Breaking His Code (Away From Keyboard Book 1) Page 12

  I don’t know that I can survive this again.

  WEST

  A rare summer rain shower slicks the empty streets, the lights reflecting off of pools of greasy water alongside a road that’s seen better days. This section of south Seattle doesn’t stir after 9:00 p.m., unless you count the drug dealers and the occasional prostitute.

  Ryker’s warehouse looms ahead of me, a dim glow from the large windows on the third story the only sign of life. Below, the building’s nothing but cement and steel, a fortress—unbreachable if I know him at all.

  Cam’s message weighs on me as I shut my phone off. I should have replied, but hearing her voice right now might send me running in the opposite direction of the one hope I have to save the Horizon program and keep my business afloat. Shoving the phone into my glove box, I roll my eyes at the precautions he demanded. No electronics. Nothing traceable. Hell, he wouldn’t even tell me the address of this place until he verified my texting app was encrypted.

  A whiff of Cam’s delicious scent—coffee and lilies—surrounds me as I lock my car. She borrowed one of my t-shirts on Sunday morning, and I’m wearing the damn thing today. Why’d I have to fall so hard and fast? I’m not even sure she wants me—wants a relationship long term—but damn if she isn’t it for me.

  The steel warehouse door opens a crack as I raise my fist to knock. “Clean?”

  “No one followed me.” My foul mood doesn’t leave much room for stupid questions. “Also, in case you’ve forgotten, we’re in Seattle. Nothing happens here.”

  Ryker jerks the door wider, grabs my arm, and yanks me inside.

  Anger flares, and I can’t help the growl in my voice. “Put your hands on me again and I’m out of here. I don’t care how much you pay.” I shake off his grip, then level a glare at him. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He needs me as much as I need him, so he raises his hands in surrender. “I didn’t force you to come.”

  “Might as well have,” I grumble under my breath.

  Despite his massive frame, he moves with a lithe grace as he weaves around large metal storage crates that hide a wide open area complete with a boxing ring, free weights, climbing wall, and salmon ladder. “Training for American Ninja Warrior?”

  “You know as well as I do that you’ve got to be ready for anything in the field.” He jerks a thumb towards the climbing wall. Built that after we lost Paulie a year ago. Dude broke his back trying to scale a three-story building in Kandahar.”

  “Get ready for mandatory workouts twice a week,” a soft-spoken woman with hair the color of rich mahogany says as she rises from a folding chair at the edge of a make-shift kitchen area and then extends a delicate hand. “Inara Ruzgani.”

  “West. Sampson.”

  Her slight frame belies the strength of her grip, and her gray eyes don’t appear to miss a single detail as she looks me up and down. “Navy man. SEAL?”

  “Hooyah,” I reply automatically, earning me a slap on the bicep.

  “This is Cooper Yarrow,” Ryker says, gesturing to the man next to Inara. Cooper mutters his own greeting, then crushes my fingers in a brief handshake. “Coop spent nine years as a flyboy before going private.”

  Water drips somewhere to my left, and the vague scent of a recent hard workout lingers underneath the aroma of motor oil. No one speaks for several minutes, the other three watching me like they expect me to sprout another head.

  “Well,” Inara begins as she gestures to the boxing ring, “let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Sweat stings my eyes. I swipe the back of my hand over my brows and come away with a streak of blood. Inara rushes forward, driving her shoulder into my solar plexus, but I foil her attempt to knock the wind out of me by grabbing her as I fall back, controlling my descent until I flip her onto her back and land on top of her. Before she can react, I’ve got my hand around her throat, but she uses my own favorite technique to break my hold, and throws me to the side.

  I roll to my feet, and Coop tags in and grabs me. He’s stronger than I am, but I maneuver my arm between his legs, hook his thigh, and send him down to the mat.

  “How…many times…do I need to beat your asses?” Knees loose, arms slightly raised, I take my defensive stance and wait for one or the other to come at me again.

  “Up the wall, Sampson,” Ryker orders. “You’ve got thirty seconds.”

