by Elle Kennedy
Shoving the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, D tucked himself back in his pants and zipped up.
“What?” he muttered when he noticed the mocking glint in her eyes.
“You ever done it face-to-face?” She blew a set of flawless smoke rings. “Looked a woman in the eye while you screwed her?”
He didn’t respond, which seemed to amuse her.
“Someone messed you up pretty bad, didn’t they, honey?”
“Probably as bad as they messed you up.”
Her smile was toxic. “Well, aren’t we a pair?”
He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “There’s no we, honey. There’s you and there’s me, and that’s all there is to it.”
Still smiling, she sauntered over and palmed him over his pants. “I know exactly what this is.”
“Good.” He took one last drag, jabbed out his smoke in the ashtray, and left the bedroom without another word.
• • •
It was dark out when they exited the hangar. For the most part, the flight had been uneventful, aside from Juliet’s relentless flirting and Ethan’s brooding. By the time the Cessna touched down on the dirt runway, Ethan had looked ready to murder the sexy brunette, who’d taken great delight in teasing him about his rookie status during the two-hour flight.
The car they’d arranged for was waiting near the gate, a beat-up Jeep that had seen much better days. They tossed their gear in the back, which was also where Juliet banished Ethan by usurping the passenger seat.
“You know, you could stick around here while we check out the house,” Trevor suggested. “There’s really no reason for you to come along.”
In fact, he doubted they’d even require Juliet’s assistance on this op—what did they need her feminine charms for when he and Ethan were perfectly capable of extracting intel from Lassiter using the good old-fashioned kind of persuasion?
Juliet clearly disagreed. With another one of those lazy grins he’d decided were her trademark, she buckled her seat belt and lifted her legs onto the dashboard. She’d changed into an all-black getup, and she looked like one of those kick-ass heroines you saw in action movies.
“Trust me, you might need me, depending on Lassiter’s security situation.”
Ethan spoke up from the backseat, a bite to his voice. “We know how to bypass alarm systems.”
“Yeah?” She twisted around to look at him. “What’s your preferred method for disarming the new Global Switch TR26 PIR unit?”
Ethan’s blank look brought another grin to her lips. “That’s what I thought, kiddo.”
Trevor joined the conversation before Ethan could blow a gasket from that “kiddo” comment. “So, what, you’re a professional thief?”
He drove along the dusty road leading away from the airfield. Nearly every streetlight on this stretch of highway was busted, and the Jeep’s headlights didn’t illuminate shit, they were so damn weak. Keeping his eyes on the road, Trevor headed in the direction Ethan had mapped out for them. Lassiter’s beach house was only thirty miles west, and fortunately, the full moon helped light the way.
“Former thief,” Juliet responded. “Now I just kill people for a living.”
Trevor rolled his eyes. “How old are you exactly?”
“A lady never reveals her age,” she said demurely.
In the backseat, Ethan snorted.
Juliet shot Trevor a sidelong look. “But enough about me. Let’s talk about you. You’re the one who got Isabel shot.”
Her words brought a jolt of surprise. “Pardon me?”
“Last year in Colombia. Izzy was shot saving your ass in Blanco’s compound.” Juliet’s tone sharpened. “Isabel’s like a sister to me. You catch my drift, Callaghan?”
“If you’re implying that you’ll fuck me up if I hurt Isabel, then, yes, I hear you loud and clear.”
“You don’t think I’m serious?”
“Doesn’t matter either way. Trust me, I’d throw myself in front of a firing squad if it meant keeping her safe.”
His firm proclamation surprised him as much as it did his passengers, both of whom went silent.
Shifting awkwardly, Trevor peered at an approaching road sign. “That should be the turnoff up there, right?” he asked Ethan.
The rookie nodded. “Yeah. We drive through town for half a mile, and then there’s another turn.”
Town ended up being a less than apt description for the shithole they encountered. The narrow street could barely accommodate both the Jeep and the beat-up vehicles parked on either side of the road. Most of the storefronts were boarded up or covered with graffiti, and it seemed that the only establishments capable of staying in business in the “town” of Pelegro were the cantinas, the pawnshops, and the lone strip club at the corner.
