Body Shot

by Amy Jarecki

  The woman frowned, her eyes narrowing with distrust.

  Mike pulled a business card out of his top pocket. Four copies had been made for this mission. Since ICE was a clandestine organization, it only contained his name, a phone number and the words Intelligence Consulting Services. They meant nothing but might help Henri understand the nature of the job he’d come to offer.

  No, he didn’t want to use the cards at all—because he wouldn’t be there if Garth hadn’t made that bloody wager. No one in their right mind would want to be chasing the woman. Not after the rebuff she’d given Lindgren at Miramar. However, now that Henrietta had a few months to cool off, she might reconsider. At least that was the plan.

  “Tell her I’ll be at The Black Bear Diner at o-eight-hundred tomorrow morning. I’ll buy her breakfast. If she doesna like what I have to say, she can walk away with a full belly.”

  Chenoa took the card, read the front and turned it over to find the back blank.

  “Will you tell her?” Mike asked.

  “I can’t make any promises.”

  “It’s just breakfast, madam.”

  The woman pursed her lips, making her face look like a prune. “You know the army ruined her life. She won’t want to speak to anyone.”

  “I dunna represent the Americans or the military.”

  The woman looked at the print on the card again. “This says you’re a consultant. Who do you represent?”

  “The good guys.”

  She snorted, giving him the evil eye as if she wasn’t impressed. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Mike bowed. “Thank you.” The door closed as he walked away. Before he hopped into his Jeep, he pulled another device from his pocket and attached it to the wheel-well of the Chevy where it would be out of sight. Dammit, he no intention of leaving the success of this mission in the hands of Auntie Chenoa.

  Chapter Three

  Henri slammed her pickaxe into the bedrock of the mine wall with every ounce of strength she could muster and added a healthy dose of anger to boot. Why couldn’t the bastards leave her alone? Now the suits had traveled all the way to Utah? Aunt Chenoa had said this guy wasn’t wearing a tie, but he wore a sports jacket and looked sharp. This one was from Scotland. And evidently they’d sent a taller, younger person in to butter her up. According to Chenoa, Scottie-boy was a stud. But then, dear old auntie had an eye for anything young in trousers.

  She took another swing with the pick. Or a kilt.

  But why not send in an American? What was it about these foreigners? Didn’t they realize that no meant no, nada, uh-uh, no freaking way?

  Did they think that if a mob of overseas schmucks tried to pour on the charm, she’d melt and go all gooey?

  “Screw them!”

  Henri wasn’t about to drive into town for a breakfast and sit there while she listened to a line of drivel. Jeez, the last guy refused to tell her anything about the job before she committed. They were insane! She’d probably shove her syrup-drenched pancakes in the dude’s face—even if he did end up looking like a million bucks—which she doubted. Besides, hot men were always self-centered assholes.

  And Henri didn’t have time to listen to anyone at the moment, especially an arrogant, Scottish asshole. She had a list a mile long of all the things the mine needed. Shoot, it had taken her a month to clean the house—well, it wasn’t a house. But the two-room apartment carved out of sandstone. Her home. Her hideout. Her pad. It had been Grandfather’s home and he’d willed it to her. The mine was what she’d always wanted, what she’d dreamed of. Up there in the hills no one bothered her. And, aside from a few trusted Paiutes, no one even knew the mine existed—probably because in forty years, Grandfather had only found a handful of gold dust and hadn’t tried to sell it—he even kept it quiet from the Paiute band.

  “No use getting our people excited,” he always said.

  The gold dust was hidden and only Henri knew where to find it. Henri. Not Aunt Chenoa. In truth, the only person Grandfather had ever trusted was Henri. Her mother had been an alcoholic who drank her life into an early grave. Aunt Chenoa stayed away from the sauce, but never expressed interest in the mine. She’d never expressed interest in much of anything aside from the odd trip to Mesquite to play the slots or to pick up any passing white dude who flashed his wallet.

  Henri smashed the pick into the bedrock, making rock chips and dirt shower to the ground. Her aunt had pissed her off more than anything. The woman couldn’t keep her opinions to herself. It was bad enough that the only time Chenoa visited the mine was to tell Henri she’d had a visitor from Scotland—with her eyes full of awe, no less.

