Killing Game (Veritas Book 2)

by Chandler Steele

  “A little bit more, honey.”

  “No,” she said. “Now!”

  “You are bossy.” There was no way he was going to rush this.

  As Brannon reached down to pull off her panties, his back went into a spasm. “Oh, hell.”

  “You hurting?”

  “Yeah,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Lay down,” she said.

  He did as she ordered, moving slowly so as not to make it ache any worse.

  “Not one of those Hollywood heroes, huh?” Cait said, smiling down at him. “Can’t take four rounds in the chest and still bang the babe?”

  “No. Sorry,” he said, the pain gradually easing.

  She yanked her panties down and they fell to the floor. Then she began kissing him, from lips to neck to chest, touching him with her hands. Maybe this is for the best. It put her in control, and right now, that would be important to her. When she wrapped her fingers around his shaft, making him grow hard again, he sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Caitlyn . . . ” he warned. “It’s been a while. You might not want to . . . ”

  The fingers were gone and he heard the rip of a foil package. Then he sucked in another breath when she sheathed him. As she slowly slid down onto his length, he gritted his teeth, feeling her tightness. Cait lowered herself again, and he skimmed his hands down her belly and rubbed her core. She arched in pleasure, tightening even more around him.

  “Oh, honey,” he moaned.

  Cait began to move with more urgency now, using him, taking him along with her to that peak they sought. He placed his hands on her hips, moving his own up with each thrust. His back protested, but the pleasure was stronger.

  “Oh, God, Bran!”

  Her screams echoed off the cabin walls as she took everything he offered. In return, she gave him everything, her muscles rippling around him, making sweat break out on his forehead. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she gripped him, plunging him even deeper inside.

  When she came again, it was like fireworks in the heat of summer, high and bright, beautiful to behold. Brannon’s climax followed quickly as he exploded in waves of pleasure. When the spasms ended, she sank down onto him, panting. The scent of their lovemaking hung in the air, mixed with that of shampoo and whiskey.

  “My God,” he muttered, barely able to catch his breath. “That was . . . ”

  Cait gazed down at him, her eyes languid, the face of a woman well pleasured. He’d brought her joy. “Yeah, that was . . . ”

  “I’ve never slept with a Marine before,” he said, purposely keeping his tone light. “Clearly, that was an oversight.”

  Cait smiled down at him, her breasts glistening and her lips swollen from his kisses.

  She gently touched his face. “Thank you.”

  He placed his hand over hers, but didn’t reply. He knew her gratitude was for more than just the sex.

  *~*~*

  Cait woke in the middle of the night, disoriented. Then she remembered where she was, who was lying next to her, and what they’d done. Usually, she would have just gathered her clothes and slipped away, avoiding that awkward after-sex conversation.

  But she couldn’t do that in this circumstance, and it wasn’t just because they were in the swamp. She’d felt something when they were together, something unusual. Maybe it was because she was very fond of Brannon. Who wouldn’t be? He was a good man doing a tough job. A man she deeply respected. Sure, the sex had been mind blowing—that, she had expected. Brannon would always ensure that the woman he was with had a very good time. Still . . .

  Cait slipped out of bed, pulled on her shorts, and retrieved the mini flashlight. After checking the insides of her boots, she pulled them on, not bothering to lace them. Sticking a pack of tissues in her pocket, she removed the chair from under the doorknob. Brannon didn’t stir, which meant he was soundly asleep. That pleased her; she’d given him enough of his own good time that he was down for the count.

  She made sure to open the door as quietly as possible, then made a quick trip into the woods. When she returned, she stood on the porch for a time, watching the stars. In a few hours, they’d set off to find Ellers. That would either go really well, or they would be injured or die. It was the nature of the business. The creak of a floorboard told her Brannon had noticed her absence, and she wasn’t surprised when he joined her on the porch, wearing only his shorts and his boots. It looked funny, but so did she.

  “Trouble sleeping?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Are you kidding? I just needed a bio break.”

  “Me too.” As he walked around her, he pecked a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

  Cait returned to the cabin to give him some privacy. The bed was rumpled, just as you’d expect after a round of energetic sex. Her mind was already chattering about what they could do after they settled the bill with Ellers. Like how it’d be great to spend a weekend with Brannon at a nice hotel, just like he’d mentioned. Room service would keep them fed, and the rest of the time, they could explore each other’s bodies. Hours and hours of . . .

  What the hell am I doing? Before she had a chance to address that question, the door closed and she heard the chair being wedged back in place. Then he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against him.

  “Do you want me?” he whispered.

  She slowly turned in his arms, looking up into those brown eyes that seemed bottomless. She should step back, give them some distance, and yet . . .

  “Yes, I want you.”

  “Slower this time,” he said, running a finger across her lower lip. “Slower and more intense.”

  “Is that even possible?” she breathed.

  “Let’s find out.”

  *~*~*

  Brannon heard her moving around the cabin, smelled fresh coffee, and still his eyes didn’t want to open. Once they did, their night would be over and he wasn’t ready for it to end. Hell, he was just getting started. If they’d been anywhere else, he’d have pulled her back into the bed and made love to her again and again until they fell back to sleep. But there was a madman to stop and hostages to be rescued. There were times he didn’t like his job very much—this was one of them.

