Chapter 22
Aden, Yemen
Head heavy as if he were underwater, Dillon tried to extract himself from the thickening goo that filled his brain. What…happened?
In a rush, it all came back—froze him. Warned him not to make big movements.
To silence the groan climbing his throat.
A hood had been snapped over his head seconds before hands had hauled him backward.
He’d been taken. Kidnapped. He hadn’t gone down without a fight.
Fists slamming into guts and jaws. Head cracking against someone else’s.
“Hit him,” a tenor voice gruffed right before a prick stung his thigh. Seconds before the world vanished in a haze.
Now, he had to get his bearings. Figure out where he was. What he faced. All before letting the enemy know he was conscious. Around him, he heard activity. Shoes scratching against a hard floor. A chair squawked distantly—the force of someone shoving it back.
The soft thud of steps drew near.
“Anything?”
“Nah,” came a male voice. “Out cold.”
“Would’ve thought he’d be more resistant, considering all he’s put us through.”
Something clattered behind Dillon, near his head. Maybe a table?
“Boss wants him up,” the male said. “Can we get that going?”
Dillon dared a peek. Found a burly guy standing with his back to him, weapon in a thigh holster, tapping a machine. Awareness flared. The others were more distant.
Now or never. Dillon shot up, his rubbery legs almost uncooperative. But he managed to hook the guy’s neck. Hauled him backward. They tumbled, but Dillon negotiated a good grip, even as he slid the man’s Glock free and put it to the guy’s head.
Shouts erupted in the large, dilapidated space, which came alive with men in tactical gear, weapons out, shouting for him to let him go.
Dillon counted four. Not undoable, but it’d mean he’d end up with a few extra holes in his body. That plan didn’t excite him. “Where is she? What’d you do with her?”
“Let him go.” A well-muscled black man moved toward him, palms out in a placating gesture. “This is unnecessary.”
“Where. Is. She?” Dillon roared, feeling the strain of those words, his own heart thundering that nobody was answering him. He recalled too clearly seeing her collapse. Only then seeing the shininess on her black abaya indicating she’d been shot. It was his fault. “I don’t let him go until—”
“Jacobs!”
Hearing his surname volley from the right yanked Dillon’s gaze there. He found a six-one operator striding forward.
Hair cropped in a high-and-tight, temples edged in white, the newcomer glanced to a man who looked Native American. “I told you to check him for weapons.”
“I did, Chief.”
Only at the name and the gray eyes boring into him did Dillon register who this was. What this was.
“It’s mine, boss,” rumbled the big guy still under Dillon’s control.
Frustration roiled through the older guy’s face. “Jacobs, you made your point.”
He didn’t care who they were. “I thought I made that point years ago, but here you are. All up in my business again, Pike.” He locked onto the chief. “Where is she?”
Chief Auberon planted his hands on his tactical belt and tightened his jaw. Then indicated to the door he’d just come through. “Surgery.” He jutted his jaw. “Brick isn’t as limber as he used to be. Want to let him go?”
“Not particularly.” But Dillon shoved the guy forward. “Why’d you interfere with us?”
“Don’t know, Chief,” the muscular black man said. “He seem a touch ungrateful to you?”
Pike didn’t answer, just held Dillon’s gaze with a ferocity that belied the placid expression plastered on his face.
Brick turned and extended his hand to Dillon, motioning to the Glock. “Mind?”
Without looking at the guy, Dillon did a press check, ejecting the lone bullet in the chamber, dropped the magazine, racked the slide, and removed and set the pieces in the guy’s hand. “Not at all.”
“Let’s talk.” Pike pivoted and strode out the door he’d indicated to a second ago.
Furious that Omen Tactical had interfered, that they were here, had taken them off the street, Dillon gave the remaining team a long look, especially landing on the one who hadn’t spoken or stood. “Dante.”
His Scion brother gave a slow nod, then quirked an eyebrow in the direction of Pike.
Pulling in a ragged breath, telling himself to power down the fight-or-flight mode, he left the room. Found himself in a long, empty corridor with brick walls and cracked tiles. Two doors to his right looked shut tight. In the other direction, Pike was disappearing through another door.
Dude was going to make him work for it.
Hauling his irritation into check, Dillon headed after him.
Rounded the corner. Hands yanked him upright and slammed him into the wall.
His head thudded against the industrial concrete as his gaze blurred, then filled with blazing gray eyes.
A forearm thrust into his throat, cutting off his air.
Startled, panicked, he grabbed the elbow and wrist, but delayed the instinct to twist them in opposite directions.
