Code of Honor

by Radclyffe

  Jennifer Pattee was her best lead and her biggest challenge. The lieutenant was disciplined, confident, and prepared to be interrogated. Some of her resistance to questioning might have been a result of her military training, but Cam suspected her self-possession went far deeper than that. She’d met Jennifer’s kind of terrorist before—fanatical but not unbalanced. Absolutely dedicated to their cause, unshakable in their belief that what they were doing was right and, in many cases, righteous. Jennifer had the air of someone who had trained her whole life for exactly what she was doing now—waging war on the American government.

  When Cam got to the office she rarely used, she hung up her coat and suit jacket, rolled up her sleeves, and booted up her computer. She was searching for a ghost, the ghost of Jennifer Pattee’s past, because whoever Jennifer claimed to be today was not who she had been when someone had trained her for terrorism.

  *

  Blair pushed aside her unfinished glass of wine, the third she had failed to finish that evening. The band was good—young, experimental, filled with wild energy and passion. She and Diane had moved on from Francine’s after they’d been besieged by one too many offers of company. This club was just as crowded and seething with sexual tension, but she and Diane had scored a table close to the stage and sat close enough to send off couple vibes, keeping the hunters at bay.

  The lead vocalist, an androgynous twentysomething in skinny black jeans, knee-high boots with heavy metal buckles, and a white shirt open between her breasts, moved with the barely suppressed rage of a tiger in a cage. Shock waves of sexual power radiated from her as she railed against a world that refused to see her. As she sang, her gaze returned to Blair again and again, the connection sizzling through the air between them.

  Diane leaned close. “That girl is on fire.”

  “She’s good,” Blair said.

  “She’s hot.”

  Blair laughed softly. “Yeah, that too.”

  Diane glanced over her shoulder. “Where are your spookies?”

  “They’re here somewhere.” Blair didn’t bother looking for them anymore or care what they might observe of her life. If she did, she’d be accepting the prison that she had fought to break out of her entire life. The best she could do was accept their presence and then ignore it.

  “You’re not going to make me come up with some kind of distraction while you run off, are you?” Diane asked.

  Blair watched the singer, recalling all the times she’d disappeared in a crowd while Diane covered for her. She’d made a career out of eluding her keepers and declaring her independence by bedding strangers—when she actually got as far as a bed. Sometimes she didn’t even wait that long. She hadn’t cared about the risk. All she’d cared about was the freedom.

  “I thought I’d take care of that myself,” Blair said.

  “Really? What do you have planned?”

  Blair looked away from the young animal on the stage, severing the tenuous strand of heat between them. She already knew the reality would leave her cold. “I actually thought we might head home. Is Valerie home tonight, or can you tolerate a houseguest?”

  “Sweetie, I’m always happy to have you as a guest. Valerie won’t mind, although I’m not expecting her.”

  “Good, let’s go, then.”

  “What about…” Diane tilted her head toward the stage.

  Blair laughed. “You’re kidding, right? What would I do with that?”

  “Oh, I can think of so many things.”

  “Thinking and doing are two different things.” Blair slid her arm around Diane’s waist as they walked toward the door, their coats over their arms. “And in case you missed the bulletin, I’m married now.”

  “I was there, remember?”

  “Of course I do. Did you think it was all just for the media?”

  Diane stopped, her expression completely serious. “Of course I didn’t. I know exactly how much it meant to you. And I was kidding about fire girl.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re not sorry, are you?”

  “About marrying Cam?” Blair shrugged into her duster. Her anger warred with the ache of separation she always experienced when they were apart. “Not for a second. But I can still be pissed.”

  “Oh, absolutely. Let’s stop for ice cream on the way home.”

  “All right. Just hold on a second.” Blair took her phone from her pocket and texted Cam. With Diane. Be careful tomorrow. I love you.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hooker rolled away from the blonde with the great breasts and fumbled in his pants pocket on the floor for his phone. The girl—Nancy? Nina, maybe?—reached around him and grabbed his cock.

