Variations (Base Branch Series Book 9) Read online

  Variations

  Megan Mitcham

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Copyright Warning

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Published by MM Publishing LLC

  Edited by Jenny Sims

  Proofread by Tina Rucci & Lynn Mullan

  Cover Design by Deranged Doctor Designs

  Variations

  All Rights Are Reserved. Copyright 2016 by Megan Mitcham

  First electronic publication: October 2016

  First print publication: October 2016

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-941899-23-6

  Print ISBN: 978-1-941899-24-3

  ISBN: 978-1-941899-23-6

  Created with Vellum

  To the people we thought we’d become, the people we are, and the people we will become. May the paths we chose lead us to the truest rendition of ourselves.

  1

  Oliver Knight had been dropped into the pop and sizzle of a firefight more times than he could count in his four years with the Base Branch. He tacked on a few more hot entries from the Marines, which he’d earned before the special operations group of the United Nations had recruited him. All in all, there were more to count than he had fingers and toes, and he hadn’t even grazed thirty years on the earth.

  Ooh-rah!

  He’d take the live fire, ass-puckering adrenaline rush five times over to this shit.

  “Two blocks west on your three,” Hunter Masters, Oliver’s partner for what seemed like forever, whispered. The bull-doggish black man maintained a casual stride beside him. His brows didn’t furrow or hit the sky to indicate he’d seen the thirty-plus procession headed in their direction. Nope. Nothing. Just two mates strolling the cobblestone street with beers in hand, looking for their next pub.

  “I saw.” Hard to miss the signs the men hoisted into the air that read; Sharia will dominate Sweden, Massacre those who insult Islam, and other sweet nothings of the same notion. Even harder to miss when those crazy bastards marched toward the intersection they neared.

  “Of all the fucking streets in Stockholm, why’d they have to pick this one?”

  “You know exactly why they chose it.” Hunter drained the last of his dark malt and tossed the bottle into the recycle bin on the opposite side of the street from the focus.

  Oliver’s question had been rhetorical, to the stars and the devil who cursed them. The bomb-vest-wearing, Allāh-screamin’, virgins-in-the-afterlife-tokin’, sons-a-bitches headed for the Brödraskapet outposts. Sure, peaceful Muslims existed, but they weren’t in the crowd that rushed toward the disaster…exactly where they also headed.

  The unmistakable crack, crack, pop of meaty knuckles crunched to his left. Hunter forced his telltale sign of unease between bone and tendon. As many high stakes ops as they’d been on together, he’d only heard the indicator four times. Each time, one of the men on their team had ended up shot or worse.

  Fucking great.

  “Yep, this has me all warm and fuzzy too.” Oliver flexed his jaw.

  A few yards up on the right side of the slow-to-no traffic intersection, neon lights announced Bar Royan. If their mark’s name in bright lights wasn’t enough of a giveaway to the local Brödraskapet home base, the guys hanging around outside sure as hell did. Four bald, brawling types the approximate size of Volkswagen Passats sat at a bistro table, testing the tensile strength of the wrought iron. Another vacant chair stood back to the table. Two drained pitchers sat between them and their game. A friendly match of Redbeard. Their heads hunched, they stared intently at the cards, completely unaware of the mess about to erupt.

  None of the war zones and active battles Oliver had seen held as much teeming tension as the powder keg that was Sweden. It crackled and rippled its way along the tightrope of civil unrest between nationalists and immigrants, while their underbelly battled it out for power over the drugs and illegal arms.

  And here, he and his partner were in the midst of it with an impossible mission.

  “Dun dun dada dun dun dada dun dun.” Oliver couldn’t help but start the Mission Impossible theme song.

  “Would you shut up?” Hunter growled.

  He hummed the rest. Well, until… “Doo de doo doo de doo doo.” A sharp jab to the ribs cut off his song. “Killjoy. Remind me again why we’re risking our necks for a could be out-and-out bad but is probably no better than a gray-zone chick?”

  Tucker hadn’t given them any details on Marina Sorensen. He had said, ‘Recon only until we know if it’s a trap.’ That was a day ago and the itch to make a move wormed its way up his spine.

  “Because we’re the lighter side of gray…the mostly good guys.”

  A chuckle escaped Oliver’s throat as he eyed his best friend’s chocolate skin.

  “What?” Hunter’s amber eyes narrowed.

  “You’re not.”

  “Dick.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed…” Oliver hiked one brow toward the guy stalled in the bar’s doorway with two brimming pitchers in one hand and a scowl trained on Hunter. “The people we’ve been sent to deal with don’t care for increased melanin in the skin.”

  “And I don’t care for their bald-ass heads and Aryan attitudes.”

  “This coming from the man with a practically bald head,” Oliver scoffed.

  “It’s a tight clip, asshole.” Hunter drew a deep breath. When he released it, his bowling ball shoulders relaxed. “By now, I should be used to your mouth running before an op.” His thick black brows jumped. “But we’re not op’ing,” he warned. “We’re strictly recon.”

