War. So far it had taken up most of his adult life.
Each of them lived in the bubble of their own experience, beliefs, circumstances, wants and needs. Here in Bosnia/Herzegovina those beliefs had led to a monstrous war. People like the ones who had lived here had paid the price. Sadly, that price was always too damn high.
“Clear,” he said softly.
She squeezed his shoulder in acknowledgment as he turned and headed up the stairs, checking each step as he climbed. There were two bedrooms at the top and both of them were empty, the beds nothing but frames with the mattresses gone.
“I think we need to speak to the manager,” he said, straightening from his Special Forces hunting stance.
“What do you think the possibility might be of getting extra towels.”
He chuckled and turned to her. Meeting her gaze, he just enjoyed being in her presence. “How’s that arm?”
“Hurts like a son of a bitch. If I could just have five minutes with Darko and Zasha, I’d show them a cage match they’ll never forget.”
He cupped her jaw. “Are you trying to get me hard?”
“Keep it in your pants, Bartholomew. Talk like that will distract me.” Her voice sounded watery. “We’re just a couple of adrenaline junkies.”
“I’ll save it until later.” He caressed her skin with soothing strokes.
Her eyes shone in the fading light. “What do they say about adrenaline?” She pulled him closer and kissed him, lingering over his mouth, her eyes moist. “It’s addicting?”
“Hmm,” was all he could manage.
“Yo!” Striker yelled.
“Up here. It’s clear. The barn?”
“Also, clear,” Striker said as he came into the room and Aella stepped away. “There are a few old clunkers and a tractor behind the barn. Not sure if they will have anything we can use.”
“Good. We’ll take a look.”
He and Aella left the room and exited out the front door. 2-Stroke was helping Chry into the house. His teammate had it bad, he thought. Then he looked at Aella as she sidled off toward the barn and sighed. That woman had the most toned and compact body he’d ever seen.
She turned and looked at him over her shoulder and said, “We’re on a timetable here, Bartholomew.”
The next thing he knew, they had salvaged a few hoses from the cars and made it back to the van. He lifted the hood and they got to work on replacing the hose. Using his combat knife, he cut pieces of each usable hose.
“Now how do we cobble them together?”
“There is one thing we all carry in our kit without fail,” he said with a grin. “Duct tape.”
He pulled a roll out of his jacket pocket and started rolling it around the hoses. “This is going to be a patch job. I hope this holds.”
“I hope so too.”
He looked over at her grimy face once they had jimmied the hose into place and taped the shit out of it.
His self-discipline vanished. His control shattered, and he crushed his mouth to hers, devouring her with the demanding pressure of his lips and aggressive invasion of his tongue.
When he pulled away, he burrowed his face against her damp neck, a raspy groan escaping him. Aella threaded her fingers through his hair, so sweet and affectionate, while her heart beat rapidly against his chest. Then she turned and pressed her lips near his ear.
“You are so addicting,” she whispered, and he heard the lazy smile in her voice as she stroked her fingers along his nape.
Addicting didn’t even come close to describing what he experienced with her. He squeezed his eyes closed, unable to believe what had happened with her. Unable to believe that he’d let things go this far when he knew better. His body was on fire around her. But the sexual tension between them had set him off from the beginning, now it was more…so much more.
And he was fucked and not in a good way.
2-Stroke stood at the window, his breath fogging the glass. He rubbed at his unshaven face, half-awake and feeling as cranky as hell. It was cold, dark, and the fact that he hadn’t gotten much more than an hour of sleep didn’t help his mood. The darkness outside the window infused the oddly empty house with more than a nighttime silence. It was as if the people who had lived here had been eradicated, and the loneliness of the derelict place was palpable.
Combat naps weren’t out of the ordinary for SEALs, but his lack of sleep had more to do with his vigilance regarding Chry. He was sure it was an echo leftover from both his brother’s death and the way he’d protected her before he went off to BUD/S. Maybe the guilt from leaving her without telling her was eating at him.
He would kill for a cup of coffee right now. Black and hot. The cell phone Marta had given him chimed, and he snatched it up before the second ring. What idiot was calling at such an early time? Grabbing his coat, he left the room, went downstairs and out the door to the front porch.
That idiot was Fast Lane. “Sitrep?”
“We’re making slow progress, but we’re close…another thirty minutes if we’re lucky and the van doesn’t tank again. Zasha and Darko are still looking for us. Of that, I have no doubt.”
“And everyone?”
“Chry is still recovering, Aella took a bullet to the arm, but it was a graze. Me, Saint, and Striker are all fine. How is Preach?”
“It was touch and go, but he pulled through. They’re airlifting him to Walter Reed as soon as he’s stable. He lost a lot of blood.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Alek?”
“He’s with Anna. Not sure what to do with him except keep him safe. We’ll sort that out later.”
“Right. I should have been clearer. He has a relative in DC. He can’t stay in this country now, not with his uncle trying to murder him. He’ll be safer in the States.”
“Will he? Darko has a long reach.”
“True.” A disturbing sensation settled in his gut. “What can we do, LT? He saved our lives. If it wasn’t for him, Chry and I would be buried and gone right now. I can’t let Darko murder him like—”
“Like?”
2-Stroke took a huge breath and let it out. “My father murdered my brother, and when he came for me, I killed him.”
There was silence on the other end of the line and 2-Stroke closed his eyes, the trust he’d seen the team put in their boss bolstering him.
“Geezus. I’m sorry about your brother. I’m afraid I don’t have one ounce of regret or sympathy for your father. I’m sure it was tough on you. For that, I’m also sorry.”
“Thank you, LT. I appreciate it.”
“This doesn’t have to be said, but you know we will always have your back. Get your asses to the border and I’ll sleep better at night. That’s an order,” he growled.
“Yes, sir.”
There was a gravelly chuckle. “You’re calling me sir?
2-Stroke leaned against the front of the house and crossed his ankles, a flicker of amusement surfacing.
There was another gruff chuckle. “I’m not going to let that go to my head. Keep it tight.”
He disconnected the call and 2-Stroke stuck the phone into his jacket pocket.
“Hey,” Saint said as he stepped onto the porch. “Sorry, I wasn’t eavesdropping, just heard you talking.”