Breaking Danger (17 page)

Sophie's face tightened, turned fierce. “Someone should have shot him.”

Oh yeah. Someone should have shot him. Jon had thought of it himself, when he'd first looked Popper up. By that time he'd been trained in the fine art of shooting people. When scrolling through the darknet for news of Popper, he'd started making travel arrangements in his head, asking for a few days off, deciding which weapon he'd use. And then he found the last bit of news. The fucker had gone ahead and died without him. From a pointed object being skewered through his heart.

Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.

“I was nine but I was undernourished, so I looked even younger. I was a small kid—”

She glanced up into his eyes, dropped her glance to his chest and shook her head. Yeah, he wasn't small anymore. He made sure he became strong and stayed strong. “I'm not small now. And I know how to fight. The military taught me to use every single weapon, including hands and feet, really well. But then—then I think I must have had ‘prey' tattooed in invisible ink on my forehead. I think when Popper saw me he actually smacked his lips.”

Though he'd never told the story to a living soul—even if he relived it often in his nightmares, waking up shaking and sweaty—he found it easy to tell her. For the first time, he felt a distance from this. Sophie was like a human buffer, providing a safe space, as if he were recounting something that had happened to someone else.

Telling Sophie felt right. Felt, even . . . healing. He would have cut his own tongue off rather than spill the sorry story to the military shrink, but Sophie? A woman he'd known for less than twenty-four hours? It felt right, crazy as that sounded.

“I even remember the amount Popper paid. Ten thousand dollars. To my parents, at that time broke and strung out, it must have seemed like Christmas and their birthdays and the Fourth of July all at once. They could stay high for a long time on that kind of money. I remember Popper handing over an envelope and my dad scrambling to open it and count the money. Popper led me away before my dad could finish counting. I was screaming at him, screaming at Popper, wriggling and kicking. My dad looked up from the money and stared straight at Popper. I remember that so clearly. He didn't even look at me. I was already gone from his head. He just said, ‘Slap him and he'll shut up.' And started counting again.”

“God,” Sophie whispered. Her eyes were wet.

“Yeah.” Jon reached up with his thumb to catch the tear that fell.

“Go on.” Her hand was even hotter now, this weird warmth that sank right into his bones. The memory of this had haunted him all his life, but now . . . now it felt like he was telling a story about someone else, long ago, in a distant land.

“Popper wrestled me into the car. He must have sedated me because I woke up with a raging headache, hugely thirsty. It was almost night. We were somewhere I didn't recognize. The car had stopped, Popper was getting gas. I tried the door and it opened. He hadn't bothered switching on the child lock. He must have thought I'd stay out for much longer. I was covered with a blanket. I bunched the blanket together so that in the dark it would look like I was still under it. I made it to the back of the station. I peeked out to see his reaction, but he just got into the car and drove off. I stole a couple of bottles of water stored out back, together with some energy bars. Then I sneaked into the back of a pickup. I had no idea where the pickup was going and didn't care. I'd get off at gas stations and get onto another pickup. I ended up in Ohio. My last ride happened to be a good guy.” He smiled at the memory. A fireplug of a man, short cropped gray hair, wide smile, huge heart. “Mickey Gardener. Who happened to be chief of police in Oroville, Ohio. He found me asleep in his off-duty pickup. I'd been traveling for days, had lost all sense of time. My ribs stuck out and I was sleep deprived and exhausted, and at first I couldn't talk. Didn't have the energy. He took me to the local clinic, where I was hydrated, fed, and checked for injuries. There was some kind of mixup with child services, so I stayed in the clinic longer than necessary. But after a few days in which I was fed well and slept in a bed, I realized that not talking was a really good strategy. Gardener sat down with me for half an hour, a really silent half hour, in which he asked me where I came from, how I came to be in the pickup, where my family was. And I just stonewalled him. I figured if I didn't talk they couldn't know where to send me back. And they didn't, because my parents sure as hell hadn't reported me missing. I stayed with the Gardeners for a couple of months, but I couldn't stay forever. His wife had MS and could barely get through her day. So I went through a series of foster homes. I know a lot of people complain about foster homes, but to me they were heaven. Plenty of food, clean clothes. Compared to what I grew up with, it was heaven on earth. And then I joined . . . the military.”

