Delta Force: Colt: Brotherhood Protectors World/Wayward Souls Crossover

by Kris Norris

  Chapter 10

  Ellis needed to disappear. Not tomorrow or in a few hours. Now. Before Brett and his team started making plans. Calling in chits. While they were still regrouping at the safehouse. Still riding the adrenaline high. All she had to do was get to the closest exit and run.

  It shouldn’t be hard. A trip to the washroom, then out the window. Gone in under thirty seconds. Five minutes. Maybe ten before they clued in. Came knocking. Not much of a head start, but it might be enough to vanish—save Brett’s team from ending up like Six. Bleeding. Life riding on a Hail Mary.

  She wouldn’t survive. Not alone. But, at least, she’d die without their blood on her hands—the ones permanently stained with Six’s. It didn’t matter how many times she washed them—scrubbed them raw—the red wouldn’t fade. Wouldn’t leave her mind—the image of him beside her. Pale. Jaw clenched in pain, but still thinking about her. Her safety. Her life.

  She’d forgotten what that was like. Having a team. People who’d take any risk, make any sacrifice, if it meant their brothers would live. She might not be one, but he’d extended her the same courtesy without knowing all the facts. Because she’d meant something to Brett, once. Which was crazy, now that she’d read the letter—knew how it had all played out. They should have dumped her ass at the hospital. Cut their losses when they’d figured out she was radioactive—a lethal commodity that would spill over into their ranks. Get them all killed.

  But they hadn’t. Had risen to the challenge time and again. And she’d let Six down. Hadn’t run fast enough or dodged quick enough—and he’d taken the bullet meant for her.

  The realization screwed with her head. Her thoughts. None of the NCS agents she’d worked with would have done that. Would have shielded her—dragged her along. Hell, she was pretty sure Brett would have hiked her up on his shoulder and kept running if she’d puked. Passed out like she thought was going to happen because her body just couldn’t keep up. Maintain his brutal pace. And he wouldn’t have slowed down. Would have fought through the pain, the fatigue because that’s what he did. What they all did.

  It was humbling. Sitting among them. Seeing them all in a new light. They were true warriors. Men without limits. Without fear. And she’d be the reason they died.

  She couldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t.

  Ellis pushed to her feet, mumbled something about needing to pee, then headed straight for the door down the left side of the hall. The stupid push lock wouldn’t slow the men down—maybe a second or two. Just long enough to boot the fucker in. But if she could get the window open—jump out before they came knocking—she might pull it off.

  Her clothes were soaked. Sweat. Rain. Blood. Brett had mentioned he’d get her more—extras that Cannon had in the back of the Jeep from a recent stakeout they’d done together—but there wasn’t time. It was ticking down, every second another chance for McCormick to find her—send another wet squad.

  She knew him. Knew how he worked. What his thought processes were. He’d send his own men, this time. Ex-Special Forces soldiers just like Brett. Like Cannon. Men who’d trained to kill. To complete their mission at any cost. And they’d have more resources. RPGs. Grenades. Drones armed with machine guns or missiles. Maybe some kind of chemical agent. Whatever it took. Whatever the toll. McCormick would pay it, if it meant he’d win.

  Ellis hit the washroom door already working through steps four and five. Was mentally preparing to shove down the pain in her side. The heavy feeling in her legs. She didn’t know how far she’d get, but it would have to be enough. She’d make it enough.

  A quick glance at the window as she stepped inside made her pulse kick up. Contact alarm. Decent looking lock. Nothing she couldn’t bypass, but it would take time. Time she didn’t have because she knew Brett. Knew all of them. They were still edgy. Still on high alert, and they’d subconsciously have a set number of minutes inside their heads that was appropriate for taking a leak. Splashing some water on her face. Washing her hands, again. And they’d be kicking that door down once that timer had run out.

  If she wasn’t far enough away, hadn’t requisitioned a car or found a sewer to hide in, they’d be on her. And she’d be back to being their weak link. Signing their death certificates.

  Adapting wasn’t fun, but she’d learned. She grabbed the handle, shoved the door closed, only to have it stop a few inches from fully shutting. Fingers grasped the edge, one large black boot wedged against the frame. Then, Brett was inside, crowding her against the sink, ruining all her plans.

