by Tracy Brody
Porter and Mack trailed Lundgren out of the terminal to set up observation when reality set in. Al-Shehri was on his way here. After years, Tony would be face-to-face with that murderous son of a bitch. He’d play it cool, get him on the plane, then smile when he wrestled him into cuffs.
Al-Shehri would spend the rest of his life locked up. No easy way out. No martyrhood. Was that a word? It didn’t matter because it wasn’t happening.
“Eyes on our guys. They’re getting out of a taxi now. Party of four,” Mack reported in.
Tony signaled the pilots, and they stepped out to the tarmac.
Seated in the lobby, Shuler spoke to Liu with a German accent. Ibrahim and Samir al-Shehri entered the terminal after a cautionary survey of the small waiting area. Rashid and the third guard trailed with the suitcases. They paused at the empty counter.
Come on in, said the spider to the fly. Tony’s heart pounded in his chest at al-Shehri’s nearness.
One of the pilots approached Shuler and Liu.
“Your luggage is stowed. Even though this is a private flight, no firearms are permitted on board the aircraft. If your men are armed, we need to secure the weapons in the cargo hold.” The pilot gestured to the metal lockbox he carried.
“You can’t be serious?” Shuler answered in English but laid the accent on thick.
“Yes, sir. Sayyid Khalid’s mandate and we do have another party for the flight.”
Shuler hesitated, looking around, then gave an exaggerated nod to Tony; Liu waved to Dominguez.
With a gruff, Tony made a show of unbuttoning his suit jacket and removing his handgun. Dominguez followed suit. Each placed their weapons in the box.
“Thank you. We’ll be boarding shortly.” The pilot turned his attention to al-Shehri’s group. “Are you Khalid’s other party?”
“Yes.” Al-Shehri moved two steps closer.
“Which two of you are the ones coming?” the pilot asked, reaching for the suitcases.
“We are all going.” The slightest hesitation came through in al-Shehri’s reply.
“According to the manifest, we have four in Herr Wälde’s party and two in yours.”
Al-Shehri spoke lowly and angrily to his group before turning back to the pilot. “There has been a mistake, my men come with me.”
Though Tony reveled in al-Shehri getting rattled, he kept his expression neutral and prayed they wouldn’t bag the trip.
“If you would like to contact Sayyid Khalid regarding a change, we only have twenty minutes to update our flight manifest with the tower.”
“Perhaps, we can compromise, and they will leave one man also.” Al-Shehri pointed to Shuler and Liu.
Shuler shot to his feet. “Our meeting has been scheduled for weeks. Azam is expecting my engineer and I and our translator and aide.”
Rashid’s skepticism played out in his expression as he locked eyes with Tony. His narrowed gaze dropped to Tony’s left hand and returned to his face long enough to raise a degree of concern that he recognized him from the restaurant.
Tony countered with a dismissive once-over.
“I am authorized to transport two of your party, or none. Would you like me to load your bags or not?” The pilot played a verbal game of chicken to see who would veer first.
Straining to hear the brief conversation, Tony picked out a few Pashto words and phrases. No choice and go home being ones he liked—though would they go to their home or al-Shehri’s?
When Rashid handed two suitcases to the pilot, then stepped back to take hold of the one remaining, Tony did a silent victory whoop.
“And if either of you have any weapons, I’ll need those now,” the pilot addressed Ibrahim and al-Shehri. “There is a metal detector.” He motioned to the entrance to the tarmac when they hesitated.
Both men produced compact handguns from under the loose-fitting shirts that hung to just above their knees. They complied, placing them in the metal box.
The pilot locked it. “Thank you, gentlemen. You are free to board.” He stood next to the doorway, waiting.
Shuler took the opening, with Liu on his heels. They passed through the metal detector with no issues, but Dominguez set off the metal detector and stepped back. He handed the pilot a set of keys and passed through.
