by Pam Godwin
Until she removed the helmet.
Piles of thick, bright-ass-red hair tumbled out, bouncing off her shoulders and falling around her inked arms. Eyes of sea-green stared out of a face so feminine, so delicately formed, that her flawless ivory complexion didn’t appear natural.
Nothing about her appearance looked real. Or soft.
Heavy black eyeliner winged out from the corners of her large eyes. Her lashes were so dense and long he knew they were fake. Even the white stone piercing on her upper lip was an imitation of Marilyn Monroe’s beauty mark.
Cherry red gloss stained her lips. Plump, sinful, smiling lips. The longer he stared, the wider she smiled. She damn well knew the effect she had on men.
Her beauty was bold, arresting, and deliberately, garishly exaggerated. With her makeup painted on in aggressive strokes and her mermaid hair so shockingly red, he suspected she spent more time primping than firing a weapon.
From head to toe, she exuded a rockabilly vibe, blending old-school rock with Goth subculture, like a retro Russian pinup girl with a wartime air. She would look right at home sprawled on a Soviet tank, wearing nothing but garters and that ruby red smile. Seductive and freaky and one-hundred-percent artificial.
What did she look like beneath the hair dye and caked-on cosmetics? He trusted her beauty as much as he trusted her.
“While your eyes are bulging from your head,” she said in her thick accent, “the clock is ticking. You will come with me now.”
Someone had bugged Rylee’s house, sent a hitman after her, and killed three innocent people, and this woman was involved.
The plan had been to lure her here. Not get himself captured.
He laughed. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You will, Cole Hartman.” She removed a large-screen tablet from the pack on her motorcycle and handed it to him. “Turn it on.”
His lungs caved in, and alarms rang in his head. He stared at the offered device, unable to move, crippled by memories.
Eleven years ago. Thurney Bridge. He’d faked his death, lost his girl, and destroyed his life—all because of a video on a phone.
He couldn’t guess what she would show him on that device, but whatever it was would force him to his knees.
No. Fuck no. Not this.
It couldn’t be a threat to Danni’s life. Not again. Trace swore she was safe.
The woman huffed with impatience and powered on the screen, displaying a paused video. “Push play.”
“Rot in hell.” He aimed the pistol at her face, inches from her painted lips.
She didn’t flinch or bat a fake eyelash. Instead, her mouth curved up. Her tongue poked out, and she slowly, fearlessly, fucking shamelessly licked the end of the barrel. All the way around the tip she went. Then she drew it between her filthy, lush, red lips.
His dick twitched, heating his anger past the boiling point. He yanked the gun away.
“We’re out of time, tigryenok.” She pouted. “Watch the video.”
She pressed play, and as much as he wanted to smack the device from her hand, he was still a soldier. A disciplined operative. Logic over emotion, his mind was in control.
The video showed a tarmac and private airplane hangar, the camera hovering from somewhere overhead. Before it zoomed in on the plane and the people boarding it, he knew exactly what he was looking at.
Matias, Camila, Josh, Amber, Kate, Martin, Ricky, Tula, and Vera. The nine Freedom Fighters who were on their way here.
His throat closed, panic spiking.
How had she obtained this footage? Whoever watched his friends hadn’t stopped them from boarding. He’d spoken with Matias after they were in the air. They were safe.
Unless another aircraft was following them.
She switched the screen, displaying a new video. “This is a live feed, streaming from an armed drone.”
The drone was in motion, high in a pitch-black sky, and locked onto a target. Equipped with night-vision cameras, it provided an undeniable view of another aircraft coasting at a distance ahead of it.
She tapped on the screen, controlling the drone’s camera and zooming in until the tail number on the aircraft’s cowling was legible.
He recognized the number instantly and knew it was registered to Matias’ plane.
An ache swelled in the back of his throat.
Van’s wife, Tiago’s wife, Liv’s husband, Lucia’s sister—every person on that aircraft was irreplaceable. They were family.
The team on the ground was listening through the radio, but they didn’t see what he saw. They didn’t know their loved ones were in danger.
Didn’t matter. They were his people, too.
Cold purpose numbed his chest as he slipped a hand into his pocket and discreetly muted the transmitter, preventing his friends from hearing what came next.
“What’s the ordnance on the drone?” he asked calmly.
“Air-to-air hellfire. Enough to take down your friend’s plane multiple times.”
Fire-and-forget missiles.
Fucking fuck!
The drone didn’t need to be in line-of-sight of Matias’ plane to hit it with those missiles. They were self-guided. But someone, sitting somewhere in a remote terminal, had to control the drone and pull the trigger.
“Where’s the operator?” he growled.
“You’ll meet him when we arrive.”
“What are the orders?”
“The operator will shoot down the plane at precisely twenty-three hundred.”
That was two hours away, which might’ve felt like plenty of time if she hadn’t mentioned a ticking clock more than once.
“Call it off.” He tightened his grip on the 9mm. “I’ll triple what they’re paying you.”
“I’m not the one holding the trigger.”
Which was why they sent her and not the operator.
