Safe Harbor (Drake Sisters 5)

Chapter One

"YOU want to tell me how the hell we got into this mess?" Jackson Deveau demanded as he whipped his arm around Jonas Harrington's waist and half dragged him toward the flimsy cover of an industrial garbage container. "We have a nice comfy job on the Mendocino coast and you decide you're bored out of your mind, which is pure bullshit by the way. You'd think getting shot once was enough for you."

If he could have answered, Jonas would have sworn at Jackson, but he only managed a glare as he forced his feet to keep moving. The pain was relentless, stabbing white-hot like a branding iron. He could feel the breath rattling in his lungs, bile rising and reality fading in and out. He had to stay on his feet. He sure as hell wasn't going to let Jackson haul him out on his back--he'd never hear the end of it. Jackson was right. They'd made new lives, lived good, found a home. What the hell had he been thinking?

Why wasn't it ever enough for him? Why did he have to keep going back, over and over, dragging Jackson and other men down into the muck and garbage of the world? He was no noble crusader, yet time and again he found himself with a gun in his hand, going after the bad guys. He was weary to death of his need to save the world. He didn't save anyone, he only got good men killed.

The alley was dark, the shadow of the surrounding buildings rising above the small lane, turning the edges black. They kept the garbage container between them and the street, where it seemed everyone with a gun and a knife was hunting them. Jackson propped him up against a wall that smelled of times Jonas didn't want to remember, where blood, death and urine all mixed together into one potent brew.

Jackson checked their ammo situation. "Can you focus enough to shoot, Jonas?"

That was Jackson, all business. He wanted the hell out of there and was going to make it happen. The men hunting them had no way of knowing they had a tiger by the tail. When Jackson used that particular tone of voice, men died, pure and simple.

They had to get past the entrance of the alley and it was blocked by the Russian mobsters. It had been a recon mission. Nothing more. They weren't supposed to be seen--damn it--they hadn't been seen--but it had all gone to hell fast, turning into a bloodbath.

They'd come to film what was supposed to be a few low-level Tarasov soldiers meeting with a couple of Nikitin's soldiers on the docks in San Francisco. An undercover agent had informed Gray and he wanted to know why the two rival families would be meeting. Jonas's first twinge of alarm came when he recognized the Gadiyan brothers among the participants. There was nothing low-level about them. Brothers-in-law to Boris and Petr Tarasov, they were definitely the upper echelon in the murderous crime family, enforcers reputed to be so bloody and violent that even men in the Tarasov family avoided them. And when Boris stepped out of the shadows with his brother, Petr, his nephew, Karl, close behind to ensure his safety, Jonas knew something big was going down. Karl was reputed to be far, far worse than the Gadiyan brothers.

Jonas and Jackson had looked at each other with their guts churning and hearts pounding because they were right in the middle of a hornet's nest with no way out. The group of Russian mobsters stood for a moment, all laughing together, and then Karl had grabbed one of the men they were conversing with and shoved him to his knees in front of his uncle. It looked to Jonas that all of the men were Tarasov soldiers. He couldn't identify the man Karl had singled out. His face was in the shadows and it all happened too fast. Petr calmly pulled out a gun and shot him in the head without a single word. The violence had been swift and ugly, with no warning at all.

Jonas and Jackson had gotten the murder on tape and were looking for a way out when another man walked onto the dock. He obviously was aware of the camera, his face hidden, a long bulky coat covering his body. Keeping his face averted, he talked briefly with the Tarasovs and then everything went to hell fast. Karl Tarasov had reacted instantly, sprinting toward the road, finding their car and driver and executing him without preamble. Bullets were flying as the Russians spread out and began to hunt Jonas and Jackson. Jonas took two hits, neither should have been serious, but he was losing enough blood to make the wounds fatal if he didn't get help fast. Jackson had two knife streaks across his belly and chest, injuries suffered as they fought their way off the docks into the alley. The mobsters wanted the film back.

No way were they getting it.

Jackson slapped a full clip into Jonas's gun and shoved the gun into his hand. "You're good to go." He slammed home a full magazine and shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. "I'm going up top for a few, Jonas. You put another pressure bandage on the wound in your side, and no matter what, stay on your feet. I'm going to shake things up a bit in a few minutes and you've got to be ready to run."

Jonas nodded. Sweat dripped off his face and beaded on

his body. Yeah. He was ready to run--and fall flat on his face--but he'd keep his feet and the gun and back Jackson in whatever crazy scheme he had. Because, in the end, he could always count on Jackson.

Jackson melted into the night soundlessly, the way he always did. He had come home with Jonas when they'd both been sick to death of living in the shadows--when Jonas just flat out missed the hell out of his adopted family. They'd joined the sheriff's department and lived a cushy life until Jonas had gotten himself shot on the job and became restless and edgy recuperating. His old boss, Duncan Gray, from a special ops team buried deep in the defense department, had come asking. Jackson would have given him a hard look and they would have stayed safe. But no, Duncan had known to come to Jonas, because Jonas fell for the "we need you" line every damn time.

It was a hell of a thing he'd done, pulling Jackson into this mess. And it wasn't the way he'd planned to die, a soft recon on Nikitin's rival mob to see who was coming and going and why. Nothing special, but here they were, shot to hell, and blood leaking out all over the place. Jonas opened the pressure bandage packet with his teeth and spit out the wrapper, slapping it in place before he could think too much about it.

Fire ripped through him, stabbing so deep his body shuddered in reaction. He had to hold himself up by gripping the garbage retainer hard--and wasn't that sanitary? Damn, he was in real trouble this time. He stood swaying, the only thing steady was his gun hand.

Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a photograph, the single one he carried, the one that mattered. He should have destroyed it. He could see his own face, the terrible raw truth caught on film. He was staring down at a woman and the love on his face, the stark hunger, was so evident it was a betrayal, there for everyone--even him--to see. His finger glided over the glossy paper, leaving a smear of blood. Hannah Drake. Supermodel. A woman with extraordinary, magical gifts. A woman so far out of reach he might as well try to pull the moon from the sky.