by Rie Warren
It was Storm’s turn to get up in arms. He stood to a towering height, punching his finger toward Walker. “Blaize would never put any of us in danger. Don’t be a jackass.”
“Whoa there, Kemosabe.” Walker held up his hands. “I’m not saying I blame Blaize. But she’s the only other person I contacted.”
My jaw clamped down. “What about the new kid on the block.”
“Baby Spy? The chick with the janky hair?” Walker scowled.
“I like her hair,” Bane mutter-muttered.
“She might be new, but she ain’t too stupid to live or she wouldn’t have even been recruited,” Walker said.
Storm reared his chair back onto two legs. “Baby Spy, huh?” He rubbed a hand across his chest, adopting his Thinking Man’s pose. “She’s Blaize’s protégé. She was monitoring coms during your mission.”
“Jesus Christ. Really?” Walker looked none too pleased by the idea.
Couldn’t say I blamed him. It was one thing to have your op compromised by outside forces. It was an entirely different beast to think one of your own crew was leaking insider information.
“Baby Spy,” Bane muttered with a nod, his big biceps bulging as he planted his forearms on the table.
It was probably the first time he and Storm had ever agreed on anything.
“Talk about selling us out.” Pressing his lips together, Walker looked like someone had stolen his favorite blasting caps.
“Baby Spy?” a feminine voice asked.
Chapter Two
Ball-Busting
ALL CONVERSATION DRIED UP when Blaize strutted in on mile-long legs ending in clitter-clatter high heels.
She wore a glossy black suit that had no-nonsense written all over it—her own personal body armor. Too bad it fit like a freakin’ glove. She always pinned her Hades-red hair back, but that only served to accentuate her striking features: large cornflower blue eyes, full sensual lips, high cheekbones.
No doubt about it she had a slamming body, but even I knew better than to fuck a superior.
Storm hadn’t gotten that memo.
When we continued to sit around like school boys caught gawking at Hot Teacher, Blaize raised one eyebrow in a perfect combination of haughtiness and hotness. “Well?”
“Kiki Damage,” Bane mumbled, a stormy scowl bending his face all out of shape.
Aaand he’d definitely tipped over his usual two-word conversational limit for the day.
“Pornstar name.” Walker coughed into his fist.
My lips cocked up. “Really? I was thinking superhero name. Can totally see Kiki Damage in a cape, chasing down dastardly villains.”
“Storm. Anything to add?” Blaize singled him out.
Storm, who hardly ever got shook up or shaken down, looked flustered as he fumbled for words.
“That’s what I thought.” Blaize leaned down with her hands flat on the table. “There will be no more discussion of Kiki. She is a colleague. I will not have dissension in the ranks. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” Walker smartassed.
I kicked his shin.
He yelped.
“Yes’m.” Storm kept his head lowered.
Funny. The way he so visibly hungered after Blaize but couldn’t even look her in the eyes . . . one would think she was a man-eater.
I didn’t doubt Storm—big and tough as he was—could withstand the kind of heat she possessed. Too bad for Storm the boss lady was a no-go zone.
Blaize Carmichael had her files on us, and we had our own intel on her. Unfortunately—for Storm—that didn’t include any online skin shots or amateur porn. No selfies, no social media, no archived history. On the Internet, she simply didn’t exist, just like the rest of us.
That didn’t mean I hadn’t gone virtual dumpster diving as soon as she’d been introduced as the personal point of contact and head of T-Zone teams. There was a reason she was the woman in charge. She’d been in the field, her Middle Eastern stints nothing short of hair-raising. She was capable with weapons. She’d done deep ops on home turf, too. She’d been quietly—under the radar—lauded in the intelligence community.
Blaize didn’t wear medals on a uniform. No one knew who she was. She did her job, always in the shadows.
Respect.
In her early thirties, the woman had risen up the ranks quickly for a solid reason. She knew how to manage, motivate, disseminate the most important information, and she wasn’t a glory hound.
Huge respect.
Of course the motivation part came with a huge amount of ass-kicking.
Starting now.
She had her war face on as she marched to the end of the table. “After the Chehab fiasco and the internal review, you’re all lucky you’re still getting paychecks.” She eased out a chair and sat at the head of the table. “Walker.”
He glared at the ceiling, motioning her to continue with a lazy wave of his hand in her direction.
“Number One Fuck Up,” she said with a nice ice-cold smile.
I stifled the urge to laugh.
“First you bailed on your mission, failing to take the sheikah out. Then you dragged your entire team into an international chase that could’ve ended with all of you dead.” Blaize ticked off a few more fingers. “Then there was the whole fraternization situation in South Dakota with Majedah Chehab and with your other mark, Jade Huntington.”
I held my breath.
Storm glanced at Walker.
Walker unconcernedly adjusted the lever on his seat so it reclined another notch.
Bane glued his lips shut. The usual.
“Getting personal is not professional, Walker.” Blaize lost none of the sternness in her voice, but somehow her expression softened. For all of a second.
He rolled his eyes, and we all waited for him to blow.
“Lucky for you Jade proved worthy, and Majedah was innocent.”