  They drew closer to the place they’d been surveilling for too many hours with no sign of Tor Royan, their mark, or Marina Sorensen, their rescue. Well, they would be whenever Tucker, the director of their division of Base Branch, gave them the green light. Oliver sidled closer to his partner’s side and smiled down at him. He had Hunter by nearly six inches in height. Hunter had him by nearly a solid quarter on pounds, the brute. Where it counted, they were evenly matched. They shared women enough to confirm it.

  “What are you doing? We’re supposed to do recon, not get beaten to death.”

  Yep, Hunter guessed—like Oliver had—that if they were opposed to dark skin, they were probably seriously opposed to homosexuality. Oliver switched his beer to his right hand and grabbed Hunter’s hand with his lef
t.

  “I’m tired of recon. We know this is the place they took the video. Cord confirmed it.” Oliver gazed lovingly into Hunter’s eyes. “If that girl needs our help, she doesn’t need it in five days, after we’ve assessed, after Tucker has confirmed, after more of whatever the fuck they’ve been doing to her. She needs it now. You have a faster way to figure it out?”

  The baldy at the door hollered a pretty little obscenity, drawing the attention of his card playing buds.

  “And if it’s a setup?” Hunter’s hand squeezed Oliver’s knuckles together. “If Cara’s story checks that Marina turned on them?”

  “You saw the video, man. You can’t fake pain like that. You know.” They both knew a bit about pain and pleasure. It was what balanced them on their crazy-assed career paths.

  “What about Tucker’s shit list?”

  Oliver’s stomach clenched. They’d never defied a direct order. They could use the approaching, yet still hidden, mob as an excuse, but they wouldn’t.

  “To save her, I’ll handle it. How ‘bout you, partner?”

  “We aren’t even locked and loaded.”

  Hunter had a point. Never before had they gone into battle with only their everyday carry; pistol at the back, tact knife above it, and a cannon on the ankle.

  “We’ll take the initial wave, and the riot headed our way will distract them.”

  “You hope.”

  “I bet. And what are you complaining about? You’ll finally know why the ladies pick me over you.” Oliver waggled his brows.

  “You wish.”

  Oliver grabbed Hunter’s collar, tilted his head, and plastered his mouth to his friend’s. They were close—had shared clothes, ladies, rides—but never such an intimate exchange.

  Behind them, shouts erupted. The clatter of metal on metal and concrete gonged the advance. Those intolerant pieces of shit probably tossed the table out of the way to get to them, to teach them a lesson.

  Oliver straightened and sighed. “They were softer than silk pillows.”

  “Did Erica say that?” Hunter scrubbed a hand over said lips.

  “No, the NAACP lawyer with triple Ds. What was her name?”

  “Veronica?”

  “Yeah, she was partial to your mouth. My finger trick brought her around.” Oliver winked.

  The bigots lumbered their way. Each Swedish slur sounded closer and more hateful than the last. And then…

  “Ooh, it’s a good thing you can’t understand them. That last comment would’ve really pissed you off.”

  “You can?” Hunter released his hand and folded his arms over his chest.

  “Yeah, my grandparents were old country Finnish. A good bit translates and he had some Swede friends.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “It involved your momma and a—”

  “Say no more.” Hunter turned to the looming huddle of Brödraskapet thugs. The Brotherhood. Yeah, the brotherhood of hate, women-selling, gun-running, and drug-peddling. “What the fuck did you say about my mom?”

  Either the words didn’t compute, or the dudes had more important things on their minds. They looked from one to another, reassessing Hunter. He didn’t flap wrists, running away as they’d expected.

  The leader of the group lumbered forward two steps. When Hunter didn’t budge, baldie called forward two more guys. Three to one. Oliver ignored the impulse to bounce on the balls of his feet and shake out his arms. One guy hung in the backdrop but buddied up with the slow trickle of bastard brothers from the bar.

  Baldie numero uno, or should he say nummer ett, shed his leather jacket and handed it to the idiot behind him. Idiot tried to pawn it off to the man behind him, but that guy retreated a couple of steps. Hunter did that; he made grown men wet themselves with his sick, calm, and possessed eyes. Idiot awkwardly owned the jacket, choking it with his fat hand.

  Nummer ett slapped the tattoo on his arm. The wolf continued to snarl wrapped in his prison of barbed wire and a stilted version of the Swedish flag. He yelled something Oliver couldn’t understand before launching a one-dimensional attack that had probably worked for him fifty different times. A fat grin pulled at Oliver’s mouth.

  Hunter sidestepped, gripping the back of the man’s neck, and guided the nearly three hundred pounds to the ground with the aid of a simple foot sweep. A toying move without a hint of the devastation of which the operative was capable.

  Jacket holder tossed the leather to the cobblestone, close to its owner laid flat on his face, and barreled in, shoulders down, with a throaty shriek. The growing manpower at the bar door hurried forward. They were six strong plus the three nearest them.

  Oliver guzzled the last of his beer and hissed at the burn in his throat.

