Page 24 of Ready For His Rule

“Is Tigress still with you?”

“Right here.” He looked over. Tracy’s gaze hadn’t left him. If anything, she gaped more intensely. Nervously.

Fuck it.

He reached out. Wrapping her hand in his once more. So small. And trembling.

He meshed his fingers with hers. Squeezed hard. It’s going to be all right.

He had no business forcing that message to his gaze, but didn’t care. He’d given more impossible promises in his life, in the last year alone. To a rebel-ravaged village in Thailand, he’d ensured new internet connectivity. To three desperate kids in Aleppo, the safe return of their missing puppy. To a group of half-starved North Korean scientists, the chance to live their lives in freedom.

Two out of three wasn’t bad.

If only unlucky number three hadn’t nearly dragged his country into war with North Korea.

He gave his head a harsh shake, freeing it from the past. Weirdly, Sol’s paranoid grunt was a good helper for the cause too. “All right,” the man said. “That’s good; very good.”

“Good for what?”

And why did his gut already knot, preparing for the answer? Regrettably, he could fill in that part. Wrightman’s energy had surpassed normal crisis mode settings. The man was skittish, frantic, freaked the fuck out—and he was a trained professional in the world of “freaked out”.

“Good for what, man?” Okay, he’d admit it. His own case of paranoia instigated the re-do on the snarl. Good thing. Wrightman wasn’t into dawdling about the comeback anymore.

“You need to get her out of here, Franzen.” Nope. Definitely not dawdling anymore. “Out of the city,” he stressed, biting out each syllable. “Her and anyone else who was supposed to be in that villa with her. Nobody can know they all survived the blast—is that understood? Not yet. Not now.”

“The…fuck?” He twisted Tracy’s fingers tighter into his own. “Wrightman, what are you—”

“Do you understand, Franzen?”

“Yeah, yeah. I copy. I understand. But—”

“Good. Make it happen. Coordinate with Mackenna and Cary if you must, but only if necessary.”

“Getting the vice president, her head counsel, her press secretary and two horny teenagers out of Las Vegas?” Harsh grunt. “Yeah, I’ll need Sam and Shep.” And a team of at least eight or nine more guys, but he could sense Sol’s hissy about just the two from across the miles.

“Fine.” Yep. Hissy pegged it. “But if you involve them, you take them too. Nobody who knows your destination can be left behind.”

He felt like dragging a hand down his own face. Shit, he felt like taking off a whole layer of skin while he was at it. “Sure, and let me make the whole Statue of Liberty disappear while I’m at it. David Copperfield’s in town; I’m sure he has a few seconds to teach me.”

“You want to involve David fucking Copperfield, you go right ahead. You’ll just have to kill him after you’re done with him.”

“Fuck.” Maybe more than a layer of skin had to go. “Wrightman, this isn’t an episode of some damn TV show—”

“A little affirmation you and your ‘wild boys’ have conveniently forgotten on a few occasions, yes?” The man’s voice climbed, clearly picking up on the blood of Franz’s shock in the water. “Did you think I didn’t research you before greenlighting Bommer’s decision to call you down here? So yeah, Captain, I know about your ‘wild boys’ pack, and how you enjoy a quiet but robust reputation for ‘off books’ missions that would make television creators cream their jeans. Likely factored into the big brass’s decision about cutting you after the Kaesong gig too—but I don’t give a shit. You know how to cross lines, and tripping that kind of terrain requires more than just steel balls.”

John sucked in a burning breath. “While my junk appreciates the appraisal—”

“Your junk doesn’t get a say in this, Franzen, any more than the rest of you.” The man’s grunt was dark and impatient. “You have resources, fucker. Now use them.”

His jaw jutted. His nostrils flared. “It’s not as easy as—”

“I don’t care.”

“Goddammit. She’s the vice president of the United States!”

“I don’t care.” But the way he sliced the end of each word spoke the exact opposite. Sol cared, all right. He cared to the point he was scared. Not a let’s-get-this-right kind of scared. It was deeper. Bigger.

Armaggedon-style bigger.

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