  She palmed his chest, was in the process of shoving him away, figuring out how to still make it all work, still get away, when he kissed her. Slid one hand around the back of her neck, threaded his fingers through her hair and sealed his mouth to hers.

  Heaven. That’s what he tasted like. Pure. Sweet. One swipe of his tongue, and she was lost. Opening for him. Surrendering. Her fingers fisting around his sweater—pulling him closer. If she could have wrapped her legs around his waist without falling—making him break his hold in order to catch her—she would have.

  Instead, she hooked her foot around his calf. Rode his damn thigh as he nudged her to the side of the sink then pushed her against the wall. All those big firm muscles flexing and releasing, keeping her trapped as he traced every inch of her mouth, bit at her lips then down the side of her neck.

  Ellis let her head fall against the wall, angling over when he nipped at the soft spot behind her ear. She gasped in a breath, looking him in the eyes when he broke away. Smiled. Then, he was back. Eating at her mouth, grabbing her arms and pinning them above her head—just like she’d wanted him to do earlier. Before their world had gone sideways. Before she’d nearly gotten Six killed.

  She must have stiffened. Gasped. Something because Brett froze. Mouths still joined, bodies flush against each other, one hand cinched around her wrists, the other resting on her rib cage. Just above her wound as if he was reminding himself not to touch her there.

  He remained still for several heartbeats before lifting his lips from hers, giving her a bit of space. He studied her face, searching her eyes, glancing longingly at her mouth before sighing—easing up on his grip.

  He raised his other hand, ran his thumb along her jaw. “It’s not your fault, El. Whatever happens, it’s because we chose to fight. You’re not to blame.”

  Tears stung her eyes, blurring his face as she fought not to let them fall. Her chin quivered, shaking through her arms until he finally let go. Backed up.

  She wrapped her arms around her ribs, bracing her weight against the wall. “But it is. I’m to blame. For all of it. For putting your friends in danger. Getting Six shot. If I hadn’t shown up on your doorstep—if I’d just kept on running—”

  “You’d be dead.”

  “Better me than Six. Or Cannon. Or y…”

  She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t chance voicing it in case some weird act of fate made it happen. Turned her worst fear into reality.

  He snorted. “You always were stubborn. And I’d die a thousand times over if it meant you’d live. Always would have. Always will. I know I let you down, and I’ll have to live with that. Knowing you were hurt. Trapped. Waiting for me. You didn’t say it before, but the truth is… You needed me to save you. And I didn’t.”

  The tears she’d been holding back, fell. Slipping off her chin to land on his hand.

  Brett frowned, wiping the next few away. “I can’t make up for that. But I’m not going to fail you, again. So, all those plans you made—about ditching us. Climbing out that window and running off. Hot wiring a car or holing up in some cockroach-infested motel—forget them. Not happening.”

  “But…how?”

  He laughed, this time. “I could always read you, sweetheart. From the first day we met. It was like we were vibrating on the same frequency. Dancing to the same song. Had you pegged from the moment you walked through the door—stared down at your hands. Which means, it’s time to talk. Really talk. About McCormick.
The CIA. All of it. I know I don’t really deserve your trust, but I’m asking for it, regardless. Begging, in fact. Please, El. Help us get this bastard.”

  Holy shit.

  He’d nearly screwed it all up. Nearly failed her, again. If he’d been one minute slower. Hadn’t been watching her, deciphering every twitch of her lips, every flex of her muscles, Colt would have missed the signs. Would have let her waltz into the bathroom without a second thought.

  And she would have disappeared.

  He knew it. Despite the alarms, the locks, the damn cameras panning the perimeter, Ellis would have broken ranks and taken off. And Colt never would have seen her, again. Not alive.

  Like he’d told her. Not happening. He might not have ridden to the rescue before—hadn’t been the man she’d needed him to be—but he would be, now. Would stand between her and whatever this asshole, McCormick, threw her way. Shot. Stabbed. Barely breathing or bleeding out—as long as he had one neutron still firing. One ounce of strength left, he’d have her back. No more running. No more hiding. All she had to do was let him.

