Chapter Eleven
Rena yanked the zipper of her clean Crossfire Ops hoodie up to her throat, her hands still trembling some. The motion sent a dull throb through her temples, that same ringing pressure pulsing behind her ears.
Her clothes from earlier sat in a heap by the door. They were torn, streaked with dirt and soot, and spattered with what she hoped was just mud. The explosion had gone off close enough to leave her body humming from the shockwave, her muscles aching as if she’d been slammed into a wall.
They’d come close. Too damn close. Again. But they had thankfully all walked away. Well, everyone had walked but the man who’d tried to shoot them.
She sat on the edge of her bunk, staring at her hands. There was still grit under her nails, the faint smell of smoke in her hair. And she figured it was the same for Gage.
Across the thin wall, she could hear the low hiss of running water. His shower. He’d been covered in the same dirt and debris she had as they’d ridden back to the compound. Neither of them had said much on that drive. There wasn’t much to say when a man blew himself to pieces ten feet away.
Rena rubbed at her forehead, trying to ease the pounding there. It wasn’t just the blast echoing through her skull. It was the gnawing frustration that they were no closer to answers. Whoever had orchestrated this had covered their tracks well. The shooter was ash now, his secrets gone with him.
She glanced toward the door when she heard the shower shut off and Gage start moving around in his cubicle.
He was no doubt naked, and that caused her pulse to jump before she could stop it.
She didn’t know if it was adrenaline, exhaustion or just Gage, but the heat that always sparked between them hadn’t burned off, even after nearly dying.
And hell, maybe that was the problem.
Death was becoming a little too familiar, and Gage… he was starting to feel that way too.
Rena stepped out of her cubicle and stopped when she saw Gage coming out of his. He’d changed into clean pants and a tee, his damp hair pushed back, his phone in hand, the glow from the screen cutting sharp angles across his face.
He looked up when he heard her, and for a beat, neither of them spoke.
His eyes—dark, steady, and always too damn readable—met hers, and she saw it all.
The strain, the pain, the exhaustion sitting heavy in his shoulders.
The same cocktail of adrenaline crash and soreness that had her own body screaming.
Beck’s handiwork was visible just beneath the sleeve of Gage’s fresh shirt, a strip of clean gauze peeking out where the medic had redone his stitches. Her own arm throbbed under its wrap, each heartbeat a reminder of how close the blast had come.
“Beck earned his paycheck again,” Gage said, his voice rough.
“Yeah.” She moved to grab a bottle of water from the small fridge. “I think he threatened to glue me to a chair if I rip these stitches one more time.”
That earned the ghost of a smile from him. It was barely there but enough to ease something tight in her chest.
She leaned against the counter, unscrewing the cap on the bottle. “How bad?” she asked, nodding toward his arm.
“Hurts like hell.” He shrugged. “You?”
“Same.”
Silence settled again, not awkward but weighted. She could still smell the faint tang of disinfectant from Beck’s work on both of them. Beneath it, the lingering scent of smoke that soap hadn’t quite erased.
Rena took a slow drink, then met his gaze once more. “We need answers, Gage. Before someone else decides to finish the job.”
Gage slipped his phone into his pocket and rubbed the back of his neck, the tension still etched across his jaw. “Isla texted while I was in the shower,” he said. “Sheriff Chase is headed here. Wants to get our statements about the blast.”
Rena nodded, but her stomach twisted at the thought of going over it again. The gunfire, the grenade, the smell of scorched dirt and blood.
“Guess we’re not getting downtime anytime soon,” she muttered. Not that she wanted it. She wanted, needed, to dive right back into the investigation. “Any word yet on how the sheriff’s interview with Rhett went?”
Gage shook his head. “According to Isla, there were no confessions. No cracks. The guy played it cool, just like he did out front of the station.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Rena said. “But the anger is right there under the surface.”
“Yeah. The kind that festers.” Gage’s mouth tightened. “Sheriff Chase says Brady’s interview’s been pushed to three.”
Rena checked the time. Barely after one. “Two hours.” She sighed, pushing a hand through her damp hair. “I doubt he’ll confess to anything either. The man didn’t look nervous at that facility.”
“Cool as ice,” Gage agreed. “Either he’s innocent, or he’s damn good at pretending.”
Rena met his gaze again, the unspoken weight between them settling in. Whoever was behind this wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.