A burst of loud laughter echoed in the night air. Trevor slowed the Jeep to let a group of teenagers pass.
Four dark heads swiveled toward the windshield as the teens eyed the vehicle with visible distrust. A few Spanish sentences were exchanged, low murmurs that Trevor couldn’t make out. After a second, the young men quickened their pace and ducked into a bar with a neon pinup-girl sign blinking over the door.
“This place is a fucking dump,” Juliet commented as they passed several more groups of nefarious-looking characters.
Fortunately, Pelegro was as small as it was shitty; minutes later, the town was a speck in the rearview mirror and they were on the road to Lassiter’s house.
The beach house was nothing more than a glorified shack. Splintered wood and a tin roof made up the exterior, and the front yard was littered with old tires, piles of two-by-fours, and the skeletons of two old Chevys.
“Isn’t this dude supposed to be loaded?” Ethan asked.
“Yeah, but maybe he’s not into showy displays of wealth.” Trevor shrugged. “Can’t help but respect him for that. And now we don’t have to worry about encountering any fancy-pants security systems.”
“Stop the car,” Juliet said sharply.
Trevor slammed on the brakes so hard Ethan nearly sailed out of the backseat, but neither man questioned Juliet’s outburst. Whether they liked it or not, she was part of the team, and Trevor never second-guessed a team member’s instincts.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
The Jeep had stopped fifty yards from the front door of Lassiter’s place, which was shrouded in darkness. Not a single light spilled out of the various windows, but the Dodge pickup truck parked in front of the attached garage seemed to indicate someone was home. Unlike the other vehicular corpses on the property, the pickup looked brand-spanking-new, red and shiny and boasting silver rims that sparkled in the moonlight.
Next to him, Juliet unbuckled her seat belt and peered at the trees on either side of the dusty path.
“We’ve got motion sensors. There, there, and there.” She pointed out the various locations. “I can disarm them, but it’ll take some time. Five, ten minutes.”
“Don’t bother.” Trevor continued to stare at the dark house in the distance. Something was off about the place. “I think we’re too late.”
“I’m thinking the same thing,” Ethan murmured.
Trevor brought his foot back to the gas pedal and veered off to the side of the road, driving right into the canopy of trees. He killed the engine and they all slid out of the Jeep.
He could hear the ocean now, the muffled crashing of waves, and a salty breeze wafted toward them. If they’d triggered those motion detectors Juliet had spotted, you wouldn’t know it. No alarms wailed, and the house remained dark and quiet.
“Take the rear,” he told Ethan. “Juliet stays with me.”
He decided to forgo the M16 and carry his SIG instead. He doubted they’d be greeted by a dozen armed mercs; everything about this situation screamed you’re too damn late.
While Ethan darted off and vanished in the shadows, Trevor and Juliet approached the house through the trees. The scents of salt and seaweed grew stronger, the rhythmic p
ounding of the waves getting louder. Lassiter’s shack might be an eyesore, but hell, location, location, location, right? Having the ocean in your backyard probably boosted the place’s market value.
Juliet moved like a pro, communicating with him via hand gestures and gripping her black Beretta with confidence. They crept along the ramshackle exterior toward the front door, where Trevor signaled for her to fall back.
He held up three fingers in a silent count.
She nodded, waiting.
Three seconds later, Trevor kicked open the door. The thing flew right off its hinges and went crashing to the weathered wooden floor in the house’s tiny entryway. Another crash reverberated from the back of the house as Ethan let himself in under similar circumstances. No point in using stealth mode here; Trevor didn’t have high hopes as he moved through the shadows.
The coppery scent of blood reached his nostrils long before they found the body.
Yep, too damn late.
“He kinda looks like Mickey Rourke,” Juliet remarked. Her dark eyes swept over the dead man on the floor. “Yeah, he’s definitely Rourke-esque.”
Trevor did notice the resemblance. Eddie Lassiter was a big man—thick chest, bulky arms, muscular legs. His skin had the leathery look of a man who’d spent too much time in the sun, and his dirty blond hair was long and stringy.
