Complicated Creatures: Part Two Page 5

  “So now you set her on a pedestal, calling what she did acts of heroism and valor, Dad?” Jack snarled. “Seems to me she’s a goddamn monster, and you were grateful she could be one—that she could be capable of so many horrifying fucking things in the name of God and country.”

  “Are you angry with me for telling you or are you angry with her for being adept at war and willing to do whatever was necessary?” Sandro countered calmly.

  “I’m angry at everything and everybody right now!” Jack railed. “I’m angry at her for not trusting me to love her enough to tell me these things herself. I’m angry at you for not trusting me to handle my addiction and for telling me things I wish I never had to know. I’m angry at the entire country of Brazil for allowing my brother to come to harm. And I’m angry at God for taking my entire world and upending it in less than twenty-four hours!”

  The flight attendant caught the tail end of Jack’s diatribe and turned right back around toward the cockpit. He lowered his voice, trying to calm down.

  “I know you meant well, Dad—and I strong-armed you into telling me. But you’ve basically confirmed what I’ve started to realize: I can’t trust Samantha. I open myself up and let someone in, and now I’m in love with someone I don’t know, which makes me a fool. A blind, goddamn fucking fool.”

  “Gianni—”

  “No. I don’t want to hear anymore. I can’t take hearing anymore.” Jack squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to get to Rio and haul Jaime out of there as soon as they let me. My priority is Jaime. He has to be my focus right now.”

  “We are all capable of terrible things when we need to be, Gianni,” his father warned him cautiously. “It’s people like Samantha who keep people like us safe.”

  “Perhaps,” Jack conceded. “But she didn’t need to be duplicitous with me. I would have loved her enough to prove it, but she never gave me the chance. And now… she won’t need to.”

  *

  December 1st—Present Day

  En Route to the Hospital in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

  S A M A N T H A

  Years.

  It had been years without him, and now his memory haunted her. His touch, his smile, his voice—it all had once seemed so distant. She had begun to forget the hurt, the ache he’d left behind all those years ago. But now, Sam swore she could hear him, feel him as he whispered secrets into her ear. But he was too far away. Or perhaps she was too tired to hear. What eventually struck her dazed and exhausted mind was that she couldn’t recall the last time she’d dreamed of him. Wes. Her Wes.

  As Sam struggled feebly to focus, she felt a sway beneath her, could hear the rumble of an engine and the steady sound of the road beneath her. But the lull of unconsciousness was too powerful to resist. Sam felt herself begin to float away, drifting back to blackness.

  “Carey—CAREY, come on! You don’t go like this!!” Rush shouted beside her. “Wake the fuck up, man! Come on!”

  Sam fought the inexorable urge to black out, struggling to stave it off.

  “I need more blood—does she have any more blood bags on the vest?”

  Sam felt fingers fumbling with her shirt. Her head lolled back as she was lifted.

  “Come on, Carey—Come on!” Rush shouted. “Open your eyes. Look at me. Just look at me—”

  She felt something being pulled off her back, wondering blearily what was happening as she struggled to stay conscious.

  “Here—here are three bags still intact.”

  “Talon—hold the catheter. He’s lost too much blood. I have to do a field transfusion now.”

  “—We’re ten minutes out!”

  “Drive like Satan’s on your ass, Simon! He’s bleeding out!”

  “—Hand me the HALO chest seal. I need the decompression needle—”

  Sam listened to the shouts as if she were submerged under water, unable to clearly discern what was happening around her. The more conscious she became, the more she was surrounded and enveloped by a burning pain radiating from her chest. She groaned raggedly, the sound feeble and faint.

  “Sammy? Sammy, are you awake?” Wes asked, as he leaned over her. “Wake up, darlin’. Wake up for me,” he told her, his voice urgent. “Her eyes are fluttering!” he yelled, a hand at her forehead.

  Sam managed to blink open her eyes slowly, pain still searing her chest as she groaned, the vibration of sound causing the burning on her sternum to flare and expand. She gasped. It hurt like hell to breathe.

