Chapter 10
ACE
I’m going to kill him.
My finger twitches on the trigger, a hair’s breadth from firing.
I don’t care if he’s not a danger to me. Not ten feet away, with no gun in sight. If he does have one on him, there’s no way he could get the jump on me. He’d be dead the instant he went for his weapon.
He could throw the knife, I suppose. But even with his training, he’s no match for a bullet.
No, the chances of Davis Kellogg hurting me are slim.
But Yara.
Oh, fuck, Yara.
Rage is a crazed animal inside me, clawing and tearing. It wants to escape, to go after the fucker who hurt her so badly.
Oh, Yara.
There’s so much blood.
On her wrists. Her arms. Her chest. The floor.
Her sweater—oh, fuck, it’s in shreds. Did he touch her? Violate her? Put his dirty hands all over her soft skin, pinching, punching—
And there. On her stomach. A fist-shaped mark, already bruising.
A low growl rumbles in my chest; the monster inside warning of its impending escape.
He tied her up. The fucker tied her up. She’s hanging from the crossbeam, her poor wrists raw and bleeding from the coarse rope binding them. With her toes barely touching the floor, I know the pain in her shoulders must be excruciating.
“You tied her up,” I hiss. “You fucking tied her up. What the fuck—” My Sig raises instinctively until it’s level with his face. “Why… What the fuck is wrong… She was a fucking hostage—”
“So was I!” Davis snaps. His face contorts with anger. “I was a fucking hostage, Jensen. For a whole fucking lot longer than her. So don’t talk to me about—”
“You beat her!” I shout. Taking several steps forward, I advance on him. “A fellow soldier. A woman. Someone you should be protecting. Not beating the shit out of!”
Now that I’m closer to them, I notice the bruising on Yara’s face. Her jaw, her delicate jaw, is swollen and red. Above her eyebrow, there’s another red mark from where he hit her.
Possible concussion, my brain notes. At least half a dozen cuts, some of them probably needing stitches. As my gaze lifts to her wrists again, I spot at least two fingers bent the wrong way.
“You broke her fingers?” Fury floods my body, even more intense than before. “You. Broke. Her. Fingers.”
“That’s nothing,” he barks. “Broken fingers? Some cuts? Bruises? That’s not even close to what this traitorous bitch—”
“Don’t you call her that!”
“I’ll call her whatever I want!” Davis yanks his knife from the sheath at his waist and jabs the tip of it against Yara’s chest.
My lungs stall.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He can’t hurt me. But Yara… he’s too close. The blade is too close. He could plunge it straight into her heart, and fuck, he’s too close for me to get a shot off—
I glance at Yara again. Her gaze is steady on mine. There’s fear in her eyes, but she’s desperately trying to mask it. Her chin lifts. Her words are as clear as if they were spoken.
I trust you.
Ah, shit.
My heart wrenches.
I can’t let her down.
“Put the knife down,” I command, drawing on decades in the Army to fake a calm I’m not feeling. “This needs to end. Now. Drop the knife and step away from her.”
“No.” Kellogg’s eyes flash with defiance. “I waited too long for this. Years too long. She needs to get what she deserves.”
I take a slow step forward. My aim doesn’t waver. “What she deserves?”
“Yes.” A desperate expression crosses his face. “You should understand, Jensen. Of all people, you should get it. She’s nothing more than a traitor. And traitors need to be punished.”
“How is she a traitor?” I ask carefully. My gaze slides to Yara’s again, just for a moment. She flicks a quick look at the knife still terrifyingly close to her heart. And then to the left, telegraphing her intent.
Admiration slams into me with the force of a tank.
Ah shit. My brave Yara, clearly in so much pain, probably in the middle of one of the worst panic attacks of her life—shit, how badly must this be triggering her—and she’s still thinking about the best way to get out of this. How to help me get her out of this.
I give her a minute nod of acknowledgement. Message received.
She could jerk herself away from the knife, giving me an opening to shoot him. But shit, it’s still too damn risky. So many things could go wrong. I’d much rather I had a clear shot, or better yet, talk him into surrendering peacefully.
“Didn’t she tell you?” Kellogg retorts. “How she traded her body for favors over there? How she was living the good life—”
Yara makes an angry sound. Her face flushes with anger. Her eyes spark fire.
“Traded her body?” I ask with a dangerous edge. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He barks out a harsh laugh. “Of course she wouldn’t tell you.
This slut played up to her captors. Gave them whatever they wanted so she’d get special treatment.
She didn’t care that the rest of us were being tortured.
