Into His Command (39 page)

“Boo-yah.” Though it was just a mutter, the man next to him dotted it with a pumped
fist.

Speaking of him…

“And who the hell are you?” Grahm demanded.

The man paced forward, extending a huge hand along with his photo identification.
“Captain John Franzen. United States Army, First Special Forces Group.” His grip was
steeyl, his confidence a jolt of adrenalin. As he shook hands with everyone else,
they clearly felt it too. “A pleasure.”

“After I do what I’m best at, he’s here to do what
he’s
best at.”

Samsyn arched both brows. “As long as I am right in front of him.”

Franzen nodded, but not without flashing an eager grin. “It will be an honor to serve
with you, Majesty.”

Colton repeated the nod. “All right. Now that we’ve dispensed with cocktail hour,
I need a place to plug in and log on, ASAP.”

Mishella moved forward. Though she was the embodiment of courtly grace, she also was
the glaring reminder of Brooke’s absence. But the woman was bright. She knew that
too. Wisely, she had stayed mostly out of the way, choosing to act in moments when
she could be of most service to the crisis—like now. “We have a conference room down
the hall. Let me know what you need, gentlemen, and it is yours.”

Her hospitality was echoed by the fairy—though that was where the buy-in from the
group screeched to a halt. Before Colton and Franzen could take another step, Jag
and Grahm stopped them, stances as stony as their stares.

“Syn,” Jagger gritted, “are you serious about this?”

Grahm’s version of the argument came with his normal prelude: a calm look around,
a measured inhalation. “We have always handled our own emergencies.”

“We have.” He reined the words to calmness but didn’t spare the blaze in his eyes.
“And that folly has landed us here—with my wife in the hands of a madman, likely
not
to fuck up his second chance at killing her.”

He finished by moving toward his friends with an old man’s shuffle. Gripped them both
by the shoulders, leaning into them with the same exhausted weight. Bowed his head,
letting his hair fall over his face, as words of conviction tumbled off his lips that
he never thought possible.

“Trust has to start somewhere. And I am choosing to start now.”

*

The little neighborhood
was so quiet, even the swishes of the waves on the southern shore could be heard,
nearly two miles away. On any map, the area still qualified as Sancti, though a hopscotch
game just to the north would end in the next district over. Passméil was a land of
sprawling meadows and peaceful streams, widely recognized as a zone of peace. Homes
were modest, people were humble, bicycles were used more than cars, and community
vegetable gardens fed all.

When Colton’s “miracle software” had pointed to Passméil as Kavill’s hiding place,
Syn made the man recheck the data. Even now, leading his handpicked team down narrow
back alleys and tree-covered jogging paths, the information was difficult to believe.

He was running on trust.

It was not comfortable at all.

As a matter of fact, with every minute that passed, it felt more like hell.

He raised his hand, curled into a fist, to signal a stop. After everyone slid soundlessly
behind him, he pivoted to Franzen. And glared.

“This does not feel right.
At all.
”

“I agree.” Tryst, taking up the third position, concurred in a whisper. “Why the hell
would Kavill do this here?”

“My
amcle
and
tanze
live four blocks over,” Jag added from the fourth spot. “Every neighbor knows each
other, and has for years. Why would—”

“—he not go for a ditch or a cave or a swamp?” Franzen thunked back against a tree.
He had clearly fielded this question before. “It’s called hiding in plain sight,”
the American continued. “Nazi war criminals blended right in after World War Two.
They became teachers and professors and inventors; one even received NASA’s highest
honor. Remember the place they found Bin Laden in? Nice sprawl, peaceful neighborhood?”

Tryst grunted. “Fuck.” Jag uttered the same thing a second later.

Samsyn rendered his own feedback by turning and trudging on.

Every new step carried his painful heartbeat. Every corner they turned was accompanied
by another silent prayer.

They saw nothing. They heard nothing.

Despair slithered in. Threatened to suck in his whole damn spirit.

He could not give up.

Because deep in that same spirit, he knew Brooke had not.

He held up his fist again. As everyone stopped, he hunched over the GPS tracker in
his palm. Another half block, and they would be out of the area pinpointed by Colton’s
program. It was useless to berate Franzen again. The man had flown halfway across
the globe to attempt this. It was not his fault they were nowhere closer to Kavill
than before.

“Fucking needle,” he growled. “Fucking haystack.”

Only he could not live without this needle.

He was so bogged down in that misery, he reacted a second behind the others—as they
swung rifles around, reacting to the something that burst from the bushes behind them.

“Don’t shoot! God, please!”

He did not miss the cue this time. Joined the other three in a massive whoosh of relief.

But beat them all swallowing a throat full of dread.

It was Dillon Valen. Out of breath. Bloodied face. Hand, clearly broken, clawed against
his stomach.

With no Brooke behind him.

“Samsyn!” The man nearly sobbed it. “Jag! Thank
fuck
.”

Syn made his numb legs work. “Dillon.” He grabbed the man’s shoulder. Felt like shit
for it when Dillon’s eyes popped painfully wide. The
bonsuns
had dislocated his shoulder too. “What happened? Where—where is she?”

“He’s still—got her.” The information was ragged, gasped between bursts of agony.
“She’s duct taped—to a chair.”

“Is she hurt?” He hated asking it. Had to ask it. Had they fucked her up as badly
as her brother? What had happened to her since that first video?

