No Fear (No Shame Series Book 3)

by Nora Phoenix

  The van drove off immediately, even before he realized he wasn’t alone in the back. A thirty-something muscular man studied him with dark eyes. Snapes, his nametag read. Panic flashed, but Josh pushed it down. Connor was counting on him, and he would not let him down.

  He was handed a uniform, boots, and dog tags. “Put this on. You’re posing as Sergeant Gable, first name Brody. Don’t draw any attention to yourself. They’re expecting a sharpshooter, so don’t fuck up.”

  Josh stripped, not caring about the guy watching. Modesty was not an admired quality in the army. He quickly got dressed, reveling in how familiar the uniform still felt. “Trust me, I have no intention of fucking up.”

  “Considering we picked you up from a psych ward, I’d thought I’d mention it.”

  Josh finished lacing his boots, then drilled the guy with an icy stare. “Subtle.”

  He didn’t say a word until they were at the base. Snapes led him to the armory, where he was introduced to the master-at-arms.

  “What’s your weapon of choice today, Sarge?”

  “Sniper rifle, please.” It was the colloquial term for the army-issued 20” HK417 A2. It definitely had its flaws—like the limited ammunition capacity—but considering the job he had to do, it was the best option. It had great penetrating power, even over long distances. Plus, it was the rifle he was most familiar with, one he knew every trick, flaw, and strength of. She would not let him down.

  After doing the required safety check, he was handed the rifle with several boxes of ammunition. Snape escorted him to the shooting range—or the practice fields, more precisely. Considering what he wanted to practice for, shooting at a target a few hundred feet away wouldn’t do the trick. He needed long range, moving targets.

  For the next hours, as he took shot after shot—not missing even once—all time ceased to exist. There was no hunger, no thirst, no panic, or even a hint of PTSD. He was one with his rifle, getting reacquainted, all but making love to her. She could be fickle, but in Josh's hands she was perfect.

  He hadn’t held a rifle in well over a year. Hadn’t had the rush of seeking out his target through his telescope, of calculating wind speed and direction, angles. He’d missed it. If that made him a sick fuck, well, so be it. The power of holding a weapon so powerful, so deadly, rushed through his veins with an all-too-familiar hum.

  He was ready.

  Now, all he had to do was have a breakdown. And he’d better make it damn good.

  21

  Indy hadn’t slept a full night’s sleep since he arrived at the farm. Even ten weeks in, he still woke up multiple times each night. Sometimes it was because of nightmares, but most of the time the cause was that he simply didn’t allow himself to sink too deep into sleep. Four agents on his detail, but he didn’t trust them to protect him. Not because of them or lack of skills on their part but because of the tenacity and the depravity of the Fitzpatricks. There was nothing they wouldn’t do to get to him.

  He shifted in the queen-size bed. The metal frame squeaked every time he did that, which drove him nuts. That didn’t help with sleeping either, and neither did the fact that he always slept fully dressed. He missed the super-comfy king-size bed in Noah’s room. He missed Noah, period. And Josh. Even Connor.

  For the first time he understood why it was called heartbreak. It physically hurt. The mere act of thinking of Noah caused his heart to retract painfully and his throat to become all constricted, every breath agony.

  Had he made a mistake, going into protective custody without him? Noah would have gone crazy here. The lack of privacy for one—it was kinda hard to have a sex life here, even if the two of them had been together. Letting Josh and Connor hear, or watch, was one thing, but not complete strangers. Not even Miles with his super sex drive.

  Aside from that, Noah would have gone nuts from not being able to do anything. Even Indy struggled. He did some courses online, fake ID and logins courtesy of the FBI. He was taking some free college courses in various subjects to see what he liked.

  A low thud made him open his eyes. He checked his watch. Three o’clock. Was it a shift change? They did it at irregular hours to avoid setting any kind of pattern. Miles had said the change was at seven in the morning, though. Maybe one of the agents had accidentally bumped into something in the dark?