That we were dragged to that fucking shithole in the desert to dig holes for our own graves. No, this fucking bitch—”
The tip of the knife presses into the scraps of Yara’s sweater. The fabric turns dark.
My pulse stutters.
“Drop the knife!” I shout. “Drop it! Now!”
“No!” he screams. Spittle flies from his mouth. “She needs to know how it feels!” He takes a deep breath, then continues in a reasoning tone, “Just leave, Jensen. This isn’t about you.”
“The fuck it’s not about me. You have my girlfriend strung up from the ceiling. You hurt her. You cut her. You brOKE HER FINGERS!”
I’ve never been more angry than this. Never. Not even when all the shit went down with Sawyer and Garrett, when I wrongly believed my own teammate was a traitor.
But he wasn’t. And neither is Yara. I wasn’t there, but I didn’t need to be to know the truth of it. Yara would rather die than betray her country. She would do anything—anything—to protect the cause she believes in.
Kellogg blinks at me in surprise. “Your girlfriend? You want to be with this traitorous fucking bitch? That makes you no better—”
With his free hand, he starts to reach behind his back.
Every muscle in my body reacts. Tenses. Prepares to attack.
I dare another look at Yara’s face. Her expression is scared but resolute. Then she jerks her chin to the left.
Fear clutches at my chest.
I have to do it. As much as I don’t want to. But I need to end this. Now. Before he does something to Yara that can’t be fixed.
Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly.
“Kellogg.” In a more conciliatory tone, I add, “Maybe I’m wrong about her.
Why don’t you explain? Just lower the knife first. Okay?
Then you can tell me what she did over there.
If it’s as bad as you say, maybe I will leave. Pretend I never saw any of this.”
Hurt flashes in Yara’s eyes.
My gut twists. I’m just playing his game, I want to assure her. I don’t think you’re a traitor. I don’t think you deserve any of this. I just need an opening. Please, believe me.
Kellogg stares at me, thinking.
Put the knife down, I silently order. Just move it a little ways away from her. Just give me a damn opening. That’s all I need.
And after several agonizing seconds, he does.
The tip of the blade drops away from Yara’s chest.
The front of her tattered sweater is dark with blood.
Instinct screams at me to get to her. Now. Get her down from the ceiling, pull her into my arms, take care of her, just, fuck. I can’t stand not being able to hold her.
“There was this guy,” Kellogg starts. “And she”—he jerks his head in Yara’s direction—“saw an opening. She knew she could use her body to get what she wanted. She told him things, too. I’m sure of it.
All to get her fucking books. Her bed. Baths—she got fucking baths.
Can you believe that? I didn’t even have enough water to drink and she—”
Yara nods at me.
It’s time, her eyes say.
I lift my chin at her. I know.
My pulse jumps.
Adrenaline surges.
And then.
She shoves herself to the side and away from the knife.
I fire, not at his head, like I really want to, but at his shoulder.
It’s not a harmless shot, like you see in the movies, when the hero just keeps going like it was barely a scratch.
We joke about that, my friends and I, how in the movies, otherwise life-threatening injuries are brushed off like they’re nothing.
A shot to the lower side. A knife to the shoulder.
In the movies, they don’t mention the axillary artery that runs through the shoulder.
Or the internal organs in the lower abdomen.
But they’re there. Which makes the shot I take so much deadlier.
I’m not trying to kill him, as much as I want to. But if it happens? I won’t lose any sleep over it.
The instant the bullet hits Kellogg’s shoulder, crimson blossoms. The blade drops to the floor. He staggers back and shouts, “Fuck!” as he claps his other hand to the bleeding wound.
Then I leap at him, roaring in fury.
Using the moves I practice several times a week, I have him flipped over and pinned in a matter of seconds. Jerking his arms behind his back, I quickly restrain him with the zip ties I never go anywhere without.
As I yank the ties tight, a memory hits me.
We were celebrating the official opening of the Shadow team branch, and Cole gave us an entire case of zip ties as a gift.
We all laughed, Cole included, but once the laughter died down, he told us solemnly, “Keep them on you. Always. You’ll never know when you’ll need them. Trust me.”
And he was right. Numerous times before, and especially now.
Kellogg bitches and moans while I hogtie his ankles to his wrists, whining about how he needs first aid right away or he could bleed to death. “I could lose my arm,” he accuses. “You shot me! I could lose my fucking—”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” With a final wrench at the plastic ties binding him, I stand and give him a swift kick for emphasis. “I don’t want to hear a fucking word from you. Or I may just kill you right now. The jury’s still out.”
