21. Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Day 7 San Bernardino, California
“You keep grinding your teeth like that and you’ll be bunking with the base dentist.” Cosky shot him a derisive look from his seat across the aisle. “Trust me, O’Neill’s not putting the moves on Demi.”
Aiden’s jaw tightened, not because of O’Neill. Even if the asshole was hitting on Demi, she wouldn’t reciprocate. Not in front of him. Nor would she troll for a new dude so soon after their breakup. He forced himself to relax. Besides, that kiss they’d shared earlier had been too intense, too emotional. She wouldn’t have kissed him like that if she really planned on going through with this breakup.
The teeth grinding and tension had nothing to do with O’Neill and everything to do with Demi—with the way she was ignoring him. Would it kill her to acknowledge his existence? But this wasn’t the time or place to hash out their relationship. Not with an audience of assholes clustered around him who were sure to rate his reconciliation attempt in the negative and follow that up with a bombardment of unhelpful advice.
The view from his window changed as the plane rolled down the runway. Metal sheds gave way to crisp, yellow grass, then chain link fencing, and finally the rounded tips of Ponderosa Pines as the plane took to the sky.
Although he couldn’t hear its demonic yowling, he knew the damn cat was on board. The duct-taped kennel had vanished when he’d dragged his captive from Hotch’s van to the jet. No doubt O’Neill had facilitated the cat’s boarding. It was exactly the kind of dick move the asshole would make. Aiden’s argument with Demi had gotten loud. Everyone knew he didn’t want the damn cat on board, didn’t want it near Demi. So, of course, O’Neill—the bastard—would gleefully lug the creature on board and hide it at the back of the plane.
He rolled his shoulders to soothe the building ache in his muscles. Once Demi calmed down, she’d realize he’d simply been worried about her. Another shoulder roll was followed by a deep breath. He shifted his frustration from Demi to the long-faced, zip-tied asshole strapped to the chair in front of him.
AKA—the bastard who’d gone after his woman. Big, BIG mistake.
Tag and Tram hadn’t interrogated the asshole back at the condo. Their priority had been getting Demi to safety. Hotch and his team, however, had been blessed with more time and lethal rage. They’d crewed with Squirrel and Lurch in the past, considered them brothers. They’d wanted answers, wanted to know who’d set up that Karaveht clusterfuck. Aiden understood their rage and their need for answers. He shared both.
The asshole across from him was showing the facial bruising and swelling of fist persuasion. Puffy, pinkish red around the eyes. The bulbous swelling, redness, and faint traces of blood from a recently broken nose. A split lip. The injuries were fresh, mere hours old. They would turn colorful and dramatic over the following days.
Hotch’s team hadn’t gotten even one answer to their many questions. Aiden still didn’t know who’d hired them, or where they’d planned on taking Demi, or who was behind the slaughter at Karaveht and the massacre of his team.
His calculating gaze shifted back to the bastard in front of him. Fists hadn’t worked, but they had other options available to them. Drugs would drag every bit of info out of them. According to Cosky, Shadow Mountain had developed the kind of kickass interrogation drugs that ripped information from unwilling minds.
The asshole wouldn’t be holding onto his secrets much longer.
He made a show of studying the dude’s clothes—the officer whites with the rinky-dink trident pinned to the lapel. The medals and ribbons on display outed him as a fake to anyone who knew what they were looking at.
“Where did you get your costume? Toys “R” Us?” He crossed his arms and stared at the bastard’s decorated chest. Some of the red on those ribbons and metals were splotches of blood.
The asshole shrugged, then laid his head back and closed his eyes.
“Good call,” Aiden taunted. “Rest up. We’ve got painful plans for you.”
“Keep dreaming,” the killer in the priest costume gloated from the row ahead. “You’ll get nothing from us.”
Aiden scoffed loudly. “Trust me, you’ll sing like a canary during mating season.”
These bastards must know who hired them. He could work his way to the bot bomb’s mastermind from there. It wouldn’t surprise him if the name they spilled was Grigory Kuznetsov. The Russian arms dealer had to be involved somehow.
O’Neill stood, carrying the cat carrier by its handle, and stepped into the aisle. Aiden ignored the movement until Demi followed him up and out. They headed toward the back of the plane.
What the hell were they up to? Curious, Aiden unclipped his seatbelt and rose to his feet.
“Try not to be an ass.” Cosky’s unsolicited advice followed Aiden down the aisle.
He shot his brother-in-law the middle finger over his shoulder. By the time he reached the pair at the back of the plane, O’Neill had set the crate down in front of the john.
