Lee (In the Company of Snipers Book 12)

by Irish Winters

  Tess tossed her head, daring them to risk their lives on the slim possibility she’d proposed, that they could hit her and not lose the prize. Sherazi was not known for his forgiveness. If anything, he was as evil as the man he worked with, the man known simply as Dark Man—Hasim Nizari. A shiver scuttled up her spine at the memory of the touch of that monster.

  Skinny squinted down the barrel of his pistol. Closing one eye, he lined her up again.

  Men. They never listen. Oh, well. Time to go.

  She blew him a kiss over her fingertips. Spreading her arms wide, the bag still in her possession, she tipped backward and fell. It was a short, exhilarating-as-all-get-out trip, but one she’d planned thoroughly. The crush of the air bags when she landed whooshed a very welcome “gotcha, girlfriend.” She could have crowed at her success in the face of such odds.

  You’re damned late, but I love you, Clint!

  Tess rolled a backward somersault onto her feet, dancing off the inflatable bag to the wooden rail. While the truck swung northwest along the palace grounds, gears shuddering and headed to Char-Qala Road, she went feet first over the railing and angled her svelte frame into the open passenger window.

  “You made it!” she exclaimed excitedly, her body thrumming with the adrenaline rush of her latest daring theft and too busy to acknowledge her baby brother. He had showed. That was all that mattered, darn his lazy ass.

  Clint grunted like that was a no brainer.

  She would’ve kissed him out of sheer excitement, but that could come later. The bag in her hand felt incredibly sweet. The safety of the passenger seat at her backside didn’t feel too bad, either. She’d done it. Again!

  Raking a hand through her hair, she pushed the tangled mass out of her face and over her shoulder where it belonged. No need for that windblown look now. Sex appeal had served its purpose tonight. Those idiot guards were probably wondering how a mere woman could’ve outsmarted the likes of them. Ha! Men are so dumb.

  “You were late enough,” she muttered while securing the prize beneath the seat. “You need a better watch, Clint. One that tells time. The right time.”

  Stunts like this only worked with precision planning and timing. Besides, this theft wouldn’t go unnoticed. She’d actually been surprised there were only six guards tonight. She’d expected more. Glancing out her side window, she watched for trouble. So far, so good. No one followed, and she heard no sirens, but what if Clint had been any later? This could’ve gone bad in a big way.

  He hadn’t answered—not like she cared. Her brother was like that. Weren’t most men? Sullen. Moody. Easily irritated by women smarter than them, or always too tired, too hungry, forever complaining because they couldn’t get laid. Whatever. Who cared? Let him sit there and want. As long as he drove fast now and got this big rig of his undercover, she didn’t really care what he did or thought.

  She pulled the visor down, adjusted the mirror and slicked on a coat of her favorite lipstick. Victory Red. Her power color and her reward for a job well done. It matched her painted toes and her fingernails.

  Still, his moody silence irked her. He should be happy at her success. He should be proud. He should at least say something. She’d just pulled off the heist of the century and risked her life to do it, while all he’d had to do was sit in his truck and show up on time. Now that she’d thought about it, he should be damned happy.

  “It wouldn’t hurt you to show a little enthusiasm.” She turned and snapped, finally seeing the stranger sitting behind the wheel.

  “Oh, baby. I’m damned enthused,” the stranger with the sexy baritone rumbled.

  Her heart leapt to her throat. “Who the hell are you?”

  Chapter Three

  Junior Agent Lee Hart grabbed her wrist at the same time as Tess Culver latched onto the door handle and simultaneously reached for her bag of ill-gotten booty. He’d expected she’d run, but there was no way this little gal was getting away from him.

  “Back off,” she snarled, shoving her door open with one booted foot and ready to jump to the gravel road.

  “Not going to happen, Miss Culver.” He yanked her back into the cab. The door slammed like he meant it to when he executed a hard right. Tess Culver was every bit as determined to exit stage left as he was to keep her. She hadn’t let go of the handle or the prize—not like that bag in her hand was his first priority. Still, it was priceless and if he lost it, Alex Stewart, his boss, would have his head.

