Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three Page 6

  Carey considered him a moment. “You work with my men. My team.”

  “With pleasure,” Alejo responded, his cocky, characteristic smirk back. “I’ll whip them into line for you.”

  Wes recalled the constant locking of horns though. She and Alejo mixed like oil and water. Always had. “You exacerbate Sam’s condition or rile her up in any way—”

  “Wyatt and I may never like each other, but she’s the best damn partner I’ve ever had, and I bet you she’d say the same about me.”

  Carey glanced at Wes for confirmation. “It’s true,” Wes admitted begrudgingly. “When they weren’t tearing strips of flesh off each other in ROTC, they were annihilating everyone else in the Corps. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  For a moment, the sardonic cockiness that seemed to pervade Alejo’s every expression disappeared as he regarded Carey somberly. “You can trust me with Sam, Carey. You have my word on that.”

  After a moment, Carey extended his hand. “Swear it on your sister’s life.”

  Alejandro gripped his hand, steel in his obsidian dark eyes. “I swear on Rox’s life. We protect our own.”

  Chapter 4

  December

  Asklepios Klinik Barmbek, Hamburg, Germany

  J A C K

  They say the first twenty-four hours in rehab are the hardest. Jack had no concept of time, space, location—he was just a mass of twisting, writhing pain.

  When Carey had checked him in, the rehab had offered all manner of options to help him through the worst of it. But Jack held fast as he signed the paperwork with a shaking hand, certain he should relinquish himself to the excruciating throes.

  There’d be no easy way out. Not for him. He needed the agony—wanted it. Because he’d done everything to deserve it.

  “Why are you punishing yourself like this?” Carey asked Jack as he was gripped with a convulsion so strong, he’d nearly slid to the floor of the check-in.

  “I can’t do this again,” Jack muttered through gritted teeth. “I need to remember what this feels like—I need the pain to get through it—”

  And he did.

  Jack figured it was far better to hold on to this palpable, living anguish being scourged from inside of him than the numb sorrow and helplessness he’d been existing in since losing Samantha in Rio. He’d allowed himself to get too distant from the acuity of living in his melancholia. And now he’d have to experience reentry into existence in the most vicious and difficult way possible.

  No more anaesthetized indifference. No more careless insensibility. No more cutting himself off from feeling too much, too painfully—

  “FUCK!” he shouted into his pillow as pins and needles seemed to distend themselves from his skin. “Oh, Christ—Jesus—fuck—”

  Jack twisted and turned in the hospital bed, sweating profusely but still shaking like a leaf on a frozen tree. He could find no relief as the waves of withdrawal hit him in droves, beating against him, relentless, powerful, consuming…

  “God—God—” he panted through clenched teeth as he turned his head away from the nurse who came to check on his IV. He hadn’t been able to keep any food or water down since they’d checked him in, and the doctor and nurses had finally pinned him down, manacling him to the bed when he’d torn the IV’s out of his arm with his wild thrashing.

  “Breathe, Mr. Roman. Focus on your breathing,” a nurse told him as she wiped the clammy sweat from his brow. Jack squeezed his eyes shut.

  “I can’t—I can’t breathe—” he gasped.

  He felt a pair of hands touch him so gently, he wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating. One hand just above his heart, the other on his heaving belly.

  “Inhale through your nose, and exhale through your mouth,” the voice guided him gently. “Breathe slowly. Just focus on the breath. Let go of everything else…”

  Jack tried to follow directions, but he was being bombarded by sensory overload. His head was pounding, and his body felt like it was on fire.

  “It hurts. It hurts too much—” He gritted teeth as another wave made his stomach muscles clench.

  “Breathe, Jack. Just breathe.” A violent convulsion nearly lifted Jack off the bed, the cords of his neck distended as he fought against the bonds that manacled him to the frame.

  “Tesoro…” he whispered, aching. “Tesoro…”

  *

  Jack opened his eyes.

  He was in a nondescript white hospital room, mural paintings hung in soothing watercolors. The linens were fresh, and his arms were free, albeit tired and a little sore. He tentatively touched the IV in his arm as he took stock of his body’s sluggish bio-feedback.