  “Hey,” he called to his partner. When Hunter rolled an irritated look over his shoulder, he tossed him the glass bottle.

  The man caught it by the neck and slapped it on the lowered, charging head. Glass cracked and flew, leaving Hunter with an unconscious man at his feet and a jagged weapon in his hand.

  “You’re welcome,” Oliver hollered.

  “Screw you.”

  “I think that’s what they’re mad about.”

  “Shut up and throw some punches or I’m breaking up with you.” Hunter kicked out at one assailant, while simultaneously piercing another’s belly button with the broken bottle.

  The Brotherhood swelled around his friend. Oliver shrugged and launched himself crowd-surfing style into the melee. His forearm wrapped around a thick neck and took it along for the ride. An elbow landed in his ribs. It pissed him off enough to quit dicking around. He clamped sleepy-time tight, compressing the man’s windpipe. The guy's body became a shield for the flurry of feet headed his way. Just a few seconds more. Damn. The SOB’s unconscious weight threatened to crush Oliver’s ribs like a soda can.

  A rounded boot connected with his threatened ribs. It would have stolen the air from his lungs had he any to lose. Oliver guarded his eyes against the attack and searched through the jean clad legs for the mob. An idea sparked.

  “Muzzies!” Oliver yelled the slur and pointed down the street.

  Too bad the slow-moving horde had yet to crest the corner. It distracted the men long enough that he rolled the load off his chest, bounded to his feet, and sucked in a full breath. He blocked a punch and landed one of his own on a hefty, clean-shaven jaw. The man didn’t blink but rather snarled. Yes, that was a definite snarl. Damn. Oliver absorbed a brutal hook to the ribs. Learning from past mistakes, he jacked a palm to the man’s nose and smiled as the guy teared up.

  Another thick voice hollered the Swedish slang equivalent for Muslim extremists. It hadn’t worked for Oliver, but a pair of wide shoulders at a time turned. Their interest swiveled as quickly as a chick’s did when someone yelled, “Free cosmetics samples,” or some shit like that.

  The crush of sign-toting, eastern-facing crazies finally poured onto the street a block away. Maybe they’d had to stop mid-offensive and pray. Why else had it taken them forever to show? But show they did, presenting a larger and more repugnant target than he and his “partner.”

  Said partner stood in the epicenter of three downed men. Two unconscious and one gripping his arm, rolling around, wishing to hell he were.

  Hunter’s sweat-soaked face and quietly simmering gaze assessed Oliver, his one unconscious adversary, and the guy wiping the blood from his nose and refueling on pure rage. His friend’s silk pillow lips pursed. “You done playing around?” He reeled back and put the moaning guy out of his misery.

  “Need a minute.”

  Oliver weaved out of the line of an oncoming fist. Not quite fast enough, though. The man had an unimaginable reach, and it connected with the tip of his jaw. The intro to Star Wars scrolled in his periphery. Rolling blackness and stars narrowed his vision.

  “How about a hand?” Hunter taunted.

  He sucked in a breath to tell his buddy to piss off. A boulder-size fist express shipped it from his lun
gs. Oliver greeted the cobblestones again. He was that kind of dude; he didn’t want anyone to feel left out, not even the goddamned ground.

  “We’ve got shit to do, man. Quit jerkin’ off.” His partner always had words of encouragement.

  Through the moisture and ticking celestial sky, Oliver forced his eyes open. Should have kept them shut. The behemoth’s boot stomped toward his gut. Good thing as much animosity as this fella had toward homosexuals, Oliver had in his abs. He clenched them tight, exhaling in time with the impact.

  If at first you don’t succeed… The guy should have changed tactics, but he wound his boot up for another blow.

  Oliver clamped his hands around the man’s ankle and rammed his size thirteen tread into the man’s most precious parts. Big and bald’s face sucked into itself, looking more like an Ewok than a member of Sweden’s most notorious gang. Fat arms wrapped around his stomach and he crumpled, grabbing some cobblestone of his own.

  His partner stood a few feet away, grimacing and cupping his nuts.

  “I think I popped a grape.” Oliver chuckled.

  “You’re not right.” Hunter shook his head in a slow back and forth. “Not at all. Are you done?”

  “Waiting on you, man.”

  2

  Marina looked at the shadows playing across the wall outside the narrow, barred window set high in the room that had become her prison cell 755 days ago. A quick glance at the tick marks on the opposite plaster wall confirmed it. Judging by the tilt of shading on the blue wall across the alley, she still had fifteen maybe twenty minutes until they’d come for her.

  Any other day, she wouldn’t chance the paltry time and continue to work. The nasty infection on the back of her thigh and the sweat rolling down her nose in waterfall style made vicious flames engulf her timetable from both ends.

  Her teeth chattered. She clamped her lips over them, fit her pinkie fingernail into the miniature screw’s slot, and twisted. The threads didn’t move. The screw screwed her, refusing to hold the phone’s speaker wire to the circuit board.