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Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page
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This book is dedicated to Donna Soluri. A woman who means a great deal to me. And not just because we both like the F-word so much. Thank God we met or I would have laughed a whole lot less.
acknowledgments
A girl’s gotta have her cheerleaders, and for this series, my cheerleaders are my editor, Rose Hilliard, who makes it an actual joy to read her edits, and my agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, who defies words to express how awesome she is.
Thank you both for believing in this series and for believing in me.
prologue
Of Course I’m Going to Kill You
Gerald Raines turned the corner into his bedroom and flipped the switch just inside the door that would illuminate the lights on the nightstand.
They didn’t turn on.
His first thought was always his first thought when something went wrong.
To blame whatever wasn’t working on his wife.
His second thought was always his second thought, or at least the one he’d had the last two years.
That being the reminder the bitch had moved out and divorced him.
He flipped the switch repeatedly, and when nothing happened, he stomped into the dark room, grousing, “I do not need this shit today.”
“Not another move.”
The voice came from the dark, rough, male, deep, quiet, calm.
Gerald’s entire body froze solid.
He knew that voice.
Impossible. Totally impossible, he thought.
But what he knew was that if anyone could come back from the dead, it would be a member of that team.
That damned team.
Gerald didn’t move even when the shadow formed in front of him, tall, lean. Healthy.
Impossible.
It got close, lifted its arm, and Gerald felt a circle of cold steel pressed tight to his forehead.
Not a ghost.
Real.
It couldn’t be.
But it was.
“John,” he whispered.
“I’d say you got nothin’ to worry about,” the shadow replied. “They’re all dead. But you do got somethin’ to worry about because, contrary to officially unofficial reports, I’m not.”
“How did you—?”
Gerald stopped speaking when the cold hardness pressed deeper into his forehead, forcing him to arch back several inches.
In that moment, it took grave effort not to foul himself.
But when the voice came again, it was still eerily calm.
“You set us up.”
“It was the mission,” Gerald returned swiftly, raising his hands to the sides, showing he was unarmed, not a threat.
The shadow kept the gun to his forehead.
“You set us up.”
“It’s always the mission, John,” he reminded him. “In the briefing notes, the estimates of success are communicated and they’re never good.” His tone turned from desperate to desperately flattering. “That’s why we’d send your team. You had the skills to beat the odds. And you did. You always did.”
Until they didn’t because the mission had been designed that way.
“You set us up.”
“It was the job, John. You know that.”
“It was a goddamned,” he pressed Gerald’s head back with the gun as his shadowed face got closer, “suicide mission. With my team’s corpses right now rotting in that fucking jungle, except Benetta and Lex, who were blown to fuckin’ bits right in front of Rob and me, Rob dyin’ in my goddamned fuckin’ arms not two hours later, do not stand there lying to me, telling me it was the job. You … set us up.”
Gerald tried for bravado, straightening his shoulders. “You understood the work we do, John. You signed up for it.”
He took off the pressure of the gun and moved back inches, but he didn’t leave Gerald’s space nor did he drop the weapon.
“What I understand is that you had a shot at a deal with Castillo, he had a beef with the team because you sent us to take out his brother, somethin’ we did, and Lex almost bit it during that mission, so you offered us up, ducks in a barrel, so you could use Castillo’s network to get your arms where you needed them.”
Jesus, how did he know that much?
Goddamn.
That team.
They could do anything.
And they did.
Even one of them surviving a mission that was designed to kill them all.
“Those fighters needed weapons and they’re the only hope our government has to keep peace in that region without us engaging our own soldiers to do it at great cost of money and lives,” Gerald shot back in his defense.
“So you set up your own fucking team to go down?”
“Castillo was an important asset,” Gerald returned. “The only shot we had. Every mission, every move, we weigh the gains and losses, John, and you know how we reach those scores.”
“We were your soldiers. Our country’s soldiers. And you sacrificed us for a shot at a deal with a sleazy arms dealer? Who, by the way, fucked you the minute he could and didn’t deliver one goddamned gun where you needed it.”
Damn, he knew everything.
Gerald changed tactics.
“As far as your country’s concerned, John, you don’t exist. You gave up your lives. You kept your dog tags but gave up your identities. All six of you did. You were ghosts before you became this ghost.”
“We were,” he pushed the gun back to Gerald’s forehead, “your soldiers.”
That was true.
But in that game, it didn’t matter in the slightest.
There were no soldiers.
In that game, everyone was a pawn.
“I have to make tough decisions every day,” Gerald spat, losing patience so he wouldn’t lose control of his fear. “You can’t imagine, you can’t even—”
The shadow cut him off, stating, “I got a tough decision to make too.”
