“So pretty when you cry.” Kolya shoves the needle into my arm, and my skin burns, the pain sending sparks up racing up to my shoulder until a warm, heavy peace settles over me and there’s nothing. No fear. No pain. Nothing. And I float away.
26
Ryker
Watching Kolya and his goons—or at least their thermal images—gang up on what has to be Wren sends anger prickling over my skin. After they leave, she—I can’t believe it’s not her—doesn’t move. Prone, almost curled into a ball. Two of the men head back down the stairs, and the third—Kolya I assume—grabs Elena and drags her to the far corner of the bedroom, laughing. A hard knot twists in my gut as her cries and the unmistakable sounds of rough sex, of rape, come over comms.
“Get me a better visual or a way to hear what’s going on inside that bathroom,” I bark at Inara, but I know it’s no use. There’s a door, so even if Inara could find another rooftop, the best she can do is change the angle on the thermal imaging. The parabolic mic only works if there’s a window to aim at, and even then, it’s limited.
West tightens his hand on my arm. “Romeo, breathe. If we’re going in there, we’re doing it with a solid plan. India, get me footage of all sides. Heat signatures and night-vision, then find somewhere to hunker down.”
I know he’s right. Hell, this is what I pay him for. Infil and exfil. The man can run a dozen different scenarios in his head at once. But I can’t just let her think I’m not coming for her.
Bracing my hands on the table, I stare daggers at the laptop, willing it to show me something—anything—useful. Like Kolya jumping out the window to his death or Wren running out of the building, whole and unharmed.
“Whiskey.”
The former SEAL holds up his hand and turns off his transmitter. “I know. But we’re three against…twenty? Those are shit odds under the best of circumstances, and right now, you’re not firing on all cylinders, Ry. Sit down, shut up, and let me think.”
I slink back to the couch and run my fingers over those damn beads.
When I was in Hell, I spent my days—when I could focus—memorizing everything. Sights. Sounds. Smells. But so often, the pain chased clarity away, and I tapped patterns on the floor, the wall, the inside of my wrist…whatever I could reach based on how they restrained me that day. I revert to my old habits now.
Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-Tap. Tap. Against Wren’s beads.
Please, sweetheart. Hold on for me. I’m coming for you.
The cameras cycle as I stare unblinking at the screen on the table a few feet away. A lone figure darts across one of the shots, and his blond hair and build look hauntingly familiar. “India. Where are you right now?”
“Rooftop of some dirty restaurant that smells like beets.”
“South end. Get a visual on the kid hustling towards you. If you get a close-up, send it.” Leaping up, I race over to the laptop and motion West to join me.
“What? I’m a little busy here.”
Inara zooms in, and I suck in a sharp breath. “That’s him. That’s the kid I saw when they took Wren. Elena’s brother.”
West clenches his fists over the map, crinkling the paper. “India. You have non-lethals?”
“This isn’t my first rodeo, Whiskey,” she whispers. “You want him?”
“Hell no. But we need him. If you have a shot, take it. But for fuck’s sake, be careful.”
“Roger that.” She clicks off comms, and her body cam shows her creeping along the top of the building, following the kid. He’s moving quickly, but once he turns the corner alongside the back of the building, he stops and sort of collapses against the wall. A fumbling hand digs into his coat pocket and he comes away with a pack of cigarettes. The subtle red glow illuminates his face, and Inara stops moving. I can picture her. Getting into position. Flat on her belly. The long-range rifle wedged against her shoulder. She’s one of the best snipers in the world with more confirmed kills than anyone in the past decade. And the first woman certified. Since then, three others have come up through the ranks, but Inara’s still the best.
Semyon glances up and down the alleyway, smoking like his life depends on it. The butt glows brighter as he inhales, and then he jerks, staring down at his chest. Another jerk, and his hand lifts to his neck, but as if in slow motion, his entire body crumples to the ground, the cigarette landing a few inches from his lips.
“Got him. Will confirm after retrieval,” Inara says, and then she starts to run. West and I don’t speak until we see the boy’s body land in the trunk of a beat-up car. “This better be worth it.” She’s out of breath. Though she’s strong, and Semyon’s rail thin, she’s carrying a hell of a lot of gear. “Turning off the camera. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
“Roger that,” West says. “You’re sure this kid knows something?”
“He lured Wren down that alley.” I crack my knuckles, itching to beat the truth out of the boy. “He knows a hell of a lot more than something.”
West sighs. “I hope you’re right. Because this is going to be Colombia all over again. Way too many hostiles, only one safe ingress and egress point, and we have no clue what condition Wren’s in.”
“Don’t,” I snap. Grabbing him by the arms, I barely stop myself from shaking him. “She’s going to be okay.”
“Ry.” His gaze locks onto mine, and I know what he’s thinking. Kolya’s the worst of the worst. Drug lord, pimp, murderer, and more. The likelihood of Wren living through his wrath is…almost non-existent.
