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

by Tracy Brody

  Guess not. Okay, so his bike might not have been the most comfortable place to try and do it, but it had been creative foreplay. And hot.

  Shit. Now he’d be walking inside with a hard-on. He didn’t want Angela to think he wanted her sticking around only for the mind-blowing sex. Though her dangerous, adventurous side sure didn’t hurt. He could spend a lifetime with her and never get bored. He shouldn’t have texted her when he left post. She read him too well—probably knew what he was thinking, hoping.

  As soon as he opened the door into the kitchen, he inhaled an unfamiliar but delicious aroma. The sweet scent of apples mixed with cinnamon and pastry. Angela paused from slicing up a head of red cabbage to stare at him. Yup. She’d seen the text based on the look she gave him.

  “Smells great. You’re not overdoing it, are you?”

  That only amused her more. “I’m fine.”

  “What are we having?” He dropped his keys on the counter and moved closer. What looked like a strudel sat on a plate off to one side of the sink. On the stove, breaded cutlets sizzled in a frying pan.

  “Tonight’s dinner is a traditional German meal. You get Wiener schnitzel, parsley potatoes, cabbage, and apple strudel for dessert.”

  “This is great. What inspired a German feast?”

  “I heard something today that reminded me of Germany. You’ve been taking such great care of me, I wanted to do something nice for you—that didn’t involve sex.”

  “I’m not complaining about that. And I don’t mind cooking. My grandmother and mom taught me to cook. It’s in my blood.” Or maybe it was marinara sauce in his veins.

  “While you’re a great chef, I’m pretty domestic, too. I didn’t exactly get that passed down, but I’ve been cooking and taking care of myself since I was a teen.” She turned back to the stove and stirred the cabbage in another skillet. “I enjoy cooking and learning new dishes. Tomorrow I can cook either a Middle Eastern or South American dish.”

  “Hmm. I think you should dress up, too. Got a belly-dancer costume?”

  She chuckled. “Based on where I’ve been in the Middle East, I would be completely covered, including my face.”

  Her statement triggered memories of his last tour in Afghanistan. His forefinger traced his surgically repaired nose. “That doesn’t work for me.”

  “So, a Venezuelan dish?”

  “Sounds good. Especially if you keep up that sexy Spanish accent.”

  “Voy a hablar sólo en español si lo desea.”

  “Oh, baby.”

  “¿Ahora? ¿O después de la cena?”

  Why did an accent have to be such a turn-on? Now or after dinner? Based on the dirty pots in the sink, she’d spent most of the afternoon fixing the German feast. Satisfy instant raging hard-on or appreciate her other gifts? “Got a German-wench costume?”

  “Keine.” She smacked the back of his head.

  “No” was one of the few words of German he knew. “Sorry.” He grinned at her, picturing her in a low-cut white top, short skirt with a white petticoat underneath, tall white stockings, hair in braids, and a stein of beer in her hand. Who would need other women when Ang could be them all? When was the last time he’d been this comfortable with a woman—in every way? Never.

  The stare Ang fixed on him made him suspect she read his mind.

  “You going to wear lederhosen?” This time she eyed him as if she pictured him in the leather shorts and silly suspenders.

  “Yeah, uh, no.”

  “Too bad. You’ve got nice legs.”

  “I could be talked into a gladiator costume.”

  “Kinda stereotypical.”

  “But I could plunder and take you hostage.”

  “You’re pushing it, Vincenti.”

  Several more insinuations came to mind. He held back to avoid being cuffed again. He loved the playful interaction—which they could both use right now—and for the rest of his life. “What can I do to help?”

  “Grab plates, and I’ll serve it up.”

  His mouth watered at the enticing smell of bay leaf and onion. Identifying everything by its German name, Angela loaded up generous portions. It made a colorful presentation with the cooked red cabbage, schnitzel, and roasted potatoes.

  He finished off half his plate before he slowed down to ask what had been on his mind most of the afternoon. “Did you hear any updates from the Bureau?”