As far as death masks went, Lassiter’s was actually kinda comical—the man looked entirely pissed off, as if he couldn’t believe someone would have the gall to murder him. Trevor recognized Lassiter from the grainy photo Noelle’s girl Paige had e-mailed them earlier, though the man in that photo hadn’t been quite so . . . dead.
He approached the body and studied the dime-size bullet hole in Lassiter’s forehead. A pool of brownish red blood, now beginning to dry, surrounded his head, and one red line trickled out of the wound and down his nose.
“Seeing as the back of his head is still intact,” Trevor said drily, “I’d wager he got popped by a small-caliber pistol.”
Ethan’s hazel eyes took in the scene from the doorway. “Not point-blank, either, considering the lack of powder residue. The shooter was standing a few meters away.”
The rookie’s gaze landed on the open suitcase on the bed, then the .45 pistol lying on the bedspread.
“He burst in while Lassiter was packing and caught him off guard. Lassiter didn’t have time to go for his weapon,” Ethan mused.
“Did you learn crime scene analysis watching CSI?” Juliet drawled. “That’s so adorable.”
Ethan narrowed his eyes at her. “You do realize I’m a marine, right?”
She looked amused. “So?”
“So I can kick your ass without batting a fucking eye.”
Uh-oh. Trevor knew the young soldier swore only when he was seriously pissed off.
Juliet, of course, fueled Ethan’s anger by laughing. “Go ahead, kiddo. Do it.” Challenge lit her eyes. “But we both know a sweet thing like yourself would never hurt a lady.”
“Yeah, keep calling yourself that, sweetheart. Maybe if you say it enough times, you’ll magically transform into one.”
Her delighted laughter echoed in the room. “Well, well, the kid’s got a backbone. Ain’t that sweet?”
“Enough,” Trevor barked. “You two search the house for anything that might be connected to Morgan or the compound. I’ll check the body.”
Ten minutes later, it became glaringly obvious that both Lassiter’s corpse and his shitty shack had been cleaned. Either that, or Lassiter didn’t keep anything of value here.
No documents, no cash, no hidden compartments as far as they could tell. His pockets were empty, his wallet containing nothing but an expired driver’s license and a folded-up birth certificate that revealed the tough guy’s middle name as Marion—Juliet got a kick out of that one.
By the time they reconvened on the rickety front steps, Trevor felt like this entire trek to Baja had been a total waste of time. No hint as to who might have hired Lassiter. No evidence pointing to who wanted Morgan and his men dead.
Waste of fucking time.
“Call Noelle,” he told Juliet. “Tell her we’ve got shit all.” He holstered his gun and released a pent-up breath. “Let’s hope the Reilly brothers have something better to offer.”
Chapter 9
“Lassiter’s dead.”
Isabel’s head jerked up in surprise as her boss walked into the den. “Since when?” she asked Noelle.
“Callaghan’s guessing he was popped five or six hours ago.”
“He was shot?”
Nodding, Noelle sat down in a big leather easy chair. The den was as cozy as the rest of the house, with a pair of overstuffed couches, an electric fireplace, and the antique desk Isabel was sitting behind.
“The person who hired him was clearly tying up loose ends,” Noelle said. “Or, if that person is anything like me, he was punishing the imbecile for his royal fuckup. The men Lassiter recruited were clearly incompetent.”
Isabel pictured Lloyd’s lifeless body sprawled on the bloody kitchen floor.
And she couldn’t even begin to imagine the scene Trevor had found in Holden McCall’s bedroom.
“They weren’t totally incompetent,” she murmured.
“They left the majority of their targets alive,” Noelle retorted. “In my book, that’s amateur hour.”
“Did they find anything useful at Lassiter’s place, at least?”
“It was clean. If Lassiter kept any records, he stashed them off-site. Call Sean and tell him to look into it, find out if Lassiter’s got a safe-deposit box or storage locker, or hell, a lawyer.”