Tony stepped back and motioned for al-Shehri to go ahead as he removed his belt.
Ibrahim reached into his pocket and discreetly handed what looked like a knife to Rashid under the guise of a traditional Muslim goodbye hug that Tony didn’t buy for a second. Nice try.
“May Allah bestow his blessings on you,” Rashid said, embracing al-Shehri.
“Glory to Allah,” the other bodyguard said in parting.
“After you.” Tony gave a wave of the hand because there was no way in hell he was moving until al-Shehri headed to the plane. He’d knock him out, toss him over his shoulder, and carry him if he had to. He released the breath stored in his lungs when al-Shehri moved forward to pass through the metal detector.
“What business does your boss have with Sayyid Khalid?” Rashid asked.
“He designs custom racing cars,” Tony threw out over his shoulder in an Italian accent, dropping his timbre to further differentiate from the role he’d played in the restaurant.
He handed his belt to the pilot, strolled through the metal detector, then took back the belt and walked out the doors, not caring about the blazing heat as al-Shehri climbed the stairs of the jet owned and operated by the United States Army. Hoo-ah, motherfu—
Al-Shehri froze on the top step.
No! Not now, not now!
Tony pretended not to notice and marched up the steps. He held his position on the step below Ibrahim. If they’d changed their minds, they’d have to jump or go through him.
The pilot set the lockbox in the cargo hold. When he lifted the first of al-Shehri’s suitcases and loaded it, al-Shehri ducked through the opening into the aircraft.
Mission almost complete. Tony settled into a seat with his team in the front of the plane and breathed a sigh when the pilot pulled the door closed a minute later with the lockbox under his arm.
Ibrahim and al-Shehri settled into the rear of the plane.
“Welcome aboard. This is your captain, Timothy Crites. Please fasten your seatbelts as we’ll be taxiing in just a minute. Today, we’ll be cruising at 38,000 feet, and our flight time to Jeddah will be approximately one hour and thirty-five minutes. We may run into some turbulence, so keep your belt on while seated. Thank you for flying Con-Air.”
Tony snorted at the captain’s movie reference. He was right about the turbulence—they’d hit it about the time al-Shehri and Ibrahim realized they were not landing in Jeddah.
An hour into the flight, Ibrahim went into the bathroom.
“I get the honors,” Tony said.
Dominguez opened the storage compartment next to his seat and pulled out the Tasers and flex-cuffs.
Tony tucked them in his suit jacket and unbuckled. He stepped to the galley and retrieved several water bottles. Strolling back, he handed one each to Shuler and Liu and slipped the Taser into his free hand. He carried waters back to al-Shehri.
When al-Shehri reached to accept the waters, Tony fired. He smiled as the leads made contact with al-Shehri’s torso, making him shake violently as the electricity coursed through him and rendered him incapable of moving.
It was almost too easy slipping the flex cuffs over his wrists. Tony stuffed a rag in his mouth, so he couldn’t cry out. That would also save them from listening to any crap coming out of his mouth.
Dominguez edged past them and waited by the bathroom door as Tony tightened cuffs around al-Shehri’s ankles. Dominguez hit Ibrahim from behind before he could see al-Shehri. He collapsed at Tony’s feet.
Once they had the guard bound, Tony took a picture to send to Lundgren to forward to Smith. It’d be a better gift than some trinket for Angela, too.
Tony tapped Liu for the first watch before he alerted the pilo
ts that the two were restrained. Next stop, Guantanamo Bay to drop off their guests at an exclusive club. Then home.
Stretching out on the jet’s couch, Tony closed his eyes and pictured Angela. Time for some sleep and good dreams.
Forty-Nine
Tony turned off the engine and coasted the Harley up the driveway. Moonlight bathed his house, but no lights were on to welcome him home. No porch lights, either. Not that he’d called Angela to tell her they’d landed—she’d be asleep at this hour—and he still feared she wouldn’t answer because she was gone.
