Page 6 of Ravaged With You

“Enough.” It was the tallest man who spoke. “You did well. You have bought her a quick death.”

And just like that, he pulled a pistol, fired, and that woman—one of the two civilian flight attendants his team had been assigned to rescue—fell dead on the hard concrete floor.

“And now,” the woman said, smiling as she stepped closer. “We shall see how the others will die.”

No.

No, no, no, no, NOOOOO!

His eyes flew open, and he scooted backward, automatically shielding his face from the next blow.

But there was no blow coming. He was on a concrete floor covered with a layer of waffled plastic squares, the scent of yeast permeating the air.

Not Romania.

Not the woman, not the torture.

He was in Los Angeles. In the distillery.

He sucked in air, yanking his knife from his pocket and clutching it like a talisman as he tried to slow his racing heart and feeling like a goddamn failure for falling down the rabbit hole again after so long without an episode.

Stop it. It was a process. Wasn’t that what every therapist he’d seen had said, from government shrinks with high level clearance to the LA doc who’d been all about crystals and cleansing his aura?

The bottom line was that he was strong. He could do this. There was no threat. A body, yes. Memories, hell yeah.

But he wasn’t going to get lost in the memories or cower under the strain. They’d broken him, that was for damn sure. But that was seven long years ago, and he’d clawed his way back. It had taken years, but he’d gotten his shit together. And no way was he backsliding now. He could do this.

Hadn’t he proved as much in New York? A full-on hostage situation, but he’d held it together. At least until he was alone, anyway.

No one saw the way he’d melted down when he returned to his dad’s apartment. The ghosts that haunted him that night. The siren call of one drink, then another and another to soothe those hard edges.

But he’d made it through. He’d done it. Nikki Stark was alive today because he’d taken a bullet intended for her.

He’d survived that hostage situation and he could do this, too. He had to. For Mel’s sake, and for Jo’s.

Oh, God. Jo. He still hadn’t called her. But he needed to call his brother first.

He sat up, then re-sheathed the knife before tucking it back in his pocket. He checked the other pocket, too, making sure Mel’s phone was secured. Then he pushed himself to his feet, thinking about the parameters of the mission he was setting himself on. Identify the perps. Find out what they wanted and obtain it. Arrange an exchange. Then take the fuckers down.

A vague plan, but it would fall into place.

“I’m so sorry, Mel,” he whispered toward the tank that had become his friend’s tomb. “I know you had some shit going on, but I should have known you wouldn’t have taken that way out.”

With the goodbye still lingering in the air, he pulled out his phone again. He dialed, holding his breath until he heard the voice on the other end of the line.

“I was just about to call you,” his brother Renly said. “Is everything okay?”

“No.” Red wasn’t going to beat around the bush. Not with Renly, who’d already gotten a vibe. They might not be identical, but the twin thing was real. “Mel’s dead.”

“Oh, Christ. What happened?”

“Can you get over here? I’m at the distillery.”

“Yeah, sure, but—”

“It was suicide, Renly,” he snapped, and heard his brother’s sharp intake of breath. “Just come. And if Damien happens to be with you, could you drag him along, too?”

“Stark? He’s here. But why—”