Gerald felt his bowels loosening.
God, he was going to die at the hands of a man he’d personally handpicked to be trained as a killing machine.
“Are you going to kill me?”
“Of course I’m going to kill you,” the shadow replied calmly.
The bowels didn’t go but Gerald felt the wet trickle down his leg.
There was the barest sneer in his voice when the shadow whispered, “Jesus, did you spend even a minute in the field?”
He smelled the urine.
Humiliated, terrified, Gerald stood there, staring into the dark, featureless face of a man who’d been trained to do a great many things, do them in a variety of ways, do them exceptionally well, and one of those things was to kill, and he said nothing.
“You didn’t,” the shadow kept whispering. “You sent us to dirty, rotten, stinking places, dealing with filth, doing shit that marked our souls, bought us each a ticket straight to hell, and you haven’t spent a minute in the field. In your bedroom, you got
one shot to be a real man, to die with dignity, and you wet yourself. Fuck me.”
“Just get it over with,” Gerald whispered back.
“One each,” the shadow returned.
Gerald’s head shook reflexively with confusion but when the gun pressed deeper, he stopped it.
“One?” he asked.
The shadow didn’t answer.
“One what?” he pushed.
“One whatever I want,” the shadow replied. “One day. One week. One month. One year. One for each. Five of them. Maybe a year for Rob. A day for Benetta. A week for Piz. A month for Lex. Another for Di. However I want it. You could have five years. You could have five days. Whatever I want. That’s all you got. Then it’s over for you.”
And with that and not another word, the cold metal left his head, the shadow left his vision, and without a sound, he felt the presence leave the room.
And Gerald Raines stood beside his bed, his shoes sinking into the carpet in a puddle of his own hot piss.
one
Set Up a Meet
BRANCH
Two years, three months later …
The man dropped to his feet.
Without hesitation, even though his jaw was hanging loose from its hinge, Branch kicked the man’s face with his boot.
The head shot back, the body moving with it, but no noise was made, no movement outside what came with the kick.
The guy was out.
And Branch didn’t give that first fuck if he ever checked back in.
Without another glance, he turned and walked away, doing so pulling his phone from his back pocket.
He kept walking, out of the building, right to his truck while engaging.
“Branch,” Aryas said as greeting.
“It’s done,” Branch replied, beeping the locks on his truck.
“Message conveyed?” Aryas asked for confirmation.
“Absolutely.”
“Good. Send me a bill.”
“Will do. Later.”
“Later.”
Branch disconnected, swung up in his truck and drove away.
Eleven months later …
Branch parked directly in front of her house.
It had just gone two thirty in the morning.
He got out of his truck, his eyes to the home in front of him, not for the first time noting that the Willo Historic District of Phoenix was the shit.
Especially her place.
Second house from a dead end that led to a thick, tall hedge beyond which was a parking lot off Central. The location gave the property an odd sense of quiet, even right in the city, close to a busy street like Central, and also a definite sense of privacy on that dead end.
He kept his gaze on her place, the abundant tall trees and full shrubs around her house making it look like something not out of Phoenix, but from the East Coast.
Her water bill had to be off the charts.
She had a ton of planters bursting with flowers decorating the front steps of her bungalow.
Yup.
Definitely off the charts.
His eyes turned right.
She didn’t have a garage, just a carport, but she didn’t need one with those trees shading the house and her lot. When summer hit Phoenix and temperatures hit 115, her place would be thirty degrees cooler, a little oasis in a vast desert valley.
He walked up the front walk but took the path that led along her front porch to the side. Her drop-top white Fiat parked under the carport, Branch headed by it, seeing the interior was red and white, sporty, cute, such a girl car, it was a wonder it didn’t reach out and smear lipstick on his jeans when he walked past it.
Two side doors to the house, one from the floor plan he’d downloaded he knew led to a laundry room, the one closer to the back of her house let you into her kitchen.
He saw the moon gleam off the pool beyond the house, but just barely, due to the foliage and plant-covered pergolas that acted as covered pathways between house, carport and the small studio that stood at the back side of her property.
He stopped at the door to the kitchen and made a decision.
He’d inspect the studio later.
He picked the lock to her house.
He moved in and turned immediately to disable the alarm at the panel, feeling his mouth get tight when it didn’t buzz.
She hadn’t set it.
She didn’t even have a badge in the window that said she had an alarm.
She also didn’t have a dog.
And further, she didn’t have motion sensor lights outside.
But she did have a fucking car that sat under an open carport that screamed a girl lived there.
He drew in breath, turned to face the kitchen, and went completely still.