  Had he dreamed it all? Was the worst of it over? He felt aching, raw and dehydrated, his mouth dry and bitter from the bile.

  A movement across the room caught his attention, and Jack turned to look. His father stood beside him, his face lined with fatigue and worry.

  “I’m glad to see you’re awake, Gianni.”

  “Where am I?” Jack croaked, struggling to sit up.

  “Germany,” his father answered. “They had to restrain you,” he said regretfully, gesturing toward the leather guards locked onto Jack’s wrists. “You kept trying to leave.”

  Jack shook his head, trying to clear the fog. “Where is Samantha—how is she?”

  His father watched him with a grave expression. “She’s safe, Gianni.”

  Jack tested the guards, tugging weakly against the restraints. “I need to go to her.”

  His father shook his head, regret lining his face. “You need to clean out, Gianni. That’s all you need to worry about now.”

  “No,” Jack spat out, getting angry. “I need to see her. I need to know she’s okay.”

  “She’s okay. But you’re not,” his father answered matter-of-factly. “You’re a goddamn disaster. You’re no good to anyone like this.”

  Jack knew in his heart that his dad was right. He closed his eyes.

  His father helped him sit up in the bed, and Jack had a fleeting memory of him doing something very similar when he was just a child, sick with the flu. Just like then, Jack’s father cradled him gently, giving him a sip of water. Jack closed his eyes in relief, gulping down the cool fluid, his body accepting it gladly, like the quenching rain over the cracked earth of a desert. He could have sworn he felt the cleansing water fill the empty and desiccated spaces.

  “Thank you,” he croaked.

  “You’re through the worst of it,” his father told him. “I’d like to move you to a facility near Lake Como.”

  Jack shook his head tiredly. “I need to be close to Samantha.”

  “Carey is taking her home, Gianni,” his father told him with a sigh. “She’s going to recover in Texas. He feels it’ll be safer as long as Lucien Lightner is still on the loose—”

  Jack blinked, struggling to focus. He’d seen Lightner shot by the mystery woman. A woman who worked for Samantha—the same woman who’d saved him and Mitch in London. “But Lightner’s already been captured—”

  Sandro’s face was grim. “He escaped and we think he’s left the UK. The CIA, Interpol, and now MI-6 are all searching for him.”

  “MI-6?”

  “Yeah—it’s been kicked up from MI-5 to the international level now. Look, it’s not safe here, Gianni—not for you or for Samantha. Her team is protecting her. Now you need to let me protect you.”

  Jack wanted to protest. He wanted to struggle—but resistance in this instance was futile. He was a ridiculous mess, chained to a hospital bed in the throes of a terrible addiction he had yet to kick. If Jack was going to be good for anyone, much less able to stand up to whatever came next with Lucien Lightner, he had to get his shit sorted.

  He closed his eyes. “When do we leave?”

  His father pressed a cold, damp cloth to Jack’s feverish skin. “Tonight. I’ll take you to Italy tonight.”

  Jack nodded feebly, giving himself over to the exhaustion as the sickness left his bo
dy. “What day is it?” he whispered, drifting.

  “It’s Christmas, Gianni,” his father answered sadly, wiping the sweat from Jack’s brow, his touch as tender as it had been when he was a boy. “Rest now. It will be okay. Ti sono vicino.”10

  *

  December—Christmas Morning

  Asklepios Klinik Barmbek, Hamburg, Germany

  W E S L E Y

  Wes walked down the hospital corridor feeling lighter than he had in days. Sam was through the worst, and the doctors had given her the go-ahead to leave Hamburg within the next couple days. That gave Wes plenty of time to convince Sam to let him travel with her to Texas, but Carey was adamant that everyone should leave Sam alone for the time being so she could get her rest. Wes didn’t like it, but he could get behind it. He strode up to Evan and Talon where he saw them talking in the waiting room.

  “Merry Christmas, guys,” Wes said as he handed them fresh coffee and warm apfelstrudel he’d bought from a German bakery nearby. “It ain’t turkey dinner, but it beats the shit out of the crap you get from the vending machine.”

