A Shot Worth Taking (Bad Karma Special Ops Book 3)

by Tracy Brody

  He placed her on the bed, taking only a second to wrestle off the boots he wore with his uniform before he joined her. His lips pressed against her neck, slowly moving higher until their mouths meshed again. Her fingers moved to his waistband, working the fabric to undo the button. He pulled back, his breathing heavy. Heat shone in his dark eyes.

  “I don’t want to hurt you …”

  “You won’t. Besides, I heard endorphins are good for healing,” she assured him.

  The uncertainty fled, and he stripped off his shirt before helping her out of hers, then eased her pants down her legs. His fingers trailed a tantalizing path back up her legs.

  “I’ll be right back.” He slipped from her grasp and off the bed.

  She waited impatiently while he disappeared into the bathroom. He returned and laid a strip of condoms on the nightstand, then shucked off his pants and army-brown socks. His erection strained against the black fabric of his boxer briefs, which he quickly shed.

  “Let me know if anything hurts you,” he demanded, not moving until she nodded. He nudged her legs apart and settled between them, supporting the weight of his upper body on a forearm. His other hand caressed her cheek with his fingers tangling into her hair. His mouth claimed hers with urgent, possessive kisses, and their tongues engaged in an erotic dance.

  With his erection pressing intimately against her, she needed more. She lifted her hips, sliding against him. A half groan, half moan of pleasure rumbled in his throat. She repeated her silent plea for more.

  He dragged down a pillow and placed it under her hips. She waited breathlessly while he opened, then rolled on the condom. His intense, feral gaze never left her naked body.

  How many times had she fantasized about this? How many lonely nights had “Jake” popped into her head with her wishing he were in her bed? Only he wasn’t Jake. He was Tony. Hot. Hard. Ready. And incredibly real.

  Poised on his knees, he edged closer. Lifting her hips, he eased inside her with his tantalizing thickness. He moved slowly, gently. His features displayed his pleasure, though he held back. He increased the tempo, thrusting satisfyingly deeper. It sure as hell wasn’t only his hands and tongue he’d perfected using.

  He felt impossibly good as he continued to slide in, burying himself inside her. The raised angle with the added contact of his balls slamming against her ass heightened her ecstasy. Her muscles went taut, building to a too-early climax, but she couldn’t help herself. Honestly, she’d always preferred a dramatic payoff over a drawn-out performance with a modest climax. Go big or go home.

  She locked her legs together over his hips. It freed up one of his hands, which went right to her breast. Long, strong fingers squeezed hard enough to amplify her aroused state, but not causing pain in a way that ruined her experience.

  Reading her body like an expert, he pressed deeper inside. The hand under her back pulled her toward him, holding them together as if clinging for dear life. He gave her breast one more firm squeeze, pinching her nipple between his fingers before it ran down her stomach to where their bodies joined. He slid his thumb between them, rubbing her clitoris with the perfect amount of pressure.

  That did it. She had no motivation to hold back with her reward seconds away. Better to save her limited strength for the next time—because she intended to do this again. Soon.

  Her calves tightened, and her toes curled when the first wave of the orgasm rushed over her. Tony’s groan mingled with hers. He pulled out enough to build momentum, then drove inside her. Her muscles clenched around him, making him her captive as much as she was his.

  She held her breath to extend and increase the intensity of her orgasm.

  “Breathe!” he said.

  She sighed and released him so he could finish them both off with a few frenzied thrusts before she felt the pulse of him coming deep inside her.

  Neither spoke while they strained to draw air. Tony leaned over her, supporting his upper body with his left arm, and lowered her hips.

  “That release some endorphins?” His tempting mouth turned up into a wicked grin.

  “Definitely. Though there’s no such thing as too many endorphins.” She ran a hand up his bicep to the back of his head so she could pull him close enough to kiss. The perfect ending to a reality that topped all fantasy.

