Angel of Death (Broken Mercenaries Book 2)

by S. Massery

  My skin crawls as my mind switches over to the remnants of Patrick’s hands on my skin. There’s no way I would turn Griffin over to them. Never.

  Mom was freaked out about the sheriff’s cruiser parked outside of her

  Last night was just a small sample of things to come with this cancer. I thought could handle the nosebleeds. The bruising. The weight loss. But being unable to walk up three flights of stairs, or hike through the woods, and then my gums started bleeding—it was too much, all at once.

  It hasn’t clicked. I’m not the girl with cancer. It isn’t my identity. And yet, I’m sick. I’m living and dying at the same time, and I’d be the biggest liar in the world if I said that didn’t terrify me. I’ve had years to come to terms with the label, but I’ve been hiding from it all this time. Now it’s here, banging on my door, and there’s nowhere I can run that it won’t follow.

  I drag my feet toward my phone when it chimes twice in a row. The first text is from my mother, checking in, but the second one is from my best friend. Guilt drops like lead into my stomach. I’d forgotten about her in my rush to get out of Bitterwood, and now…

  I dial Leigh’s phone number and cross my fingers.

  “You ran away?!” she shrieks in my ear. “Without me?”

  I wince. “I’m sorry—”

  “You are not, you bitch,” she laughs. “Where did you go? The city?”

  Leigh and I met in first grade, and while we haven’t been totally inseparable—there were stretches of time when we didn’t speak for months, then we snapped right back into place—I’ve never really kept anything from her. Except this. This is probably the longest I’ve held onto a secret.

  “Um, Leigh,” I hedge, “I didn’t really run away.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means…” I smack my forehead with my palm. “I got on a private jet with Griffin and he flew me to Amsterdam.”

  Silence.

  I think I just gave her a heart attack.

  And then, “Holy fucking shit, you little fucker!”

  Yep.

  “How the hell could you just get on a fucking plane and fly halfway across the world? It’s midnight here—what time is it there? Damn, my mom said your mom looked a little lost when she saw her today, but I didn’t think it was that bad. Your mom knows how to downplay a crisis, I’ll give her that. For real—”

  “Leigh,” I interrupt. “Word vomit much?”

  Her laugh is squeaky. “I’m freaking out here, Had. You said you went with Griffin? Like, foster boy Griffin?”

  I scowl at the wall. “Don’t call him that,” I say. “But, yeah. I mean, I was kidnapped first, and he saved me, but—”

  “You were kidnapped?” She’s shrieking in my ear. “By who?”

  “I don’t know! Bad guys!”

  She groans. “What the hell? And here I was, going to tell you that you missed absolutely all of the tea.”

  “Tea?”

  “Drama. Gossip. Jesus, what century are you from?” She sobers. “Your mom mentioned the cancer is back?”

  I grimace. “Let’s not talk about that. Tell me about this tea that I missed.”

  I can envision her smile covering up the worry. “Buckle up, girl. Okay, when exactly did you leave?”

  I think back. “Four days ago,” I say. “Ish.”

  “Holy shit,” she mutters. “Okay, okay. A few nights before that, Judge Wallace was attacked.”

  I nod. “I knew that.”

  “Right. So the next thing we know, there’s a police call over the scanner. Some massive drug cartel leader turns himself in at the station. He had a stab wound, kept babbling, whatever. Literally less than an hour later, the judge is almost murdered. In. His. Hospital. Room.”

  I gulp. Griffin glazed over most of this. “Okay, that’s coincidence, right?”

  She snorts. “Sure, except the only reason he wasn’t injected with poison is because of one…” she draws out her words, and I close my eyes.

  “Griffin Anders,” I supply.

  “Bingo.”

  “He was there visiting the only father figure he’s ever known,” I say. I’m defensive. I know it. Wisely, Leigh ignores my tone. “How does that relate to the drug dealer?”

  “Because that dude admitted all of his sins—including that he had been hired to get information from the judge.”

  I inhale a long breath. “What kind of information?”

