Goddess Rising Page 16

  “We’re here to get the hostage by any means necessary,” Alejandro responded, his expression hardening. “And this is a timed exercise, Wyatt—so shut up, follow orders, and move!”

  Stephens glanced back at her, uncertain.

  Sam paused, trying to think of a way to avoid walking into a certain trap.

  “I said, ‘Go,’ Wyatt!” Alejandro insisted, shoving her.

  “Hear me out,” she replied, putting her hand up. “We pull a gun and the jackets off of one of the combatants,” she said, nodding toward one of the fallen behind them. “Stephens shouts, ‘They’re coming,’ and gets a few shots off using their gun. They’ll see their own paintballs and assume it’s one of their own being chased down the hall. They won’t shoot on him if he’s running into the room with his head down. It might buy us a couple seconds. Long enough for Stephens and me to take out at least one of them.”

  “It could work,” Stephens whispered, nodding in agreement.

  “Why can’t you just stick to the fucking plan?” Alejandro hissed.

  “Because if we get taken out, we lose points. And if we keep standing around here arguing, we lose points,” she pointed out, keeping her voice calm and low. “This way, we at least have a fighting chance of taking at least one combatant out and assessing the situation before they unload on us.”

  Stephens looked back and forth between them. “I agree; it’s worth a try.”

  Alejandro’s mouth compressed into a fine line before he finally relented. “Stephens, you’ll play the combatant and go in first. I’ll shoot at the walls high with their paintballs. Return fire, but make it messy, like you’re panicking.”

  “You got it,” Stephens nodded.

  Alejandro jogged down the hall and grabbed a paintball rifle off a fallen combatant as Stephens yanked off his jacket and hat.

  As soon as he’d changed into the enemy gear, Stephens yelled, “They’re on my ass! Incoming—hold your fire! Hold your fire!”

  Stephens shot several electric blue paintballs as he moved up the staircase. Alejandro responded by releasing a torrent of orange paint at the wall of the third floor, making a mess.

  “Coming in hot!” Stephens bellowed. “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!”

  When they made it up to the landing of the third floor, Stephens ducked and ran into the room, his rifle up as he shot his first combatant before taking hits to the arm and the leg. Not lethal shots, but certainly points deducted. Sam took advantage of their distraction to nail the two combatants surrounding the hostage they’d blindfolded and tied to a seat.

  “Tend to Stephens,” Alejandro barked.

  “They’re non-fatal wounds,” she argued, moving toward the hostage. “Mission is to retrieve the hostage.”

  Sam was almost to him when a bright orange paintball buzzed right past her head. It was so close she could almost feel the wetness of the paint graze her cheek.

  “I said ‘tend to Stephens.’” Alejandro repeated, his voice deadly.

  One look into his eyes, and Sam knew he’d take her out. Just to teach her a lesson.

  He could argue that she’d been shot by one of the combatants. And who would be her witness?

  Sam looked at Stephens on the ground, playing dead, or at least terribly injured. The hostage was blindfolded and the enemy combatants lay silent, eyes closed.

  Dead men tell no tales.

  “Fine.” Sam turned away from the bound and blindfolded man, aware that Alejandro would take the prize of securing the hostage, guaranteeing he would make it to the next challenge, no matter what the team’s final score was.

  Shit.

  Damn.

  As Sam leaned down and slung Stephens’s good arm around her shoulder to drag him out, he opened an eye, winking at her. Sam consoled herself with the realization that she’d at least gotten another ally in her corner besides Rita.

  The hair on the back of her neck pricked up, and she realized suddenly they were being observed. Sam looked up, seeing Sasser and other ROTC leaders on a platform over the practice space. She caught the rounded, black eye of a lens, saw it lower down as Wes smiled at her from afar. He’d documented her every move.

  So he’d also seen her back down. He’d seen her let Alejandro take the win.

  Shit.

  Damn.

