Chad’s frown lingered for a minute, while his hands traveled down her body and over her hips. “Never thought it could feel so good,” he murmured.
“What?”
“To be mad at you. Just yesterday, all was lost. And now you’re here, and we’re wasting time fighting.”
“So don’t.”
She sucked in a breath when his hand wrapped around her thigh, his body pushing her into the wall.
“Twenty minutes, you say?” he whispered against her lips.
She held her breath. His touch was scorching. “About sixteen now.”
His lips curled in a wicked grin. “Sixteen minutes it is.”
Chapter 40
The weather couldn’t have been worse for a night like this. Or maybe it could have, if the heavens had opened up and started spewing fire. At least then Peter’s ears wouldn’t have fallen off about ten minutes ago.
It was going to be a long, hard night.
He tugged on his shield and pulled his head deeper into the hood, feeling like a turtle under all the layers. At least they had some cover, the ledge tall enough to protect their backs from the nasty wind as they crouched on a rooftop five stories above ground.
The radio clicked, Rob shifting at his side.
“Heading down West now,” a quacking voice informed them.
“Copy that,” Rob said. His shield flickered, and Peter spread his to cover them both, if only for a few minutes. “Thanks,” his second said with a grateful nod.
“Men must be frozen out there,” Peter muttered.
“They are. I rotate them as often as I can.”
“They’ll stay at HQ. Warm up, then take over the perimeter.” Peter turned, finding Rob’s sharp, dark eyes watching him. “You’re coming with us though. We’ll need someone to watch the perimeter there.”
“That’s a whole lotta men—and perimeters.”
Peter suppressed a sigh, brushing snow from his shoulders and hood.
“Turning onto Milton,” the voice from the radio said.
“Roger,” Rob replied. “Red, how’s the signal?”
It took a few seconds for Rooney to reply, “Everything’s good.”
“Come on, come on,” Peter muttered under his breath. He turned around, peering over the ledge. Headlights pierced the dark a few blocks over. “Rob—”
“They’re heading toward Greenpoint Ave,” Rob said into the radio, having noticed the Jeeps already. “Gamma, they’re yours.”
“Roger that.” The radio’s hissing ceased, leaving them to wait in tense silence. There was nothing more to do. The rest depended on how well Peter had planned this.
A gust of wind sent a cloud of snowflakes in the air, obscuring his view. But still, he saw it nice and clear when the jeeps crossed one of the spots they’d chosen to plant their harpoons.
His heart gave a hopeful jolt.
“Gotcha,” Rob muttered, flicking a button on the radio.
“Red, tell me you got one of them,” Peter said into it.
“No, boss,” Rooney answered, making Peter blink in confusion as the pause stretched a second too long. “We got them both.”
Peter clasped Rob’s shoulder, then jumped to his feet, his body seemingly too light without that goddamned weight on his shoulders. They were tracking not one but two vehicles, in case one of the harpoons didn’t make it all the way to the Commandos’ base.
“Good job, everyone,” Rob said into the radio. “Wrap it up and go home.”
He stood up and stretched, that big white grin back on his face for the first time in what seemed like forever. “We got those fuckers. They got nowhere to run now.”
* * *
“I think I cracked a rib.” Chad bent down to pick up his practice sword for the tenth time, grunting at the shooting pain in his midsection.
He used to spend Friday nights sipping whiskey in a bar—or at Dave’s place after yet another crazy drag race or party—but now it was the coppery taste of blood that coated his tongue. He swallowed, grimacing, and glared at Skull.
The giant held his stare as he reached for a water bottle on a lone table in a corner. “Good. Now you’ll have a chance to practice your healing. You got five seconds.” He dropped his practice sword on the table to unscrew the cap, then guzzled down half the bottle.
Chad used the respite to restore his breath, walking the small space of the second training hall. The door was locked to keep out any interruptions—not that anyone wanted in at this time of night. Nine to ten PM was for liquor and gossip, Chad had quickly figured out.
Skull picked up his sword, the thing ridiculously small compared to his machete, and stepped toward Chad. While Chad’s t-shirt was already sticking to his body, Skull hadn’t even broken a sweat whooping his ass. The training hall was the only place Chad ever saw him not in all black. His gray t-shirt and loose pants were a reflection of Chad’s clothes tonight.
“You need a kick or somethin’?” Skull grumbled.
Chad lunged at him. Their swords clashed, the air abuzz with their shields, and Chad jumped to the side before the pressure could become too much. He feinted, then brought his sword up in an arc, but Skull’s sword was already there to meet his. Chad told himself it would’ve been different with his real sword, wanted to believe that—it had been Michael’s blade, after all. But the truth was, were they using real weapons, Skull probably would’ve cut him in half a million times by now.
Their swords clashed again, and with a simple flick, Skull knocked the weapon out of Chad’s hand. Chad’s eyes went wide as the dull point of Skull’s sword dug into his chest.
“What was your mistake just now?” Skull said, pushing it in.
“I… I loosened my grip. And I don’t know how to do what you just did.”
“Wrong.” The pressure lifted. Skull