  Thirty-Two

  The steady rhythm of Angela’s breathing confirmed she’d dozed off. Tony fought the urge to close his eyes. The aroma from the casserole cooking told him it’d be ready soon, so he lay on his side, staring at Angela. Even in sleep, a contented smile played on her luscious mouth. Her long, thick lashes curled above her lightly bronzed skin, hiding her rich brown eyes. Dark hair splayed on the pillow under her.

  This time, his usual sated gratification was accompanied by something different. Something that made him content and happy and complete. Yeah, this time was different. Different because—it hit him like a solid smack upside the head—he’d made love to Angela.

  In the years since he’d ended things with Carla, he’d been with dozens of women. He didn’t keep count. There’d been a few short-term relationships. Mostly, there’d been sex. It’d been about meeting physical needs.

  He didn’t say he’d call those women. He didn’t make promises. And he didn’t make love to them. That would involve opening up his heart. He didn’t do that with a one-night stand or woman who didn’t take the time to know him or make the effort to see beneath his surface. To trust him.

  Angela trusted him.

  With her in his life, he’d be fine if he never had sex with another woman—as long as he had her. Could make love to her.

  Tonight, the euphoria following great sex lingered in him. Years ago, he’d stopped bringing women to his home because they often felt entitled to stay after having sex, expected things he didn’t want to offer. It was easier to go to their place. To say he snored as an excuse not to stay the night. But, now, the idea of Angela not being here created a panic that prowled around in his gut.

  In the past week, his feelings for her had raced from respect, with an enormous dose of physical attraction, to a protective calling. Then to an addictive need to be with her. A very good kind of addiction.

  Only someone wanted her dead, and apparently had the means to make it happen. He had to find a way to stop them—permanently—from hurting her. Once he did, would she feel safe enough to leave him, though? Go back to D.C.? That idea unsettled him nearly as much as someone placing a bomb under her bed.

  “You want more?” Tony carried his plate to the stove for a second helping of the casserole Kristie had brought.

  “I am good.” While her appetite had returned, she couldn’t possibly finish off the generous portion he’d served her.

  He seemed different. Off. Though she couldn’t put her finger on how exactly. After the verbal foreplay and preludes to lovemaking, she didn’t expect the actual act would change anything. Yet when he sat back down, she noted it in his eyes and the set of his mouth. Especially in the way he avoided prolonged eye contact.

  And here she’d worried about him getting too attached. She usually did a better job reading people. Evidently, she had a soft spot for him.

  Though it stung, she sure wasn’t going to go all needy and call him out on it. With the D.C. office developing leads on who’d broken into her home, she could be back there in a matter of days. Sooner, if needed. She’d reached the point where she could take care of herself—for the most part. No need to hamper his life.

  She swallowed another bite of the casserole that had become tasteless. “Kathryn said she’d have video from the street-side surveillance cameras uploaded this evening.”

  “You don’t sound excited.” He met her eyes, taking another bite of zucchini bread. One corner of his mouth rose in a playful manner, more reminiscent of the Tony of the past week.

  “Like you guys enjoyed combing through Hakim’s files?” she retorted. “Even with the Bureau running through the footage and isolating faces, then
running comparative analysis to eliminate the regulars, there’ll be thousands of possibilities from dozens of surveillance cameras over days or weeks.”

  “There’s a chance we’ll get lucky, but I think it’s a one-in-a-quarter-million shot, too. Better than one in a million, but that’s why the guys and I were working up another angle.”

  He had her full attention.

  “What if we make them think it worked?” he asked.

  Maybe she’d read him wrong earlier. He could be in mission mode. “What do you mean?” She already had a good idea.

  “Set off an explosion in your place—”

  “Too risky. What about my neighbors? Pedestrians on the street below?” She wouldn’t take the chance of injuring others.

  Based on the tilt of Tony’s head and his measured exhalation, he anticipated her objection.