  “Don’t answer that, baby. We’ve got all night, remember?”

  Hooker grunted and moved her hand. Jesus, why didn’t women understand you couldn’t wring the damn thing like a dish towel? And since he’d paid for her company, he ought to know how long he had to go. He was just taking a break after she damn near sucked his eyeballs out through his dick. And as good as she was with her mouth, business was business.

  “Yeah,” he rasped when he got the phone turned around right.

  “I kept up my end of things,” an angry male voice said in a tight whisper. “Your turn to pay up. It wasn’t supposed to go down this way. Where the fuck were you?”

  “Look,” Hooker said, “I can’t talk right now. But my part was done when I handed off the goods. Delivery wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “So you hire some flunky who blows the whole thing?”

  “It wasn’t him that queered the exchange. The woman was the one who tipped them, and that was your end of things.” Hooker tensed as a warm mouth skated down the length of his cock and closed over him. He gripped the back of her head and pushed her lower.

  “No way. Je—she wouldn’t have given anything away.”

  “So you say.”

  “So what are we going to do about getting her out?”

  “We?” Hooker laughed abruptly and tugged on the blonde’s hair, pulling her off his cock. “You’ve got the wrong guy, buddy.”

  “Really? Then maybe I should ask your boss.”

  Hooker squeezed the phone. The little fuck had the balls to threaten him. He couldn’t know who Hooker worked for—he’d been very careful to keep Russo deep in the shadows. But he had to be sure of what the snitch really knew. “Look—let’s talk this over. When can we meet?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “What else have you got?”

  Silence for a moment. “The daughter is definitely going. I’ll have the advance info soon.”

  “Good. Then let me see what I can do on this other thing.”

  “Make it sooner rather than later—we want the woman out of there.”

  Yeah, right. And he wanted a ten-inch dick too. “That’s asking for a miracle.”

  “We’re not asking.”

  The line went dead and Hooker dropped the phone onto the pile of clothes next to the bed. “Fuck.”

  “Mmm, baby. Now you’re talking.”

  The mouth went back to work on his cock while Hooker stared at the dark ceiling, wondering how long he could keep the snitch before he became more trouble than he was worth. One thing was for sure—he couldn’t let Russo know his cover was at risk, or Hooker would be out of a job and possibly a dead man.

  *

  The guard silently escorted Jennifer back to her cell, walking one step behind, the press of his stun gun against the middle of her spine a reminder that she could not escape. The chains connecting her cuffs grated softly with each step. The door of her cell stood open, a mocking invitation, but she walked through without slowing. She would not show weakness to her captors. The solid metal door with a foot-square window of reinforced glass swung closed behind her, and the lock ratcheted into place with the heavy sound of finality. The eight-by-eight windowless room was stark and barren: plain gray tile floors, blank white walls, air-conditioning and heating vents bolted in p
lace, a stainless steel commode in one corner without benefit of a privacy screen, a stainless steel pedestal sink next to that, and a metal bed frame with a single mattress, utilitarian white sheets, and a plain gray wool blanket. No television, no radio, no computer, nothing to connect her to the outside world.

  She wasn’t being tortured. They fed her. She was warm and dry. And totally isolated. She had no watch, and the lights cycled on and off according to a schedule too random for her to judge the time. In an age where information was instant and the world was accessible with the press of a fingertip, she was as lost as a castaway on an uncharted island. She didn’t know if any others had been captured, or if anyone even knew that she had been. She was completely at the mercy of her jailers. If they forgot her, and sometimes as the hours stretched, they seemed to—in her disoriented world, a few seconds could feel like hours—she could starve or die of thirst. But they always came, silently sliding plastic trays, bearing paper plates and cups filled with institutional food, through the slot in her door. She wasn’t starving, but at times she hungered in a way she’d never known—for an instant’s simple human connection to affirm she still existed.

