“Thanks, David, yes. I’d appreciate it. As far as your current assignment in Cambodia…” Alex’s voice faded away.
Today’s weather was bright and sunny on the East Coast, not a cloud in those blue skies. Which instantly reminded Persia of Hotrod, only his eyes weren’t as vibrant. His were deep and dark, a seriously intoxicating midnight blue when he was focused. When he’d kissed her. When he’d made love to her.
She swallowed hard, remembering the weight of his all-male body on hers, the brush of his chest hairs over her sensitized nipples, and the slick, warm feel of his open mouth on her lips. His tongue sliding over her teeth to dance with her tongue. His breath. His fingers...
She still couldn’t get the taste of him out of her mouth or her mind. Didn’t really want to. The abrasions from his scruffy beard hadn’t left her chin. Or in the hollow of her neck. Or on her lips. He’d left his marks all over her body and it had been everything she’d ever wanted. For once, she’d truly enjoyed time together with a man. In bed. In the shower. At her breakfast bar after she made pancakes for him. Even that crazy sensual story about the difference between cantaloupes and peaches. Hell, she’d enjoyed every second of whatever it was. Until the bastard left.
“Can you handle that, Junior Agent Coltrane?” Alex’s snark was palpable.
Ooops. Persia looked away from the window and back into another set of deadly blues, only these were more like frozen Arctic icicles stabbing straight through her daydreaming heart. The sarcasm Alex had just hurled at her stung. She dropped her hand from her lips, embarrassed she’d been caught, by the leader of the pack, no less.
“Yes, sir,” snapped out of her mouth, even as she cringed at her mistake. Sir. The salutation Alex detested more than he detested the person foolish enough to lead with it.
Closing his eyes, he ran a quick hand over his clean-shaven chin, no doubt struggling to not bitch her out for sir-ing him. Again. He could be such an ass about the simplest things. A badass, but an ass nonetheless.
“Yes, what?” he clipped out.
The entire room stilled and all eyes around the conference table turned her way.
“Boss?” she offered hopefully, though she suspected she’d made more than just the one mistake. Which she totally understood. Enlisted personnel did not mix well with officers. Never had. Never would. Enlisted military worked hard for a living, while too many times, the officers who bossed them, simply sat back and took credit for everything the grunts beneath them accomplished. Cardinal rule number one: Never call an enlisted man, sir. It pissed him off. Alex more than most.
But she should’ve been paying attention, hanging on his every word. This was his TEAM, and he owned her during duty hours. She owed him that much.
At last he aimed those laser blues back at her, even as his lips thinned. “I said you’re assigned to the Queen of England,” he enunciated very clearly. Dressed in a business suit, he always looked dapper. Today was no different. Except that suit jacket was crisply pressed black linen over a burgundy dress shirt with a matching burgundy silk tie. Not bright red, but close enough to blood-red that it turned her stomach. Matching black slacks. Gold cufflinks. A USA flag pinning his tie over his heart.
Those. Colors. Looking at all that red and black had simply made Persia sick to her stomach, which was why she’d focused on anything but him. Still, her head bobbed in quick agreement. “Okay, thanks. Great. At the UN or—?”
“Mark…” Alex growled, his attention now to his right on Senior Agent Mark Houston. “I don’t have time for this. Please fill Junior Agent Coltrane in on everything she’s obviously missed. I’ve got a meeting with the Senate Majority Leader. We’re done here.”
Chairs scraped, as Alex collected his leather-covered planner, then stalked from the Situation Room. No one else moved, a signal everyone seemed to understand but Persia. Tired of her never-ending charade, she closed her eyes and ran her middle fingertip over her right eyebrow, covertly telling them and her boss to fuck off. Wishing she were anywhere else, but sure she was in for a butt-chewing in front of The TEAM.
Man, it was stifling hot in this conference room.
“You’re distracted,” Mark said quietly. He’d turned to her, his index finger tapping the worn corner of his planner. He had the darkest brown eyes that, thankfully, were never as cold or as icy as Alex’s could be.
“She’s been that way since she got back from Florida.” Izza Maher snorted from the other end of the conference table where she usually sat with her hubby, Connor.