Though I’m aching to get to Yara, I know I need to check in with the team. So I yank out my phone and send a quick text to Rafe.
Tango neutralized. Enemy, not friendly. Yara’s hurt. Send backup now.
Just as I’m about to shove the phone back into my pocket again, his response comes in.
Roger. En route. Already called 911. They should be there soon.
With that task out of the way, I race over to Yara.
Rage erupts anew as I look at her injuries up close.
She’s so hurt. Ah, shit, she’s so hurt.
Emotion balloons inside me until there’s no room left to breathe. Until my heart physically hurts and my throat is too thick to speak.
The first thing I do is yank the wadded fabric from her mouth. She coughs. Swallows. Her chin wobbles.
My voice sticks on the lump in my throat. “Oh, Tink. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s… it’s okay.” Her eyes are all shiny, making me feel like crying myself. “You’re here.”
“Yeah. I’m here.” Giving her a quick once-over, I add, “I’m just going to cut the rope, okay? I’ll hold you up, so you don’t fall. It’s going to hurt—”
Yara blinks. Swallows again. “I know.”
Shit. Of course she does. Because she’s been tied up before.
Taking out my pocket switchblade, I wrap one arm around her waist while I work at the rope. While I saw away at it, I ask, “Where else are you hurt? Your ribs? Anything internal? I don’t want to make it worse when I get you down.”
She thinks for a second. “Just bruises, I think. And my fingers.”
“Okay.” I tamp down the urge to howl in anger. “I’m just about through. And now—”
The knife bites through the last threads of rope.
Yara’s arms drop. A pained cry slips out before she can stifle it. As she stumbles forward, I gather her against my chest. She buries her face in my neck, her rapid breaths hot against my skin.
Now that she’s in my arms, some of my fear slips away. Not all of it, not when I don’t know what kinds of injuries could be hiding, but she’s here. Alive. With me.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur as I lift her off her feet. Cradling her in my arms, I carry Yara to the other side of the room and set her down carefully. “I’m so sorry, Tink. So sorry.”
She shakes as I inspect her body, running my hands over her arms, her legs, her belly, carefully checking for injuries I might not be able to see. But all through it, Yara doesn’t shed a tear. Her eyes are damp with them, but she refuses to let a single one escape.
“Ace,” she whispers. She touches my face. “It’s okay.”
I rip a strip of fabric from my shirt, fold it into quarters, and carefully press it to the bleeding cut across her ribs. “It’s not. Fuck. He fucking—”
“I’m alive,” Yara interrupts. “Because of you.”
Barely, I want to argue. Barely. If I’d been later getting here, if I hadn’t thought to look around the back of the house, if I’d waited seconds longer to shoot Kellogg…
But self-recrimination won’t help Yara now. And really, it doesn’t matter how I feel. All that matters is taking care of her.
In the distance, the shrill wail of sirens approaches. My phone vibrates in my pocket again. But I can’t give either my attention. Not now. Not when Yara is all I care about.
Setting my gun to the side so the police can see it when they come in, I put my arm behind Yara’s back and start to lay her down. “Just rest,” I tell her. “I’ll take care of everything. The police will be here any minute. Then we’ll get you to the hospital, get you all taken care of—”
“No.” Yara pushes herself back up to a seated position. A beat later, she gathers her legs beneath her and starts to stand. “I don’t want to be lying here when the police come in.” Her gaze slides to Kellogg, who’s flopping around on the floor, smearing blood all over it.
More quietly, she adds, “I don’t want him to know.”
Rather than fight her on it, I loop my arm around her waist, supporting her weight. “Want him to know what?” I ask just as quietly.
Her green-gold eyes meet mine. “How much it hurts.”
A giant fist punches into my chest.
Hugging Yara close, I press my lips to the top of her head. Her hair still smells of vanilla, and it’s softer than silk. When she sags against me, resting her head heavily on my shoulder, protectiveness engulfs me until there’s no room for anything else.
Upstairs, the door crashes open. Urgent voices swarm inside, barking orders to each other. Yara tenses, and a violent shiver runs through her.
Raising my voice, I call out, “We’re in the basement. Tango restrained. We have a woman injured.” Belatedly, I remember my knife and toss it on the ground beside the gun. “I’m unarmed. Weapons are on the floor.”
As footsteps rush towards us, I kiss Yara’s hair again. “It’s okay,” I murmur against her hair. “You did such a good job already. Just let me take care of things from here.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she lifts her head to look at me. My heart wrenches at the trust in her eyes. “Okay,” she replies softly. “Okay.”