Love and Wargames: A Bad Boy Hacker Romance

by Kiss, Tabatha

  The man pauses and his arms slowly rise in surrender. He’s much too tall to be Elijah Hart and he’s dressed very differently in a bold leather jacket and black jeans.

  “Turn around,” I tell him.

  He obeys and shifts to face me while I ease forward to get a better look at him. He’s clean-shaven with trimmed, blond hair and bright, blue eyes like he’s out of a goddamn fairy tale or something. As I step closer, he sighs and drops his hands.

  I twitch. “Hey— put them back up—”

  “I’m not here for you, mate,” he says, his voice sharp with a thick, English accent. “You can drop your piece.”

  I keep it pointed at him and he rolls his eyes. “Who are you?” I ask.

  He turns and gazes around the room again with quick experience. “What happened here?”

  “I said, who are you?”

  “Nevermind,” he says. “I’ll figure it out myself—” I pull back the hammer with my thumb and a laugh spills off his lips. “Mr. Carson — please. Don’t embarrass yourself here.”

  “How do you know who I am?”

  “Because I’ve been tracking the same pair that’s been tracking you across the country,” he says. He holds his hand parallel to the floor and slowly brings it down with his words. “Lower the gun and we’ll talk.”

  I let my arm fall to my side but I keep my finger hugged around the trigger. “You’re after the Harts?”

  “I’m after a Hart,” he says. “Fellow by the name of Dante.”

  I recall the name. Lilah and Elijah’s big brother. “Why?”

  “Because my client is offering a lot of money if I bring him in alive.”

  I pause, glancing the man up and down. “You’re a bounty hunter?”

  “In layman’s terms, yes,” he says. He steps closer to the counter and extends his hand out to me, flashing a quick, polite smile as he moves. “My name’s Archer Allen.”

  My trigger finger relaxes as I shift the gun into my left and reach out to shake his hand. “Boxcar,” I say.

  He nods as if he already knows that and steps back to glance around the shop. “What happened here?” he asks again.

  My tongue weighs heavy in my mouth. There’s no way for me to verify anything this guy says right now but I don’t have time to mess around. “The twins broke in and kidnapped the owner.”

  Archer looks at me with a wrinkled nose. “What would they want with him?”

  “She knows where they can find their target.”

  “I thought you were their target.”

  “No, they’re looking for a friend of mine.”

  “Who?”

  I shut my mouth. I’ve already told this guy as much as I’m comfortable with. There’s no way I’m name-dropping Fox Fitzpatrick right now. “A friend.”

  He shrugs. “And how do you fit into all this rubbish?”

  “I’m her husband.”

  “Ah.” He gives his smooth chin a quick scratch and walks away from the counter, glass crunching beneath the heel of his boot. His eyes scan the floor around him, following the chaos as it bleeds along the aisles. “So, the Harts show up looking for you and snatch up your wife instead, is that right?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And she knows where they can find this, uh… friend of yours?”

  I slowly move out from behind the counter, keeping on my toes as I watch him for quick, sudden movements. “Yeah.”

  “That’s a pickle, mate,” he says. “I don’t envy you right now.”

  “Thanks…”

  “Did they leave any evidence? Anything that’ll tell me where they went?”

  I stare back at him as my mind twirls with fresh information and surging adrenaline. “No,” I answer. “Not that I’ve seen yet…”

  “Hrm…” He fishes into his jacket for his phone. “Well, maybe little Lily has used Granny’s card again…”

  I step closer. “What?” He pauses, falling silent as he regards me with apprehension. “Hey — you said we’d talk. I answered your questions.”

  “Mostly.”

  I give him a little space, drifting backward towards the busted counter again. “Who hired you to find Dante Hart?”

  He smiles for a split second before exhaling a short, defeated breath and dropping his phone back into his jacket pocket. “Antony Zappia.”

  I search my memory for the name, quickly landing on that night in Denver with Fox. Sipping beers, telling tales of time gone by. “The mob family?”

