by Amy Jarecki
Trevor raised his beer bottle. “This is the last round.”
“Good thing.” Mike lifted his beer to his mouth, but Natalie caught his wrist.
“I dare you to have a body shot,” she said, raising her eyebrows and giving him a suggestive bat of her eyelashes.
He gulped, his gaze shifting to her abs—pretty nice abs at that. But he wasn’t fooled. This was a bad idea on too many fronts. Though it almost killed him to turn down a dare, Mike shook his head. “Maybe some other time.”
“You got it bad for Henri. I knew it,” said Pam.
“Beg your pardon, but she’s an asset.” Mike gestured with his beer to make his point. “And I’m training her, mind you.”
Natalie rolled to her back. “Then you need this, luv. It’ll help you sleep.” She glanced down to his crotch and waggled her eyebrows. “Or not...”
The bloody team started in smacking the bar and shouting “chug, chug, chug.”
Mike hesitated while he guzzled his beer. He shot a glance toward the door. He couldn’t slip away now. Doing so would make him look like a coward.
And I’m no bloody chicken liver.
Pam swiped the lime along Natalie’s neck and sprinkled salt, then picked up the tequila. “Are you afraid, Scottie boy?”
“This Highlander isna afraid of anything.” He climbed onto the bar, straddling Natalie while Pam poured the poison.
Natalie gazed at him with half-cast eyes, looking like she wanted a lot more than a lick in the umbilicus. “Come get me, luv.”
“Bottom’s up.” Mike dove in, licked the salt off her neck and slurped the tequila from her stomach, then tried to sit back. Unfortunately, Natalie wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his face to her lips. He opened his mouth to object and she shoved her tongue inside, giving him a sloppy kiss and finishing it off with a snarky bite to his lip.
Dazed, Mike pushed himself up and rocked back on his haunches. “Didn’t see that coming.”
Pam slammed the tequila bottle on the bar. “Next time, instead of paintball, we should have a kissing contest—maybe we’d win.”
The music stopped.
Everyone looked.
Henri stood beside the silent, light-flashing jukebox looking like she was about to kill something—namely Mike.
Aaron pulled Natalie off the bar. “Come on, Ringo, I’ll walk you to your bunk.”
Ignoring her teammate, Natalie ran her hand down Mike’s thigh and gave his knee a pat. “They call me that on account of my Liverpool roots.” She blew him a kiss. “See you later, stud.” With a self-impressed snort, she sauntered out the door with the others, waving to Henri.
The problem?
The woman Mike had been dreaming about every night for the last few weeks stood akimbo, her arms crossed, her lips disappearing into a white line, and her eyes looking like they were about to shoot laser beams. Rather than give him an earful, she emitted a dissenting grunt, turned on her heel and headed for the door.
Hopping down, it took Mike three strides to stop her before she made it into the hallway. “Whoa there, lassie.”
She jerked her arm from his grasp. “Don’t call me that, you goddamned jerk.”
“It’s no’ what it looked like.”
“No? So you weren’t on the bar straddling a woman, doing body shots, then licking her tonsils.”
“You dunna understand.” He threw his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bar. “They dared me—and Natalie was shitfaced.”
“Oh, so you only take advantage of women if you’re on top of them in the sparing ring, or if they’re steaming drunk.”
Mike thrust his palms out to his sides. “I didna—”
“You did. I saw you.”
“No. Natalie grabbed me by the neck and kissed me.”
“And you kissed her back.”
Jesus, if only he could grab her by the shoulders and show her again what a real kiss was bloody like—if the angry Pocahontas didn’t knee him in the balls in the process. “What was I supposed to do, throw a fist?”
Henri looked to the ceiling and groaned. “What should I care?” she shouted. “You’re my trainer. And you’d better not kiss me with that filthy mouth again. Not. For. Fucking. Ever!”
Mike’s jaw dropped as he watched her disappear out the door. A chasm spread through his chest while he stared, silence roaring in his ears.
