Broken Honor Read online

  Possibly forever.

  Yeah, sure, he’d already lost any chance he would have had with her, and he could live with that. Maybe. But losing her completely? Knowing he’d never find out if she’d give him another shot because she was just…gone? His stomach clenched at the thought. No. He wouldn’t let it happen and fought against the headache with everything he had, separating himself from the pain, locking it away. He’d pay for it later, but right now all that mattered was getting to Mara. If he could free her now, before the plane they were undoubtedly waiting for arrived, he’d wouldn’t have to worry so much about the unknowns—how to get on the plane, where they were going, how he’d keep track of her once they landed.

  At least he didn’t also have to deal with scorching heat. Even with the bright afternoon sun, the temperature was struggling to top fifty. A blessing now, but if he was still waiting out here when the sun went down, hypothermia would become a very real problem.

  Which was exactly why he should make his move.

  Quinn sucked in a deep breath and shoved himself upright. He sprinted across the open runway in a low crouch. Nobody tried to gun him down, which he took as a good sign that this was a small-time operation, possibly even a one-man job.

  One man he could take. More than that… Well. He’d do whatever he had to.

  He reached the first hangar, found a side door propped open a half inch, and peeked inside. Dark. The fuckhead wouldn’t be sitting in complete darkness with Mara. They had to be in the other one. He backed away from the door and, staying close to the outside wall, moved around the back side of the building, then ghosted up the alley created by the two hangars. Even before he reached the second hangar’s closed side door, he heard muffled female sobs inside, and his heart clenched.

  I’m here, Mara. Hang on just a bit longer.

  He tested the door. Locked. Because of course it was.

  The distinct sound of a plane decelerating overhead caught his attention, and he squinted toward the sky. Whomever Fuckhead had been waiting for was only minutes away, and he’d prefer to be long gone with Mara by his side before that plane touched down.

  Now or never.

  Keeping to the shadows of the alley, he raced toward the front of the building, firearm up and ready. The main hangar door was open, the lights on, and he sensed movement inside. He sucked in a breath to calm the adrenaline-fueled jitters in his gut, then swung into the opening. The hangar was filled with three planes in various states of disrepair, the internal mechanics spread out on the concrete floor as if the planes had been gutted for parts. And there on the floor in the middle of it all was Mara, struggling against the zip ties holding her wrists, tears streaming over her flushed cheeks and a duct-tape gag.

  Their eyes met, and the relief filtering through hers ignited a fragile spark of hope that maybe he hadn’t fubar’d things with her yet—a spark he ruthlessly squashed. At this point she’d be relieved to see Elvis walk through that door—anyone but her attacker. She made a muffled sound behind her gag, and he pressed a finger to his lips. She nodded.

  “Where he is?” he mouthed.

  She shrugged, shook her head.

  Quinn crouched in front of her. “All right. Let’s get you out of here. We have to move fast. Can you walk?”

  She lifted her feet to show they were also bound with a zip tie.

  Rage sent fire roaring through his veins, and he clenched his teeth against it. He wanted to punch something. Or someone. Preferably the fuckhead who’d abducted her. He did another quick scan of the hangar, then set his gun down and reached into his boot for the knife he’d slid in there before leaving the stolen truck. He bent to saw through the tie—

  Mara’s shout from behind her gag was the only warning he had of an impending attack. He whirled, knife raised, and Fuckhead’s fist glanced off his jaw. The blade flew from his hand, clattering to the floor somewhere nearby. He saw white. His knees buckled and he didn’t catch himself soon enough to stop the fall. He was going down one way or another, but he couldn’t stay down or he’d end up dead. That punch had been calculated to KO him. Truthfully, it was a wonder it hadn’t.

  Rattled from the blow, he clumsily rolled into the fall, sprang back to his feet behind Fuckhead, and snaked an arm around his windpipe, squeezing tight. The guy grunted, and sweat soaked through his balaclava as he struggled for oxygen.