He punched in the code to open the garage door, then rolled his bike in and parked it next to his SUV. He laid a hand on the car’s hood. The coolness didn’t offer any reassurance.
Entering the kitchen, he looked for signs of life. The counters were bare and clean. The sink empty. He stood there, unable to venture further. His temples began to throb. His lungs strained instead of working naturally.
For this moment, he had hope. Hope from all the prayers he’d said the past few days.
Turning to place his keys on the counter, he saw it.
Angela’s purse.
Warmth and life seeped back into his body, brought up a smile from deep in his belly to land on his face. Laughter rumbled in his throat, and his eyes got moist.
Filled with renewed energy—and purpose—he carried his suitcase to his bedroom.
The door was ajar, and inside, asleep in his bed, wearing one of his T-shirts, was the most beautiful sight ever. She didn’t stir while he stripped down, nor when he slid under the sheet and snuggled up to her.
“Thank you for being here,” he whispered into her hair. “I love you.”
She murmured something unintelligible, her breathing maintaining a steady cadence. For the first time since he’d seen her bleeding in Hakim’s apartment, Tony’s mind downgraded to DEFCON 5—normal readiness. He closed his eyes and inhaled her spicy essence before he succumbed to much overdue sleep.
Tony sensed Angela’s presence before she moved into view in his workout room. Or maybe her scent wafted to him. He turned to face her.
Wow! He hadn’t seen her wear that pale-pink lingerie before. Lace edged it in just the right places. A slit rode up the side to her hip. The hand weights slipped from his grip to the floor with a thud. Probably the effect she wanted.
“When did you get in?” She took a step closer, though stood out of reach.
“Around three.” Come here.
“You should have woken me.”
“I tried.”
“Sorry. I’m still taking a painkiller at night. You should have tried harder.”
Harder? That was already happening. “I needed some sleep, too.”
She moved closer. The sweet floral scent grew stronger. Not only had she changed out of his T-shirt, her brushed hair fell like sheets of silk over her shoulders. For him. Yes.
“I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.” She stood, straddling the bench in front of him.
“Sometimes it takes a while, but eventually the sun comes out and burns off the fog.”
“You got him!” A wickedly victorious smile lit up her face.
“Alive. The mission was a success.” So far, they had two prisoners, two laptops, and four cell phones, plus the cloned phone. With Lundgren and half the team tailing the other two, they might win the intel lottery. That might keep the team busy.
“I love you, Tony Vincenti.” She kissed him with the same raw passion and acceptance he had for her.
His hand glided up the outside of her thigh. Damn. No panties. Even better.
“Mmm,” she murmured, pulling back to look in his eyes. “I am glad you’re home safe. Your colonel gave me a scare when he showed up.”
“My colonel?” His hands froze mid-journey to her cup her ass.
She nodded and draped her arms over his shoulders. Her statement didn’t make sense, but between lowering her body to perch on his thighs and her barely covered breasts brushing against his chest, he couldn’t focus on anything except being inside her.
“I was afraid something happened to you.” She shivered in his arms, intertwining her fingers in his hair.
“Nothing happened. I’m perfectly fine.” He’d happily show her just how fine.
“I see.” She scooted closer and nestled against his erection.
“So, why did the colonel come here?” He nuzzled the base of her throat, then ran his tongue along the hollow.
“He didn’t have my number to ask about having me do some translation work for your team.”
“Really? I mentioned it but didn’t know if he’d do it.”
“One of your translators, Captain Patil in Operations, is out. She’s pregnant—”
“Yeah. Hard to miss.”
“That’s because she’s having twins.”
“Whoa. Didn’t know that.”
“Neither did she until they did an ultrasound. She has to go out on medical leave soon, and Colonel Mahinis thought I might be able to fill in during her absence.”
“And …” A geyser of hope erupted.
“I had to pass a language-skills test.”
He had no doubts. “You passed.”
