LETTING GO

Mercy's Angels Book 6

COMING SOON

Gabriella Mendoza
When my husband disappeared, letting him go brought me to my knees, and for a moment I thought I might never get back up. I did though, and from the rubble of that pain I became stronger. Just when I thought I might be ready to allow someone back into my scarred heart, I saw him, my husband, and learned my grief had been based off a lie.

Daniel “Bomber” Jones
Building and detonating bombs tends to instill certain traits in a man. In me it created a plethora of patience, and hands as steady as a rock. It only took twelve days to tear apart that calm, patient man, leaving behind a shell. Our world as we knew it had been blown apart, we were fragmented, and the pieces scattered so far and wide I figured we would never find our way back.

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LETTING GO, Chapter one - Recap

Gah, being shot wasn’t as cool as I thought it would be. I was the only team member who hadn’t felt the burn of a bullet, and right now, I kind of wished it had stayed that way. The bullet almost nicked an artery and had done some major damage to the muscle tissue, so eight days in the hospital following my surgery had finally drawn out the bitch I hid so well.
“Usted me está volviendo loco, hombre estúpido!”  I growled at the man who was currently on the receiving end of all my attitude.
“Did you just call me stupid?” he asked one brow arching.
Damn, he’d been studying Spanish, and even though he was miles away from my fluency he was catching words here and there.
“Bomber, just go home already. Abuelita said she’d give me a ride.”
“No can do, sweets. Larz took her home yesterday.”
“What?” I shouted, uncaring who might hear.
“Now, don’t shoot the messenger. Larz said she was worried about leaving the house the way she did, she didn’t even get to lock up. I assured Larz I could get you home, and Grandma Catalina practically skipped out of the hotel room.”
“Abuelita doesn’t skip!” I growled under my breath.
“True, she’s getting older which brings me to my next point. If you’re going to stay with her while you’re recovering, you’re going to need some help. Kimberly said the wound will need redressing daily, and you might need help getting in and out of clothing, particularly bras, because you can’t lift your arm. Oh, and you can’t drive,” he added as he watched me from across the room, his usually playful smile gone and a serious look in place. “So, I told Grandma Catalina that I would stay and help, and she was most grateful.”
“What?” I asked, trying hard to keep my temper under control. “You are not helping me dress, and who the hell is Kimberly?”
“Your nurse.”
“The one whose number you tucked into your back pocket yesterday?”
At least he had the good sense to look contrite.
“I already threw it away, sweets.” He seemed so genuine, I almost believed him, but Bomber liked the ladies and I wouldn’t put it past him that Nurse Kimberly would be in his bed by the end of the week.
“Right . . . whatever,” I said dismissively. There was no way he was staying with me while I took some downtime for my injury. I wasn’t even going to argue with him about it, because it just wasn’t going to happen. All I had to do was tell Abuelita to get rid of him, and she would toss him out on his perfect tight ass.
“Mrs Mendoza, we have the paperwork ready for your release.”
Nurse Kimberly stood in the doorway to my room, a wheelchair under her perfectly manicured hands.
“It’s Ms Mendoza, and what’s that for? I was shot in the arm, not the leg.”
“Hospital procedure, Ms Mendoza.”
“Hospital procedure my ass—” I began, ready to rip fake blonde nurse Barbie a new hole.
“Come on now, sweets. Get that beautiful ass of yours in here and let me wheel you out of this hellhole.” Bomber’s voice broke through my anger, and the dip in nurse Kimberly’s brow at the mention of my ‘beautiful ass’ made me feel a little better. “The sooner we get out of here, the sooner I can start playing Nurse Bomber. Think of me as your personal slave. I’ll do anything you ask of me.” He waggled his eyebrows playfully as he approached the bed and held out his hand. My good one automatically reached for him. “I’ll even wear an apron . . . and nothing else.”
“Estúpido,” I murmured, trying to hide my smile as I sat in the wheelchair. It was mortifying being wheeled around like an invalid, but when Bomber turned me around and asked Nurse Kimberly to get out of the fucking way, I grinned.
Putting my signature on a bunch of documents finally granted me my freedom, and as Bomber grabbed the prescriptions and discharge information, I sighed and glanced at the large doors that would get me the hell out of here.
Two men stood on either side of my escape route, both wearing black suits, their hard, stony stare set on the room before them. Odd . . . they looked like security. The mumbling of a deep male voice pulled my attention to the right and two more men in suits sat in the almost empty waiting room. A little girl was seated beside them, probably around three, her silence unnerving. Kids never sat that quiet or still. The larger of the two men, shoulders as wide as any NFL wide receiver I’d ever seen, leaned into the other man, murmuring something unintelligible. It was the man he spoke to that drew my attention though, there was something familiar about him. His chin was dipped forward, his concentration saved for his cell phone. Glancing at the little girl her big doll-like eyes looked my way, a sadness resting there that shouldn’t be seen in any child. Something was off.
The man on the cell phone snarled a retort to his companion and all the blood in my body froze. That voice, that accent, I knew it. The little girl beside him murmured something and he heaved a heavy sigh, ordering her quiet with a sharp “shhh”. His head rose and all the breath in my lungs fell out between my lips, my mind a wash of confusion.
