Page 2 of Kiss Marry Kill
Joey slammed his palm on the table and slid down into his chair. “I just aged ten years. It was too close this time. A few more minutes and they’d have come back in body bags.”
Jax pressed the button on the speaker. “Good job. Get some rest. We’ll touch base when you get back.” Then he too slid down into the nearest chair. Normally, they had other members of the team at the ready but this was supposed to be an easy mission. No muss no fuss. Mister X had a USB drive with info from a high-level Syrian official that he was willing to sell to Uncle Sam by way of ICS for the right price. The fucker was being paid millions by the US of A. The team had been assured he was trustworthy and had been vetted carefully. ICS was hired merely to connect up with Mister X and retrieve and extract the USB drive. Simple enough.
An ambush two miles out of the city had not been part of the motherfucking plan.
“I’ve been here for twenty fucking hours. I’m out. Need a drink,” Jax said, slapping Joey’s shoulder before leaving his best friend and partner to handle the debrief.
* * *
Ten minutes later, Jax sat in a corner of Yellowstreet, a dive bar a block from his apartment in Miami, nursing a beer. It was the bar he always went to after long hours at work—it reminded him of the shitholes he’d frequented with his unit years ago when they were on pass for the weekend. The stale beer, old nuts, sticky floor, and smell of cigarettes were comforting. It was the first time in weeks he’d been able to have a moment to himself, and downing a beer at Yellowstreet was how he wanted to spend it.
His leg had been acting up for a while, but today the metal plates felt like razor blades rubbing against his muscles. Why did he always do this to himself? He must be some sort of masochist, because between the bullshit mission earlier today and the pain in this leg, Yellowstreet would do nothing but serve as a reminder of all that he’d lost. And damn it, he’d lost a lot.
His second tour in Iraq had been cut short fourteen months ago due to an ambush at base that killed five of his seven guys. He himself had suffered extensive injuries to the right side of his body, injuries that had led to half a year in a German hospital. Eight months ago he was honorably discharged and came back home to Miami with a slight limp, recurring hip pain, and a shitload of survivor’s guilt. The only souvenir he’d gotten in return was all the metal used to fuse together his femur. And Miami’s humidity made it probably the worst possible place to live with all that metal. But Miami was home, so now, together with his best friend and US Marine brother Joey Clad, he co-owned Iron-Clad Security.
* * *
ICS had been his unit’s dream—their exit plan once they left the military and the godforsaken heat of the Middle East behind. A dream of opening a security firm stateside that would utilize each of their specific skill sets, from overseeing the security plans for a new company, to an unusual hacking request from a spurned wife, to corporate espionage or bodyguard work for a dignitary or a movie star. But then most of his men—his friends—hadn’t made it back alive and so the eight-man security firm became a two-man team. And since Jax was six foot two and excelled in hand-to-hand combat, he was the muscle behind ICS while Joey was the brains. When there was a request for a bodyguard or security detail, Jax did it. When there was a cyber-security issue or a need for surveillance or infiltration, Joey was the man for the job.
Stretching his hurt leg, Jax leaned back in his booth to watch the Miami Marlins play the Red Sox, something that always brought him joy. Just last month he’d gone to the home opener, like he did every year except for the few times he’d been abroad. But lately even baseball made him nostalgic, bringing up too many memories. Memories of times that could never be recreated.
Feeling melancholic, Jax had a beer mug up to his lips when the baseball game on the flatscreen was interrupted by the local news.
We are just getting reports that local celebrity Megan Cruz, lead singer of TNT, was assaulted in her home on Star Island about an hour ago. It is uncertain whether Cruz is hurt. Cruz has previously reported two incidents involving a stalker. It is unclear whether those two incidents are connected to this one. What is known, however, is that the perpetrator was able to escape through a window before being apprehended by the authorities. Stay tuned for more information on the eleven o’clock news. If you have information you are urged to call . . .
Jax almost dropped his beer. A stock photo of Megan was staring back at him on the television.
Megan Cruz? My Megan Cruz?
Stalker?
Lead singer?
When he’d known Megan, she was an ultraconservative, sheltered twenty-two-year-old about to start law school. He wasn’t sure which of the two statements—stalker or singer—shocked him most, but the stalking was definitely what had him immediately on the move.
His heart faltered. What if she was hurt? Even though it had been too many years since he’d last seen her, knowing she was out there somewhere had helped get him through some rough days. She was an idealized memory of a perfect time and place. Always, he pictured her in a house with a white picket fence and children surrounding her. In his vivid imagination, she was always content. And even if it hurt him somewhere deep and hollow that her imagined happy life did not include him, it was okay because he’d always wanted the best for her.
But a world where there was no Megan Cruz? That was a world he wanted no part of. And of all the things he imagined she was up to, all these years later, her being hurt—or worse, dead—was never even in the realm of possibility.
The news hit him like a two-by-four to the head.
Without a second thought, he tossed some money on the table and jogged out of the bar, a surge of anxiety hitting him all at once. Not bothering to put on his helmet, he hopped onto his Harley Fat Boy and took off for Star Island, which was just a few miles away. His heart was beating so rapidly he had to literally close his eyes and count to ten at a stoplight, just like he’d learned in therapy.
What was he even doing? Barging in on Megan because of a report he’d seen on the television? It had been too many years. She probably didn’t even know who he was. Was he insane?
Fuck yeah he was.
When it came to Megan, he’d always been off his game. But he was going to go see with his own two eyes what the hell was happening. If nothing else, he could offer her his services: ICS was, after all, the best security firm in Miami.
Yeah, that’s why he was hightailing it to Star Island, because he wanted to work for her. Who was he kidding?
On his way, Jax used his Bluetooth to call Joey and tell him to put together all the information possible on Megan. Joey was, after all, the best damn hacker the military had ever honorably discharged. He needed to know everything he’d missed in order to help her, assuming she needed help. But he couldn’t do that if he had absolutely no clue who she was anymore.
It had been five years since he’d seen Megan, and fuck, all the memories he’d kept locked up in the back crevices of his mind began to seep in just from seeing her for a couple of seconds on that damn news report. Which meant he needed to get his shit together before he got to her house and came face to face with her. Even if they’d only known each other for a brief moment in time years ago, he didn’t think he could recover if something were to happen to her.
He drove all the way to Star Island doing something he hadn’t done in years—praying.
Chapter 2
