The Omega Team: No Control (Kindle Worlds Novella) (The Martin Family Book 3)

  Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Desiree Holt. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original The Omega Team remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Desiree Holt, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  No Control

  By Parker Kincade

  Dedication

  To all the readers of the Martin Family series.

  Thank you for sticking with me. There’s more to come!

  And to Ketcher. You came out of nowhere and stole my heart.

  Thank you for reminded me why I love what I do.

  Books by Parker Kincade

  The Martin Family Series

  One Night Stand

  Shadow of Sin

  Ties That Burn (Coming 2017)

  Game On Series

  Spring Training

  Southern Heat

  Shadow Maverick Ranch Series

  White Collar Cowboy

  Borrowed Cowboy

  Cowboy Redeemed

  White Collar Wedding (short story)

  Short Stories

  Devlin

  Two of Cups (Love in the Cards Anthology)

  Standalone

  Dare’s Wild (A Dare to Love Kindle Worlds Novella)

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  Email: parker@parkerkincade.com

  Chapter One

  The room was closing in on him. Suffocating him.

  There were four thousand, nine hundred and sixty-three holes in the ceiling tile above his bed. Two large windows made up the wall on his right. Rain-spotted, dirty windows provided a fabulous view of the brick side of a neighboring wing. Eight hundred and twelve of those burnt orange fuckers. That he could see, anyway.

  The wall beyond the end of the bed boasted a white board with his current caregiver’s name written in bold strokes—Reed, today—along with some other random gibberish that didn’t mean shit to him. Probably some sort of private hospital code. A warning for the staff.

  Bite risk.

  The thought brought a smile to his lips.

  The monitor to his left beeped with a monotonous regularity strong enough to drive a man insane. So insane, in fact, that said man had made a game out of increasing his heart rate at random intervals, just to change the incessant beat. It drove the nurses crazy. As did the unapologetic wood he popped every time, since a sure-fire way to get his heart pumping was to let his mind wander through his brain’s carnal catalogue. With nothing better to do, he toyed with his pulse until the pain in his balls matched the pain in his side. Hell of a catch-22. The lack of relief from either discomfort made him edgy. Ready to fuck or fight…better yet, both.

  The staff at the private medical facility were professionals, but the frequency of his self-induced hard-ons had become somewhat of a joke among the nurses, male and female. As if that weren’t bad enough, a few of his Omega Team buddies had the unfortunate timing of waltzing in a couple of times during his boredom. Guaranteed, the next one of those assholes to walk through the door and offer to fetch him a woman was going to get a knuckle sandwich compliments of the house.

  Christ. He had to get out of there.

  Ketcher Novak shifted his legs over the side of the bed and contemplated the tubes and wires connecting him to various life-monitoring devices. The pulse monitor was the easiest. It was first to go. One good flick of his finger and the thing sailed to the floor, landing with a clack. The leads attached to his chest were next.

  A moment of blessed silence filled the room before the machine decided he’d flatlined and raised the alarm.

  Ignoring the increasing pain traveling through his torso, Ketcher snatched a couple of tissues from the box by the bed. The cavalry would arrive any second. He, at the very least, wanted to be free of the hospital paraphernalia before they showed up.

  He peeled back the tape holding the IV in place. Carefully—he wasn’t a complete idiot—he removed the needle from his arm. Using the tissues, he applied pressure to the injection site.

  So far so good. Next item on the agenda … clothes.

  Not wanting to trip and face plant upon standing, Ketcher raised his elbows to verify he was untethered. The movement caused a shock of pain to shoot through his side. His lungs stuttered. He palmed the bandage that decorated the underside of his ribcage, trying to discourage any idea his organs might have about making an abrupt exit from his body.

  Ketcher took precious seconds to catch his breath, but he would not be deterred. He was on a mission. Anyone that knew him knew once his objective was in sight, the devil himself couldn’t stop him from reaching his goal—which at the moment was to get the fuck out of this place.

  He had no one to blame but himself. Ketcher had been so determined to see an end to Manuel Barzaga’s reign he’d forgotten to expect the unexpected. He never saw the shank that opened his side. The lackey who stabbed him would never see anything again, thanks to Ketcher’s impeccable reflexes and steady trigger finger.

  Ketcher went to the dresser on the other side of the spacious room. His duffel lay open on the top. Thankfully, one of his buddies had gone by his place and picked up clothes and other essentials for him. He pulled out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and then dug around until he came up with boxer briefs and socks.

  The Omega Team—the elite group of former covert operatives, law enforcement officers, and private security personnel Ketcher worked with—had been tracking Manuel for months. Watching. Waiting. Collecting the necessary evidence to appease the gods of the American justice system so they could bring the guy in, because taking him out hadn’t been an option. At least not for the powers that be.

  For Ketcher, taking him out had been the only option.

  Barzaga was a piece of shit drug smuggler and human trafficker who hid behind legitimate businesses placed throughout Florida and the southern US. And he was a slippery motherfucker. Arrogant enough to believe he couldn’t be caught. But not careful enough to outsmart the Omega Team.

