Saved by His Submissive (2 page)

Sage was nowhere to be found.

Of course not.

Because she was dead. For a year, two months, sixteen days, and almost twenty-four hours now.

The knives of grief, all ten million of them, re-buried in his chest. As he gulped through the resulting dearth of air, he raised his clean hand to his chest, scrabbling for his dog tags. More accurately, he searched for the gold band that hung on the chain between them.

Though his head ordered him not to do it, he slipped his ring finger back through the band. For one wonderful, extra moment, the knives went away, and he relived the day he and Sage had picked out the jewelry…the day when he’d thought it would soon become a part of his wardrobe for good.

He remembered every detail of how beautiful she’d looked. It had been a brilliant late Spring day. Her hair was a cascade of light brown sugar that earned her his favorite nickname, falling against the freckled shoulders that peeked from her pink sundress. But her smile…ah, he remembered that the best. Her lips had glistened with her joyous tears, and quavered with her soft whisper.

I can’t wait until you get to wear it for good. I can’t wait until you’re all mine.

A month later, he’d gotten the phone call from Heidi Weston that upended his world forever. The woman who was preparing to become his mother in-law stammered that he needed to come over right away. He’d actually packed a bag, thinking Sage had been hurt, maybe badly, judging by the sound of Heidi’s voice. He was prepared to stay long enough to get as much info as he could about her condition, then head for the base to force himself onto whatever flight was headed anywhere near Botswana. When he’d walked in to see the CNO and the Chaplain sitting there, each holding the hand of a sobbing Heidi, his knees hit the floor along with his pack. Only half their words reached his brain through his roaring senses.
Tribal warfare…region unexpectedly unstable…van sidetracked off the main road…likely rebels…found burned out…nothing but ashes found…

He swallowed hard, and pulled his finger back out of the ring. As expected, his brain crowed while his heart screamed on the torture rack of memory. He waited, breathing hard, for the agony to end. He begged the wounds to bleed hard and fast, letting the anger get here and turn the pain into a scab. After that, he’d be able to move again. To function again.

“Hawk! Damn you, man!”

Anger moved in on the grief. Thank fuck. Fortunately, nothing got him more pissed off than Zeke’s mommy hen act. After rolling from the bed, he tugged on his briefs then stumbled across the room. The dirty light and traffic sounds beyond the thin shutters told him it was about midday. Or maybe his growling stomach did.

“Okay, why are your panties in a wad?” He glanced at Zeke after opening the door, the last of his grogginess obliterated by the neon Hawaiian print of his friend’s tacky tourist ensemble. Z’s khaki shorts were clearly on his timber log legs for one purpose: covering his sorry ass. Like anyone would notice the damn thing after getting blinded by the lime green and banana yellow shirt. “Don’t tell me you’re bored, with all of Bangkok out there for the taking. We don’t roll on this mission until nightfall. That gives you at least five hours to work your flogging arm and your kinky cock through a lot of cheap tail, my friend. I’ll bet the girls at Club Subjugate are missing you something fierce, Sir Zekie.”

“Sir Zekie. Aw. That’s cute, honey.” The guy busted into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. Zeke’s six-foot-six frame was only a couple of inches taller than Garrett’s, but the man’s mountainous build intensified the effect of his stature, especially in this room designed for people half his size. “As much as Chelsea and Chyna like my side-by-side spanking special, shit like that gets redundant by myself. You tried the fun-filled dungeon field trip once. Think you want to sign up this time?”

Garrett snorted and flopped on the bed again. His friend wasted his breath with the memory. Yeah, he’d gone. Yeah, he’d tried it. Z had gotten him in a weak spot around the six-month mark after Sage’s death. He’d been desperate to forget the pain for a while, hoping “the magic of BDSM,” as Z called it, would help. More urgently, he’d been hoping to figure out the kinky-minded demon that crawled in the back of his imagination since—

Well, he knew since when. And that secret would go with him to his grave. An occasion, God willing, that would come sooner than later.

Needless to say, he’d scratched the itch just fine that night. Or as truth would have it, hadn’t scratched. That part of things wasn’t such a state secret, which justified the response he tossed at his friend.

“You really think that offer’s relevant?”

Z shrugged. “Lots of water has passed under your bridge, dude. Maybe commanding a sweet little subbie will fire your rockets this time around.”

