by Kells, India
It took all of Sam’s experience not to react. Lance’s body was injured, but his attention and brain weren’t. “I went in to gather information. Yes, I’ve been keeping an eye on Orla Karlsen. She’s moved quickly and gained access to the information we could use.”
The former Navy Seal eyed him for a long moment and nodded.
Lance turned and stumbled a little. Sam being the closest rushed forward and steadied him, careful of his bad side. But when the man’s strong hands closed hard on the back of his neck and arm, Sam tensed. Lance appeared to need help to the two other team members, but Sam realized he was the one in trouble.
In a low voice only he could hear, Lance gave him a piece of his mind. “I believe you when you say she’s an asset. I believe you that she’s a lead that will help us, a sort of ally, but don’t think I don’t know you fucked her in that garage. I don’t mind where you’re putting your dick, but I don’t want this mission, or our organization compromised. I won’t tolerate it. Am I making myself clear?”
As he helped lower Lance to his chair, Sam nodded. He knew the difference between emotions and lust. It was obvious he was attracted to the woman; there was something about her that made his body hum. However, she was the best lead they had to stop the incoming Phantom release in the city. That took precedence, and even if he was honest enough with himself to care about the woman, he wasn’t about to get sidetracked. Not now, not ever.
Chapter Twelve
Her body and mind were turning against her, and there was nothing Orla could do. It was as if two forces battled inside her; one was begging her to take cover, to hide from impending danger, the other screaming at her to get up and fight.
Orla knew she was safe in her apartment and wasn’t in danger, nor in the middle of a war zone, and she fought memories and emotions her brain brought to the surface that tried to convince her otherwise. This was Chicago; she was safe. She’d escaped a firefight because of her reaction, experience, and skills. Why then was she hiding in the corner, holding the briefcase like a lifeline and trying to bring herself back to reality?
So cold it hurt to move, her muscles seized. Her therapist’s voice whispered in her head, telling her to take her meds if she needed to, to reach out if she was in trouble, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.
Air burned like fire, the sensation of drowning growing, and her vision tunneled and slowly closed in on her, even though she knew the light in her kitchen was on.
“It’s only anxiety; you can push through.”
The mantra made her shiver, triggering her to painfully crawl to her bed. Her medication was on her bedside table, as her panic attacks tended to happen following a nightmare. However, from the way she was shaking, the short distance appeared impossible to cover in her tortured mind.
Her heart beat fast, trying to tear itself out of her chest, so much that she pressed her palm against it to keep it in. Orla prayed for it to end, and as she took in breath after breath, her heart rate slowed and the living room seemed brighter.
“Orla!”
Despite the buzzing in her ears, the voice modulator over the male tone couldn’t be ignored. The Vigilante. How he’d got into her apartment, hell, her secured building, was another matter entirely. She felt him approach from the side before crouching next to her. He moved fast, and she jumped away in pure reaction. From what she knew of him, her reaction was ridiculous. If this man intended to kill her, she’d already be dead. Death was a welcome option.
“Are you hurt?”
Before she could formulate words, he was tugging at the large black coat still covering her body. His touch was harsh, clinical, and had the effect of both grounding her, and causing the little warmth she’d conserved to dissipate. She didn’t shiver, but her muscles bunched even more, and the cold finally helped clear her mind, and she looked at him.
He had a thick black mask molding his face; the material almost seemed like it was absorbing light. His gloved hands touched her cheek, giving her more time to observe him. The few times she’d seen him, he was in the shadows where he blended in so well.
Now, in the soft glow of light, the vigilante was a large and powerful figure, as frightening as the mask covering his features and his eyes, almost turning him into a tall, dangerous, alien -like creature.
Satisfied she hadn’t been harmed, he closed the coat over her, leaned back on his haunches, took a deep breath, and placed his elbows on his knees. “Are you okay, Orla? Talk to me.”
Tired, but knowing she was better, she signaled to him to help her stand. She’d regained some control, but she wasn’t stupid enough to not take one of her pills.
Wobbly at first, Orla leaned on him until she’d recovered her balance, and was reminded immediately of his strength when he’d held her, fucked her. That and the smell of leather, gas, and neoprene that now filled her nose.
With the firm intention of not letting the unexpected lust cloud her already weakened mind, Orla picked up the briefcase, stepped away from the vigilante, and headed for her room.
Her free hand skimmed the wall leading to the back of her apartment, steading her, so she didn’t fall on her face. The man followed but kept his hands to himself. Orla would’ve preferred he’d stayed in the living room, and when she finally stepped over the threshold of her bedroom, she kicked the door closed in his face.
Part of her wished he’d kick the door open, but instead, he knocked. A gentlemanly vigilante, that was something else, another piece of information she tucked away for later because even though she’d been sidetracked by the Phantom investigation, she wasn’t ready to give up on her other investigation.
“Orla, we need to talk.”
“Yeah, I guessed as much. You probably already know what happened earlier. I would’ve said hello, but I was unexpectedly swept away by an anxiety attack.” It was never easy to admit, but there was no other way to say it. Instead of wallowing, she grabbed the pill bottle stashed in her drawer and swallowed a pill.
