slammed it into the muck. Water and filth squelched into Günter’s ears.
Oblivious to anything but his fury, he reached for Ian’s eyes. Thumbs met tender flesh. Ian flew backward and Günter regained the upper hand. Knee crushing the agent’s sternum, he held him by the throat and squeezed. For Jenny. For Alona. For the life he’d lost.
Face purple, eyes bulging, Ian clawed for air. Nails raked at Günter’s hands. Forearms. Drawing blood. Gouging deep. As if from outside himself, he watched his hand close tighter around the ridged flesh of an Adam’s apple.
A shadow fell over Günter. A booted foot struck his chest and he flailed backward. Twin prongs pierced the flesh of his shoulder through his shirt. Barely enough time passed for him to register he was about to be Tased. A hot pain lanced his muscles. Arced through his central nervous system. He went rigid in the muck.
During training exercises he’d been Tased for several seconds. No more than ten. His mind screamed for release from the agony of increasingly cramping muscles. Jaw locked, he couldn’t utter a sound. Twenty seconds turned into a lifetime. Thirty into an eternity. The electrical signals to his brain remained confused after their assault abated. He couldn’t do more than lift his head in weak protest when O’Rourke bent low.
“That’s for our boys in Dublin,” the agent snarled before dragging him up the slope with Ian’s less-than-steady assistance.
They dropped him to the floor of the passenger compartment at Jenny’s and Simon’s feet. The scent of wet earth and sweat filled his nostrils. Though control of his limbs returned, it still felt as if tiny worms might be eating his flesh.
“Simon, do something.” Jenny’s voice burned him with its tenderness. He didn’t deserve her pity.
“Leave him be,” his second murmured.
Covering his face with his arm Günter folded in on himself and shut out the world. Mind numb, body battered, he couldn’t begin to consider the ring of truth in Ian’s words. Alona—a traitor. Him—a fool. All those men dead in Dublin. And what for?
Fury and sorrow pulled his heart in two directions, each on a different path to a fiery hell. A hell he’d created. For a woman he realized, now that he’d spent twenty-four hours in Jenny Ainsley’s company, he’d never loved.
Chapter Seven
Günter sat across from Ian at a rickety card table. Water dripped from the kitchen tap, punctuating the silence between the two men with stopwatch regularity. He’d been sitting there, head on his arms, for an hour. Maybe two. Time had ceased to have meaning. He recognized the cushioned unreality for what it was—shock.
His head a heavy weight, he looked up and studied Ian’s battered face. The man stared back at him with one good eye, the other swollen shut. A wide, black bruise marred most of his throat.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Günter asked, coming to himself.
“After you left 5 there didn’t seem a point.” Ian’s voice sounded hoarse. He cleared his throat and winced. “It seemed better to leave you in peace with your memories.”
“I’ve been in hell for years, thinking I failed her. That I killed her and our child. And now…” Now what? The knife’s edge of guilt had been honed against an even starker reality. Men had died because he’d misplaced his trust. “You have to tell me. Everything.”
“You tell me something first.” Ian cocked his head. “Why’d you do it? Why marry her? I don’t mean to be insensitive, but she never seemed your type.”
Günter closed his eyes and tried to remember Alona. The feel of her in his arms. Her breath on his cheek. She’d always seemed to need protecting. He’d felt needed with her—like a god. People didn’t discard gods. Even when they fucked up.
He shrugged. “She said she needed me. I believed her.”
“But that’s my point, mate. You’ve always loathed needy women.”
“Not this one.”
“What happened to you
Oblivious to anything but his fury, he reached for Ian’s eyes. Thumbs met tender flesh. Ian flew backward and Günter regained the upper hand. Knee crushing the agent’s sternum, he held him by the throat and squeezed. For Jenny. For Alona. For the life he’d lost.
Face purple, eyes bulging, Ian clawed for air. Nails raked at Günter’s hands. Forearms. Drawing blood. Gouging deep. As if from outside himself, he watched his hand close tighter around the ridged flesh of an Adam’s apple.
A shadow fell over Günter. A booted foot struck his chest and he flailed backward. Twin prongs pierced the flesh of his shoulder through his shirt. Barely enough time passed for him to register he was about to be Tased. A hot pain lanced his muscles. Arced through his central nervous system. He went rigid in the muck.
During training exercises he’d been Tased for several seconds. No more than ten. His mind screamed for release from the agony of increasingly cramping muscles. Jaw locked, he couldn’t utter a sound. Twenty seconds turned into a lifetime. Thirty into an eternity. The electrical signals to his brain remained confused after their assault abated. He couldn’t do more than lift his head in weak protest when O’Rourke bent low.
“That’s for our boys in Dublin,” the agent snarled before dragging him up the slope with Ian’s less-than-steady assistance.
They dropped him to the floor of the passenger compartment at Jenny’s and Simon’s feet. The scent of wet earth and sweat filled his nostrils. Though control of his limbs returned, it still felt as if tiny worms might be eating his flesh.
“Simon, do something.” Jenny’s voice burned him with its tenderness. He didn’t deserve her pity.
“Leave him be,” his second murmured.
Covering his face with his arm Günter folded in on himself and shut out the world. Mind numb, body battered, he couldn’t begin to consider the ring of truth in Ian’s words. Alona—a traitor. Him—a fool. All those men dead in Dublin. And what for?
Fury and sorrow pulled his heart in two directions, each on a different path to a fiery hell. A hell he’d created. For a woman he realized, now that he’d spent twenty-four hours in Jenny Ainsley’s company, he’d never loved.
Chapter Seven
Günter sat across from Ian at a rickety card table. Water dripped from the kitchen tap, punctuating the silence between the two men with stopwatch regularity. He’d been sitting there, head on his arms, for an hour. Maybe two. Time had ceased to have meaning. He recognized the cushioned unreality for what it was—shock.
His head a heavy weight, he looked up and studied Ian’s battered face. The man stared back at him with one good eye, the other swollen shut. A wide, black bruise marred most of his throat.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Günter asked, coming to himself.
“After you left 5 there didn’t seem a point.” Ian’s voice sounded hoarse. He cleared his throat and winced. “It seemed better to leave you in peace with your memories.”
“I’ve been in hell for years, thinking I failed her. That I killed her and our child. And now…” Now what? The knife’s edge of guilt had been honed against an even starker reality. Men had died because he’d misplaced his trust. “You have to tell me. Everything.”
“You tell me something first.” Ian cocked his head. “Why’d you do it? Why marry her? I don’t mean to be insensitive, but she never seemed your type.”
Günter closed his eyes and tried to remember Alona. The feel of her in his arms. Her breath on his cheek. She’d always seemed to need protecting. He’d felt needed with her—like a god. People didn’t discard gods. Even when they fucked up.
He shrugged. “She said she needed me. I believed her.”
“But that’s my point, mate. You’ve always loathed needy women.”
“Not this one.”
“What happened to you
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