  “It’d be controlled. Rock the place and shower broken glass on the street. We’d wait until no one was in the blast zone. Just big enough to make the neighbors call nine one one. We’d get the Bureau’s buy-in to pull it off. Send in a fire department crew that was in the loop. Have a coroner wheel out a body bag.”

  A shiver ripped through her. How close had she—they—come to that scenario playing out for real? “How do you know whoever placed the bomb will know it went off and … and that I was ‘killed’?”

  “Trust me. If someone is waiting to collect that chunk of change, they’ve planned to follow up. They’ll see it on the news. Hell, they may have stuck around or set up for a local to notify them.”

  Not likely with a professional who’d avoid any ties. She closed her eyes to think. The chances of her recognizing a face on the video were about the same as hitting the lottery—which is why she never bought tickets.

  The Bureau comparing faces to their and Interpol’s database of assassins didn’t yield high odds of success. They had so little evidence to work with. “How would we know who did it?”

  “DEA has a line on Vasquez’s accounts,” he continued. “If it’s them, we follow the money. See where it goes. Then we nail the son of a bitch.”

  “What if they require proof before a payoff?” She played devil’s advocate, toying with the idea.

  “We can run an obituary with a picture they’ll recognize. Stage a funeral service.”

  “I want to be cremated.”

  “How ’bout we bury these assholes instead?” Tony ignored her attempt at gallows humor.

  “What if it’s not them, and it’s tied to Hakim and al-Shehri’s bombing attempt? Or … something else? I can’t show up for work the next week.”

  What if she had to completely cut ties to this life and everything—and everyone—in it?

  Once again, the reality of her past raised its head to mock her. What option did she have?

  Thirty-Three

  “The Bureau will never go for that.” Angela ignored the narrowing of Tony’s eyes and stern set of his jaw. “Besides the cost—”

  “We’re only talking about monitoring calls for a day or two …” Tony looked to his teammates, all crowded into his family room, for backup.

  “There’s the matter of people’s privacy,” she continued, determined to follow the spirit, if not the A-to-Z letter of the law, no matter how much it frustrated him.

  “We’re only interested in calls related to the bomb going off, not every drug deal or—”

  “They’ll shoot it down,” she cut him off. “It’s better not to bring it up. You need to offer a plan that operates within their parameters.”

  Tony growled—again.

  “I have a vested interest in this succeeding,” she reminded him.

  “I have a vested interest, too,” he countered.

  Heat coursed through her at his assertion. His determination to find who’d placed the bomb, and his friends’ support—being here after a full day of training—told her she was no longer alone in this. They refused to let her be alone. It sparked a hope she hadn’t felt in years.

  “I hate to interrupt this lover’s quarrel, but who’re we puttin’ in the body bag?” Dominguez piped in.

  “Thanks for volunteering.” Tony turned his attention to Dominguez.

  “I wasn’t—” he started.

  “You’re close enough in size, and in the bag, no one could tell.” Lundgren’s statement cut off Dominguez’s protest.

  “It should be me,” she admitted.

  “But you don’t want—” Tony began.

  “I have to get out of the condo some way,” she pointed out. “That’s where they’d expect me. Why risk the exposure by putting someone else in there? Better to go out pretending to be dead than the alternative.”

  “She’s got a point.” Lundgren’s agreement shut down Tony’s objections.

  In a room filled with alpha males, Lundgren was clearly the top dog. Mack Hanlon and Tony fell next in the line of authority. The group dynamics went beyond rank. There was an undeniable bond between the men. A trust. Respect. A brotherhood. Though Tony and Dominguez butted heads at every turn, like real brothers, they put aside their differences to get the mission done.

  “That frees up Dominguez. Mack?” Lundgren turned his way.

  “We’ll put him on the street with Rozanski. You up for that?” Mack asked.

  “Heck, yeah,” Rozanski answered.

  “Gonna cordon off the area below her condo for ‘repair work’ to keep pedestrians clear. They’ll have hard hats, but go easy on the ordnance,” Mack cautioned Porter and Grant.