Only Junior Agent Connor wasn’t here today. He and Harley Mortimer, one of the other senior agents on staff, had flown out earlier to the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. Yesterday’s 8.2 earthquake had wreaked catastrophic destruction that extended from Jalalabad into Pakistan, all the way to Peshawar. Connor and Harley had gone over to assist emergency efforts and to find their friends, to make sure they were okay. At least that was their cover story.
“Yes, Mark, I do have a lot on my mind,” Persia agreed. Why lie? Her head hadn’t been right since she’d left Brazil. Or maybe, since yesterday’s flight from Florida. She no longer knew which pain hurt more than the other. Having lived through Domingo Zapata or waking up without Hotrod.
“I, umm…” Where to start? I need an intervention? I’m afraid of the dark? I miss some idiot guy I only slept with once, and I’m pretty sure I’m turning into an alcoholic? Yeah. That ought to sit well with this group of polished professionals.
Shoving his chair back, Mark lifted to his feet. “Step into my office. We need to talk. Dismissed, guys. You too, Izza.”
Another snort. Persia loved Izza. Heck, she loved every last TEAM member. She was the problem, not them. Not even Alex. Dutifully, she trailed Mark to his private corner of TEAM-land.
“Mark! Mark!” Ember called from the customer service desk, where she worked IT issues with Agent Beau Villanueva, another over-the-top sniper.
One of those perpetually dark and gloomy guys, his brown eyes lit up when he caught Persia’s sideways glance. “Good morning,” he called out. Man, he was sexy as hell when he smiled, but he was also married to Doc Fitz. “Your new laptop just came in. Let me know when you’re ready for a tutorial.”
“Will do,” Persia replied, wishing she could get her mind off—that man. That other man. The one with no sense in his hard, empty head. Sheesh. Hotrod Whoever-He-Really-Was hadn’t even been able to perform! He was a loser! A nobody! Why couldn’t she get him out of her mind?
Mark gestured her to go on ahead, while he diverted to Ember. All Persia caught was Ember excitedly telling him, “You’ll never guess who just called!” Everyone loved Ember. She was pure sunshine. If she was that excited, the someone who’d just called must be quite the rock star.
With a long-suffering sigh that didn’t begin to ease her deflated spirit, Persia sank into the wooden chair alongside Mark’s desk. She tucked in her tummy, stiffened her spine, squared her shoulders, and prepared to be all she could be. No one needed to know her personal problems. Not even Mark. Especially not Alex.
By the time Mark entered and closed the door behind him, she was composed, back in the game, and ready to work.
“So talk,” he said quietly, as he took his seat behind his cluttered desk. Persia didn’t know all of Mark Houston’s backstory, other than he and his wife now had five kids, all girls, and wasn’t that amazing in this crazy, materialistic world? Plus, Libby Houston was not only a mom and a beautiful, svelte blonde, she was also a practicing physician. To look at her, you’d never guess she’d ever been preggo.
Mark himself was one of those tall, dark, handsome types, and built like a linebacker. He’d taken over for Alex Stewart a couple years back, during that dirty-bomb scare in DC. Which was why Alex could afford to spend time away from the office now. Like today. He had competent, well-trained staff. And he knew how to delegate.
Persia got right to the point. She meant to say just enough to get out o
f there. “I owe Alex an apology,” she admitted brusquely, “but I need to be honest, Mark. I’m working through a couple issues since I left the Bureau. I’m not saying I can’t work, just wanted to get that out in the open, so you know where I stand. Now, what did you need?” That ought to do it.
He nodded encouragingly. “Anything I can help you with?”
No, just no. She gulped. This wasn’t going like she’d planned. Well, okay then. She’d give him the tiniest bit of intel. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“Could you please tell, I mean, ask Alex not to wear the color combination he had on today? I’m still seeing Doc Fitz.” Mark already knew that; he just didn’t know why. “And she’s helped me realize that those colors, red and black…” A wicked shiver galloped over Persia’s shoulder and right down her spine. It caught her unaware and she wiggled, damn it. “Those colors are triggers for me.”
“Domingo Zapata,” he said. Not asked. “His ink and the way he embellished his face, right?”
