Hard to Come By (2 page)

D
erek DiMarzio was going bat-shit crazy. Between days of forced inactivity, being cooped up in an old warehouse with a bunch of equally edgy meatheads, and the riskiness of the hack they were attempting, he was the personification of nervous, restless energy.

Eyes glued to the computer screen, Marz paced back and forth behind the chair occupied by Charlie Merritt, who’d been quiet as a stone as he’d typed strings of complicated code into the keyboard. Charlie was the civilian son of Marz’s deceased—and dirty—Army Special Forces team commander. More important for their purposes right now, he was also a computer genius and a hacker by trade. In his real life, Charlie used those hacking skills for good, testing out companies’ computer security systems by trying to hack into them. Lucky for
Marz, the guy was willing to go off-roading a bit, too.

Their current target: Army Human Resources Command records—essentially, the database of all Army personnel records. Hopefully, their first and last stop for the information they needed on a SF veteran named Manny Garza, who Marz and his team had recently learned worked with the enemies connected to the conspiracy that had ruined their lives and reputations and killed seven of their teammates.

Pausing behind Charlie’s chair, Marz leaned in over his shoulder and willed this to work. He sighed.

Charlie shoved long strands of dark blond hair from in front of his eyes and peered over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched.

“Now I’m driving you bat-shit, too, aren’t I?” Marz asked, backing off a good step.

Throwing a small smile at him, Charlie shook his head. “Don’t worry. I got this.”

Crossing his arms, Marz nodded. “Of course you do.” Charlie had done something similar once before, when his crook of a father died and dropped a series of mysteries on his doorstep. If anyone could manage it, Charlie could.

Problem was, when Marz wasn’t the one perched at the keyboard, he was antsy as all hell. He wasn’t used to being second string when it came to computers, not that he resented Charlie for a minute—not when the guy represented a second pair of desperately needed hands on the mountain of computer research their investigation required.

They’d been searching for Garza for days, but though they’d seen him with their own eyes, online the guy was a ghost.

Minutes passed. Marz stretched his neck and tried
to shake some of the tension he’d been carrying about the clusterfuck of a situation he found himself in. Not just him. Him and the other four surviving members of his Army Special Forces unit—Nick Rixey, Beckett Murda, Shane McCallan, and Easy Cantrell—as well as a whole host of new friends and allies. Over a year ago, the five of them had barely made it out of a checkpoint ambush in Afghanistan alive—an ambush they quickly realized had occurred because their commander, Colonel Frank Merritt, was on the take.

And that wasn’t the worst of it. As if the critical injuries three of the five survivors had sustained weren’t bad enough, they’d been blamed for the deaths of their teammates, discharged from the Army, and sent packing back to the States without their friends, their careers, or their honor. Figuring out how and why the shit had landed on their team—and who was behind it—were the questions that had brought them all together again about ten days ago.

And Marz was ready for some damn answers. A thought came to mind, and Marz leaned in again. “Hey, what if you—”

“Marz, get over here and leave Charlie alone for five minutes,” came a gruff voice from across the cavernous unfinished space that was part gym, part mess hall, and part war room. In the far corner from the computer setup, Nick Rixey and Beckett Murda, two of Marz’s other SF teammates, had been sparring for the past half hour. The pair circled one another, getting in hits wherever they could. Whereas Nick had speed and agility on his side, Beckett was like a Mack truck on legs, all stubborn bullheaded strength.

Clapping Charlie on the back, Marz said, “Shout as soon as you—”

“I will,” the guy said without looking away from the screen.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Marz crossed the room. Nick’s hair was so damp it almost appeared black, and as he turned his back toward Marz, a massive tattoo came into view of a fierce dragon curled around a long sword. Then it was gone again. The guy delivered a roundhouse kick that nearly caught Beckett in the chin. Beckett grinned and charged, his lethal intensity nearly a physical presence in the room. Apparently, Marz didn’t have the market cornered on going stir crazy, if the energy these two were expending for the hell of it was any indication.

“Why is it I want to watch you two beat each other bloody?” Marz asked as he stood at the edge of the unofficial ring. He eyeballed Nick, their former second-in-command, whose request for help had reunited the five former teammates, as the guy dodged one of Beckett’s rib-breaking punches.

