Saint by Zoe Dawson

7

She shrugged,flashing Saint a smile. “Passable. I did love to cross-stitch when I was younger.”

His mouth turned up at the corner with a wry lift. “Great. No cross stitches, just straight stitches.”

She laughed and it felt good. “I think I can manage that.”

“Stellar,” he said, then bent his head down again. She got to work and when she was done, she didn’t think it was half bad. With his head taken care of she moved to his face.

Very carefully she cleaned up the side of his neck, then tackled the rest of the blood on his face to finally carefully wash away the blood on his forehead.

“More stitches?” he asked.

“Yes. Stay still.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled and her affection for him created such a load of emotion in her that she could barely breathe.

She used the same local anesthetizer she had on his scalp, then closed up the short cut. Using butterflies to keep the cut stable, she leaned back finished.

“There,” she said. “All done.” She tilted her head. “Those cuts and bruises give you a rough and tumble cast to counter your pretty boy looks.”

He smiled widely and her chest tightened. God, he was so irresistible when he did that.

“I guess it would ruin my big, bad commando cred if I asked you to kiss my boo boos.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Is that the medical term?”

His face went serious, even as his eyes twinkled, and her heart turned over.

“Oh, yeah,” he agreed. “It’s patented and everything.”

“Lab tested even?”

“I think the trials are still ongoing. Will you pucker up for science?”

“Well, if it’s for science,” she said, leaning down and pressing a kiss to all his cuts and bruises, his skin warm against her lips. “All better?” she asked.

He slipped his hand around her neck, his whole body leaning toward her as he dragged her face down, emotions like pinpoints of blue fire in his eyes, his mouth soft and hot against her lips.

When she responded, he slanted his mouth over hers more fully, taking more of her, taking everything he could get, all the sweet surrender and every soft sigh. She forgot where she was, who she was, and everything in the wake of all that heat.

The taste and intensity of it took her over as the rock-solid feel of him slid against her, the muscles of his arm flexing around her, the gentle strength of his hand on the back of her neck, the sensual thrill of having his tongue in her mouth with that rhythmic thrusting, melted her brain. He was insistent and tender at the same time, turning her on with every move of his lips over hers, with every thrust into her mouth making her want to give him more.

She slid her fingers up into his hair and kissed him like her life depended on it, slow and deep, teasing him with her tongue, breathing him in and tasting him—and it was all so impossibly good, so impossible.

But this kiss…this kiss was crazy and had no place to go.

No place, she told herself.

There was too much distance, too many goals, a mission in their way, and her ambition rounding out the impossible equation.

Somebody needed to show an ounce of sense, and considering the way his hand was sliding over her, she figured it was going to have to be her.

God, that sucked.

With a monumental effort, because he tasted and felt so good, and because it had been way too long since she’d kissed him, she broke away from him—and there they sat, still wrapped up so close, their noses touching, his breath soft on her skin, the temperature way hotter than Somalia could ever be. It was as if they’d been transported to the sun.

“Saint, we…”

“Yeah,” he said as if that was all he was capable of. “I must have lost my fucking mind.”

She pulled away because it seemed he was incapable. She stared down into that arresting face. The dark stubble accentuated the hard set of his jaw. His stillness was unnerving, along with his hand on her thigh. And for some reason that one physical connection created such a load of want in her, it was all so crazy.

As the dusky light of dawn filtered through the leafy canopy, his eyes closed, and even in the dim light, she could tell that he was exhausted, but both mentally and physically ready for action, ready to once again risk his life. Her heart lurched hard. Her vision blurring, Aella clasped his head against her in a fierce hold.

He didn’t respond for a moment, then he exhaled sharply, his arm coming around her awkwardly. Closing her eyes against a nearly unbearable surge of feeling for him, she cradled his head against her breast and pressed her mouth to the top of his head.

Saint pulled her into his lap, then drew her flush against him. Aella swallowed hard and wrapped her arms around him. She needed the reality of him physically against her, releasing a ragged sigh and holding on to him. His beard was rough against her skin, making her revel in being alive.

“What have you been doing for the last six months?” he asked.

Missing you, she thought, but didn’t dare say it. She swallowed against the sudden burst of longing, remembering the sense of intense loss that made her heart ache all over again. “After I healed from the compound fracture I got in Bosnia, my boss put me in charge of a task force to take down Darko.” She had been thrilled to be in charge of the international team, catapulting her up a few rungs of the ladder she was climbing.

