Page 89 of Smoke and Shadows

“Yeah, makes me feel guilty about not re-enlisting.”

“You’ve done so many tours, Trent. You could always serve your country in another way.”

“Hey, you know that security company I’ve talked about?”

“Way to segue into it, bro.”

Her brother chuckled. “I’m meeting with a couple of buddies tonight to kind of talk about it. But since you’re nearby, maybe you could join us at Blue Oyster.”

Blue Oyster was a dance club on Dupont Circle.

“Hmm . . . a strange place to discuss new business. Are you sure you guys are not making an excuse to get shit-faced? Not sure I’m up to dealing with big drunken crew-cut men tonight.”

Especially not after working Fletcher's Bar for almost a week.

Her brother cajoled some more. And she had not seen him in almost nine months.

“Do your buddies know the work I do?”

“Only the ones you’ve worked with.”

“Okay. Are you guys there now?”

“Yup.”

“See you in a bit.”

Marissa wokeup to what she thought was the sound of a loud crash. Cursing one too many tequila shots, she fumbled out of bed just in time to hear Trent in the next room bang his door open and run past her room. Muffled grunts, followed by the breaking of glass, had her reaching for her gun under her pillow.

That sounded like her antique glass coffee table. If this early morning tussle was because Trent’s buddies were horsingaround and still shit-drunk as could be, she’d gladly put them out of their misery. She knew better than to let those four men crash at her place, but they’d played on her sympathy. They moaned that it had been months since they’d had a drop of whiskey seeing that there was an alcohol ban in military outposts in Afghanistan.

It was painful to watch these big badass-looking men, in their thirties no less, whine like little girls. Her brother included.

The light in the kitchen came on, followed by Trent yelling, “Who the fuck are you?”

Oh fuck.

16

Viktor stoodin the middle of her living room, one hand gripping the scruff of the shirt of Trent’s buddy, who was on his knees. The other two were piled on top of each other, right where her coffee table once sat.

Marissa didn’t know how to react to the scene before her. She was pissed that her precious antique was smashed, relieved that Viktor was back, and alarmed that her brother had a gun pointed at her lover.

Knowing that her brother had not decompressed from heightened vigilance that followed each deployment, she was worried that he would shoot first and ask questions later. Viktor wasn’t helping things by pasting on that cold, unfeeling mask of his. There was nothing more chilling than being faced with a man wearing an expressionless face, who had just taken down three men—big men she might add—with his bare hands. They were drunk as sailors judging from the pervading stench of whiskey in her living room, but the tension in the air was electric.

Time to prevent a disaster.

“Trent, put down your weapon. I know him.”

“One of your men?” Trent asked. Marissa knew what he meant, but Viktor took it the wrong way and scowled darkly.

“We do work together, but no, he’s not CIA.”

Trent relaxed and lowered his gun. Viktor released the guy he was holding who face-planted on her floor.

Still scowling, Viktor said, “Marissa, put some fucking clothes on.”

“Now look here—” Trent began, confusion in his voice as her brother’s eyes swung to her, then said, “Um, he’s right, sis.”