Danger Mine: A Base Branch Novel

by Megan Mitcham

The man snorted. “Debt. I still owe Tucker a few favors before I get mine paid off. Hell, I’m happy to help. I never thought I’d see the day I got to repay even a fraction of the grace that sneaky son of a bitch showed me.”

  He shook their hands in turn, and then waved them toward his monstrous truck. “We’ll follow the boys to the hospital, where Dr. Valentine will meet us. You can talk to her, and then whenever you’re ready, I’ll take you to an open officer’s barrack. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s warm and dry. I’ve had some clothes and food stocked for you. However long you need us, we’re at your disposal.”

  King gestured for her to go first and followed her to the vehicle. To his credit he didn’t offer her a boost into the cab, but he should’ve given the Colonel the option. The man’s left leg remained straight, impeding his ascent into the driver’s seat. “Don’t worry. My right one works perfectly, my left one is still attached, and my ticker is still ticking thanks to Tucker.”

  He strapped on his safety belt and waited for them to do the same before following the white and red truck through the level streets for only two straightaways

  and three turns. They met at the back of a large tan complex.

  As he’d said a woman with feathery bangs, a bun pinned at her nape, and a white coat rushed the lead truck. A man and woman in scrubs followed suit with a rolling gurney, ready to take over for the airman.

  Khani’s throat clogged at the sight of Zeke’s marred body being lifted out of the truck bed. He was alive and he’d be back to peak condition in no time. And still, she coughed against her raw emotions.

  She and King kept silent as they exited the vehicle and followed the bed, being rolled toward sliding doors by the medical team.

  When they reached the door a nurse held up her hand. “I’m sorry, you can’t come back here. If you’ll walk around to—”

  “They’re clear,” Dr. Valentine hollered from ten feet down the hall. “Put them in my office. I’ll be with you as soon as I have something to report.” Her feet continued their rapid chop down the corridor, and then her brother and his entourage disappeared around a corner.

  Looking sheepish, the older lady led them through a maze of doors and into the neatest office she’d ever seen.

  “Whoa,” King exclaimed. It was the first thing he’d said since the Helo. No jokes. No male bravado. No sexual innuendoes. No King Street.

  “Yeah, Dr. Valentine is extremely tidy. No one is allowed in her office. Not even her husband. Not her staff. Especially not her kids. You two must be royalty or something.” The nurse moved to close the door, but stopped. “Royalty or not, I wouldn’t touch anything, if I were you. We might have to roll you out of this place in a body bag.” She smiled, and then closed them into a veritable prison.

  Khani paced from one side of the alphabetized bookshelf with perfectly aligned spines to the other. She didn’t dare look at King for fear of what he’d say or not say. Something ate at him. It showed in his silence and missing humor. It showed in the way he avoided her gaze, avoided touching her.

  An hour in, she didn’t know which she toiled with more, her brother’s problem that was so twisted he couldn't talk to her about or what King had to say to her.

  21

  Zeke had broken ribs, was dehydrated and weak from malnourishment, but would recover quickly. The doctor had insisted on keeping him sedated through the night to minimize risk to himself and others. They’d been ushered out of her office and into the colonel’s hands with only a low grumble about the track Khani had worn in the carpet.

  Street nodded his thanks to the high-ranking man indebted to Vail Tucker and headed for the barracks door. He slid the key into the lock. It opened into a twelve-foot square with stale air and no more furnishings than the cabin had after the explosion that nearly ended the life of his woman. A woman that slipped through his fingers before he had the chance to firm his grasp.

  With a flip of the wall switch a florescent box light splitting the living area-slash-kitchen flickered to life. He tossed the keys onto the counter a few feet away, dropped both their rucks to the right of the entry, and headed to the only door besides the mini closet door in the kitchen.

  A full-sized bed with crisp blue linens lay beyond the thin wall. The precise corners looked sharp enough to cut flesh. It would just beat sleeping on the floor if Khani knocked him unconscious, which could very well happen.