  “I said let go!” She turned on him with all of one hundred and twenty pounds of feminine fury. What a sight. An angry blush coloring her cheeks. Ruby red lips that begged for a good hard kiss. Firecracker blue eyes, throwing off sparks within the flurry of dark, silken hair that never failed to get a man’s attention. His natural instinct to delve all of his fingers into that mess and hold her head still while he kissed her fear away caught him up short. He shut the inclination down. She was his client, unwilling at the moment maybe, but untouchable. Like him.

  He endured the ensuing clawing, scratching, and pummeling. It made driving a straight line a little tough, but not enough he’d let go of the wheel or her wrist, though. The one-on-one contact with the woman he’d only surveilled from afar until then was another thing altogether. A knockout clap of thunder rumbled in his heart, and his blood boiled like steaming, molten lava through his veins. All five senses had sprung to life with her finally up close and personal. Breathing took a sudden effort.

  This woman packed a feminine charge he hadn’t seen coming. Pure energy, it commanded every speck of his masculinity. Streamlined like a sleek desert panther, she’d turned all claws and hiss, one helluva brawler. Tossing her head, strands of ebony silk whispered over his bare hands telling him lies and inciting feelings he had no right to listen to.

  He’d seen that hair floating on the breeze before when she ran unfettered by veils and local garb in the desert. He’d been surveilling her then. Just watching. Just wishing. Long and shiny, she used it now as a whip, but one handful, that was all he wanted. Lee resisted the temptation.

  Every last speck of her dauntless spirit had been consumed with speed, agility, and good old American grit back then, not focused on him. His body stirred beneath that fierce feminine focus. Smitten. His nostrils flared to life at the allure of coconut and lime. Infatuated. Yeah. I’m in trouble.

  Tires screeched around another corner, a trick for a big rig going as fast as this one. Easing off the gas, he let the truck right itself while he continued onto the designated location, not necessarily the one she’d intended to end the day at, but one ten times safer.

  “Let. Me. Go!” the spitfire behind that whirl of hair and those blood red nails screeched. She’d released the handle to beat on him more efficiently, but still held the bag away from him. Not a problem. Being assaulted by one little female hand and two size-seven boots wasn’t lethal. He’d been in tighter spots before, been hit by tougher and bigger.

  “Give it up, princess. You’re caught.” He kept his voice calm and just a little condescending, but his grip stayed extra secure. Miss Culver knew a lot of tricks; he had to give her that, just not the right ones to break his grip.

  Sideways in her seat now, she twisted, kicked, and spit. He didn’t care what she tried until she aimed one heel at the side of his head, her knee cocked and loaded to deliver.

  “Aw, don’t do that,” he said nicely. “It’s just going to hurt—you.”

  A split second before she followed through, he exerted pressure on her wrist, which naturally radiated up her slender arm to her shoulder and—

  Snap. Crackle. Pop. Dislocated. Just that easy, a little maneuver he’d learned in the Corps.

  “Ouch! Damn it!” she shrieked, sagging back into her seat, her tongue licking over her wide-opened lipstick-red mouth, her tangled hair hanging in spirals over her angry, sweaty face. She clutched her injured arm with the hand that held the bag. Thunder clappers reverberated beneath long, thick lashes. “You jerk,” she rumbled, blowing
her hair out of her eyes with a big breath. “You broke my arm.”

  “Told you it was going to hurt. It’s not broken, though. I wouldn’t do that to you.” He spared her a quick glance, not sure why he’d felt the need to explain. Damn, even mad, she was pretty, all the more dangerous in Lee Hart’s book. He always was a sucker for brunettes.

  Recording and studying reconnaissance videos of this particular American vixen during the past few months hadn’t cured him of that particular ailment, either. Made it worse was what it did. Her long legs eating up the desert roads before she began these heists were a joy to watch. He’d timed her when she’d worked out. She was a go-getter from the ground up. Relentless. Fast. She should’ve joined the Corps. Tess Culver could run like the wind—an angry, devious wind. But when she chanced running in the open in just a black sports bra and workout pants? God bless America.