The floor plan showed the house had three sections of rooms, each section running the length of the house. One side office, laundry room, kitchen. Down the middle, living room opening direct into dining room opening direct into a family room. Other side, guest room, bathroom, small study, Arizona room jutting off the back. The bottom-level ceilings had been lowered so a master, with walk-in closet and master bath, could be set in the attic.
None of the rooms was big except the master.
But in that day of great rooms where kitchens were open, large and part of the house, Branch hadn’t been prepared for this room to be so small, downright snug, filled everywhere, even if he was seeing it by moonlight, with shit that declared boldly a person who liked cooking lived there.
There was a small breakfast nook beyond the counter with the sink that faced the big picture window at the back of the house. There was a little table there, only space for two ladder-back chairs on each side. Plants hung from hooks in the ceiling and sat on high stands, making it look like gazing out the window was doing it through a jungle of leaves.
This was not a kitchen.
This was a kitchen in a house that someone had made a home.
Branch turned and exited immediately, pulling in oxygen when it seemed his breath might turn shallow, and his eyes hit on the studio.
A better place to start.
He moved there, noting the plantation shutters on the windows had been carefully closed. No one could see inside. Not from any angle.
He picked the lock, went in, pulled his small Maglite from his pocket and shined it around the space.
He knew this was her playroom before he’d entered but right then he saw that she didn’t hide it under sheets and tarps, just behind shutters.
Branch shifted the light around, seeing a horse, a bench, a table, all of them good quality. It cost a mint to outfit a good playroom and she didn’t make do. She’d been investing. Making smart purchases that would look good, stand strong during play and last a while.
Fashionable sink in the corner set in an attractive wood vanity, two matching tall, slim cupboards on each side.
He moved there, looked through the vanity and cupboards. Thick towels. Washcloths. Wet wipes. Soap. Bottles of foam anti-bacterial. Cleaning supplies. A large box of condoms. A little basket filled with some cosmetics—powder, lipsticks, gloss. Another filled with first-aid supplies—Band-Aids, bottles of antiseptic, tubes of ointment, gauze, cotton.
He closed the door to the cupboard he was inspecting, turned and shined the light around the room. Moving across the space, he noted hooks on the walls, in the ceiling, eyes in the floor, all looking sturdy. Whoever put them in might have wondered why or he’d been hers. But whoever that was knew what they were doing.
There was a tall cabinet and a large dresser across the room, both in the wood that made up the vanity and the cupboards. It all matched, was heavy and dark but attractive, giving the space the definite feel of a playroom, not a dungeon. It was stylish and handsome, even warm, somewhere you’d want to stay a while.
He didn’t think on his last thought as he opened the top cupboard doors of the cabinet and shined the light in, feeling what he found there in his dick.
Cats. Whips.
Switches. Flogs. Paddles. Some straps. Some harnesses. All hanging from hooks. All well organized and well maintained. All also excellent quality. Not many, but again, quality, not quantity, was what she was clearly going for.
He closed the doors and crouched down to the two drawers at the bottom of the cabinet, opening them. Top one had silk ropes, some chains, shackles, cuffs. The bottom drawer was full of leather straps with cinches attached.
Branch straightened, moved to the dresser. Nothing littered the top, so he opened the first drawer.
What he found there made his balls draw up.
Carefully placed in what looked like purple silk-lined, custom-made grooves were her toys. Plugs. Cocks. Vibrators. The first two in an impressive range of lengths, girths and shapes. If they had them, remotes were placed at the side of the toy they controlled. There was also a complicated cock ring, rabbit ears at the front for clit stimulation, and a strap that would lead between the balls to a bullet that could be inserted in the anus, all of it obviously vibrated—triple the fun.
She liked ass.
Not many of her kind didn’t.
He didn’t think on that either.
He closed the drawer, opened the next, and found baskets placed in, carefully organized and containing a large variety of necessary items. Lubes. Oils. Gels. Lotions.
Next drawer down he found scarves and eye masks, no sensory deprivation, no ball gags, no hoods.
Putting a hand in and touching the fabric, Branch noted she had a fondness for silk and all of them were either dark purple, deep blue or black.
He also noted in an intense way that almost made him feel something, not only in his dick and balls, but somewhere else, that she had her shit tight.
She knew who she was. She knew what she liked. And what she liked wasn’t common or vulgar, as many people might see it (but he didn’t, he still couldn’t deny he liked the way she obviously played it).
There was an elegance to her style.
It wasn’t about ball gags and he didn’t find a single strap-on.
She got the life.
But she did it her way.
Yeah, that definitely almost made him feel something.
Almost.