Hard to Come By

  Emilie was fascinated watching him, and was so damn appreciative that he explained what everything was and why he did what he did. Perhaps the coolest part was when the little remote control in his pocket released the vacuum seal inside the sleeve, allowing him to roll it down. He set the whole limb aside.

  “Why do you wear those?” she said, surprised to see layers of socks underneath.

  “The stump socks protect the skin and help perfect the fit,” he said rolling down both socks. Underneath those was yet another layer, a whitish rubbery sleeve that hugged his skin. Derek slowly rolled that piece off, too, finally baring his skin to her eyes.

  And, of course, there was nothing ugly about the amputation site. It was jarring to see his leg abruptly end in nothingness just a few inches below his kneecap, and the scar from the wound’s closure was raised and pronounced, but otherwise what she noticed was that the skin all around his knee joined seemed puffy and swollen.

  “Does that feel better?” she asked.

  Derek gave her a small smile. “Yeah. Kind of a relief.”

  “Good,” Emilie said, laying her hand on his right thigh. It was smaller than the other one, as if he’d lost muscle mass, and his skin was almost hot to the touch from being underneath all those layers, but what she most noticed was the way Derek’s gaze latched onto her touching him. She smoothed her hand upward, then down again, this time going below his knee.

  Suddenly, he grabbed her hand and brought it to her mouth, and then he pressed a long kiss to the center of his palm. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and then he pressed her hand over the bare inked skin of his chest. It was the sweetest gesture, especially paired with the affection so plain in his gaze.

  “Ready to go to sleep?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, scooting back and helping him pull down the covers. They both slid under the cool, white bedding. When Derek tugged her in tight to lie with her head on his shoulder, he reached over to turn out the light. “You know, this is the first time I’ve spent a night with someone in years, too.”

  He kissed her forehead and urged her knee to slide up across his hips. “Well, it won’t be the last.”

  SOMETHING CRAWLED OVER his leg. Again and again. Until the sensation dragged Marz out of the best sleep he’d had in as long as he could remember.

  Awake now, the tickling annoyance flared until it turned painful and sharp—and he could no longer stay still. Regretting disturbing Emilie, he slowly twisted his upper body out from under hers. The red glow of the digital clock on the nightstand read 4:35.

  “You okay?” came her sleepy voice in the dark.

  “Need to get up for a while,” he said.

  “Leg bothering you?” she asked, yawning.

  He really respected the way Emilie just addressed his issues head on—and in so doing, totally disarmed them as issues. “Yeah.”

  “Turn the light on,” she whispered.

  Marz found the switch in the darkness. The golden glow made him flinch and squint until his eyes adjusted. He looked at Emilie and almost pinched himself. Long, dark brown waves framed her face and sprawled across her pillow, and he didn’t think he imagined that her eyes were soft and filled with affection. For him.

  Which made it suck all the more that his body wouldn’t just let him lie back and enjoy the feel of her. But this particular sensation unleashed a restlessness through his muscles that demanded his attention. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

  Emilie sat up, too, and surprised him by hugging him from behind, her thighs spread along the outside of his own. “Hi,” she whispered into his ear.

  He smiled, which in and of itself was remarkable, given the achiness and resentment toward getting up that he felt. “Hi.”

  She kissed the side of his neck, and then her upper body drew back, leaving her hands on his shoulders. She kneaded and worked at the muscles until Marz was groaning. As it continued, the massage totally distracted his body from the phantom pain until it actually disappeared altogether.

  Slowly but surely, she worked her way all the way down to his lower back. When she was done, Marz peered over his shoulder. “That felt so good I might actually be able to go back to sleep,” he said, more than a little awed at what she’d done for him.

  “Good,” she said, making room for him as she slipped beneath the covers again.

  Marz turned her way, gathering her into his arms and molding her tight against his chest, his head on her shoulder.

  “Have you ever tried mirror therapy?” she asked him.