  His foot hit the threshold of a bare bones shower and shitter when the front door hit the frame with a resounding thud. A small part of him cringed, while the rest of him tugged up trousers and turned to meet his fate.

  Colonel must have packed the cheerful grin Khani had given him and taken it with him. Her jacket lay on the ground. His did too for that matter. He’d forgotten the damn thing in the truck.

  A surly scowl drew her features taut. Her fingers pinched her narrow hips. She hitched both brows to her hairline and tilted her head with a quick snap. His cock twitched in response to her unspoken command.

  He didn’t breath.

  He’d clocked Zeke without asking questions. The man’s hand had been clamped around Khani’s throat. Her brother should feel lucky he’d shown such restraint. Anyone else would’ve been pitched out of the Hawk with his arms flapping and all the prayers left in his lungs.

  Street hadn’t known why the bloke freaked. It hadn’t mattered. Only it mattered a hell of a lot. Zeke Slaughter might be a mercenary punk, but he was a loyal one. Over days of torture—the world of which didn’t show on his tattered body—he hadn’t broken. He’d kept his mission’s, his teammates’, his command’s confidence at all cost.

  Now that he was free he needed to protect those vulnerable to the crime syndicate. His team. His friends. He would stop at nothing to get to them. To warn them against danger.

  Only Street knew it was too late.

  Stas had already taken them. The mob had already started torturing them. In order to keep Zeke from ripping the IV out of his vein and stumbling off to save the day when he’d only get himself killed, Street had to tell the man what he knew.

  He had to explain to Khani that he’d betrayed her trust. That he’d gone behind her back and researched her brother and her.

  In order to save her from losing the only person on earth she loved, he had to give her up. He had no doubt in his mind that she’d force him out of her life…forever.

  “Spit it out,” she ordered, breaking the stony silence.

  His gaze narrowed.

  “Don’t play dumb.” Khani speared a finger at him from across the distance.

  Desperation steamed the blood in his veins. It mingled with the desire to hold onto her forever.

  “You haven't said two words since we landed. You’ve avoided my eyes, even my ass.” She scoffed. “Whatever you have to say,” her arms spread wide, “out with it already.”

  His voice was rusty and thick, the words clear. “I love you.”

  Her chest flinched visibly in the white thermal shirt molded to her every muscle, gentle curves, and the stiff tips of her nipples. If he’d barreled across the room and blown into her sternum, he couldn’t have knocked the wind out of her more thoroughly. That truth read clearly on her slacked jaw and wide eyes.

  “It’s not possible,” she wheezed.

  “Sure it is. You’re easy to love.”

  “The hell I am,” she bit, regaining a bit of her footing. “I’m mean and irritable. I bite your head off on a daily basis, and I’m not the kind of lover you enjoy.”

  “You’re a no bullshit kind of woman.” He took a step forward. “Your resolve excites me. Your vulnerability disarms me.” When she didn’t bolt he took another step and then another bringing him toe to toe with his undoing. He skimmed a finger over her strong jaw. “And we both know I quite enjoy you as a lover.”

  Street grabbed her hands and secured them behind his neck. That innocent contact stroked his length to full erection. “I don’t need you to accept it. I don’t need you to love me back. I
needed you to know I love you, Khani.” He bent and rested his forehead against hers. “And I need you right now more than I ever have. Fuck me, before I forget myself and nail you to the door.”

  “Do it,” she barked. Her breath caressed his hungry mouth.

  “Do what exactly?” he ground, holding onto the strings of his restraint.

  “Grab my ass, impale me with your big dick, and screw me to the door, now.”

  It wasn’t a declaration of love. He hadn’t expected one. But this was as close to surrender as Khani Slaughter would ever come. Right or wrong with his secret between them, he’d take it with greedy thrusts.

  As answer, he snatched the hem of her shirt and yanked it over her head. She pulled her arms from his neck and through the sleeves. No bra. The petite pink points of her breasts demanded his ardent gaze and more. She harangued him without words, jerking his belt free. His hips shot forward, eagerly grinding into her flat palm.