“I missed a word on the Pashto. The sentence didn’t make sense.”
“One word? You passed!” The urgency for answers trumped all his other needs. He didn’t want to breathe until he knew.
“Yes, I passed. But when the colonel told General Barden about my proficiency in Spanish, Arabic, and so on, he offered me a commission and permanent spot in Special Operations Command.”
If she hadn’t been on his lap, Tony would have leaped from the bench to do a victory dance. “Tell me you accepted.”
“No.”
“What?” His entire essence deflated with that single word. He wanted to beg her to change her mind. He wanted to cry. Yet she sat there with an endearing, loving—yeah, loving—smile. Why? He wanted to understand. He needed to understand.
“A commission would lock me into a contract. A time-of-service commitment. I couldn’t leave if I needed to.”
Damn. Weren’t they past that by now?
“More importantly,” she continued, “a commission comes with rules and regulations. I’d have a real problem with that one about fraternization between the ranks.”
“We could get around that.” Mack had, though Kristie was in a different unit—not under Special Ops Command. His mind whirled, trying to come up with a workable option.
“True.” Her smile got bigger. “As a civilian contractor, those rules and regs don’t apply to me. I don’t get the great health benefits, but I don’t plan on getting shot again.”
“You took it?”
“Of course, I did. When I thought …” Her eyes misted, then closed. She drew in a deep breath. Another. Her mouth opened to release that breath. Her eyes opened to stare into his. “When I thought you’d been hurt. Or worse …” Her head shook slightly. “I love you. And I can’t imagine my life without you anymore.”
“I love you, too.” The world seemed brighter—from her glow, not from the sun streaming through the blinds.
“I can get my own place if my staying here would cramp your style.”
He laughed and pulled her hips closer. “Your moving out would hamper my love life a lot more. You’re staying.”
He kissed her shoulder and pushed the pink satin out of the way. With al-Shehri in custody, Tony had a new mission. To make sure Angela felt loved and safe enough to stay—not just for now—but forever.
THANK YOU for reading A Shot Worth Taking. I hope you loved getting to know more about Tony and meeting Angela as well as seeing Mack and Kristie and Ray and Stephanie from Deadly Aim and Desperate Choices again. You’ll get to see more of them in the rest of the series along with the other heroes of the Bad Karma Special Ops team—whose love lives are as dangerous as their missions.
I appreciate your help in spreading the word about my books. Tell a friend. Share on social media.
Post a review on Amazon, Goodreads, BookBub, or your favorite book site. Reviews are like hugs to authors, and I love hugs.
Higher numbers of reviews will help other readers find me and know if this book is for them. It doesn’t even have to be a five-star review—though those are certainly welcome and what I strive for.
I don’t want to disappoint my readers, so I spend time researching and hire editors. We’re human though and miss things. So, if you find mistakes and want to tell me in a nice way (not like the perfectionist acquaintance that takes glee in pointing out errors,) email me so I can fix it and I will be grateful!
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Next up is In the Wrong Sights—another Golden Heart Winner. They are stand-alone novels with a common cast of characters, though reading them in order eliminates spoilers. I hope you’ll fall in love with the leads in these books as well.
IN THE WRONG SIGHTS Excerpt
The weight of the casket and lifeless body of Master Sergeant Hal Boswell matched the heaviness in AJ’s soul. If he hadn’t been the one to discover Hal, to press two shaky fingers to the cold flesh of his throat, he might not have accepted the death of his mentor.
A heart attack. His jaw locked recalling what the guy from the coroner’s office had speculated. No way. It had to be something else.
Hal was still as fit as when he’d served on Special Forces teams. He’d endured multiple tours of duty. Survived too many dangerous missions to count. For Hal to die of a heart attack was like surviving a gun fight to die from getting a flu shot. AJ wanted this to be some bad dream. Instead, he joined five other elite warriors—men Hal had molded into the best of the best—and moved toward the open grave.