  *

  September—Wednesday, Late Afternoon

  Somewhere over Dime Box, Texas

  W E S L E Y

  The first helicopter ride of his life was in a military Black Hawk, flying over seventy miles of speckled plains, from Camp Swift back to College Station. Wes grinned, leaning out the open door as much as he dared, trying to take some photos to remember the moment by. The setting sun glowed orange, casting the slopes below into dark grays and vermillion, the horizon giving way to twilight’s hazy darkness. Wes reveled in the 160-mile-per-hour gale-force wind that whipped against his face and through his hair. He loved the disembodied weightlessness of hovering over the earth at that incredible speed, the slipstream howling around him beneath the urgent whip whip whip of the Black Hawk’s blades.

  He wanted to whoop and shout—nearly did—’til he caught Samantha’s dark eyes on him from where she sat, back against the fuselage, sandwiched between members of her team. As winners of the FTX, the First Squad got the initial ride out back to campus, and Wes had hitched a ride along with Colonel Sasser and his lieutenant, asking to use the short trip to interview the team. He figured out that he knew several of them, including Vin Stephens, who he regularly played cards with, but he could barely hear anything over the clattering and the wind at that altitude, so it was just as well. He’d rather sit back and enjoy the ride anyway. The trip was short, and when they touched ground near campus, the cadets vaulted out of the chopper like seasoned pros.

  Riding high and feeling great, Wes strode after Sam as she moved toward the parking lot, already shrugging out of her army jacket. He’d only just managed to get a hand on her shoulder when she snagged it and twisted his arm hard, nearly throwing him over.

  “Don’t you fucking touch me, you traitor.”

  Wes yanked his arm back, rubbing his wrist. “What the hell are you talking about?” he replied, bewildered, his hand and arm throbbing with discomfort. It was a given that she’d be annoyed with him for doing a story on her, but he hadn’t expected her to nearly snap off his wrist because of it.

  Samantha shot him a look of disgust as she turned and stalked off toward the parking lot.

  “Hey!” Wes called, following after her. “What is your goddamn problem?”

  “What’s my problem?” Sam whirled and jabbed him hard in the chest with her finger.

  Wes grabbed her, jerking her closer to him. “Yeah,” he responded, starting to feel anger light a path up his stomach. “I thought we were friends. Why the hell are you so pissed all the sudden?”

  “I thought we were friends too, until I realized you were just using me for coverage,” she answered, furious. “What happened to no more omissions, Wes? No more lies?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked again.

  Sam pushed him back. “You’ve been using me for something from the get-go, haven’t you?” A flash of hurt flashed across her features before she hardened before his eyes. “First you try to get into my pants, then when that doesn’t work, you use me to get a story.”

  Wes’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the one who told me I needed to live up to something better,” he reminded her, his voice low. “Well, this is me, trying to do just that, Sammy.”

  “At my expense, Wes,” she snapped. “I don’t know what the hell you told Sasser, but I know you’re up to something. And it had better not be a story about me.”

  Wes felt his chin rise. “And if it is?”

  Samantha bristled. “I won’t be an affirmative action point, Wes.”

  “You don’t get to have it both ways, Samantha,” Wes answered, frowning. “You’re the one dead set on breaking the glass ceiling,” he p
ointed out. “Well, guess what, Sam—that glass is transparent. I’m just covering the story before someone else does.”

  “You asshole,” Sam hissed, her voice pure venom. “Do you have any idea how much flack I’m going to take for this? I have it hard enough as it is. You think those boys don’t want me off the team already? You focusing in on me is just going to make my life a living hell.”

  Wes faltered for a moment, thought of the internship and her own challenge to him a few days ago. “You’re the one who accused me of being a slacker. You’re the one I was thinking of when I decided to step up and go for something bigger.” He gestured at his camera. “This is the bigger thing, Sam. And I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but it’s one helluva story, especially if you do make it into the Challenge. It’s out there now. You’re the one setting precedence. All I’m doing is reporting on it.”

  She spun around, walking away at a fast clip.

  Wes blew out a frustrated sigh. “Think of all the people who will see this as a major win for women’s equality,” he pointed out as he caught up to her.