Because he had a steep self-preservation instinct that told him he’d never get one over on the former master chief.
“You ever put a gun to the head of one of my guys again, I will end you,” Pike snarled, his voice low, preternaturally calm despite the very real threat. “Clear?”
Dillon stared at him, wanting to throw every bit of fight into defying him. But instead of fighting him, snapping at him, he just…waited.
“You got a dangerous attitude, Jacobs.” The chief shoved him, then stepped back.
“I was doing fine—”
“Fine? You call getting an innocent girl killed ‘fine’?”
Killed? Shock punched the air from Dillon’s lungs. “What—she—you said she was in surgery!” Only when Pike drew up did Dillon realize he’d stepped into the chief’s personal space.
Pike pivoted and stalked to the end of the wall, then stopped and looked back at him. Waited for him to cover the twenty paces where a window waited.
Knees going weak, Dillon clutched the window sill to steady himself as his brain registered that he was looking into a surgical bay. Two doctors were working—operating—on someone. Not just someone—Cove. A small curtain provided a modicum of modesty.
Pike stared at him. “The bullet entered just to the left of her spine. Hit her spleen.”
Dillon hung his head. Closed his eyes. “She…she was fine…”
“She wasn’t, and if she doesn’t make it out of this, her death is on you.”
“How could I have known?” Dillon demanded, anger sprouting violent tendrils through his chest and gut. “We were running. She said—”
“You put her life in danger! You brought her down here without resources, without backup against a notorious, powerful terrorist!”
Defeated, broken at what he’d put Cove through, Dillon turned his gaze to the window again.
He would hate himself—scratch that. He already hated himself.
She didn’t deserve this. Why hadn’t he listened to himself in Greece?
Now…now she might not make it. “I didn’t mean to…
they hit the villa…came after us in Italy. ”
“And in Greece. When were you planning to take the hint that you couldn’t do it alone?”
Rage colored his vision as he pivoted to the guy. “Do not turn this into a ‘this is punishment for not working with Omen’ lesson! You wouldn’t do anything to save my dad. He’s been missing for three years and what have you been doing?”
“Who do you think sent you that photo of Max and Massimo?”
Being struck with a baseball bat would not have rung his bell as much as those words. Dillon stared, his pulse hammering. “What… That came from Helios!”
Pike, confidence never wavering, gave a cockeyed nod. “Try again. And that chat last night showing the security feed in the warehouse?”
Dillon faltered, taking in this man who had been his nemesis, a thorn in his side. “No way. I contact him—”
“Pizza site?” Pike sniffed. “Talk about amateur hour.”
“Helios—”
“Has been locked down since Paris.”
Shock pushed Dillon back a step, squeezed the oxygen from his lungs as he wrestled the words and vehemence in Pike’s tone. “No…” He shook his head, felt like he was about to toss what little was in his stomach.
The chief angled aside, flicked open a door to an office with a desk and chair. “Before you pass out, sit your sorry backside down and listen.”
Fight hammered out of him, Dillon staggered over to the chair. Everything…all those communications… “That…was all you?”
Pike leaned back in the swiveling chair. Ran a hand through his hair. “Not me personally, but Omen, yes. Dade Tycho is our comms specialist. He easily spoofed the site.”
Def going to be sick. Dillon sat on the edge of the chair, elbows on his knees, and swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “I should’ve known…”
“Yeah, you should have. No nineteen-year-old kid can do all that and hack a secure system.” The derision in the chief’s tone was duly warranted. “But I’ll hand it to you, Jacobs. You did well. A lot better than expected.”
Dillon peered across the hall, watching the doctors working in the medical theater to save Cove’s life.
“Your connection with Galtieri was unexpected,” the chief noted quietly.
“Tell me about it,” Dillon muttered, pulling his gaze back to the floor, to himself. To all the danger they’d been in since they met.
“She matters to you.”
Dillon met the steely gaze, wondering what that meant. Why he said that. Was it to use her as leverage? Was Auberon that sick?
“I’ve been monitoring your every move long enough to notice a shift in your behavior patterns since she entered the picture.”
Irritation pushed Dillon straight. “Why? Why are you doing this—tailing me?”
Pike exhaled heavily and considered him. “Frankly, because you can do what I can’t.”
That statement had nothing to do with skill level, because Dillon knew Pike Auberon had Dad’s respect, and that was hard to earn. “Dad said you were a man who got things done…but you didn’t.”
After a long, icy second, Pike nodded. “Hands were tied.”