  He didn’t expect her to simply cave. Fall for a few token promises and blindly follow along. He recognized the slight hunch of her shoulders. The pinched mouth and dull stare. Knew guilt when it stared back at him. And Ellis had it in spades.

  She’d spent twenty minutes staring at her hands—turning them over then fisting them in her lap. Bouncing them against her thigh. She’d been distant. Had responded to any question with a grunt or a shake of her head. It hadn’t been much of a stretch to deduce she blamed herself for Six’s injury. Was convinced she’d get them all killed. And that, given the chance, she’d bolt.

  When she’d suddenly lunged to her feet and tripped her way to the bathroom, he’d known she wasn’t waiting for a chance to crop up—she was making her own. Was going to either skip the washroom and sneak out through one of the bedrooms. Or try to shimmy out the window beside the sink.

  She hadn’t disappointed him. Had been so focused on her mission—on how to alter her plans to bypass the alarm, the lock—that she hadn’t noticed him trailing behind. And he’d intervened before she’d been able to counter him.

  He hadn’t planned on kissing her. Sure, he wanted to. Ached to feel her body flush against his, her soft, sweet mouth sliding over his lips. Her fingers digging into his flesh or wrapped around his hair. He’d noticed the way she’d reacted when he’d pinned her earlier. Her increased breath. Dilated pupils. While he’d been too angry, too hurt to act on it, then, his brain had cataloged her response. Filed it away until he could act on it.

  Which had kicked in the moment she’d touched him. Palmed his chest. She’d been preparing to shove him away. He knew it. Felt it. But that simple brush of her hands across his chest, the tiny press of her fingers into his flesh, and his damn body had taken over.

  Shoved her against the sink as he’d finally wrapped all that silky hair around his fingers—brought her pretty little mouth to his. He didn’t remember much after that. Moving her sideways, crushing her against the wall. He’d come out of the daze when she’d stiffened—most likely remembering all the reasons she should be running. He’d had both her wrists in one hand, the other about to palm her breast. She’d been grinding her cleft on his thigh, and he’d half considered trying to get her off like that. Watch her climax from that brief contact, alone.

  He hadn’t. Would have been fucking ashamed of himself if he had. Now, wasn’t the time. Soon. Once they’d talked. Secured a course of action that would keep her safe—take that fucker, McCormick, down. When Colt could let his guard down long enough to savor her. Give her the kind of loving he’d envisioned far too often over the past five years. The kind she deserved. Romantic. Novel-worthy.

  At least, that was what he hoped would happen.

  Ellis stared at him. Wide eyes. A few tears still drying on her cheek. Seeing her like that gutted him. Knowing that she didn’t see herself as part of their team—instead, an outsider looking in, an obligation—had made his chest hurt. Squeezed it to the point he’d barely been able to breathe.

  He was to blame for that. A byproduct of letting her go. Not trusting in what they’d had. That she never would have betrayed him. He’d told her the truth. He’d have to live with it. Hope that one day, he could find redemption—some semblance of forgiveness. But it wasn’t a mistake he’d make a second time. Whether she wanted him back in her life to stay or just to eliminate the current threat, didn’t matter. Because he wasn’t divided any longer. In fact, he was all in.

  And so was his team.

  Colt stepped closer. Not like before, but enough that he filled her field of view—that she had to tilt back her head to maintain eye contact. “Well, sweetheart? You in?”

  She glanced at the window, then the door. She was weighing her options. Whether her need to save them outweighed his need to do the same for her. Whether he deserved another chance. He didn’t push. Didn’t list all the reasons he and his team were her best—her only—shot. She knew. And if it came down to it, he’d hike her up on his shoulder and carry her back to the living room. Tie her to the damn chair if it meant keeping her safe.

  But he wanted her to choose him. Choose to be his partner. His equal. To give him a glimmer of hope that maybe they could start over. Or pick up. He didn’t care, as long as she was there. With him.

  She breathed deeply, licking her lips, before blowing all that air out. And he knew. She’d decided. And since she wasn’t kicking out his feet. Elbowing him in the ribs or the head. Doing some CIA ninja move to knock him on his ass, she hadn’t gone with the escape plan. Wouldn’t make him chase her ass down.

