Page 1 of Silent Comrade
Chapter One
Too many voices blinded Red.
Alfred “Red” Newman leaned against theSavannah College of Art and Design (SCAD) hallway and gritted histeeth as the faux-leather jacket material rasped against the whitewalls, the sound creating sparks in his vision. Warmer than typicalattire for March on the college’s Atlanta campus, but this wasn’t atypical situation. A guy had to hide tactical gear somehow. Hehunched his tall frame into itself and ducked his head, tryingsomething—anything—to drown out the noise but still maintain his abilityto focus.
He needed to preserve his exceptionalhearing without losing his mind. Hell of a two-edged sword. Hell ofan advantage, no question. Made working around explosives a realbitch, but fantastic for tracking down tiptoeing insurgents.Unfortunately, every time the damned experimental Morpheus Virusthat had given him his supersonic hearing revved up, he lost alittle more sanity. He rolled his neck, wincing as the deepcracking sound ricocheted in his skull. With effort, he loosenedjacked-up muscles—muscles ready to fire,to strike, to propel his fists forward as he beat the hell out ofsomething or someone. He shifted the stupid tote slung over hisshoulder, all part of today’s costume along with the fake glassesthat made the bridge of his nose itch. He straightened up againstthe wall, careful not to press against the hidden Sig holstered atthe small of his back.
Students now exited classes, their chatterflowing like a summer flood burbling down a dry creek bed until itrose to a growling rush of sound. A narrow-eyed glance from apassing maroon blazer-clad student made him reset his slumpedposture. A quick brush of one leg against the other allowed Red toinventory the guns in both ankle holsters. He reached in hisdeeper-than-normal jeans pocket to the hole inside and probed witha finger. Knife strapped on the thigh, right where he’d put it.
Like most of the Morpheus Squad members, Reddidn’t rely solely on weapons. He rolled his free hand into a fistand tried not to be obvious with his systematic assessment of thisspace’s ingress and egress points, as well as its weaknesses thatLequire’s men could exploit. He tallied hypothetical casualties inreal time.
Keep your shit together. This is an artscollege, not the Middle East, and not a team drill. Blend in. Theassignment is more of a precaution.
Unrolling his fingers, Red fished in hisjacket pocket and squeezed the tiny silicon earplugs, debating.Sacrifice his edge or sacrifice his sanity? The rushing water soundof chattering, closely packed college students rose to aflooded-waterfall tumbling roar. He shook his head, as if doing sowould dislodge the sound. That wouldn’t give him what his bodycraved. What it hated. What it loved.
What Red really needed was a shot ofantidote. The synesthesia had increased. But, no, he’d had zerotime to stop and inject and take the necessary half day to recover,thanks to his target’s constant motion. Would it kill this woman tostay put for more than fifteen minutes? He still couldn’t figureout when this freaking Energizer bunny slept.
Speaking of Britt McNeill, she’d almostgotten away from him. Embarrassing for a specially trained SpecialForces tracker like Red.
Now he needed to get to a pretend class andtake pretend notes while he pretended to enjoy discussions abouttextiles and cuts of clothing. Red pulled the edges of the beaniedown over his ears, to hide his bright orange hair. He crushed thefabricated transfer paper in his hand and flinched as the harshcrinkle knifed through his temple.
The mission. Stick to the mission. The skinbetween his shoulder blades twitched. He glanced around, expectingto see armed thugs aiming guns at him—orworse, aimed at his mission target. Who had again flitted away fromhis exceptional tail. Red had been one of the best trackers in themilitary. He lightly tapped his ear through the yarn. Especiallyafter his change.
Even more reason that Britt’s evasion pissedhim off.
Not evasion, because that implied she knewhe followed her. She had no idea. Oh, no. This woman was naturallytalented at being nowhere and everywhere, all at once. If only thatinnate ability could help the situation.
Britt had no idea of the evil that wanted tohurt her. Had no idea if Red lost her trail, not only would theguys back at base never let him live it down, but in a far morecritical matter, her life would be in jeopardy. All because Britt’ssister had uncovered the truth about their brother Brady’s death,putting the entire McNeill family in danger. Red and his team wereinvolved because Brady had been their teammate in Special Forces.Therefore, his team would protect the McNeills like they protectedone another. Simple. With luck, Red could concentrate on keeping aneye on her. If only he could stop his ears from absorbing everydamned sound in a half-mile radius. He ground molars together, butwinced—softly. The virus balked at therestraint and made every muscle prickle.
Heaving in a lungful of air, he held ituntil he tamped down the need to rip off his own head. Or anyoneelse’s head. In. Out. In. Out. Like he’d learned years ago, whenso-called home life had become dire. Before Special Forces. Beforethe virus. In. Out. In. Out. A familiar exercise.
The fight-or-flight response eased alongwith the tension in his shoulders.
See? There. All better.
As if sixty seconds of circular breathingfixed his terminally warped nervous system. Close enough.
He shoved away from the wall and joined theflow of students, keeping his shoulders hunched. Couldn’t exactlyhide 6’2”, but he sure as hell could appear less like a militaryoperative and more like a … fashion student. He had the wholegetup, meticulously curated by Stumpy and Gonzo. Apparently theyhad the fashion chops or at least enough Google images to getappearances right: stiff leather-esque jacket, baggy shirt with asubtle striped pattern, organically sourced yarn beanie, edgy ankleboots, stupid-ass leather wrist thingy, literati glasses, dude totebag. Whole nine yards. He’d drawn the line at skinny jeans. Hisballs clenched at the thought. Yeah. With his muscled legs, hecouldn’t rock slim-fit denim without losing circulation somewherevital.
Three quick, light steps preceded hisfive-foot-nothing mission target careening around a corner andburying her forehead in his ribs.
“Crap!” With a flurry of flannel and limbs,Britt windmilled backward, likely off-balance due to the backpackthat sagged from her shoulders like it contained half her bodyweight.
He rocketed a hand out and almost picked herup off the ground. Adrenaline hit Red like a crashing wave,blocking out everything else around him as he laser-focused onBritt. He quickly dialed his grip on her arm back to “support”instead of “hoist.”
That little intake of air she inhaled? Hetasted that auditory pop of sweet pecan sound. His gut tightened asdid other areas, and he thanked God once more for looser-fitpants.
The second she was no longer at risk offalling on her cute ass, he let go of her. Had to. Not before hecaught a whiff of coffee and … he inhaled … hibiscus? It was asubtle, sweet, and old-school scent that made him think of pottedflowers. Maybe. He wasn’t an aroma savant like his teammate,Doc.
“Ah, I’m sorry,” she said with a sweet yetsharp lilt.
A devilish blink of her intenseelectric-blue eyes outlined by dark liner damn near sucked theoxygen out of the room. She was no Southern belle—more like a Goth pixie who had gleefully dismembereda Southern belle.
“I won’t break.” He pitched his voice low.Relief at being back in visual contact with his mission objectiveloosened his shoulders.
Then all his internal monitoring systemswent on high alert.Protect.
Her fingers fluttered over his chest, thetiny sounds of fingertips brushing the cotton-polyester blendtickled but did not hurt his ears. Thank God he hadn’t worn a chestholster today or she’d be tracing it.