  He’d heard of it but never pursued learning how to do it. It was supposed to essentially trick the brain into believing the amputated limb still existed by substituting the reflection of the whole limb for the damaged one, and thus combat phantom pain. “No,” he said, somewhat surprised that she knew about it.

  “If you want, I could show you some time. A physical therapist would really be best to work on it with you—”

  “But I’m not gonna have the freedom to do any PT any time soon. That would be great, Em.”

  “No problem,” she whispered, her voice sounding leaden with sleepiness. She turned in his arms and pressed her back to his front, wriggling in close.

  His cock had already stirred during the massage, and now the pressure of her rear against his hips made him hard. He grabbed her hips and gently thrust himself against her, but gradually his movements became harder, more needful. Emilie’s small moans and the way she pressed herself back into his thrusts said that she was right there with him. Derek’s arm surrounded her upper body and he hunched himself against her, reveling in the friction against his cock.

  But for as much as he wanted her, none of the frenzied need settled into his blood this time. Which meant he could spend his good old time driving her wild.

  Buzz, buzz.

  The sound invaded the haze of lust that had settled over his brain. Why would someone be texting him at this hour? Given the guy seemed to share Marz’s insomnia, maybe it was Charlie with something about the key search?

  Buzz, buzz.

  Another incoming message. Except, why didn’t his gut buy that as a possibility?

  Torn, he kissed Emilie’s shoulder. “Gimme a second.”

  Her gaze followed him as he rolled over to reach for his cell. His hand no more landed on the device when three heavy-fisted pounds landed against their hotel room door.

  Emilie gasped.

  “What the fuck?” Marz said, an icy cold fear trickling down his spine and raising the hair on his head. “Em, see who that is. You can get there faster than me. Just use the spyhole first. Something’s wrong.”

  She flew from the bed as Marz thumbed open his messages.

  He had two of them, both from Nick. Marz’s stomach crashed to the floor in a way that hadn’t happened since the moment that roadblock in Afghanistan went ass over tits.

  SOS, read the first message. Why the hell was Nick sending out an urgent appeal for help? Marz flicked to the next message, and the two words he read there froze the blood in his veins.

  Under attack.

  The air sucked in on Marz as Shane barreled into the room, Emilie right behind him. Wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, Shane had his phone pressed to his ear and his face was as white as the sheets.

  No, no, no, this can’t be happening.

  “Jesus, Marz,” Shane rasped. “Hard Ink’s being attacked. Right now.”

  Chapter 23

  The minute Marz had his prosthesis back on and his jeans hiked up, he picked up his phone and dialed Miguel Olivero, Nick’s PI friend who had been helping them since the beginning. The phone rang and rang and finally went to voice mail. So Marz hung up and dialed again. This time, someone picked up.

  “Hello?” came a rasping, half-asleep voice.

  “Miguel, it’s Derek DiMarzio.” Marz dressed while he talked. Emilie flew through the room collecting and packing their things.

  “What’s happened?” Migue
l said, all the sleepiness instantly gone from his words as his instincts kicked in.

  “I don’t have the details, but Hard Ink is under attack. Most of the team got waylaid south of the city last night by the storms, so Nick is seriously short-handed. It’s gonna take us a half an hour to get there.”

  “I’m on it,” Miguel said.

  “You don’t know what you’re going to be walking into,” Marz said. “Is there anyone you trust implicitly who can back you up?”

  A moment’s pause, and then Miguel said, “A hundred percent, yes.”

  “Then do it, Miguel. Just get to them as quick as you can.”

  They were all loaded into Shane’s truck less than five minutes later, but it had felt like a lifetime. Beckett at the wheel, they pulled out of the hotel’s parking lot into the predawn darkness like the devil himself was chasing them.

  Easy and Shane were still on their cells with Jenna and Sara, who’d called when the shit had first gone down. But since the women were hiding in the basement underneath Hard Ink, they didn’t have any additional information beyond the fact that there had been some sort of explosion, they’d heard the steady percussion of semiautomatic gunshots, and all the men had gone to find out what had happened.

