by Rie Warren
Walker leaned forward, about to lay on another little bit of intimidation, when suddenly the music started up with a classic wedding march, and he snapped to attention.
Jade and her dad appeared at the end of the long aisle, and I glanced over at Walker. His mouth moved but nothing came out, for a change, and his eyes never deviated from Jade.
Couldn’t blame him. The Special War Ministries specialist was nothing short of a stunner. Jade, with the jade green eyes from her mixed heritage. The long black hair streaked with a rich wine color was somehow piled on top of her head in that way some women had—sexy and sophisticated.
The dress was a head-turner. Straight up. White and lace with tight long sleeves, an even tighter top that was cut in a narrow V to her midsection.
Aaand here I was sounding like fashion guru from a friggin’ bridal magazine. I was in danger of having my man-card confiscated.
I looked away from Jade. And the dress. The legs and the cleavage. Walker probably wouldn’t appreciate us drooling all over his woman on their wedding day. Or any other day, for that matter.
I focused on Pops Huntington. He was a tall lean dude, and I knew from having met the investment banker at the rehearsal dinner, he was completely upper crust English, all on the up and up.
Justice may have done a little online research into Jade’s folks.
What?
In our line of work, we could never be too careful.
Not when Walker’s mission—that had included kidnapping both his soon-to-be-wifey and the suspected terrorist Majedah Chehab—had been undermined on three separate occasions.
For now Baby Spy was still our best bet at having sabotaged his op.
We did not tell Walker we’d investigated his intended’s family.
Some things a man just did not need to know.
“Holy shit,” Walker whispered as Jade drew closer.
I expected him to rub his eyes and blink a few times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Instead he didn’t blink at all while he smoothed his palm across his chest, a lopsided grin forming on his lips.
Then he swung his head toward the vicar. “Shit. Sorry ’bout the cursing again, man.”
Justice chuckled. Bane rumbled a low laugh. I guffawed.
This fucking guy.
“I’ll chalk it up to wedding jitters, Wakiza.” The religious dude smiled.
“Hey, you can call me Walker. All my friends do.” He patted the white-robed man on the shoulder.
But that was the end of his joking around. He seemed to get choked up when Jade stilled right in front of him. I watched him swallow a couple times.
He and Jade had been through hell. And back. Then they’d done a return visit, and that time Jade almost hadn’t made it out alive.
The only reason she’d survived the torture in Beirut had been because of Bane’s hard work reviving her.
“Jade.” Walker’s nostrils flared, and he held out both hands for her.
Emotion made his eyes shiny.
Jade’s damp irises reflected the same, and her smile was . . . serene.
Mr. Huntington released his daughter after a kiss on her cheek and a nod to Walker.
Shit. I almost had to knuckle under my eyes, too.
With Jade’s face raised to his and her hands enfolded in his palms, Walker turned to the vicar.
The ceremony had to affect everyone present, even if they didn’t know the full details of what Walker and Jade had lived through in order to come out alive and together.
The vicar’s head shined in the atmospheric light of the cathedral when he dipped it in Walker’s direction. “Walker, before we begin, you have something you’d like to say to Jade?”
Clearing his throat, Walker peered into Jade’s eyes. “There aren’t many words I can use to tell you all the ways you mean everything to me. But I’ll try.”
Walker kept hold of Jade’s hand, and brought it to his lips for a brush of a kiss.
His voice rang out, deep and clear. “Waohola. Waunsila. Wowicake.”
Jade’s eyelashes fluttered down, and her mouth trembled.
“Wawokiye. Wahwala. Woksape.” Folding her hand against his chest, Walker kissed her softly on the lips. “Respect. Compassion. Honesty.”
She smiled, and a tear slid down her cheek.
“Generosity, humility, wisdom.”
Jade raised her fingers to her cheeks to wipe away the moisture, but Walker got there first.
He swept away the tears, quietly whispering, “You are everything to me, mahasani.”
“That was beautiful, Walker.” She sighed softly.
He cradled her face in his hand. “You are beautiful.”
