“Layla—”

  “No, you shut the fuck up and listen to me.” She paused after that outburst, sucked in a breath, blinked the tears away. “You’ve always had this way of making me feel…I don’t know—like none of that mattered anymore. Like I wasn’t that girl anymore. Like I was worth—more. As hot as it was, that sex in your office—and I do not deny enjoying every second of that, being teased and edged and fucked the way only you can, I loved that— you used it to put me in my place. You got what you wanted—me agreeing to go home like a good little wifey—and then you were done. Back to the important shit, to manly man stuff, saving the world. No girls allowed in this macho club.”

  “That is not what this is about, Layla.”

  “No?” The expression on her face cut me to the bone. “I think it is.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “I know I’m not as badass as the rest of your guys. I don’t have years of combat experience. I don’t have mad hacker skills or a forensics degree or—any of that shit. But I thought you saw something in me. I thought, after Brazil, I thought that we’d be a team. That eventually I’d come to be more than just a glorified secretary for you. That’s all I am, you know. I sit around, sort through paperwork and intel, collate it, and pass it on to you and your guys. That’s cool, it’s work I don’t mind doing. It’s fun, actually. And more challenging and mentally stimulating than waitressing or answering phones or whatever other bullshit jobs I used to work, and it’s certainly better than going to fucking college. I’m not cut out for any of that shit. I don’t mind what you’ve got me doing, Nick, I really don’t. But I want more. And I thought you were going to give me more. I thought that’s why you were teaching me to fly and to shoot and all that. Turns out you were just humoring your little girlfriend. You don’t trust me.”

  I groaned, slid back in the pilot’s chair, scrubbing my face. “Fuck. Fucking goddammit, Layla.” I sat up and leaned across the space between the pilot and copilot chairs. I took her hands. “I told you when we agreed that this thing between us was a real relationship, which was a first for both of us, I told you I was going to have a hard time with it. I don’t do relationships. I never have. I never judged you on your past because I was never any better. I don’t know how to trust you, Layla, but I’m trying. And the thing you have to understand about me is that I’m one thing, and one thing only: a mercenary. A soldier. That’s all I’ve ever known. And all the guys on my team, all those guys back there, that’s what they are too, except Lear, really. And even he gets the basic tenet that makes the team work: I’m in fucking charge. I started this company. I own it. I pay the checks. I make the calls. They all do what I tell them because they trust me to make the right calls, and I trust them to speak up if they have a legitimate concern with a decision. We’re all ex-military. We’ve all learned the importance of trusting your C-O, of obeying orders, when those orders are thoughtfully, rationally, and intelligently issued.”

  “I may not have been in the army or whatever, but I get that, too. I can follow orders.”

  “No, Layla, you can’t!” I shouted this, a little more loudly than I should have. Her eyes widened—I rarely raised my voice. “You never do what you’re told. You say this yourself all the time. It’s part of who you are, and I get that. And in private life, it’s cool. It’s fine. It’s cute and endearing and utterly maddening. But professionally, it’s not cool or cute or endearing. It’s dangerous. On a security job, escorting some highfalutin A-lister to a red carpet event? Fine. There’s not likely to be any real danger. Bringing you along, letting you sit in the command center and be part of things, it’s fine, then. But situations like this? We’re dealing with someone very much like Vitaly. Smart, vicious, and deadly. Playing for keeps. In a combat situation, when lives are on the line, Layla, I have to be able to trust, on an instinctive, blood-and-guts level, that the people around me will number one, follow orders, number two, not panic or freeze, and number three, react calmly, efficiently, and intelligently to the circumstances. I have to trust the people around me. And yes, Layla, I trust you. I trust you in my life, I trust you with my heart. But do I trust you with an assault rifle when the bullets are flying at us? I—I can’t say that I do. Not yet, anyway. And that’s not because you’re not capable of it, but because it takes training and experience to get to that point. And me trusting you aside, I don’t want to ever put you in that kind of scenario ever again. I love you. I couldn’t handle it if something happened to you. Thresh, Duke, Puck—they all understand the danger, and they’ve signed up eyes wide, head up, knowing what they’re signing up for, because they’ve each been there. Lear is different, but even he’s not a vanilla civilian who’s never seen combat.”

