“Neo,” she cried, calling for him in her stupor, her link with reality blurred by the high fever.
“I’m here, babe.” His voice came from beside her, soothing her as the chilly feel of cold against her legs. She gasped again, reaching out blindly and curling her arms around his neck. He was the only thing that anchored her to the world. If she let go, she might float away from him and never see him again.
Her irrational mind couldn’t grasp onto anything but the electric sensation of his presence, the strength of his muscles, the familiar scent of his skin, and the texture of his hair.
“She’s going to kill us,” she whispered over and over. “We have to fight. Take back our lives,” she pleaded as she found herself alone on a cold tundra, nothing but snow and ice spread out in front of her.
“Neo!” she shouted, but there was nothing but the frigid sound of the wind as it blew across her exposed skin. She ran, her feet like ice, until she fell into a deep, dark fissure with no bottom to stop her descent.
11
Striker stood at the window, the reflection in the glass showing Aella pining for Saint. Yeah, he knew when two people were getting it on. He thought fleetingly how long it had been since he’d felt that way about a woman.
The ones who didn’t count barely registered—the frog hogs and the strap hangers made it easy to get his rocks off, but it didn’t fulfill something fundamental inside him. The last woman he could remember…the one woman he couldn’t seem to forget… Ophelia Barr had been a firebrand in high school. Five feet five filled with a force of nature that could be seen in her intense green eyes. Her hair had been auburn, chin-length, and more than a little tousled. She was always impeccably dressed in sensible clothes and neat as a pin, but even her sensible just-above-the-knee skirt couldn’t hide an amazing set of legs.
She had been class president, on the debate team, senior class editor for the school paper, and a math nerd. Had played the violin so beautifully, she’d made some of the teachers weep, a woman of substance even then. He had been a jock, wrapped up in the popularity that had followed him for as long as he could remember.
Ophelia wanted nothing to do with him, especially when he often gave her a hard time and pissed her off. He wasn’t a player, but Ophelia had been suspicious that a jock could not only be serious, but studious. He’d proven all of that to her. But then he’d made his career choice and said goodbye. He hadn’t seen her since. She was probably married and the president of some company, a reporter, or some high-level government official. She had a lot of potential. Hell, for all he knew, she could be opening every night at Carnegie Hall.
He smiled softly. He had been away so long from East LA, where he grew up. Whatever she had done with her life, he was sure it was something meaningful, substantial. Winning her over had taken everything he had, but high school was a microcosm of life, and transitions and change were inevitable. Going into the Navy was his way to give back, something she had pounded into him. What kind of mark would he make on the world? Where did he stand and what did he stand for?
He smiled again and shook his head. He wondered if Ophelia realized what an influence she’d been on him.
He remembered how sweet her lips had tasted and every dip and curve of her delectable body. Those things he couldn’t forget even if he wanted to—and he had tried to over the years.
He rolled his shoulders to work out the kinks. The five of them were chomping at the bit. Striker wanted to hunt down Darko and that bitch Zasha, but Fast Lane told them to stay put and in hiding. If they were being hunted, it was best they lay low until they were ready to make their move.
“How much longer are we going to keep our tails between our legs?” Iceman asked. “Preach is going to think he’s not doing his job if he’s not getting shot at.”
Preacher laughed softly. “Yeah, I’m getting a complex over here.”
“I want to take them out,” Aella said, her voice laced with steel.
“Yeah, now you’re talking,” Preacher said.
“We stay put…for now. Chry has been shot and she’s fighting for her life. We can’t make a move until she’s ready to travel.” He’d wanted to talk to Neo but limiting communication unless it was required had also been deemed the wiser move.
It seemed that their past was coming to a head, not only with him, but with his brother as well. He couldn’t imagine what Neo had endured at the hands of Darko, Zasha, and their thugs, but he was certain it had pushed his brother even closer to the edge. He’d buried so much, too much for a fourteen-year-old body to handle. Dean was concerned that all the bitterness, anger, and despair would spill over even Neo’s formidable walls. Dean wanted to be there for him in every way, as backup, as his big brother who had failed him so miserably when he was young, and even as a punching bag to express every bottled-up emotion.
Aella stood up. “How is she doing?”
“So far, according to Saint, she’s holding her own. Fighting the infection like hell.”
She came over to him and said, “How bad is it?”
“Bad enough. It won’t be long before Darko and Zasha regroup. My little brother did a number on them back at the river. They aren’t soon going to forget what it feels like to be on the bad side of a SEAL. When the time comes, we will be ready.”
“Damn straight,” Aella said.
2-Stroke sat at the bedside while Chry battled her fever. Something ugly was building in him, and he was finding it more difficult to sit here watching her fight. He clenched his fists and looked up as Marta came into the room. Saint was on the other side of the bed keeping his attention on his patient. He refused to leave Chry. Anika had gone back home to her husband, telling them if they needed more antibiotics to let her know.
“I brought you something to eat,” Marta said, holding out the plate. 2-Stroke’s jaw clenched, and it was all he could do to stop himself from backhanding the dish out of her hands. He felt detached, disconnected, as if he were someone else watching his life unfold.
He looked up, trying to smile his thanks but failing totally. He fixed his gaze on Chry again, knowing something was going to have to give.
Chry called out something unintelligible, and he bolted to his feet, a cold, numbing sensation engulfing him. He went to her, but she didn’t react to him.
“She’s caught up in the fever. She’s fighting like hell.”
“She wouldn’t do any less,” he murmured, smoothing his hand against her feverish forehead. She had to fight. He needed her. He didn’t realize how much until the reality of her… He couldn’t finish the thought. It wasn’t going to happen. The thought of Chry ceasing to exist was too painful to contemplate.
Unable to see, he gouged at his eyes, guilt slicing through him. It should have been him who had taken the bullet. Always unable to protect the people that meant the most to him, he was once again helpless.
A light hand settled on his shoulder, giving him a hard squeeze. “Come on. Sit down. You need something to eat and about ten hours of sleep,” Marta said gently. “She isn’t in this battle alone. We’re here to help her. We just have to give it time for her body to fight back.”