Taking Fire

by Cindy Gerard

  And what happened last night was textbook honey trap. Straight out of the Spy for Hire Handbook. The operative picks up a beautiful woman in a bar, surprised that she asks him to come back to her room so easily. In the morning, she’s vanished, along with important documents, and the cell phone is ­missing . . .

  Okay, so she wasn’t gone, and neither was his phone. That hadn’t stopped him from heading straight for the Fargis field HQ and tapping a buddy in the intelligence office before he’d set out on patrol this morning.

  “Run this name up every flagpole and back down again. No hit is too small, okay? And no, I’m not going to tell you why. I’m calling in a favor.”

  P. J. Granger, an experienced operative and all-around good guy, had squinted up at him from his bank of computers. “I didn’t know I owed you any favors.”

  “You will if you hang around me long enough.”

  “Oh, well, in that case,” Granger had muttered.

  Bobby had grinned. “And let’s keep this between the two of us.”

  “Never figured you’d want it any other way. When do you need it?”

  Bobby had given him a look.

  “Yesterday. Got it. You trigger pullers sure know how to pick your moments.”

  Bobby had clapped Granger’s shoulder. “Thanks, bud. I’ll pick it up when we’re back from patrol.”

  “And you’ll come bearing?”

  “A big smile of gratitude?”

  “Cheap ass.” With a grumble, Granger had turned back to his keyboards.

  “Okay, a six-pack,” Bobby had promised, sweetening the pot.

  “There ya go.”

  One way or another, he was going to get the truth about Talia Levine.

  * * *

  When they came in from an uneventful patrol later that day, doused in dust and sweat and empty-handed, Bobby cut a beeline straight for the intel shack.

  Without even looking up, Granger held a manila envelope in the air.

  “Thanks, bud. Knew you’d come through.” Bobby snatched the packet, handed Granger a scribbled IOU for the six-pack, and headed out the door to the sound of Granger’s curses.

  When someone called his name, he looked across the compound and spotted his immediate supervisor walking toward him. He bounded down the steps and walked out to meet him.

  Wes Bridgedale, a combat veteran of both the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, was a well-respected leader among the men. Bridgedale had turned in his Army uniform two years ago because he’d felt betrayed by an administration that attempted to micromanage the military from behind pristine Washington desks instead of letting the generals in the field make the calls.

  If it hadn’t been for Bridgedale, who’d thought he’d gotten a raw deal from the Army, Bobby wouldn’t be working for Fargis now.

  “Sir.” While Bobby didn’t salute, he showed Bridgedale the respect his position in the company warranted. They might no longer be in uniform, but members of the Fargis Group still adhered to the U.S. military’s chain of command as their model.

  “What’s the latest on al-Attar?” Bridgedale asked.

  “I wish I knew, sir.”

  A few months ago, intel had come down the pike that Mohammed al-Attar was hiding out in or near Kabul after fleeing Israel to escape retaliation from Mossad, Israel’s elite Spec Ops unit, for bombings that had killed innocent citizens. Fargis had been tasked with getting the goods on al-Attar, and Bobby had been designated the leader of the team of operatives who would make it happen.

  Al-Attar was an important get, because with the drawdown of U.S. troops on the horizon, Uncle needed more intel fast. The word on the streets was that al-Attar, a vicious rogue Hamas leader, had no love for the Taliban and was willing to provide information on the locations, numbers, and firepower of Taliban fighters in exchange for cold cash.

  So Bobby had sent out feelers, letting al-Attar know he wanted to make contact. It hadn’t been difficult to root him out, especially with Bobby playing the part of the disgruntled and disgraced U.S. Army Special Forces who’d been cut loose from the military for dishonorable acts. Not much of a stretch, he thought grimly.

  Since that first contact, Bobby had been working al-Attar for information. The Hamas leader was a gold mine of intel, but he was slow about dishing it out. So Bobby was happy as hell when Uncle Sam had recently decided to get the Hamas war chief in custody, where they could mine the scumbag for every piece of information they could dig out of him.

