No Surrender: The Devlin Group, Book 3

by Shannon Stacey

  Seconds later he settled himself between her thighs and she lifted her hips as he finally entered her. He plunged his hands into her hair, his gaze holding hers as he filled her, withdrew almost all the way, then filled her again.

  “Years,” he whispered, “and it’s even sweeter than I imagined.”

  It was, and she raked her nails down his back to his ass, urging him to thrust faster. He ignored her, building the tension with slow, lazy strokes.

  “Please,” she begged, pride thrown away in the face of her body’s need.

  His mouth turned up a little at the corners, but the beads of sweat across his forehead and the trembling of his shoulders gave him away. He was as far out on the ragged edge as she was.

  “God, you feel so good, babe.” His pace quickened and Carmen moaned deep in her throat. “Look at me, Carmen, and let it come.”

  So close. “I feel like I’m going to fall. Freefalling, with no ropes. No net.”

  “I’ll catch you.” His hands fisted in her hair and he seared her mouth with a brutal kiss as he thrust deeper, faster. “I’ll always catch you.”

  “Please…John…”

  With a growl he lifted her ankles to his shoulders and drove into her. Carmen’s mind exploded with sensation as the orgasm wracked her body.

  He groaned her name as he climaxed, and when he let her legs drop and collapsed on top of her, she wrapped her arms around him.

  Slowly their breathing returned to normal, and she felt his pulse slow under the palm of her hand. A strange sense of disappointment pinged her when he slid free and rolled to dispose of the condom.

  She wasn’t ready to get up and go back to her room yet. She should, though, just to reestablish some distance between them.

  But then he was hauling her back into his embrace, one of his legs hooking over hers. He nuzzled her hair and then, a minute later, he was snoring.

  Carmen told herself it would be rude to wake him after all he’d gone through for her. She told herself, since they weren’t officially back on the clock yet, it was really no different from the nights in the cabin.

  Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with the fallout.

  She didn’t allow herself to dwell on the fact there was no place she’d rather be at that moment than in his arms. But she did turn her head and press a soft kiss to his chest before she closed her eyes and followed him into sleep.

  Five more minutes. Carmen pulled the blanket over her head and snuggled closer to Gallagher.

  “Four scrambled eggs,” he muttered against the back of her head. “Wheat toast. Bacon. Extra sausage. A short stack of pancakes. Coffee. Orange juice. More coffee.”

  “We having company for breakfast?”

  “That’s for me. I’ll order you something, too.”

  She laughed and kicked backwards with her heel, catching his shin. “No room service.”

  “What? Hell, I should give Charlotte a roll of paper towels as a wedding gift.”

  “This isn’t the big city, but there’s a diner down the street.”

  “I wonder if they’ll deliver.”

  “Mmm…probably not. Besides we have to get to New York, so no hanging around in bed all day.”

  He hooked his arm over her, trapping her against him. “I don’t want to go yet.”

  Neither did she, which was the best reason to get up and go.

  She liked waking up in Gallagher’s arms. She liked lying in bed talking about breakfast like normal people. And she’d liked the feel of him inside her—the look in his eyes as he took her—way too much.

  It was almost too easy to imagine doing it again…and again. Making love, sleeping in his arms, waking up there. Then going to work.

  Never last, she reminded herself. They were too different, wanted different things in life and that was why everything from chewing his gum to last night had been one giant screw-up.

  “Dibs on the shower,” she said with forced cheerfulness, throwing back the covers.

  He reached for her, but she evaded his grasp and grabbed her bathrobe. And, while she knew it wouldn’t keep him out if he wanted in, she locked the bathroom door.

  It was the right thing to do, she knew. Once they were back in New York—back on the job—the last couple of days would fade to nothing more than a fond memory and things would return to normal.

  A few tears escaped to run down her cheeks and she turned her face into the spray to wash them away.

  It was the right thing to do. She was almost sure of it.

  When the bathroom doorknob didn’t turn in his hand, Gallagher knew it was over.

