pdf - Eye of the Storm.PDF (5 page)

Was everyone nuts but him? Keely Walsh was a small, delicately built female. Hell, a stiff breeze could probably knock her over. She had adequate shooting abilities—okay, more than adequate—and had handled the bartender very neatly. And she'd warned them about the trap and brought extra weapons and ammo. But she was not in charge. This was his op and he would take control now, which included protecting the woman from herself if he had to. It was obvious her brother couldn't handle her.

Before he could open his mouth, Keely said, "Back off, Tweetie. I scared Ren earlier. He's probably thinking I'm a loose cannon or something." She angled her head to look at him over her shoulder. "He'll learn I'm not. I don't do anything without weighing the consequences."

His jaw dropped open, then closed. Several times. Finally, he said, "You analyzed nothing. You just went after a fucking live grenade." He was the man, the trained soldier; it was his job to handle live grenades.

Tweeter laughed. "Oh, she analyzed it. Her brain is like a Cray super-computer. She can assess a situation and make a decision in a split second. Dad said Special Forces lost a good soldier when she was born female."

Keely stuck her tongue out at her brother. She'd stuck that same tongue out at him, and if she did it again, her ass was spanked.

"I still say I could've survived Hell Week if Loren hadn't caught me."

He shot a questioning glance at Tweeter who verified the incredible statement. "She made it through five days before they figured out she was there." At Ren's snort of disbelief, Tweeter clarified, "She shadowed them at Coronado, mirroring the first five days minus the team support. The instructors went apeshit. She lasted longer than half the class. Mom had fits and Dad was so proud he almost burst. Loren and Paul were freakin’

instructors, and were livid she'd stayed under their radar so long. The only reason she got caught was because she saved one of the men from drowning with Loren's help."

"Fucking unbelievable."

Hell Week was called that for a reason. He'd made it, but never wanted to be that tired, hungry or cold again. His SEAL missions had been like vacations compared to the training.

"It's documented." Keely's glorious green eyes narrowed. "It was easy to infiltrate the training site. It's a beach, after all."

"Documented?"

"Yeah, I hired a videographer. I figured no one would believe me." Her lips quirked.

"I'll get you a copy. My twin brothers' commentary is, uh, enlightening."

"More like profane," muttered Tweeter.

"Jesus H. Christ." Ren stood, hauling the tiny warrior to her feet. He then turned her to face him, his hands on her shoulders. He wanted her to acknowledge who was in charge from here on out.

Keely winced and attempted to shrug his grip off. He frowned at her sign of pain.

He'd kept his grip purposely light.

"Are you hurt?" He released her shoulders. "You fucking did it when you dove for that damn grenade, didn't you? Or did it happen on the way here?" His gut clenched at the thought. He forgot all about the lecture he wanted to give her on not endangering herself and about following his orders. Instead he tilted her chin up so he could see her eyes.

Yeah, she was hurting. Her green eyes were clouded with pain. "Answer me. Where are you hurt?"

She frowned then shook her head. "No, I'm…”

Tweeter cut her off. "Keely Ann Walsh! I specifically asked you earlier if you were hurt. Did you lie to me?" He grabbed her arm to pull her away from Ren.

Keely grimaced, her teeth audibly clenching.

"Leave off, Tweeter." Ren swore a blue streak under his breath as he shoved her brother's hand from her arm, then began to unbutton her shirt. "Vanko, any sign of activity?"

"None. I think we should do what little sis said and bug out. She makes a lot of sense."

Yeah, she did—but he was taking over—once he made sure she was okay. "In a sec.

Keep your eyes peeled."

"Stop it." She slapped at his hands. "You are
not
taking off my shirt. I'm fine." Her teeth snapped together as she hissed, then winced.

"Yeah, sure you're fine," he grumbled under his breath. He ignored her pathetic attempts to avoid his fingers and continued to unbutton, then shove the blood-spattered shirt off her shoulders. What he uncovered had him swearing long and viciously. Tweeter did the same from his viewpoint behind her.

"Is it as bad back there as it looks from here?" His tones were clipped, deadly. He barely maintained control of the rage surging through his body. He wanted to find the bastard whose finger and teeth marks were all over her shoulders and the upper curves of her breasts and then kill the asshole in slow and painful ways. And what the fuck had she been thinking of coming to South America in this condition? She needed a fucking keeper.