  He held his breath, focused on any sounds. The Kansas prairie was so fucking quiet, you could hear every little noise. The only things you heard during the day were birds and the occasional plane. At night it was completely quiet, though he’d heard what sounded like a coyote once.

  Nothing.

  He relaxed again, closed his eyes and imagined he was home, lying between Noah and Josh. Noah would spoon him from the back as he so often did, making him feel safe and protected with those big, strong arms around him. He’d be naked, of course, his cock brushing up against Indy’s ass every now and then.

  Josh would hug him from the front, his limbs all intertwined with Indy’s. Josh was such a hugger and cuddler, way more than Noah. He’d kiss Indy, one of those sweet, sexy kisses that made heat pool in his belly until his cock was rock hard and his hole quivering to be filled. Damn, the guy could kiss.

  A high-pitched scream pierced the night and Indy’s eyes flew open, his heart stopping.

  “Run!”

  Agent Nunez.

  Fuck, no.

  Indy slid out of bed, not even considering running into the hallway. Sounds of a struggle were drifting up from downstairs. His door was locked from the inside, and he’d barricaded it with a dresser, like he did every night. The floor had better not squeak now. He didn’t want anyone to know he’d woken up. He grabbed the backpack that always sat ready next to his bed.

  He stepped over the floorboard he knew would make noise. Soundlessly, he went into his bathroom and lifted the window frame out of the sockets. The screws had been taken out since the day they’d installed him here, as an emergency exit had been his number one priority. He’d even practiced taking out the window a few times.

  He lowered it to the floor without making a sound. The window was big enough for him to fit through but not with his backpack on. He quickly stuck his head out, listened. Muffled noises were coming from downstairs. Outside, everything was dark and quiet. For now.

  Indy slid his backpack out and followed suit. He wasn’t wearing shoes, too scared of making a noise, but he had a pair in his backpack, which had been ready from the day he’d arrived here. Thank fuck there was a sliver of a moon tonight—enough to light the way outside.

  The cold roof tiles hurt his bare feet, but he ignored it. With some effort, he crawled to the side of the house where the barns were. Thank fuck for his jiujitsu training which had helped him develop excellent coordination. He lowered himself off the roof, had to jump the last few feet to the ground. His bare feet landed on gravel, tiny stones digging sharply into the soft skin of his feet. Indy winced but forced himself to stand still and listen.

  The house had gone quiet. Not good. At least nobody was outside. Yet.

  He crossed the short path between the house and the hay barn as he called it, slipped in and closed the door gently behind him. Shit, it was pitch-black inside—too dark to see anything, let alone find the hatch to the cellar. The barn didn’t have any windows. He’d have to use his phone and hope that light wouldn’t spill to the outside. Indy grabbed his phone, turned on the screen but dimmed the intensity so he could see where he was going.

  The attic was still filled with hay, but the barn itself held various farming equipment and tools, including a huge, rusty John Deere tractor that probably would never run again. The walls were lined with racks and hooks, holding all kinds of tools Indy didn’t even recognize.

  He shoved his backpack under the John Deere first, then crawled underneath it on his belly. The thing was massive, with double tires front and back. Touching with his fingers, Indy felt around until he’d found the iron ring. He’d discovered on an exploring expedition a few days before
that he could lift the hatch high enough to slip inside. His backpack went first, landing on the horse blankets he’d piled underneath when he’d discovered the cellar.

  He’d better cover his tracks. There was hay everywhere on the barn floor, but sliding under the tractor might have left a trail that would lead them straight to him. He turned with his legs toward the hatch. In the distance, a door squeaked.

  Shouting voices could be heard. They’d probably discovered he was gone.

  Fuck.

  He crawled backward, sweeping the hay in front of him as he went, then stepped down the wooden stairs underneath the hatch, making sure not to misstep. The voices were close now. Too close for comfort. He threw some last hay around him, then closed the hatch as softly as he could and stepped off the last two steps to the floor. Standing still, he turned his phone off. Listened. He could still hear voices, but they weren’t in the barn. Yet.