“Congratulations. I know that’s the type of leadership you’ve been working toward. It’ll look good on your resume.” His tone was neutral, but she had no doubt he was being sincere. Saint wouldn’t mock her choices. “What about Zasha? Wasn’t she a target too?” A muscle in his jaw twitched and he drew a deep breath.

She clenched and unclenched her jaw, then, her voice deadly quiet, said, “Not as much as Darko.” White-hot anger blossomed in Aella. She reined in her fury, just barely getting it under control. This was why James was dead. She had been too focused on Darko and the small details that she had somehow lost perspective and was leading them both to ruin. “He killed our agents. He was the one we were after. But if we snagged Zasha with him, we were instructed to turn her over to the CIA.”

“She deserves a cold, dark place to live out the remaining life she has left. I’m sure The Company will find something suitable.”

She met his unwavering gaze, her dark retribution mirrored in his eyes. “If she survives our pursuit.”

“I can’t see her giving up and coming peacefully, Aella. That woman is a menace to not only the U.S., but the world. She’s so full of hate and bitterness, all she can muster is cruelty toward anyone who doesn’t go along with her plans.”

“I’m not giving up.”

“I know that, and I understand it. It will be a cold day in hell that any of us will forget how she treated 2-Stroke and Chry, how she pursued them relentlessly.” He studied her for a moment then said, “What fresh hell has she put you through besides turning you over to Omar?”

She wrapped her arms around herself, staring at him. Her head started to throb, and she realized she was clenching her jaw again, the pressure going all the way up to the top of her head. She saw Jason again, bleeding, his warm brown eyes now lifeless looking up at her from where he had fallen.

Feeling absolutely lifeless inside, Aella said, “She killed my partner, Jason Farber. Cut his throat and left him lying in the dirt.”

Saint stared at her, then his face softened in sympathy. Her heart was suddenly too big for her chest.

“Aw, Aella,” he whispered and roughly gathered her against him. But not even his warmth could touch that coldness in her.

They sat like that for a few moments, then she pushed back and said, “What about you?”

“2-Stroke and Chry got engaged,” he said with a smile.

Some of the gloom receded. “Oh my God, that is such good news. I thought that was inevitable with the way those two were with each other. I’m so glad.”

He nodded, the smile fading a bit from his face. “As for what I’ve been up to…deployments mostly,” he said. She sensed the change in him, his embrace suddenly rife with tension. His voice broke a bit when he whispered, “Missing you every day.”

Her jaw locked against the ache in her throat, she cupped his face, trying to will away the awful fullness burning in her eyes. She didn’t dare think about what it had been like all those months without him and, once this was over, what was ahead of her. She would never get through even the next few hours if she did. Easing a deep breath, trying to absorb as much of his warmth and strength as she could, she worked at hoping it was enough to get her through, enough to hold her together.

“Don’t, Zach. Please.”

Saint released a heavy sigh and smoothed his hand up her back, then kissed her forehead. “I’m sure we would have gotten sick of each other within a month,” he said gruffly.

She chuckled and nudged his shoulder. “I have no doubt. I’m high maintenance. Got to have things my way.”

He gave her a dry, steady look. “Yup, pushy, bossy, sassy as all get out.”

She grinned and shook her head. His gaze was warm and intimate as he stared at her, his eyes alive with mischief. Then something flickered in those blue depths, and he looked away, his expression suddenly strained. “We’d better—”

“Yeah,” she said and slid off him to the ground. He rolled to his feet, then caught her by the hand and helped her to stand. He stared at her, then carefully tucked a few wayward hairs behind her ear.

Feeling suddenly shaky inside, she nodded, then turned away, her throat aching. Please, for the love of God, let me get through this without crying again. She’d shed enough tears in front of him already in reaction to shock, fear, relief and hope.

To be honest, it would have been so much easier if it had been someone else who had come for her, but she had no doubt Saint wasn’t going to budge on being the man to track her down—and just in time before she had been further and permanently violated, leaving the kind of scars that would last a lifetime.

“Thank you. Thank you so much for being here. For coming for me. I’m so grateful to all of you.”

He nodded, his eyes dark with both regret and comfort.

“You need to get some rest,” she said, blinking back the sting in her eyes.