“Time out,” Nick said, crossing one gloved fist over the other to form a T. He tugged off the thick black fingerless gloves and flung them at Marz. “You’re not watching. You’re working off some of that damn restlessness before you end up going postal. Or making one of us go that particular route.”

Marz caught the first padded missile against his chest, but bobbled the second one, dropping it to the floor. “Asshole,” he muttered with a grin as he awkwardly bent to retrieve it. Things like waist and knee bends—not to mention more routine movements like climbing stairs or walking over uneven outdoor surfaces—didn’t come as easy when one of your legs wasn’t flesh and bone. The day of that fateful ambush, Marz had left a good forty percent of his righty lying on a dusty road
in the middle of Bum Fuck Afghanistan after a grenade literally blew him to pieces. Turned out that in a grenade-versus-leg scenario, the grenade won. Go figure.

Not that Marz would undo how it’d all gone down. Because him losing his leg meant that Beckett, Marz’s best friend in the world and the closest thing he’d ever had to a brother, got to remain a biped. Marz hadn’t hesitated for a moment to knock Beckett clear of the explosion. Better to take the hit himself than let a buddy get hurt. And seeing the guy get around with little more than a limp made Marz’s sacrifice more than worth it. One thing Marz had always admired about the SpecOps community wasn’t just that you could count on someone having your back, it was knowing you had theirs. No matter what.

“I’m not being
that
annoying,” Marz said, knowing full well that, yeah, right now, he probably was.

“Dude, you’ve gone total hovercraft,” Beckett said as he wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm.

Eyebrow arched, Nick pointed at Beckett and nodded. Marz groaned and jammed a hand into one of the gloves. “Fine.
Maybe
you have a point,” he muttered. “Besides, kicking Beckett’s ass always makes me feel better, so at least there’s that.” He threw a smirk toward his friend.

And didn’t like what he found at all.

Beckett had the bluest eyes you ever saw on another human being, and right now they were fixed on the lower half of Marz’s right leg, where his black track pants shielded his prosthetic limb from view. Beckett’s guilt over Marz’s amputation was pretty much always clear in the lines on his face. No matter what
Marz said or did, Beckett didn’t seem to be able to shake the feeling. Ten-to-one odds that Beckett was going to—

“Nah, that’s all right,” Beckett said, tugging off his own gloves. “You two have at it. I’ve got some calls to return.”

Sonofabitch
. Sometimes Marz hated being right. Not often. But times like now, when his gut had screamed that Beckett wasn’t going to spar with him? Yeah, definitely then.

“Dude. Don’t wuss out on me,” Marz said, pretending like he didn’t know the potential universe of
why
Beckett was bowing out of fighting him. Because he didn’t want to hurt Marz. Because he thought Marz was too . . . what? Vulnerable? Defenseless? Weak?

Beckett threw a droll stare his way as he scooped his cell off a vinyl bench. “Another time maybe.”

“What’s with the
maybe
crap?” Marz said, finding it harder to keep up the happy-happy/joy-joy. Growing up the way he had—abandoned into the foster care system by parents he didn’t well remember—humor had always been his go-to defense mechanism. But that shit took work. Sometimes more than he wanted to put in. He stepped in front of Beckett.

The big guy stared down at him, the shrapnel scars around his right eye making his gaze look more severe. “Figure of speech. That’s all,” Beckett said. Marz inhaled to call bullshit on the declaration when Beckett’s cell buzzed in his hand. He thumbed a button, placed the cell to his ear, and said, “Murda, here.”

Marz backed down. For now. At some point, they were going to have to have a damn come-to-Jesus meeting about Beckett always treating Marz with kid gloves. That sure as hell wouldn’t work for Marz in the
long term, not if they were ever going to get past what had happened.

“I’ll be happy to kick your ass,” Nick said from behind him. “Let’s do this.”

Turning, Marz watched Nick grab another pair of gloves off a metal shelf and pace to the center of the ring. The guy’s oddly pale green eyes silently asked if Marz was in or out. Marz knocked his gloved fists together and joined him in the middle of the open space.

Nick had him on speed and agility, but Marz was a scrappy fighter. Always had been. You grew up half on the streets, you learned to fight dirty. And, in a real-world situation, he carried the equivalent of a titanium baseball bat on his leg, so there was always that hidden advantage.