  She ran cold water in the sink and splashed her face, surprised to see that her hands were shaking. There were cameras trained on her, she knew that, but she couldn’t be certain how much of her cell was actually under surveillance. She had to be always on guard. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of thinking she was distressed. She dried her hands on the thin white cotton towel and sat on the side of her bed. Let them watch her. The guards didn’t intimidate her—she didn’t give them any thought. They held no real power.

  The woman who’d questioned her tonight held all the power. Cameron Roberts, Deputy Director of Homeland Security. Roberts was the one trying to uncover her secrets, expose her identity. She would fail. They had planned for something like this, been prepared for it. She knew what to expect, and under no circumstances would she provide any information. Her father’s words echoed in her mind as clearly as the many times he had repeated them. You are stronger than them. Smarter than them. And you will never be alone. We will always come for you. He would come. She just had to have faith.

  Her father had prepared her for this, planned for it. Her identity was safe.

  Roberts had asked her about being homeschooled. That wasn’t in any of her background material. The question had caught her by surprise, and it’d taken her a few seconds to realize Roberts was fishing. It was no secret lots of independent Americans were homeschooled. Roberts didn’t really know anything.

  Fortunately, she hadn’t given anything away. She shivered lightly, although the warm air trickled from the overhead vent. Her father had promised she wouldn’t be abandoned, but she wasn’t being held captive in some mountain compound where her father and his soldiers could launch an assault to free her. She was in a federal prison cell in the heart of the nation’s capital. Maybe no one was coming for her.

  Jennifer straightened her back and set her jaw. She knew what they were trying to do—they hadn’t tortured her, probably wouldn’t. But captivity was itself a form of torture, and they were trying to make her lose faith. They would fail. Her father and his soldiers would come, and if they couldn’t, she would find her own way out.

  *

  Sky parked her rental car at the far end of a long line of Harley choppers. The defrost in the rental was tepid, and her breath had misted the windshield until she’d had to wipe circles clear with her bare hand to see the road on her way to the Ugly Rooster. She pocketed the keys and jumped out of the car into the frigid night. She couldn’t believe these bikers actually rode in this kind of weather. Leathers or not, they had to be freezing their balls off. Striding toward the door, she smiled to herself when she pictured Loren straddling the big Harley. At least one biker didn’t have to worry about frostbite on her hot spots.

  Still smiling, she sauntered into the bar packed with men in biker garb and women in as little as possible, despite the winter freeze outside. Halter tops, bared midriffs, and barely covered backsides shimmied and shook amid the shaved heads and tattooed torsos. The place looked like a convention for hookers on Santa Monica Boulevard. Sky had dressed to fit in and shed her jacket to display her calling cards. Skintight jeans, shiny black vinyl high-heeled boots, no bra, and a tight maroon shirt the color of blood that gaped a little across her chest, providing a peek at the pale skin of her breasts beneath. She got the desired effect. Men stared and women snarled as she strolled toward the bar and eased onto a free stool.

  The bartender, one of the shaved-head, no-neck variety with the tattoo of a scythe and sickle extending from ear to collarbone, gave her a hard stare before glancing toward the far corner of the room. If he was looking for permission to serve her, he must’ve gotten it because he slid a slightly damp white square paper napkin in front of her. “What you want, honey?”

  Sky smiled. “What you got?”

  He laughed, his full face flushing as his eyes slid down to the opening in her blouse. “As much as you can handle.”

  “That’s a pretty big promise.”

  “It’s a pretty big chunk of prime beef.” He grasped her wrist and tugged until she had to lean up over the bar to take the pressure off her shoulder. He smelled of sweat and beer. The position gave him a nice view of the rest of her breasts, and he took his time looking. “Keep that seat warm, baby, and I’ll let you have a taste later.”

  “Why don’t we—”

  “That’s a pretty lame line, Wheels.” Loren stepped up beside Sky and put one hand on the middle of her back.