  The problem was, al-Attar had gone to ground.

  “I haven’t heard from him in almost two weeks,” he told Bridgedale now. “Last time I met with him, he’d finally agreed that our next meet would be at his secret headquarters instead of some random coffee shop. I was pumped. I’ve been trying to get access to his hiding spot from the beginning. Maybe he got cold feet. Maybe he was just blowing smoke up my ass. But I don’t think so.”

  “I’m getting some heat from up top,” Bridgedale said. “They want him pulled in before he gets antsy and heads for Pakistan, where we’ll never get access to him again.”

  “I’m as frustrated as you are,” Bobby said. Al-Attar was too valuable a resource to lose. “I could put out more feelers, but I’m afraid he’ll think I’m too eager and question his decision to take me into his confidence.”

  “So what’s your plan?”

  “Wait him out,” Bobby said. “He’s going to be hungry for cash again soon. That’s our ace in the hole. Al-Attar knows that if he wants money in exchange for ratting out his Taliban enemies, he has to keep in touch with me.”

  “All right,” Bridgedale said with a resigned look. “You know what you’re doing. And you know what to do when he next makes contact. Let’s hope for everyone’s sake that he does it soon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Looks like you’ve had a long day, son,” Bridgedale said, taking in Bobby’s sweat-soaked shirt and dirt-streaked face. “Get out of here. Call it a day.”

  “Got a cold one waiting for me,” Bobby said with a grin, and headed toward the motor pool.

  He managed to hitch a ride on a transport truck that took him back to the antiquated hotel where Fargis put up the senior operatives.

  He tossed the manila envelope onto the small bed in the small room and snagged a beer from the small fridge he’d bought for a small fortune from a local vendor. Groaning in pleasure when the first deep swallow was ice-cold, he set the bottle on the nightstand. As much as he wanted to read the intel on Talia, he wanted a shower more.

  As usual, the water was lukewarm, but at least it was running, and the pressure didn’t give out until he’d scrubbed the dirt away. After wrapping a towel around his hips, he tracked water across the floor and grabbed his beer. Then he lay back against stacked pillows and opened the envelope.

  Ten minutes later, he decided that his suspicion meter needed some serious tweaking. Grim-faced, he whipped off the towel and started getting dressed.

  6

  Talia watched Taggart walk into the bar, glance around until he spotted her, then walk straight in her direction. He looked relentlessly sexy in khaki pants and a snug black T-shirt that emphasized how huge his biceps were. He also looked mad, and he looked mean. A thick knot tightened in her stomach. Had he somehow found her out? Maybe he’d found the tag she’d planted in his phone?

  She forced a smile and held back a twinge of panic. “Now, there’s a scowl that tells a story. Bad day?” she asked when he pulled out a bar stool and signaled the bartender for his usual.

  “You were born in the U.S. New York City, specifically,” he began without preamble, and the knot in her stomach tugged a little tighter.

  She’d anticipated that he’d go digging. The question was, how deep? Had her cover held up?

  “Your Israeli parents—a history professor and a linguistics professor—were quite affluent and emigra
ted to the States thirty years ago to escape the chaos of the Israel-Palestine conflict.” He stopped when his drink arrived, took a sip, and turned back to her.

  “A-plus for research work,” she said, holding on to her calm by a thread. “Which one of us gets the gold star?”

  “Drink your wine. I’m not finished yet. You were an only child and were ten when your parents moved to D.C. After you graduated from high school, you left for Israel and attended university in Tel Aviv.”

  “Because I wanted to become more familiar with my Israeli roots,” she said, careful not to sound defensive.

  “You studied journalism and photography, and once you started working, you made a big name for yourself.”

  “I believe that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “So big,” he continued after another sip of whiskey, “that you’ve won a ton of awards and are on every major news publication’s speed dial. When they need a heavy hitter to cover a war story, they call you.”