The vicar gave them a few moments to compose themselves before he began the more formal ceremony. I wanted him to hurry it the hell up. I was in danger of looking like a teary-eyed pussy watching the two in-love operatives say their I dos.
“Do you, Jade Philomena Huntington—”
Walker made a sour face, mouthing, “Philomena?”
“My dad picked it,” Jade said.
Justice quietly mentioned, “Least it’s not Matilda, although now I think my old lady’s old lady name is kind of sexy.”
“Well, Daddyo is not choosing the names of our kids.” One of Walker’s eyebrows rose in challenge.
Jade’s head coiled back. “I suppose you want to name them Sunshine and Dandelion.”
“Nothing wrong with honoring nature.”
Both of them started to grin. Then they were laughing under their breaths.
Aaaand I probably wasn’t in danger of crying like a baby anymore.
The vicar cleared his throat. Witnesses filling the medieval nave of the church watched, waiting.
Walker and Jade’s smiles only grew wider as they completed their vows.
When the ceremony was over, the rings exchanged, when they’d been dubbed husband and wife, Walker let out what I could only describe as a war cry.
He might’ve scared a few folks.
Good thing no one was armed. As per orders from Blaize.
Then Walker dipped Jade over his arm and kissed her until it became clear he had every intention of getting down to newlywed nookie ASAP.
Jade came up for a breath with her hair mussed, her eyes sparkly, her voice low. “Thank you, Walker.”
“Mahasani. I love you,” he whispered back.
During the final formalities, the two of them only had eyes for each other. In fact, after signing the official papers, they took off at a run down the aisle. They barely stood still on the steps outside long enough to accept hugs, handshakes, and congratulations.
They’d both agreed on absolutely no official wedding photos.
That shit could get leaked to all the wrong agencies, not to mention the possibility of a feeding frenzy on social media sites not a single one of us belonged to.
Walker lifted the keys to the Jaguar from Bane, squeezing his shoulder. “Thanks for the wheels, Kemosabe.”
And then the wedded pair fled the scene like it was a deep cover mission gone wrong.
Those two were speeding off to grab them some newly married sex. There was no doubt in my mind.
“I think our work here is done.” I clapped my hands together.
“Newlyweds.” Bane looked disgusted, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
The imminent sign of a smile. That was about as close as he ever got.
“What say we head to the reception and tear it up?” Justice looped an arm around Tilly’s shoulder. He looked at Bane and me, shaking his head. “Dateless schmucks.”
“You got a ride? Because Walker just stole ours.” I squinted at Justice.
He pulled a set of keys from his pocket.
“I’m driving.” Snatching the fob, I set off in the direction Justice pointed out.
“Wrestle you for it.” Bane matched my step.
“Fuck you. I’m not riding shotgun while you pretend you’re on set in a Bond movie again.”
<
br /> “Bourne Identity. Not Bond,” he shot back.
The four of us piled into the Range Rover, and I tilted the rearview to peer at Justice. “How’d you secure this vehicle?”
“I fucking rented it, legit-like.”
I started the SUV’s engine. “In that case, no getting it on in the backseat.” Tilly and Justice were already latched together in a lip-lock back there. “For fuck’s sake. Leather stains. You wanna pay the cleaning fee?”
Justice carried on making out with his woman, pausing long enough to give me the one-fingered salute.
“When can we take off the motherfuckin’ monkey suits?” Bane rolled down his window then lit a smoke.
I tapped the filter of my cigarette on the dash before placing it in my mouth and lighting up. I clamped it between my teeth. “When can we arm up is what I wanna know.”
Tilly pulled away from Justice to lean over the front seat. “Have I told you guys how much I’ve missed you?”
****
SITREP: Reception. 1700 hours. No tangos in sight.
Although . . . Majedah Chehab—affectionately known as Madge in our circles—was present. Walker and Jade had looked surprised as shit when the Middle Eastern dignitary/royalty/former #1 Interpol threat had showed with the full complement of her personal security detail.
Then they’d smothered her with hugs.
