6. Kai

SIX

Kai

Six months I'd been part of our team of two. Six months of Zach getting stressed about me going off-book, and me trying hard to stay within the lines.

I'd almost made him proud on a couple of occasions, although there'd been no repeat of us against a wall, which was unfortunate since he was a sexy-ass mother, and my craving for another taste had become more .

And this more was something I couldn't get a handle on. Like… I'd stare at him when he was focusing on other things, or I'd imagine the steps I could take to grab his hand and drag him into another room and kiss him. My X-rated shower fantasies all starred the former SEAL, when he was all torn up and exhausted post-action, and in every single one it was him on his knees for me .

Like that would happen. He gave off so much top energy it was insane.

Take his refusal to let me drive any car we were in—controlling asshole. He said my driving was erratic but, sue me, I loved going fast, and hell, some of those signs were advisory, right?

Not according to Mr. I-stick-to-the-rules Reynolds who repeated often that me driving him anywhere would only occur if he was bleeding out, dying, had multiple broken bones, and was unconscious of any horrors I could inflict on him.

Rude.

Whatever, six months in, we'd become a team. Not well-oiled by any stretch of the imagination, but closing down the Santoro network had been a feather in our sort-of-team cap. We were efficient, timely, got things done, and had slipped into our roles easily. Sometimes I wanted to shove him down the stairs. Sometimes he threatened to shoot me.

But in most things I kept my distance—we didn't talk about our pasts, we did our jobs, and we went home to our Sanctuary-funded apartments on different floors of the Chicago HQ.

Surely there was no way in hell he could know me enough to see the flicker of unease I had over the case files I was staring at. This was the second case we'd worked together for Sanctuary and not the worst one on paper, but seeing surveillance photos knocked me back a step.

Zach, juggling coffees and pastries, closed the door on the small office we'd been given to brainstorm this next mission, but I couldn't tear my gaze from the intel. The weight of my past bore down on me as I stared at the photos spread out before me.

A man—Jeremy Clarke—prepper.

Or rather, Jeremy Clarke—monster. He used his prepping cover to hide what he did to kids in his remote compound.

On paper, he was a wild-eyed assault-weapon-handling moron. The cops didn't have the resources to go in. The feds wanted him, but with his security less a group of good old prepper boys and more black-clad ninjas with Kalashnikovs, he was dangerous. Hence reaching out to the brand new Shadow Team, which was still me, Zach, and this guy called Simon, who ran Chicago's Sanctuary HQ.

The intel I was reading was Simon's work, neat and organized by date, and this new target's story was right there in black and white. One side was the tale of a prepper with solar power, self-sufficiency, and vast fields of harmless vegetables, the other side was intel on the cavernous room below his brick-built square home where he held runaways, kids, women, men… so many photos, and links to videos that were horrors hitting way to o close to home. The feds didn't want a Waco situation—there were civilians inside—hence our involvement.

Surgical arrest, no kills.

But, god, I wanted to kill Jeremy Clarke, as if doing so might erase some of my own less than stellar childhood memories. The darkness, the paranoia, the guns—it was the same as the place I'd grown up in, and seeing these photos and understanding Clarke's case pulled out memories of what I'd left behind. Memories, long-buried, surged to the surface, threatening to drown me in a tidal wave of fear and rage, and I cursed.

"What's wrong?" Zach asked, as the easy manner with which he'd been studying the intel slipped away.

"He's just…" I waved at the photo.

Zach narrowed his eyes at me. "What?"

"Evil," I muttered, and after a frown in my direction, Zach returned to the intel.

I didn't know Jeremy Clarke, but I was related to someone like him, and the thought of shutting his enterprise down excited and sickened me in equal amounts. I should tell Zach why I had such a visceral reaction. We might mess with each other, but he wasn't a bad guy at heart, even if he was a controlling asshole. He'd listen to the sad, sorry tale of my broken childhood, and tell me he understood. But then he might suggest we hand this case off to someone else.