  “Maybe half a ton of awards,” she said, attempting to defuse the tension with humor. Everything he said was true—and provided an excellent cover that had held up for several Mossad operations. “At the risk of total redundancy, I did try to tell you.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a long, appraising stare, “you did.”

  “So . . . that was an apology?” She made herself hold his gaze.

  He scratched his jaw, his hard eyes still on her face, then reluctantly nodded. “Yeah. That was an apology.”

  She lifted an eyebrow to disguise her deep relief. “So, then, what’s with the mad-dog glare?”

  “That’s me being ticked with myself for giving you such a hard time.”

  She turned back to her wine before she could blurt out something stupid. Like a confession. “So now you know it all.”

  “So it would seem,” he agreed.

  Yes, he knew it all—except for two vitally important pieces of information that would cause him to hate her. She was a Mossad agent using her journalism credits as cover. And she was using him to get to Mohammed al-Attar, the Hamas terrorist who had massacred so many of her people.

  She pushed down the recurring urge to feel guilty. She wasn’t sorry that he would unknowingly lead her to al-Attar; there would be justice then. She wouldn’t be the one to pull the trigger, but she would facilitate al-Attar’s death. She felt nothing but satisfaction that this monster would soon pay for what he’d done.

  What she would be sorry for, she admitted as she silently sipped her wine, was the hatred Taggart would feel toward her if he ever found out she’d deceived him.

  “How about we go upstairs?” he said, running the tip of his index finger along her arm and making her shiver. “I’ll show you just how sorry I am.”

  His wicked grin was pure temptation, and the memory of last night fired through her erogenous zones. She’d follow him up those stairs no matter what the reason. No matter what the cost.

  * * *

  “Dinner? I can’t go out like this,” Talia protested when Taggart asked her to go out with him several days later. “I’ve been out in the field all day. I haven’t even been up to my room yet. I need a shower and clean clothes.”

  “Then go. I’ll wait. I want to take you somewhere special. Someplace we can get a real meal,” he insisted, and that was the end of the discussion—almost.

  His eyes were never hard or cold when he looked at her now. They’d softened to warm and intimate when he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Wear your hair down for me.”

  His voice compounded the sexual awareness. Gruff and gritty and sounding very much as he did every night in her bed, where they’d spent the last six nights together. He loved her hair. She’d even teased him about having a fetish for it. He’d agreed without remorse that he loved burying his hands in it. Loved to fill those callused but oh-so-giving hands with it, then tug her down to kiss him. Loved the feel of it trailing over his body.

  And she’d loved the way he groaned in deep, almost primal pleasure, the way he made her moan. One particular memory was so visual she got lost in it. And it frightened her to realize this man had such a hold on her.

  “Talia?”

  “Yes,” she said breathlessly, and found his hungry eyes focused on hers.

  He knew. He’d been there, fantasizing right along with her. “You were going to shower?”

  “Right.” She eased off the bar stool, working hard to appear collected. “Give me fifteen.”

  Then she headed up the stairs to her room, telling herself the same thing she did every day. There was nothing wrong, just because Bobby Taggart knew how to engage her libido. With a word. With a look. With a touch.

  Nothing wrong with the weakness in her knees, either, or with the flush of heat surging through her body and the sweet gnawing ache that gripped her when she thought of him. Nothing wrong with spending as much of each day and all of her nights with him.

  He was a striking man. A battle-hardened warrior yet a generous and giving lover. The contrasts were fascinating, and she wasn’t immune to the sheer excitement of being around him.

  Going into this, she’d known she might have to seduce him.

  What she hadn’t been prepared for was that he hadn’t been the only one seduced.

  * * *

  She wore her hair down, as he’d asked, telling herself it was all part of the game. She was so used to braiding it immediately after her shower that when she finished brushing it and had taken the time to look in the mirror, she’d been shocked at how long it had gotten. If she’d been wearing a bra, the ends would have hit several inches below it.