  * * *

  A groan detonated in his craned neck, but the persistence of his lust drove him. He tussled with the button of her pants and zipper. Once over her hips the loose-legged pants fell to the floor.

  He dropped to his knees in front of her. The laces on her boots took precious time to unlace, but he didn’t squander the seconds. His gaze lifted to her crotch, and then her eyes in question.

  “Yes, King,” she sighed.

  His name on her lips was the closest he’d ever get to heaven. Well, his name on her lips when she came from his thrusts. His teeth nipped at her lace panties. Her hips bowed. He tongued her through the material, catching tastes of her flesh through the netted fabric.

  Too soon her laces came undone. Her panting said she was also close to coming undone. Good. He didn’t want to hurt her. He would, but only to protect her. Maybe she’d know that much.

  Street tugged her boots and socks off her feet. He stood, shucked his shirt, unfastened the line of buttons on his pants, pushed everything over his hips, filled his hands with her lush bottom, and then hoisted her into the air. Her arms locked around his neck and pulled him to her breasts.

  His fingers hooked into her panties. With a wrench the material moved, granting the crown of his head access to her silken skin.

  Shirt suffocating him, pants around his ankles, he plowed into her tight little channel. She screamed into the barren room. Her heels dug into his ass. He held completely still for an interminable minute.

  “Pump me onto you. Make me fuck you, lover.” Her words came hot in his ear.

  He followed orders like he had special training for it. His fingers dug into her flesh. Up. He pulled her to the tip of his shaft. Down. He released her weight and rammed deep. Up and down he drove them both until sweat beaded on his forehead from gritting his restraint.

  She licked a line up the side of his neck. “More,” she demanded.

  He stepped forward, pinning her back to the door. His hands slid to the crooks of her knees. He lifted them high, changing the angle.

  Now his thrusts fucked her, screwing her into the door as promised. Like she wanted. Like he needed.

  Street let go of tomorrow. He focused on her keening breaths, on her slick, lithe body, on her screaming pleasure. And he released his.

  22

  Street dragged his feet all the way to the hospital, through the corridors, and up the elevator. Maybe she’d screwed the pep right out of his step. She’d gone at him like a women possessed, taking control after his confession had rendered her incapable of speech. Of all the things she’d expected him to say, love was last on the list.

  Letting him take the lead once or twice in the sack was an entirely different thing than declaring her love. No question, she loved the man. As much as she’d tried to deny it, there was no refuting the evidence.

  Damn it.

  But he deserved better than her. Yes, she was great in the sack, would never turn into a middle-aged marshmallow, and could keep up with him on any battlefield, but she couldn’t—no—wouldn’t give him children. And he would make a great father.

  She stared at his profile, willing him to look at her, to say those words that she shouldn’t want to hear again. The words that shouldn’t mean so much to her. He stared at the flashing red numbers at the top of the shiny silver door, a veil of resignation clouding his mood. Was it because—other than hollered orgasms and orders—she hadn’t said much after his confession?

  Her gaze hit the floor. She gnawed on her lower lip, missing the tang of her signature lip colors. For maybe the first time ever, Khani didn’t check her make-up in the reflection. She hadn’t applied the stash she kept next to her extra ammo in her bag. Only after she’d been covered in Vail’s blood and unwilling to leave his side for fear he’d utter the name of his attacker, had she been clean faced in public. The last few days in the middle of nowhere without it made the discomfort bearable.

  King’s gaze, his wise and understanding eyes, would ease her self-consciousness, but he remained sober and staring ahead.

  The elevator dinged. The doors opened.

  Zeke stood in the gap.

  Stood was an exaggeration. He listed as though he were the tenuous flame of a birthday candle. A hospital gown flapped around his hairy knees. His breaths labored in pants, threatening to buckle his own legs. Blood dripped from the top of his hand onto the white inlayed rubber floor. It streamed from the vein where an IV had been less than a minute ago.

  “Going someplace?” Khani asked.