“Is this caused by your PTSD? Does it happen often?”
Her body froze for an instant. “How did you know that?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t check up on you? On your past?”
Duh. If she knew who he was, she would’ve done the same. Moving quickly, she ditched the coat and gold bikini to put on warmer clothes. “A side effect of covering wars. It comes at a price, but even with what I know now, I wouldn’t change a thing. I accept my decisions and the consequences that come with them. And no, it doesn’t happen often. Thank God. I think it was simply triggered by last night’s events. Bad memories came to the surface. If I’d known there was going to be that type of action, I would’ve been mentally prepared. But it happened, and now it’s over.”
The panic was slowly receding, and by taking deeper breaths, her state of mind improved. Lacing her boots, she took her messenger bag checking for her phone before remembering it was in the clutch she’d left at the theater. “Fuck!”
Without knocking this time, the vigilante came in and looked around, one hand on the gun strapped to his hip. “What?”
“I forgot my phone. It was in my clutch. Shit!” Pissed at herself, she knew it was too late to go back and get it. And the police would have found it by now, and there’d be hell to pay.
Cursing at herself, she stopped mid-sentence when the vigilante reached in his pocket and produced her clutch. Her phone was inside, along with a bunch of tissues and make-up.
“How did you get it?”
The man didn’t move. “I have my ways. The important thing is you have it back.”
“You had someone on the inside?” A few faces popped into her mind, including Sloane’s and Sam’s. Especially Sam’s.
“You think I wouldn’t keep an eye on you? That I’d trust Damon Evans to keep you safe? Damn, the man thought more about his own safety than yours last night.”
Orla didn’t hold a grudge against the biker. He’d told her he would only open the door. And when the firefig
ht began, he was too far away from her to protect her. It wasn’t his fault. Also, he has left tons of messages asking if she was all right. When she finally told him she was safe and sound and asked when she’d see him again, he dismissed her and told her he was going out of town on MC business. Orla suspected he planned on keeping a low profile for a while. It seemed cowardly to her, but she couldn’t blame the guy. Another part of her didn’t want to burn that bridge; Damon Evans may become a valuable informer in the future if she played her cards right. After all, she’d promised Deva she would only contact him once when given the number.
“Who was working for you?”
The man shrugged. “It’s not important. We’re working toward the same goal.”
“Maybe the same goal, but not on the same team. A team member would’ve told me what he’d intended to do.”
He took a step toward her, and it took everything not to step back. “And you were straightforward with your intention to ask Evans for a favor? Did it skip your mind to tell me what you had planned?”
He didn’t move a muscle, but she could feel the rising waves of his anger. It was clear he wouldn’t explode, but there was something else weighing on his mind, almost like he was disappointed in her.
It was another avenue to explore, but not now. “It happened fast. We spoke yesterday morning, and he told me there was a party last night. I don’t want to seem like a brat, but it’s not as if I had any way to reach you. By the way, you just told me you had allies on the inside. Now, who’s keeping information to themselves?”
Another wave of anger crashed against her, and this one wasn’t reassuring at all. Orla took a step back this time. For an instant, she’d forgotten the type of man that stood before her. A violent killer and executioner. A vigilante.
His energy immediately changed, and he angled his head slightly. She almost laughed at the sight it presented. “You think I’d hurt you? Even I have principles, and unless you become a threat to my mission or myself, you have nothing to fear from me.”
“Or I become a liability. You’ve forgotten that, or more precisely what I am.” A journalist, an investigator. The words could very well be more frightening to him than her aiming a gun at him.
“I know who you are, what you are, and what you do. I also know the kind of woman you are and how truth and justice are anchored deeply into your soul. Otherwise, why would you have risked your life to uncover a child slavery ring in Turkey or gone after a dangerous pedophile across Europe? You’ve visited the vilest, most dangerous locations in the world, and even scarred and traumatized, you continue to put your life on the line. I trust you. To an extent.”
He had investigated her, and everything he said was true, but she rarely thought about it. “And what about you? Who are you under all that black? You won’t answer questions, and you work outside the law. A criminal handing out justice to criminals.”
Orla’s heart slammed in her chest when he stepped closer. How she wished she could see his expression, his eyes. Who was he under the mask and the words he didn’t say? It was the first time since she’d become a journalist she doubted her instincts. In any situation, everything was a definite yes or a no, but when he was around, attraction messed with her emotions. That and the fact people’s lives were at risk if she didn’t succeed. And success may very well mean trusting him.
“We do what’s necessary. Both of us. You and me, Orla.” He took another step, but this time, she braced herself, not giving an inch. “Situations change, so do people and decisions. I’m not a traitor, but if the situation arises and I have to choose between shutting down this drug ring and saving your life, you’ll be on the losing side.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “And so will you, partner. Do we kiss now to seal the deal?”