  He reluctantly sat up on the bed. Cait was at the table with a cup of coffee in hand, staring down at the map, an electric lantern lighting up one side of her face. He took in her rumpled clothes, her hair in a tight, regulation Marine bun, her tanned legs wound around the chair legs. She was special, someone worth caring for. In that moment, he realized he could fall in love with this woman. Maybe was already on the way.

  With a long sigh, he rose off the bed and pulled on his boxers. As he opened the front door for another nature call, he heard her chuckle.

  “Nice butt,” she said.

  He gave her a mock frown over his shoulder and went to take care of business. Once he was done, he studied the night sky. It was clear, the rain having ended, but there was little, if any, moonlight.

  April seventeenth. Something about that nudged at his mind, other than that it was two days before his birthday. At the moment, he couldn’t pull the memory free.

  He found Cait still at the table and a cup of fresh coffee waiting for him.

  “Any new thoughts on the mission?” he asked as he pulled on his clothes. She shook her head at his question.

  Once he’d laced his boots, he sat across from her and pulled the cup closer. He took a sip of coffee, finding it remarkably good for being brewed on a camp stove. When Cait rose to stir something else on the stove, he powered up the satellite phone and was pleased to find there were no new messages. That meant they were still on track. A short time later, he had a protein bar and a metal cup full of instant oatmeal to go with his coffee.

  “Not only are you great in bed, but you can cook,” he said. “Definitely my kind of
woman.”

  “You keep telling yourself that,” she said drily. Perparing the oatmeal had seemed to allow her time to regroup her thoughts. “Thank you for last night,” she said. “It was . . . really good.”

  “Same for me.”

  Cait stared at him for a few moments, as if trying to discern whether his words were just polite after-sex chatter, or how he really felt. Apparently, she couldn’t decide, so she rose to wash their cups, then methodically began to repack the supplies in their various storage cubbies, getting ready for departure. As she worked, he took another dose of the antibiotics.

  “How’s the bandage look?” he asked, pulling up his T-shirt so she could inspect it.

  “Clean,” she replied. “Does it feel better?”

  “Yeah, it does. Anything I can do to help?”

  “Not really. If you get out of my way, I can pack faster.”

  He took the hint, and after tucking in his shirt, he left the cabin, gear in hand. In her own way, she was telling him that she needed space to work through all they’d shared. By now, most women would be clamoring to set up the next date, especially of the horizontal variety. Cait wasn’t like that; she moved at her own speed. He could respect that, as long as she understood that it wasn’t only her decision. Not with what they’d shared tonight.

  She didn’t know it, but there was more than one mission in play; dealing with Ellers was the obvious one. For Brannon, there was another one: getting Cait to realize that her life hadn’t ended that day in Afghanistan. That her friend would want her to live on, to find happiness, to have the kind of life he’d been fighting for. Of the two missions, Brannon suspected that hers would be the hardest.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  They were on the water right on time, with sunrise three hours in the future. Cait found that her mind kept skipping back to what had happened between her and the Ranger. The second time they’d had sex had changed everything, revealing that underneath all her military-grade emotional armor, she was still a woman who needed a man, if nowhere else than in her bed.

  Irrational as it was, that revelation made her feel weak. And made her angry. Trying to keep her surly temper in check hadn’t worked, and she’d growled at Brannon a couple of times for no good reason. He didn’t respond in kind, which pissed her off more.

  “Hey, Caitlyn? What’s wrong?”

  What could she say? That she had found more happiness in his arms than she had in years, maybe forever? That she was just as silly as Patti, all crazy for some dude with six-pack abs and the lovemaking skills of a romance-novel hero?

  “It’s not my fault that we hit it off in bed,” he added.

  Oh, hell. “No comment.”

  “You came, what, five times? We hit it off big time, sweetheart, at least by any sane person’s measure.”

  Six orgasms. She wasn’t going to correct him. “It’s just that—”

  “You didn’t want to feel that close to anyone ever again. I got that,” he said, keeping up his measured paddling as if this conversation wasn’t punching little holes in her armor. “Something happened between us, and I’m not going to let you act like it didn’t.”

  Damn you. “Just paddle.”

  “I am. You’re the one who’s back paddling, at least when it comes to us.”

  She ground her teeth. “Okay, damn you, it was good. Great. Actually . . . the best sex I’ve ever had, but that doesn’t mean you have a place in my life.” Because there isn’t much life left in me.

  He stopped paddling and turned toward her now. “That darkness in your head doesn’t like good things. It’ll lie to you, tell you you’re not worthy of any of it. Warn you that getting close to someone else will destroy you. I’ve been there, Caitlyn. I know what it’s like.”

  “You could destroy me,” she said.

  He sobered. “The risk goes both ways, honey. Remember that when you push me away, because it’s going to hurt me just as much as it does you.”

