Chapter 12
Viper
Cold air blasts through the vents, barely combating the heat in the small interior of the van.
I’ll never get used to how blazing hot it is in this part of the world.
How sticky and gross the air feels, even in mid-December.
Sitting in our surveillance van makes it worse.
It’s muggy and uncomfortable, even with the AC running.
“Fuck, it’s hot today,” Striker says from the driver’s seat.
He fiddles with the controls and the AC cranks up, but then the van door slides open and a blast of warm, humid air sucks all the cool air out the door.
Brilliant daylight slices through the dark interior but cuts off as Breaker climbs in, removing his hat and slamming the van door closed behind him.
“We need to move.” He drops into the single chair in front of the row of small monitors we use to track Rune and the girls, the blue lights highlighting his jawline.
With a grunt, he tosses his hat aside, and props his brown leather boot on the bench next to me where I’m sitting with Reaper at the back of the van.
“Even with the company logo on the side, we stick out like a sore thumb.”
My lip curls into a scowl at the boot, and I shove it away, tugging at the collar of my t-shirt. We’re all dressed the same. Gray shirts with the same electrical company logo, jeans, and work boots. Our cover, and a reason to sit outside the small building on a busy Thursday afternoon.
Breaker leans sideways and taps Striker’s chair. “Turn up the AC, Strike. It’s stifling in this fucking van.”
“No shit,” I snap, stretching my legs out, but it flattens my thigh to Reaper, whose elbow drives into my side. I catch his glare but ignore it.
He chose to sit next to me. It’s not my fault we’re crammed together on the bench.
“Doesn’t exactly feel like Christmas is just under two weeks away,” Striker says.
He turns the dial up all the way, and I lean forward, debating sitting in the empty passenger seat, but eye the row of cameras.
The little camera on the top of the van is currently aimed on the front door.
If I sit up front, I won’t see them leave the building.
Probably why Reaper is flattened to my side. So he can watch them too, though he’d never admit it.
“And what is Christmas supposed to feel like?” Reaper asks, shifting to put space between us.
The van is too small. Especially now with all four of us crammed in here.
“Cold weather. Snow,” Striker says, twisting in his seat to look at him. “Hot chocolate and sugar cookies.” He shrugs. “All warm and fuzzy. Like puppies.”
The chuckle that slips out of Reaper makes my brow lift. I glance at him squeezed next to me and catch his dark eyes.
“What?” he asks. His gaze drops to where our hips press together, glaring like it’s my fault we’re touching. He motions to my face. “Stop looking at me with that fucking face.”
“With what face?” I grin. “Besides, I can’t help it. I was born with this face. December 12th, thirty-one years ago. Today.”
Reaper spreads his thighs, which does nothing but press us together more, as he leans back against the van and crosses his arms, making a sound in his throat. He lifts his chin toward Breaker. “Give it to him.”
Breaker reaches into the cooler where we store drinks and snacks and pulls out a small box. He tosses it my way, and it lands in my lap. “Happy birthday.”
I eye the little box wrapped in a plaid ribbon sitting at an awkward angle, then pick it up and shake it, grinning at Breaker’s scowl. I read the label.
Fudge straight from Scotland.
“Fudge?” I ask and he shrugs.
They do this every year now, though I have no idea where it’s delivered. They must have a box at the post office I don’t know about.
Beside me, Reaper shifts, digging under the bench. Another box lands in my lap.
I glance over and find Reaper’s black eyes on me. I quirk a brow, holding up the box. “What the fuck is this?”
“That nasty, sweet cake shit you like,” he says, eyes traveling to the row of screens showing footage of Rune’s house and the entrance to the girls’ condos, alongside the live feed streaming in from the camera on the van.
But the two women we’ve been keeping tabs on for the last three years aren’t at home, or Rune’s, or even the office.
They’re in the restaurant across the street.
I pick up the box and examine the label, then look up at Reaper and scoff. “You bought me petit fours?”
He shrugs, not taking his eyes off the monitors.
A laugh builds in my throat, and I try to swallow it down. The man has never given me anything other than scowls and headaches and more issues. My loud cackle breaks free, making his eyes dart my way briefly before centering back on the screens.