“Are you sure?” Demi’s face was lined with concern. “He’s calm now, but he can be a handful. Once you cut the duct tape from the door, there will be nothing to stop him from attacking. Maybe we should wait—” She stopped talking as soon as O’Neill shook his head.
“Look.” O’Neill opened the john’s door. “There’s plenty of room for me and the crate. Once I close the door, he’ll be trapped. If I get his morning doses into him now, he’ll only be a couple of hours late, instead of a whole dose late.” He turned back to Demi and held out his hand. “His meds?” The bastard looked right at Aiden but didn’t acknowledge him.
“The dosage is on each bottle.” Demi pulled two small plastic bottles—one white and one light blue—from her pocket and pressed them into O’Neill’s hands.
It didn’t take military intelligence to piece together what was going on. O’Neill had taken over the cat’s care. Perfect. The bastard’s tanned arms would look just fine with bloody ribbons of skin hanging off them.
O’Neill lifted the kennel and shuffled forward, setting it on the toilet lid. The door shut behind him with a forceful click. Demi eased forward, her head—with its spiky aqua hair—tilted. Her forehead scrunched.
She was so damn cute. He rubbed at the ache spreading through his chest.
“You know I wouldn’t have hurt your cat, right?” And then, just in case she hadn’t connected the dots. “I was concerned, that’s all. Cat claws are full of bacteria…infection. Hell, dozens of people die from infections brought on by cat scratches every year.”
He pulled the number out of thin air and offered her a coaxing smile. She turned, nailing him with a glance he couldn’t interpret.
“Dozens, huh?” She scoffed, then turned back to the door, this time leaning in slightly.
At least she hadn’t told him to go to hell. That was progress, right? “What are you listening for?”
This time, she didn’t look at him. “Growling.”
He cocked his head. “From O’Neill or the cat?”
“Either. Or.” She finally pulled back from the door, but the worry never left her face. “It’s just…weird. To give Trident his medicine, O’Neill will have to take him out of the carrier and pry his mouth open.” She grimaced, absently skimming her right fingers down the scratches on her left arm. “Trident makes it very clear—with a lot of noise—that he doesn’t appreciate being handled. But I don’t hear any growling. There should be lots of growling by now.” She glanced at Aiden. “Do you hear anything?”
Aiden gave it a good listen. “Nope. Nothing.”
Demi nodded, confusion joining the anxiety on her face. “Which is just…weird. O’Neill says cats like him, but we’re talking about Trident, and that cat doesn’t like anyone .”
Trident? That was the third time she’d called the cat that. “You named him Trident?”
Her shoulders jerked and then her spine snapped straight, but she didn’t look at him. “Yes, I did.” Her tone chilled. “You have a problem with that?”
He backed up a step, his eyebrows rising. “Not at all. I’m just…surprised.”
If Demi hated his career as much as Kait said, why would she name her cat after the SEAL symbol of honor, courage, and commitment? Maybe she didn’t detest his career as much as Kait thought.
“Yeah?” She finally glanced at him.
The skin above her nose wrinkled. He recognized the scrunch. It meant her mind was wandering. He wanted to lean in and kiss the crinkle. But such intimacy might not be welcome now. Fuck—everything was so off-kilter. So damn awkward.
“O’Neill hates the name,” Demi said absently, the faintest trace of a curve to her lips. “He said it’s a candy-assed, pussy name.”
Aiden stiffened. Candy-assed ? Pussy?
“Trident’s a fine name,” Aiden snapped. “O’Neill doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Besides, it was Demi’s cat. She could name it what she wanted. If O’Neill thought otherwise, Aiden would be sure to disabuse him of that misconception.
Day 7 Somewhere in the sky
When O’Neill finally opened the bathroom door and slipped into the hall next to Demi, he didn’t have a mark on him. No scratches. No bites. No blood. No shredded skin. Bemused, Demi looked from O’Neill to the kennel sitting on the toilet seat. The door to the crate was closed, but the duct tape securing it had been sliced. She squatted to get a better look inside the carrier, which was just sitting there…silently. Trident was a fluffy orange ball curled at the back. His glowing green eye locked on her face. He didn’t growl, but his lips curled back, exposing needle-sharp teeth.
She rose, doubt stirring. Had O’Neill actually taken the cat out of the carrier? There was no proof he’d given Trident his meds. At least none of the evidence she was used to seeing. Like scratches and blood, or smears of white liquid on clothing and skin. When he handed the plastic bottles to her, she surreptitiously weighed each against her memory. Were they lighter? She couldn’t tell.
