Page 106 of Shadow Blind

“Ya know,” Rawlings drawled, his shrewd eyes settling on O’Neill’s face. “Refusin’ to sling that arm and let it rest ain’t gonna assuage your guilt. And it ain't helpin’ Samuel, that’s for damn sure.”

“Fuck you.” O’Neill leaned back and closed his eyes.

A few minutes later, the Thunderbird slowed. The drop in his stomach told him the bird was descending. They hadn’t been in the air long enough to arrive at the base or the refueling station. The only reason to be landing early was to let off Kuznetsov’s mistress. He frowned at the realization. With the Russian gone, they needed to hang onto the woman.

When the Thunderbird set down, and the engines slowed enough that the vibrations were barely noticeable through the walls and floor, Wolf appeared from the back of the craft. O’Neill stood to intercept him.

Ignoring the burn screaming through his shoulder, and the band of agony cinched across his chest, he stepped in front of Wolf, only to hesitate. “How is he?”

A slow exhale lifted Wolf’s chest, but his eyes remained unfocused, his face exhausted. “Alive. For now.”

O’Neill mirrored Wolf’s deep exhale but added a nod. “Good. That’s good.”

When Wolf moved to the side, clearly intending to step around him, O’Neill moved to block him again.

The Shadow Warrior’s favorite stopped, a thick, black eyebrow lifting. Some of the vagueness left his eyes. “What?”

But there was no sharpness to the question. No chill either.

O’Neill hesitated. Questioning the Betanee’s decision would set off an avalanche of antagonism—from all directions—but someone had to remind Wolf that this woman might have the knowledge they needed. Once she stepped off the Thunderbird, she’d disappear, and they’d lose the chance to question her.

Keeping his face calm and his voice level, he did what he had to do. He challenged Shadow Mountain’s commanding officer.

“We cannot let this woman go. With Kuznetsov gone, she is the only one who might know the information we need. She may know more than we think…even more than she thinks.” He braced himself for blowback. “We must hold on to her and question her thoroughly.”

And this time he would not hesitate to use his heschrmal gift on her, no matter how many warriors shared the room with them.

One could hear a pin drop in the cargo hold as everyone awaited Wolf’s eruption. O’Neill kept his eyes locked on Wolf’s dirt-and-ice-scoured face. But he could feel the heat of two dozen gazes locked on them. It was rare for anyone to challenge Wolf. Hell, the elder gods' favorite rarely needed challenging. But the few times he’d stepped off course, Samuel had course-corrected him.

Only, Samuel was not here. And this path needed correcting.

Like a fog had lifted, the vagueness cleared from Wolf’s eyes. He cocked his head, his gaze shifting as he looked over O’Neill’s shoulder toward the woman.

“You are right. I was not thinking clearly. Samuel would have—” He broke off to draw a shuddering breath, shook his head and continued past O’Neill toward the cockpit.

Surprised by Wolf’s calm reaction, O’Neill turned, watching his Betanee shake off the beseeching hand Kuznetsov’s former mistress had wrapped around his skinned forearm. Seconds later, the engines ramped up their whine and the telltale vibrations shimmied through the floor and walls again and the Thunderbird rose back into the air, carrying its maimed cargo and grieving warriors to their base.

Chapter forty-two

Day 17

Petropavlovsk, Russia

The black metallic walls of the machine carrying her to God knew where vibrated against Eloise’s back, rattling the chair beneath her and numbing her bum. While the vibrations were uncomfortable to her, they seemed to calm Muffy. Her angel had fallen asleep as soon as the helicopter lifted off. Comforted by the warm, heavy weight pressed against her chest, Eloise lowered the zipper on her coat so Muffy could breathe fresh air. Or at least as fresh as air could get on this eyesore of a helicopter.

Huddled in her metal seat, she fiddled with her lipstick tube while she surreptitiously studied the hard-faced men sitting alongside her.

They sounded like Americans, but with an unusual cadence to their speech. And this chopper—or whatever the bloody hell it was—didn’t look American at all. It didn’t look like anything she’d seen before. Fuck, the exterior of the craft was downright daft. What with the way its wings pointed straight up, and its oblong body squatted on the ground. It looked like a mechanical cross between a bird and a dragonfly. Kinda like those Transformers cartoons she’d loved as a kid.

She rolled the red tube between her fingers again, and wistfully daydreamed about driving the concealed syringe into the asshole who called the shots among these lethal men. Sure, the ratbag had shown her kindness. He’d let her change into her trackies and gave her some cash and her jewelry from the safe. But none of that made up for what he’d taken from her. And she wasn’t talking about Grigory.

The fucker had ruined everything. He'd set her business back by years.

With a pained sigh, she settled back against the wall of her vibrating prison. She’d simply have to adapt. Pivot. Hadn’t she built her business from the ground up once already? And with nothing but brains and guile? Why, yes, she had. At least this time, she had a hefty bank account, a warehouse full of the most sought-after weapons on the black market, and a robust client list—even if they didn’t know they were her clients.

But first things first. She needed to escape this fucking helicopter—or whatever it was.

She was almost certain these bastards no longer intended to let her go. Not after that conversation between the black-haired and brown-haired assholes last time they’d landed and then took off again.

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