“Not yet,” Dillon rushed out. “But soon—I think. Kavill called you—at the Palais.
When they wouldn’t bring you—to the phone—he went ballistic. I used—the distraction—to
escape. Had to pop—my fucking shoulder—to do it.” He sagged against a nearby wall.
“Put the pieces together. Figured—you might be—on your way.”

He leaned in, grabbing Dillon’s head tenderly this time. Pressed the side of his own
against it. “I owe you a debt you cannot imagine, my brother.”

Dillon pulled back. “I’ll owe you a bigger one if you get her out of there alive.”

Franzen moved in, features sliced into hard battle lines. “How far away is the house?
Can you show us?”

“Of course. Come. It’s not far.”

Thank the Creator, it was the truth. Within five minutes, Dillon led them to a house
that could have been featured on a Passtéil postcard: front porch with a swing, backyard
with a birdbath. They snuck across that idyllic scene with steps soft as wind and
faces covered in masks, turning the tables on the pricks inside the house, avenging
ninjas on the hunt.

Samsyn grimaced. If only he could elevate his mind to such lofty terms…simply charge
in with the courage of that noble banner. Higher causes had been the safe focus of
Samsyn the warrior. The fortification of Samsyn the fighter. The underlying code of
Samsyn the commander.

They were nothing to Samsyn the man.

For the first time in his life, he charged into a battle for purely selfish gain—toward
something solely for him. He hurled through windows, barreled through doors, and charged
through rooms with only one sacred cup in his sights, one holy treasure to gain. It
drove his dagger into two enemies who dared stand in his way. Snapped the necks of
two more, in hands that looked like his but were under the control of someone else.
Some
thing
else. He was a dragon, ready to incinerate…prepared to destroy. He took no pleasure
in the acts. Felt no remorse. He would pay the price with his soul later, if that
was what the Creator wanted. His soul was a very small price to pay for—

The treasure.

His treasure.

“
Astremé
.”

He stopped, frozen in place like an idiot, certain he’d been wishing for this for
so many hours, it was simply another dream.

But then her body trembled in its duct tape prison. The tears welled in her red-rimmed
eyes. A moan spilled from her cracked lips, fighting to form his name past her filthy
gag.

He tore off his mask. Rushed to her side. Battled to get out words of his own. “Brooke.
My love.
Raismette.
It is over. All over.” Fell to his knees in front of her, clawing away the dirty
fabric at her mouth. She whimpered, which made him stop. “Shit. I am hurting her.
I am hurting
you
—”

“Shut up, you big ox.” She rasped it as Franzen appeared, putting his steadier hands
to work on cutting the duct tape free. “It
all
hurts, okay?” Thankfully, her left arm was freed first. She dove that hand straight
into his hair, dragging him to her for a loving, passionate kiss. “Guess that means
you’ll have to kiss it all better.”

Franzen chuckled. “I like the way this missy thinks.”

Brooke turned a curious stare on the man, clearly debating whether to slap him or
thank him. Obviously, she was having trouble wrapping her senses around this reality
too. Before Franzen even pulled all the tape free, she jerked as if waking from a
nightmare. “K-Kavill,” she stammered, burrowing tighter into Samsyn. “Wh-where’s Kavill?
He was just here…laughing at me…”

Franzen snorted. “Your husband put a knife in his gut. Tryst is finishing off the
job—and having a frightening amount of fun about it too.”

“He has earned it.” Syn let the explanation lie there.

Brooke pushed up a little. “Can I help too?”

“Oh, now I
really
like her,” Franzen drawled.

Samsyn clutched her head to his chest, letting her listen to the violent joy of his
heartbeat. “You may
not
help.” He tucked a kiss against her temple, “But only because of your injuries, little
warrior. Once you are healed, you may have your pick of future missions—and my complete
trust in accomplishing them.”

She turned her head so their eyes met again. Though her gaze was still painted in
exhaustion, a hint of its beautiful, mischievous gleam had already returned. Thank
the Creator.

“That, my husband, was the right answer.”

He ducked his head, taking her lips with gentle but thorough love. “My incredible
wife, that is just the start.”

‡

T
wo weeks later,
life began to feel like normal.

Too damn normal.

Making the coffee in his gut turn rogue on him in an instant.

Dammit.

He had been enjoying such a perfect morning. Tahreuse Mountain coffee. Fresh croissants
and fruit. An ocean breeze filled with tropical flowers and orange blossoms. Best
of all: a bird’s-eye view of the photo press circus taking place down on the beach,
with Evrest and Camellia at center stage. Yes. Definitely the best part. The world
was going insane, for the second time this month, over the Arcadian royals—only this
time, it wasn’t Brooke, him, and their daring escape from the terrorists. It was King
Evrest and his fiancé, back from the dead.

He couldn’t have been happier. Giving back the crown to Ev had been like lifting a
grand piano off his back. He could return to the business of keeping the kingdom’s
military at the alert and ready—and trained up on the newest “miracle software”, a
generous gift from Colton Worldwide.

But with the ease of that burden, another worsened by the day. Sometimes, it felt,
by the minute.

With Ev and Camellia back in Sancti, and Brooke’s doctors well pleased about her physical
recovery, the next event on the timeline was inevitable.

He braced himself for the moment she would bring it up.