Act of Mercy Read online

  “Anything else?” asked Duke, intrigued but not enough to risk his life by moving.

  Idiots need to sit down and stay in one place.

  Nodding, Corbin continued on, “We were able to dig up an address for her in Paris.”

  “You think she’s dumb enough to still be there?” asked Striker. “I’m guessin’ she’s long gone. If she’s half the threat they’re makin’ her out to be, she’ll be halfway around the world before we land.”

  He had a point. Duke nodded in agreement and started to stand, with the intent to go to the table. The plane hit a particularly rough bout of turbulence and shook. Duke pushed down into his seat, positive his movement caused the plane to rock. No one could tell him different.

  Boomer kicked awake. “Huh? What?”

  “Corbin is briefing us,” Duke said, wanting to think about anything other than being thousands of feet in the air—above the ocean. “You’re not missing anything. He doesn’t know shit. And Intel got their asses handed to them by some random informant. Consider yourself briefed.”

  “Would that I could fire you,” Corbin said in a sing-song voice.

  “Sucks, don’t it.” Duke blew him a kiss. “You get us for life.”

  “Know that I’m entertaining killing you,” said Corbin with a smile. Corbin would never make good on the threat and Duke knew it. They were a family of circumstance and family protected family—that was why they were handling the extraction of James. No other teams. PSI had division headquarters in cities much closer than theirs but none of them would see James as a brother.

  Duke’s team did.

  Yeah, they’d had a falling out of sorts. Didn’t matter. Only getting James back safely mattered. To hell with everything else.

  Rubbing a hand over his face, Boomer sat up fully, looking a bit more awake. He stood, stretched, and went to the table. His violet gaze centered on the files before him. He ran a hand through his long hair. If it wasn’t for the closely clipped facial hair he kept, Boomer would look a lot less manly. He’d heard women talk about him reminding them of a rock guy or Goth something or other. Duke tried not to pay too much attention to what others thought. And since Boomer wasn’t his type, Duke really didn’t care.

  Boomer touched the files, the sadness around his eyes returning. “She’s a babe.”

  “I know,” Striker said, appearing in the main cabin area with a bottle of water. It was a considerable step up from the cheap beer he’d been pushing for earlier. “She’s my kind of gal. I like redheads. They have fire in their souls and sometimes the actual ability to wield fire—I suggest avoiding the supernatural ones. They can be hazardous to one’s health.”

  “The last time you went out with a redhead, she tried to cut your dick off,” Boomer said from the sidelines, perking, a smile touching his lips. “Said you were a cheatin’ bastard who needed to be taught a lesson you’d never forget.”

  Striker grinned from ear to ear as if the memory was one of his best. He had a reputation with the ladies. Most of the operatives did. They were all careful. They knew the risks of being with human women. You didn’t dare spill your seed in one. It could kill them—shifter seed was toxic to humans and if they managed to survive it and gods-forbid, became pregnant, they’d never carry the baby to term—they’d die. It was worse for those who weren’t natural-born supernaturals—that was where the luck of those who were bitten ran out.

  No one really knew why.

  Humans just weren’t built to handle supernaturals pregnancies.

  “Want to talk about ladies’ men,” Striker said, pointing to Duke. “Right there. Big time.”

  Duke wore the label with pride as he did most of what he was called. “What of it?”

  “Someday, yer gonna meet a lass who shakes the verra ground you stand on. Then what are you gonna do?”

  Duke groaned. “Hope she knows how to interpret for your shaggy self. I get about half of what you say. And trim that beard. You look like a bear. And besides, what do you know of a woman making the ground shake around you?”

  Striker laughed. “I’ve shaken many a lass, Marlow.”

  “Children,” Corbin scolded. “Focus. It appears Mercy Deluca is a doctor who also has a degree in biomedical engineering. Sounds like she was some sort of child prodigy.”

  Striker whistled. “Hot and smart. If she wasnae an evil bitch, I’d do her. No, wait, I’d do even her with her bein’ an evil bitch. I like ’em naughty.”

  Boomer high-fived Striker. Duke snorted.