  He’d been expecting this. Even as they made love, she’d tried to hold herself back. But he hadn’t expected it to be so soon. At least not until they’d reached New York.

  For a long moment he stood with his hand on the cheap metal doorknob, staring at the flimsy luan door. He could be in there in a second. He could bust in there and shake her—make her tell him why.

  Why couldn’t she give them a chance. Why she could trust him with her life, but not her heart. Why she was so strong and fearless in the face of danger but ran from him.

  Instead he pulled on the clothes Charlotte had provided, the cargo pants and T-shirt identical to the ones he’d taken off, only newer and scratchier—then checked his weapon.

  He made the bed because his mother would somehow know if he didn’t, even a hotel bed, then set his pack by the door.

  When Carmen stepped out of the bathroom, the belt on her robe knotted tightly, she scanned the room. “I’ll head back to my room and grab my stuff. Meet you out front in ten minutes.”

  Then she was gone and he was left staring at the door.

  It wasn’t quite as over as she thought, he told himself. They’d head in and deal with whatever Rossi had going on. But when the job was over, he was going to do some good, old-fashioned courting.

  Okay, not too old-fashioned, since he hoped a lot of the courting would take place naked. It was time to step it up a notch.

  But it was going to be a long, awkward trip back to New York.

  Chapter Seven

  Jack Donovan was surprised to see Gallagher and Carmen at the conference table. He’d been filled in on their near-death, near-sodium overdose experience, but they looked to be in fighting shape.

  Both a little tense, he noted. Jaws and shoulders tight, with zero eye contact between the two. Interesting.

  “Here’s the deal,” Rossi said, and Donovan pulled up a chair next to Connor O’Brien and gave the boss his full attention. “Arceneau will give full cooperation to both governments, including dropping a dime on some as-yet-unidentified co-conspirators in exchange for a favor.”

  The agents all made dismissive sounds, Jack included, but it was Carmen who spoke. “The book will hang him. We don’t need to do him any favors.”

  “ID-ing some of his fellow scumbags would be nice,” Gallagher pointed out.

  “Then, there’s this,” Rossi said, and he turned his computer screen so they could see it.

  A picture of a beautiful young woman. Long, blonde hair, pretty blue eyes and a perfect pageant smile. She looked like she could be Miss Name the Crop at any small town fair in the Midwest.

  “Isabelle Arceneau,” Rossi continued. “Daughter of Jean Arceneau, currently twenty-three, and previously believed to be doing post-graduate work somewhere in Europe. That was not the case.”

  Unrest rippled through the room as the four agents got a clue as to where he was heading. Jack stared at the picture. At her eyes, specifically. Isabelle had pale blue irises ringed by a darker shade of blue, and they damn near sparkled with confidence and humor as she smiled at the camera. Or whoever was behind it. It was a casual shot, a candid, and she was fond of the photographer.

  “In June of ’06, Arceneau and his daughter were part of an international media op highlighting the situation in Matunisia. They went off the grid for half a day, after which Arceneau gave the explanation Isabelle had gotten scared a
nd gone on to Europe early to meet with some friends.

  “That was a lie. Le Roux got her. If Arceneau performed every task given him for five years, he’d get his daughter back. If he refused or was apprehended, Isabelle would be made to suffer until she died.”

  Almost two years those animals had had her?

  A stab of grief took him by surprise. That girl—the one in the picture—was gone. Even if Isabelle Arceneau was still alive, she’d never be that girl again.

  She was already a ghost.

  Maybe he was a little soft after yesterday’s beer because his hands curled into fists and he had to clear his throat.

  It wasn’t goddamn fair that her life was ruined. For what?

  “Five years is smart,” Gallagher said. “Less time and you can’t establish the system to get anything done. More time and the parent thinks it’s worth the risk of going to the authorities. Five years is hard but, when dealing with people like Le Roux, must seem like the lesser of some really bad evils.”

  Jack couldn’t look away from the photo. “How long until Le Roux knows we fucked over Arceneau’s operation?”