  “That, I don’t know.” Leigh’s father is a prosecutor. He also has a big, fat, unethical mouth. The guy gets chatty if he drinks too much red wine. Whiskey? Tequila? No problem. Give the guy a Pinot Noir and he’ll tell you privileged information in a heartbeat. It’s how Leigh gets most of her information. Her dad likes to drink a glass or two—which quickly turns into a bottle or two if Leigh’s mother isn’t around to stop him—on Friday nights. It used to be his way of unwinding. Now, it’s just habit.

  “Well, your dad would find out,” I reason.

  She hesitates, then says, “The drug guy was killed.”

  “What?”

  “The media is saying it was someone from an opposing gang.” She snorts. “Imagine that. Bitterwood has not one drug problem, but two?” Her voice takes on a fake southern accent. “As we live and breathe.”

  I shake my head. Bitterwood is safe. It always has been. It’s easy to think of it as a little bubble where nothing happened—nothing ever did happen, until this. Until Griffin came back.

  I look down at the scar on my arm. It disproves the idea that Bitterwood was safe. Bad people live everywhere—big cities and small towns and everywhere in between.

  Leigh’s voice drops. “Dad warned me not to say anything, but he’s investigating the warden of the prison where they were keeping him.”

  I sink down on the bed. “What does that have to do with Griffin?”

  “Someone reported his car,” she says. “Parked in front of the drug dealer’s house for almost twenty minutes.”

  My head is starting to hurt. “They reported his car, or a car that looks like his?”

  “Don’t you see, Hadley? He was probably in there beating people up!”

  I could totally see that, given what I now know. And yet, “You don’t know him.”

  She exhales. “I’m worried about you. Why Amsterdam?”

  “It just—” I look up, jumping when I see Griffin in the doorway. His brows are drawn together in concern. “Sorry, Leigh. I’ve got to go.”

  “Well, don’t forget about me. Seriously.”

  “I’ll give you a call later this week,” I promise.

  “You better. Love you, Had.”

  “Love you, too.” I hang up and drop the phone next to me, then look up at Griffin. “Where’d you go?”

  He tips his head back toward the kitchen. “Groceries,” he says. “Figured you might want breakfast. Or at the very least, coffee.”

  I smile and stand, brushing down the front of his sweatshirt. I mentally shake off Leigh’s words. I don’t need to know if Griffin hurt anyone in the hospital, if he saved the judge’s life, or even if he was only in Bitterwood for revenge. I know he came back for the judge and me—that’s enough.

  His eyes travel down my body, then back up to my face. “I like you in my stuff,” he says softly. “How do you feel?”

  A spot in my head, behind my eyes, pulses. And yet, I manage to keep a straight tone as I answer, “I feel great.”

  He squints at me for a second, then pulls me closer to him. My hands settle on his waist, and his wrap through my hair. His thumb caresses the side of my neck.

  “I love your hair,” he admits. I freeze when he presses a kiss to the top of my head. His hands on either side of my face hold me still. “And your eyes.” His lips touch my eyelids, feather light. “And the way you blush when you’re embarrassed or mad or frustrated or excited.” His breath hits my cheeks as he talks, and his lips chase after it. “And your lips,” he says.

  The kiss he gives me on t
he corner of my lips makes my heart flutter. I turn my head ever so slightly, our noses touching before our lips find each other.

  I imagine this is what love will feel like: pulling on an invisible chain, guiding yourself back to someone your heart can’t bear to leave.

  He walks us back toward the bed, lifting the sweatshirt off of me as we go. Heat spikes through me, right to my core. His hands slip down my body. My knees hit the bed, and he lowers me down. I pull myself back, and he takes a moment to get rid of his pants before he crawls after me.

  Spreading my legs is far too vulnerable. My mind has taken three steps backward since last night. The words he spoke to me—let me take care of you—flash through my mind. I part my knees, and he settles between my legs.

  His lips go to my throat, trailing fire in their wake. I arch my back when his lips part and his tongue touches my skin. His teeth nip at me. I can’t control the wild gasp that comes out of my mouth.

