by Sydney Croft
She’d gotten through the first three without having to resort to intercourse—each of those missions a complete success.
The fourth required sex. She’d fallen in love and the man had been repulsed by her as soon as the deed was done. But then, she’d already gotten the information she needed, and she accomplished what she’d wanted—she’d fallen out of love with Devlin O’Malley.
That had been a relief in and of itself. Now she was in love with some horrid ACRO enemy she might never see again, certainly not on a daily basis.
Compared to the hell some ACRO agents went through because of their powers, Marlena felt, in comparison, she had no right to complain. And she didn’t. But she knew she was getting colder, keeping everyone at arm’s length.
And she knew that would only get worse if she continued in this job.
CHAPTER
Two
Logan Mills smelled the hot, fetid breath of the beast hanging heavily in the humid air of the Amazonian jungle. They were close but somehow no closer than they’d been since they’d begun this mission.
The animal was smart—and Logan had a sickening feeling that he and his team were actually the ones being hunted.
He took a swig of water from the canteen that hung from a line on his pack and then capped it and checked his weapons again—an M14, a Sig and two tranqs with enough juice to put down a hippo.
His body had finally adjusted to the heat after thirty-plus days in this place—he’d gotten used to sweating as his body tried to keep up with the constant water loss, and all of this reminded him of his days in Special Ops.
“Hey, Lo, we gonna call it a day soon?” Dax, one of his men, muttered. Logan glanced at his watch—1600. Thanks to the overlay, they’d find themselves in total darkness sooner than later.
They’d been on the move since 0600—nonstop except for water breaks—and while they’d found evidence of the escaped beast, they still hadn’t been able to track it down.
His men were tired—of the jungle, of this mission, of Logan’s nonstop barking and near obsession with recovering the creature he didn’t know anything about beyond the fact that it was lethal.
His men didn’t understand the full consequences; and if he had his way, they never would. No one else would either, and that’s why Logan planned on continuing his search for a few more hours.
“I’m not paying you to sleep,” he answered Dax evenly.
The man shook his head and held up his arms in silent surrender, and Logan sighed. He got it—they were exhausted. It was a feeling he could barely remember, and so garnering sympathy for it was hard.
He wasn’t tired, never got tired anymore. In fact, he often had to force himself to sleep so the still-human part of his mind could rest.
He was a product of his father’s company, a company he now oversaw—one he had controlling shares in, due to his father’s continually bad decision-making. Global Weapons Corporation had been his father’s brainchild and was now Logan’s baby, since he had turned the company from nearly complete financial ruin to a growing enterprise in a little over three years.
It had been severely mismanaged, thanks to his father’s ego; the old man could never see past the get-rich-quick aspect of weapons development to realize that GWC could be a huge asset to the American government in the fight against terrorism.
Unfortunately, his father still insisted on making decisions behind Logan’s back. Like this most recent one—the reacquisition of some kind of species, labeled Unclass 8, that killed an entire SEAL team last month, when GWC had accidentally released it after nearly three years of modifications.
Logan’s gut twisted as he thought back to his own injury four years earlier—when he’d been shot to hell and left for dead at the bottom of a ravine for three days.
After he was found by the Marines, his father had him airlifted from the military hospital in Germany to a private facility in London, where a team of scientists and surgeons waited to save Logan’s life.
He’d been rebuilt with special bioware—his right arm, his legs, part of his brain. He functioned with an efficiency that scared even him, and he wondered if maybe the company had taken things too far.
But how could he tell his father he’d done the wrong thing by not letting his son die?
“We’ll work for another hour and then head back to camp,” he told Dax, who nodded and let the other four men know there was an end in sight to today’s mission.
Logan turned back toward the twisted path and studied the broken branches tipped with the blood of the animal’s most recent kill—a deer they’d found fifty yards away. He’d told his men they were hunting something that looked like a Komodo dragon, when in all honesty he didn’t know what the hell this thing was, never mind what it looked like.
He and his team had been in the jungle only two days searching for it when they’d stumbled on the massacre—what he now knew were four Navy SEALs, torn to pieces.
He’d just ordered his men to continue their search for more bodies or survivors when he tripped over something, then cursed and turned back to kick the branch out of the way.
But it hadn’t been a branch. It was a human, or what was left of one. Immediately, he’d motioned to Dax, and the two of them brushed the leaves off the body and uncovered what Logan believed to be another dead SEAL.
Tentatively, he’d felt for a pulse and nearly jumped out of his skin when the man, later identified as Chance McCormack, grabbed his wrist and whispered, “Watch out … it’s coming for you.”
They’d gotten him to their base camp, and because of that decision Logan was forced to leave the massacred SEALs behind for the Navy search-and-rescue to find. Which they had; they’d also had evidence of the slaughter, thanks to a helmet-cam one of the SEALs had worn, but no clear shot of the animal that was responsible for the rampage.
And so Logan had been hiding Chance for the better part of the month, even after the Navy had called off their search. Hiding him, healing him … and figuring out what the hell to do next.
Watch out … it’s coming for you.
Now, as he moved forward through the ever-darkening jungle, those words continued to echo in his ears.
