24
A different kind of darkness.
Everything was eerily silent around him. Ripples of pain slowly awakened each muscle in his body.
Killian gasped, clutching his hand to his chest. Getting shot definitely hadn’t been on his list of desired do-overs. Fuck that hurts. He quickly sat up, fighting the head rush as he surveyed his surroundings. He was alone, except for the dead bodies littering the ground around him. He stilled at the faint sound of voices trickling in through the access door in the modular wall.
After blinking a few times, he reached up behind his head. Withdrawing his hand, he frowned at the blood on his fingers and the small throb in his head. Head injuries always bled more, but he had witnessed—and caused—enough to know when one was lethal or had trauma requiring immediate attention. He reached up again, assessing himself, making sure his wasn’t too bad before turning to his side and standing.
He glanced down, frowning at the hole in his T-shirt. He yanked at his collar and pulled out the talisman from under the material. A small caliber bullet had warped the design and had lodged itself in the center of the titanium metal. He raised his shirt, marveling at the circular red imprint on his skin the same size as his talisman.
If he hadn’t seen it—survived it—he never would have believed in divine intervention.
He lowered his shirt as he held the heavy talisman in the palm of his hand. He closed his eyes and pressed a kiss to the piece of metal. Looking up to the heavens, a swell of hope flooded his body. His mother hadn’t raised an idiot, and he recognized a second chance—even a third—when one had been granted. He whispered a silent thank-you to the heavens—to a higher power, his mother watching over him, or his own guardian angel. As far as he was concerned, they had all united in that one precise moment and he had cashed in on all favors owed in this lifetime and the next.
He pressed his hand to the back of his head again, relieved the bleeding had slowed enough to not be a problem.
Taking a few deep breaths, he willed his mind and body to align with the task at hand.
He picked up his gun from the floor and quietly checked the magazine for the remaining rounds. He grabbed his other gun and did the same, holstering both for safe keeping. He worked his way through each of the bodies on the floor, patting their jackets and removing whatever weapons he encountered, including the ridiculous chrome-plated gun from one man who looked as if he’d been cloned from a giant’s DNA. A man who looked like the twin of the one who had shot him.
Bastard.
Killian shoved each of the pistols he had scavenged into the waistband of his pants for easy access, stuffing a few knives he also found into his pockets for good measure. Better safe than sorry, and the dead men around him offered enough weapons for an armory. Armed to the teeth, he had officially become the poster boy for an arsenal party favor.
Creeping close to the edge of the wall, he listened to the faint, distant voices filtering in through the access door.
“He should be here soon. Wait until he sees the surprise we have for him.” They laughed.
Killian could distinguish a few voices. Four different tones. But that didn’t instill enough confidence to charge into the space. He could improvise, but he always worked better with a plan. And after this clusterfuck, he refused to take a chance on anything that would compromise Nick’s or Dex’s safety.
He didn’t know how many men there were or Nick’s and Dex’s location. There were too many unknowns.
“Aren’t you going to say anything about seeing the boss again after all these years?” one thickly accented voice asked.
“Fuck you. Leave him alone!”
Killian stilled at Dex’s voice followed by what sounded like a kick then a groan. He knew Dex well and the familiar protectiveness in his tone. Even though his friend was now even more battered and bruised than when they’d found him, there was no question in Killian’s mind Dex was attempting to defend Nick.
That earned him high marks in Killian’s book.
It also meant Nick was with him.
A swell of relief rose in Killian’s chest, easing some of the tension. He needed to hear Nick’s voice. He needed to be sure. He took another deep breath. Even through all the changes in Nick’s life and the repeated restarts forced upon him by others, Nick’s resilience had urged him forward. Killian wanted to give him that chance that had been stolen from him far too many times in his life. Ironically, he wanted to be the one to gift Nick with hope.
Why isn’t Nick saying anything? Why isn’t he fighting back? Nick wasn’t the type of guy to sit idly by. He wasn’t the guy who sat back and took a beating from others. Even with his reserved and guarded nature, he was tough as nails.
