He didn’t relax until the flight took off, but once they reached a cruising altitude, he leaned his head back. His training let him sleep anywhere, and he could do nothing until he arrived in Dallas, so he slept. The stewardess woke him with a light touch an hour out from arrival.
In the bathroom, he washed his face and grimaced at the stubble. The stewardess delivered coffee and orange juice along with a boxed breakfast. He ate and drank methodically and tasted nothing. A little over twenty-seven hours since Luke’s call. Once he cleared customs, he would be back on U.S. soil and on his way to Shannon.
As soon as the plane touched ground, he switched his cell phone on and sent a text message. His one duffle bag earned him a second look from the customs agent, but Brody passed over his military ID, and her expression relaxed, her manner taking on one of sympathy. “Home on leave?”
“Yes.” Unofficial and unapproved, but definitely on leave to take care of Shannon’s problem. Then he could face whatever discipline the Corps meted out.
“Well, welcome home.” She passed him his passport and ID card and waved him through. Ten minutes later, he walked out the front doors and took his first full breath of honest-to-God American air in twenty-four months. The heat and humidity slapped at him, but he drank in the feeling greedily. A black truck cruised up to the curb and idled. “Your leave couldn’t have happened at a better time,” Damon said by way of greeting.
Not bothering to waste his breath—or correct Damon’s assumption—Brody had the passenger door open and tossed his bag into the back seat of the four-door cab, before climbing in. “Thanks for the ride.”
Better for everyone if they didn’t know. That way they couldn’t face anything resembling aiding and abetting charges. If they were questioned, they could all answer honestly—they hadn’t known. His brothers wouldn’t alert the authorities. No, they wouldn’t. Still, he refused to involve them any more than he had to. This was on him.
“You’re welcome. Damn good to see you.” Damon gave him a tight smile and merged into the traffic flow.
“You, too. Tell me what you know.” On a clock now, he knew it would only be a matter of when his AWOL was reported, not if. NCIS would open a case file and they would start searching.
If he were them, Dallas would be the first place he looked, too.
Though he’d maintained his calm throughout the long series of flights home, impatience left Brody edgy on the drive through heavy mid-day Dallas traffic. His internal clock continued to tick like a time bomb. Damon caught him up on everything since Luke’s phone call.
Shannon was in a third floor apartment on the campus. Her neighbors on either side were retired Special Forces who also worked as physical therapists. No one in her building nursed an injury, and they had someone on watch twenty-four-seven. While not ideal, they’d done their best on short notice.
Damon didn’t say anything specific, but worry coated his voice when he mentioned her name.
“She hates everything about the set up, doesn’t she?” Brody drummed his fingers. Twenty-seven hours and thirty-eight minutes since Luke’s call and he’d gone AWOL, traveled thousands of miles, kept his cool, and if they didn’t fucking get out of this traffic, he’d lose his shit.
“Not going to lie, she pretty much shut down after we got her set up. Most of us…the guys are keeping our distance. She made it pretty clear she didn’t want to be in close quarters, and Doc spent five minutes with her and put a call through to one of the physicians. Might have been nice to have a heads up about the PTSD.” Damon didn’t criticize, but he didn’t pull his punches either.
“It shouldn’t have been an issue.” Not for them. Shannon worked with her statues and she’d been getting better. She spent time with Liam. He’d never met the man and he could fucking hug him, because Liam had helped with Shannon’s confidence. She’d actually considered staying at his townhouse before ultimately electing to stay in a hotel. No excuses as to why, but with all the other changes and the travel, she thought better to have a bolthole.
A decision she based on recognizing her
needs
and it had taken strength to be objective about it. He’d been so fucking proud of her.
And then this happens
.
When he got his hands around this chicken-livered piece of shit, he planned to cut his fucking intestines out and feed them to him while the man was still alive.
“Yeah,” Damon said, and judgment etched a hard line beneath the words. “Should have, would have, could have. We didn’t
know
, and we scared the ever-loving fuck out of her. Even keeping our distance isn’t helping because we can’t keep our distance.”