“Got it. Oh, and Sean wanted me to pass along a message.”
“Oh, really?”
“He said, and I quote, ‘Tell your boss to fuck right off.’” Isabel grinned. “What’d you do to him?”
“He was trying to find Bailey, and Bailey didn’t want to be found, so I may have fed him some false intel that sent him on a wild-goose chase.”
A sigh slipped out. “Well, I wish you hadn’t done that because now he’s being all sulky about it and charging us double for this latest intel.”
Then again, the Reilly brothers employed an arbitrary fee schedule that didn’t make much sense to begin with. A pair of former mercenaries who may or may not have been tangled up with the IRA at one point, Oliver and Sean fancied themselves the best information dealers currently operating on the globe—and they probably were. Isabel had yet to meet anyone with a bigger network of contacts than the Reilly brothers. Those Irishmen possessed the ability to produce information out of thin air.
Oliver had helped her and Trevor in New York on that last job, and in all honesty, Isabel wished she was dealing with Ollie again; he was the nicer of the two, playful and down-to-earth, while Sean was the rogue, a cocky flirt who didn’t quit once he had you in his sexual sights.
“Wait. Why is he looking for Bailey?” Isabel asked, wrinkling her forehead.
Of all her colleagues, Bailey was the most mysterious, ten times the chameleon Isabel herself was, and a stone-cold killer when she needed to be. Since Bailey was customarily assigned deep cover jobs for prolonged periods of time, Isabel rarely ever saw the woman.
“They crossed paths a while back,” Noelle said vaguely. “Sean took a liking to her.”
“And let me guess: Bailey didn’t return the sentiment.”
The boss laughed. “Nope.”
“Okay, well, now he’s annoyed with us, and we can’t afford to be on his bad side when we need his help.”
“Has he found anything yet?”
“It’s only been a few hours since I contacted him. He said to give him at least twenty-four hours.”
Noelle rose from the chair. “Find me when he gets in touch. I need to return Abby’s call.”
“She and Kane made it to Costa Rica okay?”
“Yes, and I’ve been informed that Dubois, Port, and Macgregor are on call should we need their assistance. Onc
e we learn who Lassiter was dealing with, I’ll consider bringing them in to track Morgan.” Noelle’s tone grew sarcastic. “See how cooperative and charitable I’m being? And all to find a man who can rot in hell for all I care.”
“Why are you doing it, then?”
“Why do you think? The idea of that bastard being indebted to me is quite a lure.”
“I see. And the flirting with Trevor part . . . what’s your reasoning for that, Noelle?”
She was rewarded with a genuine-sounding laugh rather than the mocking one the boss usually doled out. “Oh, honey, if you haven’t figured it out for yourself yet, then I’m damn well not going to tell you.”
Still chuckling to herself, Noelle left the den.
• • •
Everyone was still awake when the trio returned to the ranch. Trevor found Isabel reading a book in the living room, and Noelle and D chain-smoking in the courtyard. The pair sat at opposite ends of the glass table, each one gazing elsewhere, neither one saying a word, yet the sight gave him a funny feeling. A sneaking suspicion that something was going on with them.
After a moment, he dismissed the thought, realizing just how insane it was.
Isabel glanced up at his entrance. “You’re back.”
He smiled. “I’m back.”
She was on her feet in a heartbeat, moving toward him as if she wanted to embrace him, but at the last second she halted and kept a couple of feet between them.
“So Lassiter was a dead end,” she said wryly.
“Literally.”
“Noelle says you didn’t find any evidence to indicate who may have hired him.”
“We didn’t, but hopefully Irish and Irish-er have better luck.”
She grinned. “Did you come up with that nickname all by yourself?”
“Yep.”
“It’s not particularly creative.”
“Well, I did fail both ninth-grade art and tenth-grade writing, so clearly creativity isn’t my strong suit.”
Isabel let out a laugh. Then she furrowed her brow as if something had just occurred to her. “You know, I can’t picture you in high school. I mean, I want to say you were a jock, but you’ve also got this serious side that makes me think you might’ve been a bit of a nerd.”
