Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three (50 page)

Haug squirmed, gasping, trying to catch her breath, tears running down her face from the pain and lack of oxygen.

“I will slowly remove the skin from your body. Ribbon by ribbon,” she hissed into Haug’s ear. “It’s amazing how a little table salt burns like fire on open wounds, doesn’t it? Shit, I could keep this going for days—keep reviving you each time you pass out. Let the bullet wound really start to fester.” Rox smiled slowly, looking closely at her prey. “I’m sick like that, Frederica. I
like
it. You wanna try me?”

Haug gurgled something unintelligible. Rox loosened her grip just fractionally.

“I can’t hear you,” Rox taunted.

Haug said it again—named a website she used to track her goods.

Rox smiled, patting Haug on the face. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Rox tweaked the handle of the knife, just enough to make Haug groan and squirm, sweat pouring down her bloody, bruised face. “Anything else you want to tell me in this little confessional?”

Haug grit her teeth as Rox continued to toy with the handle of the knife. “Who is he selling to?”

She cried out when Rox yanked the knife down sharply, slicing through more tendon and muscles. “Who is he selling to?” she repeated.

“
I don’t know
!” Haug shouted. “I just know the deal was for ten warheads—that’s how many isotope radiation casks I made for transport. The plan was to take Dichter’s team and take the warheads from the B61s,” she panted, sweat pouring down her face, her skin gray from blood loss and shock. “It was my job to help get the warheads loaded safely and to help them arm them. I only got to the one before the men in your unit secured the others. He must have taken it.”

“So Lightner was with you?”

“Yes,” Haug gritted out. “He was in the Mercedes.”

“Where is he headed now?” Rox put her hand on the handle of the knife, but Haug knew she wasn’t messing around anymore—that and the woman had clearly reached her tolerance for pain.

“I don’t know! I swear!
Wait—
!” she shouted as Rox gripped the handle. “I have a number—a one-time-use burner. Just in case something happened and we got separated.”

“Give it to me now.”

Haug panted out the numbers as Rox entered them into her phone.

“My arm—” she gasped as Rox turned to leave the room.

“Not my problem,” Rox said over her shoulder.

“I’ll patch her up,” Rush offered as she shut the door behind her.

“Not before I get to her,” Simon muttered, pushing his way into the room and slamming the door.

“We’re out of here within the hour,” Rush told her. “The guys are upstairs destroying all trace evidence that we were ever here.”

A high-pitch scream emitted before it was cut off in a strangle.

“Better get in there if you want to play the white knight, Rush,” Rox suggested, wiping her hands off.

Rush just looked at her for a moment. “You’re like Sam, except… darker—and more twisted.”

She smiled slowly. “Oh, honey, you have no idea.”

When she made it back upstairs, she saw Avi speaking to the Syrian woman who’d been taking care of Uzi Dichter’s daughter. The woman looked frightened, but she accepted an envelope thick with cash before she rushed toward the kitchen door, careful not to look at any of the heavily armed men hurriedly carrying equipment and gear out to the SUVs.

“What did you tell her?” Rox asked him.

Avi sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That the girl’s father was killed in a raid in Gaza. I told her to leave with her children tonight. There’s a van outside waiting to take them anywhere they want.”

“Where’s the little girl now?”

“Upstairs, asleep.”

Rox nodded, pulling out the black pouch of diamonds she’d taken off of Uzi Dichter’s dead body before they’d cleared the scene. “Give these to her.”

“What’s a little girl going to do with a bag full of diamonds?” he asked skeptically.

“I don’t know,” Rox shrugged. “College fund? She deserved better than a rat bastard arms dealing father, but at least something good can come out of it.” She went to the sink to rinse off her face and hands, get some of Haug’s blood off of her.

Avi came up behind her. “Talon told me you nearly took a nosedive off the roof.”

She nodded, turning on the water faucet so she could put her bloody fingers under the cool water. “It’s a good thing I have nine lives.”

