Page 27 of Rescue Me (Tempting SEALs 6.10)

Three weeks later

EMERSON HAD BEEN KIDNAPPED.

That knowledge echoed through Macey’s mind from the moment he received the admiral’s phone call to the second he had received the information informing him of her location.

She had been taken from him. As the admiral had snapped in his taciturn voice, she had been stolen. And the admiral’s blue eyes, chips of icy rage, had glared at Macey.

“You’ll find her. Find her and hide her, Macey. You’re the best, and that’s what she needs now.”

The best. Yeah, he was the best at this. Tracking, killing. The admiral had made certain his men were the best; he considered Macey one of his, despite their problems.

Now, Macey crouched in the corner of the shadowed warehouse and told himself it was all in a day’s work. He would get through it because he didn’t have a choice, and he would do it right because that was the only way he knew how to do things. Even when he fucked up, he always made it right in the end. Answering the admiral’s call at midnight was his chance.

He’d fucked up last month. He hadn’t just lost rank for messing with the wrong woman

, but he had walked away from the woman as well. Dumb move. Hell, the admiral had had every right to be pissed when he demanded to know Macey’s intentions toward his goddaughter. He had, after all, just caught Macey in a rather explicitly compromising position with her.

Unfortunately, Macey hadn’t had the right answers, so to say he was surprised when the admiral called to assign him to the mission to rescue her was an understatement. But as the admiral had known, there was no keeping the information from him. There was no keeping him away from her. And that was besides the fact that the admiral knew Macey would give his own life to protect her.

It was partially his and the admiral’s fault she had been kidnapped, after all. The remnants of a terrorist and white slavery organization he had helped to destroy were now striking back at the admiral because of his part in the assassination of the head of that organization. And the admiral’s goddaughter was his only weak spot.

“Remind me to put your names on my birthday card list.” Emerson Delaney’s voice was soft and sweet, sugar-coated and so gently Southern it sounded ridiculously out of place here in the darkened warehouse. “What was your name again? Mo, Larry or Curly?”

The sound of flesh hitting flesh sent his blood temperature rising. Fine, she was a smartass, but that was no reason to hit her, and some bastard inside that warehouse had hit her. He would kill the bastard who had dared to touch her.

“You, Miss Delaney, are in no position to sneer.” The accented voice was cold, purposeful. “You will pay for your godfather’s crimes.”

“Melodramatics,” she seemed to wheeze. “Pure melodramatics. Is that a French flaw or just your charming personality?”

The bastard hit her again. Macey knew he was going to have to move before the bastard put a bullet in her head.

Blood was going to spill tonight, and it wouldn’t be Emerson’s. He’d already made up his mind that the woman was his; he had only to stake his claim and convince her of it. But first they had to get her out of here. At least he had the element of surprise. The men who had kidnapped her from her bed had no clue that their route to the warehouse had been followed.

He turned to the SEAL with him, meeting the wild blue eyes of the demon stalking behind.

Nineteen months of torture and drug experimentation on Nathan had nearly broken him. It had definitely changed the SEAL for all time, but a year later, he was holding his own. Honed, savage, a creature of rage, but holding his own.

He held up three fingers. There were three guards posted at the entrance to the warehouse. He held up two more and pointed inside the warehouse. He was getting ready to give the command for Nathan to work his way around to the other side of the warehouse when the son of a bitch held up the flat of his hand and shook his head.

Before Macey could argue, Nathan was striding around the warehouse, calm, cool as hell, and crazier than a fucking loon. Son of a bitch. Macey gritted his teeth again, grinding his molars and cursing crazy Irish men to hell and back.

“Hey, dude, I need a light.” Nathan’s voice was ruined, slurred as he stumbled against the warehouse.

“Get the fuck out of here,” one of the guards cursed.

Macey peeked around, trained his weapon on the three guards.

Macey saw Nathan’s knife gleam in the darkness a second before he buried it in a smooth, hard upward strike into the heart of the first guard. The guard gasped, gave a shudder, then appeared to stagger with Nathan’s weight, taking him closer to the other two.

Three seconds later blood coated the asphalt and three French nationals, one of whom had embassy clearance, Macey had been informed, were propped up against the wall as Nathan moved into place beside the door, his demon eyes glaring across the distance.

Who needed a whole team of SEALs? He and Nathan were enough SEALs for this job. Nathan might be a tad mentally unstable in Macey’s opinion, but he was a hell of a killer. And that sucked. It used to be that Nathan shed blood only when there was no other alternative. Now, he killed without mercy, with expediency. He gave nothing or no one a chance to strike first.

“Your godfather Admiral Holloran will regret his part in the strike against our leader,” the terrorist was raging, as though Emerson was going to give a damn. “He and that bitch daughter that betrayed her father. Once we have her, you will be executed, your deaths viewed by millions and cheered on by the loyal followers of Sorrell.”

Sorrell, the son of a bitch terrorist and white slaver they had taken down months before was rearing his ugly head again, even after death.

“Wish you luck with that.” Emerson’s voice was weak. “I really wouldn’t expect more than a few dozen loyal hits; the rest will be for entertainment value alone. Kind of like a train wreck.” Her voice was flippant, but Macey could hear the fear in it.

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