by Misty Evans
The grin faltered. “It's lieutenant, but you can call me Mick.” He glanced at Trace. “What does she mean, you're not part of the US government? You're not a SEAL anymore?”
Trace shook his head. “I'm part of a covert organization called Shadow Force International. To the public, we’re a bodyguard service called Rock Star Security, but behind the scenes, we take on certain sensitive, covert missions to help people.”
“Not a SEAL?” Ranger appeared shocked. “The teams were your life, man. What happened?”
The headsets made their voices sound small and far away. “I'll catch you up on the details over a beer.”
They shared a fist bump. “I’ll hold you to it.”
Ranger glanced at the papers Cassandra still held out, but didn't take them. “So you're saying Uncle Sam didn't fund this rescue?”
Yes and no. “It’s complicated,” she offered, pushing her glasses up her nose. “The important thing is you're out now and Shadow Force wants to hire you.”
She pasted on a smile.
Ranger clearly saw it was less than sincere. “Hire me for what, Themis?”
The way he said the goddess’s name sounded sexy, alluring, even through the headset. Maybe it wasn't such a bad name after all. That look though…
Heat-seeking missile shooting right to her lower belly, that’s what it felt like.
Unnerved, she blinked and tried to not to lose her last thought. The arm holding out the papers grew heavy and she swallowed past the tightness in her throat. What was wrong with her? It was as if he had her under a spell.
Her smile faltered. She'd be damned if she wasn’t going to get him to sign the agreement. Beatrice was much too lax on her contracts and getting clear direction put into them. She’d previously left herself open to all kinds of liabilities, and Cassandra's job, as attorney and chief operating officer for SFI, was to make sure her boss covered her backside with every mission and employee. “The mission is outlined for you in your contract.”
She tried the smile again, trying to put more oomph into it. Trace’s wife, Savanna, was a television celebrity and had been giving Beatrice and Cassandra lessons on body language. The famous investigative reporter was an ace at making people believe she cared, and Cassandra had the feeling Savanna really did care about every person and situation she reported on. Unfortunately, the Queen B and her new chief operating officer both excelled at intelligence, but lacked key emotional and social skills. Savanna had her job cut out for her working with the two of them.
Ranger glanced at the papers, but shook his head. “You’re kidding.” His gaze ping-ponged between her and Trace once more. “I just got out of prison after two years, sixteen days, and seven hours, and you want me to go on another mission before I’ve had so much as a decent meal? A mission, I assume, that is not sanctioned by the government, who apparently planned to leave me in that prison to rot?”
“Exactly.” Cassandra nodded and leaned forward, dropping the contract in his lap. “If not for us, you would still be in prison.”
In other words, you owe us.
She really wanted to say that last part out loud but knew Savanna would definitely tell her not to. Besides, in the art of successful negotiations, it was often beneficial to leave a few things unsaid.
Decent meal. Ranger’s words reminded her of the next thing on her list. She reached under the hard seat and pulled out an insulated blue and white container. “Here's your meal,” she said, sliding the container toward him. “You can sign the contract while you eat.”
Another smile. Please, sign it.
It was a first for her, breaking someone out of prison, and the legalities surrounding his rescue made her palms sweat. The President of the United States may have played a hand in getting Shadow Force here, but her involvement in all of this was top secret. President Gold needed total deniability if anything went wrong, especially since she was operating without the consent of Congress.
Those higher-ups who’d left Lt. Ranger in that cell should be tried in court in her opinion.
Ranger balanced the papers on one leg, opened the container, and the smell of fried meat and greasy French fries rolled out. Inhaling, he closed his eyes and his head tipped back, looking for all the world like he was in heaven.
He proceeded to dig in with the voracious appetite of a starving man and Cassie felt a ping of gratification. He deserved better than fast food as his first meal out of prison, but according to her research, this was his favorite combo.
The contract papers slid to the dirty helicopter floor, the pen dropping along with them. Ranger chewed and talked at the same time. “Oh man”—he made another face, looking like a saint filled with the Holy Spirit. There was ketchup in his beard—”this is so good.”
Her satisfaction grew, knowing she’d at least given him his favorite meal. She cut him slack over the poor manners, considering he’d given his life for his country more times than she could count. The file on him stated five different SEAL excursions where he had been a hero, and from what Trace had told her, there were many more never officially recorded. His nine medals were the tip of the iceberg.
“I'm glad you find it enjoyable.” She fought the urge to lunge for the papers and pen, collecting dirt at the man’s bare feet. He needed clothes, shoes, and a haircut in the worst way. She could scarcely see his face, thanks to the beard. Part of her job, along with securing his signature on the contract, was getting him in shape to play the role of the undercover identity Beatrice and Rory had for him.
Savanna was always telling her to find what motivated the SEALs and use that to form a bond with them. Relationships such as that unnerved Cassandra, especially forming any attachment with a handsome, chaos-causing man like the one across from her. But she had a job to do, and she needed to check all the boxes to make sure it was a success. Negotiating was one of her best skills and that’s all this was—a negotiation.
