Deadly Games
Page 1
THREE classic Cherry Adair SHoRT stories of DANGER, Suspense, AND uncontained desire.
RICOCHET
Original Copyright © 2014 by Cherry Adair
Number One Best Selling Short Story
T-FLAC
Hannah Endicott's only purpose for traveling half a world away to Ecuador is to retrieve what her feckless best friend appropriated to invest in yet another bad business venture. Unwillingly drawn into meeting his new associates, she overhears a nefarious plot and instantly goes from irritated to terrified.
The right person, in the wrong place, at the worst possible time. . . .
When T-FLAC operative Grayson Burke and his team storm the yacht, the last person he expects to find is the woman he stood up at the altar three years ago. Now she’s in his deadly world…
On the horns of a life and death dilemma
When his brother and the diamonds disappear, Hannah suddenly becomes Gray’s only hope of locating his quarry and retrieving the stolen money. Low on her stock of insulin injections, Hannah’s inability to remain with Gray is rapidly advancing to a critical end. Now his entire world turns into a time bomb ticking away the minutes. Gray must choose between his brother, his mission, and the woman he loves.
TROPICAL HEAT - ENHANCED
Original Copyright © 2013 by Cherry Adair
A T-FLAC Short Story
Special ops tactical instructor Sam Pelton trains T-FLAC operators for high-risk counterterrorism environments. He’s had his eye on reserved Dr. Elizabeth Goodall for some time. But the good doctor isn’t exactly falling at his feet, so he has to move slowly to romance her. Then things get really hot- tropical hot – when he discovers Beth has been kidnapped by a madman while attending a seminar in Cape Town. Sam has to get her the hell out of the jungles of Africa before they realize they’ve kidnapped the wrong doctor.
To escape from a brutal warlord, they must confront a powerful attraction that could prove more treacherous than the wilds of the jungle…
CHAMELEON - ENHANCED
Original Copyright © 2013 by Cherry Adair
A T-FLAC Short Story
SHE KNEW SHE WAS ABOUT TO DIE . . .
When paranormal T-FLAC operative Sebastian Tremayne heads to the Arctic Circle to neutralize red-hot physicist Michaela Giese, the polar ice cap isn't the only thing in danger of melting.
SHE JUST DIDN’T KNOW HE WAS ORDERED TO KILL HER . . .
This beautiful brainy woman is about to spark a nuclear disaster. He’s there to stop her by any and all means. But what he can’t prevent, what he can’t resist, is the fiery passion between them. Even powerful magic might not save them.
Main Table of Contents
Ricochet
Tropical Heat - Enhanced
Chameleon Heat - Enhanced
The Idea For T-FLAC
Terrorist Force Logistic Assault Command
T-FLAC Mission Statement
T-FLAC Covert Operatives
T-FLAC Headquarters
T-FLAC Presidential Suite
T-FLAC Living Quarters
T-FLAC Medical Unit
T-FLAC Air Command
T-FLAC Ground Command
T-FLAC Armory
T-FLAC Communications
Cherry Adair Interview
Behind the Writing
About Cherry Adair
Cherry Adair's Online Book Store
Copyright
RICOCHET Back Cover Text
RICOCHET
Original Copyright © 2014 by Cherry Adair
A T-FLAC Short Story
Special ops tactical instructor Sam Pelton trains T-FLAC operators for high-risk counterterrorism environments. He’s had his eye on reserved Dr. Elizabeth Goodall for some time. But the good doctor isn’t exactly falling at his feet, so he has to move slowly to romance her. Then things get really hot- tropical hot – when he discovers Beth has been kidnapped by a madman while attending a seminar in Cape Town. Sam has to get her the hell out of the jungles of Africa before they realize they’ve kidnapped the wrong doctor.
To escape from a brutal warlord, they must confront a powerful attraction that could prove more treacherous than the wilds of the jungle…
Ricochet Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
CHAPTER ONE - RICOCHET
Calm seas and a dark moon.
A perfect night for fishing.
Or hunting tangos off the Ecuadorian coast.
Covered head to toe in black LockOut, eyes obscured by night vision goggles, T-FLAC operative Grayson Burke and his men climbed up thin ropes, like shadowy spiders, from the waterline to the upper railings of the slowly moving Megayacht.
Silently landing the length of all three decks, fifteen T-FLAC operatives melted into the darkness, dispersing like smoke.
No exterior lights shone on the luxurious ship, not even running lights. Despite its size, Stone’s Throw‘s occupants didn’t want to attract notice. For good reason.
The intel that three high-ranking ANLF lieutenants were on board was the biggest break the counterterrorists had had in months. The fact that the bad guys were contained on board a ship, in the middle of the South Pacific, gave Gray and his men the advantage.
T-FLAC wanted the number one tango on their watch list—the megalomaniac, elusive, sick-fuck, head of the Abadinista National Liberation Front, known only as Stonefish. No one knew who he was, or what the man looked like, but his reign of terror across South America was legendary, and about to get a hell of a lot worse if he pulled off the coup he was masterminding.