  “They discharged me. I just didn’t feel like hanging around while they did paperwork.” Zeke heaved.

  “And I peed standing this morning.” She jabbed her finger toward the corridor. “Back to bed, Zeke.”

  “No.” He snapped and straightened to his full height, which was well over her head.

  A growl rumbled from King’s throat.

  “I reserved myself yesterday, Zeke. So help me, if you make one false move in my direction I’ll lay you out with no help from him.” She took one bold step out of the elevator. Her brother stepped backward, or tried. His right leg gave and he pitched toward the ground.

  She reached out for his hand, but King hooked his arm under Zeke’s pit. “Blast it, your sister isn’t nearly this eager for me to sweep her off her feet.” He hefted her bother over his shoulder. “This makes twice. One more time and I might get flattered.”

  Khani couldn’t hold back her chuckle. Zeke glared at her from King’s broad back. A back she’d gripped so hard last night it had eight perfect crimson nail marks this morning that hid under the navy of the borrowed Air Force T-shirt. Luckily the temperature had taken an upswing during the night. Colonel sent their dirty jackets and clothes to the laundry before dropping them off.

  A blonde nurse skidded to a stop around the corner. Her hand covered her heart. “Thank goodness. He’s been a pain in my a…he’s been a challenge all morning.”

  “All morning? It’s not even daylight yet,” Khani pointed out.

  “We’ll he’s an early riser,” the forty-something woman explained as she rushed ahead of them to the impatient’s room. She stood at the doorway and ushered them in with a flourish.

  King stopped and let Khani lead the way into the sterilized room. She scooted close to the sink, making room for the caravan to come. Then King and Zeke filled the threshold. Then he turned and pushed the door toward the frame. “We’re going to need a few minutes alone.”

  Before the befuddled nurse responded, he thrust the door in her face. King walked to the hospital bed and plunked her brother down on his bare backside. Zeke hissed for an eight count, and then split his angry gaze between her and King, who took up watch at the window.

  “Look.” Khani rested her hands on her hips. “I have the resources to locate your teammates and protect them until the threat is eliminated, which I can also handle. You don’t need to warn them in person. In fact, you can pick up the bloody phone and achieve the same outcome.”

  “I told you yesterday, you—the organization you
work for—cannot be involved with the people I work for.” He sat, but propped his shoulder against the bed’s railing.

  “Why not?” Khani asked the same question she’d needed to know yesterday.

  “I can’t tell you,” Zeke said without compunction.

  She folded her arms and squeezed her fists together. “I can help you.”

  “No, you can’t. Not this time. Your help will only hurt.” Zeke’s grey eyes mirrored an all-too-familiar determination. “And I’ve done nothing but call their numbers since I regained consciousness.” His gaze sliced to King’s back silhouetted against the clear sky and scruffy green treetops. “No answer. That doesn’t mean anything. They won’t answer. A strict no-communication policy went into effect as soon as our mission went live.”

  “They won’t answer because Stas already has them.”

  Khani stared at King’s back as the word seeped into her brain. They won’t answer because Stas already has them.

  23

  “You assume.” Khani stated it as fact. If only that were true.

  Street turned to face her. “I know,” he said simply, but it was the most complex thing he’d ever said in his life. Even more involved than his confession of love. This was the proof of his devotion. She would never see it that way, but he knew.

  He looked to Zeke. The man held up an impenetrable facade, except for the flare of his nostrils. “Your friends, Greer Britton and Derrick Coen, were reported missing four days ago.”

  “You know?” she asked in a trill. When his gaze drifted back to Khani, her dark brows drew tightly over turbulent eyes. “How do you know?”

  “I used our resources to research Zeke’s background, who he worked for, when, where,” he explained.

  The definitive news wilted Zeke onto the bed.

  “When?” Instead of yelling, her word whispered across the distance that seemed to expand with the seconds that ticked by.

  “You wouldn’t open up to me. You wouldn’t share. I told you I refused to go into a situation blind for all our sakes.” Street held his ground, afraid any advance or tender gesture would intensify the stand-off.