  His mouth moves lower. Hot breath touches my nipple, and suddenly there’s a lightning storm under my skin. I’ve never felt anything like him. His hips rock into mine, and his firm cock slides between my folds. I shift slightly, and suddenly he’s inside of me.

  I should tell him about the radiation and chemo. The chance of pregnancy. The chance of a family. But then he shifts, and we both gasp at the feel of it. I’m stretched, off kilter and floating away.

  His teeth pull at the skin of my throat again, demanding my attention, but all I can concentrate on is the pulse of our connection. He starts to move slowly, and I shudder each time he pushes into me. I meet his eyes, surprised to find him watching me, and I raise my hips to meet his thrusts.

  “Faster,” I beg.

  He obliges, his hands braced on either side of my head, as he hits just the right spot inside of me. Leaning to one side, he changes his angle and his fingers find my clit.

  “Oh my god,” I moan.

  He grunts when my nails scratch his back.

  An orgasm builds inside of me, and I throw my head back as a tingling sensation overtakes all of my senses. He thrusts quickly, pounding into me, and comes seconds later, head bowed above me.

  “Fuck, Hadley,” he murmurs. He pulls out of me and flops onto his side, immediately lifting me so I’m draped halfway over him.

  I rest my chin on his chest and give him a lazy smile. “Good morning,” I say.

  “I should’ve stayed in bed to wake up to you.”

  My fingers drum against his skin. “You should’ve,” I agree.

  “Tomorrow,” he promises.

  “What are we doing today?”

  He grins and pushes my hair off my face. “We have to meet a friend. After, maybe we should go to a museum? I booked us train tickets for this evening.”

  I push up off of him, raising my eyebrows. “Where are we going?”

  He sits up, too. “Where do you think?”

  Paris. “Oh my god.” I cover my mouth with my hand, hiding my bewildered smile. It’s happening. I didn’t think it would—just like I don’t think the cancer is really going to kill me. Some things are just too far outside the realm of possibility. But apparently, Paris isn’t. (And neither is the cancer.)

  He laughs. “Traveling by train is the best. You get to see the countryside.”

  “A real adventure,” I confirm. “Unlike your idea of adventure, which is just plain terrifying.” Without waiting for his answer, I leap out of bed. My embarrassment has fled in the face of excitement, and I rush to find clothes.

  In the blink of an eye, I’m dressed and ready. I walk out of the bathroom to the smell of bacon, and my stomach twists. I’ve loved bacon for as long as I can remember, but right now, I want to puke.

  I force myself to think on the bright side: I don’t have a headache. I successfully brushed my teeth without bleeding, and my nose is cooperating today, too.

  See? Optimism.

  “Hungry?” he says. “After that, you better…” His smile fades when he looks at me. “Hadley?”

  I pat my stomach and smile back. “I’m starving,” I lie.

  He nods, brow furrowed, and flips eggs in a pan. “Omelette?”

  “Sure.”

  He slides a plate in front of me, and it hits me that we’ve done this before. Years ago. The memories of my childhood are blurry around the edges, but some things are crystal clear. My dad used to make us breakfast: Griffin and him and me. We would sit around the table and work through a stack of pancakes, or eggs, or french toast. Dad always woke up early—not just because he had to be at school at the same time as us. He was a morning person.

  I sneak a glance at Griffin, wondering if he’s remembering the same thing. My dad would quiz both of us on the homework we were supposed to have done. Even after Griffin moved away, he would still sometimes show up early for breakfast. He’d sit at the table and then walk me to school, pushing his bike beside me.

  He sits beside me and winks. “Just like old times,” he says, and I smile.

  When he starts shoveling food in his mouth, I pick up my fork. I’m not sure how this is going to go. Eat quickly and throw it up later? Eat slowly and hope that solves the problem?

  A drop of blood hits my plate, and I start laughing. I pick up the napkin and press it to my nose. “Fucking figures,” I murmur.

  Griffin swivels toward me, rotating me in his direction.