  “Oh, Jesus! Thank Christ you’re back, Sammy,” Wes mumbled into her hair, cradling her as she breathed weakly, pain stiffening her limbs. “I thought I lost you again. I thought I lost you…”

  “Carey—” she whispered. She licked her lips, trying again as Wes leaned down to listen to her. “Carey—”

  “Seven minutes!” Simon shouted from the front, veering and weaving the SUV.

  “He’s hurt, Sammy,” Wes told her, his expression grave. “He’s hurt real bad. Evan is trying to keep him alive. We’re on our way to the hospital now.”

  Sam’s body screamed in agony as she tried to push herself up and off Wes’s lap. She wondered vaguely if one of the bullets she’d been hit with had made its way through the vest—if she too had been shot through the chest. Black spots danced across her eyes as she dragged herself up. Wes helped her up, his hand at her back as she peered over the seat.

  Rush pressed the seal against Carey’s bare and bloody chest. Carey’s head lolled to the side, facing her. His skin was ashen, the bruises on his face startling against the paleness from loss of blood.

  Rush looked up at her with panicked, worried eyes.

  “Boss—it’s not good,” he told her, glancing down at Carey again as he pressed the seal to his chest.

  Sam reached over the seat to grasp Carey’s limp hand. She squeezed his hand feebly, her eyes tearing.

  “Bear—” she called out to him, her voice barely above a whisper. “Bear, you come back to me. You don’t leave me here. You don’t leave me—”

  A violent cough wracked her body and she doubled over, hacking. Wes rubbed her back, holding up a bandanna to her mouth as she coughed in agony.

  “Jesus—” Wes muttered as he looked at the fabric. “She’s coughing up blood!” he told the others, patting her mouth urgently.

  Sam collapsed forward against the seat back, woozy, still holding onto Carey’s hand.

  “You go, I go, Bear,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “I’ll follow you to Hell if I have to…”

  Chapter 4

  December 1st—Present Day

  Hospital Copa D’Or in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

  W E S L E Y

  Sam had passed out while holding Carey’s hand in the car. And maybe that had been a good thing, because the first couple of hours waiting in the hospital to hear if Carey would be alright was insanely nerve-wracking. In typical fashion, the men, overwrought with anxiety, went back to what they knew and did best. Talon had disappeared to the roof with Henri to cover the main entrances while the other guards patrolled the halls. Simon had been sent to collect Jack from Galeão International Airport.

  Evan went back and forth between Jaime’s room and Sam and Carey’s, checking in with the doctors and laying down some of that Southern charm with the nurses to get more frequent updates. Wes found himself alternately pacing the waiting room while he communicated with his film crew and hovering over the observation glass like an anxious old hen.

  “One thing’s for sure: this is going to rank up there as the most intense twenty-four hours of my life,” Wes confessed, leaning against the wall beside him.

  “You’re telling me,” Evan replied as he handed Wes some coffee. “I’ve had ops in the Middle East less stressful than this shit,” he added, sipping his own drink. They both turned to watch Sam sitting next to Carey’s bed in the ICU.

  The nurses had stopped trying to force her back into her own bed a couple hours ago, knowing she’d just slip back out to return to Carey
.

  “How’s she doing?” Evan asked.

  “You’d think blunt force trauma to her chest would slow her down,” Wes muttered, shaking his head in begrudging admiration.

  “The surgeon asked me if he could keep the vest,” Evan smiled grimly. “Said he couldn’t believe the hollow-points didn’t make it through the Kevlar when she was shot point blank. Twice,” he added meaningfully.

  “Did you see the wound?” Wes asked.

  “Which one?” Evan replied with a raised brow.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “A BABT looks just like a gunshot wound,” Evan explained. “The bullet penetrates the soft tissue and pushes everything inward, even if it doesn’t perforate the vest.”

  “What’s a BABT?”

  “Behind armor blunt trauma,” Evan replied.

  Wes flinched. “God, that’s awful.”

  “When we took off the vest, the material and bullets came out, but the holes left behind look…” Evan shrugged. “Well, let’s just say they ain’t pretty. The surgeons x-rayed her just to be sure, but that’s why he wanted to keep the vest. It’s a friggin’ miracle she’s walking and talking.”