  But the thing that stung the most was that after Chenoa blurted out the news, dear old Auntie had not so tactfully reminded Henri about her family outside the reservation.

  Family, my ass.

  Henri had never told anyone that she’d tracked down her worthless father—blond-haired, blue-eyed Jarrod Anderson. He’d abandoned Henri’s mother in Saint George and Mom never recovered. Dear old Dad now lived in Chino, California with his new wife and kids. The jerk had pictures of his new family plastered all over Facebook. Yeah, the proud father. Why in God’s name hadn’t he shown a modicum of pride in Henri? Because she had brown eyes and black hair?

  Henri smashed the pick into the wall again, the reverberation jarring her arms as she hit solid rock. The only person who’d ever believed in her was Grandfather. He’d treated her like she meant something. They had shared good times and developed a bond that went deeper than any human relationship she’d ever experienced. He’d died right after Henri joined the Delta Force CT unit. Thank God he hadn’t been alive to witness her bogus trial and the humiliation of her conviction. No wonder she’d gone into hiding. Anyone who’d endured the hell of JRC would want to shut out the world while mindless war raged in the Middle East.

  I don’t need anymore shit!

  She drew back the pick once again but the low hum of a motor stopped her from smashing it into the rock wall.

  The mine was hidden in the southeast corner of the Paiute reservation. Fences and no trespassing signs were posted everywhere. Aunt Chenoa had been up there once in three months and that had been the extent of Henri’s visitors.

  But no mistaking it, a motorized vehicle was nearing. Henri slung her rifle over her shoulder and jogged up toward the entrance until she took a sharp left and headed through the escape tunnel. Her back door, so to speak—a ladder leading out an old fissure, serving as a way out in case the cave entrance collapsed. Pulling herself up, she quickly ascended then pushed out the camouflaged grill and climbed onto the rocky plateau above her spread. On her belly, she crawled to the edge right above the mine entrance—as well as the entrance to her pad. The barrel of her rifle slid nicely between a pair of sagebrush. The spot provided good camouflage, though no barricade to stop a bullet.

  A hundred feet down below, her red Ford F-150, Old Red, was parked in its usual place, not that anyone ever bothered a beater, 1977 truck. In the distance, dust rose and curled with the breeze. As the vehicle crested a hill, Henri used the scope on her rifle to home in on it. A four-wheel drive. Silver. Jeep Laredo. Not familiar. The SUV dipped behind a hill.

  It didn’t take a mastermind to know who was driving. The Scot had expected company for breakfast. But how the hell had he discovered the mine’s location?

  Had the jerk followed Aunt Chenoa yesterday? But how? No vehicle had approached aside from auntie’s Chevy. And if Rose knew her location, why had he waited to pay a visit? Had he been acting gentlemanly by waiting for their breakfast date? Was he pissed that she’d dissed his invitation? Probably.

  Let him be pissed.

  She waited patiently while the SUV neared until it pulled to a stop beside her truck. Henri kept the man in her sights while he got out of the Jeep and looked up the hill. Christ, the stud had a mop of red hair just like a Scot. She snorted. Redheaded guys always looked pallid and bloodless. In fact, after ten years in the Army, she
had come to the conclusion that redheaded dudes lacked the toughness bone. They were better suited for office jobs.

  Odd, though, he’d ditched the sports jacket and was wearing boots and camo. She let him approach until she was sure he’d be able to see the muzzle of her rifle peeking between the sagebrush. “I could shoot you for trespassing,” she said, using her badass sergeant voice.

  The man took off his sunglasses and grinned. Good Lord, maybe not all the redheads on the planet were pasty. True, he had fair skin, but he looked buff—healthy, even. “Henrietta Anderson,” he said in a deep brogue, waving as if they were old pals. “’Tis good to see you’ve lived up to your reputation.” Jesus, he rolled his “rs”.

  Cute grin or not, she didn’t buy the friendly approach. “And what might that reputation be?”

  “Sharpshooter. Someone who doesn’t take shite.”

  At least he had that right.

  He took a step. “Did your auntie tell you I visited?”

  “She did.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I missed you at breakfast.”

  “I had no intention of going.”

  He stepped again.

  “That’s far enough.” Henri pulled back the bolt, making a loud click.

  The man chuckled and raised his palms, though he didn’t move any closer. “Och, I just want to talk, lass.”