She was so aware of everything about him, the texture of his skin, the bristly feel of his stubble, the warmth of his body, the hard planes and angles of his muscles, every breath he took.

“Do you know how to handle an assault rifle?”

She scoffed. “Of course, I do. I’m an ATF agent, mister. Don’t you forget it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

Reluctantly and slowly, she let him go. He picked up his M4 and turned it in his hand. “Flick this for auto and flick it back for single. Depress the trigger and you can’t miss.”

She nodded as he got up and moved toward the place where she had been sleeping. Settling down, he turned his big body toward her. He kept his eyes on her as they drew heavy until they stayed closed, and he fell asleep.

It was then she realized that she hadn’t told him a thing about David, that she had forgotten the man she was dating back in the States. With a soft sigh, she fixed her attention on the sky and outside the blind for any movement or danger.

Even as she worked at tamping down the serious danger she was facing in the blind with a gorgeous, irresistible Navy SEAL asleep just a few feet from her, she needed the thoughts that Darko and Zasha would see justice. If not by her hand, then by the SEALs who also were after them.

He slept a totally exhausted combat sleep, looking as dangerous in slumber as he did awake.

She looked up to the barely-there sky, a faint aura of light brightening the western horizon, almost swallowed by the storm clouds still forming.

Off in the distance, but getting closer at an accelerating rate of speed, the whop, whop of chopper blades cut through the air—trouble and nothing but, just like Zach “Saint” Bartholomew.

* * *

“I’ve got a shot,”Dragon said as 2-Stroke stiffened. They were nestled in heavy cover overlooking the terrible twosome’s camp. Dragon was manning his sniper rifle and 2-Stroke was monitoring movement below. “Want me to take it? Put her down like the rabid dog she is.”

“Don’t call her a dog. That’s an insult to rabid dogs everywhere.” 2-Stroke thought about the danger she still posed to him, to Chry and to Alex, not to mention unknown victims just waiting for her to target them deliberately or randomly. It didn’t matter to her. He was sorely tempted to give Dragon the green light, but that wasn’t his call. That was Fast Lane’s decision, and he wasn’t going to go against his LT. The man knew what he was doing and had never let 2-Stroke down.

“As much as I would find that satisfying, I’d rather use my knife on her.” To others who weren’t part of the elite group, that would sound savage and inhumane. But she had put him and Chry through some terrible torture before they had escaped. Her intention was to murder them and a vulnerable teenager. Even though he had a cousin who was well versed in protecting Alex, 2-Stroke still worried about him.

“Yeah, well, maybe you’ll get the chance. I got a feeling there isn’t going to be any execution. The CIA, the DOJ, hell, even ATF probably want her alive.”

2-Stroke gave his brother in arms a grim smile. “Hopefully, the CIA wins. If they do, she’ll never see the light of day again.”

“If she lives that long.”

2-Stroke leaned forward as she appeared onto the deck of the makeshift, prefab house. She walked down the stairs and met up with the man who had driven up in a green jeep. He was white, tall, and well-built. He had a tablet in his hand along with something in a metal container. They talked for a few minutes, then went to one of the other prefabs.

“I wish we could hear what she’s talking about.”

“I’m happy to stay on my perch if you and your knife want to go down there and get us some audio intel.”

2-Stroke smiled again, pulled his knife out of his vest, checked the razor-sharp edge with his thumb and said, “Don’t mind if I do.” Jamming the blade back into its vest sheath, he rose. “Be back in a jiff.”

* * *

Solace wasaware that she wasn’t sweating anymore, and her mouth was as dry as the sand of the desert. They needed water and they couldn’t go on until they found it. They might as well lay down here in the trees and die. The sun was up and that would be even worse.

She bent down to Rose and said, “We can’t stay here any longer. We’ve got to find water.”

Rose stirred and lifted her head, the gash on her forehead still angry and red. Her eyes didn’t look good either.

“Sweetheart? Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m so dizzy and nauseous. But you’re right. We need to move.”

Solace crouched down and touched her forehead. The cut was hot but didn’t look infected. Her pupils were dilated though. Suddenly water wasn’t as important as getting Rose to a hospital. What if she had a skull fracture, or worse—was slowly bleeding to death?

What were the odds that the Bosnian kill squad would search the airport again? Could she make it back there, find a radio, medical supplies or maybe fix a chopper enough to take off? Was she foolish to go back there?