  “That woman’s got nine lives,” Wes commented, watching her. Sammy laid her head next to Carey, her hand wrapped around his fingers. “Painkillers must be finally kicking in again,” he murmured, signaling the nurse.

  None of the men were allowed into the ICU, but Sammy had insisted on staying with Carey after his surgery, and because the attending physicians and the nurses were worried she could still be bleeding internally as well, they’d begrudgingly allowed them to share a room so they could both be monitored. The nurses filed into the room quietly, helping Sam back into her own bed as she began to nod off.

  “How’s Jaime?” Wes asked, sipping his coffee.

  “Good,” Evan nodded. “They’re moving him out of ICU in the next hour now that his fever’s broken. Jack’s just landed, so he’ll be able to see his brother immediately.”

  “I’m glad he’s okay,” Wes murmured, turning back to watch Sam. “Tell me about him.”

  “Who?” Evan asked. “Jaime?”

  “No,” Wes shook his head. “Jack.”

  Evan shrugged, turning back to watch Sammy and Carey. “He’s a good guy. Loves his family.” Evan glanced at him uncertainly. “I know you don’t want to hear this but you’ll see for yourself soon enough—he’s head over heels for Sam.”

  Wes nodded casually, though it hurt him to hear it. If anyone understood how it felt to be madly in love with that woman, it was him.

  “How long have they been together?” he asked.

  “Few months.”

  “So their relationship is new,” Wes concluded.

  Evan shrugged, seeming unsure of what to say that wouldn’t infringe on the privacy of his boss, compounding the impression that each man he’d met thus far was completely loyal to Sammy. Wes’d suspected it before from just the way they spoke about her—with a certain reverence, just bordering smitten. But last night Wes had seen it firsthand. Any one of them would have laid down their lives for her. And that kind of loyalty in the private sector was beyond rare; it was damn near nonexistent.

  Watching the way she’d cradled Carey’s hand, Wes could understand how she commanded that loyalty. She put her team before herself. Her willingness to sacrifice anything inspired a devotion and camaraderie he’d seen only on the field of battle or in tight-knit families.

  “You know the first time I met Carey he must have been thirteen, maybe fourteen years old?” Wes told Evan.

  “No shit?” his brows rose. “Was he tall then?”

  “Yeah,” Wes chuckled, “Gangly too. Hadn’t grown into his bones yet. Looked like one of those foals that’s just learning to walk—all skinny legs and knobby knees. His arms were like rails.” Wes grinned, recalling Carey running around the ranch with Ryland, up to no good and driving everybody crazy.

  “Wouldn’t know it looking at him now,” Evan muttered.

  Even laid up in a hospital bed, pale and drawn, Carey looked like a giant pinned to a kid-sized trundle.

  “He was her kid brother’s best friend. They used to run around setting off fireworks, hiding frogs in people’s boots, shooting BB guns at squirrels, generally making nuisances of themselves,” Wes chuckled, drawing a laugh from Evan.

  “Good Lord, that’s fantastic. You gotta tell me more.”

  “First time I went to the ranch to see Sammy, she had him and her brother by their ears for cow tippin’,” Wes grinned, recalling the spectacle.

  “I can see that,” Evan replied, chuckling. “Carey’s always been a bit of a prankster.” Evan’s eyes tracked back to Sam. “She never talks about her brother. We all know she had one, but that’s about it.”

  Wes felt his mouth compressing into a hard, flat line. He nodded stiffly, turning back toward the glass. Sammy looked so small, swaddled and tucked under hospital quilts, her head tilted toward Carey in sleep, like she was watching over him. He recalled the way she took care of Ryland those many years ago. How she’d adored him.

  “He was about the same age as Carey, maybe a little younger,” Wes told him in a low voice. “They were close. She loved him more than anything in the world.” Wes sighed, recalling how he envied them at times, wishing he’d had his own sibling. “She practically raised him when their mama died.”

  “What about her daddy?” Evan asked, his own Southern accent thickening.

  “Fell off the wagon for a few years, I guess,” Wes shrugged. “Way she told it, he wasn’t around much after their mother died. Took him a while to clean up and come back around.”

  “Damn,” Evan muttered, shaking his head. “That had to be hard on her.”

