Variations (Base Branch Series Book 9)

by Megan Mitcham

  “Hunter?” Oliver barked.

  “What?” Hunter’s reply was a muffled gag.

  “Hold her hand.” He scooted on his knees, needle in hand, away from the bag to Marina.

  “Why?” She jackknifed, or tried, but the move resulted in a flail. Her gaze narrowed at Hunter in warning and then widened, seeking Oliver. “What is that?”

  “Antibiotics strong enough to heal a rhino.” He turned back, grabbed the bottle, and offered it to her.

  “You could have doctored the label.” She shoved his hand away.

  “If we wanted you dead, you would be. If we wanted you unconscious, you would be,” Oliver growled. “Now, let me help you.”

  “You?” She sneered at Oliver and then turned her gaze on Hunter. “And you. Trust you? I don’t know you. Who are you?” She looked back and forth between them. “Why’d you save me? What do you want with me, and what are your dealings with the Royan brothers? What’s your end game, and where do I fit into it?”

  Even flat on her back, caught between two guys more suited for killing than caring, the woman swung big brass balls. He admired the hell out of her.

  The two men shared a glance and an imperceptible nod. Then silence filled the room.

  Oliver didn’t want to be the one to tell her the woman she’d betrayed sent them to rescue her, with reservations. Big ones. Ones that could have left her dead in that hellhole. Seemed Hunter didn’t want to tell her either.

  “You could do this”—Oliver offered the syringe—“and I can tell her.”

  “Fine,” Hunter growled. “The Brödraskapet sent Cara the video. She sent us to rescue you.”

  It wasn’t the truth by a long shot. But it wasn’t a lie, either.

  Tears cascaded down Marina’s cheek in the first voluntary sign of vulnerability he’d witnessed from her. A sob shook her narrow chest, and she draped an arm over her face. She cursed in a foreign language, and her breath hitched. Her other hand covered her broken ribs.

  Oliver wanted to toss the world off its axis again.

  “Objectives,” Hunter mouthed and held up three fingers. He ticked off the first two, leaving his middle finger erect.

  They had objectives beyond Marina. One of which they needed to complete. Then they’d be done. Back home to booze and babes and the next mission. Screw Hunter, but the man kept him on point. Oliver would do well to remember that. His gaze slid to Marina.

  All the warnings and his wits flew out the door. He leaned close. “Let me get these in you, please?”

  Marina nodded but kept her arm in place.

  “I have to give it in your hip,” he warned.

  Her arm slid up to her forehead. She grimaced. Dry, cracked lips opened and then closed. Her pale cheeks colored.

  “What is it?” Oliver begged.

  The unfamiliar lilt of her native tongue filled the air. She didn’t have on any panties. Fucking great. The lump in his throat descended to his crotch. Oliver cleared his throat. “I’ll uncover only what I absolutely have to and try my best not to stare. Deal?”

  She nodded and covered her eyes once more.

  “Do you want Hunter to hold your hand?” he asked.

  Her head shook.

  Well, shit. Would she want him to? It didn’t matter. They weren’t here to hold hands. They were here to get shit done.

  Oliver lifted the edge of the cover near her hip. He stalled and bit his bottom lip. “Can you shift to your right side? It doesn’t have to be all the way. Just a little.”

  Marina’s elbow pressed against the covers, denting them, but her body didn’t shift. Oliver offered his hand. She eyed him for a long second. He held perfectly still and thought small, unimposing thoughts. Teddy bear. Puppy. Mouse. Cheese. The crazy shit worked. A little nod from her gave him the go-ahead. He wrapped his arm around her left forearm—the only damn place she didn't have a healing bruise—and propped her forward.

  The blanket tented, and Oliver made quick work of the shot. Incredibly, the bastard of an injection didn’t register on Marina’s features. He knew from experience it burned like molten lava and lingered.

  Marina patted the top of Hunter’s hand. “It’s over. You can breathe now.”

  Oliver’s laugh roared high to the top of the twenty-foot ceiling. It shattered the stress binding them since they’d entered the house. Hunter expelled the breath he probably hadn’t realized he’d been holding and whooped. Marina’s giggle tickled his ears.