He'd been selected immediately for Special Forces until the CIA's military arm went fishing and scooped him right up. No need to say that. No need to say that they'd recognized the killer in him immediately.

But it wasn't the killing that attracted him to the military, it was the camaraderie. Working hard together for the same thing. He'd loved every second of the team-building exercises.

“I'll bet you found comradeship and purpose in the military,” Sophie said quietly.

Bingo
. Jesus, how could she read him so clearly?

“Yeah.” He swallowed. “I loved it. Loved everything about it. I loved working with a lot of smart people toward a common goal.”

She smiled. “Sounds like science. I love that aspect of it too. Science isn't one lone crazy person with a microscope shouting,
Eureka!
It's a community of men and women throughout the world working together, building on each other's discoveries. It's very powerful, working with others.”

Jon stopped, thought about it. “Yeah. This is the first time I looked at it that way. I guess the military life must be a lot like science.” Except in the military they wore body armor and whacked people instead of watching microscope holograms in lab coats. But except for that—yeah, pretty much the same thing. “It changed my life. But then—”

“You were betrayed again. Or so you thought. By your captain,” she said quietly.

He nodded.

“So we founded Haven. Everyone up there is working their ass off to save whatever can be salvaged. And the point of this long sorry story—” Jon picked up her hand where it lay on his chest, warming the area around his heart, and kissed her fingers. Damned if he couldn't swear his lips felt warmer. “The point is that even in truly awful times, when good people work together, great things can be done.”

Sophie smiled, though the smile didn't touch her beautiful eyes. “There's more you're not telling me. Lots more. But I get your message. Do you think—do you think there's much hope?”

The noise from the streets grew suddenly louder. It had been a harsh rumble all along, but the screams swelled, filling the room. She jumped when a loud boom went off. Gas mains exploding somewhere probably. Jon had been trained not to jump at unexpected noises but she hadn't been. At the boom, she took in a quick, surprised breath.

Her fingers trembled in his.

She was worried. Well, fuck, so was he. But he wasn't about to add to her worry. He kissed her hand again. “Yes, I think there's hope. Mac and Nick and the captain—and apparently General Snyder who was a great commander—are working hard to provide shelter for as many refugees as possible, and helping as many communities as they can to remain intact and fortified. They're working round the clock. They're working on it right now. Catherine and Elle are setting up a lab and, knowing them, vaccines will be rolling off the assembly line right after we get back. Those two women are amazing. I think there's a good chance we can save a whole big chunk of the state of California. We've got a lot of good, smart people on our side, and we're all working together on this. And in answer to the question you're about to ask”—he let go of her hand and rubbed his thumb over the worry lines between her eyebrows—“Yes, we're going to make it. I'll get you to Haven. I've never failed a mission yet.”

Well, that wasn't quite true. He had failed one. The lab outside Cambridge, a clusterfuck of epic proportions, but only because they'd been betrayed and ambushed. That one didn't count. He wiped it from his mind and made sure that the truth of the matter—that he was going to get her and the vaccine case safely back to Haven no matter what—was in his voice, in his touch, in his gaze.

In his kiss.

Because, well, there was no resisting her. Not when chaos and death were just outside. They didn't matter right now because in here, in this bed, he had a magical woman in his arms.

Oh God. That heat he felt from her hands was magnified tenfold when he held her. Warmth penetrating him all over, so deep, so hot that he felt it even where he wasn't actually touching her.

He slid her clothes off, then his, then turned, adjusted and—
Oh yes.
Just like this. Perfect. Lying on her, feeling heat all along his front, from the top of his head to his toes, her mouth giving heat, her breasts against his chest almost glowing with heat. She slid her legs open in welcome, hugging his hips with her thighs and . . . oh man. Blazing heat like a little oven against the tip of his dick. Warm, welcoming. He slid a little inside because he'd die if he didn't. He didn't even have to think of it, his cock moved all on its own. Feeling that incredibly warm welcome, he was halfway into her when warning bells went off in his head.