“Did he take the full doses?” She tried to keep the suspicion out of her voice. It wasn’t the end of the world if he was lying about getting the meds into Trident. Worse case, the cat would miss a dose. She’d make sure he got his next one.
“Like a good little soldier.” O’Neill looked far too self-satisfied. “He drank some water, too. He won’t cause you any more problems.”
“I heard no growling.” She made a production of scanning his arms. “I don’t see blood.”
With a shrug, O’Neill reached for the kennel’s handle. “He likes me.”
As he turned, holding the kennel out in front of him, she got another look inside the carrier. This time, Trident’s head was curled into his flank.
“He’s sleeping!” Shock reverberated through her. “I’ve never seen him sleep.”
O’Neill smirked, looking extremely pleased with himself. “Sleeping is a dangerous activity if you’re injured, in unfamiliar territory, and don’t trust the people caring for you.”
Riiight. Did the dude really think that his mere presence had put Trident at such ease the cat could fall asleep in an instant? Kind of egotistical, wasn’t it?
“So, he feels comfortable enough with you, after what, thirty minutes? That he can let down his guard and sleep?”
O’Neill shrugged. “Looks like it.” He shrugged again. “After all, his majesty is sleeping.”
Demi’s eyebrows quirked. “His majesty?”
It was one of the less judgmental nicknames she’d given the cat, but she couldn’t remember calling him that in front of O’Neill.
“He prefers that name.” O’Neill’s voice and face were deadpan. When he turned to face the aisle, irritation flickered in his eyes. His voice chilled. “How ‘bout giving us some room?”
Demi glanced in the direction he was staring. Aiden wiped a hand down his face, his fingers lingering over his mouth like he was locking his response inside. Annoyed black eyes met irritated green ones. Neither man gave an inch. At this rate, they’d still be standing there four hours from now when the plane landed.
She turned, squeezing past O’Neill and the cat carrier. “I’m going to use the restroom. When I come out, I hope you two have moved past this juvenile impasse.”
By the time she exited the bathroom, both men were sitting again. She returned to her previous seat. O’Neill was stretched back, eyes closed. All relaxed, arrogant male. It was too bad she didn’t get any quivers, goosebumps, or butterflies when she looked at him. She grimaced. Sadly, Aiden was the only man who set her hormones ablaze. It was going to be hard to find someone new. She sighed and settled deeper into her chair, staring at O’Neill’s closed eyes. Something told her he wasn’t sleeping.
“Did Trident’s wounds look okay? Was there any sign of infection?” She hadn’t seen any that morning, but infection and reinjury were a constant worry. As was the fear she wasn’t caring for the cat properly.
O’Neill’s tawny eyebrows knit. He opened his eyes and sat forward, glancing toward the kennel with its sleeping cargo. “How long ago was his surgery?”
“Seven days. There’s only three more days of the antibiotic.”
She hoped there was a vet clinic where they were going. And a shopping center. Tag and Tram had rushed her out the door without letting her pack a suitcase. Fresh clothes were a priority.
A flicker of gentleness touched his hard face. “He’s fine. No sign of infections. His surgical wounds are healing. Look, he’s been on his own for a long time. He’s used to taking care of himself. Trust me, you don’t need to worry about him.”
“Right.” She pushed aside the worry about Trident’s next dose of meds. That was something she’d worry about when she had to give them.
Apparently, he knew what she was thinking, because he shook his head slightly, his green eyes softening. “Stop worrying about him. You won’t have trouble getting his medicine in him tonight. He knows you’re helping him now.”
He did? How?
“He hates the name you gave him, though. He wants you to change it.”
She laughed. “Right.”
Except there was no humor on his face. Was he joking? Her smile slowly faded as his face flattened. Maybe not.
“Does he have a name in mind?” she asked, curious. What did he think the cat should be named? It had to be O’Neill objecting to the name, not the feline. The cat wouldn’t care.
“Leo, Zeus, Odin, even King would work. But he likes His Majesty the best.” O’Neill’s voice was sincere. So was his face. There wasn’t even a flicker of humor in his dark green eyes.
Seriously? He was acting like he’d held a one-on-one intimate conversation with the cat. Was he crazy or being facetious?
Still, the name didn’t have to stick. She’d put no thought into it, just grabbed it because it was associated with SEAL mythos. She really should give him a different name, one that matched his personality. Besides, Trident would be a constant reminder of her poor choice of romantic partners.
She glanced down the plane, catching sight of Aiden’s black hair and rugged face from behind Stick Man. Her Dear Aiden speech was memorized—at least when she was practicing in front of the mirror. Giving it in person, to his face, was something else entirely. Her belly was already twisting with nerves.
It was going to be a long three hours.