Page 18 of Lethal Torture

“Luke’s the best man for the job,” he goes on, pouring more Scotch. “Roman and Dimitry will both vouch for him.”

“It was Luke who helped me find Abby,” Dimitry offers. “He got our teams inside the Myanmar compound and rescued most of the girls who wound up in your care at Sophie’s House.”

I struggle not to let my surprise show. “He was in Myanmar?”

“Not just there.” Dimitry meets my eyes directly. “Luke’s the reason we succeeded in getting those women to safety. He ran surveillance on the compound for a week before we went in, made contact with the girls inside, and infiltrated the place undetected a dozen times.”

Damn it.

This would have been a whole lot easier if Luke was just another dumb gun for hire.

“He was also with me during the shitstorm that went down in Miami,” Roman chimes in. “Luke guarded my two daughters with his life. Took a bullet for them, too. They’d be dead if it wasn’t for him.”

His mouth tightens briefly, darkness flaring in his eyes. Several years after his daughters were kidnapped, it’s clear Roman is still affected by Vilnus Orlov’s attack on his family.

I don’t blame him.

“I met Orlov once,” I say slowly. “When I was thirteen years old. He came to London and spent an evening at my father’s club.”

For a moment I’m back there, my father’s whip lashing my young skin for the amusement of his guests. The image is gone as soon as it comes, let go with the discipline of long practice.

People talk about the benefits of therapy.

I’m more of an advocate of facing one’s demons, then murdering the fuckers so they can’t come back.

I meet Roman’s eyes and smile coldly. “I’m glad Orlov is dead.”

“I’m sorry you ever had to meet him,” he says quietly. “I know what a sadistic bastard he was.” To my surprise, there’s genuine empathy in his eyes.

Marriage has definitely mellowed him.

I’ve no doubt that part of Roman is still a ruthless prick. But there’s a depth to him now, a quiet happiness, that allows him to be something more as well. I saw the way he looked at Darya, his wife, on their wedding day. You can’t fake that kind of open joy.

But that life isn’t an option for me.

My world is too dark to allow it. And nobody who gets close to me can avoid being sucked into its darkness.

Which is exactly why, despite the glowing recommendations, Captain Macarthur is the wrong choice for the job at hand.

“Luke’s a lot more than your average special forces jock.” Mak reads my thoughts with his customary, rather annoying, accuracy. “MI6 wanted him for intelligence. The SAS wanted him to train their best. After the amount of missions he ran in the Middle East, he could have had his pick of any assignment he wanted, including rising through the ranks. Instead he came to work for me.”

“Doesn’t mean much.” I shrug. “You pay more.”

“It’s not about the money.” Mak draws on his cigar, watching me through the smoke. “Not for him.”

I snort. “It’s always about the money.”

He tilts his head in the negative. “Luke is... different. And he’s more than just an operative or a sniper on a roof. He’s the most natural-born soldier I’ve ever met—and he’s also rock-solid. If you decide you want him, and he agrees to take the job, I can guarantee one thing.” Mak’s eyes settle on mine. “He’ll have your back.”

Those damned words again.

They hit me even harder a second time, after actually meeting Luke. They hit somewhere far inside, in the part of myself I keep carefully hidden from anyone.

But here isn’t the place to examine the odd lump in my throat, nor the sudden constriction in my chest that almost makes it difficult to breathe.

I tuck the words away before their impact can show on my face.

“Would you two gentlemen excuse me for a moment?” I stand up, smiling smoothly. “I need to take Luke through the job for about half an hour, then I’ll be back.”