  Quinn was sweating, too, breathing harder than he should have been. Choking someone out was nothing, a cakewalk, and yet his vision started to tunnel on him, and for one horrifying second, he thought he was going to pass out himself. His grip loosened enough on Fuckhead’s windpipe that the guy was able to suck in a rejuvenating breath.

  Shit. A quick, clean knockout wasn’t going to be possible now.

  Quinn blinked away the fuzzy gray dots clouding his vision and redoubled his grip, but the guy was huge, a good three inches taller and carrying an extra thirty pounds of muscle, and he’d tensed up his neck like a steel beam. He reared back, hitting Quinn’s jaw with the top of his head.

  Quinn released the chokehold and staggered. Barely had a chance to suck in a breath to regroup before Fuckhead made like a ram, plowing him in the stomach, and the fight was back on. Kicks and punches flew, Quinn battling for each blow he landed. Fuckhead fought like a machine and was quick for his large size. A punch glanced off Quinn’s side, too close to his kidney for comfort.

  Fuck this. The guy wanted dirty, Quinn would give him dirty.

  Shutting off higher thought, he went into survival mode, all brutal action and reaction. He brought his knee up and connected with Fuckhead’s balls hard enough that the guy’s dark eyes bulged. When he bent double, groaning, Quinn grabbed him by the hair and slammed a knee up into his face. He made an ump sound and staggered sideways but still didn’t go down. Blood splattered the floor from his nose, and he groped around under his jacket, no doubt going for some kind of weapon. Quinn wasn’t about to give him the opportunity to pull it and drove his elbow into the base of the guy’s skull. Finally, Fuckhead collapsed to the floor and didn’t move again.

  Christ.

  Panting hard, Quinn swept his sweat-dampened hair from his face. All right. Who was this guy? He rolled his opponent over and pulled off the balaclava. The face underneath was a bloody mess and his nose was certainly broken, but…

  No.

  No way.

  Recognition slammed through Quinn like a train. This wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. “Urban?”

  Petty Officer First Class Todd Urban’s eyelids were frozen half open, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

  No. Oh, fuck, no.

  Quinn fumbled for a pulse and found nothing under his fingers but cooling skin. That final blow to the head had done more than render Urban unconscious.

  Quinn sat back, head reeling, his stomach threatening a revolt that had nothing to do with the sudden, insistent pounding of a headache inside his skull. He scrambled away from the body and gulped in large drafts of air, silently talking his gut down before it went all Exorcist on him. Puking at the scene of the crime was not a good plan.

  Really not a good plan.

  Fuck! He’d just killed an active-fucking-duty U.S. Navy SEAL. A former teammate. A guy he’d once considered a friend…

  And yet Urban had been fighting to kill. How had he not recognized Quinn? Sure, he’d lost some weight since leaving the SEALs, but he hadn’t changed that much. And why was Urban here alone, without his team? They wouldn’t have deployed on U.S. soil, no matter how important Mara’s stepfather was.

  What the hell was going on here?

  Mara made a whimpering sound, and he gazed over at her. This time, there was no relief in her eyes. Instead, he saw fear. Of him. She was staring at him with sheer terror, her eyes too big in her pale face and showing too much white.

  “Mara.” Her name came out on a soft exhale. He reached for her, his knuckles bruised and bloodied, and she flinched back. The gesture was worlds away from last night, wh
en she had arched into his touch, begged for it. He swallowed hard at the memory, his throat tight. After witnessing this, she’d never let him touch her like that again.

  Which was for the better. A woman like her didn’t deserve his brand of danger in her life.

  He found his knife on the floor near a dismantled plane engine and crossed back to her, holding it up in a silent question. She nodded and shut her eyes, squeezing out tears to roll over her gag as he sliced through the ties on her feet and wrists.

  He reached for the duct tape over her mouth last. “I’ll do it fast, but this will hurt. I’m sorry.” And he yanked it off.

  She cried out in a string of Spanish curses and stomped her feet in a way that had him fighting back a smile.

  Christ, he loved that feisty streak in her, the one she fought so hard to hide behind a demure outer shell.

  Whoa, wait. Loved?