“You can make demands, offer bribes, or shoot me with that gun.” She shrugged. “The operator will not abort.”
“Unless?”
“Unless you and I arrive at his location by twenty-three hundred. No exceptions. If we hurry, we’ll make it there with five minutes to spare. I’ll even let you watch him call off the strike.”
His heart hammered, and adrenaline flooded his system. “Who ordered this?”
“No more questions.” She clicked her tongue. “Tick-tock.”
If he could get a message to Matias, maybe his pilot could evade the danger. But it was too risky. Matias’ luxury aircraft was designed for one purpose only. To transport people. It didn’t have the speed or artillery to engage an armed drone.
“I know what you’re thinking.” She stowed the tablet in the pack on her bike, her accent grating. “If your friends deviate from their course or try to escape the drone, it will fire.”
His jaw clenched, his options dwindling with the countdown of the clock.
He would kill for his friends.
But would he hand himself over and endure torture for them?
Would he die for them?
Eleven years ago, the activity deployed Cole overseas to complete a job. His last job. Upon his return, he intended to retire, marry his dancer, and live a normal, innocuous life in the suburbs.
The assignment was standard undercover work. He was sent to infiltrate the Romanian mafia, root out a leak of classified information, and return home. He expected to finish within a year.
But when he discovered the source of the leak was Marie Merivale, his trusted partner and ex-lover, his entire world imploded.
She’d taken a bribe from the mafia, betrayed Cole and her country for money, and because she knew he would figure it out, she made damn sure she was ready for him.
When he caught her in France on Thurney Bridge, they stood in a face-off, guns aimed. Until she held up her phone and showed him a live video of an assassin in Danni’s house.
There was no leverage more powerful than a threat to Danni’s life.
He had a split-
second to make a decision. Let Marie kill him and save Danni. Or kill Marie and guarantee Danni’s death.
Lucky for him, Marie didn’t know about the high-tech, bullet-resistant clothing he wore under his jacket.
He let her shoot him.
The bullet hit his chest, fractured his ribs, and sent him crashing into the river below. When he didn’t surface, Marie believed he was dead. Everyone believed it. His unit, his employer, Trace, Danni…
Danni grieved his death for three years while he remained hidden, covertly hunting Marie.
The fucking bitch was a trained operative, same as him, and always a step ahead. But he had the element of surprise. She thought he was dead.
Maybe he should’ve killed her when he caught her, but she wasn’t a threat now. It’d taken him three years, but she was finally in prison, serving a life sentence without parole.
All of this flashed through his mind with a horrifying sense of déjà vu as he stared at the Russian woman. She’d shown him a video, threatened his friends, and now, in a race against the clock, he had a decision to make.
But this time, it wasn’t as simple as kill or be killed. Bullet-resistant clothing and a fake death wouldn’t get him out of this.
If he shot the woman, his friends would die. If he died, his friends would die. If he pretended to die, his friends would die.
The only way to save them was to go with her.
But if he did that, he faced gruesome, prolonged torture. They would methodically rip him apart until they extracted what they wanted from his mind.
Unless this was about revenge. In that case, torture would serve no purpose beyond their sick enjoyment. Electrocution, starvation, dismemberment—the ways a man could die were limited only by the imagination.
“It’s a two-hour ride.” She leaned a hip against the motorcycle and tapped her fingers on the seat. “We’re officially late.”
There was only one thing he could do in the face of such grim inevitability. He had to trick his brain into fighting for a sense of control and dignity.
Straightening his spine, he pulled in a slow, deep breath.
He wouldn’t die for his friends.
He would go with the woman and find a way to survive for them.
“I’m driving.” Everything inside him hardened as he regarded the motorcycle, its tires and suspension, and the spare helmet on the back. “I’ll get us there in time.”
“Leave your weapons and communication equipment.”
He ejected the round from his pistol and tossed it. The knife from his boot went next.
With razor-sharp focus, he felt nothing as he switched on the transmitter. “Come in, esé.”
“Go ahead,” Van said.
His entire team was tuned in, listening. Dammit, there was no easy way to say this and no time to mince his words. “Our aircraft has a drone on its tail. Armed with hellfire, it will shoot down our plane at twenty-three hundred unless I arrive at the designated place and time with this Russian cunt.”
He glared at her.
She glared back.
The radio went silent. He had to give it to his friends. He’d just delivered the worst news imaginable, and not one of them lost their shit. Not outwardly. They kept it locked down tight. Because they were survivors.
They would survive this, along with every person on that plane.
“I’m going with her,” he said. “Listen carefully. This is important. Contact the pilot and tell him not to deviate from his course. I repeat. Do not change course. Do not engage the drone. Or it will strike. Follow these orders, and our aircraft will land safely.”
“Copy.” Fury leaked through Van’s voice. “Do you know who these fuckers are?”
“Negative.”
“How do we find you?”
“You don’t.”
“We will, goddammit. We’ll be there with an army.”
“When the plane lands, I need you to disappear. All of you. Go somewhere I don’t know about.”
“They’re going to fucking torture you.”
