That was the problem.
Because knowing it made him want to survive everything that was coming next and terrified him of what it would cost if he didn’t.
A knock interrupted them, and it was a good thing because he wanted to kiss her in the worst way.
He stiffened to attention as Lieutenant Commander Lindstrom pushed the door open. “Oh, good. I’ve been looking for both of you.” He gestured toward the hall. “Could you both join me in TOC for a quick discussion.”
“Of course,” Blair said, moving in front of Breakneck as he placed his hand at the small of her back. She leaned into him just slightly, and his chest unraveled just a little. They entered TOC and saw that Carver and Jones were present.
“I’ve just been informed that the DEA has some leads on the stash house. That would put a nice cherry on top of this cartel dismantling sundae.”
“Yeah,” Carver said. “A dying flunky gave us some leads. We don’t think they’ll amount to much with the cartel on the run, but it’s worth a look-see.”
“The only problem is. The team is committed to the Mounties to transfer the prisoners to your more secure lock-up, and Petty Officer Locklear is overseeing the loading of equipment as we break down the TOC for transfer back to the States. So, no ISR,” Lindstrom said.
Jones nodded. “Understood. I don’t think we need ISR. Like Carver said, the cartel is on the run, and whatever resistance there is, it will most likely be minimal.”
“Doesn’t mean they don’t still need backup,” Lindstrom said.
Breakneck felt the shift in the room before he even heard the words. “Going behind my back again, Carver?” He just remained neutral. Iceman’s jaw clenched. “Backup for what?” Iceman asked, his eyes like a blizzard. His master chief’s gaze settled on Carver, a look so cold it could freeze lava.
Carver’s smile was pure good-old-boy. “A little mission to cripple the remaining cartel.”
“You and Jones want to run down these leads?” Iceman asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
“Yeah, Master Chief. We could really use you and the kid as backup. You know, for old times’ sake.”
Breakneck’s jaw tightened. Old times’ sake. The words were a goad, a thin veil over the dislike rolling off the DEA agent in waves. He could feel Iceman’s stillness beside him, a predator coiling to strike.
“Yeah,” Iceman said, his voice dangerously flat. “Because we’re such pals.”
Carver shrugged, a dismissive gesture that grated on Breakneck’s nerves. “But if you don’t want to come. We can handle it.”
He looked at Breakneck, a silent, unreadable command passing between them. “Let’s jock up, junior,” Iceman said, turning on his heel without another word to Carver.
Iceman stopped at Blair. “Can you monitor comms until Locklear gets back?”
She nodded. “Of course. Maybe we should wait until the team is available.”
“We could possibly lose the element of surprise, and they clean out their cash and are long gone,” Jones said.
Blair’s mouth thinned. “All right. But any sign of significant firepower, then you back off and call it in.”
“Of course,” Carver said. “We’re not cowboys.”
Still reeling, Breakneck headed toward the armory. The entire op, the meeting, the smug look on Carver’s face, it was all just static in his head, a distant, muffled roar. The only thing that felt real was the cold dose of reality with Blair’s promotion and the memory of the bathroom.
He’d had women in bathrooms before, a string of hollow, desperate encounters that always left him feeling more alone than before, staring at a reflection he loathed. But this…this had been the complete opposite. It was never just sex with her. It was his surrender in increments. He had laid every raw, ugly piece of himself bare, and she hadn’t flinched. She had seen him, all of him, and met his vulnerability with her own. The words they’d exchanged, the terrifying, magnificent truth of them, had rewired something fundamental in his brain. He felt stripped down and remade, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with being naked and everything to do with the fact that she now held his heart in her hands.
The armory was a sterile, orderly space, the smell of gun oil and steel a familiar comfort. As Breakneck checked his rifle, he felt Iceman’s heavy gaze on him.
"Something wrong?" he asked, without looking up from his work.
Iceman’s voice was a low rumble. "Not that I can put my finger on."
A smirk playing on his lips, Breakneck suggested, "Maybe you just hate his guts."
"I'd like to drive his face into the nearest wall," Iceman admitted, his tone so matter-of-fact it was chilling. He paused, then added with a heavy sigh, "But he has a point. Putting that stash house out of commission would cripple the remaining cartel. Make our jobs easier."