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Despite my exhaustion, I vault the ropes surrounding the ring, sprint over to the climbing wall, and take a deep breath as I scan the surface.

  “Twenty-six!”

  Letting him rattle me isn’t an option. One hold, two, three, and I’m climbing. Halfway up, he’s put in a trick hold, and the damn thing pops out of the wall, sending me swinging.

  “Thirteen seconds, wonder-boy,” Coop taunts from below.

  “Fuck off.” The words escape on a grunt, and I use my momentum to reach a hold three feet to my left. With four seconds to spare, I slap a red square at the top of the wall, and I’m rewarded with a rappelling line dangling in front of me.

  Ryker whistles as I land in front of him, then sends me up the salmon ladder. At the top, I dip my hands into a bowl of chalk powder, then leap to a pole to slide back down to the ground, and the three waiting mercenaries staring at me with respect. Ryker extends his hand. “Six years as a civvie hasn’t tarnished your skills at all.”

  “You know what I do for a living. What, exactly, was the point of all this?”

  Inara hands me a bottle of water, and I crack the seal as Ryker gestures to a makeshift living room—a couch and two beat-up recliners surrounding a large television—in the far corner of the warehouse. Once we’re all seated, the screen flickers to life.

  In a dingy room, a bare, yellow bulb spotlights a steel chair bolted to the stained cement floor. Two uniformed officers enter the frame, dragging a thin, bloodied man between them. Once he’s tied to the chair with loops of black cord around his wrists, ankles, and chest, one of the officers grabs his greasy black hair and tips his face to the camera.

  Holy fuck. “Is that who I think it is?”

  “Columbian President Aquliar’s son, Ernesto.” Ryker meets my gaze, his lips pressed into a thin line. “If we don’t get him out in the next seventy-two hours, he’s dead. Given the terrain, it’s a four-man-op. We’re going with or without you, but if you want in, we leave at 0700.”

  13

  CAM

  O ne solitary desk lamp illuminates the outer office. Computers sit silent and dark. The scents of coffee and stale Mountain Dew hang in the air.

  I’m numb. Even my headache has faded to a dull memory. Light spills from Royce’s office, and as I raise my hand to rap on the doorjamb, I have to grit my teeth to stop my fingers from trembling.

  “I heard you the moment you unlocked the front door.” Royce’s exhaustion bleeds through his words, and when I find him slumped in his chair with a glass of bourbon in his hand, I’m twenty-two again, getting drunk with my CO as we mourn Turk and Vic—the only two members of our Ordinance Unit ever killed in the line of duty.

  “Have any more of that?”

  Royce hands me his glass, then takes a swig from the bottle. “Lucas called me.”

  Fuck.

  “He quit.” After another healthy sip of bourbon, Royce sets the bottle down on the desk. “He’ll finish the cabling, but then he’s done. Moving back to Lafayette. Starting over somewhere ‘without all this baggage.’”

  “He…I…” Everything I want to say seems trivial, stupid, useless. Instead, I stare into the glass, focusing on the ripples in the liquid from my trembling fingers. “I’m sorry.”

  Royce leans forward, his elbows braced on his desk. “Can you fix Oversight in time for LaCosta’s party? Be straight with me, Cam. If you can’t, say so right now.”

  I resist the urge to squirm and meet his harsh gaze. “Yes. I’m close. By tomorrow, I’ll have stripped out all of the faulty code, and as long as I work my ass off for
the next week…”

  “I’m assigning Orion as your backup. Use him, Cam. I mean it.”

  I stifle a cringe, but Royce doesn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps he doesn’t care.

  “Go home. You look like shit. I expect an update by noon tomorrow.” He snags the bottle of bourbon again, then turns back to his monitor, dismissing me, and I want to scream at him. If I do, though, all of the frustrations I’ve kept bottled up for ten years will come pouring out, and I’ll end up a blubbering mess on his office floor. No, better to get my ass home where I can fall apart alone.

  Without another word, I head for my car.

  Are you still there?

  Netflix is judging me. I don’t know how three episodes of Supernatural passed without me noticing. The remote is heavy and warm in my palm, and when I shut off the television, my stiff fingers have trouble with the buttons, a sign I’ve been gripping the damn piece of plastic tightly for quite some time.

