Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three (8 page)

“The ranch,” Carey immediately told him. “We should take her back to Wyatt Ranch.”

“There’s another option,” Wes offered. “I could take her and hide her anywhere in the world. Once she’s well enough, we could stay on the move for as long as we need to until you find that piece of shit and off him.”

“No,” Carey shook his head. “Sam doesn’t run. She won’t. She’d rather face Lightner on her own turf than leave it to chance.”

Wes wanted to argue, but he knew Carey was right. Samantha Wyatt may be a lot of things, but a coward was definitely not one of them. She’d never live life on the lam from anyone.

“We should take her back to Texas as soon as the doctors can allow, and focus on fortifying for what’s to come,” Alejo said to Carey. “With the injuries Lightner’s sustained and the fact that Rox has sealed off access to most of his resources, I give him two months at minimum before he can respond with any kind of show of force. Probably longer, and by then, we’ll be more than ready.”

“Where is Rox now?” Wes asked.

“She’s narrowing down the leads on Lightner as we speak.”.

Carey was silent a moment before he said, “If you’re still in service, man, there’s no way you can take that kind of time off to watch over Sam.”

Alejo shrugged. “Let me worry about that.”

Carey considered him a moment. “You work with my men. My team.”

“With pleasure,” Alejo responded, his cocky, characteristic smirk back. “I’ll whip them into line for you.”

Wes recalled the constant locking of horns though. She and Alejo mixed like oil and water. Always had. “You exacerbate Sam’s condition or rile her up in any way—”

“Wyatt and I may never like each other, but she’s the best damn partner I’ve ever had, and I bet you she’d say the same about me.”

Carey glanced at Wes for confirmation. “It’s true,” Wes admitted begrudgingly. “When they weren’t tearing strips of flesh off each other in ROTC, they were annihilating everyone else in the Corps. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

For a moment, the sardonic cockiness that seemed to pervade Alejo’s every expression disappeared as he regarded Carey somberly. “You can trust me with Sam, Carey. You have my word on that.”

After a moment, Carey extended his hand. “Swear it on your sister’s life.”

Alejandro gripped his hand, steel in his obsidian dark eyes. “I swear on Rox’s life. We protect our own.”

December

Asklepios Klinik Barmbek, Hamburg, Germany

J A C K

T
hey say the
first twenty-four hours in rehab are the hardest. Jack had no concept of time, space, location—he was just a mass of twisting, writhing pain.

When Carey had checked him in, the rehab had offered all manner of options to help him through the worst of it. But Jack held fast as he signed the paperwork with a shaking hand, certain he should relinquish himself to the excruciating throes.

There’d be no easy way out. Not for him. He needed the agony—
wanted
it. Because he’d done everything to deserve it.

“Why are you punishing yourself like this?” Carey asked Jack as he was gripped with a convulsion so strong, he’d nearly slid to the floor of the check-in.

“I can’t do this again,” Jack muttered through gritted teeth. “I need to remember what this feels like—I need the pain to get through it—”

And he did.

Jack figured it was far better to hold on to this palpable, living anguish being scourged from inside of him than the numb sorrow and helplessness he’d been existing in since losing Samantha in Rio. He’d allowed himself to get too distant from the acuity of living in his melancholia. And now he’d have to experience reentry into existence in the most vicious and difficult way possible.

No more anaesthetized indifference. No more careless insensibility. No more cutting himself off from feeling too much, too painfully—

“FUCK!” he shouted into his pillow as pins and needles seemed to distend themselves from his skin. “Oh, Christ—Jesus—
fuck—”

Jack twisted and turned in the hospital bed, sweating profusely but still shaking like a leaf on a frozen tree. He could find no relief as the waves of withdrawal hit him in droves, beating against him, relentless, powerful, consuming…

“God—
God
—” he panted through clenched teeth as he turned his head away from the nurse who came to check on his IV. He hadn’t been able to keep any food or water down since they’d checked him in, and the doctor and nurses had finally pinned him down, manacling him to the bed when he’d torn the IV’s out of his arm with his wild thrashing.

“Breathe, Mr. Roman. Focus on your breathing,” a nurse told him as she wiped the clammy sweat from his brow. Jack squeezed his eyes shut.

“I can’t—
I can’t breathe
—” he gasped.

He felt a pair of hands touch him so gently, he wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating. One hand just above his heart, the other on his heaving belly.

“Inhale through your nose, and exhale through your mouth,” the voice guided him gently. “Breathe slowly. Just focus on the breath. Let go of everything else…”

Jack tried to follow directions, but he was being bombarded by sensory overload. His head was pounding, and his body felt like it was on fire.

“
It hurts
. It hurts too much—” He gritted teeth as another wave made his stomach muscles clench.

“Breathe, Jack. Just breathe.” A violent convulsion nearly lifted Jack off the bed, the cords of his neck distended as he fought against the bonds that manacled him to the frame.