Embellished was too kind a word.
“Yes,” she admitted, as a wave of anxiety swamped her. The four walls took a step forward, closing her in. It was suddenly awfully hard to breathe.
Mark was perceptive, maybe even intuitive. He was one of those indirect leaders who knew his people, and because he did, they loved him. Everyone loved Alex, too, just at a distance some days. Like today.
“What else should I know?” Mark asked kindly.
Taking a slow, deliberate breath, Persia rolled her eyes, not budging from her decision to stand fast. “Nothing. I’m fine. Honest. Hey, maybe I need to go shopping and buy something I don’t need, huh?” She threw that feminine stereotype into the mix, still going for broke. Needing to divert Mark from getting any deeper inside her mind and her heart. Not going to happen. Her head had become a scary place lately.
He cocked his head, and man, this guy had the darkest brown eyes. “Take a deep breath, Persia…” His chest expanded, as if she needed to be shown how.
The way he drew her name out didn’t help. She faltered. She liked Mark. He cared about people. That was his greatest strength and quite possibly, her greatest weakness. But her secrets were safer left unspoken. Not shared. She stared back into those brown eyes. Needing to run more than to breathe.
She honestly thought she could pull this act of invisibility off until he murmured, “We’re all crazy, Persia, every last one of us. Some of us are still broken. We’ve seen and done too much. Don’t feel like you’re the only one who’s been in combat hell, because you’re not. And please don’t isolate yourself, when you’re obviously having a bad day.”
A gust of breath burst between her lips. Is that what I’m doing? Isolating myself? Am I that obvious?
Mark nodded, as if he’d heard her self-doubt. Is he psychic? “You accomplished something in Brazil no one else could have done. The intel you provided your handler led US agents directly to Domingo Zapata. He’s dead, and you’re not. What’s more, the work you did inside that hellhole, saved every last woman and little girl, as well as others he had his eyes on. Focus on the good you did. Let the rest go.”
Like an idiot coming undone, her head bobbed and she sniffed. Just once. But he’d said too much this time, and most of it was right on the money. Sucking in another breath, she swallowed hard. “I know. I know. Let the rest go. I should do that only…” Her voice cracked. This was Mark, damn it. Not Alex. Maybe if she told someone besides Doc Fitz. “I… I still see them when I close my eyes,” she whispered, her eyes on the floor like a damned little girl afraid of the dark. Which she was. “Every night, Mark. Those little kids. Those poor women.” That sweet innocent baby lamb…
“Would you like to know why Alex is meeting with the Senate Majority Leader today?”
Well, ahh… that was odd. Mark didn’t usually ignore anything Persia said. Maybe this was his way of distancing himself from a messy, tear-jerking, emotional confrontation with a seriously impaired female junior agent. Maybe he didn’t care like she’d thought he did. She held her sharp tongue, feeling utterly stupid for thinking any man might actually be sensitive enough to care. Okay then. This wasn’t his problem. Just. Hers.
She ran a hand over her eyes to brush that foolish notion away. There. Gone. Moving on now.
Mark stretched a hand across his desk and fluttered his strong, manly fingers for her to take hold. Like a drowning woman, Persia reached for him and took hold. By then, she was trembling. Talking was over-rated. Running seemed a much smarter option.
“He’s seeking legislation to make it mandatory for every female or male agent sent into hell-holes, like Zapata’s, to go in with at least one partner. With back-up,” Mark told her, his eyes hard and serious, but his voice as warm as melted butter. “No man or woman should ever go undercover without close emotional, physical, and tactical support, the way you did. We don’t send our TEAM agents out one by one. I don’t know why the Bureau and Agency do. It’s not smart, and it’s not safe. USMC snipers always have a spotter. Alex believes every federal undercover operator should have someone on their six, too.”
“Ohhhh,” breathed out of Persia. She didn’t know what to say. Alex was doing that? Now? It almost sounded like he was doing it just for her.
Mark’s brown eyes softened even more. “It’s called post-traumatic stress, Junior Agent. I know you understand the concept, but living with it is something else. Shit happens, and it’s a good thing you’re smart enough to be seeing Doc Fitz. Which is also why you and Izza are handling the Queen of England’s security while this conference is in New York. It’s only for a week, and it’ll be fun. You’ll see.”