  “You’re seriously going to stand there and spout bullshit about women’s equality to me?” Sam snapped, incredulous. “You—the guy who goes through girls like tissues?”

  Wes’s chin jutted up. “Everything that happens between me and the girls I’ve slept with has been consensual,” he reminded her. “Why are you acting like I’ve committed some heinous crime? And how did I become some kind of misogynist because I like sex and women like sex with me? I don’t make promises about relationships. I don’t set up elaborate ruses.”

  “You did with me.” Sam threw over her shoulder, leaving. “Befriend Samantha Wyatt, get her to tell you a few of her secrets, see if you can score the girl who’s trying to do something besides be an heiress to her daddy’s fortune.”

  Wes put a hand on her shoulder again to stop her, agitated. “One, I didn’t set up a ruse with you. I’m genuinely into you, and I want to get to know you better. I’ve been clear about that from the start. Secondly, you’re the one who told me you thought I wasn’t taking my potential seriously. So this is me, taking it seriously. This story could get me a competitive spot on The Statesman,” he told her. “So yeah, I’m going after it. Because I may not be good enough for you right now, but I’m damn well going to earn the right to try.”

  Sam paused briefly. Wes took that to be a good sign.

  “You’re the newsmaker, Samantha,” he told her. “What you’re doing is singular. I’m not trying to make things harder for you—I’m trying to do justice to your story.” Wes stepped closer to her, feeling the warmth of her body through her fatigues as he pressed himself against her back. “Please, Sammy—let me.”

  For a split second, Wes felt her relax against him, and he thought he had her. But he should have known by now things with Sammy weren’t going to be easy. When were they ever?

  She elbowed him hard in the solar plexus, and the breath whooshed out of him as he curled around the pain that expanded from his abdomen.

  “No, you don’t have my permission,” she hissed. “But you never wanted it anyway, did you? You were always going to do what you wanted to do. If you wanted me to know, you would have told me before you just showed up today.”

  “I didn’t think you’d like it—” he gasped out.

  “Bullshit. You knew I wouldn’t like it,” she snapped, swinging open the door to her Mustang. “Stay the hell away from me, Wes. I mean it.”

  Chapter 13

  September—Wednesday Night

  Sam’s Apartment, College Station, Texas

  S A M A N T H A

  She heard the knocking just as she finished towel drying her hair. Her first priority, following her long day of training, had been getting off the grime from the day’s exercises. Well, perhaps second only to giving Wes a piece of her mind.

  “Coming!” she called out as she padded across her living room, swinging the front door open to find Chris standing there, holding a box of pizza. He took in her t-shirt and cut-offs, his grin widening.

  Sam tossed the towel over her shoulder and crossed her arms. “If this is a peace offering on behalf of Wes, then no,” she told him, frowning. “Tell him he can take that pizza and shove it up his—”

  “What’re you talking about?” Chris interrupted, his brow knitting in momentary confusion.

  Sam cocked her head. She looked Chris in the eye for a beat, and when she realized he had no idea what she was talking about, she relented, stepping aside to let him in.

  “Your roommate is an asshole,” she told him flat out, before she caught the aroma drifting from the pizza box. She might have been pissed at Wes, but she was also famished. No way was she turning down hot pizza after the day she’d had and the stale MRE she’d eaten for lunch between field training sessions.

  Chris’s confusion morphed into an eye-roll as he nudged into her apartment, box first. “Hell, I coulda told you that,” he replied as he glanced around. He took in her plush sofa, the muted lamps, the expensive rug—all the décor courtesy of her Aunt Hannah’s decorative flair and her father’s black Amex.

  “Nice digs,” he commented. “You’re definitely not in the dorms anymore, Dorothy.”

  “Thank you, Toto,” Sam answered with a smirk. “How’d you know I’d be home?”

  “Lucky guess,” Chris replied easily, putting the pizza box down on her kitchen table. “Figured if you weren’t, I’d just polish this bad boy off all by lonesome.”