  His eyes shine with surprise. “You know ‘em?”

  “I’ve heard a few stories.”

  “Well, big brother Dante up and pissed them off,” he continues. “About half a year back, Zappia hired him as his own personal hitman completely unaware that the man was an undercover Snake Eyes agent.”

  “Why was he undercover?”

  “Didn’t ask, don’t care,” he says. “The family found out about Snake Eyes along with the rest of the world a few weeks back and Dante put a bullet in Antony’s son’s face on his way out of town.” He waves his palms along his cheek. “Fucked the boy up real good.”

  “So, Zappia’s looking to track down Dante. Why are you going after the twins instead?”

  “Because Dante disappeared into thin air but his little brother and sister have not.”

  “You catch them, you draw him out?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Sounds like a decent enough plan — assuming he gives a shit about his baby siblings.”

  “He does.” Archer shifts on his feet, changing direction towards the back of the shop. “And if I can find a clue for where they buggered off to, I can get on with it. Is there security footage?”

  “Yeah,” I answer. He takes another step towards the office. “Wait…” I hold up a hand. I’m constantly full of bad ideas but again — I don’t have time to wonder whether or not this one will come back to bite me in the ass. “We can help each other.”

  “Sorry, buddy,” he says, grinning. “I work alone.”

  “And as a perpetually single married man, I can respect that — but you’re not going to catch the Harts all by yourself.”

  “I only need to catch one.”

  “Then even your odds,” I urge. “Help me get my wife back and I’ll help you track them down.”

  His eyes bounce from my head to my toes and I cringe inside. I know exactly what’s going through his head right now because they’re the same thoughts the other soldiers in Fox and Caleb’s unit used to have years ago. Who is this chump? What use is he? Ditch him. He’s dead weight.

  Finally, Archer takes another step closer, rolling his fingers into hard fists. “Get out of my way,” he says, his voice a deep growl.

  I slide back, easing myself between him and the office door. “I can tell you where Dante is,” I say, drawing a twitch from his brow. “Their childhood home. They tried to wipe out any record of it — but they missed one. Odds are, that’s where you’ll find him.”

  Archer darts closer. “Where?”

  “You help me get my wife back and I’ll tell you.”

  “Or…” He reaches out with quick hands and grabs my jacket with a tight grip, raising me an inch or two off the floor. “Or I could beat the hell out of you until you tell me.”

  “For anything else that would probably be enough,” I admit, keeping his wild eyes centered, “but when it comes to this woman, rest assured that I will fuck you up.” I hold a hard, steady tone. “The Harts for my wife. That’s the deal.”

  “All right,” he says with amusement. “Calm down, Sparky. You have my attention.” He loosens his flexed hands and lets go of me before taking a step back and reaching out to straighten my jacket down. “May I please see the security footage?”

  I step to the side. “Knock yourself out.”

  He passes around me into the office and I reach into my messenger bag for my laptop. I officially have about sixty seconds to find out if this guy is who he says he is.

  My ears perk, l
istening carefully to his every move behind the wall as I bring up the database and my fingers silently type his name into the search bar.

  The program comes to life and I run a quick search through the Snake Eyes master file just in case. Thankfully, his name is nowhere on it — but then again, neither is Fox’s.

  “Bloody hell—!”

  I flinch and lower the laptop screen halfway. “What?”

  “That’s your wife?”

  My soul swells with pride. “Yes, it is.”

  Archer’s head peeks around the door frame and he offers a slow nod of approval. “Not bad, mate.”

  “Thank you.”

  He slides back into the office and I hear the gentle whirling sound of the tape rewinding. I don’t blame him. I’d watch Caleb whack that bitch in the face over and over again if I weren’t too scared of her dying at any moment.

  I tilt the laptop screen up again and watch the progress bar reach its end.

  Archer Allen. Bounty hunter.

  A damn good one, too.

