Angel snorted at the ridiculousness of the idea, especially since the Black Knights had probably broken land speed records trying to reach him.
“I don’t feel the least bit bad about our delay either,” Rock continued, flicking his fingers toward the mound of dead men as Angel escorted Sonya up the stairs. “Looks like you had the situation under control.”
Once they reached the landing, Rock grabbed Sonya’s hand from Angel’s. “Ma cherie. It’s a pleasure to meet you finally. I’m Richard Babineaux, but everyone calls me Rock.”
Rock, the consummate gentleman, was likely trying to put Sonya at ease, to lighten the strain of the situation—a heap of dead men lying in puddles of blood tended to tinge the atmosphere with tension. Still, when Rock bent to kiss Sonya’s fingers, jealousy burned a path through Angel’s veins. It wasn’t a sensation he’d felt before. He couldn’t say he particularly enjoyed it.
Five. Four. Three. Two…
“Enough of that.” He pulled Sonya’s hand from Rock’s when it became apparent Rock was in no hurry to let go of her fingers. “Don’t fall victim to this lothario’s smooth manners and Cajun drawl,” he grumbled. “He has a woman back home.” Leveling Rock with a narrow-eyed stare, he asked, “Tell me, Rock, have you made an honest woman of Vanessa yet?”
Rock splayed his hand over his heart. “I ask her to marry me every day, and every day she tells me to ask her tomorrow. But never fear, mon ami, one of these days she’ll give in, n’est-ce pas? No one can resist me forever. Right, ma belle?” Rock reached for Sonya’s hand again, and Angel would swear green edged into his vision.
When Sonya tittered—yes, tittered!—he found himself dragging her hand from Rock’s. Again. Deciding a distraction was in order, he directed her attention to Ghost. The sniper had leaned Sierra against his shoulder.
“This is Nate Weller,” he told Sonya. “But you can call him Ghost.”
“Miss Butler.” Ghost politely took Sonya’s hand. The green in Angel’s vision expanded when, from the corner of his eye, he saw Sonya blink up at Ghost in awe. Ghost was a handsome devil, no doubt about it. His Native American ancestry was evident in his flashing black eyes and shiny black hair.
Okay, it was official. Angel didn’t like any man touching Sonya.
“Ghost has a wife, a daughter, and a baby on the way in what? Four months?” he informed her.
Her mouth twisted as she slid him a knowing glance. Then she turned back to Ghost. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Miss Butler.” Ghost dipped his chin.
“Please, call me Sonya.”
Ghost gifted Sonya with one of his rare smiles and Sonya gasped—yes, gasped!
Angel began to rethink his stance on thanking God he could count the Black Knights as friends, and he began to wonder if maybe he might prefer it if Sonya were a little less stalwart. If she was busy dealing with shock and the revulsion of standing over dead men, she wouldn’t have time to be charmed by his asshole teammates. “Now that the pleasantries are over,” he grumbled, “what should we do with these assholes?” He kicked one of the dead men’s booted feet.
“Leave ’em,” Rock said, all jokes and flirting aside. Now, he was all business. “Your SIS buddy says he’ll take care of ’em after we skedaddle.”
“Speaking of my SIS buddy…” Angel let the sentence dangle.
“Oui.” Rock scratched his chin and made a face. “He wanted to come, man. He truly did. But the Chisinau police are after you two. Videos of y’all hoppin’ out the front window of that café are all over the Moldovan TV channels. The local radio stations are broadcasting alerts every fifteen minutes tellin’ folks to “be on the lookout.” Your SIS guy’s been busy alterin’ CCTV footage and feedin’ the police disinformation. Plus, he’s been workin’ the situation at the hospital.”
At mention of the hospital, a pit formed in Angel’s stomach. Sonya, dear, sweet Sonya, instinctively reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze.
Now that’s where her hand belongs, he thought. Not inside Rock’s or Ghost’s, but firmly inside mine.
“How is Rusty?” he asked.
Rock’s expression turned pained. “Alive. The doctors stabilized him, but he needs surgery. The bullet shredded a part of his lower bowel, nicked one kidney, and nearly severed his celiac artery. Thankfully, Chelsea was able to call in some favors from a few of her CIA pals.” Chelsea was BKI’s liaison to the CIA—a firecracker packaged inside a soft, curvy woman who barely stood taller than five feet.
“That private plane I mentioned earlier?” Rock continued. “She arranged it for us. Rusty, Ace, and Ozzie will be transferred to it once we’re there and ready to take off. A team of CIA doctors are onboard. Their job will be to keep Rusty alive until we reach Ramstein Air Base in Germany. Rusty will undergo surgery there. Once he’s strong enough, he’ll be transferred to Northwestern Hospital in Chicago.”
Angel wasn’t sure he was ready for the answer, but he still needed to ask the question. “What are his chances?”
Rock doffed his baseball cap and ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “Not as good as we’d like.” Beside him, Ghost blew out a weary breath.
Angel closed his eyes. This had been his mission, his show to run. Knowing a teammate might die on his watch filled him with sorrow and regret.
God, he had so many regrets.
Barely two minutes later, they pushed through the plywood covering the circus’s front door and stepped into the night. The breeze was cool and moist, but blessedly welcome compared to the stale air inside the engine room. Still, Sonya shivered as the cold and damp seeped into her. Angel took off his jacket, wrapping it around her shoulders.
