Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(11)

“Well?” Stefan squared his shoulders. “You in?”

Geoff and Mike both had the same question in their eyes, but didn’t push. They knew, and they’d back him up if he backed out.

Frank cleared his throat. “I think we’d better have at least one ref paying attention to watching the other boys instead of protecting—or not—his own arse.”

“Good idea.” Geoff added a subtle “read you loud and clear” nod.

Stefan threw him a good-natured scowl. “Afraid of getting caught?”

“Afraid of it?” You have no idea. Frank laughed. “I don’t think so. Anyway, are we going to get back out there before the sun’s down?”

Several of the guys muttered affirmatives, so that topic was successfully changed, though it didn’t fool Stefan. The man gave Frank a level stare that made his knees weak, and he remembered Stefan’s gloved hand keeping Chris’s head under control as he’d f*cked his throat, staring at Frank the entire time. Maybe it had been this kind of stare behind the visor.

Frank grabbed his mask and gloves and pushed away from the group, trying to clear his mind. Maybe this whole thing had been a dreadful idea. He hadn’t expected the Yank to be so persistent. Damn, Chris would fit Stefan like a glove. They were similar ages, similar cocky arseholes, and they clearly played well together. They should shack up and pick out curtains, and everything could go back to normal.

Geoff stood next to him as he checked his mask, then leaned in closer, checking his mask, too, though it wasn’t necessary. “Young buck got you spooked, right?”

Frank rolled his shoulders and put the mask on. “He knows I don’t f*ck employees.”

Geoff put his on and leaned in close enough that Frank could see his eyes through the visor. “He grabbed Chris. Entirely possible one of us is next.”

“Not me.” Frank shook his head. “Though he’s very sneaky. Guy’s damn near invisible out there.”

“Should I keep an eye on your arse?”

“Just keep an eye on Mike.”

“He likes it.” Geoff slapped him on the shoulder. “Should help him relax after the stress he’s had with that bloody client.” He stepped away and grabbed the siren. “Right, guys, everybody in position.”





Out on the field, Frank couldn’t help keeping an eye on Stefan. Partly in case the kid decided to make a move. He played by the field rules as near as Frank could tell, so he’d probably stay back since Frank hadn’t contributed to the bet. Still, it didn’t hurt to be vigilant. With a ref-hungry player on the field, he was damn sure watching his six.

That wasn’t the only reason, though. The fact was, Stefan made stealth and strategy into an art form. A sexy, tempting art form.

Two minutes after the siren had sounded, Stefan was slithering on his stomach and elbows towards a pair of snipers hunkered down behind a plywood bunker. They were whispering back and forth, making sharp gestures as they presumably planned an attack, completely oblivious to the impending ambush.

Frank watched intently, certain Stefan had every nuance of his attack planned out, strategised, plotted down to the inch; he’d probably already decided which of the two men would suck the other off or watch while someone got f*cked.

Under the cover of a bush and a fallen branch, Stefan lifted his marker. His elbows became his bipod, and he aimed.

Pop. Pop.

Both players ducked and spun around, hands flying to the splatters of paint on their backs. Then their shoulders dropped in defeat, and they raised their markers in the air.

“Out,” both called, and stepped out from behind the bunker. “Where the f*ck is he?” One of them stopped and scanned their surroundings.

“Fuck if I know.” The other craned his neck, shoulders drawn up defensively. “Let’s get out of here before someone else shoots us.”

Guns still over their heads, they marched off the field, and Stefan didn’t move. For a good minute and a half, he was completely still.

Then he slowly turned his head, and there was no doubt he was looking right at Frank again. He gave a single nod before sliding backwards into the bushes, the viper retreating into its den.

Some shots went off in the other direction. Frank checked, making sure the two “killed” players weren’t being lit up on their way off the field. When he turned his head again, Stefan wasn’t there.

Frank’s pulse shot up. It wasn’t arousal—well, not much—but the paranoia that came with suddenly realising one was possibly being hunted.

He heard more shots and shouts in the distance. Time to go check out what was going on over there. He came out from behind his own bunker and strode across the field, hoping some of the more trigger-happy guys saw the orange tape before they squeezed off a few shots at anything that moved. Even if they did, oh well. He needed to put some space between him and Stefan.

He glanced back. He didn’t see or hear Stefan, but that didn’t mean a damned thing. The limited peripheral vision thanks to his mask didn’t help to slow his pulse. The last thing potential prey needed was a massive blind spot. As if he’d see Stefan anyway. For all he knew, the man was creeping through the branches over his head and was going to drop out of the sky and tackle him at any moment.

Which would be hot.

And so, so not a good idea.