  “Oh God, thank you,” Talon groaned gratefully as he bit into the pastry. “Five more of these, and I’ll be all set.”

  “Five more of those and you’ll be flat-out in a sugar coma,” Evan drawled before sipping his coffee. “Man, that’s good. Thanks, Wes,” he said sincerely, rubbing his bloodshot eyes with his free hand.

  “You guys left the hospital?” Wes asked.

  Talon grunted, shaking his head as Evan glared down the corridor at Alejandro de Soto where he stood sentry at Sam’s hospital door.

  “I hate that guy,” Evan muttered.

  “Everyone hates that guy,” Wes replied with a shrug. “That’s sort of his super power.”

  Talon eyed him with a dark expression. “He really trained with Sammy?”

  “Yeah,” Wes answered with a nod as he drank his own coffee. “He was a couple years ahead of her in ROTC, but those two were always neck and neck.”

  Like he knew they were talking about him, Alejandro turned his head toward them. Talon and Evan stared back. The tension between the three of them was thick enough to ride a surfboard on.

  Wes watched as Alejandro lifted a thick, black brow, his expression sardonic.

  “I fucking hate that guy,” Evan repeated in a rare show of vehemence. Usually he was the more laid-back one.

  Wes shot him a questioning look.

  “Sam’s sending me to London to run the office. The guy who used to do it was killed protecting Jack,” Evan explained.

  “Simon Michaelson can’t do it?” Wes replied, surprised Evan wouldn’t be guarding Sam at Wyatt Ranch with the rest of the crew.

  “Would you trust Simon Michaelson to run a multi-million-dollar business on his own?” Evan replied with an eye-roll.

  “Good point,” Wes ceded. “You out today then?”

  “Right after you all jet.”

  “What about you?” Wes asked Talon.

  “I’m helping Carey run the Chicago office while he gets Sammy situated,” Talon answered.

  “We both lobbied hard to stay with them, but Carey told us Sam would be more upset if we let Lennox Chase go to hell in a handbasket,” Evan added. “And he has to help run the board at Wyatt Petroleum.”

  “So I’ll only have de Soto to keep me company in Texas?” Wes joked. “That’ll be a fuckin’ ball of laughs.”

  “Yeah, about that…” Evan clasped Wes on the shoulder, looking him in the eye. “Listen, I know this is going to be hard for you to hear, but I want you to take a breath before you react, alright?”

  Wes could feel his hackles rising. He had a feeling he knew exactly what was coming.

  “Sam and Carey are going back to Texas,” Evan began, “She’s given explicit instructions, Wes: she doesn’t want you there. She’s asked that you stay away,” he told him, expression sympathetic.

  “She’s not thinking clearly,” Wes replied calmly.

  “Carey’s backing her,” Talon added quietly. “I know you want to be with her right now, but she’s laid down the law.”

  “I’ll go talk some sense into her.” Wes made it one step before Talon caught him and pushed him back gently, but with just the right amount of pressure to show he meant business. Wes might be able to get past him, but he knew he’d never get through both him and Rush, then Alejo down the hall.

  “Calm down, man—”

  Wes took a deep breath through his nostrils. Christ, it was always one step forward, two steps back with Sammy.

  “She needs my help—whether she wants to admit it or not,” he told the guys.

  “It’s not just about that—” Evan started.

  Wes met his eyes. “Then what is it about?”

  “Wes, one of the reasons Sam doesn’t want you anywhere near her is because she doesn’t think Lightner knows anything about you. She’s asked me to tell you to split—to go take some assignment far off where you’ll be safe.”

  That was an echo of what she’d said to him earlier. She was basically telling him to pull a repeat of what he’d done to her before, back when they were kids. Basically prove her right after Wes’d promised her left, right, and center that he’d changed. His jaw ticked with the effort not to lose his shit.

  “Not going to happen,” he gritted out. “I’m not bailing on her. Not again.”