  “How did you find me?” she demanded.

  He looked skyward. “I can find anyone on the planet.”

  Damned satellites. “It’s dangerous to sneak up on me.”

  “Aye.”

  “But you did it anyway.”

  “I’ve faced danger before.” His eyes narrowed and when his auburn-bearded jaw hardened, she didn’t doubt he was telling the truth.

  Two could play his game. “Where? You been to Afghanistan?”

  “Aye, Iraq, Syria, Russia. You ken, I hang out wherever the bad guys are.”

  “So, you’re a real soldier. Wow. Pretty impressive for a redhead.”

  He didn’t smile this time. “How about you invite me in for a coffee and we have a wee chat?”

  “I think we’ve talked enough.”

  “Right-o.” He saluted. “You’ll need money eventually.”

  “Not much.”

  “Too, bad, ’cause I can offer you a sweet deal.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “So, you intend to hide up here? Pretend the big bad world doesna exist?”

  “What do I care about the world? No one cared about me after they threw my ass in the slammer for two fucking years.”

  “Bad break.” He looked away, chewing his lip. “One I’m sure you’ll nay forget. It’s a shame you willna have the chance to chase after the asshole who set you up.”

  Henri’s heart stuttered while her breath caught. She’d thought about revenge. Thought about it a lot. She’d endured two miserable years where all she did was think about tracking down the real killer and making him pay. And now he’d planted a seed that made all the animosity boil to the surface.

  All I need is one shot. One shot and I’d end Fadli’s reign of terror.

  But before she replied, Mr. Rose skittered back down the hill—if the name on his card was real. Looking through her sights, she watched him return to his SUV and, right before he got in, she closed her finger on the trigger and fired a shot. It hit exactly where she’d aimed—a pebble three feet from his boots. And for added effect, it flew up and struck him in the leg.

  The man didn’t even flinch. He simply glanced over his shoulder, shifted his gaze to her hiding place and saluted once more, the bastard.

  He was ex-military for sure. Nonetheless, Henri wanted nothing from that man. Anything he had to say would lead to no good. Her shot was a warning. He knew it. Moreover, he’d better not try to come back or else she’d pull out her shotgun and fill his ass with buckshot, or rock salt. Nothing stung more than twin barrels full of salt in the backside.

  Henri climbed back down the mine shaft and headed for her pad. Sure, it wasn’t much, but she loved the place. Calling to her soul, it reminded her of living in the time of her ancestors—those on the Native American side of her family. Though it had modern comforts. Grandfather had rigged a generator deep into the mine so only a low hum made its way to the cave, and it gave her all the electricity she needed. She cooked on an old RV range that used propane. She had an old TV—no reception, but she had stacks of DVDs, a table, two chairs, a recliner and in the back room was a wardrobe, a dresser with a mirror and a bed.

  Life was good.

  Anything was better than the JRC at Miramar.

  And I don’t need to be a hero. Been there, done that and was paid in misery. I am to flipping the Army the bird and moving on.

  She opened the cupboard and pulled out a can of chili. Cranking the can opener, she sighed. Life was lonely, too. But that’s how Henri wanted it. She’d had enough of COs barking orders—of sleepless nights in some Afghanistan hellhole. She’d had enough of jail cells and enforced daily routines.

  She lit the burner and dumped the contents of the can into a pot.

  Her mine may only yield a bit of dust, but it was hers. No one told her what to do and no one ever bothered her—Mike Rose being the exception. But he’d go back to Scotland soon enough.

  After stirring the chili, she moved to the picture of Grandfather on the wall and reverently brushed her finger along the bottom of the frame. “Your spirit is still here. It lives in these walls. And you were the only person who ever cared.”

  Henri’s shoulders tensed while she returned to the stove. What if she could chase after the asshole who’d set her up?

  She raised the spoon to her lips and tasted while her mind churned with the possibilities and all the ways she’d dreamed of hunting him down. To nail Omar Fadli would be sweet revenge. Fadli was the assassin—the schmuck who’d pinned Henri with the hit on the Iranian ambassador. He’d come to Washington DC just to frame her because she’d provided cover for a regiment of Delta Force black ops and one of her bullets had killed Fadli’s brother—a terrorist who Henri stopped from throwing a grenade that could have taken out the entire squadron.