He grinds his teeth. “Don’t make me regret it, Viper.”
“Aww, my big brother loves me,” I chuckle, nudging his side, and leaning into him so he’s smashed against the side of the van. “Makes me feel all warm and gooey inside.”
He grimaces. “Don’t say it like that.”
I lean back and open the top of the box, then pop a little cake into my mouth, chewing loudly. “Mmm, brother,” I murmur, grinning at his frown. “That’s so tasty. So sweet.”
“Fuck you.” Reaper leans over me and adjusts a monitor, refusing to look my way.
Not that I blame him. Calling each other brother feels taboo considering what we’ve all done around one another. To each other. I glance at Breaker and catch his wink. The urge to punch his smug face makes mine heat.
I hate it when he does that. Acknowledges what this thing between us has become.
Especially around Strike and Reap. What we do when we share a woman is never spoken of afterward.
We just kind of wake up the next day and go about our business.
But sharing a woman is one thing. Breaker shoving his cock down my throat while our brother’s watch is another.
It’s like we all become possessed with a dark need to own one another in those moments. I wonder what Hunter would think. If he’d think us sick.
Who am I kidding? He’d have loved to have had the opportunity to get his hands on Striker.
But we haven’t done that for many, many months.
A year, to be exact.
And we don’t talk about why, even though they are both only a hundred yards away, enjoying lunch at their favorite restaurant.
“You’re over-analyzing it,” Reaper says like he can read my thoughts. “I only got that shit because you’re in a good mood when your mouth is full of sweets.”
I kick his calf, and the look he shoots my way would shrivel a cactus.
“Or pussy,” Striker says as he reaches into a bag in the passenger seat and tosses another box my way. It lands just shy of my boot, and I snatch it up from the van floor.
“More fudge?” I ask, examining the plaid-striped box. I turn it, inspecting the label, and see the same company in Scotland that Breaker used.
They started it a few years ago, after that trip to the orphanage, always giving me some item made in my homeland.
Last year I got pens. The year before, a wool sweater and socks.
This year it appears I’m getting sweets.
I wonder if they do it because their heritage was taken, and I’m the only one who remembers my past, so they give me little bits of who I was before Fallon.
Reaper remembers who he was, the entire eight years of his life before I first saw him at the school. But he’d sooner slit our throats than allow us to celebrate where he came from. Hunter never told us either. It was a topic both men avoided. Not that I blame them.
“Speaking of sweet things,” Breaker says, leaning forward and propping his forearms on his knees, eyes fixed on the screen. “There they are.”
Every time I lay eyes on them, a strange pain twinges in my chest, right under my ribcage. It’s almost violent in how jarring it feels. Like being hit in my heart with an icepick before it pries me open.
It’s not exactly pleasant with how exposed it leaves me.
But it’s not unpleasant either.
I also refuse to name what it is, because if I do, what we’re doing, this planning, this awful fucking scheme to take this innocent woman and turn her into a weapon, is flat out sick. Cruel and surely will send us to hell.
“I need to piss,” I say, and drop my gifts in Reaper’s lap, then shove between Breaker and the van wall.
“Get back here,” Reaper grates, grabbing my belt loop, but I slide the van door open and yank free.
My boots hit the sidewalk with a loud thud and a woman walking by stumbles as she stares at me.
I slam the van door shut, catching Reaper’s furious expression, and effectively muffling his threat of shoving small cakes down my throat until I choke.
I take off across the street, my heart skipping with each step.
The target and her best friend walk east, chatting, oblivious to the chaos of tourists and locals swarming around them.
Two security details, Rune’s shitty soldiers, follow behind them, eyes all over the place, but they don’t see me weaving between cars then blending into the mass of bodies behind them.
I keep my focus on the two guards, assessing how they move, how completely fucking oblivious they are to the deadly weapon walking a few feet behind them.
I could take them both out within minutes, grab the woman they are paid to protect and be out of here before anyone realizes what is happening.
But that would defeat the entire purpose of the mission.
Besides, the urge to snatch her up, take her to the estate and watch her writhe in pleasure beneath me, is a problem.
And it doesn’t just rest with her. I’d love to get my hands on the sexy little redhead that we’ve watched just as long and just as intently as our target.