Nightfire

Nightfire

A Protectors Novel: Marine Force Recon

Lisa Marie Rice

Dedication

This page is fondly dedicated to my good friend Judith Edge, the sharpest knife in the drawer

Contents

Chapter 1

San Diego

January 4, early morning

“H
arder,” she moaned. Mike Keillor gritted his teeth, started moving faster, harder. The cheap, filthy bed creaked so much he was afraid it would come apart.
“Harder,”
she insisted. The woman under him was red-faced, glassy-eyed, teeth clenched hard as his hips slapped against hers.

“More,” she hissed. When they’d come stumbling into her filthy apartment, drunk and kissing, she’d said she wanted to be held down during sex. So he was holding her down, big hands clenched tightly around her wrists. She bucked up against him, hard, pelvis banging against his, and moaned again.

That was pain he heard.

Startled, Mike stopped moving inside her, lifted his hands. Her wrists were red, starting to swell. He could see his finger marks.

God.

He had big, strong hands. His father’s hands. Tough, sinewy hands. Hands that could hurt. Hands that had hurt this woman.

Mike had his father’s hands, but he had never seen his father touch his mother or his brothers with anything other than gentleness and tenderness and love.

His father’s hands had hurt this woman.

And she liked it.

This was sickness. Madness.

Horror boiled up inside him.

Mike pulled out of her, rolled over and ran around the tiny apartment looking for a toilet. He pulled open the door to the closet, to a minuscule kitchenette, and finally found the door to the bathroom. He flung up the seat with a loud thunk, barely making it in time to throw up into the brown-stained toilet.

He vomited the six whiskeys with beer chasers, the plate of greasy fries he’d used to anchor the alcohol, and above all he vomited up the fact that he’d been fucking a woman he hurt and who
wanted
him to hurt her.

Michael Keillor didn’t hurt women. Ever. The thought that he just had kept him hovering over the filthy toilet, one hand braced against the dirt-streaked tiles, as he coughed up bile.

“Hey!” A sharp fingernail poked his naked back. “You shithead! You left me hanging. Fuck’s ’a matter with you?”

Mike had no idea. He stared into the godawful brown-streaked toilet that hadn’t been cleaned in months.

What was the matter with him?

Good question.

What the fuck was he doing here?

Even better question.

His dick was down, the rubber hanging limply off it. He pulled it off, threw it in an overflowing wastebasket.

“Hey, you motherfucker!” She thumped his back, hard. “I’m talking to
you
!”

Mike turned to face her.

He had no idea who she was. He didn’t remember her name. Maybe she hadn’t told him. Maybe he hadn’t asked.

The bar had been dark and loud and they had communicated mainly by her hand on his crotch, rubbing his dick. Five minutes after he’d first set eyes on her, they’d been staggering out the door to this apartment a block away.

She wasn’t a working girl. She hadn’t asked for money. All she wanted was a fuck.

And for him to hurt her.

He could see it now, the fine scars crisscrossing her face, two knife scars on her naked chest, old and new bruises. She’d been hurt already, a lot.

She was scrawny more than thin, as if not only she didn’t eat enough, but what she did eat was crap. Mike outweighed her by more than 120 pounds. She’d picked him up in a bar, a drunk and powerfully built man, and now she was provoking him.

She slapped him, then stepped right up into his face, features twisted in a sneer, mouth blurry with smeared lipstick. “You hear me, you asshole? You fuck me till
I’m
done, not till you’re done. And go puke somewhere else, limp-dick asshole.”

Mike simply looked at her, breathing down another spasm of bile.

She watched him, dark eyes bright with anticipation. She’d just challenged him, insulted his manhood.

There was a script for this, a set sequence of events, one she was waiting for,
trembling
for. He was supposed to start whaling on her, beating her bloody. Right about . . . now.

She expected it. Wanted it. Was quivering for it. And if he could read female arousal right, and he had years of experience at it, she was getting off on the idea of being beaten up. By him.

Mike couldn’t breathe.

He needed to get out of here, fast. Needed to get out of this disgusting bathroom, out of this disgusting apartment, out of this disgusting life. Now.

She was standing in the doorway to the bathroom, blocking his way.

Mike reached out to close his hands on her shoulders. Under his big hands, her bones felt like bird bones, barely covered by skin. She shivered, an uncontrollable movement of excitement. The game was about to begin, and man, she was so up for it.

But instead of flinging her against the wall, Mike simply lifted her slightly off the ground and gently put her down a foot to the right so he could get out of this damned bathroom and get to his clothes before what was roiling in his stomach could come up and out again.

He was pulling up his jeans when he felt her push his back. “You son of a bitch!” she screamed. “Where the fuck you think you’re going, huh? You’re gonna stay right here and get the job done, you bastard.”

Mike looked around for his boots, hearing her screeching voice as if it came from a distance, like a fly buzzing and batting against the windowpane.

He found his boots—one under the bed, one lying on its side under a rickety, splintered chair. He remembered tearing them off. He’d been in a rush to get his clothes off, get them into the bed. Not because he’d been consumed by lust, he now recognized, but because he wanted to start fucking before the smell, and the filthy mess he could see even in the dim light, turned him completely off.

Now that he’d puked up most of the alcohol and was semi-sober, he realized he’d been right to hurry because what he saw was enough to switch his dick right off.

He was a Marine—even if he’d been SWAT with the SDPD and was now a partner in a thriving security business with his brothers, once a Marine, always a Marine. Marines were neat and organized. This awful hovel looked like rats nested here. Clothes flung everywhere, not one thing folded. The bed had been unmade last night, sheets filthy and stained. The whole place stank of sweat and sex and despair and—oh God—now that he was paying attention, a space was cleared off a table, with a mirror and a razor blade and some white powder that had scattered.