“No,” Garrett snapped, “it won’t.”    

“Right. Because you’d rather stay here and just beat off after your wet dreams about Sage.”

“Fuck off.”

“It’s been over a year, Hawk.”

“Fuck
off.
”

“Fine.” Z pulled the faded Yankees cap off his head, revealing the miniature broadcasting station literally sewn inside it, before scrubbing a hand through his thick dark brown hair. “Turns out free time just got drastically cut, anyhow. That’s why I’m here collecting your sorry ass.”

He’d just cracked open a lukewarm soda and was about to take his first guzzle. He stopped the can halfway to his lips and shot a quizzical look across the room. “What do you mean, ‘cut?’”

Zeke dropped into the room’s sole chair and shrugged. “CENTCOMM received a line of new intel. Seems we’re gonna be more effective going in to rescue these girls as the bad-ass, uniformed machines we’ve been trained to be, instead of a bunch of American dorkgasms looking for some girl-next-door type pussy.” He stretched his tree trunk legs out, crossing them at the ankle on the foot of the bed. “So as soon as you get your ass dressed, we’re buggin’ back to the embassy. They’re gonna let us change, and get haircuts and shaves.” He scratched the scruff on his jaw. “Thank all that’s holy.”

Garrett cracked a dry smirk. “You sure it’s just not because you blew our cover with that shirt? Maybe somebody with half a brain looked at you, and realized no normal person, even a dorkgasm, would willingly dress in that.”

Z looked at his get-up with a frown. “What’s wrong with the shirt?”

“Oh c’mon. It’s hideous. It’s not yours, is it? Central gave it to you, right?”

“Yeah, uhhh, right.”

Zeke followed up his hasty answer by cracking one of the shutters and feigning interest in the activity outside. Garrett rose, shoved into jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and listened to the scene that his friend beheld. Scooters zoomed, taxi drivers argued, bicycle bells dinged, and food sizzled. All in all, it was a typical day in Bangkok: probably the same kind of day that ten American aid workers had been enjoying just six weeks ago, before they were scheduled to board a plane for their mission in Myanmar. 

The five men and five women had never arrived for their flight. Two days later, the men had been returned unharmed, spelling out the abductors’ purpose with more clarity than a Soi Cowboy tittie bar sign. Undercover CIA agents had been rapidly inserted on the case, and sure enough, after ample questions were asked and money tossed around, they were invited in on the newest trend for discerning American businessmen looking for a good time in East Asia: American girls who would do everything a native girl would, at exactly the same price.

Tonight, the assholes running the racket were going to find a new surprise waiting for their sorry dicks. Garrett’s blood surged with the anticipation of delivering that surprise. He hoisted his pack, slipped into his “lazy American tourist” loafers then cocked his head at Zeke.

“You gonna sit there moping because I called your shirt a fashion disaster? Come on, Fashion Sparkle Barbie. Let’s depart this fair establishment.”

To his perplexity, Zeke didn’t budge. He closed the shutter with unnerving calm. “Just another sec, Hawk.”

The gnat of suspicion in his senses morphed into a mosquito. “What is it?”

“Sit down. There’s one more thing we gotta discuss.”

The mosquito started biting. “No,” Garrett snapped, “there isn’t.”

Without looking back at Z, he went for the door. He had his hand on the knob before his friend’s rejoinder hit the air.

“You don’t get to load up for the op unless we drill down on this.”

Garrett watched his fingers go white around the knob. Officially he and Zeke were equal rank, but his friend’s tone clearly pulled a top dog on him. That only meant one thing.

“Franzen put you up to this, didn’t he?”

Z lowered his legs then balanced his elbows on his knees. When he lifted his head, deep assessment defined his stare. Garrett almost rolled his eyes in return, but he caught sight of himself in the dusty mirror over the bureau. His hair, a nice gold when it was clean but the color of a worn dishrag now, was as rumpled and long as Zeke’s dark brown waves. His eyes also looked like rags, blue ones that’d been used on muddy boots. His skin was sallow. He hadn’t slept well since—well, in over a year—and it showed in every wrinkled, grungy inch of him.