“You may have as many cheeseburgers as you like, if you sign the contract,” she announced. “I’ll even add bacon next time, if you want.”
Men loved bacon. She'd heard from some of the SEALs at SFI that they’d do almost anything for it, kind of like sex. Dangling a carrot—or a cheeseburger with bacon, in this case—might do the trick.
Ranger narrowed his eyes and kept eating. There wasn't much left of the burger at this point and he licked his fingers. “Can I at least enjoy the first decent food I've had in years before I read your stupid contract?”
Stupid? Cassandra bristled. She’d spent hours, days, writing and rewriting the twelve points of that contract. It had actually started with close to fifty items, and Beatrice had insisted she whittle it down to fit on two pages, nothing more.
Five minutes. Cassie would give Lt. Ranger five more minutes to enjoy his food, and then the smile was going away and her claws were coming out.
Because underneath the glasses and conservative clothes, she could be a lion too.
2
Assessing the threat level: can the threat actually get to you?
* * *
Two Land Rovers waited in a desolate area near the Austrian border. Mick climbed out of the helicopter and offered a hand to the blond bombshell called Themis. Was that her first or last name? He'd forgotten to ask, but either way, he planned to know her a whole lot better before this day was over.
She looked at his hand as if it were a scorpion ready to strike, but then relented, sliding her soft, well-manicured fingers across his palm and leveraging herself out.
Her skirt rode up on her thighs and he ogled her openly, not turning her loose even when she was safely on the ground. The blades of the helo were winding down, and he heard her clear her throat loudly to get his attention. He raised his eyes to meet her gaze, and she tried to pull her hand out of his once more, but he held on, shooting her a grin before leading her toward the waiting vehicles.
Hunter, the sniper, and the pilot all went to work on setting a bomb to blow the helicopter. Mick held the d
oor to the backseat of one of the Land Rovers for Themis, but she jerked her hand out of his, removed her vest, and climbed in the front.
She was a fiery one, throwing the vest into the back, and he chuckled. He liked her irritation. How determined she was to get him to sign the damn contract, which he was never going to do.
One thing he’d decided while cooling his heels in solitary confinement was the fact he was no longer doing assassination work. Not for the government, or anyone else. Never again.
He loved his country more than anything, and he knew he’d done the right thing accepting the last assignment, even though it ended up costing him two-plus years of his life. He loved the SEALs, the brotherhood, but something in him had shifted while he’d spent those long, torturous days trying to remember who he was, what he’d been fighting for.
Now, a crawling, ugly worm of an idea settled into his stomach, right next to the burger he’d consumed. Hunter and the others were not with the government. Uncle Sam had not come for him, and maybe never would have.
What kind of loyalty was that, after he’d taken out the target as instructed and given up so much in return?
Had they lied to him, never intending to rescue him at all?
He shook his head. The questions had to wait until he slept and got more food in him.
The burger and fries sat like a lead weight in his belly, probably from too much grease and fat after all that time of gruel, bread, and water. But hell, he didn't care if he ended up vomiting. His system would adjust eventually, and he planned to eat his way through whatever city they stopped in.
The men headed toward them, and he climbed in behind Themis, shutting the door and resting his head back. He wanted a soft bed and a week of uninterrupted sleep, except for maybe burying himself between Themis’s legs a dozen times between naps and meals. “Is that your first name or last?”
She didn't turn. “Excuse me?”
God, he was tired. The adrenaline rush from the escape had totally drained away, and with food in his stomach and freedom wrapping a warm blanket around him, he wanted to close his eyes and sleep. “Themis. First or last?”
“Neither.”
“I thought the gal on the other end of the comm unit—Jett—called you Themis.”
“She did. Her real name is Parker. She’s the handler for this mission. She heads the Nemesis Group, which is the spy division of Shadow Force.”
“Spies, SEALs, bodyguards. Must be some operation. Your codename is Themis, then?”
She didn't respond, and he wanted to kick her seat to irritate her, but mostly he just wanted to know her real name. She looked like a Marilyn, or maybe a Sophia. Something sophisticated. “This Nemesis Group, you're an important person in it?”
Her shoulders rose on a shrug. “Every employee is important.”
He was going to have to do something about that stick up her ass. “What's your real name?”
She laughed softly, a sexy sound that brought his head up. “You don't get to know that until you sign the contract, Lieutenant Ranger.”
Oh, she was good. Understanding dawned. “You’re a lawyer then?”
Another shrug.
Okay, fine. Her silence told him all he needed to know—he wasn't getting more information out of her until he signed that damn contract.
Dream on. “So what's this mission you broke me out of prison for?”
“An adventure right up your alley. It involves an African princess, synthetic bio weapons, and revenge.”
African princess? That made his skin crawl. “Sounds like a soap opera.”
“One that could start a pandemic, but I can't tell you more until…”
…you sign the contract. She let the rest of the sentence hang, allowing him to fill in the blank.
“And if I won't sign?”
She didn't answer as Hunter climbed into the driver’s seat. The sniper and pilot hopped in the second Land Rover, and they all took off under the night sky. It didn't stay dark long as an explosion rocked the helicopter when they were a quarter mile away.