  “They already know,” Rossi said. “They had a guy with Arceneau. And there was a transaction in the works we interrupted, shorting Le Roux six-point-five mil.”

  He pushed a few buttons on the keyboard and the photo of Isabelle disappeared. “Every two weeks, Arceneau would receive a web-cam video from the compound, letting him know Isabelle was alive and serving as a reminder of what was at stake.”

  He clicked play and Isabelle’s face once again filled the screen. Only this time it was video and the pageant perfection was gone. “This was sent to him last night, shortly before he contacted us.”

  Isabelle Arceneau was filthy and bruised, with blood oozing from a cut on her lip. But even though tears filled her eyes, there was a strength there Jack couldn’t miss.

  She was still alive—that girl from the photo—and hanging on by the no doubt ragged tips of her fingernails. This one wouldn’t quit.

  When she forced her lips into a trembling but brave smile, Jack felt it beating back the dark clouds hovering over him. It was innocents like her that made his job—and therefore his whole freakin’ life—worth a damn. He could save her.

  Isabelle Arceneau was strong enough to hold on. She just needed somebody who wouldn’t let go.

  “Papa,” she said to the camera in English, with only a hint of French accent, “they’re going to kill me soon. He said to tell you if you got them the money you owe them, I won’t suffer.”

  “Give the money to the orphans, Papa.” She was talking faster and Jack leaned further over the table, trying to hear. “I’m going to die anyway and I don’t want—”

  She was jerked away from the webcam, the way her neck snapped back letting Jack deduce some asshole had yanked her by the hair. There was the unmistakable sound of flesh striking flesh and then the transmission ended.

  “I think we should go,” he said, and they all turned to look at him.

  “It’s fucking Matunisia, man,” Gallagher said. “Only the homicidal and the suicidal go there.”

  Or guys with nothing to lose. “I’m in. Tell the Feds you’ll send me and if I get her out, there’s a deal. If I can’t…it was worth a shot.”

  “She might already be dead,” Rossi pointed out.

  God, he hoped not. He needed something to hold on to. Something to believe in. And he believed Isabelle Arceneau was strong enough to survive. He believed he could bring her home. “But she might be alive.”

  Gallagher liked to play Joe Hero as much as the next guy, but he was leaning toward a regretful but necessary pass on this job. Sending somebody into Matunisia for one person? Even with the added bonus of busting a few other launderers and go-betweens, it wasn’t a good deal.

  Especially for the guys expected to take on one of the most brutal and savage terrorist regimes on the planet.

  “Could it be done?” Rossi asked, and he didn’t have to look up to know he was asking him. Mission planning was Gallagher’s job.

  “No.”

  “Yes,” Donovan said at the same time, and Gallagher wondered where the guy’s head was. Isabelle Arceneau was pretty, but she was a little young for him and more than likely already dead.

  “I’m not following your dick to my death, and neither are they,” Gallagher said in a low voice. “Let’s just put that on the table right now.”

  The other agent tried to stare him down, but Gallagher didn’t even blink. He knew if he didn’t give thumbs up, Rossi and the Group would walk away.

  “She deserves a chance,” Donovan finally said. “She’s willing to suffer to keep that money out of Le Roux’s pockets.”

  “Isabelle Arceneau won’t be the only one,” Carmen pointed out. “If that’s his M.O., there will be other loved ones being held in the compound and we can’t save them all.”

  “But we can save her.”

  “No, we can’t,” she said in a more gentle voice than Gallagher had ever heard her use. She didn’t think they could do it, either.

  Meanwhile, he was also keenly aware of Rossi’s stare boring into the side of head, as if he could get the wheels in Gallagher’s mind turning by force of will.

  And, against his better judgment, they did.

  Common sense aside, it was damn hard to turn away from a hurting, innocent girl. On a mission, people lived and people died. It was a fact of life every person at the table was well-versed in. Even looking at that girl and knowing her survival rested on his shoulders shouldn’t be a strange new burden for him.