  The clock ticks over to 11:30 p.m., and I check my phone one more time. No messages. I send one more, desperate to talk to West, to admit all my stupid failings as a programmer, as a friend, and have his arms around me.

  Call me, please.

  I can’t just sit here alone any longer. I’d only picked at my pizza, and my stomach rumbles, even though I don’t think I can eat anything.

  Except brownies.

  Two days, and I haven’t been able to get those damn brownies out of my head. So many good memories are tied to those brownies: the rich, chocolaty scent that used to fill the house on Fridays after school, the way Mama would chide Nana for making her gain ten pounds, but would then hug her in the next breath, and vanilla ice cream melting on top of a bowl of warm gooey goodness while Nana told me stories of growing up in Chapala—a small town on the shores of a lake not far from Guadalajara.

  I search my memories, tasting the spices she’d add: cinnamon and a pinch of cayenne; seeing two egg yolks in a bowl, ready for me to whisk; and stirring chocolate on the stove until it looked like molten silk.

  Before I realize I’m moving, I’m in the car headed for the store. I shop quickly—this late at night the aisles are largely empty—and soon I’m trudging down the hall towards my condo. The bag starts to slip from my grasp as I turn the corner.

  West sits next to my door, his arms folded across his knees, head bowed.

  “West?” My voice cracks. With care, he gets to his feet, and when I see his face, my stomach flips. Dark shadows brace his eyes, and a small cut over his brow is stark in the fluorescent lights. All night I’d tried to pretend I was okay, but reality crashes down on me as I’m drawn to his side.

  He doesn’t speak as he slides the grocery bag from my arm so I can unlock my door. Inside, the bag safely on the counter, he slips his arms around me. I can’t do much more than sag against his chest, and for a few moments, the pain crushing my heart eases.

  “Where were you?” I whisper against his neck.

  He stiffens, and I pull away, his reaction taking another chip out of my already fractured heart. I unpack the grocery bag, but as I pull out the eggs, he stops me, his hand cool against my wrist. “Cam, there’s so much…I can’t stay long—”

  “Hand me the mixing bowl?” I gesture to the high shelf in the corner. If I meet his gaze, I won’t be able to hold myself together.

  He slides the bowl in front of me, and I crack the eggs with one hand, pleased I still remember how. “You don’t cook.”

  “Comfort food. Nana’s brownies.” I balance myself against the counter as I fish the whisk out of the drawer. I don’t even know why I have the damn thing. In six years here, I’ve never used it.

  “Cam, come sit down with me for a few minutes. You look like someone broke your favorite toy. Which is about how I feel.”

  “I have to get these brownies in the oven.” The eggs froth under my vigorous attention, and when they look right, I set the bowl aside so I can add the chocolate to another dish for microwaving. Nana would chide me, but I don’t own a double boiler.

  “I’m exhausted, angel, and I have to be…somewhere at 5:00 a.m. Take a break. Please.” West reaches for my arm, but I take a step back.

  “You don’t understand. I have to do this right now.” Brownies have never been so important. Somewhere deep down, I know I'm being irrational, but I can taste those MREs, feel the baking sun on the back of my neck, hear my crew making fun of me for the lengths I’d go to for those brownies. And then Royce’s curt dismissal rings in my ears, and my eyes start to burn.

  “You can’t give me ten minutes? What the hell happened today that making brownies is more important than—“

  My heart threatens to burst from my chest, and the edges of my vision darken as panic takes over. “Nothing else is working! My code is broken, I don’t know how I’m going to save the project, my best friend quit today—I’ve probably lost him forever—and everything hurts. I haven’t had these brownies in eighteen years, and I can’t even remember the damn recipe!” I turn away from West. As I reach for the bowl of eggs, I misjudge the distance through the haze of tears, and then the glass tumbles to the tile floor with a sickening crack and a splatter of egg-coated shards.