Jace?
But it couldn’t be. Jace was gone. Yet he looked so similar. The same dark eyes, so black it was like staring into the inky endless expanse of space. Beautiful high cheekbones, though one was marred with a puckered scar running from his eye to jaw that Jace most definitely did not have. Deep olive skin and black hair slicked back from his forehead. Jace had worn his in a fashionably chaotic style, his bangs often hanging over his mischievous eyes. There were differences, but there were too many similarities to discount. 
“Five more minutes, if she’s not back, go get her.”
A memory or a sense of déjà vu assaulted me and when those familiar eyes that observed the room with heavy suspicion came to settle on me, I knew it was him. Those eyes that had once looked upon me with such passion, were the same, only now they seemed empty and cruel. 
For just a moment, surprise seemed to snap into his features then it was gone, and he was standing, sliding his cell phone into a pocket.
“We are leaving, now.”
On shaky feet, I pushed from the wheelchair and took a few steps forward. One of the men who had been standing at the doorway quickly stepped forward and scooped up the child, slipping outside as she remained quiet, her curious gaze still looking my way. The stocky brick of a man was on his feet and headed down a corridor that led off the waiting room. It left the suit standing alone, his shoulders pressed back with a confidence I knew well. Jace had been cocky, sometimes arrogantly so. 
“Sweets, what’s going on?” Bomber asked from beside me. My hand grabbed his forearm, hoping he could wrench me from the horrific nightmare before me.
Stepping away from his chair the all too familiar man was about to turn his back on me.
“Jace?” I whispered. The name was dragged from my heart, up my throat, and into my mouth, and it felt as though razor blades cut me to shreds that entire way before it finally left my lips only to hang in the air between us. 
He glanced over his shoulder, scowling at me before looking toward the guard still standing in the doorway 
“Marco, get the car.”
His voice was harsher than I remembered, his words callous and cold, but the Italian lilt was just as I remembered. 
“Jace?” I asked again, my voice stronger this time.
“Can I help you?” he growled as he turned to face me, hands on his hips and impatience radiating from his very pores.
I faltered for just a moment. Jace had never seemed so tall and imposing. It was like staring into the face of a dark angel, but right beside one of those eyes framed with thick, black lashes, was a deep chocolate-colored freckle. I knew that little freckle, I’d loved that little spot and the man who wore it.
“Gabbie, what’s going on?” Bomber asked from beside me once more. But I couldn’t answer because I honestly had no fucking clue.
“My name isn’t Jace,” the man before me snapped in a low, commanding voice. 
It had been a long time since I could even bring myself to look at a photo of Jace. This man did look different, his hair was darker, almost black and the lines on his face seemed harsher. The scar, the coolness, and the displeasure, that was all new, but they didn’t mar the exotic beauty that had drawn me in all those years ago. 
“I’m not an idiot, Jace. I know it’s you.” My voice trembled and I hated that weakness. Bomber’s hand rested on my lower back, a warm weight that made me feel stronger than I was at this moment.
“He said I could have half an hour,” came a woman’s voice from behind us. 
Jace’s ruthless eyes left mine and I turned to see a beautiful dark-haired woman being pulled down the corridor by the guard. The weapon holstered behind his jacket that flapped aside to give me a clear unobstructed view left no doubt he was a guard. His hand was gripped tightly around her elbow, and with a harried look on her face, she glanced my way. She was stunning, her perfectly sleek brunette hair hung over one shoulder, her skin pale and flawless like porcelain, her doe eyes the color of warm chocolate. She was wearing an elegant knee-length skirt with a button-down silk top, and almost running to keep up with the guard in her eight-inch heels. Under that perfectly presented sophistication, she wreaked of fear. Who was she and who was she afraid of?
“You said half an hour, it’s only been ten minutes,” she pleaded to Jace, a beseeching tone to her voice.
“We’re leaving,” was his impassive reply.
He took the woman’s elbow from his guard’s grip, dragging her toward the door. The brick of a guard glared at me, an unspoken promise of violence in that simple look before he turned to follow his boss outside. What the hell was going on?
Unable to move, unable to breathe, I watched in stunned silence until Bomber’s concerned face brought me back to reality. His soft grey eyes suddenly appeared before me, worry etched into the handsome features of his face. Bomber was a player, a womanizer, and falling for him scared the hell out of me, but at this moment, I was glad he was here. Someone familiar, someone real.
“Sweets, what the fuck was that?” he murmured.
“That was my husband.” 
“Your dead husband?” I couldn’t say the words, my throat tight with emotion, so I nodded. “Are you sure?” I had never been so sure of anything in my life. “Shit,” Bomber spat out, glancing over his shoulder to watch the family stroll from the hospital and into a black SUV that suddenly appeared directly out front of the sliding doors. “Let’s get out of here.”
With a guiding hand on my lower back, Bomber escorted me away from the hospital, and my heart broke for the second time in eight years. My husband was alive.

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