Tweeter came round to look at the front. "Jesus-fucking-Christ, Keely. Who did this to you?" He looked at Ren. "This side is worse, but she has similar bruising and a bite mark on her left scapula."

Ren's eyes narrowed as he gently turned her to get a look. He swore some more.

"Bite marks?" Vanko stormed over from his post at the front door. He also examined Keely. His pale blue eyes darkened to the color of thunderheads. "
Dermo.
If the bastard's not dead yet, he will be."

Keely sighed. "I'm fine. I made it here, so it's not as bad as it looks." She swept them all with a glance that Ren could only classify held strained patience. "We need to move out."

As she began to pull her shirt back up her arms, Ren halted her hands. "You
will
tell us who did this."

She paled, bit her lower lip. "Maybe."

"No maybe—you
will
tell us."

Her green eyes filled with tears and she let out a watery sigh that hurt him in places he hadn't known existed. She was giant-sized courage packaged in a dainty body. He wanted to carry her off to somewhere safe and keep all the bad things from ever daring to share the same air she breathed. From what he'd observed in their short acquaintance, she'd most likely fight and scratch him every inch of the way. Keely was a fighter and would resent his over protectiveness, but damn if he still didn't want to do it.

When she'd walked into the hovel of a bar and took control of the bartender, his brain had seized. He hadn't believed his eyes. All his higher-level thinking went AWOL and something primitive had taken over. Call it territorial imperative, alpha-male protectiveness, or whatever, but he wanted her out of the danger zone. No matter how smart or deadly she was—strawberry blonde sprites did not belong on missions in third-world hellholes.

Now, all he had to do was convince her to go home. He had a feeling Keely would prove to be very difficult.

He grasped her cold, trembling hands and placed them on his chest. He pulled the blood-spattered shirt up and over her battered shoulders and over her chest then buttoned it, careful not to touch her breasts or do anything to cause her any more pain—or embarrassment.

His gut seized at the thought that what they hadn't seen might be worse. "Vanko.

Check outside. We're leaving."

Tweeter moved past him and Keely into the back room, then came out with her backpack and the weapons. "Here, boss." He held the equipment out. "I'm carrying my sister."

"No way, Tweetie." Keely grabbed her backpack and shrugged it on with barely a wince.

Ren swore under his breath. "Let us take care of you. You've done more than your share."

"Stop swearing. I can walk."

"Stubborn little minx." Ren resisted the urge to throw her over his shoulder. Vanko choked back a laugh and sobered when he glared at him.

Keely moved toward the door, her head held high, her tight, round ass moving so sweetly he couldn't help his little brain's reaction.
Shit.
Now wasn't the time to get a hard-on. He shifted his cock so it wouldn't rub against his zipper.

Tweeter noted the adjustment. A frown creased his friend's forehead. "Uh, Ren…"

"Not a word, Tweeter. Not one fucking word."

Tweeter shook his head and said something Ren couldn't quite catch. He expected he and his friend would have a come-to-Jesus meeting over Keely soon.

Vanko met Keely at the door and led her outside, gently cupping her elbow as if she were made of spun glass. He frowned. Vanko was a horn dog when it came to women.

Shit.
As op leader, he'd have to warn the handsome Ukrainian off. This was Tweeter's sister after all.

"Tweeter." He kept his voice low so the others couldn't hear. His sharp gaze never left Keely as Vanko turned on the charm. He fisted his hands at his side. "Tell me about your sister. She handles herself well for a civilian."

"You really meant 'for a girl,' didn't you?" Tweeter raised one brow. His eyes crinkled with suppressed laughter. "We all taught her—Dad, we boys, all Dad's grunts.

She's a natural warrior—and scary smart."

"Where did she learn to handle a weapon so well?"

"She's good, isn't she?" Tweeter smiled like a proud father. "Dad taught her on small weapons. Loren and Paul taught her what they learned in SEAL training. She was so good, Dad bribed someone to let her go to Army Sniper School. She aced it."

Sniper School was almost as difficult as Hell Week.

"Well, hell." He shook his head. "She took out that bartender like a pro. What's her hand-to-hand training?"

