by Elise Faber
Crossing The Line
KTS #2
Elise Faber
CROSSING THE LINE
BY ELISE FABER
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
CROSSING THE LINE
Copyright © 2021 Elise Faber
Print ISBN-13: 978-1-63749-000-6
Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-946140-99-9
Cover Art by Jena Brignola
Contents
KTS Series
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Epilogue
Leveling The Field
KTS Series
Also by Elise Faber
About the Author
KTS Series
Prequel Novella
Fire and Ice (Hurt Anthology)
Full Length Books
Riding The Edge
Crossing The Line (March 22nd, 2021)
Leveling The Field (June 14th, 2021)
Chapter One
KTS Satellite Base
Western Georgia
16:22hrs
Olive
I strode down the hall.
Okay, maybe I stomped down the hall.
Mostly because of the man at my back.
He was absolutely infuriating.
Case in point, him coming up behind me, grabbing my arm, and turning me to face him. I could have jerked away, could have knocked him on his ass, but my biggest weakness as an agent for the private military operation, KTS, was also my best attribute as a doctor.
I didn’t like hurting people.
Even when they wanted to hurt me. Sure, I would do it if necessary. I could definitely do it if the circumstances required—if my life or the life of my fellow agents or the life of an innocent were threatened.
But I really hated it.
Which was why I simply glared at the infuriating man known as Linc when he yanked me to a halt and growled, “Those stitches were perfect, and you know it.”
It was in response to the insult I’d dropped just before striding down this hall. An insult I’d given because we always picked at each other. However, it wasn’t a warranted insult because the stitches he’d put into my teammate—my teammate!—were fucking perfect.
I was just upset because he’d put in those perfect stitches because I hadn’t been there to help.
And yes, I got that it was a stupid reason to be upset.
It was just. The man. Was so. Freaking. Infuriating.
Luckily (though was it really lucky?), I was used to being infuriated by Linc. Since the moment I’d been recruited to KTS—going from M.D. to field medic to secret agent—he’d made it a point to piss me off.
First, as the man I’d shadowed to learn the ropes at KTS, thus dealing with no little amount of condescension and disdain.
Then as a fellow doctor (one with an equal rank, thank me very much) on the committee I worked on during my non-mission time. Our job was to write policies and procedures, to authorize, create, and vet new cutting-edge medical treatments. But the man questioned literally—literally!—my every decision. He pushed and prodded and was beyond frustrating, even though I respected his attention to detail.
But now, the man had gone too far.
Because he was treating my teammates.
Teammates who’d needed his treatment. Teammates whose lives he’d probably saved—which wasn’t the point.
Nope.
The important point in the mental Olympics I was conducting was that the man was infuriating and annoying and . . . well, infuriating.
So. There.
Linc cleared his throat. “Am I keeping you?”
I smiled, knew it was sharp at the edges. “The stitches were perfect . . . ly adequate,” I told him, shaking off his hand and moving back down the hall.
“Perfectly ad—” He broke off, and I heard his footsteps trailing me.
Do not engage.
Do not engage.
I didn’t need to get drawn into yet another battle with this man.
Plus, if I hurried, I could make it to the airport in time to catch the plane back to England and be back, reviewing my policies and procedures, before the clock struck midnight.
Like some pathetic version of Cinderella.
Except instead of the pumpkin coach, I had my files.
Just as I preferred.
Ignoring the man dogging my steps, I pushed through the door that led into the underground garage and punched in my pin code on a panel hidden near the entrance. It slid open to reveal several sets of keys, each of which would work on the community cars that were parked here and available for KTS use.
This satellite base wasn’t large, and it didn’t have a built-in airstrip like the headquarters in England, but it wasn’t missing many of the creature comforts we’d become used to as agents.
Bonus in this case, since the key fobs were interchangeable, I would drive to the airport, park the car, and keep the set with me.
Another agent would pick the car up later and use it when they flew in.
Like those scooter rentals littering the sidewalk.
Only these were much nicer—and fully bulletproof—cars.
Also, let it be noted that I was thinking about cars and scooters and interchangeable key fobs because I was desperately trying to not think about Linc—and the fact that he was behind me, trailing very close, his spicy scent teasing my nose, his heat at my spine.
Or maybe that was my imagination.
Because there was one additional reason this man drove me crazy.
I wanted him.
So. Fucking. Bad.
But . . . I’d given it a shot. I’d worked up my courage. I’d asked him to go on a date with me.