What the hell just happened?
And like she said, what should she care? They weren’t an item.
Maybe this misunderstanding was for the best. They hadn’t pledged their undying love. They’d shared a single kiss. A hot, bone-melting, passionate kiss that had set his balls on fire, but it had only been one. Anyway, he was leaving in the morning. God only knew when their paths would cross again.
He moved behind the bar and opened another beer. When that was gone, he drank another. Nothing helped. He’d still be a lout come morning, no matter how much alcohol he consumed. He popped one more top.
The thing that really bit was leaving in discord. It was like walking away from unfinished business. Quarrels always made the muscles between his shoulder blades tense and needle at the back of his mind for bloody months.
Damn it!
Chapter Ten
Henri spent the following two months focused on her training. Money had started going into her bank account and that was all she needed to care about. At least that’s what she tried to convince herself. However, not long after Mike disappeared, she’d learned that Natalie made a habit of imbibing in the sauce after a hard day’s training and the English chick didn’t appear to be discerning as to who she flirted with. If Henri had such intel under her belt at the time, she might have been more inclined to listen to Mr. Rose on what ended up being the last time she saw him.
Every time she replayed the incident in her mind’s eye, her gut clamped into a lead ball. If she’d known he was flying out before dawn the following morning, she mightn’t have been in such a hurry to leave him in the dust.
Henri’s shoulders sagged.
The Scot was all wrong for her anyway, even if hindsight had a way of making people wise. She’d turned her back on the man and he was gone. Since, Henri had thrown herself into training and Garth had invited her to sit in on operations management in the situation room, which was a daily rush. Jeez, she should have sidestepped the Army and joined the CIA. The sit room was like being in the middle of a ten-way virtual reality game, except everything was live and as real as it got. ICE had its talons sunk into every corner of the world. Even Washington.
But today, all the wall monitors in the sit room were displaying scenes from Lasbela, Pakistan. It was dark aside from an illuminated hotel sign in front of a rundown building. Infrared cameras focused on two sides of the hotel with a storefront down below. Above the ground floor, all the room windows had bars...and online the hotel was touted as three-stars.
I’d give it a half-star at best.
Henri had enough experience in the Middle East to know that inside the place had to be a wreck. The beds would be cots covered with frayed linens. The walls would be dingy and covered with holes. If they were lucky, the residents might have the luxury of a bathroom complete with a squatting toilet, comprised of a ceramic hole in the floor. Given the intel, she hoped they weren’t lucky. She hoped the place stank like a sewer.
“GoPros going live,” Mike’s voice announced from the spherical speaker sitting in the center of the teak conference table. A jolt of energy shot up the back of Henri’s neck. She knew Mike was in Pakistan, but all the intel they’d received recently had been from either Olivia Hamilton or Logan Rodgers. She had no idea the three had teamed up.
Before she spoke, she insured the mute light was illuminated on the speaker. “How many assets are going in?”
“Three. Rose, Rodgers and Hamilton,” said Garth, taking his usual seat at the head of the table and rubbing his hands. “There’s nothing like watching an op go down and these pros will make
you appreciate what it’s like to be in the middle of a shit storm.”
“With all due respect, sir, shit storms are what Deltas are made for, much like Marines.”
Garth gave her a wink. “I knew I’d like you, Anderson. Once you came around.” He picked up his screen highlighter pen and drew an orange circle on the map in front of him which was mirrored by monitor three that took up the entire north wall. Number three was always used for the hottest action, though there were ten enormous monitors lining the room. “Intel has it al-Umari is on the third floor.”
“Why is he staying in such a hellhole?” asked Henri. “He’s loaded.”
“It’s a smoke screen. Hell, bin Laden lived in a cave. You know that. You were there.” Garth pointed to the circle he’d drawn. “Our team is here, across the street from the Al-Khalid Hotel.”
More monitors lit up, showing the feed from the GoPros attached to each operative’s helmet.
“We’re locked and loaded, sir,” Olivia’s voice came over the intercom. “Sniper’s on the roof.”
