So much for the distraction from his mate.
“You’re sure you’re okay to do this today?”
“Perfectly.”
Cole eyed him dubiously. “Okay, but let it be known this is against my better judgement. I think you could do with a few days off from work, maybe longer.”
Jesus, Nash couldn’t think of anything worse. The last two nights sitting at home alone had been hell. Being alone hadn’t bothered him before, but now that he knew his mate was out there, he hadn’t been able to sit still for two minutes straight. At least work was keeping his mind off everything. Somewhat. If he had to spend all dayandall night cooped up in his house he’d go crazy. And he didn’t trust himself to shift into his bear form right now so it wasn’t like he could shift to blow off steam and while away the hours.
“I’m good,” he reiterated.
He hoped that would be the end of it. Nash loved Cole like a brother, but when the wolf shifter set his mind on something he could be as stubborn as a mule. Cole nodded then got them moving again, and Nash breathed a sigh of relief.
Around the back of the property, they met up with Kit and Hawk and slipped into position, their backs pressed up on either side of the door. The moment Flint, their team leader, busted in through the front with Ice, they’d go in through the back, moving in simultaneously so that the occupants of the house didn’t get the chance to run from room to room and possibly escape. As long as no-one dropped the ball…say, by being too caught up with thoughts of their married mate.
“We’re in place,” Cole murmured.
“Copy that. We go on three,” Flint said. “One, two, three!”
Cole slammed his foot into the door and the wood shattered and splintered with a loud crash. Unlike most SWAT teams, no battering ram required: one of the perks of being shifters. Their extra skills as supernatural creatures were the reason they’d been recruited onto the SWAT team in the first place.
As a bear shifter, Nash had the best hearing. There was little that escaped his hearing—usually. More proof his head wasn’t in the game, as if he needed it. He shoved the thought aside. Now was not the time to be having feelings about his feelings.
As they all rushed into the building, the noise from inside the house was so loud that there were few people who wouldn’t have heard it—and those people couldn’t hear anything at all.
From the other side of the house, Flint shouted at someone to get down. A man cursed in Spanish. Loudly. Ice shouted at someone not to move, and then the sounds of a scuffle reached Nash’s ears. He shook his head. No-one ever listened.
As he and the others made their way toward the front of the large property, a pair of Mexican guys sprinted their way, guns in hand.
“FBI! Drop your weapon!” Cole shouted. “Get down on the ground!”
The first man tossed his weapon and dropped like a stone, but the second lifted his gun and aimed it at Cole. Before he had the chance to squeeze his hand around the trigger, Cole fired his own weapon and the man hit the floor with a loud, dull thud. The agents didn’t break stride: Cole crouched down to press two fingers to the downed man’s neck and Hawk jammed one knee into the other man’s back as he snapped a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. One glance told Nash the pair had everything under control, and he pressed ahead with Kit.
There were two doors on their left, the first ajar, and when Nash nudged it open with his foot, it led into a bedroom. The sheets were in disarray as if the person who’d slept there last night hadn’t bothered to make it that morning, or more likely, it had been recently vacated when a heavily armed SWAT team crashed through their doors.
“I’ll check the bathroom,” Nash whispered.
Kit nodded. “I’ve got the closet.”
Nash closed his jaw around a yawn as he crossed the room. He hadn’t slept worth a damn for the past two nights and he didn’t relish the idea of yet another sleepless night. The second this op was over, he was going to go to the bakery to see Aria. He didn’t know if seeing her would help him or make things worse, but he had to do something. He couldn’t go on like this. Staying away from her was pure torture.
He nudged open the bathroom door and after he’d made a cursory check for occupants, he turned. On the opposite side of the room, Kit was opening the closet door, but she’d barely turned the handle before the door burst open. A man barreled out and the artificial light glinted across as blade as it slashed wildly through the air.
Nash bit out a curse then ran to Kit’s aid, but before he reached her, she let out a yelp of pain. Nash saw red. He charged the man, slamming him back against the closet door. At the same time, he made a grab for the arm that held the knife and twisted it, then slammed that, too, against the door. The man grunted but kept on fighting. He was stronger than he looked, but he was no match for a shifter, and certainly not a pissed off one defending his teammate. He drew back the attacker’s knife hand and slammed it one more time against the door, squeezing the hand as he did, and with a gasp of pain, the man’s fingers opened around the hilt and the blade fell to the ground. Nash kicked it away, then slammed the man into the door again for good measure before spinning him around and securing his hands behind his back.
“You okay?” he asked, turning to look at Kit over his shoulder.
But she looked far from okay.
Her face was sheet-white, and she had her hand over her right hip. It was covered in blood.
“Jesus Christ, Kit!”
“I’m okay,” she bit out. “Probably just a graze.”
But it wasn’t, and they both knew it. The coppery scent of blood was thick in the air, far stronger than it would have been for a graze. The asshole had got her good.
Guilt lanced through Nash. This was on him.