  But that was in action. To sit in a boardroom and coldly determine her fate—if he said yes, she had a chance, no matter how slim, and if he said no she was dead—was soul crushing.

  It was a sucker’s bet, but he looked at Donovan. “Your cover as an arms dealer ever get blown?”

  That got everybody’s attention. “No, it’s intact. Every so often Charlotte feeds some bullshit through cyber-channels, keeping Hans Koenig on the radar.”

  “Then there’s a very, very slim chance we can get her out, but you’re going to have to throw yourself down in front of the bus to do it.”

  The other agent didn’t even blink. “I don’t care if it runs my ass over as long as it slows down enough for Isabelle Arceneau to jump on and get a ride out. I’m in, all the way.”

  “I’m not assigning anybody on this one,” Rossi said. “And I won’t hold it against anybody who opts out. Strictly voluntary, every step of the way.”

  “I’m in,” O’Brien said immediately, which didn’t come as a surprise. He didn’t have a wife or kids, and he and Donovan partnered in the field more often than not.

  “My wife’s head would explode if I tried to breach the compound, but I’ll go along as in-country support,” Rossi offered. He was still recovering from a bombing of the Group’s headquarters and he was about ninety-seven percent. Three percent shy of taking on Le Roux head to head. “Can’t let you guys have all the fun.”

  “I’m in,” Carmen said, and Gallagher’s heart seized up in his chest like a blown engine.

  When he’d said “we can get her out”, he’d meant him and Donovan. O’Brien. Maybe Rossi. Not in a million freakin’ years was Carmen part of that we.

  “Matunisia’s no place for a woman,” he said with all the authority he could muster, praying she’d listen.

  How could a look freeze and incinerate at the same time? She managed it. “It’s no place for anybody.”

  She wasn’t the only one staring at him. Everybody else in the room was waiting for his response, too.

  Too bad he didn’t have one. There were good reasons for her to be a part of the team. For one, she was sneaky as hell and, dressed in traditional Matunisian peasant garb with the head covering, she’d attract a lot less attention than the guys.

  But, dammit, he didn’t want her in the line of fire. And taking her into a country where the rats had more rights than the women?
<
br />   “I’m a member of this Group, Gallagher,” she said, clearly sick of waiting. “You need to respect me as a professional, or you—”

  “I do.” He cut her off and decided to lay his cards on the table. A situation like Matunisia required full disclosure. “I’m worried about my own ability to focus with you out there.”

  If there’d been a cricket in the room, he’d have had center stage for a good thirty or forty seconds.

  “Get over it or take yourself off the team,” she snapped. “I’m in.”

  He should have kept his mouth shut. He could have stuck with his original answer—rescuing Isabelle Arceneau was impossible.

  But he couldn’t tell Rossi to clear her image off the screen and then go home and forget about her. Couldn’t sleep at night. That and he had a hunch Donovan was going with or without the Group. Losing him would be a blow to all of them.

  But losing Carmen…

  He could make Rossi cut her out. There were solid reasons for not taking a female along, and he knew he could convince the others it was a bad idea. Bottom line, they couldn’t do this without him.

  When he made eye contact with her, her dark eyes told him two things. One, she expected him to say no. And two, when he did, he’d lose her anyway.

  Gallagher leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Listen up, boys—and girl—because this is the plan.”

  Phase one went more or less smoothly, much to Gallagher’s surprise. He really didn’t have a good feeling about this job.

  The Devlin Group—minus Jack Donovan—arrived in Barasa, Matunisia’s provisional capital city, on a typical day for the region. Hot, humid and as pungent as a horse’s ass.

  Being a fan of tropical climates was one thing. Scratching his scalp while making his way through a cesspool of humanity was another thing entirely. It was only a five-minute walk from the helicopter they’d parked at the half-ass airport—the Group’s private Bombardier jet being a little too conspicuous—to the hotel, which was why they’d chosen lodging in the crappier part of the city. Less than a two-minute run if need be.