Two of a Kind. Сьюзен Мэллери
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degrees.
“Gideon, please.”
He ignored the words, the plea. Dan had been asking for days. No. Not asking. Begging.
“I can’t hold on,” his friend said, his voice nearly a sob. “They’re threatening my family. I can’t stand it. The torture. All of it. I’m going to break.”
Dan, once a tall, proud soldier, lay curled up against the wall. He was bloodied and nursing a broken arm. Gideon had tried to set it but didn’t think he’d done a good enough job.
After sixteen months and twenty-two days of captivity, Dan was the last one left. The others had either died of their wounds or provoked their captors enough to be killed.
“Maddie,” Dan moaned. “Maddie.”
Maddie was his wife. There weren’t any kids. Dan had said they were going to start trying when they got home. He talked about her all the time, claimed her love sustained him, but Gideon knew he was wrong. Dan’s love kept him anchored in this place. His love made it impossible for him to go so deep in his head that they couldn’t hurt him anymore.
Gideon glanced toward the window and saw the sun was near its zenith. That meant they’d come for him soon.
Later, he felt the blows as he was hit over and over again, felt himself vomit, although there was nothing in his stomach. Gideon wrestled with his captors, but it only made it worse. When they were finally done, they started to drag him down the hall back to his cell. He felt the dirt in his wounds, the dry dust in his mouth mingling with the copper taste of his blood.
Then the door swung open, and he couldn’t look away. Not from the sight of Dan slumped over, the chain restraining him wrapped around his neck.
The guards tossed Gideon aside and raced to Dan, but it was too late. Gideon had refused to kill him, so he’d killed himself. Gideon lay on the dirt, wondering if his friend had been desperately weak or incredibly strong.
And then, as quietly as it had appeared, the cell was gone and he was awake. Awake and drenched in sweat.
He knew the folly of trying to sleep again, so he rose and ripped off his T-shirt, then walked out onto the deck. The night air chilled him, but he didn’t care. Then he sat cross-legged on the deck, closed his eyes and began to breathe.
CHAPTER FIVE
CONSUELO LY STARED at the single-story ranch-style house, half expecting to blink and find it gone. Or maybe see unicorns grazing on the lawn. Because as far as she was concerned, the suburbs and unicorns were equally unrealistic.
She’d heard about both, of course. TV sitcoms enjoyed mocking the suburbs, and she loved Modern Family as much as the next person. But living in them? Not her. She had always assumed she would end her days in a hail of bullets. Or, in her less dramatic, more realistic moments, with her neck broken, her body dumped on the side of some road. But here she was, staring at a ranch-style house. Updated, she thought, taking in the new roof and big windows, but still originally constructed in the 1960s.
She parked in the driveway next to Ford’s god-awful Jeep. It wasn’t the vehicle she objected to as much as the aftermarket two-tone black-and-gold paint job. Jeeps were hardworking machines and deserved more respect. Next to the Jeep was a Harley, which meant Angel was also here.
Sure enough, she’d barely gotten out of her car when the front door opened and the two men stepped out. They were big and tall, both towering over her five feet two inches. Not that they intimidated her in the least. She could take either one in a fair fight, and if they wanted to play dirty, she could geld them in ten seconds. Fortunately for her, they both knew and respected her skill set.
“Ladies,” she said as they approached.
Ford got to her first. “Consuelo!”
He wrapped both arms around her and pulled her against him. It was like hugging a warm, muscled wall. Before she could catch her breath, he passed her over to Angel who did exactly the same thing.
“Chica,” he murmured in her ear. “Still looking good.”
She pushed away from him and rolled her eyes. “You’re both flabby,” she complained. “We’re going to have to start real workouts in the morning.”
Ford’s expression turned wounded. “I’m not,” he said, pulling up his T-shirt to expose a perfect six-pack. “Go on. Hit me.”
“You wish.”
She walked to her trunk and opened it, then pulled out two duffels. The guys hovered, obviously unsure if they should help or not. She liked the slight edge of fear in their eyes. She preferred any situation where she was in charge.
“Here,” she said, handing over her duffels. “How long have you been in the house?”
“Got the keys this morning,” Ford said. “We were thinking of going to the store. For beer and maybe food. We were talking about ordering a pizza for tonight.”
“One of you should start cooking,” she said, leading the way into the house. She held in a snicker, knowing neither of them would have the balls to suggest she should be preparing meals. She might be female, but no one would accuse her of being domesticated.
She walked through the open front door and found herself in a large living room. The furniture was oversize but looked comfortable. Black leather sofa with a couple of chairs and a low coffee table. She could see the dining room beyond and a doorway leading to what she assumed was the kitchen.
She turned the other way, heading down the hallway toward the bedrooms. There was a hall bath, two average-size bedrooms. At the far end, one of a set of double doors stood open.
“The master?” she asked, even as she headed toward it.
“We, ah, weren’t sure who would, ah...” Ford verbally stumbled to a stop.
Consuelo stepped inside. There was a king-size bed, a long dresser and a desk. The attached bath was small but had everything she needed. The closet was more than adequate.
She saw the duffels by the bed and raised her eyebrows.
Ford and Angel exchanged a look and quickly put her luggage on the bed, then carried theirs out. Low conversation carried back to her. She only caught an occasional word—something like “No, you tell her,” and she smiled. It was good to be the meanest, baddest bitch in the house.
Thirty minutes later Consuelo had showered and dressed in jeans and a tank top. She brushed out her thick brown hair, thinking she should never have allowed herself to be talked into a layered cut. Her hair had a natural wave that took over if she didn’t keep her hair well past her shoulders. Now she wrestled the unruly strands into a ponytail. She slipped her feet into sandals and tucked her wallet and cell phone into her jeans pockets. She left the master and headed to the front of the house.
Ford and Angel were in the kitchen. A table stood by a window, and there were bar stools pulled up to the granite counter. Stainless steel appliances gleamed against dark cabinets. The guys each had a beer.
For a second, she felt the separation between them and her. Not just because she was female, but because at the end of the day they were warriors and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see herself as more than a street kid who’d stumbled into a circumstance where she could excel.
“Want one?” Ford asked, pointing to the refrigerator.
“No, thanks. I’m meeting Felicia soon.”
She pulled a hundred dollars out of her wallet and put it on the counter. “Each of you put in the same, and we’ll get the place stocked with basics. Breakfast and snacks only. We each provide our own lunch and dinner.” She cocked her head. “Unless you two want to have one of your bets. Loser cooks for a week and the other two pay for the food. Fair enough?”
The men nodded.
“I’ll take care of