After which Walker was heard murmuring, “Not for nothing, Madge, but I’m not sure I feel safe around you. Not after what happened last time you, Jade, and I were in the same room.”
“Not to mention the same country.” I, too, gave Madge a bone-crusher of a hug.
“City.” Bane gave her a handshake and a quick grin.
“Don’t forget my fucking warehouse.” Justice looked meaningfully at the trio, who didn’t seem to care they’d compromised his digs.
“So, Madge”—Walker pulled her along with him and Jade—“you get us a fancy wedding present? ’Cause that Bentley is decommissioned . . .”
Also in evidence were the rugged ex-specialist from T-Zone—Hunter—and his wife Walker curiously referred to as JB. Curious until Justice informed me the chestnut-haired beauty’s nickname stood for Jailbait. Pretty funny Hunter, now a South Carolina police lieutenant on the Vice Squad, had hooked up with Jailbait. ’Course, she was totally of age, a teacher, a biker babe, and pregnant for the first time.
Turned out their wedding gift to Walker was he was finally going to be a godfather.
I wasn’t so sure that was a good idea. I mean, what the hell was he gonna teach the kid? How to wire explosives?
“Okay, hawkeye. You can stop casing the joint now.” Walker slid a glass into my hand.
I drank a deep slug of the whisky. “Just taking the usual precautions.”
This shindig did not in any way resemble the Louisiana fais do-do I’d nearly forgotten. Fiddles and banjoes and gumbo and high-octane drinks on tap. This swank party was all champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres and top-shelf alcohol.
“You know what?” Walker raised his glass. “You need to start getting laid on the regular.”
“Probably your final chance before your upcoming op.” Justice cruised up, adding his unwelcome advice.
“Beg to differ. There’ll be plenty of cherries to pick off and fuck hard at the MC. Always are.” I swirled the liquid coating the bottom of my glass.
“With Blaize watching your every move?” Bane had wandered over.
With his trigger finger pointing, Justice said, “Fuck that. There are plenty of English roses right here. Bet most of ’em would drop their panties the second you broke out your southern drawl.”
Granted, Justice had a huge track record scoring chicks—in the wrong place at the wrong time, before he’d been reformed AKA married—but I had no probs getting any woman I wanted into my bed either.
I scanned the scene. He was right. There were plenty of babes I could easily take to my hotel room and screw until their voices turned hoarse from screaming my name, begging for more of my cock. Two women? Three? Four? Yeah. I’d done that. Hadn’t even given those honeys a second thought. I took them. Made them come. Fucking loved making them come. On my mouth, my fingers, my hand, my cock, over and over. But. But . . .
The only woman I wanted in my bed now was Blaize Carmichael. She was one hell of a firecracker. Talented. Respected in our business. Experienced in the field. Fully operational. Fully fucking hot.
Cornflower blue eyes. Luscious blowjob lips. Fiery red hair. And the fact she could control Walker, Justice, Bane, and me?
She was a goddamn miracle worker with a side of suck-my-cock.
I kept it totally professional with Blaize. Tried to. She was the boss lady. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t invaded my dreams, corrupted my easy-fuck lifestyle, reduced me to a stuttering, simpleminded fool.
“I don’t envy you. This is one of the best days of my life.” Walker picked Jade out in the crowd, and he was absolutely riveted to her. “Yeah. I’m gonna get her knocked up so I can keep her out of the field. Be nice to have a woman waiting at home for me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Pretty sure Jade won’t get knocked up until she wants to be.”
“Tilly and me are thinking about it.” Justice puffed up like the cock of the walk.
“I can’t stand these two anymore,” Bane muttered. “With all the happy. Fuck.”
“Copy that,” I said. “Too bad we can’t stand each other either.”
“Rog that.” Bane knocked his fist to mine.
Maybe it was time to let bygones be . . .
Yeah.
Screw that.
Still had a bullet with Bane’s name on it and a scar to prove it.
Walker managed to redirect his attention from his missus to us. “No Blaize at my wedding.” He complained.
“That’s because she’s probably getting geared up for her mission with Storm. And I’m more popular.” Justice bragged.