  “Lean forward,” he says. He pinches the soft part of my nose, just above my nostrils, and guides me forward. Blood drops onto the floor between us. “Hey,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Don’t worry about that.”

  My voice is thick when I say, “I’m making a mess.”

  “It’s nothing that can’t be cleaned.”

  “This could go on forever,” I mutter.

  He grins at me. “I once cauterized a man’s artery with nothing but gunpowder and a match. I’m sure we could work something like that up on your nose.”

  My eyes go wide. I put my hand on his thigh to steady myself, and his whole body stills.

  “Tell me about that,” I say. “Anything to distract from…” I wave my hand in front of my face, but I think I mean the cancer.

  He hums. “You know Zach and Dalton. I think I’ve mentioned Mason, Wyatt, and Jackson?”

  “I think so,” I say. “You never said how you knew them, though.”

  “We worked together,” he says.

  The Angel of Death. Once I know, there’s no going back.

  So instead of asking for more information, I ask, “Wyatt is the one you were visiting in New York?” His grave?

  He nods. “Yeah. He’s buried there, and after I spent some time at his cabin here, I went to say a proper goodbye.”

  I squeeze his thigh. “I’m sorry you lost your friend.”

  He exhales. I take over pinching my own nose—an unpleasant, yet seemingly effective system—while he stands and gets a towel to clean the blood off the floor. He clears his throat.

  “This was about six months into our contract,” he starts. I raise my eyebrow—I’m tempted to interrupt and ask what the hell that means—but he just winks. “Afghanistan. We were assigned to find two journalists who had been caught between a rock and a hard place—the local militia, who had taken control of the town, and the U.S. Army.”

  My mouth parts. Who are you?

  “We located the journalists and were on our way out when the militia found us. It was an ugly fight until the U.S. troops found us, and then it got uglier. I was there as a medic, so it didn’t really make sense for me to not help people.”

  My eyes are as big as dinner plates, I’m sure.

  “The hostiles were throwing grenades, and a piece of metal embedded in one of the soldier’s legs. Zach and I dragged him to cover. I was going to stabilize his leg without pulling out the metal—it was in his thigh, and there was a good chance it had hit an artery—but the idiot grabbed it and pulled it out before I could stop him.”

  He shakes his head, then slowly pulls my hand away from m
y nose. We wait a second, but I don’t feel any more blood dripping. I lower my hand into my lap.

  “So there we were, American soldiers on one side of the block and a rogue militia on the other side, and we were in an alleyway, keeping the hell out of the way of the bullets. The guy’s leg starts spurting blood, and…” He shrugs. “There wasn’t much I could do. I knew I had to stop the bleeding, so I got it under control with a tourniquet. Gunpowder burns very quickly, which is why it works in guns. I figured it would work in the interim to cauterize the artery.”

  “Did he live?” I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. I can’t believe he’s the type of person who can nonchalantly talk about this type of thing. But it suits him. He’s relaxed. His hands move as he talks.

  And suddenly, I want to hear every war story he can give me, if only so I can know his soul better.

  “He did, although his leg didn’t make it.” He shakes his head. “He was thankful that I saved his life, and I was angry that I couldn’t save his leg.”

  “What about the journalists?”

  He smiles. “We got them over the border and on a plane to England. They flew home shortly after that.”

  “So… you helped get people out of dangerous situations.”

  He reaches over and squeezes my hands. “Yeah, something like that.”

  “The worst I ever had to do was pull a piece of glass out of my roommate’s foot,” I say. “Granted, it was a giant piece of glass.” I hold up my thumb and index finger about an inch apart.

  “I’m sure she was grateful.”

  “The other roommate almost passed out at the sight of blood. The third roommate was drunk, so… Yeah. The responsibility fell to me.” I shrug, looking down at our intertwined fingers. A single butterfly flaps its wings in my chest. “I’m not squeamish. There are some things that just make you… not.”

  Bones snapping.

  The grunt before a foot connects with flesh.

  “I hope not,” he says. I have to think that I have a better poker face than I thought, because he doesn’t seem to realize the direction my thoughts turned. “You have some blood on your chin.”