Scorch: A Soldiers of Fortune Romance (Military Bad Boy Romance)

by Irons, Aubrey

Arms haul me up, and I'm still roaring when Benson steps in front of me and grins; "Sleep tight, sweetheart." He brings the butt of his gun down on me, and the whole world goes dark.

  *****

  "You’ve been a bad, bad boy Toro."

  Jesus, I’m getting tired of hearing that one.

  I slowly open my eyes, wincing at the pain in the side of my head and the blinding overhead light lancing through my vision. I'm in a cement room, with a mirror on the wall in front of me and a window on another. I blink and turn to look through the window at an open warehouse of some kind, cement and windowless, with walls of electronics to one side, racks of weapons on another, and tables full of sleazy, roughneck guys playing cards or just shooting the shit.

  Oh, right, I remember this life. Welcome home, asshole.

  I realize I'm cuffed to a chair, and as I glance wildly around, ignoring the pain in my head, the voice comes from behind me; "Whose side are you on, Javier?"

  Benson.

  "Fuck you."

  My former peer, my former comrade in arms walks around my chair until he's standing by my side. He grins darkly through his piggy face, his arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the cement wall behind him.

  "You're a brother, you know. You're a Blackriver brother; part of the family."

  I snort and look away; "The hell I am."

  Benson shakes his head and pantomimes clutching at his chest; "Oh, it hurts, Javier! Baby don't say those things!"

  "I've stopped all that."

  "You never do, Toro. No one just leaves the family."

  I can feel the rage building inside of me as I flex my muscles and grit my teeth; glaring daggers at this man who I'd kill with my own bare hands right now if I could; "You left me to die, pendejo; I think that voids our contract."

  Benson's lips curl into sneering smile; "Nah, we still own your ass."

  “What the fuck do you want, Benson?”

  I was terrible in Blackriver. I was a drunk, a gambler, disorderly, and had a major problem with authority. I also probably spent more time at boxing matches and whore-houses than I did actually shooting anything. They can't possibly want me back-

  Fuck.

  And then, like a curtain being lifted on a magician’s stage, I know exactly what's going on here. They don't want me at all. After all, what good is a disobedient, washed up criminal?

  They want her.

  Benson is a snake, and he sees the lights go on behind my eyes and chuckles; "Smart boy, Toro." He winks at me before going over to the mirror in front of us and knocking on the glass twice. The reflection turns to see-through glass as the lights come on in the room behind it, and I'm instantly growling and straining at my cuffs.

  It's Chelsea, sitting in a metal chair similar to mine. Her wrists are cuffed to the arms, there’s a blindfold across her face, and big aviation headphones clamped around her ears.

  Jesus Christ, she must be fucking terrified.

  I'm straining and raging against my restraints before I even know what I'm doing; screaming her name and slamming the chair against the ground as I see red flood across my eyes. This scene is horribly familiar, and that's what cuts the deepest about it. Because a year ago, the man chuckling in front of me was me, the man in this chair was Logan Dempsey, and the girl across from me was Chelsea's fucking sister.

  Benson just laughs; "Cool it, Toro; she can't hear you acting like a little bitch anyways."

  I'll kill him. I swear to God I'll kill him.

  "What do you want with her," I snarl through clenched teeth; "Money?"

  Benson roars out a laugh, his whole body shaking as if it’s the funniest fucking thing he's ever heard; "Money?" He rolls his eyes and takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. I spit when he offers me one, and he shrugs and sticks one in his mouth; "No, not money, Javier. You realize we're still one of the top contracts for the U.S. Government, right?" He chuckles as he flicks a zippo and brings the flame to the end of his cigarette. It glows red as he sucks in the acrid smoke before letting it stream back out through his nostrils.

  "You have any idea how much money the Defense Department pays other people to fight their wars for them? You know what my fuckin stock would be worth if we went public?" He shakes his head, inhaling tobacco smoke; "No, Toro, she's not for money; she's a bargaining chip."

  "For?"

  He grins at me; "I think you know what for."

  I frown; it's not me they want, not money, not-

  "I think you'll find that we're on the same team here, Toro."

  Fuck.

  And then I know exactly what he wants; he wants the soldiers. They want William's boys - Logan, Bryce, and Hudson - the ones that got away. The ones that managed to leave Blackriver outside of a body-bag. They want the men who saw the shit we pulled working for these assholes, and they want to tie those loose ends up.