CHANCE OPENED HIS EYES AND REALIZED IMMEDIATELY THAT he was alive. Because of the pain.
In this case, the lingering yet somehow transient pain was a damned good thing.
“He’s awake.” A white-haired man peered down at him, a worried frown on his face. “You’re okay, son. You’re going to be just fine.”
He wanted to ask the man if he was supposed to know him, if he was back on a military base. Wanted to know what the hell happened. “My team …”
The man’s frown got deeper. “What’s your name?”
“Chance.”
“And you’re a soldier …”
“A SEAL. Navy.”
“Good. Do you remember what happened?”
He closed his eyes for a second and then opened them when he realized he did indeed remember what happened out in the jungle—and didn’t want to.
“I remember everything,” he whispered finally.
He also recalled thrashing around during his narcotic-induced sleep, remembered hearing screams, smelled the beast in the air—and fuck, he wondered how long he’d been out, how long he’d been having nightmares about the monster that had nearly killed him.
His arms still bore the bruises of mortal combat he’d been locked in. He wondered how he’d survived—or if he’d taken down that animal, whatever the hell it was. And he wanted to ask all those questions but his brain was fogged and the old man said, “When Logan gets back, he’ll talk to you. He’ll explain everything.”
Logan? Who was Logan, and who the hell was this guy?
“How long …?” he started, but was unable to finish.
“You’ve been with us for about four weeks.”
Chance nodded. His skin felt tight, his body different, as if he didn’t fit into it any longer. And when he tried to sit
up, he realized he’d been tied down to the bed.
“It was for your own good,” the man said gently. “You were moving a lot—we were afraid you were going to hurt yourself.”
Chance saw the hesitation in the old man’s eyes before he leaned forward and unlocked chains that wound around Chance’s ankles and the cuffs around his wrists. Even though he was covered in blankets and bandages, he knew he was naked on the bunk.
And as the man walked away, Chance noticed that one ankle was still chained.
Being held prisoner was never for anyone’s own good, not in his world. As he stared down at the cuff, his Special Forces training kicked in, overriding the fear and sadness and pain, and his need to escape raged through him like a fire.
No matter if these people were friend or foe, he was getting out, getting back to his base and reporting what he’d seen. There were too many families who wouldn’t have closure if he didn’t.
Of course, his wasn’t one of them. His momma had died eight years earlier. Sure, he might have relatives somewhere he could dig up, but what the heck would they want with a twenty-five-year-old grown-ass man?
Maybe one day, he’d have his own family. Or at least that’s what he always figured, that he’d have nothing but time on his hands.
Born lucky, always lucky, Momma used to say, and for a long time he’d believed her, until common sense reared its ugly head to remind him that being born near the craps table didn’t mean … well, crap.
Especially when his mother had been unwilling to leave because she’d been losing at the time. Too busy for labor.
Too busy for him, most of the time, except when she needed him.
When he was still just a kid, he’d been forced to become a chameleon, pretending to be whoever his mom wanted him to be at the time. A petty thief and con artist, she’d dragged Chance into her schemes until his twelfth birthday, when he’d been thrown off a fourth-floor balcony as a result of her ways—a deal gone wrong. He’d tried to protect his mom from her enraged victim by jumping in front of her and found himself plummeting to the ground below.
By some miracle, he’d ended up with only a broken arm, which had healed so quickly he hadn’t needed a plaster cast.
The thing was, he remembered being far more hurt than that, even if only for an instant. He hadn’t been able to move his arms or legs … saw himself floating above his body. And then he’d woken to his mother and the police and walked to the ambulance … and he’d never told anyone.
Nothing like that had ever happened again. Sure, he’d always healed faster than others, but this—what that monster did to him—he should’ve died.
Born lucky, always lucky.
He’d graduated to becoming a hell of a pickpocket and semi-juvenile delinquent. He’d always stayed far away from gambling and casinos, but looking back, he realized he gambled with something much more important in the military—his life.
And the expression shit out of luck never seemed to fit more perfectly than right now.
SELA HAD TO HAND IT TO MARLENA—FOR BEING COVER-MODEL gorgeous, she was tough.
They’d been tramping through the jungle for eight hours now, and not once had the blond woman whined about the insects, the thick brush or the weight of their fully loaded backpacks. Not even the sweltering heat seemed to bother her, even though their BDUs stuck to their skin like damp sheets.
Both had long ago stripped off their long-sleeved outer shirts and were down to their brown tees, but it hadn’t helped a whole lot.
They’d finally found the area where Sela believed the SEALs had been attacked, and for the past hour, they’d been collecting evidence. Back at ACRO, while Sela was having her cavity filled, Marlena had studied investigative techniques, as well as the history behind el chupacabra, and on the plane, Sela had given her a crash course in cryptozoology.
Marlena was a quick study, but truthfully, Sela wasn’t too worried. The cover story would be that Marlena was new to the work, which would explain any uncertainties, holes or mistakes. Sela had enough experience and knowledge for them both.