Henri’s heart rate sped. She should be on the roof. She was the only person she knew who could keep Mike safe. “Who’s up there?”
“Stephan,” said Garth. “A German. Good but not as accurate as you.”
“No one is.” Dammit, why hadn’t Henri been told about this? She could have hopped on a flight to Pakistan yesterday.
Garth gave her a scowl and pushed the button to unmute the microphone. “Green light. Kick some ass!”
Henri gripped her leather armrests and leaned forward, looking at the GoPro feed from each of the three operatives. Not a word was said as they scurried single-file through a narrow passageway.
Someone opened a door for them.
Henri pushed the mute button. “Who’s that?”
“One of our insiders.”
“A local?”
“Yeah. Recruited by Hamilton. Damned brilliant how she got inside—an example for the classroom.”
But there was no time to ask more questions. The team darted up a flight of stairs without a sound. Henri’s gaze shot from one dim image to the next as she frantically tried to determine which picture was coming from Mike’s camera.
A hand went up in front of camera two.
All three stopped.
The hand pointed—it was a masculine hand.
Henri leaned forward, clamping her fingers tighter.
The asset with camera three traversed to the opposite side of the stairs. They were moving in a crisscross pattern, obviously setting up to pass through some kind of doorway or corner.
Camera three focused directly on the lead man.
Mike!
Henri’s heart flew to her throat and stuck there. Why did he have to take the lead? The leader was always the most likely to be shot.
“Breathe, Anderson,” Garth growled.
“I should have his back—I mean their backs.”
“Mm hmm.”
Mike darted into an open space. His camera sent back the image of an empty corridor. Camera two dashed for the next flight of stairs, followed by camera three. In a few seconds, all three of them had climbed up to the third floor. Henri had figured out that Logan was camera three and Olivia two.
This time, Mike crossed the stairwell to provide cover from the left while Olivia moved, M4 muzzle first into the corridor.
Something metallic flickered on camera one’s screen.
“Stop!” Mike’s urgent voice boomed in a strained whisper.
Eyes popping wide, Henri’s gaze flashed across the monitors.
WTF?
“Shit!” Olivia’s feed spun back to the men.
“What?” asked Logan.
“Trip wire,” said Mike, his cam focused on the thin string.
Henri gasped.
Olivia’s pant leg was brushing the wire.
“Back down,” said Logan.
“What if it goes off?” asked Olivia, her whisper crisp and urgent.
“It would have already blown.” Logan sounded awfully sure of himself.
Henri looked to Garth and asked, “What are the chances it’s motion sensitive?”
The CO’s eyes shifted her way. “I don’t like it.”
“I don’t either.” Henri’s mind raced. “What choices do they have?”
Garth flicked on the speaker. “Logan’s right.”
Logan moved down the flight of stairs then turned and focused his GoPro on Olivia. “Turn and dive. I’ll catch you.”
She nodded. “Count of three?”
“Three,” said Mike. “Two, one.”
A brilliant flash of light lit up all three screens followed by darkness.
“Report!” bellowed Garth.
Nothing came back, not even static.
Henri didn’t breathe while she and Garth stared at the dim and cloudy monitors. It was impossible to discern anything.
Mike’s finally showed movement—a hand swatting away dust.
Someone coughed.
“Report!” Garth boomed again.
“Lionheart here.” It was Mike.
“Cowboy crushed but not broken,” said Logan.
“A miniscule flash bang can’t take down the Duchess.” Olivia grunted. “But I have one hell of a sore arse...not to mention a bloody leg.”
Thank God, they’d all survived.
“Checking for enemy snoops.” Mike slowly ascended the stairs. After verifying the corridor was empty, he focused on the damage. “Looks like a crappy IED.”
Garth let out a quick breath. “It’s a good thing, otherwise I’d be down three assets.”
Mike’s camera nauseatingly moved back and forth. “The place looks deserted.”
“A trap?” asked Henri.