“Tell me your name,” he murmured, so only she could hear.

Rox looked up. She could see their reflection in the kitchen window. “
Neshama
.”

“Your real name.” His breath was soft and searing at the back of her neck.

Rox finished rinsing her hands and her face before straightening. When she turned, Avi held a towel out to her.

“That’s not the agreement,” she reminded him. “We get Lightner first, remember?” She finished rinsing her hands and he took it from her, wiping the water drops from her face in the dim light of the kitchen.

“You could have died, and I would never have known,” Avi said quietly.

“You’re cunning, Avi. I’m sure you could have figured it out.” She stepped back, seeking a little distance from his discerning gaze. “Now I need to call Sam and let her know that we don’t have Lightner, we’re missing a nuclear warhead, and that Cameron Kurt didn’t make it. This should be a fun conversation…”

*

April—Morning

Wyatt Ranch, Texas

J A C K

They lay on
their sides, facing each other on the quilt that Jack had spread on the sun-dappled, dewy grass by the headstone of Samantha’s brother. Jack had been uncertain when she’d brought him here on horseback, but she’d told him it was one of the places she felt most at peace, so he’d gone along with it, hoping it was a good sign—that she was willing to share one of her most sacred spaces.

They rested in the cool shade, surrounded by deep-red Japanese maples, tall and fiery as phoenix wings. The Wyatt family plot was a beautiful place on a small hill overlooking the ranchlands. Jack admired the half-crescent shape of the tended gardens, the scent of gardenias and Lily of the Valley resplendent in the crisp morning air before the summer heat started to bake the earth. He realized in that sun-gilded moment that in the frenetic amphitheater of their relationship, amidst the passion and the drama, they’d rarely had these slow and drowsy moments, steeped in a kind of languid quiet. And yet he wanted this as much as he wanted the passion and the almost unbearable, exquisite love. He wanted to
know
her. Every part.

“Tell me a secret,” Jack murmured, touching her cheek, his fingertips memorizing the planes and angles of her face like an erotic form of braille. “Something only you know.”

She smiled softly, eyes the color of bittersweet Venezuelan chocolate. “You first.”

“I was certain I was going to die in London,” he responded quietly, recalling fighting for his life in that half-constructed office prison, Mitch passed out at his feet, Lucien Lightner leering at him like a jackal. “It was the first time I’d ever been really afraid in my life. The second time was seeing you nearly die in Germany, right in front of my eyes, when I could do nothing to save you.”

Samantha closed her eyes. She turned her head and pressed a gentle kiss into his palm, the flutter of her lips light as butterfly’s wings.

“The first time I died was in Afghanistan,” she said after a moment, “Or so I’m told.”

His heart squeezed hard. “Do you remember it?”

Samantha shook her head. “Not really, no. But I remember something—or I dreamt it.” She looked up, touching the headstone. “Ryland was there, waiting for me. I think—” her voice caught. “I think he sent me back.”

Thank God…
Jack sent a little prayer of thanks into the ether.
Thank you for sending her back to me…

“I owe your brother a debt of gratitude, then.” He saw the sadness in her expression as she traced his name in the headstone. “Will you tell me about him?”

Samantha was quiet for long moments before murmuring, “Ry was my world, growing up.” She met his eyes. “My mother died giving birth, and her death sent my father into a spiral. My dad was an alcoholic. He’d be gone for months at a time, so it was up to me and my granddaddy to raise Ry.” She laughed then, softly, lost momentarily in recollection. “Between me and that old man, I’m surprised Ry survived the first few years. Thank God for Aunt Hannah and Uncle Grant.”

“I saw pictures of him in the library,” Jack told her. “He looked pretty precocious.”

“He was.” Samantha nodded with a sentimental grin. “Ry and Carey were always running around together, the two of them usually up to no good. But that boy was a charmer from the moment he could smile. Even when he was in trouble, Ry knew just how to get me to cut him some slack.”