  Evan shrugged, like it was a foregone conclusion. “I told Carey as much but Sammy’s mind is fixed. You know better than anyone, once she decides, it’s done.”

  “Man, take a second to look at it from her point of view,” Talon chimed in. “She barely got out of this last mission alive. Her back is FUBAR and she can’t protect you—much less herself,” he pointed out in a moment of extreme insight. “I know you’re pissed and you want to push your way in, but now’s not the time for that. You know Sam better than all of us. What is she going to do if you go in guns blazing?”

  Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

  Talon had a point. Sam didn’t get backed into corners—no matter what the circumstance. Besides, he wasn’t completely lacking in self-awareness, even if he preferred to ignore it more often than not. What right did he have to push back into Sam’s life uninvited, when he’d been the one to walk out? This was her show, her call—but that didn’t mean he had to stick to the play—not absolutely.

  “Are y’all still leaving tomorrow?” he asked.

  Evan gave a short nod. “The surgeons aren’t happy about it, but they think she’s stable enough to make the trip with our doctor on board.”

  Wes sighed. “Where’s Carey? I’d like to speak with him.”

  “He’s in the cafeteria getting some coffee,” Talon told him, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “You just missed him.”

  Wes nodded shortly. “I could use a warmer. I’m gonna go find him.”

  As he turned toward the hospital canteen, Evan put a hand on his shoulder. “For what it’s worth—I’m glad you showed up in Afghanistan.”

  Wes cocked his head. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “You helped the team with your intel, but most of all, you helped Sam. I don’t know what happened between you two, nor do I need to,” Evan added quickly. “But I could see the difference in her when you were there. She didn’t say it, but I think a part of her was relieved when you showed up.”

  “You had her back, man,” Talon agreed. “There’s nothing more important to Sammy than loyalty.”

  God, if only he’d fully grasped that years ago, when he was just a scared, confused kid, trying to do right by the both of them and failing miserably. Wes took one lingering look at the closed door of her hospital room.

  Two steps forward, one step back. In the time since he’d seen her, she’d been nearly killed twice. First fate and circumstance stood in the way, and now her stubborn refusal to accept help when she needed it. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.

  Wes’s resolve hardened. He’d just have to find another way.

  He wal
ked into the cafeteria and headed toward the coffee bar when he caught sight of Carey’s broad back to him, sitting down, speaking to a distinguished-looking man with a startling resemblance to Jack Roman.

  Had to be his father, or some other close relative—the same build and eye color was unmistakable. Wes hadn’t seen Jack since that first night, and he’d been too focused on Sam to bother asking any questions about his nemesis’s whereabouts.

  Wes got a fresh cup of coffee and casually sat down at a table behind Carey, close enough to hear their low conversation but not near enough to attract too much attention. He picked up a German newspaper someone had left behind, pretending to peruse it as he sipped his coffee.

  “I’ll send some of my men with you, but I don’t recommend you take him back to Chicago,” Carey was saying as Wes leaned back enough that he could eavesdrop.

  “I appreciate the offer, but that won’t be necessary,” the older man replied. “I’ll make sure my son is taken care of.”

  “Mr. Roman, before Jack—” Carey paused, as if searching for the right words. “Before what happened, he gave me a file.”

  Mr. Roman said nothing.

  “Sam’s file,” Carey clarified after a pregnant pause. “Mr. Roman, there is no way Jack could have gotten access to any of that information without your help,” he continued, his voice so low Wes had to strain to hear it. “The information in that file had to have come from you. Is that a correct assumption?”

  The man said nothing.

  Wes stared at the newspaper, German words swimming in front of him. What the hell was Carey talking about? Why would Jack have a file on Sam? And why would his father have given it to him?

  “I’m not concerned with how or why Jack had this file,” Carey added meaningfully. “But there was something in it that directly pertains to me and Sam, and now that I have it, I mean to see it through.”

  “If I knew what you were referring to—theoretically,” the man replied carefully after a few moments. “What would you be interested in pursuing?”

  “I’d like to know why the CIA investigated the deaths of Robert Wyatt and his son, Ryland, for one,” Carey answered immediately.