  It drew both men’s gazes. Oliver’s smile faded. His mouth fell open in awe for a beat. When he caught Hunter watching him, it clamped shut, turned into a smile once more, and then transitioned to an easy chuckle.

  “Sorry,” Hunter offered. “I’m not the one to comfort anyone during a medical procedure.”

  “He’ll go heels up before this is over.” Oliver retreated to the ruck.

  “It’s possible. Probable.” Hunter shrugged.

  Marina covered her mouth, but another beautiful giggle seeped from her lips.

  “You’re out of options, though, because I seriously can't do his job.” He hiked a thumb at Oliver.

  “How are you in battle?” she asked.

  Hunter pursed his lips as though she’d asked a crazy question. “A badass.”

  “We can’t make sense of it, either.” Oliver tossed the comment over his shoulder and continued to pilfer. He let a quiet curse fly, shuffled more, and groaned.

  Needless to say, he had their attention. When he turned around, his face was a mask, but Hunter knew him well. The news was shit.

  “What? You gave me arsenic instead of antibiotics?” Marina grabbed Hunter’s hand, and he pulled her to sit on her right hip, the uninjured one.

  “No,” Oliver groused.

  “Just say it,” she prodded.

  “I’m going to have to scrub the wound on the back of your thigh to clean out the dead skin and then disinfect the area.” Oliver grabbed the back of his neck in the vise of his hand. “That much I knew.”

  “Me too, if it turned out you weren’t trying to kill me. As luck would have it, it appears you aren’t.” Marina smiled. Her voice sounded stronger than it had twenty minutes ago.

  “What’s the problem?” Hunter eyed Oliver, looking for the answer.

  “I only have enough local anesthetic to numb about half the area.” Oliver’s mask slipped. They likely got a glimpse of the ghost white skin and sweat droplets between his laid-back man bun and beard. He wanted to puke like Hunter had a few seconds ago. How his friend would look the moment Oliver started on the next task.

  This was going to suck, but he had no options.

  “Take these.” Oliver offered her three buffalo pills and a canteen of water. “Pink one’s an antibiotic. The two white will dull the pain.” After she had taken them, his head hung. He hated lying.

  Marina guzzled the water and then set it to the side. She lowered to the ground, giving Oliver access to her left thigh, clamped Hunter’s hand in hers, and then pulled two half breaths.

  “Enough worry.” Her jaw firmed. “Just do it.”

  Fresh sweat slicked Oliver’s skin. Compared to Marina’s, his was desert dry. He wiped the moisture from his palm, wrapped the last strip of adhesive around the already soaked bandage on her slender thigh, and tried his best not to stare at the pale skin. It was hard to see for the marbled bruises and incensed rage, but the longer his fingers grazed her smooth acreage, the clearer it became.

  Hunter’s attentive gaze had kept him in check. That and the job at hand. The job was done, and as he’d expected, Hunter had run from the room with a hand clamped over his mouth about halfway through.

  Not once had Oliver ever had qualms about leering. Apparently, there was a first time for everything. He pulled the blanket over her slight shoulder, peeking out from the oversized shirt. White blond hair clung to her neck and forehead. The fine wisps floated and sank in time with her unconscious breathing. His lungs gathered their first full breath in the last hour, thankful
the ordeal was over.

  “You slipped her a sedative?” Hunter whisper-hollered the question, as if she’d hear.

  “You finally quit puking?”

  “Screw you. Answer the question.”

  “Hell yes, I did.” Oliver’s index finger gathered the silky strands waving in front of her nose and eased them back.

  Lord have mercy on his soul when Marina woke.

  “She’s going to kill you, brother.”

  “I know.” He pushed up from the floor and turned to face his friend. No way could he let her endure that without a horse-size dose of triazolam. She’d already endured so much. No reason for her to brave more because she didn’t trust them.

  Way to give her a reason, jackass.

  “Better you than me.” Hunter handed over a glass of water and sipped on his.

  The cold liquid soothed his strained throat, and Oliver downed it in a large gulp. Marina needed water. She needed a shower, her ribs assessed, and food. But right now, her sleep would do them all some good. The woman needed so much. Oliver wanted to be the one to give it to her, and he couldn’t seem to compute that bit of intel.