Brody accepted the blame. Shannon had been in the States, safe at home. No one should have had anything in for her—least of all some sick fuck sending her nasty letters and trying to kidnap her. He wanted to know who, he didn’t really care why. The why didn’t matter. The who did. As someone who specialized in fast response, all he needed was a target. Eliminate the target, eliminate the problem, and make his girl safe again.
That was his priority now, but to Damon all he said was, “Sorry, man.” From the corner of his eye, he caught Damon’s nod. They didn’t need a lot of words. “What about Bates?” He’d never met the woman, never heard of her before now, but he owed her. She’d taken a bullet for Shannon.
“Gut wound. Ugly as fuck, but the docs all said she’ll pull through. She’s in ICU, and Morgan has two of his guys watching over her in case the asshole tries to take another shot. She might be able to ID him.” What he didn’t have to add was that she hadn’t woken up to confirm or deny the supposition. Finally, they were off the highway and the landscape gave way to the green vista he recalled from his last visit to the campus.
Damon waved to a man at the gate, and it lifted while they were still approaching. The addition of a security gate was new. But the facility continued to grow. He’d received regular updates from all of his brothers here. They’d added new buildings, bought land across the street, and if the scuttlebutt was true, they were building single-family homes and more. Luke Dexter seemed to be taking over the town of Allen, one square mile at a time.
What little amusement he found in the thought was fleeting as Damon drove up the long drive and then took the exit heading into a private parking area. As soon as he put the truck in a parking spot, Brody exited with his bag in hand. “Apartment number?”
“307.” Brody was on the move when Damon called after him. “We’re here if you need us.”
“Thanks,” he called back over his shoulder, but didn’t slow his pace. He spotted the guard easily enough, and a second one patrolling the green belt. Cameras were placed every thirty yards or so.
Yes, Luke had beefed up his security, and it appeared too precise to be a recent thing. Taking the stairs two at a time, Brody made a mental note to talk to him about it later. The door to 305 opened, and a man stepped out to block his path—Special Forces babysitter number one. He had his cell phone to his ear, and he seemed to be listening for a moment, then he nodded to Brody and backed into his apartment.
Damon called to let them know of his approach most likely, but he didn’t slow his pace. At 307, he paused. He needed to have his shit under control when he saw her. The last thing she needed was a caveman treatment or worse, the surge of predatory violence rolling through his blood. Thirty seconds, he counted off in his head before he knocked twice. “Shannon?” Because she didn’t need to be afraid for even a second about who waited on the other side the knock. “I’m here, babe.”
The door locks tumbled—one, two, and finally a chain rattled before the door opened wide. She stood in front of him, her amber eyes wide and wild in the paleness of her face. Her long hair hung all around her, shining as though she’d brushed it over and over again—a habit she had when truly nervous or trying to work something through. Either sculpting or brushing her hair, and she didn’t have her tools here.
A red, angry scrape marred her cheek, and darker shadows bruised the underside of her eyes, but she was still the most beautiful woman in the world to him. His heart felt like it strangled inside, and he gave her a moment to accept his presence, but she moved, rushing forward, and he opened his arms and caught her.
He was home.
Holding her, Brody closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. He’d not really let himself a moment since the phone call. The only thing that mattered had been getting to her. Slowly, he became aware of everything—how light she felt in his arms, the way her curves pressed to him, and the silken rainfall of her hair brushing on his skin.
“I’m going to carry you inside,” he told her in a rough voice.
“Okay.” Her voice muffled against his throat. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her grip tightening. From thousands of miles away, it was easy to forget her physical strength. But he’d seen her carve life from stone, hewing away the excess with skill and patience, until she transformed a rock into a work of art.
Carrying her inside, he dropped his bag on the floor and closed the door with his boot heel. With a twist, he turned the locks and then carried her over to the sofa. Like most of the apartments at Mike’s Place, this one had to have been pre-furnished. He’d stayed in a similar one when he’d visited two years before. The layout was straightforward and simple: living room, kitchen, a short hallway to the one or two bedrooms, and a bathroom.
