Page 138 of Desperate Crimes
One tether to sanity in this chaos.
Leanna.
My wife.
My reason.
The wheels screech against the cracked tarmac, a sharp lurch pulling me from thoughts of her.
We’ve touched down.
Some barely lit private airstrip in the middle of a jungle nobody gives a shit about, save for the minerals buried beneath it.
The hum of the engines dies.
My team unbuckles around me, efficient, silent.We’ve done this before.We’re Vipers—we don’t rattle.
But something's off.
Too quiet.
No welcoming committee.No jeep headlights.Just the buzz of insects and the low crackle of static in my earpiece.
I reach for my gun.
BOOM.
The blast rocks the fuselage—rear of the jet.The cabin screams metal and fire.I’m thrown against the opposite seat as sparks rain down and smoke fills the space.One of my men slams into the bulkhead.Another’s screaming.Blood.Too much blood.
We’re hit.
The door rips open before we can regroup.
Boarders.Militia.
Faces masked in scarves, eyes wild.
Not Caas’ men.
These are freelancers.
Mercs with nothing to lose.
Fuck.
Gunfire erupts.One of my team takes a shot to the chest.
I return fire with dead aim, dropping two in seconds.
“Get him out!”someone yells.
“Negative,” I snarl.“We hold until the second unit flanks?—”
But we’re not flanking shit.Not this time.They timed it too well.
Smoke thickens.My lungs burn.My shoulder’s grazed.My vision goes white for half a second.
And through it all?
I think of her.
Leanna’s face.Her voice.
The way she looked that last night we were together, in our bed, naked, bound to the headboard with my belt around her wrists.Submissive.Sexy.Mine.
I won’t die here.
Not when I promised I’d come home to her.