  Born in London. Former MI-6 agent. Dismissed from duty about five years ago and those records are sealed.

  For the most part, he’s legit with the small exception of him being in the country on an expired visa.

  I close the program as his feet come tapping back into the shop. He passes around the counter and his blue eyes scan the floors and walls for clues. “See anything?” I ask him.

  His head tilts with disappointment. “Nothing on the monitor,” he says. “Not that I’d know if I did. The bloody thing is a hundred years old.”

  I scoff with amusement. “Yeah, I’m going to fix that.”

  “Is that what you do?” he asks. “Install security systems…?”

  “Not exactly.” I watch as he pulls his phone out again. “What was that about granny’s card?”

  Archer swipes it on. “Lilah’s got a credit card open in her dead grandmother’s name,” he explains.

  “That’s not very smart.”

  “She used it to gas up their bikes in Denver last week,” he continues, “I followed the trail from there to Miami to Iowa to Boston and now here.”

  “The Harts went to Iowa?” I ask, my chest skipping.

  He nods with confusion. “Can’t say why. I tracked them to an old farmhouse and all I found was a very old lady with a nasty case of dementia and a real bastard of a dog. I pissed off, thinking I must have missed something when Lilah used the card again outside of Indianapolis.”

  I smile inside. Mrs. Clark must have picked up a few acting skills from Dani. At least I get to confirm to Fox that his friend is still safe and loyal. “Wait — you said they had bikes?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “They had a car on the security footage.”

  “Must be a rental,” he says, throwing his focus back at his phone.

  “Or they stole it,” I point out.

  “I prefer a bit of optimism,” he quips. A few seconds pass and he grits his teeth. “But still no recent charges...”

  I spin back towards my laptop. “They drove off in a black sedan. I can check to see if any have been reported stolen in the last twelve hours.”

  Archer chuckles. “Right — lets run a search for the most common type of stolen car. That’s sure to narrow it down.”

  “If you have another suggestion, I’m all ears.” I start my search and he says nothing to argue. It annoys me not knowing where to look. Information and intelligence have always been on my side but right now, I feel absolutely hopeless. Caleb is gone. I have no idea where they’ve taken her and I have no clue where to look. Granny’s credit card aside — the Harts are ridiculously smart. They won’t peek their heads out until they want to be found and by the time that happens, it’ll be too late to stop whatever it is they plan on doing to her.

  My search leads to yet another dead end. “There have been three reported stolen in Los Angeles today: two were found shortly after and the other was a false alarm.”

  Archer sighs. “I guess we wait for them to slip up—”

  “I don’t have time to wait until they slip up,” I spit. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. “And did it ever occur to you that they’re using that card on purpose?”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “You’re dealing with two world class assassins and you think you’ve outsmarted them by tracking their dead grandmother’s credit card?” I shake my head. “Think about it, Archer. Who’s chasing who here? They’re leaving breadcrumbs and it isn’t to feed the birds.” I finally reach into my pocket, angry at the persistent vibration against my thigh.

  “You think they’re leaving a trail? Why?” he asks.

  I open my mouth to speak but fall silent as I see Caleb’s name staring back at me from my phone. “It’s her…” I mutter.

  Archer steps closer, cracking a bit more glass beneath his feet. “Who?”

  I answer it and tap on the speakerphone. “Caleb, where are you?”

  There’s no reply, just the gentle humming of voices in the background and the dull scratch of the phone’s microphone brushing against fabric.

  “Caleb?”

  “It’s just a butt-dial, mate.”

  I shake my head, smiling wide. A little bit of weight slides off my shoulders. Caleb Fawn, you beautiful bitch. “No… she did this on purpose.” I lay the phone down next to my laptop and keep an ear on it. The voices are obviously Lilah and Elijah but I can’t make out what they’re saying.

  Archer moves around the counter to peek over my shoulder. “Why?”

