He glared at her.
She glared back.
The radio went silent. He had to give it to his friends. He’d just delivered the worst news imaginable, and not one of them lost their shit. Not outwardly. They kept it locked down tight. Because they were survivors.
They would survive this, along with every person on that plane.
“I’m going with her,” he said. “Listen carefully. This is important. Contact the pilot and tell him not to deviate from his course. I repeat. Do not change course. Do not engage the drone. Or it will strike. Follow these orders, and our aircraft will land safely.”
“Copy.” Fury leaked through Van’s voice. “Do you know who these fuckers are?”
“Negative.”
“How do we find you?”
“You don’t.”
“We will, goddammit. We’ll be there with an army.”
“When the plane lands, I need you to disappear. All of you. Go somewhere I don’t know about.”
“They’re going to fucking torture you.”
“I need you alive, esé. Do exactly what I said. Out.” He turned off the transmitter and dropped it in the sand. The earpiece followed.
His pulse throbbed in his temples as he shifted toward the house. He couldn’t see Tate or Lucia on the roof, but they could see him. They’d heard him on the radio, and they could hear him now as he said, “Stand down.”
They weren’t stupid enough to interfere, but he wasn’t taking chances.
“Now, I will search you for weapons.” The Russian’s silky accent whispered against his nape, close enough to raise the hairs there. “It’ll be better for you if you arrive unarmed.”
“Better how? Less torture?”
“Shh.” She smoothed her hands down his stiff back and palmed his ass, searching, teasing. She continued down his legs to his boots. “You’re well-built. Strong. Virile.” She worked her way back up, circling to his front. “Don’t let it give you a false sense of power. Physical strength won’t save you.”
She stood before him, her intelligent green eyes fixed on his. Then her hand lowered, gliding between his legs and probing his cock through the jeans.
His body reacted, heating his skin and scratching his voice. “Your name?”
“Lydia.”
“That your real name?”
“Yes.” She closed her fingers around the outline of his semi-hard dick. “Impressive.”
“Don’t let it give you a false sense of power. It’s simple biology. You’re not special.”
The corner of her flirty lips kicked up, her eyes glimmering with a look that made his skin shiver and heat.
“You don’t know where we’re going.” She stepped back and tossed him the spare helmet. “Without me, you won’t reach the destination and save your friends. Remember that before you throw me off the bike.”
That was the only reason he hadn’t smashed in her face.
Helmet on, he straddled the motorcycle and fired up the engine. The impulse to give Tate and Lucia a parting glance pulled at him, but he didn’t give into it. He focused forward, on the bleak horizon, and steeled himself for the worst.
She slid on behind him, her thighs hugging his hips and hands clasped low on his abdomen. “Head east.”
He opened the throttle and shot off into the dark. The uneven terrain hindered his speed. Once he hit pavement, he would have to make up precious time.
The roar of the engine made conversation impossible. Just as well. The ride would give him time to go over things in his head.
For the next twenty minutes, he analyzed everything Lydia had said, looking for clues and hidden meanings. She never mentioned Danni or Trace, and she wouldn’t know the activity even existed. But whoever she worked for was connected to Thurney Bridge.
He recalled the few interactions he’d had with Russian constituents over his career and couldn’t trace any of it back to his last assignment. Lydia’s nationality most likely had nothing to do with him. Unless her counterparts were Russian, too. He would find that out soon enough.
The off-road tires sailed across the sand, the desert a graveyard of shadows and scattered holes. Silhouettes of cacti rose up like headstones, the wind warm and invasive. Like her hands.
As his shirt billowed up his torso, her fingers followed, exploring the ridges of his abs. He forced indifference into his posture, neither leaning in nor shoving her away. He refused to give her the satisfaction of a response.
She pressed closer, her hot body flush to his back, as her hand slid between his legs, finding him soft. But not for long.
His lungs expanded with dusty air, his cock thickening. She didn’t rub him or open his fly. She simply rested her fingers there, curled around his growing bulge.
It was torture. He wanted her to stroke him, to pull him out and give him a fleeting moment of pleasure before his world became nothing but pain.
But he had far more control than that. In seven years, he hadn’t acted on his carnal impulses. Didn’t stop his mind from placing her lips around him. He let the fantasy distract him for a few minutes, sinking into images of his cock buried in her throat, her cunt, and deep in her ass.