“Tesoro…”
he whispered, aching. “
Tesoro…
”

*

Jack opened his
eyes.

He was in a nondescript white hospital room, mural paintings hung in soothing watercolors. The linens were fresh, and his arms were free, albeit tired and a little sore. He tentatively touched the IV in his arm as he took stock of his body’s sluggish bio-feedback.

Had he dreamed it all? Was the worst of it over? He felt aching, raw and dehydrated, his mouth dry and bitter from the bile.

A movement across the room caught his attention, and Jack turned to look. His father stood beside him, his face lined with fatigue and worry.

“I’m glad to see you’re awake,
Gianni
.”

“Where am I?” Jack croaked, struggling to sit up.

“Germany,” his father answered. “They had to restrain you,” he said regretfully, gesturing toward the leather guards locked onto Jack’s wrists. “You kept trying to leave.”

Jack shook his head, trying to clear the fog. “Where is Samantha—how is she?”

His father watched him with a grave expression. “She’s safe,
Gianni
.”

Jack tested the guards, tugging weakly against the restraints. “I need to go to her.”

His father shook his head, regret lining his face. “You need to clean out,
Gianni
. That’s all you need to worry about now.”

“No,” Jack spat out, getting angry. “I need to see her. I need to know she’s okay.”

“She’s okay. But you’re not,” his father answered matter-of-factly. “You’re a goddamn disaster. You’re no good to anyone like this.”

Jack knew in his heart that his dad was right. He closed his eyes.

His father helped him sit up in the bed, and Jack had a fleeting memory of him doing something very similar when he was just a child, sick with the flu. Just like then, Jack’s father cradled him gently, giving him a sip of water. Jack closed his eyes in relief, gulping down the cool fluid, his body accepting it gladly, like the quenching rain over the cracked earth of a desert. He could have sworn he felt the cleansing water fill the empty and desiccated spaces.

“Thank you,” he croaked.

“You’re through the worst of it,” his father told him. “I’d like to move you to a facility near Lake Como.”

Jack shook his head tiredly. “I need to be close to Samantha.”

“Carey is taking her home,
Gianni
,” his father told him with a sigh. “She’s going to recover in Texas. He feels it’ll be safer as long as Lucien Lightner is still on the loose—”

Jack blinked, struggling to focus. He’d seen Lightner shot by the mystery woman. A woman who worked for Samantha—the same woman who’d saved him and Mitch in London. “But Lightner’s already been captured—”

Sandro’s face was grim. “He escaped and we think he’s left the UK. The CIA, Interpol, and now MI-6 are all searching for him.”

“MI-6?”

“Yeah—it’s been kicked up from MI-5 to the international level now. Look, it’s not safe here,
Gianni
—not for you or for Samantha. Her team is protecting her. Now you need to let me protect you.”

Jack wanted to protest. He wanted to struggle—but resistance in this instance was futile. He was a ridiculous mess, chained to a hospital bed in the throes of a terrible addiction he had yet to kick. If Jack was going to be good for anyone, much less able to stand up to whatever came next with Lucien Lightner, he had to get his shit sorted.

He closed his eyes. “When do we leave?”

His father pressed a cold, damp cloth to Jack’s feverish skin. “Tonight. I’ll take you to Italy tonight.”

Jack nodded feebly, giving himself over to the exhaustion as the sickness left his body. “What day is it?” he whispered, drifting.

*

December—Christmas Morning

Asklepios Klinik Barmbek, Hamburg, Germany

W E S L E Y

Wes walked down
the hospital corridor feeling lighter than he had in days. Sam was through the worst, and the doctors had given her the go-ahead to leave Hamburg within the next couple days. That gave Wes plenty of time to convince Sam to let him travel with her to Texas, but Carey was adamant that everyone should leave Sam alone for the time being so she could get her rest. Wes didn’t like it, but he could get behind it. He strode up to Evan and Talon where he saw them talking in the waiting room.

“Merry Christmas, guys,” Wes said as he handed them fresh coffee and warm
apfelstrudel
he’d bought from a German bakery nearby. “It ain’t turkey dinner, but it beats the shit out of the crap you get from the vending machine.”

“Oh God, thank you,” Talon groaned gratefully as he bit into the pastry. “Five more of these, and I’ll be all set.”

“Five more of those and you’ll be flat-out in a sugar coma,” Evan drawled before sipping his coffee. “Man, that’s good. Thanks, Wes,” he said sincerely, rubbing his bloodshot eyes with his free hand.

“You guys left the hospital?” Wes asked.

Talon grunted, shaking his head as Evan glared down the corridor at Alejandro de Soto where he stood sentry at Sam’s hospital door.

“I hate that guy,” Evan muttered.

“Everyone hates that guy,” Wes replied with a shrug. “That’s sort of his super power.”

Talon eyed him with a dark expression. “He really trained with Sammy?”

“Yeah,” Wes answered with a nod as he drank his own coffee. “He was a couple years ahead of her in ROTC, but those two were always neck and neck.”