“Looks like it.” He moved down the corridor and opened one of the doors to an empty room. “There’s nobody up here.”
Henri glanced to the outside monitors. They all looked clear.
“God dammit,” Garth barked. “Get the hell out of there, now! They just might have a backup plan. Eyes, you see any spooks?”
“No, sir.” A different voice with a heavy German accent came through. The reply must have come from Stephan on the roof across the street.
“We’ll rendezvous when we get back to the Ponderosa. Roger and out,” said Logan.
“Keep your comms on and don’t be a damned hero. If you need support, ask for it. I’ve got a line on a few helos itching to fly in and save your butts.” Garth pushed the mute button.
“You think they’ll see more trouble?” Henri asked.
“Doubt it. Whoever set that IED wasn’t a pro—probably some lackwit they pulled off the street as an afterthought.”
When Mike’s monitor went black, Henri turned her attention to Garth. “So, Olivia’s lead didn’t pan out?”
“That’s their next problem. They’ll have to start from ground zero.” He slammed his fist on the table. “Damn. Six months of work down the shitter.”
The door to the sit room swung open. Asa strode inside with her laptop under her arm. With a thin line to her lips, she moved straight to Garth and opened the computer in front of him. “There’s just been a bank heist in Avignon.”
“Jesus Christ, can’t you see I’m in the middle of a crisis here?” Garth shoved his chair back and scowled. “What would I care about a heist in France?”
Asa shot an eye-roll to Henri. Letting out a deep breath, the ICE whiz-kid made a few clicks on her laptop and brought an image up on the enormous north-wall monitor. Blurry, it looked like three men dressed in ISIS black were running out of a bank. “You know I wouldn’t march in here without a reason, sir.” She grabbed the CO’s laser pointer and directed it at the guy carrying a briefcase. “See the tat?”
Garth drew a hand down his mouth. “Holy shit. In Avignon?”
Henri homed in on the tattoo. It was an insignia of the ISIS flag. “But that doesn’t make sense. Islam forbids body art.”
“Not when it’s a recr
uit,” said Garth. “There are plenty of tattooed rebels out there who’ve gone to the dark side.”
“Do you think it’s al-Umari?”
“I think he ordered the heist, at least.” Garth looked between the two women. “The bastard is everywhere.”
“The chatter says over million euros in uncut diamonds and precious stones were stolen.”
“That ought to keep the bastards in guns and ammo for a while.” Garth thrust his finger at Henri. “Anderson. I need someone in Avignon ASAP. It’s a fact-finding mission. Meet with the banker, do some digging with the locals. Find out if this is ISIS or wannabes. I’m not throwing ICE assets at this until I know for sure that Fahd al-Umari and his radicals are behind it.”
Chapter Eleven
After landing at Avignon Provence Aéroport, Henri rented a car and drove straight through the medieval fortress walls of the city. She’d been on a half-dozen tours of duty overseas, but had never seen roads as narrow as in France. At least they were paved, albeit with cobblestones and definitely were not built for cars. She parked in a miniscule spot several blocks away from the Banque Palatine. One of the perks about being an ICE asset was the IDs. She’d been issued with several, some of which were in a safe deposit box set up for her in Reykjavik. For this trip she was using an American passport in the name of Samantha Smith and it had been accompanied by an Interpol badge.
Her stomach erupted with a case of butterflies as she stepped out of the car and straightened the jacket of her black pantsuit. It had been awhile since she’d dressed up—just about two-and-a-half years and now she’d swapped out her Army uniform for the suit of a spy. Henri might be ready to fly solo with an op but, for some unknown reason, nerves decided to hit. Maybe because she was a tell-it-like-it-is gal and now she needed to walk into the bank pretending to be someone else.
Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and proceeded to walk through the narrow lane. The bank was situated behind a cement wall in the narrowest road Henri had seen yet. Why anyone would try to stage a heist there was insane...though that’s what everyone else must have thought as well, which could be why the thieves had been successful.