Fuck that, we were working this damn case, because if I could get one more person like this off the table, then it was a good thing because he was just like dear old Dad—a man I hadn't had cause to think about in years. A wave of revulsion washed over me, suffocating as recalling those less-than-stellar years sent a shiver down my spine and stirred up emotions I'd long tried to bury deep. I refused to let the ghosts of my past hold sway over me when I was anywhere near Zach.

Or anyone. I'm strong, resilient, a bad-ass helo pilot, and I will not allow myself to be defined by the scars of my upbringing.

And repeat.

"Are you even looking at this intel?" Zach shoved my arm.

I shoved him back, and he rolled his eyes.

"I'm thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself," he deadpanned.

I sent him my best scowl, which wasn't effective with him. I don't think I had any powers over him at all, which sucked.

He turned his attention to the intel as he adjusted his shoulder holster, which I knew rubbed on his left side, and sighed. "So you did some thinking, and?"

Zach's concern about this op was clear in the furrow of his brow, the set of his jaw, and the way he kept flicking through the surveillance as if attempting to solve a puzzle. He'd turned the victim photos face down, as disturbed as I was, but we knew we'd have to analyze them at some point. He glanced at me, with his all-knowing expression as if he could see right through to my soul and to the horrors I'd hidden deep down. I didn't want to see any kind of realization dawning in his eyes as he put two and two together and thought I might have personal knowledge of a man like Clarke. Sanctuary had identified this new target, and the shock of seeing the case files overwhelmed me, but I forced myself to push past the rising tide of emotions. There was no room for weakness, no time to dwell on the past when the present demanded our full attention.

Clarke. The name wasn't familiar; I didn't know him, but I knew his type, and thinking about him conjured images of pain and humiliation I had long sought to forget.

"He deserves to die," I murmured, and picked up the photo, trying to make sense of the clear image, seeing the same cruel features from my nightmares.

"Our job is to get him out alive and hand him over."

"I know."

"We're not assassins."

"I know." I focused back on the task at hand with steely resolve, channeling my anger and fear into a single-minded determination to see this mission through to its conclusion. I continued. "Clarke might think he can hide what he's doing, but we'll neutralize security with some fancy-ass darts, drag him out, and let the authorities work their magic. "

"Exactly," Zach murmured.

"We'll take him and his little party of sex traders down on time and within budget."

I kept to the jokes, and after a while, Zach stopped staring at me as if he'd seen something in me that confused him. The last thing I needed was Zach, patron saint of undercover agents, trying to figure me out. I was determined we'd become a team to be reckoned with, which was the reality I wanted to work with. Not him knowing any of the things I'd burned and buried along with my father and my uncles .

Zach can't know the truth, doesn't know about the demons that haunt me.

I'm not telling him now.

Because then he'd know me.

And that was terrifying.

"Three plus target." Simon at Sanctuary comm was on point tonight, counting down bad guys, letting us know what we had left to achieve. We'd started at seven, four incapacitated with yep, fancy-ass darts, and with three left, plus our target—Clarke—we were getting this shit done.

Zach held up his clenched fist, and I stopped, freezing in place as a guard sauntered past, unaware of us only six feet away. Then, when Zach gestured right, I slipped through and took the wing, crouching low and moving silently.

The air crackled with tension as we crept through the shadows. Clarke's place was nothing like the compound I'd grown up in, a house more than a series of bunkers, but somehow knowing he was in there made me recall every moment of my childhood. A stupid, vulnerable, bright-eyed kid.

As we neared our target, my thoughts slowed. We had everything in place, an extraction team ready to remove Clarke after we captured him. That was the plan, and I fully intended to follow each step, but being here made my nightmares real, and the urge to confront Clarke head-on, then stab him in the fucking chest, was overwhelming.

Zach gestured my way, then with a nod I carried on to the right, each of us taking a different route to infiltrate the house. My heart pounded, my senses alert to the slightest sound or movement. I had the guard who'd passed us unconscious and restrained in an instant.

"Two," the disembodied voice in my ear confirmed.

Two plus Clarke.

Guard two was on his phone, sloppy, unaware of me heading his way. Even the snap of undergrowth as I mis-stepped went unnoticed. But one prick to his neck and he was out for the count .

"One," Comm counted, "Zero," they added, as Zach must have dealt with the last of the ring of security.