Solace was so torn as to what to do, trying not to panic as that strange lost feeling swept through her. Whatever decision she made could mean life or death for Rose. But she was a pilot, and she was used to making life and death decisions. They would go back to the airport and take their chances there. There were options, she thought. Viable ones.

Wandering around in the wilderness without a map could land them smack dab into even deeper trouble, like terrorists, the Bosnians, or just plain bandits who wished them harm. They were women and that was a valuable commodity to some men.

All they had were two pistols with a mag each of ammunition, their self-defense training, and their wits.

“Rose. We’re going back to the airport. It’s our only chance. We might be able to salvage a radio or chopper. There is water there too. Come on.”

She reached down to help her up, and Rose’s knees buckled, but then she righted herself. Solace looked her in the eye and smiled. “You are a tough bitch.”

“Right back at you, sister,” Rose said with a wan grin. “Let’s go.”

* * *

“There’s a blood trail here, LT,”Mad Max said as Jugs went a little crazy at the scent. “Someone tried to hide it, but Jugs picked it up.”

Fast Lane stopped short and peered into the gloom of the trees. “Saint?” he asked.

“Could be, but we’re still miles away from the rendezvous,” Pitbull said.

“Fast Lane to Saint, do you copy?”

There was static on the other end of the radio. He waited on edge. Pretty soon, as the sun rose, this country would be on alert, and they would be exposed in the daylight hours. They preferred to work in the wee hours of the night, but they were never out of the fight.

“Let’s take a look.” The team assumed an offensive posture as they brought up their semi-automatics. “Max take point,” They fanned out and approached the area slowly.

“More blood,” Max said. He pushed in and the other members of the team followed on either side of him to give him cover. They stopped. “Body.”

Fast Lane knelt down to the man who was on his back partially covered by some bushes. The Nightstalker jumpsuit made his gut tighten. He reached over and felt for a pulse. There was nothing there. “He’s dead,” Fast Lane said.

“Gut shot. That’s a fucking painful way to die. Poor bastard,” Mad Max said after examining the guy’s wounds.

“Slater, according to the name patch on his jumpsuit.” Dodger said. He fished out Slater’s dog tags. “Yeah. William B. Slater.” He read off the rounded-edge metal, then let them drop.

“He must have escaped from the airport. Seems unlikely he got here all by himself. Could there be other survivors out here?” Hemingway asked.

“Yeah,” Pitbull said. “They must have had to leave him to save themselves. Tough decision.”

Fast Lane went to stand, and his knee knocked something that jingled. He looked down. In the dirt something reflected off the filtered light from the overcast sky.

He reached down and snagged the object.

“Dog tags? Can’t be his,” Hemingway said as Fast Lane brought the metal up so he could read it.

Fast Lane’s muscles locked, and his heart came back to life just a little.

MITCHELL

SOLACE E.

7745589633

0 NEG

NO PREFERENCE

“They’re Chief Mitchell’s. She must have survived the attack. She helped Slater get off the base,” Hemingway said.

“Where is Mitchell now?”

“Still being pursued?” Pitbull said with concern in his eyes. “Still running?”

“From whom?” Dodger asked.

“When we catch up to them, they’re going to wish they had made another decision,” Mad Max murmured.

“Find rocks and cover the body. Note the place where we found him and give me one of the dog tags just in case.” Bending down, Fast Lane put Solace’s tags to Jug’s nose.

“Track,” Mad Max said as Jugs sniffed. Fast Lane rose, tucking all three dog tags into his vest.

“Fast Lane to Saint,” he tried again. There was still nothing but static, and he gritted his teeth. Truth of the matter was Saint was capable—hell, more than capable. He was armed, and he was a seasoned SEAL. Solace was an excellent pilot, she had the training, but she was running for her life along with whoever was with her. They were probably without water, without rest or a means to protect themselves. Saint could handle the situation without them for a little while longer. But somehow that didn’t make him feel any better.

He just wished he could let his teammate know that he, Aella and those kids—fuck—were going to have to hang on for a little bit longer.

“We’re going to find her,” Fast Lane growled, hope in him blossoming. Regardless of their differences, regardless of their breakdown and divorce, they had a special connection that he hadn’t really understood, but he was certain he would have felt it if she’d died. But standing outside her quarters, he hadn’t felt anything but despair. She had to be alive, then maybe the dead part of him would come back to life.

“Copy that,” Pitbull said.