every day since being broken down into smaller and smaller pieces.
How long had it taken him to realize that the Protectorate wasn’t made up of the shining heroes from glossy vids and propaganda bulletins? How many days before he’d understood that the Protectorate was just another efficient subsidiary of the TechCorps, the perfect combination of obedient test subjects and private army?
“Too long,” he grated out. When she slanted a look at him, he struggled for a casual tone. “I thought if I climbed high enough in the ranks, I’d be able to make a difference. For a while, it seemed like I was.”
“That’s not how the Protectorate operates.” She leaned down, stretching out over the felt to study the angles. “Maybe that’s easier to see from the outside.”
“Maybe.” Her tank top slipped up, revealing a narrow strip of skin on her lower back. You’d have to be three days dead not to imagine gripping those lush hips and dragging her back—
Fuck. A clock ticking down to his inevitable death was apparently hell on his self-control. It had been so long since he’d actually feared death, he’d forgotten what that fear could do to his body. More specifically, what it could do to his dick.
His dick wasn’t interested in the mission. It was interested in immediate, enthusiastic gratification.
He dragged his gaze from her ass. “Do you want to look at the vault schematics again? See if you need any special equipment?”
“Hydeker Millennial, 700 Series, with a modified hermetic seal.” She took her shot, her cue gliding easily over the worn felt. “Not much to it, really.”
She’d barely glanced at the files earlier, but apparently she’d retained plenty. He ignored the clatter of the pool balls and slotted that into his sparse mental profile. Enhanced reflexes, superior strength, and impressive recall, but none of the obvious side effects that went hand in hand with most of the TechCorps’ experiments.
What the hell was she?
She straightened slowly, flashing him an eyeful of cleavage, and he cleared his throat. “Does that mean you’re signing on?”
Instead of answering, she turned her attention back to the corner booth, where Rafe sat, unflinching, his fingers spread wide on the table, while Dani stabbed her knife between each one in turn. She picked up speed, moving faster and faster until even Rafe’s easy smile grew strained.
Nina chuckled. “They seem to be getting along fine. You know what? I think we can—”
Only a few feet away, an obvious disagreement exploded into violence. The clatter of wood on wood burst through the smoky air as a chair hit the floor, its recent occupant on his feet and seething. He held a knife to his companion’s throat, the wicked tip already piercing skin to draw blood.
Knox’s instincts took over.
He planted one hand on the edge of the pool table and vaulted it. Nina was still turning toward the source of the commotion when his boots hit the grimy floor. He put his body between her and the scuffle, his pistol out and ready, his entire being fixated on one truth.
Without Nina, every man on his team was going to die.
A blast shook the room. The armed man went down, gasping for breath and clutching his chest, while Clementine stood behind the bar and calmly began reloading her shotgun.
“That was your warning.” Her gnarled hands were steady about her task. “Next round won’t be rubber, so you’d better move your fucking ass.”
The man half scrambled, half crawled to the door, where he disappeared into the night.
All around the bar, people shrugged and went back to their conversations. It took Knox a second longer to choke back his chemically augmented adrenaline high. He holstered his gun and checked on his men—Gray was as inscrutable as ever, Conall looked shocked, and Rafe was still ready to upend the table and dive to Knox’s defense.
He urged the man to stand down with a tiny shake of his head.
Nina didn’t look tense or worried. If anything, she looked amused as she tossed back the last of her drink and studied him. “Are you going to be this jumpy on the road, Captain?”
His title rolled off her tongue like she’d been taking lessons from Rafe on how to make innocent words sound as filthy as possible. All the adrenaline raging through him without an outlet simmered beneath his skin like unquenchable fire.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he rumbled, packing every bit of that heat into the endearment. He couldn’t tell if it sounded like a curse or a threat or a