  “Going somewhere?”

  Ketcher looked up in time to see Grey Holden, co-founder of the Omega Team, who also happened to be Ketcher’s boss, stalk into the room with Reed hot on his heels.

  “Mr. Novak.” Reed hurried to his side, but Ketcher held him off. He didn’t want any more help. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Ketcher chose to answer both questions at the same time. “I’m getting dressed, then I’m getting gone.”

  Reed scoffed. “I really must insist you—”

  “Save it,” Ketcher barked, using his most commanding tone. “While I appreciate the excellent care I’ve received here, it’s time for me to go.”

  Grey assumed a defensive stance, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. The scar that ran along the left side of Grey’s face was accentuated by the scowl he wore. “You haven’t been released.”

  Instead of going back to the bed, Ketcher sank down onto the only chair in the room. It was an
uncomfortable monstrosity. The bottom part of the chair would pull out to make a bed, he was told, in the event he had someone who would want to stay with him. He didn’t.

  “Nothing but love and respect for you man, but official release or no, I’m leaving.” Ketcher turned his attention to Reed. “That bag of stuff you’ve been pumping into me. Antibiotics, right?”

  “Yes,” Reed bit out in obvious irritation as he gave up trying to help and tried instead to untangle the mess Ketcher had left next to the bed. “But—”

  “Last time I checked, that shit came in pill format. Hit me with a prescription so I can get the hell out of here.”

  “What about the pain meds we’ve been pumping into you? Should I hit you with a prescription for that, too?”

  Snarky bastard used air quotes as he repeated Ketcher’s words. He probably deserved that, so he let the kid off the hook. “Don’t worry about those.” Ketcher dropped the T-shirt to hang over the arm of the chair. “Once I’m home, I won’t want anything to dull my senses.” He didn’t want to chance taking a drug-induced tumble and busting open his stitches. Again, not a complete idiot. “The antibiotics will be enough.”

  The Marine Corps had cured Ketcher of any modesty he might’ve had in his youth, so he wrestled out of the ridiculous hospital gown and tossed it to the floor without a thought to the other men in the room. He powered through the sudden wooziness that hit him as he bent over to pull on his underwear, grateful Reed didn’t seem inclined to kneel at his feet to help with the process.

  “I can’t talk you into staying a while longer?” Grey took a seat on the edge of the bed and leveled a disapproving stare his way.

  “Don’t waste your breath.” Leaving the boxer briefs around his thighs, he shoved his legs into the jeans. Ketcher stood and yanked them up together. Not the most graceful way to get dressed, but certainly the most efficient when he was seconds from throwing up.

  “Reed, could we have the room, please?” Grey asked the nurse politely.

  Reed finished switching off the monitors, finally silencing the godforsaken beeping. “Of course. I’ll go see about his medication.”

  Grey watched Reed go, then turned back to him. “You can’t go home. Not to your place. Not yet, anyway.”

  Ketcher rearranged things in his pants and zipped up. Something about being in his own clothes, standing on his own two feet—bare, because no fucking way was he bending over again to put his socks on—made him feel stronger, more like himself than he had in days.

  “What’s the problem?”

  Grey’s brows pinched. “We’ve gotten word that Anton Barzaga has issued a threat.”

  Ketcher snorted. “Manuel’s punk-ass brother found his balls? That didn’t take as long as we thought.”

  “Anton doesn’t have his brother’s charisma or his connections. He’s scrambling, but make no mistake about it. He intends to carry on big brother’s legacy of pain and suffering unless we stop him.”

  To date, the younger Barzaga had made a habit of hiding behind his brother’s coattails. Anton was a hack. A petty thief. A two-bit thug—more brawn than brains—who’d been in and out of county lockup since he turned eighteen. The only reason he’d never done hard time was because Manuel had a shit ton of money and powerful friends. Anton wanted a turn at the grownup’s table now that big brother was gone? Bring it on. Ketcher would end him, too. Along with every other member of the Barzaga family who picked up where Manuel left off. “What kind of threat did he make?”

  “One that targets you and everyone you hold dear.”

  That got Ketcher’s attention. “Original.”

  “Anton isn’t known for his mental fortitude.”

  He sank down on the chair, resting his forearms against his thighs. He stared down at the floor tile between his feet. This couldn’t be right. The threat itself didn’t bother him. There was no one other than himself to target. Ketcher didn’t have any family to speak of and he remained unattached for this precise reason. He lived a dangerous life, one not conducive to any kind of long-term relationship. If Anton wanted to come after him, Ketcher would welcome him with open arms and a bullet in the chamber. The question was … “How in the hell does he know I’m the one who pulled the trigger?”

  The Omega Team did its best to work under the radar, but with their reputation for getting shit done, it wasn’t unheard of that a man with Manuel’s connections would’ve heard of them. But the only people to walk out of that warehouse the day Ketcher killed Manuel had been the other three Omega Team members.