“I need you alive, esé. Do exactly what I said. Out.” He turned off the transmitter and dropped it in the sand. The earpiece followed.
His pulse throbbed in his temples as he shifted toward the house. He couldn’t see Tate or Lucia on the roof, but they could see him. They’d heard him on the radio, and they could hear him now as he said, “Stand down.”
They weren’t stupid enough to interfere, but he wasn’t taking chances.
“Now, I will search you for weapons.” The Russian’s silky accent whispered against his nape, close enough to raise the hairs there. “It’ll be better for you if you arrive unarmed.”
“Better how? Less torture?”
“Shh.” She smoothed her hands down his stiff back and palmed his ass, searching, teasing. She continued down his legs to his boots. “You’re well-built. Strong. Virile.” She worked her way back up, circling to his front. “Don’t let it give you a false sense of power. Physical strength won’t save you.”
She stood before him, her intelligent green eyes fixed on his. Then her hand lowered, gliding between his legs and probing his cock through the jeans.
His body reacted, heating his skin and scratching his voice. “Your name?”
“Lydia.”
“That your real name?”
“Yes.” She closed her fingers around the outline of his semi-hard dick. “Impressive.”
“Don’t let it give you a false sense of power. It’s simple biology. You’re not special.”
The corner of her flirty lips kicked up, her eyes glimmering with a look that made his skin shiver and heat.
“You don’t know where we’re going.” She stepped back and tossed him the spare helmet. “Without me, you won’t reach the destination and save your friends. Remember that before you throw me off the bike.”
That was the only reason he hadn’t smashed in her face.
Helmet on, he straddled the motorcycle and fired up the engine. The impulse to give Tate and Lucia a parting glance pulled at him, but he didn’t give into it. He focused forward, on the bleak horizon, and steeled himself for the worst.
She slid on behind him, her thighs hugging his hips and hands clasped low on his abdomen. “Head east.”
He opened the throttle and shot off into the dark. The uneven terrain hindered his speed. Once he hit pavement, he would have to make up precious time.
The roar of the engine made conversation impossible. Just as well. The ride would give him time to go over things in his head.
For the next twenty minutes, he analyzed everything Lydia had said, looking for clues and hidden meanings. She never mentioned Danni or Trace, and she wouldn’t know the activity even existed. But whoever she worked for was connected to Thurney Bridge.
He recalled the few interactions he’d had with Russian constituents over his career and couldn’t trace any of it back to his last assignment. Lydia’s nationality most likely had nothing to do with him. Unless her counterparts were Russian, too. He would find that out soon enough.
The off-road tires sailed across the sand, the desert a graveyard of shadows and scattered holes. Silhouettes of cacti rose up like headstones, the wind warm and invasive. Like her hands.
As his shirt billowed up his torso, her fingers followed, exploring the ridges of his abs. He forced indifference into his posture, neither leaning in nor shoving her away. He refused to give her the satisfaction of a response.
She pressed closer, her hot body flush to his back, as her hand slid between his legs, finding him soft. But not for long.
His lungs expanded with dusty air, his cock thickening. She didn’t rub him or open his fly. She simply rested her fingers there, curled around his growing bulge.
It was torture. He wanted her to stroke him, to pull him out and give him a fleeting moment of pleasure before his world became nothing but pain.
But he had far more control than that. In seven years, he hadn’t acted on his carnal
impulses. Didn’t stop his mind from placing her lips around him. He let the fantasy distract him for a few minutes, sinking into images of his cock buried in her throat, her cunt, and deep in her ass.
He had a penchant for anal—the strangling tightness, the forbidden nature of it, and the punishing fear it evoked. Just thinking about it made him hard as a rock.
Lydia squeezed his length, acknowledging his body’s reaction. Good for her. If she had any intentions of using sex to manipulate him, she had the wrong guy.
Getting off wasn’t high on his personal agenda. His only priority was protecting the people he cared about, and to do that, he needed to arrive at the destination without crashing.
So he shut down the fantasy, shut out the feel of her hand, and concentrated on navigating the sandy land.
She steered him through the darkness, pointing this way and that. No one could find their way out of this desert without a map or GPS. Except Tomas. But she didn’t falter in her directions.
Given the high-tech bugs in Rylee’s house and the armed drone tracking Matias’ aircraft, he assumed Lydia’s helmet was equipped with the necessary communication equipment to guide her back to civilization.
At last, he reached the main road, the pavement giving him license to open the gas and fly. She tightened her arms around his waist, hugging his back with her entire body as he bent into the wind.
If a cop clocked him for speeding, he would just have to ride faster and outrace the patrolman. He wasn’t stopping for anyone or anything.
His pulse revved with the roar of the engine, the bike vibrating between his legs. For the next hour or so, he didn’t pass another motorist. Vacant fueling stations and diners blurred by. No cop cars in sight.
The dark nothingness pushed his thoughts into dangerous introspection. He had one goal—arrive before twenty-three hundred. Beyond that, he was terrified of what was going to happen.
Torture was barbaric and uncivilized, but it was effective. Whatever these people wanted, he most likely wouldn’t be able to surrender it.