  He smiled—held out his hand. “Ready?”

  A shake of head, then one small hand reaching out. Taking his. Tiny callouses brushed over his larger ones—a testament to her new-found strength—before she threaded her fingers through his. Gave him a nod.

  “That’s my girl.”

  He didn’t miss the way she inhaled—rough, breathy—or the slash of pink that colored her cheeks, fading down her neck and settling on the upper swell of her breasts. Whether intentional or not, she still liked the thought of them together. He just hoped it meant more. Meant a chance at a future.

  And that meant ending the threat against her. Setting her free.

  Colt gave her hand a squeeze, then waved at the door. “After you, sweetheart. I’ll get you that change of clothes, some food—double check your side. Then, we’ll talk. Because the running stops, now. We’re going to get this son of a bitch. And failure is not an option.”

  Chapter 11

  This was insane. They were all insane.

  Forty-five minutes. That’s how long they’d been sitting there, listening. Calm. Focused. None of them had batted an eye when Ellis had given them a rundown of her missions—gathering intel. Tracking down “assets”. People or organizations that presented a clear and present danger to the country. Or military forces deployed overseas. She hadn’t gone into exact details, but they knew enough. That she’d gone into the field. Infiltrated gangs, sects, government offices. Had lied, stolen, and killed her way, when necessary, through deserts, jungles. Whatever it took to complete her missions—just like them.

  And they were still sitting there. Still calm. Still focused.

  “Sounds like you’ve been busy, honey.”

  Hank Patterson. He’d been standing in the doorway when Brett had led her back to the living room. Which had blown Ellis away. She hadn’t realized Cannon had been in contact with the other man—a freaking ex-Navy SEAL. That Ice, Rigs, Midnight—they’d all been working for Hank before deciding to move back to Seattle. Sign on with Cannon. Pitch in whenever Hank needed the extra manpower.

  And Hank hadn’t come alone. Kameron Monroe. One of the few people Ellis had considered a friend. Another burned bridge from her past. The other woman had darted across the room—nearly taken Ellis to the floor in an attempt to hug her. Eyes glassy. Chin quivering.

 
She’d muttered a quiet, “Hey, sister,” then joined the others. Even now, she sat at the table, expression fixed like everyone else.

  God, what had McCormick told Kam? Something equally convincing because the other woman had been MI, too. Was just as adept at uncovering hidden information. And Ellis was confident that if Kam had believed for even a moment that Ellis had been in trouble—hadn’t switched posts or gone on some kind of spiritual vision quest—she would have hacked her way into a military prison trying to find Ellis.

  Fuck McCormick. The bastard was good. Ellis just hoped this wasn’t a sign that their determination to bring the bastard down was misplaced. That they were all just fooling themselves.

  She leaned back in the chair, running a hand through her hair. Colt had grabbed her some sweats. Given her the extra sweater he’d left in Jericho’s Jeep when he and Cannon had been chasing down a warrant. Had spent a few nights casing out the guy’s apartment. Colt had taken the one Cannon had offered her. Colt had said something about his being smaller—fitting her better. All she knew was that it smelled like him. Like hope.

  Not that she had much of that. Not until they’d devised a plan—one that didn’t end with all of them dead or rotting away in Guantánamo Bay—because if McCormick found them before they’d worked everything out, there might not be any more second chances.

  “Let’s just say it’s been a long five years.” She ignored Brett’s huff, waiting to see where the men would take the conversation from here.

  Hank nodded, glancing at Cannon, Brett, then her. “I realize we need to talk about your abduction. What you think they want, but…” He snorted. “I gotta say. If someone had bet me my balls that you’d go CIA, I would have taken that bet, because the idea is so far off the reservation, there aren’t any road signs. So… What the hell happened?”

  And there it was. The million-dollar question. The one everyone at the table had been wanting to ask since she’d fallen into Brett’s arms but had shoved aside until the timing made sense. Not that Ellis thought it ever would. Nor was a topic she wanted to discuss, even though she knew it was a necessary evil—a show of good faith on her part.