Killian leaned his head back against the dividing panel as the frustration bubbled inside. He quickly grabbed the ridiculous chrome-plated gun from the waistband of his pants and rubbed it against his thigh to polish the finish to a reflective surface. He held the gun close to the floor, using the chrome’s mirror-like finish to gain a better view of the space on the other side of the partition.
The other half of the hangar was open, unmistakably larger. Which meant the space was about two hundred feet long, give or take a few yards, and several feet wider. He needed a better view so he could gauge what he was up against.
He headed over to the shipping containers along the perimeter. Sorted into sets stacked two and three high with a narrow distance between and around them, they granted Killian just enough space to maneuver behind them and covertly peek into the other side of the building without being noticed.
Finally able to assess the entire space, he made a mental note of the layout and location of each guard. Eight men stood at the sides, standing against the wall or sitting at small foldable tables. Some stood with weapons in hand while others sat, trying to pass the time with a card game, probably waiting for Petrov’s arrival.
His heart jackhammered when he spotted Nick toward the back, held by a ninth man while Dex lay slumped on the floor beside him, folded into himself in obvious pain.
They’re alive.
Nick stood still. He looked lost. Numb.
This wasn’t his Nick…the man who saw life and beauty in even the tiniest of details.
Killian narrowed his eyes, zeroing in on Nick’s face. His lips parted with an inhale at the bruises blooming on his cheek. Peering closer, his pulse quickened with a surge of emotion.
Blood. A drop trickled down the side of Nick’s neck from a small cut.
The sight flipped an internal switch in Killian’s being.
A curtain of red fell across his vision.
Rage clawed to the surface, awakening with unbridled fury. A need for revenge infused his muscles, swelling his body with the anger pumping through his veins. He ground his teeth, barely holding back the growl vibrating in his throat as he summoned the darkness within his soul to rise like a phoenix, welcoming it with open arms.
He closed his eyes and sharply inhaled a deep breath, letting his dark side coat his spirit with its poison, numbing every emotion with an arctic blizzard until nothing remained but the shell of a cold, calculating killing machine.
Slowly exhaling through pursed lips, he completely surrendered to his darkness, savoring the newfound strength, control, and unwavering focus it always commanded.
He opened his eyes.
Virtual crosshairs now marked each target. These fucking bastards dared hurt his Nick.
And they were going to pay.
═ ☼ ═
Nick’s entire body was numb, but his mind was on overdrive, cycling through memories and random thoughts as if trying to shield itself from reliving those nightmarish seconds on frenzied replay.
Again.
Maybe he wasn’t really standing there. Maybe there wasn’t really a man holding a knife to his throat. Maybe he was having an out-of-body experience and had actually died on the other side of the wall alongside Ian.
In a way…he had. He didn’t feel…whole. As if his mind and body weren’t in sync and were lost in a thick fog, weighing him down. He was standing there. At least, he thought his body was physically present. But it was empty, almost shell-like and immune to the sight of his soul sobbing, huddled in a dark corner.
He watched the shattered version of himself he didn’t recognize. The pain vibrating off the ghost of that vision was too much, and he feared nearing that weaker self, knowing the comfort would send him into a tailspin of despair he likely wouldn’t recover from.
The medical side of his brain brought reason, forcing him to recognize this was his mind’s way of detaching from the situation to deal with what had happened. A defense mechanism to avoid diving into that part of his mind from which there was no return.
An abyss.
A bottomless pit of darkness and pain where he would completely lose himself.
He closed his eyes and slowly exhaled a measured breath. The pain and grief was overwhelming and his sanity threatened to slip. This didn’t feel real. This couldn’t be happening. He wanted a do-over of the last ten minutes. Or maybe even the last few years. Anything to avoid all of this. Then again…he wouldn’t have reconnected with Ian had he not been running from Petrov.