  All the men. Which meant that Jeremy and Charlie, neither of whom had combat experience nor much familiarity with weapons, were out there dealing with whatever had come at them in the dead of the night. All the men probably also included Ike and the handful of Ravens that had arrived before the storm. Which meant, best-case scenario, Nick had five or six men backing him up.

  Guilt sat like burning motor oil in Marz’s gut. They should be there. They should be there. And instead of being there, Marz had spent the night getting laid. He roughly raked at his hair.

  His brain raced. Attacked how? Attacked by who? And what was happening now?

  But they didn’t know the answers to those questions, and they wouldn’t know until they arrived on the scene. Which would take about twenty-five minutes of driving time on the mostly empty highways to achieve.

  It was a fucking eternity.

  He blew out a long breath.

  Emilie quietly laced her fingers between his and squeezed.

  Her expression wore the anxiety and fear that Marz felt but couldn’t let surface. And, aw hell, he shouldn’t have thought that way about their time together. He cherished it beyond words. It wasn’t her fault that they got delayed. Truth be told, it wasn’t any of their faults. Not like they controlled the damn weather. He leaned over and kissed her in silent apology.

  But none of that was going to matter one goddamned bit if anything happened to their friends.

  “Fuck!” Beckett roar, pounding his fist against the steering wheel as he raced at ninety miles an hour around a sedan.

  The fact that Marz could count on one hand precisely how many times he’d ever seen his best friend lose control of his emotions like that highlighted just how dire things truly were.

  Tension hung so heavy inside the cab, you could’ve cut it with a knife.

  “Anything new?” Marz asked, his gaze ping-ponging between Shane and Easy. Both men looked at him with the same lethal anger in their eyes that he felt and shook their heads. “We need a plan for when we get there. We can’t just drive into the middle of it.”

  “We don’t even know what ‘it’ is yet,” Beckett said. “Or that we’ll get there in time to be of any goddamned use. Whether this attack is Church or Garza or Seneka or the fucking Easter Bunny, this has got to be a hit-and-run. No way any of them would risk getting caught or identified by sticking around long enough for the authorities and the media to get on site.”

  Probably true. Which meant, goddamnit, Beckett was right.

  Beckett took the big, curved flyover ramp to Interstate 695 faster than was strictly safe. Marz put an arm around Emilie and grabbed the hand strap above his head.

  “Hey,” Marz said, a thought coming to mind. “Ask Sara and Jenna if Becca’s with them.”

  “She is,” Easy said.

  “Tell her to call her EMT friends and see if they’ll come over with their rig. Just a precaution. If we can’t be there in time to help, we can sure as shit be ready to deal with the aftermath.”

  Easy relayed the message. “Calling them now,” Easy said.

  “What else can we do?” Marz murmured to himself. Jesus. There has to be something.

  Both Shane and Easy suddenly jolted, like they’d received a shock.

  “What?” Marz asked, dread a crushing presence inside his chest. “What the hell was that?” Another sharp turn as Beckett veered off on the first exit they came to, which put them on the parkway that would dump them into downtown Baltimore. The gray light of dawn filtered into the cloudy sky.

  “Just stay there,” Easy said. “I’m no more than fifteen minutes out from you, Jen. Don’t move from where you are.” In the front seat, Shane was rushing out similar sentiments. Marz was about ready to lose his shit when Easy turned to him, his expression stricken. “There was a big explosion.”

  “Another one?” Marz said, incredulous. “Just what the hell are they fighting?’

  Easy held up his hands, and then he turned his body toward the window. His words were hushed, like he really didn’t want to share them. “I’m so fucking sorry I’m not there with you. And I’m sorry to say this for the first time now, but I need you to know. I love you, Jenna. Do you hear me? You keep yourself safe until I get there.”

  Marz felt like they were trapped in a slow trudge to the gallows. And it was clear the other guys felt the same way. They sat in a tense silence as they came into the city past the two huge stadiums and headed east. With all the lights, their progress slowed significantly.