If Stonefish gained Cosio, he’d control in a matter of weeks not just the tiny country, but he’d have a firm toehold in Columbia, Peru and Ecuador. Drugs, extortion, torture, weapons…a long fucking list.
Stonefish was T-FLAC’s number one priority, and their number one failure to capture to date.
Grayson’s failure.
This was more than a mission for Gray. It was extremely personal. For three years he’d been after the son of a bitch. His own capture, on Stonefish’s order, was inexorably tied in his head to the loss of Hannah. No matter how hard he tried to forget one, and concentrate on the other, they couldn’t be separated.
This time, fucking up wasn’t an option.
A good part of South America would be at war if they didn’t find and stop him.
But first, they had to capture his men, and extract whatever intel they needed to find him. By whatever means necessary.
Glock raised, Grayson filled his lungs with the smell of salt air, and the faint hint of cigarette smoke as he landed lightly on deck. “Priority,” he reminded the three teams on board, speaking low into his comm as they dropped their lines down into the water. He paused for a split second to be certain they were listening. The directive bore repeating, “Secure Sorenson, Deeks and Mauro. Get the hell outta Dodge ASAP.”
“Bravo One. Copy that.” Kyatta said softly, with his five-person team from their position on the top deck. Wheelhouse. Disable the chopper.
Morrow responded quietly. “Delta One in position.” Second deck. Salon.
Echo Team manned the commandeered trawlers—the best they could find on such short notice—lying in wait, silently riding the swells in the matte-black water, ready to return them to Esmeraldas where transport waited.
Gray’s Alpha team; below decks, engine room. Using hand gestures he sent them down from the second deck, cov
ering them as the four men went ahead.
This was a snatch and grab. Little communication was necessary from here on out. Everyone knew where to go, and what to do.
The rank, unwashed stink of a heavy smoker preceded the hulking form of a man. “Hostile coming up on your six,” Gray alerted his men. “I got him.” Visible through the NVGs, the man strolled across his path to stand at the rail. Bodyguard by his bulk, and doing a piss poor job of guarding anybody’s body, including his own.
A flick of a lighter, the flare of a cigarette.
Approaching silently from the rear, Gray jerked the slightly shorter man back against him with the crook of his elbow across the man’s throat. Cutting off a gargled yelp of surprise, he dug his forearm hard against the guy’s trachea. The cigarette went flying, fading to a small red dot, as he fought to get free.
Gray shoved the man’s head back and applied the pressure necessary to crush his trachea. Too late, fuckwad. Three seconds. Gray stripped the body of the Jericho 941 semi-automatic, tossed it over the rail, and moved on.
In the middle of nowhere, with cloud cover, and no expectation of visitors, the security on board was lax as his men quickly cleared the decks, ready to go inside and extract their targets. The intel had been last minute. Not exactly his style. He liked to be completely prepared. But this was the closest shot he’d had at Stonefish in fucking years, and he wasn’t about to pass it up. Gray had just finished an op in Venezuela with these men, and they worked together well.
They’d been strategically in position to close in before the ship reached land.
“Sit-rep?” Gray asked. As each team leader called in a situation report, he scanned the open deck ahead of him. Clear, but he kept his eyes and ears open. The susurrus of the water lapping against the hull was a faint backdrop to the sibilant sound of voices from inside the nearby salon where all the principals were gathered.
Via his comm he heard the scuffle of feet in the darkness, the occasional grunts of pain quickly snuffed.
An excellent night for fishing.
“We have visual.” Charged with inserting a fiber optic camera through the sliver of the door opening into the salon from the second deck, Darrach, Delta Two, indicated he was in position to observe the players inside the salon.
“Priority targets?” Gray asked, just as another bodyguard came out a side door. Heavy-set, solid, no neck. They saw each other at the same split second. Surprised as shit, the man fumbled for his side arm. Grayson crouched, slid the Tac 11 combat knife from his ankle holster, and threw it true as he rose.
“Mauro, Sorenson, and Deeks,” Darrach confirmed. “Five unidentified, six crew.”
Verification that Stonefish’s lieutenants were indeed on board, made Gray’s smile feral in the darkness as he pulled his knife from the man’s chest, then wiped off the blood on the guys shirt. The unidentified extras on board, five men, and a woman, were unknown. Sharply aware of every creak, every shadow around him, he slid the knife back into the sheath. “Eyes on the woman?”
“Negative.”
“Top deck?” Grayson asked Charlie Kyatta and his team, tasked with clearing the third deck and wheelhouse, then working their way down. Six minutes and they’d all convene on the salon to throw the net.
“Negative,” Kyatta said quietly. “Captain. One crew. Guard on the helipad eliminated. Chopper disabled. Nobody’s going anywhere tonight.”
“Lower deck clear. Three crewmembers. KIA.” Alpha Two, Jerry Grazioso reported. “Headed to engine room.”
The Echo team, twiddling their thumbs in the waiting fishing boats were keeping a tally of how many people had boarded the Megayacht, and how many KIA since T-FLAC had joined the party. The only person unaccounted for, so far, was the woman.