  Corbin pinched the bridge of his nose as if dealing with all of them gave him a headache.

  Maybe it did.

  Duke closed his eyes. They could hash out what little details they had on the woman. He needed some shuteye. Sleeping was the only way he was able to pass the time on long flights. It was do that or obsess about plummeting to his death. It felt as if he’d only just nodded off when Striker was there, touching his arm then stepping back in case Duke woke with a start.

  “What?” Duke asked.

  “You were moaning and going on about a woman,” Striker said, laughing partially under his breath. “And by going on, I mean grunting like a ruttin’ pig and whispering lovey dovey sayings. We never knew you were such a romantic.”

  Duke glanced at Corbin and Boomer, unsure if Striker was simply trying to get a rise out of him or telling the truth.

  Corbin nodded. “And you said the target’s name.”

  “What?”

  “You said Mercy and, Duke, you said it like you were in the middle of one hell of a sex dream.”

  Duke remembered nothing. He’d thought he’d only nodded off a few seconds. “How long was I out?”

  “We’ll be landin’ soon,” Striker said. He handed Duke the files. “Brush up.”

  Glancing down, Duke was about to tell his friend to go to hell when he stopped, the compulsion to look at the photos too great to resist. The sheet they were printed on didn’t include much detail. Only an American passport photo and a driver’s license picture. But what was there was stunning and oddly familiar. Like he knew her without really knowing her. The woman was beyond beautiful.

  Her hair, so deep a red it bordered on brown, hung in long layers round her heart shaped face. He wasn’t sure if the hairstyle was made to look trendy or simply a woman who couldn’t be bothered to deal with it, chopping it off at random. Bright blue eyes looked out from behind thick lashes. She was laughing in her photo for her driver’s license.

  Full-on laughing.

  Who still had the ability to laugh after standing in the DMV?

  He read her specs. She was only five-three. Tiny gal.

  Duke couldn’t seem to pull his gaze from her smile. The more he looked at it the more his limbs began to tingle, heat prickling up them, moving through him and centering in his groin.

  The others were wrong. She wasn’t just smokin’ hot. She was the single most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes upon and he’d seen his fair share of sexy gals. The smile drew him in again.

  He wanted to see that smile focused on him, caused by him. He wanted to hear her laugh. And he wanted more than anything to touch her pale skin.

  She’s the bad guy.

  Fuck she is.

  The argument in his head nearly spilled out to the open. He cleared his throat, deciding it best to leave his suspicions alone—for now.

  Striker was there, watching him closely. “You need some alone time with that photo?”

  “Kiss my ass,” Duke bit out.

  Waggling his brows, Striker leaned close. “I do nae swing that way, a ghrá geal. If I did, you’d know.”

  “Gesundheit.” With a roll of his eyes, Duke pushed Striker away. “Go bother the pilot, jackass.”

  “I’d rather he not,” Boomer said, taking the files but not the sheet with the pictures on it. “I’d prefer we stay in the sky.”

  “You and me both,” Duke folded the paper with the pictures on it and began to slip it into his front pocket.
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  Striker put his hand out. “Paper.”

  “No.”

  “It’s part of the file.”

  “I’m keeping it,” Duke stated evenly. He couldn’t explain his attachment to the woman pictured upon it. Didn’t feel the need to try.

  Striker tipped his head. “If you excuse yerself and go to the bathroom for thirty minutes, we’re all gonna know yer in there rubbin’ one out.”

  Lifting his hand, Duke smiled as he raised his middle finger.

  “Doesn’t change the fact yer a perv. Keepin’ her picture. She’s behind James being taken.”

  “We don’t know that,” Duke blurted. “She could be innocent in all this.”

  All eyes came to him. Uncomfortable with his proclamation, he put his fingers into his pocket and skimmed the paper with the photos. His body responded, his cock coming to life as if his dick remembered the erotic dream his brain couldn’t recall.

  He thought about giving it to Striker to shut him up, but as Duke’s skin made contact with it, something feral in him began to rise, threatening to come and play.