  Oops. That was the wrong thing to say, and I realized it as soon as it left my mouth.

  Layla, however, didn’t give me a chance to correct myself. “Vanilla civilian? VANILLA CIVILIAN? Never seen combat?” She went shrill, deafening.

  “Layla, I’m sorry, that wasn’t what I meant. I know you’ve—”

  “I killed Cut with my bare hands. I planned and executed an ambush with you. I kept my shit together. I followed your orders. I stayed in place, didn’t shoot until after you did, and I took down my target. Not once in the entire time I was in Brazil, with you or alone, did I ever freeze or panic or falter.” She turned away from me. Took a deep breath. “Nick, I just—I want to be beside you. In everything. I want to fly with you. I want to jump out of airplanes with you. I want to go on car chases and shoot bad guys with you. And I can. That’s the thing. I can. How many women do you think are out there that are capable of understanding exactly what it is you do, on a personal, visceral level? From experience? I’ve been shot at. I’ve seen you get shot. I’ve almost lost you. And no, I never want to go through that again, but if anything happened to you, and I was just sitting around at home, on my ass? I couldn’t deal with that. I’m not a sit-at-home girl, Nick. And if that’s what you expect of me, what you want from me, then this isn’t going to work. Either you accept me as I am, you trust me, train me, and let me walk beside you no matter the situation, or…”

  I swallowed hard. “Or what, Layla?”

  “Or I’m gone. I can’t do this with you if you can’t trust me all the fucking way.”

  “So it’s all or nothing?”

  “I’m not saying you put me in BDUs and give me an HK right now, Nick. I’m not saying put me point next time you’re sweeping a building. I’m saying—get me to that point. In time, with training.”

  I sat back, brushed the headset off. Tried to process what she was asking of me.

  Could I do that? Not just teach her to shoot at targets and clay pigeons. Not just teach her to fly biplanes and Learjets for takeoffs and landings now and again, for fun. But really train her to be part of the tactical team? Put her next to Thresh and Duke, in combat gear, knowing someone can and will shoot at her?

  It was fucking loony.

  She was from the suburbs. She was a waitress, a secretary. She was my girlfriend; she was more than that, although I hadn’t taken any steps yet to make us more. Emotionally, the boyfriend/girlfriend thing didn’t cut it or even begin to describe us. We were more. So much more.

  And she wanted to go into combat with me?

  I mean, fuck. How could I agree to that?

  But if I didn’t agree, I’d lose her.

  Did I think she was capable of it?

  I stared out at the clouds beneath us, an eye as always on the readouts—thinking. Considering.

  Back to Brazil. What she’d been through. Cut. The ambush. The car chase. She was right: she’d never hesitated, never let fear get the better of her. And in life-or-death situations, she did what I told her.

  She was capable of doing this, I realized.

  I didn’t like it, though. But the thought of Layla in BDUs, an HK in her gloved hands, hair braided back, clearing a room, pivoting, swiveling, running with the guys? Layla at my side, everywhere I went. Never having to leave her behind, because she was part of the team in every way.

  A woman in my life who didn’t just let me go on missions, but who went with me? Did it get any better than that? Except for the whole part where we both risked death, risked watching the other die. That scared me a little. Or, actually, a lot.

  But after the way we fell in love, was it fair of me to deny her this? Deny her the opportunity to at least try?

  No.

  I turned to her. “There’d be a lot more to it than just weapons training, Layla. I wouldn’t let you on the team unless you passed an evaluation by someone other than me. There’d be physical conditioning. Close-quarters combat training. Hand-to-hand. Room clearing. Someone that’s not me has to do the training, or nothing will ever get done, and I can’t always be objective. And above all, when I give an order, you listen. No questions asked.”

  “If we’re working, I can agree to that. In our private life, I reserve the right to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

  I stifled a smirk. “You listening has to start with this mission, Layla. When I tell you to stay put, you stay fucking put.”

  She faked a salute. “Yes sir, Mister Harris, sir.”