  “Yes, only no new useful info. The bank in Singapore isn’t willing to give any information on Austin Kufer that they got to open the account and—”

  “Wait? Austin Kufer? I thought it was Cooper.”

  “I heard her wrong yesterday. It doesn’t matter. They still aren’t finding anything. I can keep looking at surveillance video captures, but…”

  As she talked, he couldn’t dismiss the name.

  Kufer.

  Austin Kufer.

  It sounded familiar beforehand, but more so now.

  He heard a female voice saying that name.

  Taking another bite, he closed his eyes and tried to remember the place and person. Why had it stuck in his brain? Had he been a target on a mission?

  No. A target he’d remember. Maybe an alias?

  A mouthful of parsley potatoes became mashed potatoes by the time he swallowed them. He took a bite of schnitzel, chewing until no flavor remained.

  Angela was silent, allowing him to trek back in the recesses of his mind.

  He went to stab another piece of meat, and his fork clattered to the table. He hurriedly swallowed his food, so he could speak.

  “Did Jarrod know about the contract on your life?”

  “Yeah. I kinda slipped. He brought up us taking a trip to Rio together, and I mentioned returning to South America wasn’t a good idea. That there were people there that wanted me dead. But I never mentioned names.”

  “Did he have access to your personnel file?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe with him leading the New York assignment. What are you saying?” Her brows dipped close together.

  The initial rush of energy from connecting the name to the memory faded, leaving him drained like an empty pool. “I think Jarrod … I think he’s Austin Kufer.”

  “No way.”

  “Why not?” He asked himself as much as her.

  “Why would he? And I can’t believe someone I slept with, your friend, would tell the cartel where to find me.”

  “First of all, he wasn’t exactly my friend. We worked together—not by choice. As for telling the cartel, Jarrod has the skills to build and place that explosive himself.” Each step his mind took down this path increased the sick feeling in his gut. “You said yourself, if it was someone who knew you, it had to be personal. Jarrod blames you for losing his gig with the contractor and—”

  “I’m not to blame for him losing the job. He—”

  “He sees it differently. Jarrod mentioned being axed because of you not wanting to go along with the mission you quit over. And he got hurt …”

  “Again. Not my fault.”

  “But he’s Jarrod. He has a history of taking risks and blaming others for anything he can.”

  “True, but…” She dropped her gaze to the far end of the table and bit her lip. “Not liking him aside, what makes you think it’s him?”

  He needed to push her beyond what she wanted to believe. Now if he could do it without revealing classified information.

  “A couple of years back, Jarrod led a mission in Libya. You plan for everything, only this was one of those missions where everything that could go wrong did. Walt Shuler tangled with a Libyan operative and got cut up. We patched him up best we could.” Tony skipped over how that turned out for the Libyan operative.

  “We got to the airport, where things got worse. I created a diversion so Jarrod could get our package through security. Airport security hauled me off and threatened to throw me in prison—not what you want over there. But I managed to, uh, ‘get released’ from security and make a later flight.” One
to Brussels before the airport security guards got free and put out a security BOLO on him. “When I made it back here and debriefed, Jarrod said he ditched his backup passport and credit cards. I didn’t question it at the time. Sounded plausible. I swear Sergeant Jewett said, ‘We’ll retire the Austin Kufer identity’ and Jarrod said something like better to retire the ID than him.”

  By now, Angela’s mouth hung open, her eyes fixed on him. The slight rise of her chest assured him she hadn’t stopped breathing.

  “Jarrod had already planned on taking a private security job rather than re-upping. His poor planning and the risks he exposed the team to showed he’d already mentally checked out. The colonel gave the next mission to Charlie Company. It was Carswell’s last mission on the team.”

  “Ouch,” Angela commiserated.