  That would surely bring the plane down.

  “You all right?” asked Striker, looking very concerned. “What’s goin’ on with you? Is it the flight?”

  “I honestly don’t know.” Duke swallowed hard and Striker nodded. “I don’t know why I said what I did.”

  “I think I might know,” said Corbin. Duke waited for an explanation. None came. The man offered no more on the matter. He stood and lifted his arms above his head, stretching fully. “I’m starving.”

  “Good luck finding anything filling in France,” Boomer chimed in. “All they seem to want to feed us is cold cuts and cheese. Look at us, does it look like we can live off that?”

  “Do nae get me started on portion sizes,” Striker said. “Last time we were there I nearly ate the waiter just so I’d feel like I had an appetizer.”

  Duke let out a shaky laugh. He wasn’t in the mood for fun banter. He wanted to get to the woman pictured—Dr. Mercy Deluca—and figure out why the hell she made him so crazy. A change of topic was in order and the mood needed to be lightened, fast. Striker might have a point. “We could always just shapeshift and eat the French. They have plenty to go around.”

  “Weren’t you bitching about indigestion off the last guy you took a chunk out of—in Seattle?” Boomer asked, taking a seat again. He leafed through what little paperwork there was. His attention went to Corbin. “I’m with Duke. Are we sure she’s the enemy? I mean, she doesn’t look diabolic.”

  Duke held his breath, needing to hear the others weigh in on the matter. He knew his judgment was off but he didn’t understand why. Normally, he was no-nonsense. He got in, did the mission and got the hell on with his day. He didn’t overthink anything. Hell, if anything he under-thought most of it. At least that was what Corbin would say if asked.

  Something was off.

  There was more to the target than was being laid out before them. Even Boomer felt it. The light signaling they needed to take their seats and buckle up popped on. They’d be landing soon.

  Duke’s least favorite part of flying—well, after taking off, that was.

  Chapter Four

  James “Jimmy” Hagen crawled to the side of his cell, very familiar with it since he’d been calling it home for months. It was sparse yet the nicest one he’d ever been held in. And he’d been held in a number of them in his long life. The worst had been a little hellhole in Scotland. It was then he’d first met Striker, who was also being held in the same cell.

  He missed his teammates. Missed having them around. They were always good for a laugh and for a hell of a good fight. Especially Duke. The temper on that one was something to stand in awe of. Boomer, on the other hand, was quiet most of the time but Jimmy had seen glimpses of what lay beneath the normally even façade—darkness, pain, loneliness.

  At last check Jimmy was the only team member outside of Corbin who fully knew Boomer’s story. It was far from pretty. As Jimmy looked around his cell, he couldn’t help but feel guilty. Here he was desperate to leave it when in truth it was better than what Boomer had been held in for a chunk of his life.

  Far, far better.

  Jimmy sighed. He still couldn’t believe he’d been foolish enough to get ambushed. He’d been so worried about protecting a girl—Inara Nash—that he’d come to see in a fatherly light that he’d given no thought to his own safety.

  Rookie mistake and he was hardly what one would term a rookie.

  When he’d first found himself locked in the cell, he’d been in better shape. Groggy from the drugs they’d pumped into him to keep him sedated during his long trip in a cargo container to France, but in decent health. Well, as decent as one could be after surviving an attack by fifteen hybrids who reeked of vampire and shifter mixed together. Pet projects—that was what he’d taken to calling them.

  Much had changed in regards to Jimmy’s health.

  Even an alpha male supernatural could only take so much before their bodies broke and refused to heal. He was nearing that point. At times, he wished his body would simply give out. That way, Mercy would have no reason to rescue him.

  The damn well-meaning redheaded doctor was going to get herself killed trying to do good. He didn’t need another death on his hands. He had more than enough as it was.

  She was good people. He’d sensed it on her the moment he met her. Sensed a lot more than that, but she denied it. Mercy had Fae or something damn close in her, and if the people there found out, she’d be sitting next to him. Jimmy had smelled witches in his life, and Mercy’s scent sort of blended Fae and witch. Whatever she was, it wasn’t human.