  Ha. What did he know about love? He shouldn’t even think that word in conjunction with Mara. He needed to stop that shit, because she was obviously terrified of him now. With good reason.

  He backed away from her, careful to keep his face impassive. “We need to go.”

  Mara sucked in a shaky breath. Nodded. “Okay.”

  She climbed to her feet and looked so damn small and fragile standing there, he wanted nothing more than to wrap her up in his arms and never let her go.

  Bad idea.

  He spun away, snatched his gun from the floor, and, after a moment of hesitation, he searched Urban and found another gun. He’d need all the firepower he could get his hands on to make sure Mara stayed safe.

  He stared down into Urban’s bloodied face. He hated leaving the guy here, but he didn’t have much choice. Carrying Urban back to the truck would only slow them down, and Mara was his first priority. He’d take her back to El Paso, make sure she was secure, then turn himself in at Fort Bliss. The army would send someone out to investigate and collect Urban’s body. There would be questions he wouldn’t have answers for and possibly even a trial.

  “Goddammit. This shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry, man.” He ran a hand over Urban’s face, closing his eyes for the last time. In his peripheral vision, he saw Mara cover her mouth with her hand.

  “You know him?” she gasped.

  “He was a SEAL. A friend.” Quinn looked over at her, watched the color drain from her face.

  “But—but why would he kidnap me?”

  Wait. What? Sure, Urban had been wearing a hoodie and a balaclava like the abductor, but after Quinn uncovered his face, he’d assumed it had been a tragic case of mistaken identity on both of their parts. It hadn’t once crossed his mind that Urban was the abductor, because that didn’t line up with the Todd Urban he knew—a likable, hardworking family man who would sell his soul for his wife and kids. “This is the man that abducted you? You’re sure?”

  Mara nodded, her dark eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. “He broke into my house and took me out of my bedroom.” She started to tremble. Probably going into shock.

  Again, Quinn wanted to hold her, to tuck her in against his chest until the shivering stopped and the bad memories faded. And again he restrained himself. She had flinched the last time he reached for her. She didn’t want him or his comfort, and who could blame her for that?

  He stared down at Urban. Why would his former teammate kidnap Mara? “This doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

  Chapter Six

  Mara gazed down at the man who had broken into her home, knocked her unconscious, tied her up, and driven her into the middle of nowhere. Travis’s former teammate. “I thought SEALs were supposed to be the good guys. The nation’s heroes.”

  “At one time he was. I don’t know what happened to change that.” Travis straightened away from the body and reached for her hand. She flinched, couldn’t control the automatic reaction. He’d killed a man with those hands—the same hands that had wrung every drop of pleasure from her in bed, but the thought of him touching her now made her skin crawl. Or maybe that was just the shivers she couldn’t seem to stop.

  He’d killed his teammate to protect her. On a purely logical level, she understood that and was grateful for it. But, oh, God, there was such a huge difference between knowing Travis Quinn was a dangerous man and seeing him in action. And witnessing the sheer brutality he was capable of only drove home the realization that she didn’t really know him at all.

  Was this the kind of man she wanted in her child’s life?

  Travis’s jaw tightened, and he dropped his hand. “We need to move.”

  She hugged herself against the chill in his tone. “Where are we?”

  “Somewhere in New Mexico. I have a truck about a mile due west from here. If something happens and we’re separated, run for it. The keys are in it. Take it and don’t stop until you get back to El Paso.” As he spoke, he strode to the hangar door and peeked out. “Aw, fuck me.” He ran back to her, gripped her shoulders, and whirled her around. “Hide. Now.”

  Where? she thought, stalling out midstride, her heart threatening to beat a hole through her rib cage as her gaze boomeranged around the hangar, looking for a hiding place. Travis shoved her toward one of the disassembled planes, but she was too short to reach the doors. She wasn’t getting inside without a ladder or Travis’s help.