  As thick as it was, it was also arrow-straight, so it didn’t take long to dry in this heat. Still, it was a little damp beneath the delicate white shawl she’d chosen to wear over a long, lightweight teal slip dress. It was her standard packs-like-a-dream, ready-to-wear-at-a-moment’s-notice dress. She’d dragged it across several continents in the event that she’d need to dress for a dinner with some muckety-muck who could help her with a story. Or with a mission.

  Tonight she found herself wishing she had a new dress. One she’d never worn before and had bought just for him. Which was as foolish as the skip of her heartbeat when Taggart spotted her walking down the stairs.

  “Look at you.” He swallowed hard, then walked straight to her. “If you’re wondering, I like this way better than your ugly shirts.”

  “And if you’re wondering,” she said, attempting to keep her voice steady behind her smile, “I still have time to change back into one of them.”

  “Yeah.” He touched a hand to the small of her back and ushered her toward the door. “Like that’s going to happen.”

  * * *

  “Where is this restaurant?” she asked after they’d walked a couple of blocks.

  “Not far now.” He steered her into a lantern-lit alley and in the pale evening light, with the lanterns flickering like fireflies, it actually looked pretty. Almost magical—a rarity in Kabul. Although the night was warm, a chill of awareness feathered down her spine when he reached for her hand and entwined his fingers with hers.

  She didn’t even think about resisting. She thought about both the strength and the gentleness in his long, strong fingers. About how small and protected her hand felt surrounded by his. And about how wonderfully easy this moment was, when she should be much more alert for signs of trouble.

  “It’s been a while since I held hands with a woman.” He grinned down at her. “In fact, the last woman’s hand I held was probably my mother’s.”

  She glanced up at him. “That long?”

  “Actually, it was just last year, when I went home for a quick visit. She still won’t let me cross busy streets by myself.”

  She smiled down at her feet as they walked, too amused, too charmed, too careless. And far
too comfortable after only a few days and nights spent with him. “And he’s a comedian, too,” she managed.

  He chuckled and squeezed her hand. “Too?”

  What the hell. She was going to let herself play. She never got nights like this; she never met men like him. And she’d forgotten how delightfully heady a man’s interest could be.

  “Fish all you want,” she teased, “but you’re not going to get a compliment from me.”

  He stopped and, with their hands still linked, grinned down at her. “Was I fishing?”

  “I recognize bait when it’s dangled in front of me.”

  “Ah. And if you were biting?” he asked with mischief in his eyes. “What kind of a compliment would I catch on this fishing expedition?”

  She made a show of zipping her lips.

  “Oh, woman, did you pick the wrong guy. I never back away from a challenge.”

  It was fun, this flirty and nonsensical back-and-forth between them. And she firmly blocked rising feelings of guilt for enjoying his company too much and for deceiving him in the process.

  “Still not talking?”

  She remained stubbornly silent.

  “Maybe I need better bait.”

  Very slowly, he backed her up against a wall that was still warm from the heat of the sun. Warmer still when he leaned into her, freed his hand from hers, and drew her against him. Full lips brushed lightly against hers, and when she attempted to open her mouth to protest, he slipped his tongue inside and convinced her it was exactly the thing she wanted. Her knees were rubbery when he pulled away, looking very pleased with himself.

  “Was that it?” His silky whisper was mere inches from her lips. His eyes were slumberous and sexy. “Were you going to compliment me on my kisses?”

  She opened her mouth again, shut it, tried to pull her thoughts together around her racing heart and the liquid heat between her thighs.

  He laughed, then tugged her away from the wall. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Draping his arm casually over her shoulders, he started walking again.

  What kind of man was this? He’d seen the savagery of war and yet voluntarily put his life on the line in a part of the world where life had little value. He carried a well-worn playing card to honor his fallen brothers. Despite being dishonored by his own country, he still had the capability to trust someone.