Page 44 of Silent Comrade
“Yes.”
“Well, my job is finishing college,completing my obligations as a productive adult, and freakin’living my life. I’ll do my job. You do yours.”
Chapter Twenty
Red tried not to stare at the bathroom doorwhile Britt got ready for her day. Really, he tried. What he’d givefor X-ray vision right about now.
The mouthwatering pings of individual showerdrops tapping against her flesh tormented him. He uncrossed hislegs as he sat on the worn couch. The position change didn’trelieve the building pressure.
What the hell had he almost done thismorning? Britt McNeill was his mission. An assignment. She wasbeyond vulnerable, and he needed to get that through his thickskull and not take advantage of the situation. He had to maintaincomplete focus on her welfare and ensure her safety. Nodistractions.
Britt was one big distraction in a tiny, hotpackage. Man, he’d only gotten a few tastes of her, but he wantedmore. See, that was the problem. Because during that amazing spaceof time in the bedroom, not one brain cell had been focused on thesafety of the operation.
She’d be safe in my arms, a smallvoice in his brain piped up.
Would she, though? Anyone who got that closeto Red skirted danger in more ways than Beau Lequire’s minionsstalking her. The Morpheus Virus made him powerful andirrational—a terrible combination. If hisscrewed-up head flipped the switch fromworshiptodestroy, then he would hurt her. Besides, his personalpre-virus baggage ensured that at some point he’d fuck up any goodthing.
Post-virus baggage, on the other hand, tookall that childhood trauma and inability to protect his fostersiblings, and amplified and warped his need to protect, then mixedit with the knowledge that he would always fail. A prize-winningrecipe.
His phone rang. Red glanced at his watch:6:30 AM. Thank God.
“Rodeo.”
“How’s life in fashion world, bro?” WhenRodeo spoke, it always sounded like the guy was laughing. But theteammates all knew the real scary-accurate military machine beneaththe yuck-it-up, have-a-good-time veneer. Rodeo was a dead shot whowould stare down ten armed enemies and pick them off one by onewithout breaking a sweat. Then he’d destroy them with his barehands, just to keep his day interesting.
“Did you finish the cleaning job?”
Rodeo whistled low. “I won’t lie. A few ofthose mannequins will never model athleisure again, but yeah, I hidthe damage. Same with blood-spattered clothing. Good ol’ Tide stainpen, some creative rearranging on the shelves, mandatory discard offactory damaged items—all taken care of.You didn’t exactly try hard to stay neat and tidy when you weregetting your ass kicked.”
“Nope.” Red sniffed. “Lequire’s men?”
“One dead and the other terra incognita.Bloody footprints out the door suggested a limp.”
Red’s heart sank. “You took care of…”
“The leftover body? Of course.”
“Security cameras?”
“Nothing to see here, ma’am. We’ve playedthis game before. Stumpy erased all footage that had you or Brittor those dudes in it. Replaced the feed with reruns. No one shouldbe the wiser.”
“What’s the sitrep on Lequire?”
“Intel suggests that his people are focusingon Reagan.”
“But?”
“Shoo-wee.” He sucked in air. “That asshatis one squirrely son of a bitch, and I wouldn’t put it past him totry for multiple targets.” Muffled crunching footsteps and a dullrumble of semis on what Red presumed was I-75, filtered in behindhis words. Must be leaving the store now.
“Didn’t take him long to regroup after Kieraslipped through his fingers.”
The walking sounds stopped. “Bro, he took adose of virus.”
“Hunt mentioned that. Shit. How’d ithappen?”
“During our rescue of Kiera. Rat bastardunloaded a syringe full of Uncle Sam’s finest cocktail into hisarm.” A whiz of sound and slap of plastic against skin came throughthe phone. Ah, yes, Rodeo and his ever-present yo-yo.
Red’s gut clenched as he recalled the rushof power and loss of sanity when he received his carefully metereddose of the experimental virus. “What did it do?”
