Call To Engage. Tawny Weber

it all went to hell.

      Elijah saw it going down a second before it actually did. The ambassador slipped, his slick dress shoes losing traction on the marble floor. Despite Lansky’s hold on him, the man still flailed out, his hand slapping the wall. Just a tap.

      And he screamed like a scared little girl. He might as well have sounded a Klaxon.

      The team angled to the right, taking the secondary, longer route just before they heard the sound of boots quick-marching down the hall. A shout of alarm went up, voices called out, running footsteps of what sounded like an entire platoon ricocheted off the walls.

      The team tightened their circle around the hostage, stepping up their pace to an easy run. Torres and Elijah automatically slowed, covering the rear as Loudon signaled a warning to the men in the air.

      The voices came closer. This way, Elijah translated the Arabic shouts. “They know where we are,” he warned the others calmly. “Company’s coming.”

      Then company was there.

      The bullets didn’t dent his calm. Not until one of them ripped through an ornately framed painting on the wall next to him.

      “The sonovabitch shot a Monet,” he swore. “What the fuck is wrong with some people?”

      “Guess they aren’t much for flowers,” Torres returned, grinning even as he ran. “Too bad we don’t have time to educate them on art appreciation.”

      As he marveled at the sacrilege, hoping like hell it had been a reproduction, Elijah moved. A small metal canister flew from his hand, landing smack-dab between the feet of the lead guard with a loud clang. A heartbeat later, the end of the hall exploded in smoke.

      A quick glance assured him that Lansky and Loudon had the hostage covered. As sweat poured off the man’s pale, bald head, they angled him into the air duct. As soon as the ornate, man-size grill was back in place, Masters and Rengel cocked their heads to the left, indicating they’d lead the guards that way while Elijah and Torres waited ten seconds, then took the right to distract the guards on the other side.

      “I’ve been ordered to remind you of the preference that your ammo stays in your rifle,” Powers said through the comm, his tight voice making it clear just how he felt about being ordered to share Jarrett’s preferences.

      Hard to blame him. Elijah couldn’t say he much like hearing it, either. Obviously the guards weren’t so particular because they just kept on shooting.

      “Out and on our way,” came through the comm as Lansky let them know they’d safely cleared the building with the hostage and were en route to the pickup site.

      With the hostage secured, Elijah and Torres moved fast, angling out the doors and into a small garden they knew led to the sea. Torres shifted to the left, heading for the cliffs to secure the lines for their escape while Elijah provided cover.

      Something exploded with a jarring crash, sending pieces of a statue flying every which way. Fire flashed, hot and blinding. The roar engulfed him, pulling Elijah into its unspeakable hell. He hit the ground, his leg eaten away by pain as the cries of the dying filled his head. He waited for the flames to eat at his body, to tear at his soul.

      “Prescott!”

      The dead faces came riding on the flames. Elijah gripped his weapon, finger on the trigger as he tried to aim, tried to stop them from taking his teammate. From killing them both.

      “Prescott, snap out of it.”

      Strong arms gripped his shoulders with a jarring shake. The flames were gone. The fire out. The dead still circled, though, round and round in his head.

      Chest heaving, sweat burning his eyes, Elijah tried to bring the man in front of him into focus.

      “Rembrandt? You okay?”

      Elijah blinked again.

      “Yeah.” He tried to breathe past the constriction in his chest, but the air barely wheezed through. He managed to nod. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

      “Guess they weren’t big on flowers outside, either,” Torres joked, gesturing with his chin to gutted landscape. Trees were splintered, statuary rubble, bushes leveled.

      Elijah caught sight of the hole on Torres’s flak jacket. “You’re hit.” Alive, not burned to a crisp, was Elijah’s next thought. Then fury rode a wild wave of guilt inside him, overriding that thought with reality. His job had been to cover Torres. Because Elijah had let his personal nightmare distract him, he’d blown his job.

      “Nah, bullet grazed my body armor. C’mon, rendezvous in thirty seconds.”

      Elijah wanted to protest. He wanted to check Torres, to make sure there was no real damage. He wanted to howl at the fucking moon, then go back and kill the already-dead man who’d detonated the bomb.

      But instincts and training, or maybe it was Torres’s steady gaze, did the trick of getting Elijah on his feet and, limping only a little, back on track.

      Twenty minutes later, they were in the helicopter with the hostage secured. Loudon, the medic, sedated the ambassador before he shook to pieces. Jarrett entertained them during takeoff with his version of wringing his hands over their inability to tiptoe their way out of the embassy. The guy looked as if he was going to cry when he mentioned reparation and damage costs.

      Elijah, along with the rest of the team, ignored him. After all, it wasn’t like it was coming out of his pocket.

      “Rembrandt?”

      He lifted tired eyes to Torres.

      “You okay?”

      Was he okay? He wanted to say no. He wanted to know what the hell was wrong with him, why he couldn’t shake the monkey off his back. He wanted to beat the hell against the walls of the helicopter until he punched his way through the metal and out to freedom.

      As he glanced down the line of men leaning against the bulwark of the bird, he saw the same concern reflected in their eyes that was gleaming in Torres’s. Concern for him? a little voice wondered. Or about him?

      Elijah gave up, simply closing his eyes and letting his head drop back against the steel wall. It didn’t shut out those questions, didn’t erase the doubt he saw on the squad’s faces. But after a few seconds focusing on steadying his breath, lowering his heart rate, he could shove that aside.

      He drew a picture in his head, a landscape. The sun setting over water that stretched as far as the eye could see. Add a sandy beach in the back, some trees and scrub for texture and interest. And maybe a rickety hut off to the side, the driftwood walls leaning in on themselves. Yeah. He sighed as peace washed through him. A hut, with a hammock lashed between two palms.

      The sun would be hot and the beach quiet but for the sound of the surf beating its song. Deserted. Away from everyone and everything.

      Except the woman.

      He didn’t picture her face. He wouldn’t let himself. But a part of him recognized her. Knew her body, knew the ring of twisted metal she wore on her finger. A part of him knew she was it.

      Salvation.

      What he didn’t know was whether she’d grant it to him or not. Whether she’d deem his life worth saving.

      Or if she’d simply walk away, leaving him to drown in fiery misery.

       CHAPTER THREE

      TO AVA MONROE, life was all about the simple choices.

      Cardio or strength training.

      Yoga pants or fleece.

      A jog or a bike ride.

      An egg white omelet or a fresh fruit protein shake.

      She’d worked hard to simplify, to bring it down to choices as