  “You’re sure you can limit the damage to just my unit?” Angela asked, unable to quell her worry over the risk.

  “We might break a window or two. Knock a few pictures off the walls. But we’ll use thermal imaging to make sure none of your neighbors are in the blast zone,” Porter said in his smooth, professional voice instead of his we-get-to-blow-things-up voice.

  “Liu is surveying the area to get a feel for traffic flow to determine the best time of day, but we’ll wait as long as it takes to be clear,” Lundgren added. “The rest of us will be on the lookout for any unusual activity afterward. It’s a long shot, but if the hitman is local, he may come to observe. Key is to make it real and for the word to get out. Besides your friend, how many people in the D.C. office know about the bomb?”

  “All the tech crew. The ordnance disposal crew. The forensics team.” There were probably others, but listing half the D.C. field office made Lundgren grimace.

  “Forensics able to narrow down the date of entry?”

  “At least two days prior to my release from the hospital. It could have been over a week. Hard to tell since I’d been gone for nearly three months.”

  “Did anything turn up in the investigation of Vasquez’s financials?” Lundgren’s attempt at a reassuring smile fell flat.

  “The family’s got dozens of accounts. There are constant small transfers. Nothing that stood out, though.” No half-million-dollar payouts. Mostly a few thousand dollars. Angela fought to hold onto the scrap of hope that they’d find who’d set the bomb and somehow put an end to the contract on her life. If only …

  Their plan was solid, but would the Bureau buy into it? She hoped so. Because all the members of this elite Special Operations team had marshal credentials, which meant they could skirt the limitations placed on the military working on U.S. soil. Based on the mood in the room, the guys were going through with this plan with or without the Bureau.

  A tingle started in her arms. It spread throughout her body. Once again, the idea of being a part of this community engulfed her. Despite the threat to her life, she’d never felt so protected. So cared for.

  “This is our best shot. No second chances. We gotta sell it.” Tony’s gaze shifted from one teammate to the next. Each nodded. Championship game faces on.

  Thirty-Four

  FBI Special Agent Bailer turned the corner to circle the block. It wouldn’t be believable to get a parking space in D.C. on their first pass. Angela wouldn’t mind circling a f
ew more times, though that wouldn’t calm the roiling in her stomach.

  She picked out Ray Lundgren’s blond hair when they cruised past the front of her building. She overrode the urge to lift a hand in greeting to Rozanski and Dominguez working on the segment of the sidewalk they’d closed for repairs.

  When they turned back onto her street, Lundgren steered his sedan out of its spot. Bailer parallel parked, kicking the mission into gear. She waited while he got her suitcase from the trunk, then opened her door and offered his arm to assist her out.

  She focused on walking to the entrance instead of doing surveillance. Half of Tony’s team was out there—she needed to let them do their jobs.

  This time she made it up the stairs without having to stop and catch her breath. She opened the door and stepped inside to find a different scene waiting for her today. Tony greeted her first. She’d indulged in visions of him here—but not like this.

  While the Bureau agreed with most of the team’s plan, they insisted one of their agents be her escort. Tony hadn’t liked it, but she’d convinced him it made more sense for credibility and getting the word out. She hadn’t admitted she wanted to limit him and his team’s exposure on the public side of her “death.” Selfishly, she didn’t want to close the door to future contact with Tony—no matter how remote the possibility.

  Tony led her and Bailer into the living area where Linc Porter and Devin Grant played cards, apparently done with their part since they’d snuck up in the gloom of night to start their work. Behind them, plastic sheeting covered the hallway leading to her bedroom. It took being in her home for the reality that she may never come back here after today to hit her. The familiar sense of loss sucked the air from her lungs.

  “We’re all set.” Porter rose to his feet.

  “My neighbors?” Had the would-be assassin cared that he might claim another innocent life? Tony stood beside her, so close his shoulder brushed hers, perhaps wondering along the same lines.