Breaking Loose

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Ciudad del Este

“Ouch.”

“That’s the last one.” Dax smoothed a small bandage over one of Suzi’s cuts. He’d paid double for super-service in this dump, so he’d had no qualms about letting her soak her heart out in the Posada Plaza’s bathtub, and now she was all warm and steamy and clean, and wrapped in a towel he couldn’t wait to take off of her, and this time it really wasn’t about sex.

He’d been in the bathtub with her, and he knew she was as exhausted as he was, which was bordering on dangerous. They’d moored Conroy Farrel’s ultra-expensive boat at the public docks, paid four kids to watch over it for the night, and eaten on the way back to the hotel.

All they had to do now was sleep.

“Come on, let’s get you into bed.”

Her hair was wet and stringy. Her makeup was long gone. She had a bruise the size of a pistol grip along her temple and cheekbone. She was almost trembling she was so tired and had so much emotion to work through-and she’d never been more beautiful to him in her life.

Yeah. He’d racked up a whole day and a half in her company, and somehow she was his, lock, stock, and barrel, one hundred percent, all his, the whole girl.

His.

Only his.

The rest of the world could go take a flying leap.

He’d moved furniture in front of the door, paid Marcella, Marceline, and the pimp at the front desk each a hundred bucks for security backup. He’d moved more furniture in front of the balcony doors, and he’d cocked, locked, and loaded every damn firearm they had between them.

Everything about this little oasis they were in said “Do Not Disturb.” And he expected the world to respect that for at least twelve hours.

Once he got her all tucked in and comfy, he got in on the other side and pulled her in close, letting her wrap her legs in with his and rest her head on his shoulder, and breathe on him and make him feel secure.

She was his.

“They look pretty comfortable.”

“Too damn comfortable.”

“Why in the hell did you make us work all night, if everybody else got to go to bed?”

Suzi heard the voices from a long distance, like maybe she was dreaming them, but then she realized she wasn’t dreaming.

She knew those voices, and with a soft groan for her aching body and her pounding head, she slowly opened her eyes to a narrow squint.

It was like old home week in room 519 of the Posada Plaza. Zach was leaning up against the open balcony door. Creed was sitting cross-legged on top of the table, eating something covered in sugar. Dylan had the chair, and Hawkins was sitting on top of the dresser closest to the bed.

“Looks like you won the fight, Suzi,” he said. “Good girl.”

“Thank you.” He was proud of her, she could tell, and it did her heart good.

There had been a time when she’d ruled these boys just by being beautiful, and a little sad, and sometimes, in private, a lot sad, until Hawkins had found a place for her.

She’d thought he was crazy at first. Her? Do work for General Grant? But the job had been perfect for her, to wine and dine her way through a series of embassy parties in Prague and let Buck know who talked to whom.

Piece of cake.

And now look at her. Five years later, she was getting the crap beaten out of her and still coming out on top.

“What’s wrong with Killian?” Dylan wanted to know. “You slip him a Mickey, or does he always sleep like that?”

She looked over at the man sound asleep in the bed with her. He was out like a light.

“He had a big day,” she said, shifting her attention back to the boss. “Two big days.”

“Thought he was tougher than that,” Zach said from over by the balcony.

“He’s gonna have to be tougher than that,” Creed said, and took another big bite of deep-fried doughnut.

“He’ll be fine,” she assured them, and for a moment, the room fell silent.

“You were with him,” Dylan finally said, breaking the silence. “What do you think?”

She knew who he was talking about, and it wasn’t Dax Killian.

“J.T.,” she said. “His memory is gone. He’s been tortured. It looks like many, many times. Half of his ring finger on his right hand is missing. He’s got scars on his face, his neck, his arms… probably everywhere, but that’s all I could see with him dressed.” The memory of how he looked played in her mind as she told the guys about Conroy Farrel, John Thomas Chronopolous, and it wasn’t until the tears ran down the side of her nose and pooled on her lips that she realized she was crying.

A pall had fallen over the room.

She understood. What she’d told them was awful, maybe even more awful than what they’d believed all these years.

“We’ve got his girl under lock and key,” Dylan said. “We’re taking her out of here with us, on a transport plane that leaves in two hours. I expect you and Dax to be on that plane. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” She got it. She’d just been given orders by the boss.

“We’ll debrief at Steele Street, before you go to Washington to see General Grant. That’s the way we work. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

He wasn’t Dylan anymore; if she wanted what she’d just earned the hard way, he was “sir.”

“Then get your boyfriend up, Suzi. We’ll see you at the airfield.”

“What about J.T.?” she asked. “What happens next?” She knew her guys, and this was far from over.

A look passed between the men.

“We left him a business card,” Hawkins said. “He’ll know where to find us.”

Yes, he would, Suzi thought. There was only one business card in this group, and it said: DYLAN HART, UPTOWN AUTOS, WE ONLY SELL THE BEST, 738 STEELE STREET, DENVER, COLORADO.