  “Because she knows me,” I chuckle. With a few fast clicks, I tap into the call and a map of Los Angeles pops up on the screen. Several seconds pass before it zooms in on the west side. “They’re on Santa Monica boulevard — heading towards the pier.”

  Archer leans in closer. “Shit… I hate Santa Monica.”

  “Me, too,” I mutter. “As long as she keeps the call open, I can track them. I’ll bring up the street cameras — should be able to snatch a picture of the license plate. Once I have that, this program will track the car using every security camera in the city in real-time, giving us a handy map of where they’re going and where they’ve been.”

  He tilts his head at me. “Who the hell are you?”

  I smile. “I’m Boxcar.”

  “And where they hell did you learn to do this shit, Boxcar?”

  I chew on my cheek as memories take hold of me. “Afghanistan.” I spin away from the counter and step towards the back room as Archer follows me inside.

  “Hold on,” he says. “You were in Afghanistan?”

  “Yes.” I turn back to catch the look on his face. Predictably, his jaw drops as his eyes drink in the stunning array of assault weaponry and gadgets. “Civilian, though. I’m not military — but she was.”

  Archer leans against the doorway. His face curls into a wicked smile, once again thoroughly impressed with my choice of spouse. “They don’t make birds like that back home.”

  “There’s never been a bird quite like Caleb Fawn,” I say, reaching for an M16 attached to the wall. I scan the shelves below it for ammo.

  “What’s your plan, mate?” he asks. “You just going to load up, drive on over there, and what?”

  “Get my wife back.”

  “Right… but these are world class assassins, as you pointed out. What makes you think a little run and gun isn’t going to make them pop a bullet in her brain before you even get close?”

  Adrenaline spikes inside of me but I bring it back down with a deep breath. I don’t have the training to make something like this work without a solid plan. For starters, I’d need a sniper but Fox isn’t here and Archer looks more the brute force type.

  I lay the weapon back down on the shelf. “We have the upper hand right now and we have to keep it. The Harts don’t know I’ve tracked them and they probably don’t know about you either.”

  “Uh-huh…” Archer hums.

  I gesture around th
e room before walking out. “Grab what you need.”

  “Need for what?”

  “To catch a Hart.”

  “And then what?”

  I slide my laptop back into my messenger bag. “Then…” My brain twitches with yet another bad idea but the consequences of this going south aren’t nearly as horrible as the thought of losing Caleb... again. “We’re taking a trip to Hollywood.”

  Chapter 15

  Caleb

  Afghanistan

  Two Years Ago

  I stare down at the disassembled revolver pieces littered about on my cot. This is the third time I’ve cleaned my weapon this week but I don’t care. Mindless, menial tasks are just about the only thing keeping me sane right now.

  What the hell was I thinking in that jeep? Scratch that. I know exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking about how I could barely recall the last time I’d gotten any; about how I can’t stand the men around here but then in walks Boxcar — normal, smart, practically adorable in just about every way and just looking at his green eyes in the dark was enough to melt my damn panties right off.

  Fuck, he felt so good.

  But we can’t do this. It was a one-time thing. It’ll never happen again.

  Shit, I said the same thing after that kiss, didn’t I?

  I’ll just have to stay away from him between missions. Shouldn’t be too difficult, right?

  “Hey, Caleb.”

  Dammit.

  I jerk my head up. Boxcar stands at the foot of my cot with his arms crossed. I look away, scanning the empty tent, hoping that someone else will walk in here and interrupt whatever the hell he’s about to do. “Go away, please—”

  “Hey…” He holds up his hands. “I come in peace.”

  I keep my head down and tighten the third screw on the side plate to keep the cylinder in place. “What do you want, Carson?”

  “To talk.”

  “We have nothing to talk about.”

  “Just... hear me out,” he says. “Please?”

  I pause, inhaling a lungful of thick, humid, desert air. Still, I keep my head down and half of my focus stays on my weapon. “Fine.”

  “I know you’ve been avoiding me since the other night—”