  “Yeah. Private companies offer referral bonuses to get Spec Ops guys. After Jarrod left, he and his wife, Cheyenne, tried to recruit a couple of the team. The idea of working for Jarrod—with no rules of engagement—and him thinking he didn’t have to answer to a chain of command …? He didn’t get any takers.” You couldn’t spend a huge paycheck if you were in jail or weren’t alive. “The way Jarrod always covered his ass, I can see him stashing away an ID for an emergency out. Especially if he thought it would be untraceable.”

  Angela pushed away the food she hadn’t touched since he mentioned Jarrod’s name. “I may not be his favorite person, but trying to kill me … I don’t see it.”

  It poked him like a sharp stick that she defended Jarrod. He inhaled and started counting in his head. By the time he reached seven, he could see her point. Maybe his personal biases made him see things that weren’t there. He wanted so badly to protect her. How hard should he push?

  Angela stared at her plate, worrying her bottom lip. She’d been trying to convince him it was too dangerous for her to stay—and he didn’t want to accept it. Now, he’d flipped the tables. If he could persuade her to trust him on this, and he was right, it might be the breakthrough he needed to convince her to give them a shot.

  Forty-Two

  Angela slid out from under the sheet, trying not to wake Tony now that he’d finally stopped tossing and turning. She scooped up his T-shirt and pulled it on. In the family room, she sat on the sofa and hugged a throw pillow to her chest.

  Faint light shone in from the front porch light. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen, and her mind whirled.

  She lost track of time as she sat in the dark, trying to get in Jarrod’s head. Tony padded into the room in only a pair of gym shorts. She hadn’t heard the bedroom door open.

  He plunked down beside her. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  She shook her head.

  “Hope I wasn’t snoring.”

  “Nope.”

  “Then you were thinking about Jarrod.”

  “I doubt you’re shocked.”

  He shrugged. “You willing to consider it’s possible?”

  “How sure are you about the name?”

  “Pretty damned sure.”

  She didn’t doubt his memory, even when it came to obscure details like favorite coffee flavors. “A name that he may or may not have had an ID for isn’t evidence.”

  He rested his forearms on his bare thighs, staring down at his joined hands. “There’s something more. It’s not evidence per se, it just …”

  “What?”

  He exhaled, and his face muscles relaxed and sagged. She waited, scarcely able to breathe. The lumps in her stomach grew like aggressive cancer.

  “When Jarrod came to see you in the hospital—”

  “He did?” Had she been so zoned out on meds she didn’t remember?

  “You were asleep when he came. The way he acted … at the time, I thought he still had feelings for you. Looking back, I can’t help but wonder …”

  “If he came to kill me?” It seemed like a stretch. She wanted to believe it was a mile-long stretch.

  “It was the middle of the night—like the dead of night—not long before the shift changeover. He made it sound like he’d come from the office, but he’d changed out of his suit and wore a ball cap. I didn’t think about it then. I was kinda out of it myself. He acted all concerned about your recovery with the coma and all. It didn’t feel authentic. Like he was digging for info.”

  She had trouble envisioning Jarrod coming to check on her—even if she’d once done the same for him. “It’s not proof. I can’t ask the Bureau to investigate one of their own without something more substantial.”

  “We can’t have the Bureau involved.”

  “Why not?” She didn’t like where this was headed.

  “Because if it is Jarrod, and he gets tipped off that we suspect he’s involved, he’s got the passport and half a million dollars to disappear. Along with the skills that guarantee we never find him.”

  Fuck. “You’re right. So, we look for him on the tape?” Knowing when and who to look for could narrow it down to a doable task. Maybe.

  “He’s too smart for that. He would’ve hidden his face. Used the back entrance to avoid cameras. He wouldn’t leave a credit card trail.”

  Again, Tony was right. Damn Jarrod. Between his time in Special Forces and the FBI, Jarrod knew what they’d be looking for to track down an assassin. “And you’re sure he could bypass my alarm and set the bomb?”

  “I know I could,” Tony said with no trace of doubt.

  She saw the prospect of concrete evidence pulled back out to sea by a tsunami. “What are our options?”

  “I’m not sure. We need to get some sleep and think on it.” He rose and extended his hand.

