Twisted Mercy (Red Team Book 4) (39 page)

His mind turned to Pete and Hatchet. He supposed he knew now who the mole was. Pete said he'd take care of it. Only he hadn't. Kelan was giving Kit an update. Max reached for the phone. "Kit, JT, the eastern region's VP, is who shot Hope.”

"Yeah. He's dead."

"Leave me his and Hatchet's bodies. I'm gonna need them for my chat with Pete tomorrow."

"Roger that. You doing okay, bro?"

"Yeah." Max handed the phone back to Kelan.

When they got to the hospital, the attendant at the information desk pointed them to the wing where Hope was undergoing surgery. The halls were brightly lit. Sterile, shiny linoleum tiles in happy pastel patterns covered the floors.
 

He paced around the sitting room, filling it with his rangy, desperate fear. “Max,” Kelan said, stepping in front of him on his return circuit. “Go clean up. You don’t want Hope to see you like this. And I think you may need stitches yourself in that arm.”

Max looked down at himself, realizing he was covered with blood. Hers and his own. He looked around for the men’s room.

“I’ll call you if there’s any news,” Blade said.

Max stepped inside the men’s room. A guy in a white coat finished at the urinal and came over to wash his hands.

He looked at Max, who was standing in front of the mirror, staring at Hope’s dried blood. The guy dried his hands, then set a hand on Max’s bare shoulder and said, “Hey. Let’s get you checked in. Looks like you need some help.”

Max tossed his hand away and snarled, “It’s not my blood.”

The guy studied Max another minute, then nodded. “Okay. Okay.” He held up his hands. “If you change your mind, just come to the desk out there.”

Max turned on the faucet and rinsed his hands, watching brown and red water fill the bowl. He let the soap dispenser drop foam into his palm. He washed again with that, scrubbing his hands, forearms, and face. The cut on his arm leaked fresh blood down his bicep. Maybe it did need stitches. Who the fuck cared.

He reached into his pocket to get his phone, checking to see if Blade had called. He still had his ringer off. The screen showed a half-dozen missed calls, from Kit, Greer, Lion, and Blade.

“I called Kit when you didn’t answer,”
Lion had said.
 

Goddamn. He hadn’t answered because he’d been pissed at Kit and Owen. And then he hadn’t answered because he was too busy banging his woman to keep her safe himself.
 

He shouted and threw his phone against the far wall, shattering it. Kit and Owen had been right. His head was so twisted around Hope he hadn’t seen the danger coming. What a fucking loose cannon he was. A danger to Hope and to the team. It was good he’d quit. Spared them having to fire him.

The door opened. Kelan looked at him, then at the pieces of his phone on the floor. He handed Max his own phone, then went to collect the pieces of Max’s.
 

Max went back to the waiting room and resumed pacing. Kelan and Blade stood with folded arms at opposite sides of the room’s entrance. A woman waiting with a small family group started crying. Max stopped mid-stride, staring at her. Kelan and Blade straightened, edgy and wary.

Max turned to Blade. “Where’s the chapel?”

“Sixth floor,” a woman in the nursing station said.
 

Max went for the elevator. He punched the up button. The elevator seemed frozen in place. He punched it again. And again, bloodying his fists.

“Max.” Kelan shook his head.

Max pivoted and yanked open the door to the stairs. He ran up five flights. Kelan stepped out of the elevator at the same time and fell in step beside him. They passed a tall rolling tower of dinner trays. Max snagged a plastic pouch of cutlery and a tiny container of salt. He didn’t look at Kelan. He didn’t fucking care what the bastard thought.
 

He needed to cut himself, needed that pain, needed to remember the injury he’d caused Hope; if she died, he likely would, too.

Inside the chapel, a middle-aged man sat in one of the pews. Max wanted the room to himself. He stood over the guy, glaring at him, trying to be respectful enough to at least let him finish his prayer. Not that God fucking listened.
 

The man looked up at him, weary and ravaged with grief.
Jesus
. Max looked away, seeing in the guy’s face what he himself felt. “Finished?” he asked, still looking away.

The man nodded. Max moved aside so that he could leave the pew. Kelan escorted the man out, then closed the doors behind them.

Max sat at the far end of a middle row. He stared at the simple wooden cross at the front of the chapel, the only hint that the space was dedicated to a sacred purpose.
 