  “Dammit!” More tears threaten, and I try to brace a hand on the counter so I can stoop for the larger pieces, but West drops to his knees and starts piling the remains of the bowl in one hand.

  “Hand me that towel.” Once he’s mopped up most of the liquid, he peers up at me, two of the larger pieces of the bowl balanced in his palm. “Can you call your mother for the recipe?”

  “No.” I have to force the word out over the lump in my throat as I pull a second, smaller bowl from the cabinet.

  After he tosses the broken pieces in the trash, he presses his hand against the small of my back to try to urge me from the kitchen. “Why not?”

  The dam breaks, and suddenly I’m shouting. “Because my parents kicked me out when I graduated high school! I haven’t spoken to my mother since I woke up in the hospital ten years ago, and the last thing I need right now is a lecture on how I ruined my life!”

  “I…” He wrestles with his words, the helpless sounds only driving my emotions higher. Pity, shock, and a hint of frustration play across his features, and the fresh egg slips from my fingers to roll across the counter. I track the fall, and as the shell shatters, so do I.

  "I don't have birthdays and holidays with cards and flowers and mom's apple pie. My life isn't this neat little package you can wrap into a bow, West. It's messy and complicated, and right now, it just fucking sucks. So don’t tell me to ‘call my mom’ or ‘sit down’ or ‘take a deep breath.’ I’m just done."

  He doesn’t know what to do with me. That’s fine. I don’t know what to do with myself.

  "It's late, and I have to be at work at seven. And I still need to make these damn brownies. I think you should go home."

  He stiffens and balls his hands into fists as he closes his eyes, and a muscle in his jaw ticks until he speaks again. "Look, I'll help you with the brownies. You're upset, and I'm worried you're going to hurt yourself."

  My walls rise, higher and stronger than ever before, and despite the urge to cut West a door so he can join me on the other side, I can only offer him a cold stare.

  "I can take care of myself. Been doing it for a long time. I don’t need your help.“

  We face off with a broken egg and pieces of glass between us, the scent of chocolate perfuming the air. He breaks first, and as his shoulders slump and he shoves a hand into his pocket, I’m not sure if I’ve won or lost.

  "I thought—” He runs his free hand through his hair. “Never mind.” Then he turns on his heel. As he yanks open my door, he tosses a glance over his shoulder. “I won’t be around for a while, Cam. Just thought you should know.”

  The door slams, and I stare at the remnants of my feeble attempt at comfort. I’m spent. I couldn’t muster a tear now if I shoved half an onion directly into my eyes, despite the shame I feel. With a g
roan, I lower myself to the floor so I can clean up my mess. Well, one of them. The fractured pieces of my soul might be beyond fixing.

  14

  WEST

  T he drone of the plane’s engines—along with the stress and anticipation that kept me up all night—lull me into a Zen state. Neither asleep nor awake, I hover on the edge of consciousness, Cam’s last words on repeat.

  “I can take care of myself. Been doing it for a long time. I don’t need your help.”

  Fuck those goddamn brownies.

  “You ready for this?” Ryker’s booming voice through my headset jars me awake, and my heart stutters before I get my breathing under control. He peers down at me, a hand steadying himself on one of the plane’s support struts. “You look like shit.”

  “Whose fault is that?” I gesture to the bruise above my right eye. Despite my training, Inara got a couple of good jabs in, and my knuckles still ache from the impact with Coop’s back. “You’ve seen me on mission. Once we hit the ground, I’ll be good.”

  A shadow passes over Ryker’s scarred cheek. “Never saw anyone focus the way you do, Sampson. Analyze the situation for weak points, execute a plan without a single fault. I owe you my life.”

  I meet his dark gaze. “All part of the job. Pretty sure you saved my ass out there too.” After a quick glance at my watch and altimeter, I shove to my feet. “You’re sure your intel’s solid?”

  “Ernesto’s in the center of a ten acre compound. Eleven total men, five highly trained, the rest grunts. My contact tells me they’ll make another video at 14:00. If we don’t get him before they transfer him from his cell to the interrogation room, our chances of him making it out in one piece go down dramatically.” Ryker offers me a tablet, but I wave it away.