  She might be sullen at the moment, but Lee knew her rep better than anyone else. Just when a man let his guard down, this girl would be gone. He’d been watching her for weeks while she’d snagged one Afghan treasure after another from the country’s best crooks, the Taliban. Tess Culver, aka the best cat burglar in Kabul. Well, not tonight, sweetheart. You’ve met your match.

  “Feels like it’s broke, damn you. I can’t believe you really hurt me, you big bully.” Those red lips stuck out in a pout that made him do a double take. Okay. That was more like it. Right on cue, this twisted sister had deployed her vulnerable, I’m-just-an-innocent-little-girl routine. All that sexy, mussed hair only compounded the effect. The long, lush eyelashes, too. It could’ve worked—not. He’d studied her enough to know better.

  “Calm down, Tess Culver,” he said sincerely. “I’m not here to hurt you. Honest. We just need to talk about the mess you’ve gotten yourself into.” Steering the heavy truck onto the dirt road, he proceeded toward the industrial section of town.

  “Who are you?” she asked politely, like the good kitty she wasn’t. The hissing and spitting might be out of sight, but he knew better than to answer with real facts and details. She’d just twist them, use them to suit her endgame. How she’d survived in this risky business for months was an amazing feat. He gave her that, but no more. Tonight it all ended. For her sake, it had to.

  “I’m a friend. Let’s leave it at that,” he answered honestly.

  She huffed through her nostrils and wriggled that broken-but-not-really-broken shoulder. It had to hurt. He’d dislocated his shoulder once during a fast-roping drop out of a helicopter on his first deployment. Dropped fifteen feet and landed on his ass that day. He didn’t know which had hurt worse—his dislocated shoulder, his bruised butt, or the wise cracks from his buddies.

  A stifled whimper sounded from the passenger side. Yeah. She’d be quiet for a minute or two. That gave him time to slow to a stop, crank the wheel left one-handed, and gauge his distance to the loading dock behind him in the side mirror. Time to back this rig up without losing his prize.

  Unfortunately, it also gave her time to catch her breath, maybe her second wind. She straightened and glanced out her window. “Where are we?”

  “Some place safe.” This was where things could get dicey. Backing up a rig this size without a rearview meant his attention had to be focused outside the vehicle. He’d have to shift with his left hand because he still had a good grip on her.

  She’d eased slightly toward him on the bench seat, lessening the tension on her supposedly broken arm. This girl was smart. She actually thought that maneuver would distract him enough she’d her get away? That he’d loosen his grip? Let her think that. Good kitty.

  He groaned as if maneuvering the rig was difficult, reached over his knee, grabbed the stick shift with his left hand, and pushed past neutral into reverse.

  The minute the rig’s wheels began to roll backwards, she let him have it. He saw it coming when she’d balled her right fist up nice and tight, and a pretty good punch headed his way. Not good enough. He released the shifter with time to spare and caught the blow solid in the palm of his left hand. All those years of baseball paid off. Silly woman. A man doesn’t need two hands to back up a vehicle. Line drive. Good catch. You’re out!

  The damn little thing had her feet in motion again, like that was a shock. Lee turned to take the brunt, thinking he’d have to recalculate exactly when she’d snapped her shoulder back into place. She was going all out. In the ruckus, she’d balanced sideways on her right elbow, the bag still in her hand, the heels of both boots headed his way.

  She’s going to buck at me like a horse? This chick doesn’t give up.

  Admiration sparked deep within him. That was one thing he truly appreciated about Miss Culver. She threw herself into her work, but this time she’d presumed too much. He had a solid hold on that left wrist, despite the fact she meant to use her right elbow for a fulcrum. With a quick jerk, he punched their combined fists into her solar plexus just enough to—oomph—knock the wind out of her. She collapsed, straddling his arm, her face pressed to the upholstery, gulping for air.

  “Told you not to do that,” he scolded. “Now you’ve gone and hurt yourself.”

  “Shit... I... hate you,” she wheezed.