  “I’m willing to try,” I said. Made sure she was looking into my eyes, saw how serious I was. “I don’t like it. It’s going to be hard. You’re going to hate the physical conditioning part. I’m probably the world’s biggest idiot and sucker for even considering this. And if you get hurt, it’ll ruin me. But I love you, and—”

  “If you say I’ve left you no choice, I’ll never speak to you again.”

  “You are capable of this. I believe that, Layla. I wouldn’t agree to this if I didn’t think you were.” I fixed her eyes with mine. “But I’m serious when I say you have to go through every phase of the requisite training and pass an evaluation before you join the team full-time. You don’t pass, you don’t go. Just like Thresh and all the others, you have to go through refresher courses, pass yearly check-ups and evals. This isn’t a static thing where you just suddenly have the skills and then you’re done. It takes a fuckload of work to stay sharp all the time, to be on your game every day, no matter what.”

  She was wiggling in her seat. “I get it, Nick. I hear you. I can do this.”

  “Prove me right, babe. Please. Don’t make me regret this.”

  “You won’t—I won’t, I mean.” The grin on her face was ear-to-ear.

  “I’ve got to be out of my mind,” I said with a groan.

  “You are. But I love you anyway.” She got out of the chair, leaned close to me, careful to not bump any switches, buttons, or the controls. “Thank you, Nick.”

  “I can’t lose you, Layla. You’re too important to me.”

  She took my face in her soft, warm palms. “I know. And you won’t.” She kissed me, then. Slowly, deeply. But then she pulled away. “You owe me an apology, you know.”

  “I do, don’t I?”

  “You do.” She grinned at me, lips curling against mine. “I’ve got some ideas for how you can apologize.”

  “Oh yeah? How’s that?”

  She resumed her seat, switched off the autopilot, and took the controls. “Oh, you’ll see. But it involves a lot of you on your knees. Possibly a lot of me riding your face.”

  “Apology cunnilingus?” I asked with a smirk. “I can do that.”

  She quirked an eyebrow at me. “Oh, you’ll apologize with words too. Don’t think you’ll get off that easy, Mister. I haven’t forgotten the move with the zip-ties.”

  Shit. Layla was crafty enough that I had a feeling I’d wake up hogtied at some point. If I knew Layla, she’d find a way to make me beg her for forgiveness. I intended to make her work for it, but I’d do it.

  5

  FIREFIGHT

  I wondered, with not a little bit of fear, what I’d gotten myself into.

  I was hot.

  I was uncomfortable.

  I was bored.

  I understood the plan, and the plan made sense. Didn’t mean I liked the plan, though. But I was in no position to complain…about anything. Nick had been as good as his word: a complicated rescue plan had been formulated on the flight to Nevada and Nick made it perfectly clear that I would be part of it. To their credit, the guys never spoke a word of disagreement, and I saw, firsthand, what it meant to take orders without question, and to raise logical, respectful disagreements. Each person on the team had the full respect of everyone else, and it showed.

  They were all tight, they were brothers. Tighter than brothers, as only men who have faced combat together can be. And now…I was going to be a part of that. It made me a little giddy, as well as more than a little afraid, which I felt was reasonable and expected.

  I’d listened to the men formulate the plan and kept my thoughts to myself, knowing I needed to sit back and learn by listening.

  We were in the desert somewhere in Nevada, waiting. Miles and miles and miles from anything. I was in the back of an ex-military Humvee, one of the huge wide mammoth ones. Tan, with gargantuan tires. Armored to withstand bullets. No creature comforts. No AC, no music, no diet Coke.

  The plan was that Nick would bring the duffel bags full of cash in the back of an old Jeep Wrangler from his location a few miles on the opposite side of the drop-point from where we were. Exchange the cash for the girl, and then haul ass to us. Thresh and Duke would cover Nick’s approach to us, which they’d dubbed the “EZ” for extraction zone, Puck would be behind the wheel of the Humvee, and I would be in the back of the Humvee to be with Cleo. Once Puck had Cleo and I clear, Thresh, Duke, and Nick would cover our retreat, making sure Cain and his goons weren’t following us, or trying to double-cross us.