  The bartender eyed Loren and shrugged. “Can’t help but tell the truth. Ten inches of Idaho’s finest.”

  “Well, keep your burger in the wrapper.” Loren reached around Sky and tapped the bartender’s hand where he still gripped Sky’s wrist. “Red here is with me.”

  “You don’t say?” Wheels eyed Sky, his mouth a hard line in his granite face.

  Loren leaned down and brushed her mouth over Sky’s ear. “What do you say, Red?”

  Ignoring the grip on her wrist, Sky shifted on the bar stool and brought her mouth to Loren’s. Loren had a nice mouth, and since she didn’t have a lot of choice, she might as well take advantage of the opportunity. She took her time, running the tip of her tongue over Loren’s lower lip before pressing her mouth harder to Loren’s, breathing in the fresh, winter-white taste of her. When she eased back, a couple of the nearby bikers hooted.

  Loren grinned. “Just got your answer, Wheels.”

  “You keep that up,” the burly bartender growled, reluctantly releasing Sky’s wrist, “and I’ll have enough for both of you.”

  “How about two beers instead.” Loren slid her arm around Sky’s waist and slid her hand up until she cupped the underside of Sky’s breast. Sky’s nipple hardened against Loren’s palm.

  Wheels grunted and pulled two brews from a tap and slammed the mugs down in front of them. When he moved away, Loren nuzzled Sky’s neck, her thighs pressed to Sky’s hip, her fingers cradling Sky’s breast. “You might have told me you were coming.”

  “Don’t you like surprises?” Sky sounded a little breathless and her focus wavered for an instant as the brush of Loren’s fingers over her nipple sent a chill down her spine. She’d anticipated they might have to get physical, she just hadn’t expected to be affected by the contact. She had to struggle not to push harder into Loren’s hand.

  “I don’t mind them, but if I’m headed into a fight, I like to be prepared.” Loren figured she’d made her point to anyone watching. She’d just staked a claim on Sky, and for the night at least, the men would back off, waiting and watching to see what developed. But Ramsey was watching from across the room, and she didn’t want to leave any doubt of her intentions. And Sky felt too good to let go—the softness of her breast and the lash of heat coming off her body kept her chained in place. She skimmed her mouth over Sky’s neck. She even tasted sweet. Almonds and vanilla. “
You took a chance waltzing in here. If the men didn’t eat you alive, the women would have.”

  “I could’ve handled them.”

  Loren cradled Sky’s chin with her free hand and rubbed her thumb over the faint dent that made her look both tough and vulnerable at same time. “Maybe. But since you’re my girl, it’s up to me to see that no one poaches.”

  “Your girl, huh?” Sky tilted her head until their eyes met and their mouths were in kissing range again. She knew they were playing, but she liked the game. And she really liked Loren’s mouth.

  Loren leaned down and kissed her. That nice mouth of Loren’s was very talented, skimming lightly over Sky’s lips at first, then more firmly, letting Sky taste her again. The kiss grew deeper and hotter until Sky had to pull back to ease the pressure building between her thighs. She almost couldn’t think. Mistake. Big, big mistake.

  Loren murmured against her mouth, “The safest place for you is with me. So yeah, you’re my girl.”

  “All right,” Sky whispered, following instinct. “I guess you’ve got yourself an old lady.”

  *

  Cam called Chuck Ferrell, the agent Eddie Byrnes had suggested. The man didn’t sound surprised to hear from her, and she suspected Eddie had given him a heads-up about their conversation. She couldn’t blame him. Eddie had to protect his sources and his reputation.

  “Don’t know that I can help you all that much, Director,” the gruff voice said. “We’ve got agents and CIs undercover out there, sure, but we can’t just pull them out because someone wants intel.”

  “Understood,” Cam said calmly. “I’m willing to fly out, meet them on their own turf. No one has to know.”