None of that mattered to him at the moment. He wanted a room to himself, nothing more. He fisted the plastic wrap covering the utensils, shoving it against the bench to pop them free. He pulled out the plastic serrated knife and lifted it to his left inner arm, where the other three horizontal stripes lay in jagged lines. His father, mother, and sister. He’d loved and hated them. Maybe love and hate were the light and dark of the same emotion.
 

His vision shifted and swirled, blurred by tears. He’d blamed them for the decisions they’d made that had cursed him to live an empty life, one without them. Perhaps he rode the same rails they had, on a straight path to hell.
 

Until Hope derailed him.
 

She’d come into his hell and brought her light with her. He’d never hated her. Not once. He’d only loved her. And because of him, she’d been beaten, tortured, shot, and was now in an emergency room having surgery,

He laid the knife against his skin and began carving a long, vertical line across the others. Once. Twice. Three times, making it wide and deep. Blood streamed down his arm, pooling on his filthy jeans. He watched the red leak from his body. The pain meant he was alive. And Hope was alive.

It was his own negligence that let his enemies get her. But never again. The air stung the fresh line he’d cut. His heart was beating fast. He was breathing fast, too. When the wound healed, the scar would remind him to never put himself first.
 

He opened the little shaker of salt and poured it into the wound.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Kit saw Kelan in front of the double doors to the chapel. He looked like a tall Rambo standing there with his arms folded and feet spread wide. His shoulder-length black hair only needed a headband. Like the rest of them, he wore all black cargo pants tucked into tactical boots. The sleeves of his tee were stretched tight over his arms.
 

His holsters were empty; they’d stowed their weapons before entering the hospital. The absence of them made him look no less lethal.
 

Kit stopped in front of him. Kelan didn’t move. “Stand down, Kelan.”

“No can do, boss. Give him some time. A few more minutes.”

They heard Max’s roar inside the chapel. Kit went for the doors. Kelan pushed him back, holding a hand on his shoulder, his thumb tight on Kit’s clavicle. “Give him time.”

“Jesus, Kelan. Who knows what he’s fucking doing in there.”

“You know as well as I do what he’s doing in there.”

“She’s going to be okay.”

“I know.” He let go of Kit. “A few more minutes, then you can go in.”

When the time had passed, Kelan stepped aside and let him enter. Max was sitting at the far end of a pew. Kit went in and sat in the same pew a few feet from him. Neither spoke at first.

Kit looked at the new slash on Max’s bloody arm, then looked away. “I talked to the doctor. The bullet grazed Hope’s shoulder. It’s a nasty gash, but it isn’t going to impair her mobility. She has a torn tendon in her other shoulder from being suspended. She’s in surgery for that now. And she has a concussion. Someone clocked her good. Probably when they took her.”

Max dragged the back of his fist across his eyes.
 

Kit fought to keep cool. They walked the razor’s edge of life, he and the team. They often bled for it. But it was another matter entirely when those they loved got hurt because of the work they did. “Lion filled me in on what happened.”

“He’s a helluva fighter. Would make a good Red Teamer.”

“I agree. I doubt he’ll leave the boys, however.”

“You remember I quit tonight, right?”

“You can’t quit, Max. We don’t quit. You need time down, it’s cool.”

“I need Hope safe.”

Kit nodded. “Whatever you need, you got.”

Max released a deep sigh and eased his shoulders. “There was no clue they were coming in tonight. I didn’t even know that gold was there—and I’d been all through those tunnels.”

“Makes sense. It wasn’t something King wanted exposed. Lion couldn’t tell you without risking his boys.”

“Hatchet said King wanted Hope dead.”

Kit shut his eyes, realizing everything that revelation meant. “Jesus. I’m so sorry. Everything about her ticked all the flags for her being Jafaar’s plant,” Kit said.

“Yeah. I know. It’s done, Kit.” Max was silent for a minute, then he asked, “What happened to Hatchet’s men?”

“Turns out they all had open warrants. Lobo took custody of them, all except Hatchet and the eastern region VP. We put their bodies in Hope's truck. It's at Blade’s. Val and Angel cleared out her house. We got your bike and vest out. Your mission’s done. You don't have to deal with Hatchet and JT. I can take care of them for you.”

