Laura Kaye: Hard As You Can

As abruptly as he’d pulled her in, he pushed her away. She wobbled on her heels. “Wait in my office. I’ll be back.” Grasping her jaw almost painfully, Bruno kissed her hard. His lips and tongue demanded she respond, so she did. And then he was gone, out the same door through which the prisoner’s saviors had gone.

Were they truly saviors? Were they even good guys? For the imprisoned man—whoever he was—she hoped so. Given Pretty Boy’s revulsion at her words, her gut told her they were. And if there was one thing she’d gotten better and better at over the past four years of living this life, it was reading people, seeing them for who they really were. And her gut told her that the man with the gray eyes was a savior.

Just not hers.

No, when she found a way out of this mess—and she would, for both her and Jenna—it was going to be because Crystal got them out. No such thing as white knights or Prince Charmings or caped crusaders in her life, that was for damn sure. The one time she’d thought otherwise, she’d ended up with a man who had no qualms about hitting her.

Alone in the dim hallway, the events of the past few moments sank in. Trembling, thoughts scattered, body aching, Crystal made her way down the dim hallway to the office suite. As she had a little while before, she let herself in and moved through the inner sanctum to Bruno’s office. Raised voices argued behind the door at the back of the suite. Crystal wanted no part of what might be going on in there. They’d wanted things perfect around here for Church’s deal, and she suspected part of it might’ve been carried out the back door mere minutes before. If Church was in there, he was going to be hungry for blood.

And she was rather fond of hers.

She slipped into Bruno’s office and held her breath as she closed the door so quietly, the latch didn’t even make a noise. Her body molded to the black leather sofa that filled one wall, and cold suddenly painted over her skin as if someone had cranked up the air-conditioning. What she wouldn’t have given for her comfy jeans and a sweatshirt instead of this ridiculous piece of lingerie.

Alone in the stillness of the room, the enormity of the risk she’d just taken for a complete stranger washed over her.

Tremors wracked her muscles, shaking her bones until the effort to hold it together hurt. So many times tonight she’d taken a chance. And for what? God, if she’d been seen talking to them, or hesitating before she screamed. Or if someone had noticed that the man hadn’t actually punched her. Jesus, what if any of it had been captured by one of the security cameras?

She’d been conscious of them at the time, and her gut told her she was probably okay there. There were far more out front than in the rear of the building given that access was usually controlled so tightly. With two exceptions, the cameras all monitored the external doors. The only other cameras recorded who came through the curtain from the club floor and who went into the back offices. So, yeah. It was probably fine.

Please, God, let it be fine.

Hugging herself, she just barely managed to keep it together. Her gaze went blurry as she stared at a spot on the far wall and willed her emotions under control.

“Sara,” she said, whispering her real name out loud. “Sara. Sara. Sara.” Sometimes, saying the name out loud, the name no one but Jenna ever called her anymore, was the only thing that made her feel present in her body. Once, there’d been a girl named Sara, and her life had been good. One day, Sara would live again. “Sara. Sara. Sara.”

Until then, she’d wait. And act. And survive.

S till riding the buzz of last night’s op, Shane McCallan ran down the empty street, dodging potholes, garbage, and the occasional discarded needle, and attempted to clear his head of the shitstorm that had parked itself in his cranium overnight.

The one that had featured his thirteen-year-old self, his eight-year-old sister, and the single biggest failure of his entire life.

Damnit all to hell and back, why had the nightmare returned?

Once a staple of his subconscious mind, he hadn’t dreamed of Molly’s disappearance for years. Not because the guilt didn’t still eat at him—it did. And not because her loss didn’t still weigh on his chest until it was hard to breathe, because that was true, too. Even all these years later.

But he’d perfected the art of driving himself into a state of exhaustion so acute his body shut down everything in favor of a few critical hours of REM sleep, his mind included. So he didn’t dream anymore. At all. Not of Molly or anything else.

Until last night.

And good goddamnit if this wasn’t just one more reason to hate Colonel Frank Merritt. If his former commander hadn’t gotten greedier than a starving hog at feeding time, Shane would still have the job that wrung him out better than anything else he’d ever found, not to mention his friends, his professional reputation, and his honor. Instead, a year ago, Merritt had betrayed the Special Forces team he commanded to make a little coin on the side, resulting in the deaths of six good men on their team and the other-than-honorable discharge of the five survivors, himself included.

Turning a corner, Shane ran past a car up on blocks and stripped to its skeletal frame. He knew Baltimore had some rough neighborhoods, but this one was so run-down that both sides of the tracks were wrong. Why the hell had Nick and his brother opened a tattoo shop here, of all places? Abandoned buildings with boarded and broken windows and layers of graffiti covering the old brickwork were the norm. Close to the waterfront, the old, industrial area had probably once been hopping with port-related business. Now, it was just a sorry mess.

The blight and deterioration opened it up wide for criminal activity, which was why Shane had wanted to get out and eyeball the geography around Hard Ink for himself. Having taken a bullet during the getaway chase from Confessions last night, his shoulder wasn’t in love with this idea. But it had only been a surface wound. No biggie. Still, it was goddamned ironic that the first time he’d ever been shot in his life happened after ten years of active duty service and innumerable deployments to all kinds of places nobody wanted to go. GSW or no, the former intelligence officer in him itched for a full rundown of their surroundings. Given the enemies they’d racked up in the past twenty-four hours, they needed all the intel they could gather. That the running might clear the cobwebs of the past from his mind was just a lucky twofer.

As his sneakers pounded out a rhythmic pace on the cracked blacktop, Shane pondered the return of the nightmare.

Maybe Nick Rixey was responsible for it. Wanting to help Becca Merritt, their former commander’s daughter, find her missing brother, Shane’s best friend—or former best friend, or whatever the fuck they were now—had called together what was left of their discredited and discharged Special Forces team for the brother’s recon and rescue. And everyone from the team—himself, Edward “Easy” Cantrell, Beckett Murda, and Derek “Marz” DiMarzio—had dropped everything and come to Baltimore. Because that’s what brothers did. Especially those forged by war and not blood.

So maybe the reunion, strained as it was by the fubar of a past they all shared and the danger of the present operation they didn’t yet fully understand, was responsible for rattling things loose in his head that had long been secured in place.

Maybe.

Or maybe it was the operation itself. After all, it wasn’t any great leap to think that finding and saving Becca’s brother Charlie might’ve resurrected memories about Shane’s own missing sister. The one no one had ever found and sure as shit hadn’t saved.