The desolate countryside soon gave way to a city. Hunter drove the lead SUV, taking them to who knew where. Mick might have asked except for the fact he didn't really care. As long as there was a shower, a bed, and a way for him to contact his stepsister and let her know he was alive, it didn't matter. Tomorrow he would care, but not tonight. Tonight, he simply wanted to clean up and get some sleep on anything that wasn't hard stone. He eased down and closed his eyes.
Night closed in around them. Crackling came over the two-way radio a minute later. “We've got company.”
Half asleep, Mick jerked up and looked over his shoulder out the back window. Streetlights showed several cars populated the road, the black Rover behind them hugging their bumper.
It was difficult to see whoever might be behind it, but he trusted the men in that Land Rover were as skilled as he was, as Hunter. If they claimed to have a tail, they did.
Hunter swore under his breath before replying to the man, “Separate, but give us cover first. Meet at the safe house when it's clear.”
“Roger that,” came the reply.
Hunter sped up and took a hard right, making Themis gasp and grab the bar overhead. Before they got around the corner, Mick saw the second Rover plant it in the street.
The squealing brakes and the sound of crunching metal rang out as they passed tall brick buildings rising on either side.
Another quick turn, this one to the left, sending them merging into a new flow of traffic. In the distance, Mick heard the blare of sirens, saw a flash of red lights. “Law enforcement or someone else?” he asked.
Hunter shot a quick glance into the rearview, then started passing cars, running oncoming vehicles off the road and nearly taking out a street lamp. “No one should know we’re here. The place we dumped the helo was deserted.”
Yet somehow, they had picked up a tail.
Hunter spoke to Themis. “Get in the back seat and keep your head down.”
Mick saw two motorcycles weave around cars they had passed, horns blaring.
Themis kept hold of the bar above her door. “I don't understand. Who could possibly have followed—”
As one cycle was illuminated by a streetlight, Mick saw the glint of metal in the rider’s hand. “Incoming!” Mick yelled.
Ping, ping, ping. The rear window took the impact of a handful of bullets, but it did not break. Bulletproof glass.
Hunter steered them into a pencil-thin alley, narrower than the street they’d just taken, weaving around a group of people, a dumpster, a stack of pallets. “Get. In. The. Back,” he yelled at Themis.
Mick didn't wait for her to climb between the seats. He kicked his foot forward, nailed her seat lever and sent her flat.
Or as flat as the seat would go. She let out a yelp, her hand jerked off the overhead handle, and he grabbed her by the shoulders, hauling her into the backseat.
She landed partially in his lap and partially on the floorboard, one of her shoes flying off along with her glasses. “What the…?”
An automatic weapon peppered the rear. If the windows could withstand them, Mick had no doubt the rest of the car could as well. The tires could probably go for miles with bullets in them, the gas tank enclosed with an extra layer of metal to keep it from exploding.
But he still maneuvered Themis into a prone position on the backseat and threw himself on top of her. It's what he did—he rescued damsels in distress, killed terrorists plotting to take over the world, and survived for years in conditions most men wouldn’t last a week in.
“Hang on,” he said in her ear.
She clutched at his shirt then her arms went around his neck. Her breasts pressed against his chest, their legs intertwined and the bottom edge of her skirt pulled tight across her hips.
Even in the midst of a car chase, with bullets flying, he was hard as a rock from the feel of her against him. In his defense, it had been a long drought, and his body couldn’
t care less about the danger chasing them. It only fueled the adrenaline rush.
More turns, the screech of metal on metal. Jarring bumps, and for a moment they were airborne. Mick’s stomach dropped and Themis whimpered, clutching him harder, the hitch of her breath echoing in his own chest. He already had a hold of the seat, but his fingers clawed into the leather, trying to keep them from being flung into the air.
They came down hard, the impact slamming him into her body, forcing the air out of both of their lungs. A slight sound escaped from her mouth, and he found himself apologizing, even though it wasn't his fault. “Sorry. You okay?”
Her breath was warm on the shell of his ear, her voice slightly ragged. “I… yes, fine.”
A stuck-up lawyer who’d never been in the field, and certainly never in a car chase with bullets flying—he had to give her credit. Most civilians would be crapping their pants right now.
Mick reared his head back so he could look her in the eyes. She met his gaze with braced composure, and maybe it was just the shadows, but he couldn't see any fear in her eyes. “Hunter's good. He'll get us to safety.”
A tight nod.
They spun, his stomach once more doing a dance, but he kept her pinned to the seat, and she kept her eyes locked on his. He tried to anchor her, both with his body and gaze. Tried to reassure her. He felt her breathing steady, her lips a thin line. She held tight and didn't cry out.
The chase continued for several more minutes, Hunter occasionally swearing under his breath, but eventually, the sharp turns and high speeds decreased.
Rising, Mick chanced a glance out the rear window. No motorcycles, no vehicles of any kind. The sirens grew more distant, city blocks giving way to rolling hills and countryside.