I would’ve popped him in the ribs, but Walker got there first.
“With a chastity belt strapped to her.” Bane colluded.
Cunt.
All the guys joked about Blaize and me. The bastards even put bets on that shit. They also knew it to be true.
I wanted the woman with an intensity I couldn’t shake.
And in less than twelve hours I was headed back stateside.
For a mission with her.
Alone.
Chapter Three
Gonna Get Nada Pussy in NOLA
SITREP: EN ROUTE TO Louis Armstrong Airport. Commercial flight. Complete and utter bullshit.
First class. Fuckin’ A. I didn’t fly first class. I flew the frickin’ birds and choppers used to transport my team and me to every single stateside or far-off international hot zone. For a man made of nerves of steel, I was feeling a little bit jumpy. I wanted to be in the cockpit. Not helping matters was Mizz Blaize Cahmichael who sat right next to me, making my cock hard.
And she was wearing some kind of classy sexy perfume that sent my senses into overdrive with its floral spicy scent.
I glanced at her quickly.
That deep red hair was pulled back in a strict bun. She dressed in her regulation uniform of body-skimming suit hugging all her curves.
She sighed and rolled her neck.
I pushed my shoulder closer to the window, contemplating snapping the blind up and down to expel some energy.
I tried not to encroach into Blaize’s space, but first class or not, there was no goddamn room for me to spread my thighs, and my shoulders were folded in tight. I wasn’t stupid enough to pull an arm stretch, shoulder hug, canoodle move on Blaize, although I was tempted.
So very tempted.
At least if I’d had my Sigs, I could waste the spare time cleaning the pair of P226s. But no. Since we couldn’t come right out and state who we were—because we didn’t really exist on record—no guns allowed on board the flight. Another reason to be irritated.
With a low curse I pulled
out my phone.
I skimmed through the photos on the camera roll, studying the key players of one of the most infamous outlaw motorcycle gangs in the United States. Running guns and smuggling coke. The American Dream. A side of murder by the dozens, full-blown street fights, and a prostitution ring just for shits and giggles.
The CIA hadn’t been able to nail the Blood Legion MC. The ATF had ended up looking like chumps with their limp dicks in their hands, the cockless wonders.
This mission was a last ditch effort to bring the Legion to their knees. Bring ’em down. Lock ’em up. Wipe them off the face of the one-percenter map.
I looked at the photos on my phone for one last trip down bad memory lane before I swiped the files. This was a new cell. I didn’t even have Justice, Walker, or Bane in my contacts. During this deep cover mission, Blaize and I would maintain almost complete radio silence with T-Z.
Burn. Could’ve been so-called because of the road rash creating a grisly terrain up one whole side of his face, making him look like a third degree burn victim. But that wasn’t the case at all. His roadname was Burn because he liked to torch his victims. Burn them alive. We all joked about Walker and his bad plastics habit, but he was nothing like Burn. The man was a straight-up sadist.
And he was just the road captain.
Kouto was the Legion sergeant at arms, his name meaning knife in Creole. With skin as black as rich soil and an even blacker heart, he preferred blade work to make his kills—and sometimes Voudou. He handed out the kill orders and kept the ranks in line.
The MC treasurer? A fucking dude named Angel. Ridiculous roadname, except it was actually his real name. Blond. Handsome. Pure looking, and he had no rapsheet whatsoever we’d been able to discover. Blaize didn’t think that meant the kid was an innocent.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. The Blood Legion was made up of hardened road warriors, mindless murderers, conscienceless killers. Angel was twenty-two years old. Too young to be an officer in this bloodthirsty band of badasses, but this was the only legacy his dad, the legendary founder of Blood Legion, had left him.
Then there was Venom—pure poison. At least the cunt was appropriately dubbed. He was president. He’d maintained his three and a half year reign at the head of the gang by outsmarting every club coup, outsider takeover attempt, by evading John E. Law—or by bribing and buying off the authorities. He was the brains. Business savvy except when he was busy shoveling blow up his nose. Or maybe the coke was what gave him the edge.