  The chili started to boil.

  No, she wouldn’t think twice about revenge if she was the only person whose life he’d ruined. But the guy was a mass murderer. Al-Umari’s right-hand man, Fadli was the muscle behind the terrorist executions that plagued the Middle East and beyond.

  Was she bitter about doing time? Was she slighted because no one, not even her CO believed in her innocence? Hell yeah. But Henri would pay the price again if it meant saving the lives of the soldiers in her unit. Fadli was upset because she’d stopped his brother from killing dozens of peacekeeping American soldiers? Those men were her brothers—the force had been more like a family to Henri than anything. And Fadli deprived her of it.

  ***

  Sitting on the bed in his hotel room with an open bag of Cheetos, Mike reviewed Henri’s file. He’d told Garth he’d have the lass on the plane in three days and the boss had wagered it would take at least a week, maybe two. Stretching the odds, Mike had held out his hand and they’d shaken on it. He’d have Henrietta Anderson in Iceland in a fortnight or he’d be the one paying up.

  Not that Mike needed a hundred quid. He just couldn’t stand to lose.

  The boss was right. There were a few things in Mike’s arsenal that Anders Lindgren didn’t possess. First of all, Anders had a good-sized paunch and was about sixty. A twenty-nine-year-old woman who was fit enough to be a Delta Force sniper wouldn’t be attracted to the Icelander, but at thirty-five and fighting fit, Garth insisted Mike would be more convincing. He hadn’t argued. Usually he was fairly lucky where the ladies were concerned, though not lately.

  The last bird had flown the coop after he’d departed Scotland for an op in Syria. Before that, he’d been on leave for a month and really thought Sabrina might be the right one for him—she was smart and had a fantastic career as an investment banker. It didn’t hurt that she had a b
ody like a diva, either. She traveled a lot, which was another boon. At least he’d thought it was a boon. He’d thought a lot of things. Most of all, for the first time in his life, he thought he might have met a woman compatible enough to put a ring on her finger.

  But he’d been wrong.

  Sabrina’s traveling led her into the arms of a Spanish billionaire. She’d been two-timing for months before Mike found out. Hell, the hole she ripped in his heart still burned.

  Good riddance. He popped a handful of Cheetos in his mouth—not that a hardened spy like Rose needed comfort food, but they sure tasted good.

  Maybe Mike just wasn’t the marrying type. Sure, every time he was on leave he found women who were fantastic—beautiful birds who would have done anything for him, yet not one of his countless relationships had panned out.

  Truth be told, it was about time he faced the fact that he was married to the job. He operated in a sphere of high-speed and dangerous ops. The rush fed him, made him feel alive. He couldn’t ask a woman to sit around and wait while he risked his neck in every country that ended in “stan”.

  Bye, sweetheart, I’m going into Kazakhstan to track down a load of missing uranium. I’ll be off the grid. See ya in three to six months.

  Tipping up the Cheetos bag, he poured the rest into his mouth.

  God help him, he needed to convince Anderson to give ICE a go so he could return to risking his neck—immerse himself body and soul in the next incredibly dangerous op. He liked pushing it to the edge. The riskier the mission, the sweeter the rush.

  Once the bag was empty, he shifted his focus back to the file on his lap.

  At the mine, he hadn’t seen anything of Henrietta Anderson aside from the muzzle of her .300 caliber Winchester Magnum sniper rifle. It was the perfect choice for a woman, only fourteen pounds and as accurate as a laser.

  But guns aside, Mike had seen enough pictures of Henri to know she was bonny. The woman was five-ten and all legs. She wore her hair tied back in a braid in most of the photos, but it was so long it touched her well-formed arse. She had exquisitely chiseled features and an intelligent arc to her brow. And reading her file, she had what it took to make a good spy. About one in 100,000 had the moxie to be an asset and, according to her dossier, Henri was a rare find. If Mike could convince her to join ICE. She’d been on multiple tours with the 3rd Delta Force Detachment and her file was chock full of heroism. Mike would relish having a soldier like Henri Anderson watching his back any day. She’d even earned the Medal of Honor, receiving a gunshot wound to the calf in the process. The hit had gone in her file as a graze because after an injection of penicillin and field dressing, she was back in action.