His mind recycled every thought and question, a vicious loop of what-ifs and rhetorical questions on replay, pushing him to the brink, edging him that much closer to the point where he sensed his mind would spiral into that nothingness.
Ian. Angel.
The man who stood taller and prouder than the height of the mental pedestal Nick had erected in his mind for the man over the years. The man who had sacrificed far too much to protect him…back then and now.
Nick couldn’t dwell on that thought and risk triggering a replay of those painful seconds that would overpower his mind again, pushing him toward the fringe of madness.
“Nick.” Dex’s voice broke into his thoughts, the concern evident in his tone. “Please say something.”
“Shut up!” The man holding the knife to Nick’s throat kicked backward, landing his boot into Dex’s side.
Nick gnashed his teeth and tightened his hands into fists at his side. He couldn’t stand any more pain or loss. A surge of anger snapped, as if his entire body had been rigged with C-4, and someone had pressed the detonator and obliterated every ounce of self-control he had managed to contain. He elbowed the man holding him then spun around, punching and kicking the man repeatedly, not caring about the tip of the knife that had pierced his skin again with the movement or the other two men who neared them, trying to hold him back.
“What the fuck!” one man yelled as a rain of bullets echoed in the hangar.
Nick flinched at the sound, stopping his fist midair as he turned.
His arm slowly dropped to his side and his eyes widened.
Nick’s lips parted as he inhaled.
It was a mirage.
Maybe he had slipped into that mental void without realizing it.
How else could his mind rationalize the sight of a very alive Ian, holding a gun in each hand, firing at every man along his path as he stalked forward with determined strides? Mesmerized, Nick barely registered the sound of gunfire or of bodies landing on the ground with thumps.
Ian’s features twisted in a snarl as he fired each gun—to his left, his right, and crisscrossing his arms when needed to hit his target ahead and another on the ground. One shot to each man and occasionally a second just to be sure. And when one gun ran out of bullets, he pulled another from his waistband and continued, without breaking his rhythm.
The men dropped in succession, each as surprised as Nick to see Ian in the room. Ian neared, leaving nothing but bodies in his wake, like an angel of death, dispensing judgment and fury, with whispers of smoke and sparks of fire escaping from his weapons of choice.
His dark angel. Dressed in black, walking through plumes of smoke in the room filled with the stink of gunpowder. His face locked in the same snarl as when he had entered the room—a man possessed by his mission.
To seek and destroy.
To avenge.
Ian had crossed the large half of the hangar in a matter of seconds. Or was it minutes? Nick had lost all sense of time and space, his mind drifting to the man walking toward him. A vision. His dark knight wore a shoulder holster and several guns tucked in his waistband. He certainly wasn’t the traditional fairy-tale hero. He was a killer to many and feared by most. But for Nick, Killian Marks was far more than power, strength, and control…he was everything happiness and a home should be.
Movement in his periphery stole Nick’s focus and brought him back into reality with jarring speed. The man who had held the knife to his throat withdrew his hand from his jacket as his eyes remained pinned on Ian’s path of destruction.
Nick scrambled, launching himself forward and onto the man, hoping to slow his progress. The man’s eyes rounded, surprised as Nick landed on him, the momentum throwing them both back against the hangar’s side wall. Baring his teeth with the force, Nick held the large man’s wrist up against the wall, struggling to overpower his strength, thrusting his other arm forward in an arc and knocking the weapon to the ground.
In a blur of quick movements, Nick reached for the gun on the ground and quickly straightened, turning the pistol toward the man’s large frame. Nick took a step back, granting a precious foot of distance between them. Holding the gun in both hands, he took aim at the man before him.
Nick’s breathing sped and his hands shook as he stared down the front sight.
He aligned the center of the marker on the man. The gun’s hairline, single red streak of guide paint suddenly came to life, spreading wide as if growing, bleeding into the sides of the metal U marker.
Exactly the way this man would bleed if Nick squeezed the trigger.