  “We are looking into that. What matters is he does, and he’s looking for payback.” Grey let out a heavy breath. “Which is why I want you to lay low for awhile.”

  Ketcher shook his head; surely he’d heard his boss wrong. Grey wanted him to hide? No fucking way. “Come again?”

  “Anton is out for blood. He’s put a price on your head. And he wants you alive, Ketch.”

  Ketcher was impressed. The guy had found his balls. If he wanted Ketcher alive, Anton had plans to make his death long and painful.

  The idea made him want to laugh. “He’s posturing. He won’t get me, alive or otherwise.” Ketcher pushed to his feet, picked up the T-shirt and tugged it over his head. He pulled the material down, stretching it to make it easier to put his arms through without further disturbing his aching wound. Awkward, but he got the job done. “I’ll call the guys. We need to come up with a new game plan.”

  “You aren’t going to do anything.”

  Now he knew there was something wrong with his hearing. Grey had put him in charge of this op. His job wasn’t finished. “You can’t expect me to stand down. We knew taking out Manuel wouldn’t be the end of it. And it’s my life being threatened.”

  “I’m not expecting you stand down, I’m demanding it.” Grey’s palm came up, stopping the argument on the tip of Ketcher’s tongue. “For now. Look at yourself, Ketch. You’re white as a ghost after putting on your goddamn shirt. I’m betting the pain you’re in is making you lightheaded and nauseous, am I right?”

  He was, the asshole, but it would be a cold day in hell before Ketcher admitted it. He kept his trap shut.

  Grey chuckled. “Thought so. You aren’t any good to yourself, to me, or to the team in your current condition. I need you at full capacity when we take this fucker down. Which means right now, I need you out of here.”

  A smile tugged at Ketcher’s lips. “What do you think I’m trying to do?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What do you mean, then?” Before the question was out of his mouth, Ketcher knew he wouldn’t like the answer.

  “The way I see it, you’ve got two choices. Option one: you can get lost for a while. By lost I mean off the grid. Out of Florida. Disappear for a while and heal under the radar. Do things your own way, as it were. I’ll supply you with burner phones and a secure line in order to keep in contact while we wait to see what Anton plans to do.”

  “Or?”

  “Option two. You stay here and do things my way.”

  “Let me guess, your way includes a safe house and a twenty-four hour babysitter?”

  Grey smiled wide enough to show off his pearly whites. “Now you’re getting it. Do you have somewhere you can go?”

  “Somewhere to run, you mean?” The idea grated like steel wool over his nerves.

  “Somewhere you can heal in peace, without having to look over your shoulder every second. Use your head, Novak. It’s not running. It’s smart. I need you healthy and whole if we are going to finish this.”

  Ketcher imagined all of the women and children who had suffered at the hands of Manuel Barzaga, and those who would potentially suffer at the hands of his brother. He couldn’t let that happen.

  “So what’s it gonna be?” Grey pressed. “Your way, or mine?”

  As if there was any question.

  Chapter Two

  Fifteen hours later, Ketcher pulled the rented-under-an-alias SUV alongside t
he two other vehicles parked in the driveway. He had hoped for a little time to regroup. Maybe catch a little shuteye. It appeared his buddy Brandon Martin had other ideas.

  Ketcher had enlisted Brandon’s help for this fiasco, knowing the guy could set him up with a place to stay faster than Ketcher could on his own. And he trusted Brandon. Trusted him with his life. Which was good, because if Anton’s threats were to be believed—not that Ketcher was taking the jack-off seriously, but if he did—then his life was on the line.

  Ketcher’s stomach chose that moment to voice an unhappy grumble. Had he eaten today? He couldn’t remember. In fact, the whole day had become something of a blur. He’d spoken to Brandon. Accepted a bag from Grey containing a variety of burner phones, computer equipment, two pistols—one of which was Ketcher’s own Beretta 92FS—and rounds for both weapons. Ketcher had fetched his personal “go” bag from the small storage unit he kept outside of town. He had boarded a private flight out of Tampa and the rest was…

  Ketcher searched his mind and came up with nothing. No change of planes, no rental car service. Nothing between leaving Tampa and roughly five minutes ago.

  His chest tightened the way it did when he felt control slipping through his fingers.

  Ketcher flexed his fists and let out a violent curse. Had he been followed? He glanced at the vehicles parked next to his. Had he led Anton’s men straight to Brandon and whoever else might be inside?

  Breathe. Hold it together, man. You’re good. It’s all good.

  Right. He couldn’t force his mind through the darkness that cloaked the last few hours. The memories of the day would return once he got some sleep. Blind trust wasn’t his thing, but having control over a situation was. The plan had been solid. No one had followed him.

  Ketcher wiped sweat from his brow. God, it was hot.

  His hand shook as he reached to crank the air conditioner. The interior of the SUV smoldered in the Texas heat, damn near soaking his shirt clean through.