“Fun?” Persia hadn’t realized how tense she was until that precise moment. Automatically, her lungs relaxed. It was easier to breathe. To think. “Oh, good. I mean…” She swallowed hard. “Th-thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Mark replied evenly, still holding her fingers. “And to be clear, Alex isn’t angry with you, not at all. He’s proud as hell, Persia. Of you and all you did for your country. You sacrificed plenty, and he knows it. But he’s pissed with the Bureau for pawning you off on the Agency for this particularly brutal op. The Zapata brothers were despicable assholes, excuse my language. The Agency should’ve sent a damned army, not one woman. Not that you weren’t capable, because you proved you were. But the cost was too high, wasn’t it?”
She nodded. “I sleep with all my lights on,” she confessed. “I… I…” Her mouth snapped shut, on the verge of telling him about that flask.
He squeezed her fingers. “I did that when I first came home, too. I think most of us did, maybe still do. Trust me, kiddo, you’re not alone, and Alex is a hundred percent on your side. He, of all people, understands what you’ve been through. What you’re still going through.”
“He does?” She grimaced at how he’d stormed out of the Sit Room, though. Alex hadn’t seemed to understand then. Just because she hadn’t been paying attention. She blinked. Damn it. Tears. She had to blink fast or they’d get away from her. What is wrong with me?!
Again, Mark seemed able to read her mind. Opening the side drawer at his right, he tossed one of those small packets of tissues at her, and he was smart enough not to say a word.
Persia slipped a fingernail through the perforated open-here and tugged one, then two tissues out, wiped her cheeks, and blew her nose. Feeling like a loser. Nothing said unprofessional like whining and crying on the job. When she could finally speak without falling apart, she told Mark, “But I called him sir again.”
Mark tipped his face to the ceiling and laughed. The guy had the nerve! “You have no idea how much Alex looks forward to jerking your chain. Hell, I had to be Santa after I called him sir. Consider it a rite of initiation. You passed. Now you’re officially TEAM property.”
That actually helped. TEAM property, huh? Precisely what she’d wanted to be when she’d signed on. Persia took another steadying breath. The knot in her chest that had see
med like a rock a moment ago, vanished. She might’ve shed a tear or two, but she hadn’t made a complete fool of herself. That was Mark’s unique talent. He made people feel important and safe. Like they could tell him anything.
Just not anything about that flask or Hotrod. Ever.
Chapter Nine
Instead of moseying around the Caribbean, Walker made it to San Juan, Puerto Rico, the next day, without being caught. By then, he’d disabled the yacht’s GPS and hard-broke the onboard computer to suit his needs. It took a minute or two, but SEALs were trained to cover all bases. That was when he discovered the hard drive had been wiped clean. No records. No apps. Which didn’t stop Walker. Rebooting the computer, he focused on what little programming language he knew from college to access the internet. From there, he bought and downloaded everything he needed. Which was smart in the long run. Now, he was untraceable and, for the most part, untouchable.
Just outside of San Juan’s busy harbor, he idled down and searched California’s online motor vehicles database, hoping to locate Coronado’s Sea Nymph’s former registration, and change its status to salvage. Once he also altered the ID stuck on the yacht’s prow, it shouldn’t ring any bells if the Coast Guard came calling. Goff’s Motoryacht would be just one of many forty-five-footers traveling south. It wasn’t unique, and it hadn’t been modified to stand out like larger watercraft were. If anything, it looked like any other intermediate size yacht. It looked ordinary, especially berthed alongside million-dollar toys.
At last, he located its current registration. Shit. His heart stuttered to a full stop. Owner was still: Wallace E. Goff. Address: Saratoga Avenue, Ocean Beach, CA.
Walker suddenly lost the ability to swallow. Even his tongue had gone bone-dry. It was as if the bastard he’d been accused of murdering were alive and breathing over his shoulder, when Walker knew damned well Goff wasn’t. He wouldn’t have been tried for murder unless there’d been a dead body, would he?
Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21) Page 7