  “Explains a lot though, doesn’t it?”

  “How old was she when her brother died?” Evan asked quietly.

  Wes closed his eyes, rubbing a hand down his face, remembering that awful year. Christ, he allowed himself to be so distant. Looking back, he couldn’t believe he’d actually thought that leaving her would be the best thing for her. He wanted to kick his own ass for inflicting so much pain during a time when she’d needed him badly, a time she’d probably felt most alone in the world.

  “She was twenty-one when her daddy and Ry were killed in an accident,” Wes confided quietly. And he’d been twenty-two. God, they’d been so young… just kids, really.

  “That’s awful,” Evan sighed. “I had no idea. She’s tougher than hell, but she never talks about it. You know she’s survived a lot just by looking at her sometimes.”

  “It’s the eyes,” Wes acceded, tracing the glass. “You can see a lifetime of hurt and love in them when she lets you.”

  “Well, shit,” Evan muttered suddenly, visibly discomfited. “You really care about her, don’t you? Even after all this time.”

  “Never stopped,” Wes replied with a lift of his shoulder. “Just never thought I’d get the chance to be near her again. Then this happens and I realize I somehow got lucky. Now there’s no way in hell I’m going to let her go this time—”

  Evan’s eyes shot over Wes’s shoulder. “Jack—” he said suddenly, straightening.

  Wes’s back stiffened as he turned.

  He met cold, gray eyes. The guy who stared hard at him was about his height, well over six feet, with dark hair and an expression that radiated fury.

  “Who. The fuck. Are you?” he stated coolly, eyes narrowing on Wes. Jack had clearly overheard at least part of the conversation. “And where the hell is Samantha?” he asked, turning his gaze on Evan.

  “You didn’t tell him?” Evan asked Simon as he came to stop just behind Jack.

  “He hates me enough as it is, mate,” Simon raised his hands in defense. “Reckon you’d want to be the one to tell him.”

  Jack raised a brow. “Somebody want to fill me in on what the hell is going on here and who the fuck this jackass is?” he glared, gesturing at Wes.

  “I’m Wes Elliott,”
Wes replied, straightening as they squared off.

  “That means nothing to me,” Jack replied.

  “It should.” Wes smirked though he knew he shouldn’t have. He could sense the guy’s temper rising like a thermometer.

  Gray eyes narrowed to flint. “What exactly does that mean?” Jack asked with a steely voice.

  “Have you seen Jaime yet?” Evan asked, cutting in and stepping between them subtly.

  “Just finished getting updated from the surgeons,” Jack nodded. “Now where’s Samantha?” he asked again, his impatience getting the best of him.

  Evan glanced through the observation window and Jack’s eyes followed. Before anyone could stop him, Jack was inside the ICU, gingerly lifting an inert Samantha, cradling her passive, curled form as monitors beeped and nurses marched passed them in a flurry.

  They all attempted to shoo him off in a combination of agitated Portuguese and impatient English, but Jack wouldn’t have it, pushing out a stiff arm to keep them back as he held Sam against his chest, staring down at her.

  “Tesoro,” he murmured, his expression tortured. “Tesoro, what happened to you…”

  *

  December 1st—Present Day

  Hospital Copa D’Or in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

  J A C K

  “Mr. Roman?”

  Jack let loose a shuddering breath, his arms around Samantha’s motionless form. He stared down at her, this vibrant, powerful woman now a pale, gaunt version of herself.

  All the rage coiled inside him abated as he stared at her and saw the concentrated bruising at her chest where the neckline of the hospital gown dipped.

  “What happened to her?” he wondered aloud, feeling staggered and dumbstruck. Seeing her like this—so damaged and fragile—devastated him.

  “Mr. Roman?” The doctor said again, moving closer to the bed.

  Jack blinked, looking up at him dazedly, bewilderment rendering him speechless.

  The doctor smiled gently, motioning the nurses back. “I know you must be in a state of shock seeing your wife like this, but I’m afraid I have to speak with you outside the ICU,” he explained, his English accent tinged with regret. “She’s still being monitored, and there’s a chance we may need to take her into surgery if the internal bleeding hasn’t stopped—”