His shoulders relaxed, and she guessed he was smiling underneath his mask. “That would mean revealing my identity, and I’m not dumb enough to do that in front of a journalist such as yourself. Now, we’d better get to work. What’s in that briefcase you were clutching like a lifeline when I came in? I saw you on camera fleeing with it.”
Without any reason to deny or delay, Orla turned to the bed where she had slung the black briefcase.
“It’s was pure luck, I guess. I came across a door being guarded by a man not long before the attack. I recognized him during the shooting; he was one of Mr. Black’s bodyguards. When I escaped, the door was open and unguarded. A phone was ringing, and it drew my attention. I needed a coat, and when I took it, I saw the briefcase and grabbed it as well. I have no idea if there’s anything of any significance in it. With our luck, it’s full of useless papers.”
The vigilante crouched beside the bed and checked the clasp. “Coded. We’ll need more than just luck to open it.”
He hesitated and then turned his head, putting his fingers to his chest. “Hey! Can you take a look at the camera and tell me what you think?”
Orla didn’t like the one-sided conversation, but if the man had connections that allowed them to access what was inside quickly, she’d deal with it. She thought he’d start playing with the dials in an attempt to open it, but instead, he stood in a rush and cursed. “We need to go, now.”
His order had a weird sound to it. He grabbed both the case and her wrist and dragged her to the door.
“Hey! What’s going on? Where are we going?”
It was only when they were through the door and into the stairwell to the garage that the vigilante deigned to answer her. “I’ve been informed that this particular model is equipped with a GPS tracker. We don’t know if someone has discovered it’s missing, or if anyone is after it, but we can’t stay here like sitting ducks.”
They were one flight away from reaching the garage when he stopped her again and stood immobile. This time, she heard a faint voice coming from his earpiece, but couldn’t make out the actual words.
He cursed, and they headed back up, but only to the second floor this time. “Strange car just entered the garage, packed with too many people in it to be normal. That’s not a good sign.”
They ran to the other side of the hallway toward the other staircase that led to the back of the building.
The vigilante touched his chest again. “Dev, we need a way out. Now. Potential incoming from the underground garage.”
Orla didn’t react but filed that new name in her mind for a later time. Dev. Who was he or she? An associate?
Whether the new players were there to help or not, Orla ran, holding on to the gloved hand, keeping her wits together, especially if danger was gnawing at their heels.
Just as they reached the fire door, the vigilante let go of her hand and handed her the briefcase before pulling out a gun. Placing himself between her and the door, he cracked it open, checking the coast was clear.
“Stay close. We don’t have eyes everywhere, and you aren’t wearing body armor.”
Her old flak jacket, currently hanging in the back of her closet, popped into her mind. Maybe she should have put in on instead of her canvas jacket.
The noise of the city almost was too loud. It was still dark and cold, but the sky held a tinge of pink as the sun slowly rose.
They dashed toward the street, keeping to the shadows. Before they reached the boulevard, he stopped, and she noticed a small black car. The vigilante changed direction and went to work on the door. Within seconds, he had it unlocked and had opened the door for her when gunfire sounded.
Everything happened so fast, Orla didn’t have time to react when the vigilante stepped between their attackers and her, completely blocking her view.
Part of her expected a wave of panic to bring her down, and it almost happened, until the sound of bullets hitting him brought her back to reality. He’d placed himself in front of her as a human shield, protecting her. A scream seized in her throat, but she had to act fast. They had to get out of there now.
With only one goal in mind, Orla crawled into the car until she could access the driver’s side, under
the wheel, hoping the car was as old as the one in Kandahar she’d had to jump-start more than once back in the day.
When the engine roared to life, she scrambled into the driver’s seat and prayed the vigilante was still standing. She got her answer when his tall frame folded in beside her. Not waiting for him to close the door, she put her foot to the floor, and the car shot away from the curb. In fact, he left the door opened and fired back a few times as a couple of stray bullets hit the trunk until they turned the corner.
Orla forced herself to slow, no need to attract attention, and risked a look at her passenger.
He was breathing hard, leaning back in his seat, one gun in his hand, the other gripping his chest.
“Are you hurt?” Keeping one hand on the wheel, she reached out for him, running her palm over his chest in search of blood. “We need to find a place to stop and...”
“No stopping.” His voice was a breathless, wheezy growl. “We have a tracker on us. If we stop, we’re dead.”
It was tempting to throw the briefcase out the window, but before she could even attempt it, the vigilante spoke. “Dev...”
Orla listened to the one-sided conversation, with the vigilante answering with yes or no until he nodded. “Yeah, got the address. We’re on our way.”
“Where are we going?
The vigilante sighed. “A place we can take care of the tracker, lay low for a while, and we can discover what’s in that damn briefcase. It better be fucking gold or a list containing every one of those dumbasses names otherwise, I’m going back and tuning those men into sieves.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sam was glad they reached the address Devin had given him before the sun had fully risen. He would’ve been surprised Devin had directed them to Gamespyr’s headquarters, his multi-billion video game empire, but several bullets had hit his body armor and he was feeling the effects. Pain pulsed through his chest, stealing his focus.