Shit. Fuck. Oh fuck.

A cokehead. He’d fucked a cokehead. Half fucked a cokehead.

She was screaming abuse at him, kicking him, trying to pummel him with her fists. Mike was tempted to just stand there and let her abuse him because he deserved it.

He was thirty-five years old. He’d been a soldier and a damned good one. He’d been SWAT, the best on the force. And now he was a partner in one of the most successful security companies in the country.

He was one of the good guys.

So what the
fuck
was he doing here with a cokehead? One with mental problems, too. What was the
matter
with him?

He tuned back into what she was screaming.

“—ing asshole, what the fuck do you think you’re doing, you fuckhead, you can’t even keep it up, I thought I was bringing home a man but I was bringing home a faggot who can’t keep it up . . .”

Mike tuned back out as he put on his jacket. If there had been anything even remotely funny about any of this, he’d laugh. His big problem in life up to now hadn’t been keeping it up, but keeping it down.

Sex had always been a sort of refuge, a way to turn his head, his feelings off. Like running, only more fun. Sweaty brainless exercise.

This—he didn’t know what this was. It wasn’t sex. It wasn’t fun. It was a glimpse into a dark part of himself that scared him shitless. A dark part that inevitably led to a black, dank future made up of filthy holes like this one, touching rock bottom over and over and over again.

Her screams were louder now that she realized he was actually leaving and she wasn’t going to get fucked or beaten up.

Shit. She was making a terrible racket. Someone was going to call the cops and wouldn’t that be the perfect end to a perfect day? Have his old cop buddies forced to haul his ass down to the cop shop.

His buddies in law enforcement knew he wasn’t capable of hurting a woman. Some of them even knew that his company, RBK Security Inc., secretly helped battered and abused women escape from their tormentors and set up somewhere else with a new life. Their own underground railroad.

But this woman showed signs of long-term abuse. If she screamed rape, they’d find his DNA on her if not in her and they’d be honor-bound to take the whole sorry show down to headquarters and get the D.A. involved.

Sam and Harry would have to come bail him out.

There’d be an inquest, maybe a trial. RBK’s name dragged through the mud.

Jesus.

Mike shut the door on the screaming woman and looked around. If the apartment was bad, the hallway was worse. Every other lightbulb was burned out and the whole place stank of piss. His feet stuck to the streaked and filthy linoleum. Now that the woman behind the door had stopped screaming and was only crying, Mike could hear another woman yelling behind a door further along the corridor.

The place reeked of sickness and violence and despair.

He made his way down the stairs, head down, holding his breath. Someone had puked on the landing on the second floor. He didn’t know what depressed him more—this sad dump or the fact that he’d been so drunk stumbling up the stairs, his brain in his pants, that he hadn’t noticed anything.

Pushing open the street door and coming out into the clean chill night air was like a calm hand stroking him. He finally breathed in as he checked out his surroundings.

The entire street was bad news. The few functioning streetlights showed abandoned houses, human beings curled up on the sidewalk, one old geezer on a porch step drinking out of a paper bag, another one in lumpy rags, pissing against a wall, most of it splashing on his shoes as he missed.

It was probable that all the alcohol in Mike’s system was now making its way through the San Diego sewer system, but it wasn’t worth the risk being caught out in a DUI. He’d leave his SUV where it was. It had a tracking system if anyone stole it, and anyway, he was insured up to his eyeballs. Tomorrow he’d have Barney drive him in. Tell him some lie about being on a stakeout. Barney wouldn’t even question it. He thought Mike and Sam and Harry were gods.

Mike snorted at the thought.

He looked up at the night sky, clear, a few bright stars penetrating the light pollution of the city night. When he went camping, far from the city lights, he could see a billion stars at night.

When was the last time he’d been camping? God, he couldn’t even remember.

And what was he doing here, in this godforsaken part of town, fucking a semi-deranged woman? A woman who wanted him to
hurt
her? Mike had fucked a lot in his life but he’d always steered clear of the crazies. The druggies and the married ones and the crazies. Iron rule, never broken, until now.

What was he doing?

He knew what he was doing. Running away from Sam and Harry and their families, that’s what.

Sam Reston and Harry Bolt. They’d been boys together and now men and they were closer than brothers. They’d all three of them grown up without families. Sam’s mom had thrown him away like garbage when he was a newborn. Harry’s mom and baby sister had been killed by his mom’s methhead boyfriend when he was twelve. And Mike—Jesus.

He rubbed his chest. How could it still hurt? The loss of his family had gone down twenty-five fucking years ago. He was a man. A Marine, a cop, a security expert. A sniper, one of the best there was. Tough as leather.

And it still fucking hurt.

Home. He needed to get home.

Why was he here and not at home? Well, besides the fact that home was big and empty, with nothing there for him, he’d seen his sisters-in-law give each other a Look.

The whole Christmas season they’d all eaten either at Sam’s place or at Harry’s place. They all lived in the same building on Coronado Shores, where Mike had a large empty space he sort of called home because there wasn’t another one, so that was It. Home by default.

Sam’s huge apartment and Harry’s slightly smaller apartment in the condo had both been transformed into welcoming havens by their wives. It was a toss-up which was nicer. Sam and Nicole’s place was huge, their housekeeper was a fabulous cook, and as an ambassador’s daughter, Nicole was a gifted hostess.

Four floors down, Harry and Ellen’s place was a little smaller with no in-house cook, though Ellen had a little band of fanboys who happened to be restaurant chefs and they vied with each other to send her gourmet meals. At any given time, they could be eating dishes prepared by chefs of the top restaurants in town.