Page 6 of Untouchable Billionaire (The Hardcore Novels: Special Editions #1)

On the way to the airport, we discuss the football match.

When we arrive at the airport, the traffic is heavy, so I tell him, "Pop the trunk.

I'll walk in." He gives me a look that says he would rather I not but does what I say.

I grab my bag and trot to the private terminal, check-in, and board the plane without incident.

Once onboard, I pull out my laptop and begin reviewing the documents Mia sent over.

Halfway across the Atlantic, I finally finish, sign them, and hit send.

Then I look over the bid for the North Dakota fracking contract, verify the numbers are where they need to be, and give her the go-ahead to negotiate the terms. Next, I review the list of charities and notice that Wounded Warriors isn't on the list. I send her a note to add them and also remind her to make sure she sets up the scholarship for Bradford's children and pays off their home mortgage for his widow.

I close the laptop, take the pillow the flight attendant offers, and settle in to catch up on my sleep.

"Please wake me when we are Stateside. I'd like to eat while the jet refuels. "

"Yes, sir. Sleep well." He tells me as he pulls the shutters over the windows, blocking out the sun.

I'm asleep before he finishes.

....

....

....

I'm driving to the flight line. Bradford sits next to me. Everett's in the back. Bradford is talking about his wife and kids. His youngest just started the first grade. Proud papa. He kisses his school picture and tucks it back inside his flight suit.

Everett unbuckles, leans up, and shows off her picture too.

Crack! Boom! The vehicle rocks and nearly flips, then lands hard upright, shaking us as it bounces to a stop.

My ears are ringing from the blast. All I can hear is the pounding of my heart in them, drowning everything else out. The world seems to be in slow motion. I survey the cab.

There's blood everywhere.

Bradford hangs dead in the passenger seat.

Anger floods my mind.

Rage drenches my body, mixing with sweat.

Then ... a scream that deafens sanity.

The world speeds back up, and the noise is deafening. Everett is screaming.

I yell over her and command calm, then try to move to help. My harness is locked. The mechanism is jammed. I'm strapped to the seat. I try to rip it, but it's too strong.

My knife is in the leg side pocket of my flight suit.

Wedging my leg in the space between the seat and the console, I stretch my arm down to the zipper.

My fingers touch the edge of the metal, and nimbly, I gather the fabric, pushing the zipper open.

I continue gathering more fabric with my fingers until I feel the cold metal of my revolver.

I flip the snap and pull it from its holster.

Quickly cock it, then return it and hunt my buck knife.

By the time I pull it from its sheath, there is complete silence. Only the deep, even breathing of Everett fills my ears. I glance back and receive an affirmative nod.

I cut the strap and free myself. Lay my fingers on Bradford's neck. His jugular is quiet, confirming his death.

Exiting the vehicle, I quickly survey the danger. Looking around the empty area, I spot someone in a burka running with what looks like an AK47. I move around the vehicle, assessing the damage while I hurry to Everett's aid.

The roadside bomb was a singular hit.

We are immobile.

Trapped.

Stranded.

Alone.

I snatch hard on the damaged door and open it. Only the sound of heavy panting greets me as Everett, a seasoned soldier, controls the pain with deep, measured intakes and exhales of breath, forcing control, knowing we must contain the situation if we are to get out of this alive.

"Bradford?"

"Dead."

"Fuck!"

I look down to find a badly mangled leg. Blood has saturated the flight suit. I can't tell if it's an artery or a vein.

I speak softly to her while I take my knife and cut the fabric off. "It's pretty bad, Easy Mama, but it's only a flesh wound. You'll live, but you can't move it."

Our eyes briefly connect as I unzip my flight suit and pull my arms out, letting it hang off my ass as I pull my t-shirt off. Both of us know that means she's a target. I make a command decision.

"Call it in and lay low. I'm going after the motherfucker. Shoot anyone who isn't wearing an American uniform. That's an order."

Everett nods.

I tie my t-shirt above the wound and cinch it tight, knowing the pressure is lifesaving. "Tourniquet. Just in case." I try to offer reassurance.

"I know. Go."

I turn toward the closest building as I pull my flight suit back on, estimate the time that has ticked off, the distance to it, the time it will take me to run there, and whether the motherfucker is hiding inside.

As I reach into my pocket to retrieve my weapon, I hear Everett say in a voice just above a whisper. "Hard, my gun is jammed."