Now she just had to hope that Marlena could do what she’d been sent to do: seduce Logan while Sela determined what had killed the SEALs. Apparently, Marlena was one of the few Seducers who lacked the sexual psychic ability that made Seducers good at their jobs. She must be really skilled in bed.
“I think I found something.” Marlena was crouched near a fallen log, her long hair pulled up into a ponytail and somehow looking perfect.
Apparently, Marlena’s superpornpower was being beautiful at all times, in any circumstance.
Sela joined her at the log. Claw marks scored the dead tree, but it was the piece of gray material wedged into the bark that drew her interest.
“Looks like a scale. Reptile, maybe, but it’s huge.” Sela dug a vial and tweezers out of her backpack and carefully extracted the scale from the log. She dropped it into the vial and stood. “Okay, let’s follow the path—”
The chilling and unmistakable sound of weapons being brought to bear froze her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Unbelievable—she’d been so into the investigation, she’d actually forgotten the real reason they were there … and been caught with her pants down.
“Hands over your head.” The deep male voice rumbled through her. Though it chafed, she turned to the dark-haired man who stood at the edge of the clearing holding an M14 aimed at her chest.
At least half a dozen men in jungle fatigues surrounded them, all pointing weapons and all looking like they’d have no problem killing two unarmed women.
Not that Sela and Marlena were completely helpless. Both had been through extensive ACRO self-defense and survival training, and in their packs they had knives, pistols and tranquilizer guns.
“Look,” Sela began, speaking to the man she recognized from file photos as Logan Mills, “we’re just tourists—”
“Because the Amazon jungle is such a popular vacation spot,” Logan interrupted in a slow, sarcastic drawl. He gestured to one of his men. “Get their packs.”
“No!” Sela feigned alarm. “I have medications I need.”
“Don’t worry,” Logan said. “We won’t let you die until we’re good and ready.”
Marlena edged closer to Sela, doing a damned fine impression of being terrified. Of course, if she wasn’t a little nervous, she’d be an idiot. Sela’s adrenaline was dumping into her system by the bucketload, turning her into a shaking, panting mess.
Logan moved in as his goon stripped her of her pack. “What’s in the vial?”
Sela hid it behind her back. “Nothing. I mean, I’m an amateur entomologist. It’s an insect wing.”
“Really.” He signaled to the goon, who tore the vial from her hand.
“You asshole,” she snapped, because although he’d done exactly what she’d expected and wanted him to do, it still pissed her off.
Logan smiled, a cold lift of one corner of his mouth. “Haven’t heard that before.”
“Please,” Marlena said, playing her role of innocent female in need of protection to the max, “don’t hurt us.”
Logan turned to her, his eyes sliding slowly down her curvy body and back up. Good. Marlena was great bait. “So,” he said softly—and really, did he have to sound like he was getting ready to invite both of them to bed? “You’re here for a vacation.”
“Yes.” Sela stepped forward as if to shield her friend from Logan. “So if you’ll just let us go, we’ll forget we ever saw you.”
Before she could blink, he had her by the shoulders and had backed her into a tree. “You,” he said against her ear, “aren’t calling the shots. And you sure as hell aren’t telling me the truth.”
“Lo!”
For a long moment, he remained where he was, his body pressed against hers, not hurting, but the message was clear. He was big, he was strong and he was in charge. Once he felt the message had been delivered, he pushed away and swung around to the man who had taken her pack.
&nbs
p; On the ground, spread out in a display, was her pistol, dart gun, specimen kit, hunting knife, maps, cryptozoology book and handwritten notes about chupacabras.
“Well, now,” Logan murmured. “I think someone has some explaining to do.”
Marlena cleared her throat delicately. “We don’t mean any harm. If this is your spot, we’ll move on.” She made her voice shake, and her big blue eyes even filled with tears.
God, she was good.
Sela held her breath as Logan moved toward Marlena, slowly, his shoulders rolling like a jaguar on the prowl.
Get him, girl, Sela thought, but he stopped a few feet from the other woman, squatted on the ground and opened her pack. He pawed around in it and then froze, and Sela bit back a smile, knowing exactly what he’d found. Marlena feigned horror as he drew a small pink vibrator from her pack. Somehow, she even managed to turn about ten shades of red. The woman belonged in Hollywood, not at ACRO.
The men made lewd noises and comments, but Logan cocked an eyebrow, looked from Marlena to Sela. “Are you two … involved?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Sela snapped.
He shrugged. “I’d like to watch.”
“You’re a pig.”
“I’m a guy who’s been in the fucking jungle for a month without a woman.”
Marlena was still looking mortified. Almost as though Logan felt sorry for her, he shoved the vibrator back in the pack and stood. “Cuff them. We’re taking them back to base.”
The man closest to Sela whipped flex-cuffs out of his pocket. Sela waited until he jerked her arms behind her back, and then she spun, took him down with a knee to the groin. Before anyone could move, she shot into the brush, running as fast as she could. She knew she was going to get caught—this wasn’t about escape, it was about making sure Marlena was the good girl, the one everyone would want to be nice to, protect, fall for.
Sela was going to be the hard-ass, uncontrollable bitch. Which really wasn’t a big stretch of her acting abilities.