“So you grew up well before your time,” he observed. “You had to become a parent while you were still just a child yourself.”

Samantha shrugged lightly, though her eyes flashed with some dark, unnamed emotion. “I did what needed to be done, since my father wasn’t there to do it. But I remember deciding at a young age that I wouldn’t ever be beholden to anyone else for as long as I lived. I wouldn’t beg for anyone to love me or take care of me—
not
ever
.”

So much about her clicked into place with those plainspoken, albeit lamentable statements. The mystery of her constant distance and adamant invulnerability became clearer to him with those ruthless fragments of truth. Jack saw that it pained her to tell him these things, because of the trust and exposure it required, but he also understood now the source of her iron will—her relentless fierceness. As a child, Samantha hadn’t felt safe. She’d been unable to trust the one person she should have been able to trust most of all. That was a terrible lesson to learn at such a tender age. She’d taught herself to grow cold. She’d had to in order to be strong for herself and her little brother.

“I’m sorry your father hurt you,” Jack told her with gravity. “I’m sorry that he wasn’t the man you and your brother needed him to be.”

“That’s life,” Samantha replied, looking away. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought he saw her swallow back her sadness. “I don’t complain about all the good things that happen to me. Why should I get to complain over the bad shit? I always hated the idea of being some kind of poor little rich girl anyway.”

“Still—you deserved better.”

Samantha grew quiet again, fingers toying absently with a loose thread on the quilt. Jack realized she was sifting through all her secrets, deciding what she would or couldn’t tell him. Just a few months ago he would have tried to break through her barriers. He would have forced himself through the secret passageways and painstakingly-built walls. But now, he was just grateful she was opening up to him, however carefully, unfurling slowly like a tight bud. Perhaps this was the best victory he could have ever realized—the hard-won trust of a woman who was relearning how to give it.

“I didn’t let anyone near me again until Wes,” she confessed after a moment. “And he left me too when I needed him most.”

“I can see now why I might not look like a safe bet,” Jack acknowledged. “You’ve been let down by the men who were supposed to love you most.”

Regret crossed her face. “I slept with him, Jack.”

He felt like he’d fallen through a sudden vortex.

If Samantha had taken out a knife and slashed it across his chest, it couldn’t have hurt worse than that short statement. Jack sucked in a tight breath, fighting for control over his emotions as jealousy ripped through him.

“When?” he managed to get out, though his breathing felt harsh.

She met his eyes. “In Afghanistan.”

He wanted to ask her a hundred questions. He wanted to rail and fight. He wanted to drive his fist through something again and again, but he held still, fighting his instincts, the wicked flare of his temper. Even though his darker, masochistic side wanted to know everything, Jack had to wait to see what she was willing to share. And God help him, he couldn’t trust himself to speak.
Not yet
.

“I think I needed the closure, as selfish as that sounds,” Samantha continued when he said nothing. “I went into that mission thinking I was dead anyway, so I didn’t feel like I had anything else to lose. And Wes had always felt like an open wound. I don’t think I ever really healed,” she confessed quietly. “I don’t think I ever let him go.”

And you already thought you’d lost me then
, Jack thought to himself. Christ, this shit
hurt
. He wanted to pull away from her, but he wouldn’t. He understood now that loving this woman meant taking it all. The good, the bad, and apparently, the goddamn
excruciating
. He couldn’t ask her to open herself up to him and expect it not to hurt. He had to accept everything she was willing to share, or risk losing her again.

Samantha was like a stained glass window, nuanced and lovely, different from every angle and infinitely beautiful. But attempt to take individual pieces from the sum of her parts, and those vivid shards would slice you to bits. To love this woman meant taking her exactly as she was, and that included every complicated, wrenching, beautiful, cutting piece. He was
definitely
a masochist. For this woman, he’d be whatever he needed to be.