Without hesitation, I hand mine over. "Here. Take mine. That's also an order."

I reach back in for my buck knife. As my fingers wrap around the handle, a feeling of calmness fills me. 'Hand to hand, it will be then.'

I pull it from its sheath, knowing all the years of training will give me the advantage. I see Augustus as I sprint to the building and hear the pride in his voice when he nicknamed me The Bastard Son of Thor.

Entering the doorway, I slide quietly in. Checking the space for movement. Listening with the intensity of a hunter. Knowing my prey is close, but not knowing if the enemy is a lone wolf or a member of a pack. Every sense on high alert, I move from room to room.

No one.

Climbing the steps to the first floor, I hear muffled voices coming from the room at the top.

When I push open the bedroom door, a shocking sight awaits.

Two women huddled together in the middle of the floor with one, two .

.. six small children lying face down. Their tiny faces are hidden.

Tiny hands over their ears. Only their sniffles can be heard.

Along the wall to my right are three preteen boys standing at attention but shaking with their eyes bulging. Their faces are full of fear.

'Only a coward would hide here.'

"Shush." I raise my finger to my lips and begin to back away, pulling the door closed while watching the eyes of the young boys. As they lose focus on me and see what's behind the door, sheer terror fills their faces.

Then, an automatic weapon begins spraying bullets. The women scream and fall over the children, whose cries are more like wails. The young boys' bodies fall to the floor, and blood stains the wall behind them.

I kick the door open, driving it into the wall and thunder into the room with the ferocity of the Roman heritage that pumps through my veins. Hell-bent on securing not only Easy's safety and the safety of the innocents but also having my revenge for Bradford's death.

I charge the enemy as the gun sprays the room. He tries to control it and turn it on me, but I reach him first. My left hand smashes into his throat while my right stabs the knife to the hilt directly in the ball of his shoulder.

The gun drops to his side and sprays rounds into the floor. I drive my body into him with crushing power and yank the knife out. My chokehold pinches off the scream of pain, and I lift the enemy combatant off the floor, feeling like a raging bear, needing to look him in the eye.

Blood soaks the burka deep red, and the sight is satisfying.

I stare ruthlessly at the red face of the murdering coward and see not a man but a demon staring back.

I can feel his jugular pounding to be free and remember the feeling of Bradford's lifeless one.

Laying the edge of my sharp blade against it, I slowly drag it across, using the edge of my thumb as a guide as my eyes pierce his evil eyes.

As the blade slips through his skin, I watch them turn into the fearful eyes of a mortal man who knows death has arrived to claim him.

I whisper his death name to him. "Motherfucker!" Then I slice his lifeline. Blood bursts forth with a velocity that shoots the ceiling, spraying it painting it dark red.

Silence falls heavy, filling the room with a deafening sound.

I hold my attack until there is no life left.

Then, I nimbly flip the knife through my fingers and return it to its sheath in my pocket.

Its job is done. As I release the murdering enemy combatant, I take the automatic weapon from his lifeless grip as the dead weight hits the floor with an echoing thud.

I turn the gun on the innocent occupants.

No one is moving. Silent eyes stare at me.

My cold eyes stare back.

Hardcore.

The only sound I hear is my blood thumping and my calm breath, inhaling and exhaling in rhythm with it. When the soldiers burst into the room, I watch the scene unfold as if in slow motion again.

They stand guard over the women and children, search the dead teen boys, give the all-clear signal and escort the survivors from the room.

As they pass, the little ones' eyes pierce me to my core.

The pain, the fear, the unknown. When the women pass, their eyes are cast down as they approach, but one cuts hers at me, and I see utter hopelessness.

Everett!

Rushing back down the stairs, real-time returns, and my hand finds its way to my jugular. The pounding comforts me. I stop in the doorway just long enough to assess the current conditions outside and wipe the blood from my hands before entering the light.

Soldiers are everywhere, combing the area. The situation is under control.

I step into the light, and the intensity of the warmth feels good. I'm alive.

Making my way back to the vehicle, I arrive just as a medic exits. Looking in, I breathe a sigh of relief. My crew chief sits there smiling.

"You good, Easy?"

"Always," Everett says with a smirk and heavily glazed eyes. "Morphine is my new best friend."

I chuckle at that truth.

"Did you take care of business?" She asks.