Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 52851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Before Hammer could work himself up into a proper tantrum, Duke cut in, his voice shifting into that no-bullshit tone I’d known my entire life.
“Right, fill me in. What the fuck happened to your ribs?” Straight to the point, as always.
I exhaled sharply, rolling my shoulders as I filled them in on the incident that had been gnawing at me since it happened. I laid it out, how we had just barely caught sight of the soldier setting up with an RPG, and how we had managed to dive for cover at the last second. But the part that wouldn’t leave my mind—the part that felt like acid burning a hole in my gut—was what I said next.
“They shouldn’t have known we were there, Duke. There was no way they could have known our location. If we hadn’t noticed him before he fired, he would’ve hit us instead of that mud wall.”
Duke’s gaze darkened as he stared at the blank wall in front of him, his mind clearly racing in the same direction as mine.
“Unless someone told them,” He mused.
“Exactly.”
That was the conclusion I’d come to the moment it happened. The idea that there was a rat in my unit—in my team of men I had handpicked myself—made my blood boil. Not knowing who I could trust outside of Indigo made it worse. While I was here working with the Knights, I had another mission of my own: to find the leak. Someone had tipped off the enemy, and I was going to find out who.
The familiar burn of whiskey slid down my throat as I sat at the bar, lost in thought. Around me, the guys carried on with their usual banter and nonsense, but I had long since tuned them out. After years of hearing the same bullshit, I’d mastered the art of selective hearing. Instead, I focused on the bottle in my hand, a gift from one of the Irish guys before we’d left. When he’d handed it to me, Match and I had practically cried laughing at the name—Bushmills Black Bush.
“I didn’t peg you for a whiskey drinker.”
The deep voice pulled me from my thoughts. I glanced over my shoulder and found Jagger leaning against the bar, watching me with that unreadable expression he seemed to favor.
Wordlessly, I turned the bottle so he could read the label. His reaction was priceless.
“The fuck is that?”
“A gift from an Irishman.” I smirked, lifting my glass. “Not bad, actually. Once you get past the initial shudder of drinking something called Black Bush.”
Jagger’s throat worked as he threw his head back and laughed, the deep rumble of it sending an unexpected shiver down my spine.
“To be fair,” I added, smirking, “it could be a blonde bush or a brown bush, and it would still make you shudder.”
Still chuckling, he reached for the bottle, snagging a glass from behind the bar before pouring himself a small measure. He held it up, giving me a look that was half-amused, half-challenging.
“At least it wasn’t a red bush.”
And just like that, the tension from earlier faded, the weight of the mission temporarily forgotten in the warmth of whiskey and unexpected company. I choked hard on the whiskey, the burn of it shooting straight down the wrong pipe. Instantly, my lungs ignited in protest, and I started coughing, trying to clear the fiery liquid while simultaneously resisting the urge to scream at the pain radiating from my ribs. Each hacking cough felt like a knife twisting into my side.
“Ribs…” I wheezed out between coughs, wincing as I clutched my aching torso.
“What?” Jagger leaned in closer, his voice low, his breath warm against my cheek. I’d be lying if I said he didn’t smell damn good—clean, masculine, like leather and a hint of spice, and a stark contrast to the Knights I had known in the past. Most of them reeked of cigarettes, motor oil, and enough sweat to fry an order of fries in their greasy hair.
“She busted her ribs,” Smokey, the ever-nosy bastard, chimed in, leaning past me to address Jagger directly.
I watched up close as Jagger’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in irritation. Before I could react, he reached out and lifted the side of my tank, exposing my bruised side. Normally, I’d have broken his hand for a move like that, but maybe the damn Black Bush was making me more tolerant. Or maybe it was him.
His sharp intake of breath was followed by a slow, angry hiss. Yeah, he’d seen the damage. The scratches were healing, but the deep bruising that stretched across my ribs told the real story, one that still hurt like hell.
“Someone did this to you?” His voice was low, rough, tight with barely contained fury.
I shrugged, reaching for my whiskey and nudging Smokey out of the way to grab the bottle. “Perk of the job.”