  Shoes. He needed shoes. If he had to run for some reason, he’d better not do it barefoot. Shit, this was no easy feat in the pitch-black. He located his backpack by touch and opened it by feeling around until he’d found his shoes. Tying your laces in the dark was hard, Indy found out. It took him a few tries until both shoes were tied tight.

  Above his head, something rattled. The beam of a flashlight was visible through the cracks in the rustic boarded floor above his head. Someone was walking there, sending slivers of hay down between the cracks. He couldn’t see them, but he felt them rain down on his skin. Indy sat motionless. They had no reason to suspect he was down there, so any movement could only alert them to his presence.

  Indy forced his erratic breathing to slow down. If he panicked now, he too was dead. He sat down, eyes closed, relaxing every muscle deliberately from his neck down to his toes, until his breathing was slow and steady.

  Someone was searching the barn, kicking over empty buckets and pushing hay bales aside. Another set of footsteps joined in.

  Should he stay or try and make a run for it? Indy hadn’t had enough time to discover where the storm cellar led to. He’d seen a dark tunnel leading somewhere, but wasn’t sure where. When he’d discovered the hatch and the cellar, he’d known that it was his best hiding option, should the shit ever hit the fan. And it had, hadn’t it? Nunez would not have screamed like that if it hadn’t been dire.

  “He’s not here. There’s nowhere to hide in here,” a voice said.

  “I checked the horse barn. No one there, either.”

  “Get that agent in here.”

  Indy’s eyebrows rose. What agent were they talking about? Was Nunez still alive?

  More footsteps, something being dragged. Whines and whimpers as someone was kicked, beaten probably.

  “Where the hell is he?”

  “I don’t know.” Indy’s stomach soured. Miles. They have Miles.

  “Did you discuss escape routes with him? An evacuation plan?”

  Silence, then more sounds of Miles being hit.

  “Listen, asshole, the kid fucking barricaded his door, so you must have talked with him about this. Tell us now, or we’ll discover how much pain it will take before you talk.”

  A gulf of bile rose in Indy’s mouth. He didn’t recognize the voices and their accents were not distinctly Bostonian, but that didn’t mean shit. They could be thugs for hire, guys lured in by the contract on his head. They would not hesitate to torture and kill an FBI agent, but damn if Indy was gonna sit there and listen to them while they did it.

  Miles was not talking, merely groaning in what Indy assumed was pain.

  More hits, kicks.

  Miles cursing.

  The barn door opened again. “He talking yet?” a new voice asked. He sounded like he was in charge.

  “No. Nothing, and we hit him pretty hard.” That was the guy who’d been asking Miles questions.

  “What the hell, man? You said he would know.”

  “I’m sorry…” another voice said. Fucking hell, Indy knew that voice, and his stomach sank. They had an inside man. “I don’t know what else to tell you. The kid was upstairs in his room last time I checked. I don’t know how he got away… Please, I’ve done everything you asked.”

  Agent Crouch. Hot damn, he’s in on this. But he doesn’t sound like he’s doing this willingly. What do they have on him?

  “We don’t have time for this,” the leader said. “We would’ve heard a car, so he took off on foot. He won’t get far in the dark. We’ll spread out. Danny, you take the north, Wes will take the south, Brian east and I’ll do west. We’ll find him. Call in when you see something. If not, we reconvene here in an hour. Crouch, you’re coming with me.”

  “What do we do with him?” one of the others asked.

  “Tie him up, leave him here. If we find the kid, we’ll finish him. If we don’t find him, we can try to make him talk again.”

  Rustling sounds, then the thump of a body being dropped on the floor.

  “Crouch, how long do we have until relief shows up?”

  “At least four hours. Shift change is at seven. I need to check in every hour on the hour, though.”

  The men departed, leaving silence behind. Indy left out a shuddering breath.

  Fucking hell.

  22

  Indy sat shivering in the storm cellar. What should he do now? If he took off and they didn’t find him, they’d take it out on Miles. Nunez and Fisher were probably dead already. Even if they weren’t, he couldn’t save them. Crouch was beyond his control as well. Whatever they had on him, it was enough to make him cooperate. That wouldn’t change if Indy tried to reason with him—provided he’d even get the chance.