  Stupid doctor.

  Trouble had a way of finding him. That or he somehow created it. For ten years he’d laid low, staying off the grid and doing what he could to pay back the debt he owed.

  His thoughts ran to Inara, the young woman he’d come across when she was really just a girl. She’d been new to the streets and wouldn’t have made it very far without someone to guide her. He’d done that. He’d taught her the way of things and how to stay safe.

  He could only hope she was still alive and well. He’d seen her in a fatherly light. And while he could have taken her off the streets and provided for her, he knew that wasn’t meant to be. Destiny had a way of writing things out far in advance, and part of Jimmy’s abilities was the gift of foresight. Though it presented itself in strange ways, never cut and dried.

  He’d known the minute he’d crossed paths with Inara that he was to train her and guide her as best he could. That she was to be paired with someone of importance. When she’d started drawing pictures of Eadan Daly, a fellow PSI-Op, Jimmy understood who that someone important was. He also knew he had to do the unthinkable, make contact with PSI once more. When he’d left it had been on bad terms.

  That is putting it mildly.

  The Director, General Jack C. Newman, had wanted him to stay. He’d wanted to smooth it all over and make it right. Jimmy didn’t. He needed to pay for being too late to help a fellow op. Pay for ignoring his visions of the future and thinking them a trick of the mind. Had he only followed what they’d shown him, the operative might still be alive. In the end, it was Jimmy’s fault the man was dead. If PSI wasn’t willing to blame him, that was fine.

  He blamed himself enough for everyone.

  When he found himself captured and in his current situation, he assumed this would be his end.

  His penance.

  He’d been unable to reach out mentally and connect with any of the other shifters around him, so he knew the place had something blocking the ability. If he had to guess, it was some sort of modified, state-of-the-art L.R.A.D—long-range acoustical device. He’d heard word on the street that they were being used against supernaturals, but he’d not run into them before. Part of him hoped whatever it was would stop the dreams.

  It hadn’t.

  They kept pumping him full of drugs. Dr
ugs he suspected were designed to enhance his abilities. Even before he’d been beaten down to the point he was, he’d struggled against his beast when he’d never had self-control issues before.

  And the noise.

  The noise from the one torture device Bertrand used was excruciatingly painful. Jimmy’s ears bled each time it was used against him. That was only the tip of the iceberg with the torture. He knew he couldn’t hold out much longer. Whatever they were mixing into the injections they were giving him also hindered his ability to heal, while increasing his gift of foresight. It was like they wanted all he could in that area while keeping him helpless in others.

  Bastards.

  He’d dreamed of the redheaded doctor before ever meeting her face-to-face. Dreamed of her quirky tendencies and absentminded ways. Dreamed she’d come and not only offer friendship, but link him to his past. Jimmy hadn’t been sure how it would all go down, only that it would. When she happened upon him during one of Dr. Bertrand’s more colorful examinations, he’d not been surprised to see her.

  She’d been horrified by what she saw.

  As she should have been.

  Think you’re a big shot, don’t you? You like the redhead, don’t you?

  Bertrand’s words rung in Jimmy’s ears. The man had asked them when he was pressed against Jimmy’s restrained body. The man had gotten off on it all, rubbing against Jimmy, warning him how he’d hurt Mercy when he considered Jimmy good and broken.

  Jimmy’s affection for Mercy was not sexually based. He saw in her a kindred spirit. Someone similar to him. And a good person caught in a bad situation.

  Jimmy had seen the way Bertrand watched Mercy. The same way he watched Jimmy. The man thought of sex as power and Jimmy wanted the young doctor far from the sick bastard. He couldn’t bare the idea of her being harmed by him. Not when she was only guilty of showing Jimmy kindness.

  She’d worked hard to gather valuable information regarding the people holding him, and Jimmy had given her the means to reach help. Damn forgetful doctor didn’t use the right codes so there was no telling if PSI would show thinking she was a friendly or the enemy. Because there was no doubt they would show. It wouldn’t matter to them how he left or why. They were his brothers-in-arms.