  He turned his back on her and resumed paddling, his warning ricocheting around her brain like a bullet in a metal pail. Her anger fizzled and now she just felt tired. Old. Nearly an empty husk. Deep down, she knew the man in front of her could make it better, help her feel alive again. For a time last night, she’d felt that way, and those emotions had been as strong and rich as they once were.

  Biting her lip, she took the risk. “Okay, we’ve got something going. Maybe . . . ” God, why is this so difficult? “Once this is done, we could . . . spend a weekend together. See if all this is just a flash in the pan or something else.”

  Brannon’s posture relaxed. “I’d like that. A lot.” He looked over his shoulder now, his eyes laced with desire, making her breath catch.

  “Mission first, then . . . whatever happens.”

  “Roger that,” he said, pushing the canoe forward with renewed conviction.

  She made sure to memorize every movement of his arms, his muscles, how he looked on the water. Because she knew as sure as the sun rose every morning that what he thought they had would never survive.

  *~*~*

  As per Cait’s prediction, they made the island right before dawn. To Brannon’s relief, they didn’t run into any patrols. After camouflaging the canoe under a pile of brush, they pulled on their rucksacks and headed inland. Cait carried her rifle, the strap slung over her shoulder, her knife in its sheath, attached to her right thigh. He had his attached to his belt.

  Once they got their bearings, Brannon used the sat phone to call in a report. “We’re on the island.”

  “Good,” Morgan replied, followed by a long yawn. He heard the unmistakable sound of a coffeemaker gurgling in the background. He bet it’d been going all night. “When Crispin told them about the hostages, the FBI suddenly became more helpful.

  “They put the thumb screws to a couple of their informants and confirmed you are in the right place— Ellers has his compound on that island. They’re trying to decide how to handle the situation.”

  “Which means?” Brannon asked. Since Morgan used to be with the Bureau, she understood how they worked better than most.

  “There’ll be a bunch of meetings, a lot of weighing of risk factors, you name it. Once everyone signs off on a plan, they’ll be in the air headed your way. They don’t really have any other choice.”

  “How long will that process take?”

  “No clue. Sorry.”

  So was he. “Any idea of how many people are inside the compound?”

  “Forty or so. About a third of those are women and children.”

  “Okay. I’ll contact you after we’ve completed our recon,” Brannon replied.

  “Stay safe, my friend,” she replied, and she ended the call.

  He turned off the phone and then relayed the information to his companion.

  “So we’re on the right track then,” Cait said.

  He nodded, sweeping his eyes along the area in front of them. “Ellers is enough of a paranoid bastard that he’ll have patrols outside the compound. It’s what I would do.”

  “If you were a paranoid bastard, that is.”

  He smiled over at her. “Who says I’m not?”

  She chuckled. “Want me to take point?”

  “No. Let’s fan out. I’m wondering if he’s set some surprises out here.”

  “IEDs?”

  “Possible. Or maybe not. Best not to find out the hard way.”

  “Roger that.”

  As they moved cautiously through the swamp, Cait about twenty or so feet away to his left, Brannon could feel the warrior taking full control—the constant reevaluation of his surroundings for any potential threats, the heightened senses.

  Like a human computer, his training gave him an edge, one that might keep both of them alive. The adrenaline buzz was full throttle now, and he lived for that. Missed it. A quick glance o
ver at Cait told him she was feeling the same way. They’d become nearly silent, carefully placing their feet in a way that caused them to pass unnoticed.

  Birds were waking up in the trees around them. A raccoon pushed his way through some brush after a night’s foraging. Above them, clouds built as more weather moved in. As they donned their rain ponchos, he smiled, knowing the crappy weather worked in their favor.

  Guards would hunker down, trying to stay dry, and that inattention increased Cait’s and his odds of survival by a slight margin. Raindrops began to patter down, heavy at first, then growing lighter. A Georgia spring in all its wet beauty.

  Brannon slowed, then halted. Glancing over at Cait, he gave the “stop” hand signal and she immediately complied.

  “What have you got?” she asked.

  “Not sure. The ground looks wrong.” Kneeling down, he studied the muddy depression that sat about five feet ahead of him. He carefully edged forward and pushed back some of the brush. Then stared down into a remnant of the Vietnam War.

  “What the hell?”

  It was a tiger trap, a hole about six feet deep, filled with stagnant water. Sharpened stakes rose from that muddy water, promising serious injury or death to anyone who bumbled into it. They’d been used by the Viet Cong, an ingenious and low-tech weapon.

  “Believe it or not, we got a tiger trap,” he said.

  “You’re kidding me.”

  He shook his head. “There has to be some sort of marking up where the guards can see it, or they’d fall into one of their own pits.”

  Rising, he took a slow look around and then finally spied a thin paint stripe on the closest tree. “Got it. Red slash on the tree about seven feet up.”

  “Roger that,” came his companion’s calm response.

  Brannon carefully skirted around the trap, and they continued to work toward where the tracker had indicated the compound might lie. Through the rain came a sound he hadn’t heard in a long time: a bugle blowing “Reveille,” the military’s version of a wake-up call.