Before Brickham could render an answer, Oz sauntered back over.
This time, the Aussie was wearing a Kevlar vest along with thigh armor and knee pads. A black tactical helmet was tucked beneath one of his arms, and a compact rifle was secured across his chest.
“Yippee-ki-yay,” the guy quipped, readjusting one of his thigh pads. “Time to roll. So you’re all apples here?” He ticked a nod in Brickham’s direction, seemingly oblivious to how his friend nodded and frowned at the same time. “Beauty. Check you out on the other side, hot stuff.”
“Yeah, yeah. Have fun storming the castle, asshole.”
Jayd struggled to glom a little chuckle onto Oz’s but never found the right internal plug for it. Was she the only one who heard the conflict past Brickham’s sarcasm? That past the casual sneer, there was a conflicted warrior? That he was tapping tense fingers against his thighs because he longed to be strapping bulletproof gear onto them too?
As soon as Ozias had paced out of earshot, she pivoted to Brick with new determination. If she could lend just a sliver of empathy to his world…to be the person who made his day a little better this time…
“Brickham.” She went all-in on the risk, pressing her hand against his. “I want you to know…we appreciate you being here. Right here.”
He swooped his gaze down at her. His lips were still twisted in that conflicted scowl, but the rest of his features mellowed a little. “I know, P—” He slammed his lips together again. “I know, princess.”
Princess.
It was better than Highness. She tried telling herself that, at least twenty times over, while gritting her teeth to maintain her diplomatic smile.
What, in the Creator’s name, had Evrest said to him?
And how much bodily harm could a woman inflict on her big brother short of assassination?
But there was not a spare moment for wallowing in that stew. She had no time for simmering, not when her frustration was nearly at a boiling point.
That left only a few viable options for going forward.
One: evaporate every shred of sustenance in the figurative pot.
Two: let the damn thing get too hot and then explode.
Three: add good intentions and turn this mess into a half-palatable soup.
“All right,” she said, figuring he could interpret her heavy sigh whatever way he wished. By now, it was clear the man wished to be sailing clear of emotional waters anyhow. “Where do we need to start?”
Hell on earth.
It wasn’t a term that daunted Brick anymore. He’d already been on that cruise more times than he wanted to remember. Danced until dawn with starvation, deprivation, and fear. Been to every station of the torture chamber buffet. Sang the sole song on the menu in the karaoke bar: “Just Kill Me and Get It Over With.”
He didn’t feel like warming up the pipes for that custom ditty just yet—but God fucking help him, he’d come damn close in the last two and a half hours.
Like every worthy stint on the persecution rack, things were easy enough at first. Every word from Evrest had still resounded in his mind, such aching reminders of how he’d already let things with Jayd go too far.
So. Damn. Far.
But he’d been determined to hold steady, being aloof but friendly to Jayd, even after Requiemme had hooked them up on the intake table preparations. And yes, even when Jayd beamed about it like a celebratory ballerina.
He’d embraced the metaphor, in turn giving back something between a brooding Baryshnikov and a polite Polunin. And it had worked—at first. All the way to the second that the perceptive Pixie collected on his number and then called him on it.
Hard.
Brutally hard.
As in the cutting diamonds in her eyes, turning every color of inquisition and hurt. As in the dismissive obelisk of her posture, her shoulder blades sharp bites through her shirt. But especially in how she went so quiet. Not silent. She still spoke when addressed and kindly commented to everyone who needed her, except that it hardly seemed like her doing the talking. But now, she was different about it. Subdued. Distant.
Defeated?
He almost shook his head in violent rejection of that idea. Coupling that descriptor to his audacious sprite was like calling Mt. Rainier a foothill.
She was the same person who’d nearly flipped him the bird when he’d given her the broke-dick mope in the infirmary. She’d also been the only lover to pull him out of a guns-blazing panic attack. In a cemetery. So no way was she capitalizing on the new emo hair color just because of him.
His theory was validated as the standing speakers in the room’s corners suddenly crackled. His adrenaline torpedoing the stabbing pain near his wound sites, Brick surged to his feet.
“That’s field radio noise,” he stated.
There were fewer sounds on the planet he was more certain of. Definitely none that stirred such an urgent but bittersweet reaction. Unbelievably, even after Asha and Bamiyan, there were parts of him that still longed for the rush of the mission. The anticipation of hunting down backstabbing cocksuckers who’d just presented themselves to the world as “misunderstood victims.” Yeah, that part never got old.
For now, he had to settle for listening to the scrapes and scuffs and grunts that gave away their direct connection to a soldier racing along the front somewhere. As of right now, they still had no idea where, but it was a definite sign that something was up.
There hadn’t been a peep from any of the comm patches so far, which wasn’t a huge surprise. As of the last tactical update, Samsyn had activated at least fifteen recon units across the island. Brick assumed they’d all been ordered to zip it on the comms until a positive sighting of Carris and his boys was made.
Was that the hot scoop now?
Brick remained in place, deciding initial caution was the better call. Sometimes radios simply got punched by accident.
During the wait, he got in a quick glance at Jayd. Fuck. Anxiety bristled in her eyes; tension lined her posture.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Screw it. He may have pledged not to be her Kryptonite, but he couldn’t bypass on at least being the Power Stone for her Titan gauntlet.
It was as easy as crossing the room to the temporary tech station that had been set up on a small presentation area in the room. During normal circumstances, he imagined the palais staff using this as a focal area for operational meetings and parties. There was a smaller public address system off to the side, not being used for this occasion. The larger speakers provided clearer, louder sound—through which more chaotic sounds now vibrated.
“What’s the twenty on this?” he asked the palais security rep who was handling this makeshift bridge. The woman, who clearly knew what she was doing, had a shoulder name patch that read Iscah.
“On these,” the tech clarified, looking up through a long front lock of hair that looked freshly dyed in a red-black mixture.
Sheez. The palais salon must’ve had an overstock on the coif colors this week.
“There’s a new hit from the unit lead at the air strip.” Iscah pointed to a flashing yellow dot on a glowing green map imprinted onto a sheet of hard acrylic that measured about ten-by-ten feet. “But also over there, from your friend Demos and his team, out at the Drehd Forest.”
“The Drehd Forest?” As Brick repeated it, Iscah efficiently rolled a tracking ball until the acrylic glowed with more imagery. This time, there was a topographical detail of the terrain across the island. He hummed, communicating his approval.