That left Clarke alone in his house, which had an underground space. We'd go in, retrieve him, plant the software that allowed Sanctuary comm to access encrypted files, and be done.

An easy in-out.

The night was heavy with anticipation as Zach and I approached the back door of the beach house, our movements synchronized. Security was neutralized, surveillance was down, and all that stood between us and our bad guy was a thin barrier of wood and metal.

I exchanged a glance with Zach and nodded, focused on what came next, trying to stay cool, and this close to Clarke but there was a nagging sense of unease, a warning whispering at the back of my mind. Maybe I should have told Zach everything, exposed all the bits of me I hid from the world. If Clarke was like my dad or my many fucked-up uncles, then he was more dangerous than Zach might imagine. He was a predator, a man who thrived on chaos and violence, and I knew firsthand the extent of my father's cruelty. So why would Clarke be any different? Should I have told Zach? Would it make a difference now? I'd mentioned booby traps, I'd told ops to run a sweep. The site was as clear as it could be once we'd neutralized the guards.

I caught Zach's arm, squeezing it, gesturing at our feet to remind him to check for trip wires. He frowned at me. He knew that, and didn't need me to remind him.

Careful. I squeezed again as if I could emote that silently.

"Heat signature on first floor," Comm announced.

I ensured that I was first inside, and we cleared the downstairs, as if my experiences would be enough of a shield for him to get out. It was on me to keep Zach safe.

Until I saw the side room with the floor-to-ceiling pipes.

Ropes.

The blood.

Tied up there, unable to move, an auction for who got me tonight, my ten-year-old body shaking in fear, or fourteen when I was dead to it all. One by one, they'd fight over me, or another. My uncles , the random men who paid… said they'd treat me right, laughed, and instead…

Stop.

My heart beat so loud I could hear it, a rush of blood to my head. I felt the red mist descend, clouding my vision with a haze of fury and sickness. Trapped in a whirlwind of emotions, I had to break free if we were getting this done. I headed up the open wooden steps with caution, Zach covering my six; I couldn't shake the dread clinging to me like a second skin.

I covered the landing as I snuck up backward—no sign of Clarke—but I heard the muffled voices of a TV show, canned laughter, and I crept along the corridor, passing the bathroom, and to the bedroom door where the TV was as Zach cleared the north wing. This was where I'd wait for Zach, and we'd work as a team. I wouldn't step inside and take Clarke down on my own.

A figure lurched out of another door, the unmistakable shape of Clarke and beyond him a study—I hadn't kept moving, lulled into thinking he was in the bedroom, the red mist making me slow. He was on me in an instant, shoving me back, as I tumbled down a few stairs, catching myself on the banister, as he went for Zach with a gun in one hand, a knife in the other. The stench of alcohol and drugs hung heavy in the air and Clarke's laughter echoed off the walls, a chilling sound that sent shivers down my spine. He was clearly high, but not weak, and he was too close for Zach to bring up his gun as Clarke stabbed at him and he stumbled backward to get out of the way.

I flew at Clarke and we collided in a flurry of blows as I bludgeoned him with my gun. We grappled with each other, and all I could see was my father and the men he'd left had hurt me. Clarke wasn't a small man—just like my father had been a giant to ten-year-old me. He defended himself and attacked me even as Zach was up and yanking at his throat. With each strike, I felt the weight of my past bearing down on me, threatening to consume me in a whirlwind of pain and despair .

He tumbled back into Zach's hold, falling on top of him, twisting and rolling on the floor. With adrenalin-fueled fury driving me forward I was on him in an instant, punching his face, hearing bones crack, watching blood spurt after each crunch. Over and over, my fists flew, and I barely realized what I was doing as Zach yanked me off. I crouched to retrieve my gun, and Clarke rose, swaying, blood everywhere, worse when I shot him between the eyes, then again center mass.

Just to be sure.

Relief pushed aside any remorse or regret that I'd fucked up as I imagined the bullets in my father's head. But only for an instant, as the pool of blood spread closer to my boots, and I took a step back, trapped between the blood and the wall.