And . . . he’d turned me down.
Flatly. Coldly. Without hesitation.
God, it was so critically embarrassing. I’d been beyond excited to ask him. Yes, I’d had a couple of drinks, but we’d been working together a lot, and he’d thawed out, been more relaxed. Truthfully, we’d been having a lot of fun together, sharing a few late nights, discussing difficult cases, eating over our laptops, and I’d thought . . .
I’d thought he’d felt that connection, too.
Clearly, I’d been wrong.
Beyond wrong.
“No, Olive,” he’d snapped when I’d invited him to dinner of the non-working variety. His gray eyes stormy and filled with frost, his lush mouth pressed flat, his tone cutting. “Not now. Not ever.”
And so, I’d closed that door. Permanently. Thrown a dead bolt, squirted liquid nails around the frame, hammered in some metal ones, just for good measure.
Because I wasn’t a glutton for punishment.
&
nbsp; A man treated me like shit? Well, he wasn’t ever getting another invitation from me, and I certainly wasn’t going to ever treat him with a modicum of friendship. Respect? Yes. Professionalism? Certainly.
But friendship or more?
Abso-fucking-lutely not.
He was dead to me and would remain so for all of eternity.
So, here we were. Me pretending to be annoyed, snapping at him so I forgot to be hurt. Him furious and snapping back, those angry eyes locked on me during every interaction.
It was the perfect workplace situation.
I loved it.
Also, this just in, I loved sarcasm just as much.
“Olive—”
He grabbed my arm again.
I shook him off. Again. “Don’t touch me,” I hissed.
He lifted his palms in surrender, stepped back.
I forced myself to take a breath, to grab on to a modicum of kindness and graciousness, like my grandmother had taught me. At the very least, I could end this torture with that. “Thank you for your work on my teammates.”
Gray eyes edged in storm clouds. That mouth not flat but rather plump and tempting. He stepped a little closer. “I don’t do this for thank yous.” A beat. “And I know you don’t either.”
I didn’t. But that also didn’t matter.
I shrugged, started to step away.
“I wanted to talk to you—”
Stopping, I met his eyes. “About what?”
Now, regret slipped into his expression. “About that night. I want you to know that I didn’t mean to—”
Oh lord, now he was going to give me some excuse for why he didn’t want to date me. How absolutely fucking pathetic. And miserable.
That, too.
“It’s fine,” I told him, lifting the key fob and striding toward the nearest car. “It’s for the best anyway—”
“Olive, I wanted—”
“Obviously, it wouldn’t have worked out. We’re too different, and we work together, and—”
“It wasn’t that I didn’t want you—”
I clicked the button to unlock the car, unable to hear anything but my pulse pounding in my ears, my embarrassment making the thrum-thrum nearly deafening. “I get it, Linc,” I told him. “Let’s just forget it happened.”
I yanked open the door.
And the world exploded.
Chapter Two
KTS Satellite Base
Western Georgia
16:30hrs
Linc
I heard the click.
And was moving before my brain fully processed what that meant, grabbing Olive around the waist and yanking her away from the car, diving behind a large concrete pillar just as the explosion detonated.
That force sent me crashing into the support beam, and I shifted, pinning Olive beneath me just as a rush of heat blasted over us.
Loud.
That was all I could process at first, just the roar of the explosion, my ears screaming in protest, my eyes slamming shut against the bright light and the debris flying.
Something hit me hard in the back, hard enough to make all the air squeeze out of my lungs, pain radiating along my spine. But I couldn’t focus on the hurt burning through me, not when, at the same time, Olive cried out beneath me—a sharp shriek of agony that had any discomfort of my own immediately disappearing.
I pushed off her, finding my feet, my gaze assessing the space, making sure it wasn’t at risk of collapse.
The garage appeared mostly intact, a scorch mark on one wall, concrete chipped off in some places to reveal the rebar beneath, but for the most part unscathed. Impressive, especially considering the force of the blast we’d just experienced. On the other hand, the cars—bulletproof but not bomb-proof, a fact I made note of to have the technology section of KTS remedy as quickly as possible—were crumpled in on themselves and one another, twisted metal thrown in all directions.
“It looks safe enough,” I said, “but we should—”
“Your back,” Olive whispered.
A note in her voice had me turning back to face her, guilt ricocheting through my insides as I realized I should have assessed her for injuries first.
“Fuck.”
I dropped to my knees, tearing off my shirt, ignoring the burst of pain the movement caused. I folded the material into a pad, quickly pressed it to the huge gash on her abdomen.
