She went into her bedroom and closed the door. The cut on her leg from leaping the fence was minor and had already stopped bleeding. She wiped it down with disinfectant and changed into closefitting black clothes.
They ghosted across the city back to the square and the Evzen Hotel. Slipping up the fire escape, they found the window Anna had used for her escape still open. Once inside, she stumbled over something in the dark. When she fell to the floor, she found Miller flat on his back, gasping for breath.
“Dodger, the light!”
He snapped it on, and she pressed up into a sitting position. Miller had been shot, and the blood pool told her he didn’t have long. She leaned over him. “Who did this to you?”
He shifted his terrified eyes to her; they were glassy with pain and the onset of death. “Players in the game,” he whispered.
“This isn’t a game,” she bit out. “Where’s the activation code? You could be causing so much death and destruction. Tell me.”
“The saintly King of Enlightenment centers his span of healing and prophecy on the foundation of his home with a key to the meaning of everything,” was all he said, then his breath hissed in a soft exhale and the light in his eyes winked out.
Great. Her life was hanging in the balance, and all she had was a dead hacker, unknown assailants who had deliberately burned her, the CIA hunting her, the possibility that Dodger was going to be ruined and probably jailed, and now some riddle to decipher in a deadly game she was being forced to play.
Worst day of her life.
4
The first fingers of sunrise smeared the undersides of the plump cumulus clouds with pink and purple, the angle of early morning light stretching the shadows and making the dew sparkle.
Dodger stood at the front window looking over the city. Situated in the northwest of the country on the Vltava River sat the largest city and the capital of the Czech Republic. The light from the rising sun touching bridges, cathedrals, gold-tipped towers, and church spires. Somewhere off to the north, his team was preparing to go out and execute the mission he’d been sent here to do. By now, he would be considered UA. He closed his eyes, regret washing over him for letting his LT and his team down. Fast Lane would have no choice but to report him.
After thirty days he would be considered a deserter. A Uniform Code of Military Justice article 85 followed by a dishonorable discharge, court-martial, and substantial brig time would be in his future. He would be stripped of his trident, no longer a Navy SEAL.
Forcing himself to let go of the air jammed up in his lungs, Dodger turned and pressed his back against the window frame.
This decision was heartbreaking, devastating, yet he couldn’t leave Anna to fend for herself. His honor hinged on his ability to carry out his duty. Duty to country, duty to the Navy, duty to the brotherhood. Anna was Max’s sister, and she was an innocent pawn in this twisted espionage business. The stark fact was indisputable. Saving the US satellite system was worth his absence from the team. He knew they would handle the op as professionally, completely, and thoroughly as if he was part of it. But deep in his gut, it felt like a betrayal. The team was starting to gel, and things were getting better. This could shatter their trust in him. But what choice did he have?
There was national security tied up in each of the missions that pulled him toward each one. On one side a financier who could lead them to Angar Said, the other a twisted riddle-infested one-liner that held clues to the activation code that would take down the tactical advantage the US had over the enemy.
But only one of these missions could take the life of a person that wasn’t only dear to him, but to his teammate. He loved his adopted country and the Navy. It had saved his life. But he loved his team and teammates more. Bottom line is he would sacrifice anything for them.
His life and, yes, even his honor.
But how far would their forgiveness stretch?
He could survive the disgrace and the jail time, but he couldn’t survive Anna’s death. He’d eat his gun.
He’d never be with her or have her the way he wanted, but he wouldn’t abandon her. Ever.
“Hey? You okay?” Anna’s soft voice broke into his musings.
Disconnecting from that line of thought, he smiled the smile he was so used to plastering on his face to reassure when he was jacked up inside. He was the Artful Dodger. He would only be in trouble if he got caught.
He didn’t intend to get caught. He was going to handle this how he saw fit.
“Right as rain, Anna Banana.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s Max’s nickname for me.”
“I like it. I’m going to use it as liberally as I choose.”
She raised her brows at his challenge. It sure got her mind off the incredible trouble they were in.
She chuckled. “You are…something else, Oliver.” She got a sly look on her face. Ga, he loved sparring with her.
“How about I call you Ollie?”
He touched the back of his ear and stretched it forward. He detested that nickname. Made him sound like some red-nosed clown. “What? I can’t hear you.”
She laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re not going to respond to that nickname.”
He kept her gaze, humor tugging at his mouth. “No. I have a call name. You can use that as much as you want. And, when I’m being a bad boy, you can call me Sir Oliver in that stern tone you think scares me. But when I’m the best boy and my most charming self, you can call me Ducky.”
“If it walks like a duck, sounds like a duck…quack, quack.” Grinning and making a face at him, she disappeared into the kitchen, and he heard the sound of utensils against a bowl. He walked in. She had a package of fresh blueberries on the counter near a glass bowl and a spoon.
“What are you making?”
“Blueberry pancakes.”
“You any good at blueberry pancakes?”
“You think you can do better, British bake?”
“Maybe. They happen to be my specialty.”
“Okay, Sir Oliver, you take over, and I’ll make the coffee.”
He went to the counter, took her place and started the batter. It was good to stretch his legs. Sleeping on that couch was like spending eight hours in a sardine can. “Coffee sounds good.”
Anna opened a cupboard, and as he combined the wet ingredients into the dry, he watched her as she made a steaming pot of coffee, his mind absently registering what she was saying, the knot in his gut tight. She looked like a freaking angel. Her hair was so straight, sleek and black. It cascaded over her shoulders as she moved around. Her features were delicate, the line of her jaw finely sculpted yet with a vein of stubbornness through it. The gray sweatpants molded to her lower body, to those slender hips and the gentle slope of that gorgeous arse. The loose-fitting stretchy top kept slipping off one creamy shoulder.
Compartmentalizing his observations in another part of his brain, he responded to her small talk, his gaze fixed on her the entire time.
She set the table, getting coffee mugs for them both, keeping up a steady stream of chatter, which was unusual for her. Anna wasn’t one to chatter. Turning at the waist, he transferred his last flapjack to the plate, trying to figure out what was going on. She wasn’t herself, that was for sure.