  He snagged Hunter’s glass from his hand and guzzled it too.

  “Hey, asshole.”

  “You don’t need too much on that queasy stomach of yours.” Oliver shushed him with the explanation.

  “I’m not that weak.”

  “Nah, you’re just pale enough to pass as my bio brother.” Oliver’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t meant to say that. It had just come out. Hunter—too busy trying to stay upright—didn’t seem to notice. “Take a load off.” He shoved Hunter toward a plush leather couch while his friend batted away his hands.

  “I’m fine. At least, I will be once you ditch those bloody rags.” Hunter averted his gaze but pointed at the heap of gauze pads and empty antiseptic bottles.

  “Forget them.” Oliver set both glasses on a crystal-topped coffee table. “We have to call it in.”

  “We?” Hunter’s eyes bloated.

  “We. You.” Oliver shifted a finger between them then pointed it at Hunter and tossed his hands into the air. “Whatever.” He shrugged. “If you really want to call, go ahead.”

  “Oh, hell no.” Color piqued Hunter’s cheeks.

  Good. Oliver hated that his buddy mirrored a stick of chalk.

  “We didn’t do this.” Hunter’s palm lifted to the heavens, as though he beseeched the powers above for strength. “You made the executive decision to flip the bird at Tucker’s orders. Your ass can get gnawed.”

  “Pussy.”

  “Sticks and stones, bro.” Hunter reclined onto the very couch Oliver had been herding him toward and then interlaced his fingers behind his head.

  One corner of Oliver’s mouth twitched.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Oliver bagged the stuff giving his friend fits and ditched it. He had filled another glass of water and set it next to Marina before grabbing his phone.

  Five missed calls—all from Vail Tucker’s secure line—brightened his screen. Great.

  “Looks like Tucker already knows.”

  “How?” Hunter’s hands shifted around from the back of his head to the sides like he tried to hold the thing together.

  “He’s fucking God.” Oliver tapped out the number to the DC Base Branch office. “But don’t you dare tell him I said that.”

  The line rang once and then beeped.

  “Romeo. Oscar. Oscar. Kilo. India. Echo. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.”

  “Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.” Hunter’s amber eyes rolled, finding the skylights as he mumbled his version of the newbie codename they’d been saddled with four long years ago. Tyler, the jerk who rounded off their Uh-Oh-Oreo, had been given a respectable code name the previous summer. And here they were, what? Still rookies?

  No. Not even close.

  After a series of beeps, an operator answered. “Voice confirmation complete. Agent Knight, how may I direct your call?”

  “Director Tucker, please.” Three clicks ricocheted across the line.

  “Is this Dee or Dum?” Tucker barked.

  “Dum, sir.” Oliver’s fists clinched, threatening the phone’s integrity. Years ago, Oliver had enjoyed that he and his buddy were nicknamed after the belly bumping boobs from a kid’s cartoon. Times had changed, but he couldn’t remember where or when.

  “Details now.” The man may very well have been God. Tucker’s voice rumbled down from on high, demanding blood and sacrifice without so many words.

  Hunter’s long-drawn whistle said he’d heard the order. Oliver ignored him and started from the top.

  “Intel gathered during recon said Marina Sorensen wasn’t in league with Brödraskapet. An opportunity arose to get a closer look. There’s no doubt she was their prisoner. I made the call to extract her. She’s been given first aid and is sedated.”

  Silence reverberated over the phone line. With each passing second, Oliver’s grip tightened on the narrow device. He wasn’t sorry he’d broken orders, and that was the crux of it. Never before had he stepped out of line. Yeah, he’d colored all over the place. High. Low. Left. Right. Even on the thin border. Starting fights. Crashing cars. Exploding things.

  “About damn time you took some initiative.”

  “Sir?” The word came out in a surprised gust.

  “Was she hurt?”

  “Had been for a while.” Jesus, he didn’t like thinking about the things they’d done to her over the years, psychological and worse. His throat constricted, but he forced the sounds through his teeth and hoped they formed more than a growl. “The video was legit. Fucking animals.”