  She let him pull her to her feet. “Come on, then.” She tugged him toward the bedroom. “It’s going to take some very angry sex before I get any sleep.” Even that might not work.

  “So, you’re going to use me for sex?”

  “You got a problem with that?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  She stopped in the middle of the hallway and pushed him against the wall. Going up on tiptoes, she molded her body to his and pressed her lips to his mouth.

  His lips parted to welcome her tongue. His fingers tangled into her hair, forcing her head to comply with his directions.

  Need pulsed through her, and she ran her hands along his smooth, hot flesh, then underneath the waistband of his shorts, pushing them down past his hips. He hiked up her leg, grinding against her. The kisses grew fiercer, more demanding. He lifted her from the ground and spun them both around so that he had her pinned against the wall.

  “You’re so beautiful.” He paused, staring into her eyes—only her eyes. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” She didn’t hesitate to tell him this time. No matter how this turned out, she needed to give him that gift.

  Despite the frenzied need of seconds ago, they remained still, their eyes locked on each other. Smiles on their faces as they focused on here, this second, and let the moment sink in.

  Tony’s eyebrows rose hopefully.

  Oh, yeah. Back to where we were.

  Tony’s breathing had fallen into the heavy, steady rhythm of sleep. She tucked into his shoulder, and her head rose with each breath. Normally, she didn’t want anyone touching her when she slept. Tonight, she took comfort in the contact.

  The first time, in the hallway, had been fast and furious. Hot. Satisfying. Definitely memorable. But it only stoked the fire. Her body still rode the wave of orgasmic bliss, the wave cresting but not breaking, after Tony carried her into the bedroom where he’d taken his time.

  It worked. Cleared her head enough to gain a fresh perspective. Though she hated to ruin the serenity, she set her thoughts to the possibility Jarrod had tried to kill her. If so, it torpedoed her plans to stay with the Bureau. Eventually, he’d find out she was alive. Then what? Staying with Tony held the same risks—and extended them to him.

  If it was Jarrod, her only choice might be to disappear.

  Play dead.

  Let
him win to survive.

  She made out Tony’s profile in the darkness, praying Jarrod had nothing to do with the attempt on her life.

  Angela shuffled into the kitchen, her eyes barely open.

  Tony waited, watching as she poured coffee into the mug he’d left for her on the counter. He gave her a moment to take a few sips of the potent brew. “Good morning.”

  “That’s debatable,” she said, her voice raspy. She plopped onto the seat.

  “I guess it’s my fault you didn’t get much sleep.”

  “Directly. And indirectly.”

  “I prefer the direct method.”

  With one eye open, she smiled over her coffee at him. “Me, too.”

  “Need to let that coffee kick in before we have a strategy session?”

  “We need to go see Jarrod.”

  He resisted the urge to jump to his feet and head out.

  “I’m hoping he’s not involved, though,” she continued. “And if that’s indeed the case, I don’t want to subject him to a witch hunt and taint his career with unjustified accusations.”

  Tony lost his battle to keep his mouth shut. “Why don’t you want it to be Jarrod?”

  “Because if we bust him, it gets out I’m alive, and I’m back to having a price on my head. I have to go underground.”

  Damn. Now he didn’t want it to be Jarrod, either. That wouldn’t solve their problem. It made it worse. Way worse. Only his gut wouldn’t let it go. “But if he is …”

  “Just because we walk in, Jarrod isn’t going to confess.

  “It might take a while, but I could persuade him to confess.”

  “You can’t torture it out of him.”

  “He’s trained to endure it, but he doesn’t have a real high threshold for pain.”

  “He could be innocent,” she said like the devil’s own advocate.

  I still wouldn’t mind beating the shit out of him for the way he treated you. “I’m not going to kill him. Or cut anything off.” At least nothing vital. She fixed him with a stern expression reminiscent of the strict nuns from his childhood. Had he been thinking aloud? “How do you propose to find out if he’s involved then?”