They circled for a minute and Marz settled into the rhythm and movement of his body. He didn’t move exactly as he used to, but he’d come a helluva long way in the last fourteen months. Marz feinted with his right and delivered an uppercut to the jaw with his left. “Don’t take it easy on me, Rixey. You hear—”

Wham!

Punch to the gut. Marz muscled through the ache and looked for his next in.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Nick smirked and winked.

Then it was on. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Twenty. The only thing Marz couldn’t do as well as Nick was make use of the kickboxing moves he’d once mastered. On the one side, he wouldn’t chance hurting his friend with the inanimate object on the end of his leg. On the other, he no longer had the same strength in his right thigh, and he didn’t want to chance hurting himself by pushing harder than his leg was ready to handle. For all the distance he’d covered, he still had more to go.

A split second of inattention, and Nick had grabbed his upper body, swept a leg behind Marz’s knees, and knocked him to the ground.

“Aw, shit, man. Are you okay?” Nick asked. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Marz rolled onto his back and smirked. “What was there to think about?” As if he had to ask. “It was a clean takedown. Fair and square. And I’m fine.”

“But, I, uh . . .” Nick tugged a hand through his damp hair.

The guy was dancing all around the elephant in the room. Marz’s amputation. And that sucked some major ass, especially as Marz lay there, knocked on his own gluteus maximus. Maybe they were right. Maybe he was the weak link now. At the thought, ice slid into his gut and he shook his head.

“Just didn’t want to knock your limb off or damage it. That’s all,” Nick said, planting his hands on his hips.

Pulling himself out of his mental funk, Marz decided to give Nick the benefit of the doubt and believe him. Besides, since some prosthetic limbs
could
be knocked or moved out of position, Marz couldn’t deny it was a legitimate concern. One he could put to rest.

“No can do,” Marz said, unzipping the track pants at the ankle and hauling the material up over his knee. “I am vacuum sealed into this mother. You couldn’t remove it if you tried.” He chanced a glance at Beckett, and, sure enough, the guy’s gaze was glued to them. Which probably meant he’d seen Marz get his feet knocked out from under him.
Peachy
.

Nick crouched down and took a closer look. Marz reached into his pocket and removed a small black remote control. He held it up between his fingers. “I am literally a machine.” The remote operated the
limb’s vacuum, the part that ensured that the socket and outer sleeve held an airtight, immovable grip on his stump.

“You’re the Six Million Dollar Man,” Nick said with a grin as his gaze scanned over his limb.

“No, no. I am the Terminator,” Marz said, affecting
Ahnold
’s accent. Having grown up on the
Terminator
movies and reruns of the bionic man, he did rather enjoy both references. “Here, I’ll show you.” He lifted his leg toward Nick. “Grab the shank and try to pull my leg off.”

Nick’s eyes went wide before his brow cranked down. “Uh . . .”

“It’s not like pulling my finger. I promise.” He grinned.

“Well, that’s good to know. I guess.” Humor slid into Nick’s gaze, but it didn’t replace any of the skepticism.

“I’m serious. You won’t be able to do it. Bet you a twenty.”

Rising, Nick took ahold of the black metal shaft that extended up from the foot. “You sure about this?”

Marz laughed. “Dude, pull my leg already.”

With an uncertain smile, Nick pulled. Marz’s body followed, his shirt riding up against the cold floor. Nick’s smile broadened and he pulled harder, dragging Marz across the floor. Soon, Marz was fighting against him, trying to find purchase against the smooth concrete or by grabbing at a weight bench. No luck. When Nick twisted his ankle, Marz did the same thing he would’ve done if he’d had his real leg—his body flipped in the direction Nick twisted.

The longer it went on and the more they laughed and cursed at each other, the more Nick’s reservations appeared to melt away until they seemed to be gone entirely.

Wonder if it
’
s working on Beckett, too
.

“See? I told you,” Marz said as he slid across the concrete.

“This is the most fun I’ve had in days,” Nick said.

“Yeah, yeah. You can let me go now.”

The devil in his expression, Nick went faster.

“All right, asshole. Hands off the hardware.”