  Nick was going in alone, unarmed, only a walkie-talkie to coordinate with the others. Just the bags of cash and the Jeep—which didn’t even have a top—and the clothes on his back. We knew from Lear’s surveillance that Cain had the drop location covered from every direction, and that we were outnumbered, and that his guys were all heavily armed. There would be at least a dozen cross-hairs on Nick at any one time. Sure, we had both Lear and Anselm with big old rifles covering Nick the entire time, but what could a couple of guys with rifles do against twelve or fifteen guys with machine guns? Sorry, assault rifles. Or submachine guns, or whatever. Anselm and Lear couldn’t keep them from shooting Nick. If someone got an itchy trigger finger, Nick would be dead, and no one could do anything.

  What assurance did we have that Cain wouldn’t have his guys shoot Nick as soon they had the cash?

  None, I was told.

  That was the biggest risk.

  It could turn into a firefight.

  In fact, I think Thresh and Duke were planning on that eventuality. Planning? Hoping? With those two, it might equal the same thing.

  As for me? I was wired, and bored out of my mind. And scared for Nick.

  I had my Beretta 9mm in a black tactical holster on my right thigh, the belt going around my waist and the bottom of the holster itself fastening around my thigh. The holster also contained two extra clips of ammunition. I felt kind of like a legit member of the team, although I was under strict orders to not pull the pistol out unless my life was directly in danger and I had no other choice. No matter what happened, I was to leave the gun-slinging to the professionals.

  Soon, that would be me!

  No time to think about that now. Focus on the op, Layla.

  Except, there was absolutely nothing happening. Not a goddamn thing. Puck was in the front of the Humvee, the engine rumbling with a deep diesel clatter, the door propped open, his feet crossed and propped in the V-gap where the door met the frame at the hinge. He had a laptop on his belly and was playing poker on it, a cigar between his teeth, lit and curling acrid smoke.

  “Is it always like this?” I asked.

  “What? Ops? Yeah. Boredom is part of the gig. Lots of sitting, lots of waiting.”

  “Being wired and full of adrenaline and all that bullshit while bored at the same time is a weird feeling.”

  Puck chuffed a laugh as he pulled a mouthful of smoke off his cigar. “Yeah, it’s a shitty feeling. You wanna go, go, go, but you gotta wait, wait, wait. It fuckin’ sucks.” He tapped at his laptop, playing a hand, and then returned his attention to me. “This feels a lot like my TOD in Iraq, actually. Sitting in a Humvee, bored out of my skull, waiting for shit to hit the fan. Kind of wigging me out a little, actually.”

  “You don’t look like you’re wigging out,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, fear happens on the inside. It’s what you do on the outside that determines the kind of person you are.” He didn’t look at me as he dropped that little nugget of wisdom.

  “That was deep, Puck.”

  “Nah.” He pulled on his cigar, blew out a stream. “It’s experience. My first firefight, I fuckin’ froze. Hid in a doorway ignoring my L-T’s orders to return fire. Bullets whippin’ past, buzzing and shit. They make this sound when they pass right by your ear, a kind of buzz—”

  “Sometimes they make a…snapping sound,” I said, remembering Brazil, being in that old Defender, bullets going past my face. “Sometimes they snap, sometimes they buzz.”

  Puck looked at me, a piercing stare that contained a new element of respect. “Yeah. The snap is when they’re not as close. You hear ‘em buzzin’, you best fuckin’ duck.”

  “That first firefight, what happened?”

  He returned his attention to his online poker game. How he was getting signal out here was beyond me, since my cell phone said no service. “Like I said, I froze. By the time I got my balls back, the fight was over. L-T reamed me a new asshole, made me pull latrine duty for three days. All the guys ragged on me. Next time shit went FUBAR, I refused to let myself freeze. I was still pissin’ in my boots, but I didn’t freeze. After that, it got easier. Never is exactly easy, though, you just…deal.”

  “When I was running from Vitaly’s men, I kept telling myself I had to hold it together. I promised myself I could freak out later.”