For the time being, Brody ignored all of it to sit on the sofa and cradle Shannon in his lap. She shuddered, and he wanted to rub her back, but he needed to get a good look at her injuries.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she said and lifted her head. Tears shimmered within the amber of her eyes, and she cupped his face in her palms. The bristle on his cheeks had to scratch her hands, but she didn’t pull away. A hand-shaped bruise stretched from above her lip to her chin and across her jaw. Bluish-black circles ringed her wrists.
The shirt she wore hung off one shoulder, and he couldn’t miss the bluish-black bruise and red, raw skin. Luke had said she’d thrown herself out of a moving car. He catalogued every mark on her.
“How are your ribs, sweetheart?” Wanting to crush her to him, he kept his touch light to avoid hurting her further.
“Sore.” She retreated some, shifting on his lap. Brody kept his arms loose enough so she wouldn’t feel trapped, but he adjusted her position so she didn’t sit right across his cock because it didn’t seem to give a damn about her bruises—only that she was touching him. “Nothing’s broken. They did two sets of X-rays.”
That was something. Hand raised, he caught a long tendril of her hair and looped it around his finger. “I see the scrapes and the bruises…did he touch you anywhere else?” Damon hadn’t mentioned a rape nor had Luke.
“No.” Despite the quick reply and headshake, she couldn’t disguise the quake in her words or the way her mouth turned down. “They ran a rape kit at the hospital. But I wasn’t unconscious for that long, and my pants were still on…this time.”
Quiet rage at the bastard itched beneath his skin, and he gave her hair a light tug until she met his gaze. “This is not what happened to you in college.” The incident had affected her for years, worsened by her inability to recall what happened exactly. It had battered her self-esteem and confidence, and she’d let herself become isolated from even experimenting with dating. The loss of passion had sent her in his direction in the first place via a service pairing consenting adults for a one-night stand.
And once again, he thanked God they’d been paired together.
“I know, but….”
“No buts.” He firmed the conviction in his voice. If she believed nothing else, she had to believe this. “Whoever this”—
jackass-no-balls-son-of-a-bitch
—“person is, we know
exactly
what happened.”
Unease and doubt worked over her face, and she bit her lower lip. “But it is kind of like that….”
Not doubting her, he smoothed a hand over her hair. She was real, in his lap, and he could touch her. He needed to remind himself of the fact. “How?”
“Because I don’t know why.” The words exploded out of her. “Why would someone shoot Katrina? Why…why take me? I haven’t done anything.”
The bruises went deeper than the surface of her skin, and they’d opened older wounds in her soul. “He’s an asshole.”
“Brody….” Laughter sparked beneath the exhaustion and tears.
“What?” He raised his eyebrows. “Not a harsh enough word?”
Her weak smile grew. Eyes closed, she leaned into him and rubbed her uninjured cheek to his. Cupping the back of her head, he held her there. The sweet vanilla of her scent had haunted him overseas. He’d always caught a whiff of it on the letters she sent, an elusive tease and reminder of what he missed.
Today, however, she had a bite to her scent—something citrus, clean and fresh, but wholly Shannon. “I missed you.” He wanted to hold her like this forever, and he couldn’t. Not until he’d dealt with whomever was intent on taking away her freedom and sense of security.
“Me, too,” she said with a husky tone that sent all of his blood rushing south. Some women went overboard to be sexy with revealing clothes, cosmetics, perfumes, and attitude. She needed none of those things. With a jerk, she leaned back and worried her lower lip. “You probably want a shower and something to eat. I don’t even know how long you’ve been traveling.”
When she would have scooted out of his lap, he kept her still. “I can get all those things. Right now, I just want to hold you.” Needed to hold her. Needed to reassure himself of her safety. “And to tell you how proud I am of you.” Until he’d said the words aloud, he hadn’t realized how proud he truly was, and how much he wanted her to know it.
“For what?” Her brows drew together in confusion, but she softened at his refusal to let her escape. If she’d really wanted to get away from him, he’d never make her stay in place. Her adorable frown held question and doubt, not fear. Choking off the urge to carry her off to her borrowed bed so he could inspect every silken inch of her body, he fisted her hair so he could brush a kiss across her lower lip.