  “Five minutes,” Easy said into his phone when they hit Eastern Avenue.

  Two minutes later, Shane leaned forward in the passenger seat and craned his head like he was looking at something in the sky. “Fuck me running.”

  “Jesus,” Beckett said, glancing in the direction of Shane’s gaze.

  “What?” Marz said, sitting forward so he could see what they were looking at. Oh fuck.

  A plume of black smoke rose into the early morning air. In roughly the direction they needed to head. No way the explosions at Hard Ink weren’t related to that. Sonofabitch.

  Emilie put a hand on his back. “What is it?”

  Marz turned to her, so fucking sorry that he couldn’t give her just one moment of peace and safety. “It looks like Hard Ink is on fire.”

  BECKETT FLOORED THE accelerator, jerking them all back against their seats. Marz’s gut burned, the remains of last night’s dinner in his system threatening an all-out revolt.

  “It’s over!” Shane nearly yelled. “Nick’s sister just came to let the other women know they could come out.”

  Thank fuck!

  “What?” Beckett said, his gaze jerking toward Shane. “Why wasn’t she down there with them?”

  “I don’t know, man,” Shane said, dragging his hand through his hair until Marz worried it might start coming out in clumps. “Just get there.”

  Beckett took the turn onto Hard Ink’s street so hard, the pickup came up on two wheels. They barreled down the road, blowing through the stop signs in the generally quiet industrial neighborhood. From two blocks away, they could see people standing in the street with smoke billowing around them. There didn’t seem to be any emergency vehicles on the scene.

  “Aw, shit,” Marz said. All their friends filled the street and seemed to be congregated around something. Becca and Charlie’s blond and the Dean sisters’ red hair stood out in the group. Becca was crying against Charlie’s chest. The entirety of Marz’s innards went on a freefall, leaving him hollow and achy and unable to take a deep breath. Who was Becca crying for? Who lay in the center of that group?

  The truck passed a car that looked like it had been broadsided by a tank, and then Beckett hit the brakes so hard in front of the gate to the parking lot tha
t the truck skidded on the gravel.

  Marz drew his weapon, threw the door open, and hopped out. “Be right back, Em. Let me check this out first.” He took off for the group, the other men right behind him. Blood on Becca’s hands and shirt jumped out at him, sending ice through his veins. “What’s happened?” Marz yelled.

  His first thought was Not Nick, not Nick, not Nick.

  But then a wave of guilt swamped him, because there wasn’t a single person at Hard Ink that Marz would be okay losing.

  He pushed passed two men he didn’t recognize who stood at the edge of the group. Nick and Jeremy appeared to be kneeling over someone, and the instant Marz saw their matching dark chocolate hair he got a little dizzy with relief. “Nick!”

  Nick’s gaze whipped toward him and the guy rose to his feet. “Jesus, Marz,” he said, his face and arms smudged black here and there. Blood seeped through the bandage on his neck.

  Marz clasped Nick’s hand. “I’m so fucking sorry we weren’t here. What hap—” At that instant, Marz’s gaze landed on the person lying on the ground in the center of the group.

  Miguel. The circular, dark red wound on the man’s forehead told Marz everything he needed to know. Miguel was dead.

  Putting a hand to his own forehead, Marz struggled to breathe. “I . . . I . . . What . . .” He shook his head and grappled for clarity. “I asked him to come help you.”

  “He came,” Nick started, his voice cracking, “just as the attackers were leaving. Tried to block them with his car, but they were in fucking armored Suburbans. They rammed the car and shot him when he dove out of the way.”

  Aw, damn, Miguel. So fucking sorry. Marz had pulled him out of his bed, and the guy hadn’t given a second thought to helping. And he’d lost his life for it. For them. Another among too many good men taken out because of Frank Merritt’s treachery and greed. Goddamnit.

  “How many more have to fucking die?” Easy said, his tone like ice.

  Nick looked over his shoulder toward the intersection, where the side of the building they’d camouflaged fronted the crossing street. “Maybe two more,” he said.