Page 23 of Iron Shield
Stina shot a hand into the air, middle finger up.
Shaking his head, he headed to the war room.
The instant he walked in, seven heads snapped around to look at him. Cannon stood at the head of the table with Younger. Townie and O gathered around the laptop, and Monk, Rivers and Rorke didn’t bother holding back their grins.
Rivers’s gaze dropped to Rome’s forearm. “You’re bleeding.”
Rome glanced down. Four angry scratches raked across his skin, and one had opened enough to leave a thin trail of blood drying near his wrist.
Townie rocked back in his chair. “Tell me the other guy looks worse.”
“It’s from Stina.”
The room went quiet. Then Younger coughed into his fist.
Rorke’s shit-eating grin spread wider. “The waitress did that?”
“She scratched the shit out of me when I was putting on the hood. She did not like the hood. Not even a little bit.” Rome yanked out his usual seat and dropped into it. “Next time, I’ll take a tranquilizer gun.”
Cannon gave him a single nod—the equivalent of a pat on the back in Blackout language—and lifted one hand. The room settled, all attention shifting back to the monitors.
“We have the subjects that tried to take you out in Chicago.”
Rome settled his forearm on the table, ignoring the sting of the scratches. “Both?”
“One driver’s in the hospital. The other one isn’t talking. He asked for a lawyer.”
Two images filled the screen. One showed the sedan that blew through the intersection and T-boned their escort. The other showed the vehicle that pursued them to the Naval base perimeter before being turned away.
“Hospital driver going to live?” Rome’s voice came out gritty. The rage he’d stuffed down surfaced.
Rivers nodded. “From what we’ve been told, yes. Busted ribs, head injury. Possible internal bleeding. He’ll be questioned when he’s stable.”
“And the one who lawyered up?”
Cannon’s expression hardened to match the stiffness of his spine. “Sitting in a holding room pretending silence makes him safe from justice.”
Younger rested both hands on the back of a chair. “If they’re mercs, they’d be trained.”
Mercenaries weren’t new to Sierra. Rome just couldn’t recall a time he was chased by them on a busy city street.
Rome stared at the escort’s crash on the monitor. The impact replayed in his head in sync with the camera footage. Thenoise of crunching metal projected through the speakers, but only Stina’s scream played in his head.
As the footage continued to roll, he gave Cannon a grim smile. “The drone was a nice touch.”
“I thought so.” He returned the smile but it didn’t touch his eyes. “It distracted the guy on your tail enough for you to get to base, didn’t it?”
He ran a finger over the scratch.
“Is your charge okay?” Cannon asked.
“She’s with Jolie. Probably besmirching my name.”
That earned a chuckle, defusing some of the tension.
Rome let the banter wash around him without joining in. Normally, he’d have some cocky remarks to toss back at his brothers-in-arms, but his mind kept circling the facts.
Sierra might have connections to produce an armed drone at the right time, but someone else not only had eyes on Stina, they meant to kill her guard and the money to coordinate an attack in broad daylight.