  A large toolbox sat on the floor nearby. Better than nothing. She ducked behind it, crouching down in a tight ball, arms wrapped protectively around her belly. Voices sounded from the front of the hangar, but they weren’t speaking English. Or even Spanish, for that matter. Was it…Russian? She strained her ears. Couldn’t make out words, but yes, she was certain it was Russian. She’d spent a summer in St. Petersburg during a high school exchange program and used to know quite a bit of the language—at least enough to understand a conversation and to make herself understood—but it had been ten years since she’d last used it.

  One of the Russians called out, followed by the sounds of struggle—fists landing against flesh, grunts of pain, something metal clattering to the floor.

  Oh, God, had they found Travis? Had he even tried to hide?

  She peeked around the bottom edge of the toolbox. Two big guys held Travis captive on the floor, his face turned in her direction, his cheek smooshed against the concrete. Their eyes met, and his narrowed in an obvious warning.

  Stay hidden. She could all but hear him issuing the order.

  He resumed struggling, and she ducked back behind the toolbox and held her breath at the sounds of more punches, more things falling to the floor, some glass shattering.

  A third Russian voice broke through the confusion. “Stoy!”

  She knew that word. Stop. And just like that, the fight ended. Someone groaned in pain, and she couldn’t stand not knowing what was happening to Travis. She again peeked around the toolbox. Two Russians dragged him to his feet, but he wasn’t the one groaning. It was the bald one to Travis’s left, who was favoring his leg and groaning with the strain of holding Travis still. She gazed past the three of them to the well-dressed man striding into the hangar. He had sharp features and dark hair pulled back into a ponytail at the base of his neck. He was in charge here. Of that, she had no doubt.

  He eyed Travis up and down, then glanced over at the body of her abductor on the floor with a raised, perfectly manicured brow. He clicked his tongue against his teeth and said in English, “Well, this is interesting.”

  “Zaryanko.” Travis all but spat the man’s name. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “I stopped to collect the merchandise Mr. Urban had for me,” Zaryanko said placidly. “Where is she?”

  Merchandise? Mara’s stomach lurched. This man considered women merchandise? Oh, God.

  “Gone,” Travis said. “I let her go. She’s safely in the hands of the authorities by now.”

  Mara shrank back, clearly hearing the implied warning in his words. No matter what happened, she did not want these people to know she was still here.

 
Zaryanko sighed. “You and your friends have a bad habit of getting in my way, Mr. Quinn. First in Afghanistan and now here you are, disrupting another of my business transactions. You’ve cost me a lot of money these last few months.”

  “We stopped you from starting a nuclear war,” Travis said, deadpan. “Cry me a fucking river.”

  “But in truth, you’ve also done me a bit of a favor here,” Zaryanko continued. “I was supposed to hang on to the woman, tuck her away until you came for her, but you’re already here and Mr. Urban’s dead, so I see no reason to go through with their plan. Unless they pay me…”

  “No honor among thieves,” Travis said.

  “Or dirty business associates.” Zaryanko considered for a moment, nodded. “Yes, I think this works out much better. It’s long past time I recoup my loses, and I believe they want the information you have badly enough to pay whatever sum I ask.”

  “Who are they?” Travis demanded. “What information? I don’t have any information.”

  Zaryanko’s gaze tracked over to Urban’s body, but he said nothing more about it. He snapped his fingers, the sound sharp and echoing around the hangar’s high walls. “Bring him,” he said in Russian.

  Mara eased back behind the toolbox and shut her eyes, listened to their footsteps fade away.

  Travis had sacrificed himself for her.

  Tears burned, and she fought them back. She didn’t have time to break down. They had Travis, were taking him God knew where, and she was his only hope. She had to move. Run to the east, find the truck, and get to the nearest phone and call…

  Who?

  Obviously, the police were out of the question. The morning had been so Alice-down-the-rabbit-hole surreal, they’d never believe her. And if Urban had indeed been a SEAL, how did she know she could trust anyone in authority?

  She’d call Jesse. Her cousin would know what to do—he always knew what to do, and he could bring in the rest of Travis’s team. And Lanie. She was a Texas Ranger, one of their best investigators, and would figure this all out.