He scowled. If he was Franz, he’d likely have a few concerns about adding his name to the mission roster too. Not that he hadn’t proved himself on over three dozen ops in the last year. He knew the concern was for
this
trip. He didn’t have to be told why. But he’d put up with the formality anyway.

“Yeah, okay,” Zeke conceded. “The Captain and I had a brief talk about your involvement on this one. You’re a key piece of the team, Hawk. We could really use you. Even though you look like crap, your reflexes are still the best on the squad. You’re able to make smart snap judgments even if the shit gets thick and the op goes sideways.”

Garrett dropped his pack and leaned against the door. “Are you planning that much on this one taking a detour?”

“No. Hell, no.” Like the protest about the shirt, his friend’s answer flew out suspiciously fast. “It’s just—we’re gonna be deep in the forest on this one, G. I wouldn’t be surprised if we come across fucking Jurassic Park or something.”

“You know Jurassic Park is technically off the coast of Costa Rica and not Thailand, right?”

“It’s sick that you know that.”

“It’s pathetic that you don’t read.”

His buddy’s stubbled chin gave way to a grin. “And it’s nice to see you getting pissy about something.” In a murmur, he added, “Maybe there’s hope for your humanity after all, Hawkins.”

“Shut up and get to your point.”

Zeke let the smile fall. “Okey dokey, Prince Charming.” He rose and crossed his arms. “To be frank, the Captain and I are concerned about your focus on this one.”

A needle of irritation joined the knives in his chest. “That’s never been an issue before.”

“We’ve never been called to retrieve hostages before.”

Garrett snorted. “Yeah, what about that? The Rangers and Delta both getting their nails done or something?”

“You think I know or care? The op is what it is. More importantly, the hostages are what they are. American women, many with fair hair and eyes.” Z leaned forward, intensifying his gaze. “I need to know you can keep the emo lock box down on this, G. Complete objectivity. These girls will be terrified and traumatized, but our main objective is to get them to safety using any means necessary. The conditions will be shitty and the time frame will be worse. I need to know you can do that. I need to
know
you’re gonna maintain your edge.”

Garrett pushed off the door in order to take a determined stance. He bolted his stare into Zeke’s now, unwavering in his purpose, unblinking in his concentration.

“You think I’m gonna go cookie crumbs on you because some girl
looks
like her?” He shot out a bitter laugh. “You think that alone would do it? You really don’t remember what Sage and I had, do you?”

“Why do I need to? You’re doing the job to stellar perfection for me and half the world.”

“And?”

Zeke’s eyes slid shut and his mouth tightened, his version of contrition for the accusing words. “You haven’t let go of her. You still got that goddamn ring hiding between your tags, which should be secured to your bootlaces, assface,
not
your sorry neck. I can write you up faster than—”

Garrett cut him off with a derisive laugh. “Oh, that would be entertaining.”

“Listen, moron. I’ve got genuine concerns here, Garrett.”

“Got it, Oprah. Can I get you a tampon for that now?”

Zeke closed the space between them in one wide step. His jaw went harder beneath his stubble. “What you can do, damn it, is look me in the eye and swear to me that you’re squared with the personal shit and are solid to go on this op.”

Garrett notched back his shoulders and set his own jaw. He confronted the stare of his friend again. He’d seen those hazels oiled with booze, gunned with adrenaline, bleary with exhaustion, afire with exhilaration and likely a thousand other things. But this was one look he always treated with respect. This was a stare of the guy would be at his side out there in Jurassic Land, holding the gun that could save Garrett’s life. He’d be counting on Garrett to do the exact same.

“I’m solid,” he said. “And you know I’d tell you otherwise, Z.” The last shrouds of his dream fell away from his mind, dissolved by the salvation of mental mission prep. “Let me help you get these dick lickers.”

Zeke didn’t answer at first. He subjected Garrett to another long minute of silent scrutiny. That was all right. Garrett had been through it before, could deal with it. What he couldn’t handle were the daggers that Z tried to add to the others in his chest, the blades that tried to gouge the others out.

 That wasn’t going to happen. Not today, not tonight, not any time soon. The knives were his. The pain was his. And as long as both were still there, he still had some part of her with him.

Finally, Zeke cracked a lopsided grin and chuckled. “All right, you charmer. Let’s get the hell out of here. You need a shower, dude. Bad.”