  And they’re going to use the sister of the women they love and the daughter of the man who was a father to them all to get it.

  The door behind me opens, and another man steps into my vision. He's wearing the look of a politician, with the expensive-looking suit, his hair slicked back, and even a little American flag pin on his lapel. Who the fuck is this guy?

  Benson shakes his hand before turning back to me with a shark-grin on his face; "I guess you two have never actually met, but Javier, I'd like you to meet Agent Koufax of the C.I.A.”

  Oh, fuck. Agent Koufax; the Agent Koufax, the man Chelsea's been in contact with. The man pulling the strings the entire fucking time. My heart starts to drop in my chest then, my guts twisting as the reality of the situation sinks in like hot lead on my skin. They've stacked the deck on this one; this is a losing fight.

  "So, I'm going to ask you one more time, Toro," Benson leans close, tosses the cigarette away and lets the smoke stream past his lips as his eyes narrow at me; "Whose side are you on?"

  The lights are harsh and bright when they take the blindfold and the headphones away from me, and I blink and shiver at the sudden flood of senses hitting me again. I'm also cold, which is a feeling I've sort of forgotten after four days of paradise beach weather.

  Slowly, my eyes adjust to the bright lights, and its then that I gasp and recoil suddenly as the whole nightmarish reality comes rushing back to me.

  There are five of them in the room; men with guns in hands and cruel, stoic looks on their faces. I'm still blinking as my eyes dart wildly around the room as the door opens and a man I vaguely recognize walks in.

  “Afternoon, Agent.” He grins an evil smile as the look of shock spreads over my face; "Oh, please; don't insult me. Of course I know who you are, Chelsea." He smirks and pulls a nickel-plated gun from the holster on his hip, running his hands over it while his eyes bore into mine; "Your pals at the C.I.A. aren't nearly as sneaky with secrets as they'd like to think they are."

  I say nothing as I swallow the lump in my throat and try and stop the slow rush of adrenaline threatening to tear through my system.

  You've been trained for this, I tell myself, stealing my body and my mind to stay calm and level-headed; It's all meant to throw you off and scare you. Remember your training.

  "My name is Benson," He says, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and sticking one between his lips; "Oh, we've met, Ms. Archer." He winks at me as he flicks a lighter and brings it up to his mouth. Smoke curls from the cup of his hands before he puffs on the cigarette between his lips and turns his eyes back on me; "I believe you shot at me, back in Aruba."

  The man behind the bar, the night I saved Javier.

  He grins as the recognition spreads over my face; "Do you know why you're here, Agent?" Benson arches a brow at me, the cigarette dangling from his lips as smoke curls around the wicked gleam in his eyes.

  "Money?"

  He snorts and starts to chuckle; "Jesus, you two are something else." He shakes his head; "No, Agent Archer, I'm not after money, but we'll get to that." His mouth curls into an wicked smile as he nods slowly at
me; "You still have no idea how you wound up here, do you?"

  I refuse to answer his questions or play his stupid mind games, so I pinch my lips shut and meet his eyes with my own look of resolve. I've had the training, and though this might be the first time out of a classroom that I've had to use it, I'll be damned if a man like this asshole is going to break me.

  "I want to thank you by the way, for re-introducing me to my old pal Javier."

  I stiffen then, the iron grip I'm trying to keep on my emotions beginning to shatter as I imagine whatever horrible things they've done or are even currently doing to him. I clench my jaw as I try not to think about what a man like Benson does to men who leave his services in the manner in which Javier probably did.

  This is part of it, I know that. He's trying to get me to crack in some way by hanging Javier over my head, and I'm sure they're going to do the same thing with him using me.

  Remember the training and push it from your mind. Eyes on the goal, agent.

  "Yes, me and your little boyfriend Toro have a lot of catching up to do." Benson starts to chuckle, shaking his head as he slowly puffs on his cigarette; "Hey, Toro!" He turns and knocks on the mirror behind him; "Why don't we all say hello!"

  A light goes on, and suddenly the mirror fades to glass, and my eyes lock onto Javier.

  But he's not tied down, or being tortured, or fighting to break free, like I'd imagined.

  Not in the slightest.

  He's standing right on the other side of the glass, un-cuffed, unrestrained, and his face blank as he meets my eyes, saying and doing nothing.

  Do something! I want to scream; Fight!

  But he does nothing except stare at me.

  Benson chuckles again; "You know, we really couldn't have done it without him."