Gage grabbed one of the stools at the counter and sat, wincing slightly as his shoulder protested. “Oh, and Brady’s fine,” he said, his tone flat. “Couple of cuts from flying debris, nothing serious.”
“Of course he’s fine,” she muttered. “Convenient, isn’t it? Close enough to the blast to look like a victim, but not close enough to get hurt.”
“Yeah,” Gage said, watching her closely. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That he staged the whole damn thing?” She met his eyes. “Absolutely.”
She’d seen Brady right after the responders arrived, standing there like some battle-worn hero, a smear of dirt on his cheek and those shallow cuts giving him just enough credibility to look lucky instead of guilty.
The image stuck with her now, and the more she thought about it, the more it felt rehearsed.
“Maybe he set it up thinking the explosion would make him look innocent,” she went on. “Like he just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Gage nodded grimly. “Or maybe he planned to walk away and didn’t count on us showing up when we did.”
Either way, Rena thought, he was at the top of her list, right alongside Corrine and Rhett.
Three suspects. Three different kinds of monsters.
And one of them wanted them all dead.
Gage leaned back against the counter, watching her with that steady, assessing look that made her pulse skitter. “CSIs are still combing through what’s left of the training site,” he said. “Isla’s coordinating with them. They might find something.”
Rena exhaled sharply and rubbed her temples. “They’d better. Because right now, we’ve got three suspects and a whole lot of smoke.”
“Frustrating as hell,” Gage grumbled.
She met his eyes, and something in her chest twisted. The weariness in him mirrored her own. The exhaustion, the lingering edge of adrenaline that wouldn’t fade. It was too much tension, too much noise inside her head. She turned away, but Gage reached for her arm, his touch firm and grounding.
“Hey,” he said softly.
She looked up. And that was all it took.
Gage pulled her into his arms, the motion unhurried, natural, like he’d been fighting the impulse all day and finally gave up. For a heartbeat, it was just comfort. His warmth. His scent. The solid feel of him anchoring her in a world that had gone sideways.
Then, she felt the shift. The tension changed, deepened. His breath brushed her temple, and she tilted her head, their eyes meeting.
That was all the invitation he needed.
The kiss started slow, a test, and then all that restraint shattered like glass.
His mouth was hot, demanding, and she met him stroke for stroke, her fingers sliding up the hard muscles of his chest to curl around his neck.
The heat hit fast and sharp, curling liquid fire through her veins, pooling low in her belly as she pressed closer, needing to feel every bit of him against her.
Gage’s hand slipped into her hair, fingers tangling, tightening, tilting her head back to take the kiss deeper.
His other hand found her hip, positioning her so the delicious pressure shot through her, and she gasped against his mouth.
He swallowed the sound, his tongue sweeping in to taste her, and the room blurred into nothing but sensation.
The low, rough sound he made—half-growl, half-groan—sent a tremor straight through her core. She fisted his shirt, dragging him closer until there was no space left between them, until she could feel the thunder of his heartbeat matching her own.
His lips moved to her jaw, her neck, finding that spot just below her ear that made her knees weak. “Rena,” he breathed against her skin, and the sound of her name in that wrecked voice nearly undid her.
For a few wild, desperate seconds, there was nothing but heat and heartbeat and the slide of hands and mouths. No suspects, no siege, no blood or smoke. No reason, no logic, no consequences.
Just him.
And just Gage was plenty enough. Mercy, was he.
The fire went through her, racing, consuming, burning her alive from the inside out. Making her want. Making her ache. Her body urged her to back him into the cubicle, pull that shirt off, and take him right here, right now. That would burn off some of this blasted heat building between her thighs.
But it would also burn away what little focus she had left, what little control she still possessed.
That couldn’t happen. That shouldn’t happen.
Even as her body screamed otherwise.
Rena groaned, a sound of pure frustration, and she pressed her palms flat to Gage’s chest, forcing herself to ease back just enough to look at him.
Her lips were tingling, her pulse still racing as if she’d run a sprint, and her brain was only just starting to catch up to what they’d done.
To how close she’d come to losing herself completely.
His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, his breathing as ragged as hers. The sight of him, wrecked and wanting, made her want to say to hell with it all and pull him back in.
“Another mistake,” she said, her voice low and rough, half-breath, half-curse.