Nick couldn’t move. The thought of ending a life constricted his chest so hard he gasped.
The man’s sneer morphed into a crooked smile. Realization. The man knew he’d be spared—knew Nick couldn’t pull the trigger. The man’s smile widened, twisting his features as he took a step forward.
“Nico! No!”
Nick’s head whipped to the side, the sound of his birth name jolting him out of his panicked thoughts. The rush of blood and thump of his heart throbbed in his ears, muting everything but the sound of his name spoken from the voice his soul immediately recognized and craved with enough passion to invoke a tidal wave of emotions to flood his system. Relief, happiness, worry, despair…every emotion lashed through his mind as Ian stood only a few steps away with a gun aimed in their direction.
“Down!”
Nick dropped to his knees on command, and Ian fired without a second of hesitation, the large fair-haired beast of a man falling to the ground with two shots—one perfect hole in the center of his forehead and another shot center mass.
“Stubborn fucker doesn’t die.”
Nick was too stunned to react to Dex’s comment. He wasn’t sure if Dex meant the giant fair-haired beast who lay like a heap on the floor next to them or if he was joking about Ian’s current resurrection.
He didn’t care either way. All that mattered was Ian.
Nick couldn’t tear his gaze away from Ian as he approached. He shook his head in disbelief but refused to turn away. Were his eyes playing tricks on him?
He refused to blink.
If he was having a vision, there was no way in hell he was risking his angel disappearing in the cloud of smoke filling the room.
Two more shots and two more men down. Ian aimed his gun at the last man standing, his gun clicking. Nick’s breath came in rapid bursts when he noticed Ian’s empty waistband. He’s out of guns and bullets.
As if functioning on pure instinct, Ian reached into his pocket and flicked a blade toward the man, piercing the center of his throat and sending him to the ground, gurgling in his own blood.
Nick swallowed heavily. He didn’t want to breathe or move. Nothing that would risk changing a single thing about this very moment.
Ian walked over to him, his features softening with concern. He pulled Nick up off the floor. “He cut you.” He placed his hand at the side of Nick’s neck, adding pressure.
Nick closed his eyes and leaned into the heat of Ian’s palm, finally exhaling a semi-steady breath. The warmth, the familiarity…the sensation brought him back to the here and now, merging the pieces of his fragmented soul back together.
This was real.
Ian was here.
His eyes shot open, and he threw his arms around Ian’s neck, his body seeking the heat only Ian could provide. He grappled at Ian’s shoulders and neck, his breath coming in gasps as he tugged him nearer, but nothing seemed to pull him close enough. “Are you okay?”
“I am now.” Ian pulled back and gripped Nick’s face, slamming their mouths together into a fierce, possessive kiss filled with life, hope, relief, and reassurance that this was real.
Nick dug his fingers into Ian’s biceps, giving back just as much as Ian delivered in the kiss. The warmth of his lips, the heat of his body, and the fire sparking to life between them was affirmation that they were alive, and Ian was with him.
They tore away from the kiss, their foreheads pressed against each other as their harsh breaths mixed in a tornado between them.
“I saw blood. I thought…” Nick screwed his eyes shut, unable to voice the words. If his mind had finally snapped, there was no way he would voice the words that would drive him to face a reality he couldn’t handle.
“I hit the back of my head on the table.”
Nick reached up and held Ian’s face, turning his head to inspect the injury, thankful Ian’s short hair made it easy to see that the cut wasn’t too bad and had stopped bleeding. A sudden rise of panic bubbled inside, wondering if Ian had sustained other injuries while walking through the hangar like some box-office action hero. Nick quickly ran his hands along Ian’s body, inspecting every inch of him for a possible wound. He slid his hands along every centimeter of his clothing, assessing for a cut or shot.
He gasped at the hole through the fabric of Ian’s shirt, above his heart. Nick desperately yanked at the material, simultaneously pulling up the bottom of the shirt while tugging down his collar, twisting the material, needing to ensure Ian’s flesh hadn’t been pierced.