  But Miles was a different story. Too many people had died because of Indy already. He couldn’t bear the thought of another victim on his conscience.

  But what could he do? Assuming he’d even be able to drag Miles down here, where would that leave them? They’d know Indy was close because he wouldn’t be able to take Miles far. They’d search and find the cellar. No, he had to make sure they wouldn’t find a trace. But how?

  Hay. The whole barn was filled with hay. What if he…?

  No, that was crazy. If he didn’t get out in time, they’d both burn alive. Plus, the smoke would get into the cellar.

  Yeah, but smoke rises, he thought. It would take a while before it would seep down through the floor into the cellar. By that time he and Miles would be gone. Provided the tunnel he’d spotted before did actually lead somewhere. It had to, right? These were tornado shelters, built in the fucking middle of tornado alley. These folks would not shit around with stuff like that. He’d have to follow the tunnel, see where it would lead.

  And run the risk of meeting someone who’d followed it from the other side. He’d hear them, probably, but even if he did, where the fuck would he go? All he could do was hope there was another way out, and that he’d get there before anyone else.

  He couldn’t wait anymore. They could be back any moment for Miles, and then it would be too late. He had to risk it. Crouching, he reached out in front of him until he’d located the steps leading up. He took a step, listened, and repeated the process until he’d lifted the hatch. Inside the barn it was completely dark. What if they’d tricked him and this was an attempt to lure him out? No, that didn’t make sense. If they knew he was in the cellar, they would’ve simply come after him.

  He turned his phone back on and shone it around until he spotted a dark form on the floor. Miles. He wasn’t moving. Please, be breathing, Indy thought. He quickly moved toward him, shone the weak light of his phone on his body, then his face. They’d tied him with tie wraps, taped his mouth shut with duct tape. Underneath, his lip looked swollen and bloody. His entire face was swelling, and he sported what looked like a broken nose.

  Indy put his fingers against Miles’ throat. Yes! He’s breathing. Thank fuck. Anything else would have to wait. Now came the hard part.

  He clamped his phone between his teeth so he could see something, grabbed Miles by his arm
s and started pulling. Hot damn, why did the guy have to be so fucking heavy? Thank fuck the floor was covered in hay. It rustled, but it didn’t make too much noise. Miles groaned, luckily muted by the tape on his mouth. Indy wanted to reassure him but couldn’t talk with that phone in his mouth. Dammit, dragging dead weight was impossible. Finally, he reached the tractor.

  He pushed Miles under first, then crawled in himself from the other side. He couldn’t very well push Miles down the steps. The guy might break even more bones. No, Indy would have to step down first and drag him down the stairs. Fuck, he hoped it wouldn’t make too much noise. Above all, speed counted, though.

  He took the phone out of his mouth for a second, wiped his mouth and swallowed. Then he put it back in, stepped down the stairs, and reached for Miles’ arms. Once he had a solid grip on his wrists, he started pulling. Holy mother of all. Sweat pearled on his forehead and broke out all over his body.

  Up till now he’d merely dragged, but now he had to carry Miles’ entire dead weight down the steps. He managed to step down, almost falling backward when Miles’ legs swiped in. Indy groaned with effort, then cursed himself. Quiet. He had to stay quiet. If they heard him now, they were both dead.

  Finally Miles was inside the cellar, and Indy lowered him unceremoniously to the floor. He had to get back up and execute the second phase of his plan. The front pocket of his backpack held a box of old-fashioned matches. He’d thrown them in when he’d spotted them in the kitchen on his second day here, figuring they might come in handy. Hello, perfect timing.

  He took his phone in his hand, hastening up the steps back into the barn. Thankfully all was quiet outside. Where should he start the fire? If he started in the loft, they might have time to discover the hatch. No, the whole barn had to go up at once. He looked around, illuminating with his phone. Was that a… Yes, it was. Thank you, lucky stars.