Page 8 of Redeeming Meg

“Come to Bucharest, they said.”Spence raised a boot out of the muck and made a face. “We’ll get together, have a few laughs.”

Declan squeezed his flashlight. The beam bounced off the sides of the underground tunnel. “If you’re going to quote my favorite movie, don’t screw up the lines.”

The skinny boy leading the way through the maze turned a grinning face on them. He couldn’t be more than ten or twelve. “Die Hard,mda? Great film.” His dirty hands flew through the air, mimicking a karate chop before he pointed at himself. “Van Damme, my favorite.”

Why the fuck had Meg set this up as their meeting place? The tunnel was only about a hundred feet below the streets above, and much of the city’s waste, water, and sewage ended up there one way or another. The stench was nearly unbearable, and there was a more sinister smell lingering underneath. Death.

Their boots echoed on wet stone as they trudged along the dimly lit corridors. The faint screeching and chirping of rats lingered around corners and clung to the shadows. How did anything survive down here?

Despite the conditions, gangs of orphaned and runaway children frequented the tunnels. Much like the malnourished kid ahead of them, most were homeless and relied on each other for food and protection.

The place felt like an Orson Scott Card novel. Despite being eight, ten, twelve years old at the most, these kids lived and fought like adults. They were tough. He would think twice about turning his back on one.

“How long have you lived down here, Van Damme?” Spence asked the kid.

The boy brightened at the nickname. “Forever. Bruce Lee, he takes care of us.”

Sure he did. The stench overpowered Declan’s nose again. As horrible as it was, he’d smelled worse. Seen it, too. Thousands packed under a bridge in Afghanistan, moaning from hunger pains and withdrawal from opioids. Hundreds rounded up and slaughtered in pits in Siberia.

The list went on. Most of it didn’t affect him anymore. At least, that’s what he told himself, anyway. He couldn’t afford to let it.

Nightmares and flashbacks weren’t the half of it. He swore the ghosts of those he hadn’t saved tried to suffocate him every damn night.

Deeper and deeper they went. People were piled together in spots. Could they avoid this Bruce Lee character who controlled the tunnels?

A man like any other, but one who had set himself up as king, he could be trouble for them. He could stop them from getting to their destination. He might even kill them.

Declan was no psychologist, but he understood men like Bruce Lee well. Their motivations were often illogical, and their reactions and decisions were based on the moment, not any long-term plan or wisdom gained through life experience. They lived in the moment, never knowing if they would make it to the next day, month, or year.

Yet, the system this man had set up showed he had the smarts to take advantage of his own people while providing a strange form of protection and oddball family for them.

Strangers, however, we’re a double-edged sword. They might provide food, money, and other favors, yet at the same time, be seen as a threat. Their team needed to present as an ally, not an enemy.

Declan had already promised their young guide a hundred Romanian leu. Cheap by most standards but approximately equal to a hundred US dollars. A sum that would make the Van Damme fan rich.

That said, the kid had wanted Declan’s boots to sell to one of his tunnel mates for a better spot to sleep, closer to the heat pipes. No deal—not only did Declan need the damn things, they were his lucky tact pair. They’d climbed mountains, slogged through bogs, roamed desserts, and kicked plenty of lowlife ass through the years. He didn’t understand why they hadn’t fallen apart yet, but like him, maybe they were too damn stubborn.

To appease the boy, Declan had dangled the carrot of his pocket knife that contained fourteen different tools. The kid’s eyes kept sliding to the pocket where Declan had stuffed it away. For him and many of his friends, tangible goods—tools, boots, weapons—were more valuable than money.

Not much fit that category for him. A few people, including the one he was walking with and the one he was about to meet. Too bad Meg hated him.

The commendations in his CIA folder made him look like a hero—a loyal, experienced, and elite soldier for his country. At one time, that was enough. Up until the day he’d met Meg Ann Carson.

His whole life changed after that.

He’d ordered himself not to fall in love with her. Had done it anyway. He’d demanded his heart not go belly up like a trained dog every time she walked into a room. He’d failed that, as well.

Over and over again, he’d fallen for her. Let her manipulate his feelings for her in a way no one else had ever done.

And then she’d sucked him into The Black Swans to use his skills and competency to balance her brilliant mind. He’d been her biggest supporter and her fiercest devil’s advocate—exactly what she’d wanted him to do as her second in command. Challenge her, test her, back her up when shit hit the fan.

She hated failure as much as he did, and it had been the two of them together who could take any challenge and look at it from all angles. Their team could provide the outcome needed for any goatfuck, no matter what sacrifice had to be made.

Until that sacrifice had been one of their own.

Jessie’s face tormented him every time he closed his eyes. That brutal swing of the machete. The sound when it connected.

His nightmares were filled with that sound. With Meg’s screams.

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