"Fuck!" Zach shouted, and shook me, and I didn't argue. "Jesus," he added, propping me against the wall. Then he jumped over the blood, landing lightly, ignoring me as he headed into the office to carry out the next stage—plugging the Sanctuary device into the computer setup to get access. He was all business now, reporting the shooting to ops, and providing the details necessary to get us out as I stood there, staring down at the man who wasn't my father.

When Zach came back out, he stared at me, a silent question in his eyes, but I met his stare with a steady gaze of my own. There was no need for words.

He'd seen everything .

Our partnership was over, and hell, I was finished. No way could we spin this as anything but an execution. The temper, and revenge on someone who'd been dead a long time had petered out to nausea, but at least Zach was professional enough not to dissect what had happened, and keep focused on the task. He would have already pivoted, knowing we couldn't deliver Clarke, but we could get his network, take down the peripherals, do something real with the information.

Take out evil at its source.

We made our way back through the yard to our SUV, the night air cool on my skin as we returned to our hotel rooms. Zach was quiet, same as always, and I couldn't string a sentence of my usual sarcasm together. I knew the shit was going to hit the fan when he followed me into our suite and slammed the door behind us.

"What the hell was that?" he growled.

"Fucker traffics kids." I went on the defensive. "You wanted me to go easy on him?"

The lies dripped from my tongue as easy as breathing, and I turned my back on Zach, slipping off my jacket, letting down my guard, thinking he'd leave. I went to the window, cranking it open to get some air, but the fucker didn't go.

I can't breathe.

I inhaled great lungfuls of air, my hands pressed to the windowsill, my eyes unfocused on the parking beyond, and Zach was silent.

Probably watching me.

And after I'd gone off book and fucked up, he might even have his gun trained on my back.

The adrenalin rush had long since worn off, leaving me hollow and drained. Memories flooded my mind, unbidden and unwelcome. The years of torment, the endless cycle of abuse—it all crashed back with a vengeance. I thought I'd be able to handle it—look Clarke in the eye and not hurt him for what he'd done to children just like me. I'd wanted to do my bit, take him in and let the authorities deal with what he'd done.

But…

I could still hear the voices from my childhood, mocking and cruel, the sting of blows, the pain, and all I felt was hate. I faced Zach, and his expression was neutral, as if he'd cycled through disbelief, betrayal, worry, fear, and landed on nothing. I opened my mouth to explain, to offer him some sarcastic comment that might defuse the situation, but I was weak, dizzy, and my legs gave out on me when I sank to my knees under the window. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, hot and bitter, as I struggled to understand what I'd done.

Of the fact there'd been a witness.

In that moment, I felt like a child again, small, and powerless in the face of overwhelming darkness. But a hand touched my shoulder, startling me, my eyes opening as Zach's voice cut through the chaos.

"Talk to me, Kai." He was too gentle—he didn't demand to know what the fuck I'd done, or why I'd gone off-task. He didn't accuse me of having no control, of messing things up. He watched me as if I was something fragile.

I hate that.

"I killed the bad guy," I said after a while. The words were ash in my mouth, and I swallowed.

"Why," he asked, and went from a crouch to sitting cross-legged in front of me. "Why was this one…" Different? Violent? Completely out of control?

"Shit," I muttered, and buried my face in my hands, scrubbing my eyes. He yanked at my damaged hand and examined the wounds.

"We need to get to the hospital," he began.

I slipped my hand free. "It's nothing," I said.

He explored the split skin up close. "These could get infected, maybe scar."

I huffed a laugh, then knocked my head back to the wall. "One more scar won't hurt."

He made a tut of disapproval, reached for the med pack, grabbing my hand again to smooth antiseptic on the wounds, then put Band-Aids on the worst of them with a gentle touch. There was a quiet intensity in his gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken questions hanging between us. I knew he was struggling to make sense of my actions, to understand the motivations that had driven me to kill Clarke. When he finished, I sat back with my legs crossed, and he shuffled his ass until his back was against the bed, then waited. His expression softened with empathy and understanding and what was worse was there was no judgment.

As if he wanted to understand.

"Start from the beginning," he said.

I groaned and closed my eyes.