“Your back,” she breathed. “Bleeding . . .”
Not nearly as much as she was.
“Ol—”
Her hands covered mine, taking over on the pad, somehow holding it in place even though her skin was beyond pale, her fingers trembling.
“Get help,” she ordered.
Knowing there was nothing further I could do for her and understanding that the only way I could help her was to go get that help, I shot to my feet, running for the door into the facility.
It burst open before I could reach it, my teammates flooding out, guns in hand, body armor strapped on.
“Jack,” I said to the first person who’d run through the door. “Grab a stretcher.” I reached inside, snagged the med pack that hung just inside the door, sprinting back to Olive, and dropping to my knees. I tore the kit open with no heed to sanitization or organization, tossing everything aside except for the one thing I needed.
The special bandage this woman and I had just trialed and approved.
I tore it open with my teeth, yanking away the T-shirt, then slapping the bandage over the wound, knowing it was the only thing that would work to stem the flow of blood until I could get her to the operating room.
“Radio down,” I ordered Hannah, my team leader. “Tell them to prep OR 2.”
Lily, another trained medic, dropped down next to me. “What do you need?”
I began rattling off orders.
Olive coughed, and I couldn’t ignore the fact that it brought up blood. “Relax,” she said, wiping the back of her hand over her lips, leaving her skin stained red. “It’s just a little internal bleeding.”
“Shut up,” I snapped, knowing it would give her more fodder for her teasing about my lack of bedside manner, but the woman was bleeding out and making jokes.
For fuck’s sake.
With a sharp tug—one that made her cry out and one that killed me inside—I secured the special bandage. It was an upgrade on our old clotting pack and would keep her stable until I could get her onto the operating table.
“Where the fuck is Jack?” I snapped.
“Here.”
Lily jumped up and helped me prep the stretcher, and then with a quick flurry of movements, we got Olive onto it and were sprinting down the halls with her.
“Linc, put on a shirt,” Olive ordered as we pushed into the room and lifted her onto the table. “Katie”—the nurse who was currently manning the infirmary—“get a line in my arm and push fifty mils of TXA . . .”
Her head flopped back, the arm she’d lifted in the direction of Katie flopping to the table as she lost unconsciousness.
I grabbed a scrub top, since that was the logical—and sanitary—thing to do, and yanked it on.
Katie glanced at me, already putting the line in.
“Make it a hundred mils,” I told her, yanking on a clean pair of pants and shoes for good measure then stepping to the sink to scrub my hands and arms. My back was screaming, but it felt like the bleeding had stopped, so I knew that the injury there could wait.
Olive couldn’t.
By the time my shoes were covered and my scrub cap tugged on, the line was in, fluids and the clotting drug KTS had developed were being pumped into her. Katie was monitoring her vitals, and another nurse had come in to assist. Mask and shield on, gloves on, and then I was stepping up to the unconscious body of the woman who’d both infuriated and made me near crazed with sexual desire in equal parts over the last years.
“Ready for a transfusion,” I said to Lily, who had just completed her residency in order to be a more valuable asset
to the squad.
“Blood type?” she asked.
I shouldn’t know.
I didn’t have a single reason to know.
Except . . . that I knew everything about this woman. Which is why I could say, “AB-positive.”
No one questioned me knowing that. They should have—because how could I have possibly known that, especially for an agent who wasn’t on my team. But thankfully, no one said a word. Lily just went to the phone, ordered up several bags of A-positive, since that was on hand and compatible with Olive’s blood type, and then came back to my side and assisted me.
“Ready?” I asked, reaching for the corner of the bandage.
Lily nodded, grabbing some supplies. “Go.”
I peeled back the bandage, and she packed the wound, slowing the bleeding as I worked to tie off the blood vessels, to find a permanent solution that would stop the flow. Clamping and cauterizing and suturing, focusing not on the woman and all my conflicted feelings, not on the people in the room with me, not on the blood flowing over my gloved hands and Lily continually replacing the packing, not on the transfusion being administered.
I was solely focused on the wound.
On finding every last source of bleeding.
On not stopping until I was able to save this woman’s life.
Because I had to save this woman’s life.
And then finally, everything was closed up, the bleeding was under control, and I was able to step back, to ask Lily to close the wound as I staggered to the next room and tore off my gloves, heart pounding, chest heaving, head hanging.
“She’ll pull through,” Lily said when she came in.
