“What is the plan if we make a break for the consulate?”
“First off, they don’t know about you. They only guess. They are after Neo Teller and Chrysanthe Steele. But, nevertheless, I would not recommend that course of action if you want to live. Those rebels, Darko and Zasha, will bomb the consulate. They don’t care who they kill in the process. You’ll be putting everyone in that building at risk of death.”
Iceman swore under his breath.
Striker stood there taking the information on the chin. Their plan was completely undoable. They couldn’t risk the lives of everyone in the building, as well as their own. He would have to scrap that plan and adopt his alternative.
One where they were going to have to get bold and make a run for it.
Iceman walked over and set his hands on his hips. “You have something else up your sleeve. We go into that building and we’re toast.”
“Yeah, I think I do.” He reached out his hand with the silenced weapon. “Preach.” Then he inclined his head to the doomed Pope. “Make sure he’s not found.”
Twenty minutes later, Striker showed up at the safehouse. 2-Stroke poured him a cup of coffee and they sat down at the table.
“How’s Chry?”
“Her fever broke, and she’s been sleeping pretty much since then,” Saint said, taking a sip of his coffee. He eyed Striker. “But you didn’t come here to ask about Chry. What’s up?”
He figured other warriors could tell when one of their own was on edge. “We can’t go to the consulate for help.”
“Why not?” 2-Stroke asked.
“Zasha and Darko are going to bomb it if we take up refuge there. We can’t risk all those people by going there.”
“Do you have another plan?”
“Yeah, but I have to ask Marta. Do you have a vehicle we can use?”
She looked at them around the table. “Surely, you’re not going to try to drive out of here?”
“We don’t have a choice. Chry can’t run and we won’t be able to stay here much longer. Can you help us again?”
“Yes,” she sighed wearily. “I can. We have a church van that’s nice and sturdy. It holds up to eight people. Would that work?”
“A van,” 2-Stroke said with a groan.
“It will have to. Can you get it for us by tomorrow night just at dusk?”
“I will have it parked out front at just after five. Will that work?”
Striker nodded. “Thank you.” He turned to the others, his mouth tightening in a grim line. “Iceman, Preach, and I will disable the chopper and cause a stir as a distraction. Saint, Aella, 2-Stroke, and Chry will make a break for it in Marta’s van.” He pulled a map out of his back pocket and unfolded it. “It’s eighty-six miles to Sarajevo, but less than that to the Republika Srpska border. Once you cross the border, your team can meet you there and intervene to protect you. I’ll contact Fast Lane and alert him to the fact that you may be coming in hot.”
2-Stroke sat up straighter. “And you?”
“We’ll get out on foot and meet up with you in Sarajevo. We’ll take the kid with us to keep him safe. I’ll send Aella over here as soon as I get back.”
He rose and leaned down to Saint. “Keep your wits about you,” he said, and Saint nodded.
“How do you feel about your teammate saying we should go home?” Aella asked, nestled in Saint’s arms. They had taken the other bedroom and were snuggled in for the night after she showed up at the safe house like Striker promised.
“Confused, I guess.”
“And a little hurt?” she asked, stroking his chest.
She was guessing, but she was on the money. Of all the guys on this team, he thought he, Mad Max, and 2-Stroke were on the same page. Of course, Saint couldn’t have known what had gone on during 2-Stroke’s captivity. He was sure that torture, stress, and drugs went a long way to undermine a guy’s mind. When Saint had seen 2-Stroke and Striker tonight, they appeared composed. Almost too composed. Something had gone down between them…maybe was still going down. But if he’d had to wager money, he did expect that 2-Stroke would have at least given them his trust. “We’ve been a team divided for some time. We’ve healed some, but still have a ways to go.”
“What happened to divide you?” she asked as she pushed herself up and settled against his chest so she could look him in the eyes. For a moment, he was distracted by those heavy breasts of hers, barely covered with that scrap of lace she was wearing.
“It’s a long story.”
“I have the time. Sleep is overrated.”
He smiled. “It started on a mission where two SEAL squads were ambushed. The enemy captured a member from another squad, and this squad, the one I’m currently assigned to, lost Fast Lane, Pitbull, and Speed. We recovered our LT and Pitbull, but Speed was tortured to death before they could rescue him. His death splintered the team. Three members transferred out and Mad Max, 2-Stroke, and I transferred in. In the beginning it seemed like we were the three odd guys out. A them vs. us mentality until Pitbull opened up about some heavy personal issues that involved Speed and his estranged wife. Hemingway, who went through BUD/S a couple of years ago, has this way about him that’s inclusionary and healing. He drew us closer together, then we almost lost Dodger on this mission in Prague where we had to split up. He came clean about his past and stuff he was ashamed of to all of us. I would think 2-Stroke would take all this bonding seriously and drop his own guard. But I guess he doesn’t feel comfortable with that yet.”
“That’s pretty heavy-duty stuff. I usually don’t have to work with a partner, but I completely understand the bond. Just like us ATF types, you have to trust the people you go into battle with.”
“Yeah,” he said, then pushed her down to the mattress, running his hand up her ribcage to her breast. He bent his head and took a lace-covered nipple into his mouth and worked it hard until she was panting. She dragged him up to her mouth and they kissed, their tongues twining, the heat of her mouth only adding to the quick and rapid thickness of his hard-on.
He broke their kiss, and before she could issue a protest, he flipped her around so that she was on her belly. She looked up at him over her shoulder and their gazes met, hers a dark shade of brown as he lowered his mouth to her shoulder. His lips touched the soft, smooth skin, and he felt her shiver from his caress.
A slow, sensual smile curved her lips. “You are a wealth of surprises that I’m quickly becoming addicted to,” she murmured.
He skimmed the body-hugging lace over her shoulders and the curve of her hips until it finally bunched around her middle. His mouth went dry as he took in her matching black, sheer lace G-string panties that made her look as though she’d just stepped from the centerfold of a men’s magazine.
Except she was all his. His fantasy. His desire. She rose on all fours, and her sweet breasts spilled forward, firm and perfectly proportioned to her slender waist and the swell of her hips.
“I have an addiction problem myself, darlin’,” he whispered in her ear. She dampened her bottom lip with her tongue.
“I’m going to miss you, Saint, in my lonely bed in DC.” He loved her honesty, loved that she wasn’t playing games, his regret only deepening.