  “I have a feeling that wouldn’t be such a terrible hardship for you,” she teased, moving toward the fridge. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Anything but alcohol.”

  She tossed him a cold bottle of water. “Still hungover?”

  “More like still traumatized.” Chris mock shuddered as he set the pizza down on her kitchen table. “So what’s Wes done now?”

  “You really don’t know?” she asked, carrying over her own water and some paper napkins.

  Chris shook his head as he opened the pizza box.

  “He’s doing a story on me under the guise of covering the Ranger Competition,” she told him, handing him the napkins.

  “For what class?” Chris asked, clearly confused as he pulled on a slice of hot pizza.

  “Not a class, apparently.” Sam shook her head. “He says it’s for some kind of competitive internship with The Statesman.”

  “And you’re not happy about it,” he guessed between chews, observing her expression as she took her own slice.

  “No,” Sam replied flatly. “This is going to put a damn target on my back. I’ve got enough crap to contend with as it is.” She made a little sound of pleasure as she chewed the hot cheese and succulent pepperoni. So much better than an MRE. “Thanks for this—I’m hungrier than I realized.”

  “Any time,” Chris said with an easy smile. “I accept tips in the form of back rubs and kisses.”

  “How about you just settle for ‘thank you’ and the gratitude of an exhausted girl?”

  “What wouldn’t I settle for with you?” Chris teased as he picked up another slice. “I don’t know what Wes is up to, but I got to tell you, Sam—on the rare occasion he makes his mind up to do something, he’s like a dog with a bone. Even if you’re pissed about this, I doubt he’ll give it up.”

  “So you’re saying you don’t think there’s anything I can do to get him to drop this particular bone.”

  “Sorry, Sammy,” Chris replied with a helpless shrug.

  “I’m surprised he didn’t mention it,” she remarked, picking up another piece of pizza.

  “I am too,” he agreed. “My guess is, he knew I’d advise against it.”

  “Why?”

  Chris shot her a knowing look. “Anyone who gets within a mile of you can tell that you’re an intensely private person, Sammy. No way would you want your business aired out in public, good or bad. Wes would know that too. Therefore, he knew this would piss you off,” he reasoned,
biting into another slice.

  “He says he’s doing it because I accused him of being a slacker.”

  Chris chewed on his pizza, expression thoughtful. “So you threw down a gauntlet and he picked it up?”

  Samantha frowned. “More like I made a comment and he blew it out of proportion.”

  Chris smirked.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You challenged the guy, and now you’re all surprised and outraged he called you on it?”

  Sam sat back, startled. “That’s not what I did.”

  “Well, it sure sounds like that’s what you did,” Chris responded with a shrug.

  Sam’s chin came up. “I’m fixing to kick your ass out and keep the rest of this pizza.”

  “Hey! You’re the one who got his back up.” Chris threw his hands up in defense. “Listen, a guy like Wes—he doesn’t get called out to the carpet that often. And certainly not by a girl he’s interested in. Honestly, what’d you think was going to happen?”

  Sam frowned. “I guess I thought he’d get his act together—I just didn’t think he’d use me to do it.”

  “You challenged him and he accepted it,” Chris replied. “How he’s going about it—well, it’s so typically Wes. If you knew him better, you’d see it.”

  Her brow creased. “How do you figure?”

  Chris chuckled a little. “Wes is a two-birds-one-stone type of guy. Writing this story, he gets incredible access to the inner workings of one of the best ROTC programs in the country and he gets closer to you—sees you doing stuff no one else gets to see. He gets to know you better while writing a story that could get him places. Honestly, I’m kind of impressed he pulled this off, and more than a little jealous,” he admitted.

  Sam sat back, munching on her pizza, considering her options. She could ignore Wes and let him do what he wanted. Or she could cooperate, and try to keep the story focused on the Challenge itself rather than on her personal bid to make the final team. Or she could distract him. Irritate and rile him, just as much as he was irritating and riling her.

  “You want the last piece?” Chris offered, pushing the box toward her.