell away from his mind, dissolved by the salvation of mental mission prep. “Let me help you get these dick lickers.”
Zeke didn’t answer at first. He subjected Garrett to another minute of silent scrutiny. That was all right. He’d been through it before. What he couldn’t handle were the daggers Z kept trying to add to the others in his chest, to open up new parts of him so he could “move on” and “live again.” That wasn’t going to happen. Not today, not tonight, not anytime soon. The knives were his. The pain was his. As long as both were still there, he still had some part of her with him.
Finally, Zeke cracked a lopsided grin and chuckled. “All right, you charmer. Let’s get the hell out of here. You need a shower, dude. Bad.”
“Says the chump who smells like ass.”
Zeke knuckled him in the shoulder. “You sure you got everything in that pack? Did you get your Jane Austen novel off the back of the toilet?”
“I’ve got your Jane Austen at the end of my dick.”
“Hawkins, your dick is probably as blue as your balls by now.” Z snapped his fingers. “Hey! Maybe that’s where you should secure your tags, yeah?”
Garrett rolled his eyes, scooped up his pack again, and discreetly adjusted the body parts his friend had insulted with screaming accuracy. His cock was still doing its best to relax, though his balls throbbed in frustration, sending shots of erotic what-the-fucks at him. They were supposed to be enjoying some post-jackoff serenity right now, and the bastards were hitting the target damn well at reminding him of that every two seconds.
Get used to it, guys. He sent the dismal promise as he and Zeke made their way out into the sultry Bangkok afternoon. Life isn’t going to change anytime soon.
Chapter Two
Day four hundred thirty-three…
The paper’s running low. Soon it’ll be gone. I’m not sure how I’ll hang on after that, without the words to write each day…the few seconds that I have to look at them and remember that I’m real. That somewhere in the world, you’re real, and what we had was real. I think they might be moving us again today. I don’t know what will happen, but I think we’ll be sold again or killed. This time, I’m praying for the strength to leave this packet behind—and in doing so, to leave part of my heart behind with it. These pages will tell you everything. They’ll explain where we’ve been and who’s held us and maybe help you guys catch the assholes. I have to believe that someone will find this. I have to believe that they’ll get it to you somehow, and that you’ll read it all and know I never stopped loving you. I never—
“Sage! Put it away!”
Rayna’s hoarse whisper resounded through the cave—or whatever this place was—that the two of them had been transferred to and kept for the last two weeks. Sage didn’t waste time minding her friend. She slipped the note into the hidden pocket of her small pack as her friend turned to keep watch again, flipping her russet ponytail against her thin shoulders and peering through the barbed-wire wall that functioned as the front of their cell.
She and Rayna had stayed free for over a year because they’d depended on each other’s strengths, like her crossbow aim and Rayna’s wolf-perfect hearing, along with a hell of a lot of luck. The skills were all still there. It was the luck that had run out. They’d finally been recaptured, drugged, and taken God only knew where. This wasn’t Africa anymore. It was humid. Really humid. Not as wet as home, but few places were as soggy as the Pacific Northwest.
She closed her eyes for a precious moment, conjuring every detail she could remember of the condo that she and Garrett had called home in the three months before her deployment. The giant pillows in front of the fireplace. The cathedral roofs that turned the rain into music. The lake outside the windows, and the egrets that dipped gracefully over the water each morning.
The same way Sergeant Garrett Hawkins had swooped into her life and captured her heart.
“Hellooo, bitches!”
In the space of those two shrill words, her memories were blasted apart again.
Reality reigned once more in the form of the four black-clad gunmen Rayna had heard on approach. They were followed by the source of the greeting, their leader—a heartless greaseball who referred to himself as “King.” Sage had fast concluded nothing good was due to them because of that, and she’d been right. At first the man had referred to them both simply as “the investments,” leading to the conclusion that the men who’d recaptured them in Africa were simply middlemen, and King was the bigger player in this picture. Those were the days he’d held them in the warehouse, when somber-eyed women were brought in to wash and style their ha
ir, paint their nails, shave their legs…and other body parts. Outfits were brought in to size on them, if the scraps of fabric could be called that. The treatment had left nothing to their imaginations about the fate for which they were being prepared.
One night, the “spa treatment” had gone differently. The women brought in for them snapped on surgical gloves as King selected body jewelry from a bed of jewels. When they pinned Rayna down, forced her legs open, and pierced her with brute force and an ugly needle, she’d screamed—and Sage had snapped. She’d managed to scatter the jewels, take down two henchmen with head butts to their balls, and get the “therapist” away from Rayna before a whack to the back of her head had turned the world dark.
She had no idea how long she’d been out but had awakened here in the cave, expecting to see diamonds taunting from between her own thighs. Instead, King himself was positioned there, pinning her legs with his knees as he wrenched at his fly. She’d taken a couple of steady breaths. On the third, she’d reared up enough to squeeze his sorry balls with all the strength in her arms.
Good news? King got nowhere near her again. Not-so-good news? Her hands didn’t feel like crushing anything after they spent three days shackled to the walls.
After that, she and Rayna were no longer the investments. They were the bitches.
King’s grin slanted higher as he approached the cell. “Have you rested well, bitches?” He cocked his head, looking from Sage to Rayna and back. “Hmm. Seems so. But do the flowers ever look soiled from the beautiful land of Seattle? I think not. This is a good thing. Tonight is going to be big for you. And me!”
A scythe of terror slashed her gut. Big could only mean one thing. They would no longer be under King’s thumb. That didn’t mean the next thumb would be any better. Sage focused on his leering yellow teeth—and the fantasy of whacking them out of his mouth—to control herself from glancing at Rayna. The effort failed. It was impossible not to catch Ray in her peripheral due to the trembles that now commanded every inch of her friend. They both knew the order King was going to issue next.