  He let her lay there. It wasn’t entirely an uncomfortable position for a man to find himself in, the thighs of a beautiful woman wrapped around his forearm, her backside so nicely displayed for his viewing pleasure. He allowed a single moment of manly reflection. She did have a nice ass beneath her jeans. Taut. No panty lines. The body heat emanating from her was nice, too. And hot. Damned hot. His mistake.

  Arching that attractive butt upwards, she took another quick aim. This time, he was a bit preoccupied. Her left boot connected with the side of his head. His rock-solid grip on her wrist slipped. Lee turned his shoulder as another kick glanced off his jaw.

  The cat burglar of Kabul was still face down, but free. She hadn’t connected as solidly as she’d wanted though, probably because it was really hard to aim facedown to the upholstery when she couldn’t see her target.

  She shifted her weight. This little minx still thought she was getting away? Lee wasn’t seeing stars; he wasn’t even dizzy. He fended off another volley of badly aimed kicks before he took his foot off the brake pedal and launched himself across the seat. He tackled her, flattened her, his palms splayed on the upholstery and his body trying like hell not to notice her curvy hips or the flowery perfume wafting up from her hair. A man in his line of work didn’t often get this much pleasure bringing a common thief in.

  Quickly, he snagged her right wrist in his right hand, leaving the bag intact, then secured her left wrist and brought it alongside her face. He could’ve twisted it behind her back, but he truly didn’t believe in hurting women. She might not agree with him after their continual tussle, but this night wasn’t about coercion. Not really.

  Lee Hart, junior agent from The TEAM out of Alexandria, Virginia, the elite covert security company on the East Coast, was in Kabul at the behest of a protection order to get Miss Culver out of the country before she got herself killed. Her unknown benefactor had apparently tried to get her to leave, but she always thought she ‘knew better.’ He’d insisted her latest escapades had gotten riskier, but that the people of Afghanistan truly needed this particular heroine alive. The fly in the ointment was that unknown someone had demanded complete anonymity until the job was done. Lee didn’t even know the guy’s name. Alex had played that hand close to his chest.

  “Do you honestly think you can best me?” he growled, listening to Miss Culver’s heavy breathing beneath him. There was a day when all that panting meant pleasure had been given and received. He might have offered her a cigarette if he’d still smoked. Today wasn’t one of those days, and who was he kidding? He hadn’t been in the dating game for years. Still, playing with a sweaty gal who thought she could triumph over a guy the size of him had a definite impact on his dormant male libido.

  He eased away from her before she noticed how quickly his body had respo
nded to hers.

  “Soon as you get your fat ass off me, I can... I can take you.” She grunted into the upholstery, another feminine sexual sound he had no resistance to.

  I can take you, too. Definitely the wrong thought at the wrong moment. Women were a delightful mystery of silk and sex and opportunities lost. He closed his eyes against the fire building in his gut, the echoing ache down deep in his groin. He was in a compromising position to say the least. It had to end.

  But her hair... ahh. He closed his eyes and drew in a long deep breath. Whatever shampoo she’d used that morning rose up like heaven into his nostrils, coconut and lime, a heady brew of temptation for a man who’d been on too many remote ops to count during the past year. Just the nature of their current position was bad enough, but those ebony tangles were silky, soft, and cool, a touch of paradise in the cab of this older-than-dirt one-ton.

  He stifled the feral call demanding release at the back of his soul. This woman might be Medusa and Odysseus’s sirens all rolled into one, maybe with a shot of Bonnie Parker of the notorious Bonnie and Clyde thrown in for good measure, but she was Just. A. Client. Bad-assed and ready to rock and roll maybe, smelling like heaven, but nothing more than a mission to walk away from. A job with a definite return-to-sender date.

  The still-rolling truck bumped gently into the loading dock with a soft jolt, but parking the rig was the last thing on Lee’s mind. She thrust her head back sharply. He’d already anticipated that maneuver. Tilting sideways, he dodged her hard skull. She’d barely bumped his collarbone.

  “You tired yet?” he asked patiently, still very much in control.

  “Get. Off. Me.”