  The words hit me like a slap in the face; like ice water rippling through my veins.

  Javier.

  The room starts to spin as Benson's words start to burn their way into my head, and I can feel my lungs squeezing out my breath as I stare at the man I thought I knew through the glass.

  Fuck him. Fuck that fucking asshole.

  I almost can't believe it, just because I don't want to believe it. But as the roaring in my ears erupts into a scream inside my head, I know its the truth.

  He was in on it. He was the bait, and I was the mark this entire time. All of it - the escape, the thrill of the chase, the hiding-

  Letting myself fall for him.

  All of it was part of the plan, and I walked right fucking into it. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop the spinning as the truth sears itself into my heart. The whole thing was a trap; set, lured, and sprung by Javier.

  And he even got to get a little taste of what he couldn’t have along the way.

  The thought makes me sick to my stomach as I think of all the ways I gave myself to this man. It's like the twisting of a knife inside my chest as I think about the parts of my body, and the parts of my heart, that I let him have.

  This can't be happening.

  But there it is, writ large across his face through the glass. His eyes are unblinking, his mouth tight. Not a single word of protest, or one indication that anything I'm hearing isn’t true comes from him.

  "Toro! Quit leering like a creep, buddy!"

  Buddy.

  Benson chuckles and raps on the glass again; "Come on in and say hello to the young lady, Javier."

  He backs away from the glass, slowly walking out of the room he's in, before he suddenly appears in the doorway of mine.

  Benson slides his arm over his shoulder; “It’s great to have him back. Thank you, agent; really."

  He grins and as he turns to leave, he pats Javier on the back in a familiar way that has me dying inside as my heart just starts to shatter like glass.

  The other men start to file out of the room, leaving Javier standing in the doorway, his eyes never blinking, his body still as stone; "Chelsea, I-"

  "Fuck you." I whisper, shaking my head and willing myself not to cry.

  "You don’t-”

  I look away from him, my eyes dropping to the ground by my feet; “Please leave.”

  "Chelsea-”

  "Just, leave." I say quietly, feeling small, and stupid, and like I've just lost it all.

  "This isn't over, you know.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  I'm still cold later; much later when I'm alone in a new room, this one without mirrors or windows. I'm sitting up on the small cot in the dark, and though part of me just wants to sleep - to close my eyes and dream this all away - I know there's no way sleep is coming tonight.

  Because temperature aside, there's a coldness inside of me that I know no sleep or blanket is going to warm.

  Fuck him.

  I'm angry. I'm angry at my circumstances, and Benson and the rest of Blackwater. And I'm livid at Javier. Javier the con man, the snake in the grass, and the criminal. The Agency always taught me that in the field, danger is always where you least expect it.

  I want to choke on the sour laugh in my throat. What about the danger you see clear as fucking day that you choose to ignore?

  I shut my eyes and count backwards from twenty, trying to calm myself down. I can hate Javier, and Benson, and every turn of every event of the last few days that brought me right here to this cell, but I know deep down that none of that is who and what I'm really mad at.

  Because the one I'm the most furious at is myself.

  I hate that I let myself fall into it all; to be swept up in the bullshit of Javier and this whole adventure. I hate that I forgot who I was, and who my family was, and all the reasons why this man was the worst possible thing that could have happened to me. And I let all that slip away inside because I got so tangled up in his lies. Hook, line, and sinker; I swallowed the whole damn thing, like a stupid little girl.

  I hug my knees tighter to my chest, and wonder if the Agency even knows that I'm missing yet.

  Even more, I wonder if my family knows.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, burrowing my face into my knees as every single regret, and every single pang of guilt I ever had about not telling my sisters about what I did comes rushing back at once. I should have told them. I know it's against the rules, but I don't know how much the rules matter at this point, when I'm locked in a cell.

  I should have told you; I'm so sorry.

  I wonder what the Agency will tell them, when they eventually realize what's happened; when they realize I'm dead. Protocol is something stupid like a plane crash or an accident of some kind; something cliched that wraps the whole affair up neatly with a sad but final little bow.

  And they'll never know. My own sisters will never know what happened to me, and that might be the thought that hurts the most.

  I'm scrunching my face up, determined not to cry, when I suddenly hear a shout from outside my door. There's the sound of a scuffle, of muffled yelling, and then a sickening crunch.

  I sit bolt upright; my hands gripping the edge of the cot and my face tight as I stare at the door and the silence on the other side.