Something was missing. Something he should be doing.

He released her mouth—it was damned hard to do because her mouth, all on its own, was an incredible source of pleasure—and nuzzled the side of her face, her neck. His lips were on her ear when he whispered, “Foreplay. Forgot. Again.”

She'd been rubbing against him like a cat and she suddenly stilled.

“What?” The exhale of breath made a lock of his hair move, brushed against his ear, gave him goose bumps. He was half in her and wondered if she could feel his heartbeat there, inside her.

“Foreplay,” he groaned. He'd forgotten all about it. The Cool Dude, forgetting foreplay. Wow, that was a first. He was good with the ladies. He knew he was never going to stick around for very long, so he made sure he got it right the first time—because chances were there wasn't going to be a second time. Certainly never a third or a fourth.

So yeah, he had foreplay down pat. Took his time, did it right. Took so long sometimes, he started thinking of other things, like the time he was reviewing a combat plan while going down on a woman. She'd had to tug on his hair to get him to stop. Foreplay was automatic for him, something he did as a matter of rote.

“Don't need it.” She sighed and lifted her hips so he slid more deeply inside her. He groaned, tightened his buttocks, and pushed into her fast.

Of all the women in the world, he broke his iron-clad rule with beautiful, smart, delicate Sophie Daniels. Pure instinct took over. Foreplay was unthinkable when all he wanted was to slide as fast as possible right into that sleek, welcoming warmth. His mouth covered hers when he slid all the way in and he could feel the surprise and pleasure in her mouth, in her kiss. She groaned into his mouth. He felt the vibration more than heard the sound.

He stayed in her, keeping still. Not daring to move an inch.

Telling her his secrets had unhinged something inside him, something that had always been as tightly closed as a bank vault. It was cracking open.
He
was cracking open.

It unsettled him, rattled him. He couldn't keep his boundaries straight. He was breaking open and his self-control was oozing through the cracks.

He was in her so deeply, it was hard to tell where he stopped and she began. All the boundaries were fuzzy, fluid. Was that his heartbeat tripping wildly? How could it? His heart was always a steady sixty beats per minute, even under fire. He didn't do pounding hearts. But one of their hearts was pounding and he couldn't tell which one.

It felt like his entire body was pulsing, quaking, in the middle of a meltdown. He pressed into her more tightly, held her closer, kissed her more deeply. Because though she was the cause of the meltdown there was also some nebulous something that could be found deep within her body. Something that felt perilously close to . . . peace.

Which was absurd of course. Jon wasn't a peaceful kind of guy. And now was not a good time to be kum-bay-yaing, not with monsters raging through the streets. But somehow he was able to switch part of his eternal vigilance off and simply sink deeper into this woman, this one magical woman who made him magically feel better.

And then those tender thoughts blew away like smoke because Sophie, tired of him holding himself still deep inside her, started moving. Her hips withdrew slightly and she pulled herself up against him by pressing down on his ass with her heels. The movement made her moan and she writhed against him.

It was shockingly erotic.

He pulled back, watched her face. Their smiles were gone. He clenched his teeth against the pleasure as he moved back into her slowly. She closed her eyes, arched her back. Whispered, “More. Harder.”

It was as if he'd been held back by ropes that were now cut, unleashing him.

“Open your eyes.” His voice was low, hard.

Her eyes opened, but only halfway, irises glowing a deep navy blue. Slightly unfocused.

No, he wanted her attention. He wanted her focused on
him
, on the sex they were having.

He'd never had this reaction before. As long as the woman seemed to be enjoying herself, he was cool. She could be thinking anything she wanted. Hell, she could be fantasizing about some actor or singer for all he cared as long as she was having a good time. But right now, he wanted Sophie Daniels to know that she was fucking
him.
Jon Ryan.