"Paul taught her Krav Magra—and Dad had us wrestle her so she could learn how to defend herself in case some S.O.B. got a hold of her. Mom hated it all, but in the end had to admit it came in handy when Keely got breasts."

Ren choked, not wanting to think about her breasts. Of course his gaze went straight to them—and they were sweet and full on her petite frame, more than a handful. Then he thought about the unknown bastard who'd brutally marked her. She was so small, so fragile despite all her training. Some son of a fucking bitch had hurt her.

Tweeter added, "Ren, if all these questions are about if she can handle herself if we meet trouble in the jungle, the answer is affirmative."

"No, I saw that she could handle herself, but wondered how the bastard overcame her to hurt her that way? She took down the bartender easily and he had to outweigh her by a hundred pounds."

Tweeter shook his head. "Not many people could sneak up on her. She has a spider sense about things like that."

"Probably outnumbered her then." The image of men holding her down as they hurt her made him growl. He and Tweeter moved to join the others, picking up the rest of their gear from the table as they exited the bar.

"Yeah. I'll be calling my brothers in on this hunt. No one messes with our baby sister."

"I'll help. Anyone ever dares touch her like that in my presence and he'll lose a hand before he hits the fucking floor."

Tweeter shot him a narrowed glance. "Ren, we all protected her as she grew up.

Then we trained her once she got big enough to understand she might not always have us around to cover her cute little tush. Even after all the training, we still try to protect her."

"Is there a point here?" He watched Vanko brush a golden curl from her forehead. He tensed and barely stopped himself from flying across the ground and slapping Vanko's hand away.
Shit.
He was not like this. He'd never been this possessive over a woman. He took in and let out one deep breath, then another, until the burning desire to rip Vanko's arm off left him.

"The point is—she hates us hovering and smothering her with protection. Very self-sufficient, my little sister." Tweeter looked at her and shook his head. "I'm not sure how she got out of the U.S. without Dad knowing. One of us always knows where she is and what she's doing. Drives her fucking nuts. Hell, when she went to MIT at the age of thirteen, I had to go and attend with her so I could keep the predators away…”

"Thirteen?" Ren pulled Tweeter to a halt. His gaze unconsciously traveled to Keely to check her status. She was fine. She and Vanko waited near the edge of the village clearing. Vanko wasn't touching her any longer. Good. He turned back to Tweeter, who studied him as if he'd never seen him before. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what his friend saw on his face. "Thirteen, you said?"

"Yeah, she's a genius. She has three doctorates—physics, math and computer science—and teaches at MIT. Applied computer sciences."

"That's why the NSA project." His gaze drifted in her direction once more. She was eyeing him. She smiled and he found himself smiling back. Then she turned to Vanko to show him something in her hand. He frowned. Yeah, his friend Vanko would bear watching. Keely was under his protection now. His op—his rules.

"She just turned twenty-one, Ren." Tweeter's cool tone drew his attention from the other two.

He stared at Tweeter. "Twenty-one?" That made Vanko—and him—thirteen years older. "We need to get your baby sister home."

"Keely won't go anywhere she doesn't want to go. She has a temper to go with all that red in her hair—and she thinks she's six feet tall and an Amazon warrior and not the little pixie she really is. She'd fight an erupting volcano with a cup of water."

"Not on my op, she won't." He noticed Vanko running a hand up and down Keely's back. He'd really hate to kill the Ukrainian, but if the slick bastard didn't get his paw off her, he might have to. He growled as he moved forward. "I'll—we'll—protect her. She won't need to put out any fires."

Tweeter following him muttered something that sounded like "good luck with that."

"Vanko, take point." He pulled the Ukrainian's hand away from Keely, then gently gripped her elbow and pulled her to him until she was plastered against his side.

"How's he supposed to do that, Ren?" She wiggled away from him, then looked up, her eyes narrowed. She was annoyed. He grinned. He must be a sick fuck, but he liked her pissed at him. Her eyes glowed like green fire—and all her concentration was on him, not Vanko.

"Yeah, Ren," Vanko said. "How?" The Ukrainian's posture was one anyone who'd fought alongside him would recognize—he wanted a fight. Ren was in the mood to give him one, but now was not the time, nor place. Keely's safety came first.