  “Hell, I might have to give you a new nickname.”

  He was more than ready for one, but he wouldn’t beg.

  “I need details, sir.”

  “About?”

  “What went down between Cara, Marina, and the Bastardhood, and how the hell this tiny woman knows about Stronghold Technologies.”

  “Stronghold?” The heavens clattered and rumbled through the line.

  Oliver squinted through the boom. Across the way, Hunter dragged a hand over his blooming scruff.

  “How the holy hell does she know about Stronghold?” The calm, collected leader he’d always known morphed into an impatient hothead in his hand.

  “Hoping you could tell us, sir.”

  “What the hell did she say, Knight? Give me something here.”

  “When we entered her cell, she thought we were with Stronghold. After she found out we weren’t, her cooperation waned, big time. She didn’t elaborate.”

  “And you didn’t make her?”

  Oliver’s stomach lurched. Make her? “No.”

  Certainly, the director wasn’t suggesting they use the nasty tools in their arsenal to interrogate the white-headed pixie on the floor. Sickness thickened and grew into steel fury. A battleship’s worth.

  “Don’t know how she ended up with the Brödraskapet originally,” Tucker began. “Cara rescued her from an alley. A client of theirs had beaten the girl within an inch of her life. The gang didn’t like it, but the sly woman threatened to bankrupt them unless they forgot Marina existed. She had account and routing numbers to back it.”

  The phone line scratched as though Tucker moved the phone from his mouth. He muffled a curse. “Cord, get me your brother on the line, now.”

  “Which one?” the computer genius groused.

  “The only one I’d want to talk to when the shit is hitting the stratosphere, Cord.” Tucker’s brawny bark boomed into Oliver’s eardrum.

  “You mean Taylor?” Cord really didn’t know when to shut the fuck up. He’d told Oliver one time that the tic came from working with family.

  “Yes, Cord. I goddamned mean Taylor Strong, the owner and operator of Stronghold Tech, the cramper of senators’ balls, and cracker of terrorist presidents.” Tucker huffed. “And people wonder why I’m graying.”

  “But Tucker—” Cord tried.


  “One more word, Cord Strong, and I’ll pull out your middle name and use it as a talisman.” A rustle scrapped across the phone line, hinting at Tucker’s wild gesturing.

  “How do you know my middle name?” Cord awed.

  Because the dude was God. Oliver scratched his beard and waited.

  “Your brother sent it over on your papers when we negotiated your contract, which I’m about to shred if you don’t get him on the phone.” Tucker snarled.

  “So you’ve never spoken to Taylor on the phone?” Cord was about to die. Game over. They’d need a new tech guy to train Base Branch’s security staff and monitor the new system Stronghold Tech had implemented into Branch’s DC HQ.

  “No, but I’d really like to.” Tucker, not prone to yelling, bellowed.

  He took an audible breath and started in a calmer tone. “Cara and Luck trained Marina Sorensen in self-defense, weapons and ammunition, and counterintelligence. The crazy woman called them life skills. That tiny girl…” Sarcasm laced the director’s dragged enunciation of the words. “She can build a bomb out of a fucking Easy Bake Oven.”

  “Shit,” Oliver groaned.

  “Don’t forget it,” Tucker warned. “Turned out the Brotherhood didn’t like being threatened. A year after her rescue, they convinced the fully weaponized Marina to flip on Cara and Luck.”

  “Why would she do that? There has to be a reason. She wasn’t their guest or comrade. She was their captive, their…” He couldn’t go there.

  “That’s what you need to figure out. Whatever it takes.”

  Those ominous words hung in the air, an invisible battle line of letters.

  “Hear me, Knight? Whatever it takes.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Thunder crackled. Lightning popped.

  Oliver’s control kicked and wriggled, demanding freedom. He clamped a hand onto the back of his neck and held on for dear life. His job was everything. Losing it wasn’t an option, so he trudged on.

  “You haven’t seen her. She was beaten as surely as Tyler, and they’ve had her for two goddamned years.” His censure bucked. “Who knows what they did to her, and it makes me crazy. We need to rain hell down on their asses, not beat answers out of a broken woman.”