Max shook his head. “I’m not done yet. I need to lay down the law with Pete, clean up my exit, make it so I can go back in if needed.”

Kit nodded. “All right.”

“I’m sorry about your wedding night.”

Kit shrugged. “It’s all good. There’ll be other nights. I’ll make it up to Ivy.” He looked at Max. “She knows she didn’t just marry me, but the whole goddamned team.” He nodded toward Max’s arm. “Let’s get you cleaned up. If Hope sees you like that, you’ll scare the hell out of her. The guys brought you a change of clothes. Owen’s taken the room next to hers so that you can wash up, then go sit with her.”

Max looked at the bloody plastic knife. He snapped it in two. Sometimes, life just hurt so goddamned much. He stood up and followed Kit out of the chapel. Kelan was there. He looked at Max’s eyes, not his mangled arm, then nodded once and went to summon the elevator for them. Max tossed the bloodied plastic utensil into the trash. Kit hooked an arm over his shoulder. It was a fucking embarrassment how good that felt.
 

He checked in on Hope, but she was sleeping still. Angel was in the room with her. He nodded at his teammate, then left to clean up.

Hope opened her eyes. She didn’t recognize the beige room or the bed or the sterile smell. Something mechanical was making slow beeping noises. A movement caught her attention. Owen. She startled and tried to sit up. Pain seared her shoulder and back.

“Max.” Her throat was dry. She could barely summon her voice.

Owen was sitting in the chair next to her bed. He set a hand on her forearm briefly. “Max is fine. He’s cleaning up so he can come see you. You’ve had surgery on your right shoulder and were injured when a bullet grazed your left shoulder. You’ll mend fine. For now, don’t move.”

“Is Max hurt?”

“He had a knife cut on his arm. It’ll need stitches.”

Hope felt tears on her cheeks. “Was it my fault, what happened?”

Owen studied her eyes. His face was as implacable as ever. “No. It was my fault. I’ve had your things put in his room at our headquarters. If you’d like a room to yourself at the house, just let me or Kit or Max know.” His mouth was drawn in a thin line. “You saved him from a bullet that likely would have killed him. I owe you.”

The shower made Max’s wounds sting. He let the hot water linger over them. He washed with the shampoo and soap the guys had brought him. Hatchet was dead, but he and Hope were targets now. Or would be soon. So be it. He’d go see Pete one last time and lay out some ground rules.

When he came out of the shower, Kit and Owen were in his room. He looked at Owen, realizing he still wanted a piece of him. No one spoke. He pulled on his underwear and jeans, then sat down to pull on his socks and boots. A nurse and a physician’s assistant came to tend to his arm.
 

The PA washed up, then examined his arm. There was much commentary about his wounds. “This needs stitches, too,” he said as he looked at the cuts Max had made. “Almost like it was sawed into your—” He looked up at Max and stopped talking.

“You don’t see that cut. Deal with the wound on the other side of my arm.”

“You came here for medical attention. I have to fix your arm.”

“You. Can’t. Fix. What. You. Don’t. See.” This was growled through bared teeth.
 

The PA drew back. He looked at the nurse and ordered a numbing agent be prepared.

“I don’t have time for a leisurely stitching,” Max snapped. “Sew it up and be done.”

“You need two dozen stitches.”

“Get on it, then.”

The PA looked over at Owen. He nodded. The PA shook his head, then hooked a foot around a stool and sat down to sew up Max’s arm. In short order, Max was stitched up. The PA moved Max’s arm so that he could apply disinfectant to the cuts on his inner arm.
 

Before Max could complain about him working on that side of his arm, the PA said, “Shut up and deal with it. I can’t bandage one side of your arm without preparing the other.”

Max nodded. When he was finished, Max stood up and pulled on his T-shirt. The PA and nurse left. He put his hands on his hips and looked from Kit to Owen. “How many others went through what I did, but failed? How many others are still in that hell?”

“There were others,” Owen said. “Several of them. Only you passed. None remain in jail. They’ve been compensated and returned to their normal lives.”

“Money doesn’t buy life, Owen.”

“The Red Team isn’t recruiting that way any longer.”

“Bullshit. The Red Team does whatever it wants, whatever fits its needs.”

Owen nodded. “They—and we—do what we have to in order to best our enemies. I’m sorry you lost your family. I’m sorry they weren’t strong enough to live. For themselves. For you.”