Using a skeleton key, Gray slipped through the door his team had secured behind them to deter any unwelcome exists or surprise visitors on their six. “Rechecking cabins. Wait for my order, Bravo.”
“Copy that.”
Gray secured the door behind him, then started down the beautifully wood paneled corridor to see what vermin he could flush out of hiding.
CHAPTER TWO - RICOCHET
From the moment Hannah Endicott stepped on board the luxuriously appointed ship with her best-friend/man-she-was-going-to-murder-when-she-got-him-home, she had a bad, bad feeling. An insects-crawling-all-over-her-skin, heebie-jeebie, sort of feeling.
The men Colton insisted she meet were polite and quite sociable. But she didn’t like any of them. There was nothing specific she could put a finger on, and it wasn’t just her annoyance at Colton. Even though she was way beyond pissed at him, her fight-or-flight antennae were full on vibrating.
Still, if they could afford a luxury ship like Stone’s Throw, they must be doing something right as far as business went. But she doubted it was legal.
Investors paying in diamonds? That didn’t sound legitimate to her at all.
Her gut feelings, as she’d learned to her detriment, were not infallible. Since she was, at present a captive audience, she’d listen to the rest of their presentation at dinner, and reserve judgment.
She’d had no freaking idea, when she reluctantly agreed to meet her friend’s business partners for dinner on board, that the multi-gazillion dollar, floating mansion would actually set sail. Another damned ride Colton was taking her on whether Hannah liked it or not. For a woman who hated confrontation, Colton was rapidly teaching her that even she had her limits.
She liked knowing what to expect, and preparing for it. She’d been that way her entire life. She wasn’t prepared for this. Not in any shape or damn-well-frigging form.
She’d dressed for the flight to Ecuador—not a place on her Bucket List. Her favorite jeans, because they were comfortable to travel in, a tucked in men’s-style white cotton shirt, and flats so she could run, if necessary, in the concourse. Her purse, a compact tote for this last minute, short trip, was stuffed with two days’ worth of clothes, her insulin and a few basic toiletries. That was it. Nothing that fit the glam of this floating palace.
The plan was to get back the money. Fly home.
Dealing with loose diamonds was not something she’d anticipated.
Hannah wasn’t a violent woman, but she wanted to grab her friend by his perfectly styled blonde hair, and bash his head against something hard. For a long time. Colton had made a succession of incredibly stupid investments over the years, but she was afraid this one, with these people, made all the others pale into insignificance.
There wasn’t a damn thing she could do until they reached the island. Come morning, she wasn’t taking no for an answer. In the mean-freaking-time, the ship was in the middle of the South Pacific and all she could do was suck it up, and try not to add homicide to her skill set.
The Captain had informed her while they had cocktails on deck that they were currently between the coast of Ecuador and the Galapagos Islands. A hell of a long way to swim lugging a briefcase of diamonds.
Drying her hands in the luxuriously appointed bathroom, Hannah gave herself a cursory glance in the mirror as she brushed her blunt cut, shoulder-length streaky honey-blonde hair, then wiped a smudge of mascara from under her eye. Applying a little blush to her pale face, she considered her repairs done. No one here she had to impress. She’d leave that to Colton.
She might look like a pushover, but she was far from it. Under her slender frame, and blue eyes, beat the heart of a lion, and she refused to take any bullshit. From Colton or anyone else for that matter. “Not anymore,” she added ruefully under her breath.
After her mother’s divorce when Hannah was two, they’d moved in next door to thrice divorced Michelle Wickham and her two boys. The women had worked together as flight attendants at the time, and years later had parlayed their love of travel into a small, thriving antiques business in Chicago, a few blocks off The Miracle Mile.
The kids, Colton, Grayson and herself had run tame between the two houses. Nicknamed GQ for how Colton dressed, ev
en when he was small; Tinkerbelle, because Grayson always said she looked like a delicate fairy; and Pumice, the name she’d bestowed on Grayson because of his name, coupled with the color of his eyes, and secretly, because he was always so serious, and gruff, even as a kid. The silly childhood names had stuck.
The Moms disciplined and loved all three equally. Colton and Hannah were the same age, their birthdays days apart, which bonded them quickly. They’d become best friends. Grayson, four years older and wiser, was fascinating because he seemed to have dark and dangerous secrets. Unfortunately for Hannah, that just made him even more appealing.
Secrecy wasn’t nearly as enticing as an adult. Hannah, always wanted to see the good in people, especially the people she loved, but she had come to realize that Grayson was one of the bad guys. Disappearing for months on end—once an entire year went by before they saw him—he always returned without a word of explanation.
Always fit and strong, he’d turned into a hardbody.
She straightened her spine. The last person she should be thinking about right now was Grayson and his hard body. She had enough on her plate without adding that toxicity to the acid already churning in her stomach.
She rubbed her upper arms through the thin cotton of her shirt. The enormous bathroom, with miles of chocolate-colored marble, teak, and glass, was damn cold. Or maybe it was her nerves. Pissed and also scared, she headed back to the bedroom, surprised smoke and flames weren’t rising from the top of her head to keep her warm.