Ian gripped Nick’s wrists, stilling his frenzied motions. “I’m okay.” Ian calmly withdrew the talisman through the collar of his T-shirt and held it out for Nick’s inspection.
The air left Nick’s lungs with a gust. He reached out with shaky hands and held the damaged metal piece in his cupped palms like a sacred gift. The same talisman that had provided spiritual comfort for almost three decades of his life had guarded the man he loved with the equal strength of its density.
He ran his fingertip above the bullet lodged into the now warped metal. Through some miracle, Ian’s life had been spared. Nick’s eyes slid shut as he exhaled an unsteady breath. His facade threatened to crumble just as he was pulled into an embrace and into the safety of the cage of Ian’s arms.
“I’m okay.” Ian’s voice was calm and soothing. “I promise.”
Nick’s lips trembled as Ian held him close, protected in the steel hold of his arms. “You surprised me when you called me Nico,” Nick whispered, taking deep breaths to calm the sting in his eyes and the quiver rippling through his body.
“You zoned out. And I needed you to stop what you were about to do.” Ian pulled out of the hug and held Nick’s face. Ian absently shook his head as if battling with some thought in his mind. “You don’t ever take a life. Ever,” he added with conviction, pinning him with those ice-blue eyes. “That’s not you. You save lives.” He quieted, searching Nick’s features, his gaze showcasing a wealth of raw emotion. “You are life. Do you hear me?”
Nick quickly nodded, burrowing himself against Ian’s chest and fisting the material of his shirt. “I thought I lost you.”
“It’s going to take more than a bullet to keep me away from you.”
“That’s like golden Killian-romance right there,” Dex said. “I wish I had a recorder on me.”
“Shut up,” they said in unison, a wash of relief echoing in their quiet chuckle.
“We need to get out of here,” Nick said, pulling himself from the embrace with renewed determination. “Petrov is on his way, and I’m not letting him attempt to take you guys out twice in one night.”
Ian nodded, a veil of strength and steadiness locking into place. He looked to Dex, the obvious worry creating a faint crack in Ian’s mask of control. “Can you walk?”
“Yeah, I can swim too. But it’s not something I can do right now.”
Ian rolled his eyes and heavily sighed. Leaning down, he slid one arm under Dex’s knees and the other behind his head, careful of his wounds while effortlessly lifting him in his arms like a newlywed.
“Way to make me feel as if I sprouted a vagina,” Dex grumbled.
Nick placed his hand on Ian’s back, needing the contact. They hurriedly walked out of the hangar and headed toward Ian’s car.
Nick had barely clipped the seat belt in place when the engine came to life and the tires spun on the asphalt. He stared into the side mirror, seeing the hangar of hell slowly fade into the darkness of the night.
“We left too much evidence behind,” Dex said. He leaned forward, resting his chin on the back of Ian’s seat. “That could be a problem.”
Ian’s jaw muscles tensed. “Petrov won’t call the cops. He’ll bring in a cleanup crew of his own.” He paused for a moment, his jaw locking with force as a thought seemed to race through his mind. He twisted his grip on the steering wheel as he exhaled a slow, controlled breath. “Besides…I want him to know I was there.”
Dex sat back, seemingly satisfied with Ian’s answer or just too tired or in too much pain to care.
Nick would patch him up when they got home. Then he’d scour every inch of Ian’s body again to check for injuries, just to be sure.
He reached out and placed his hand on Ian’s thigh, squeezing the hard muscles, thankful for the strength and heat under his palm. He needed to know he was there, at Nick’s side. Alive and breathing.
He sighed when Ian’s hand covered his. He leaned his head back against the headrest, taking his first deep breath since receiving Dex’s call.
Ian was alive.
Dex was alive.
They had all made it out of there…alive.
And that was all that mattered as the seed of hope started to take root again in his spirit.