“And?” Walker asked.
“You went with your instincts. And you were right. This time. Try it again, and you will have no career here, or anywhere else within the reach of the US government.”
“Ouch.” He rested his elbows on his knees. “Good thing I’m Native American, right?” He winked. “Got a long history with how to outrun and outgun the Grand Old Government.”
“Are you still in this team?”
“Yeah. But if I get the wrong information again, I’m still going off-rez with a mission. That’s not my fuck up.”
“Noted.” Turning toward Storm and me, Blaize laid in. “The two of you. Where do I start?”
Storm’s cheeks flushed under his swarthy skin. I gave nothing away but the tic in my jawline. Blaize was well known for her tongue-lashings—just not in the way Storm wanted.
“Stole several airplanes—” she began.
“Borrowed,” Storm uttered, glaring straight ahead.
“Blew up the hotel in Beirut.” Her blue eyes flamed brighter.
“Uh. That was Walker.” I squirmed in my seat.
“Took out two FBI agents—”
“Again. Walker’s fault.” I’d totally throw the man under the bus.
Or a tank.
Or whatever moving vehicle happened to be in the vicinity.
“You set off explosions, made kills that weren’t sanctioned, purloined government and private property, and barely got out with your skins intact,” she fired off.
“I really think Walker is to blame here,” I said.
Not for nothing, I’d totally do it all again.
“And you!” Blaize turned her wrath on Bane.
Good. He’d gone unscathed so far.
“Almost let Jade Huntington die.”
He shoved back his chair, gaining his feet. “I saved her life. Do you know how much junk they’d shot her up with?” Bane bit out each word like a bullet from between his thinned lips.
Unbelievably, Blaize smiled. “That’s exactly what I expect from each of you, every time you’re in the field.” She peered at us. “I took a lot o
f fucking heat because of your antics and mission-dissing decisions. Good goddamn thing it all worked out.”
What the huh?
“Now sit your ass down, Bane, and get out of my face.”
And Blaize is back. Thus ends the not-so-touchy-feely moment.
She half-stood, her pointer finger gaged at all of us. “Screw with my directives again and I will destroy you one by one.”
Definitely back.
Rounding the table, she slapped a folder in front of each of us. “These files have been uploaded to your accounts. The paper trail ends here, and there will be no leaks.”
I flipped through the dossier, scanning top to bottom, left to right.
Blaize hit a button, and our screens went live, showing a building under siege. Bombs lit up the sky and shook the structure on its foundations.
“Sana’a, Yemen. The American Embassy.” Blaize walked around the table, her heels like pistol shots ringing across the room. “All eyes are on this international event, and we cannot afford to fuck this one up. No SEALs, no Rangers, no Delta Force, no SOCON. You will be on your own.”
The footage ran in front of us. The US flag on fire. Missiles launched toward the structure, setting it ablaze. Black clad bodies scrambling over high reinforced walls surrounding the embassy compound. People—dead and dying—on the ground. The screams of the wounded. The percussive bombardment of explosives . . .
I chewed on my pen cap. “How do we even know anyone is still alive in there?”
“Outgoing encoded messages from Ambassador Lawless.” She hit a button to pull up the SOS texts. “They’re barricaded in the safe rooms in the residence. For now.”
“How old is this footage?” Storm scrolled with his fingertip against the monitor.
“Five hours.”
“Fuck. It’s gonna take at least fourteen to reach Yemen.” He kicked his chair back in disgust.
“Transport fueled and ready. Sanctioned”—Blaize sat on the edge of the table—“this time. Think you can handle that?”
Storm was a big black cloud Blaize couldn’t escape from when he rose in front of her.
“I can handle anything thrown in my direction, ma’am.” For the first time, he aimed his gaze directly at her.
Blaize’s lips parted, and she blinked slowly.
Five points: Storm. One: Blaize.
We’d be betting on that shit later.
Coming to her senses, Blaize jerked away from him and stalked to the far end of the room. “Get your asses in gear and get kitted out.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Bane, Storm, and I stood from the table.
Walker slouched down in his seat and crossed his hands behind his neck. “Ambassador Lawless? Name like that? He’s just looking for trouble.”
“Do we have another problem, Walker?” Blaize circuited the room toward him.
“No. Ma’am!” He stood and clicked his heels his heels together in a parody of a salute.
“Good.” Straightening the sleeves of her jacket, she hipped against the table. “Justice. You’re the lead this time.”
“Justice and Lawless?” Walker chuckle-chuckled.
“Shut it, Walker,” she ordered.
Unbelievably, he did.
I pressed a finger down on the closed dossier in front of my chair. “They? You said they earlier. Lawless and his wife?”
“Not his wife. His daughter is there. Matilda.”
“Matilda?”
Jesus.
Did her parents want her to die a lonely virgin or what, giving the girl a name like that?
“You have two hours to pack up and arm up.” Blaize dismissed us. “By the way, Ambassador James Lawless is a personal friend of mine.”
No pressure or anything.
Fuck. Me.
Chapter Three
Mission Stupid
FOR THE FIRST TIME since we’d embarked for Beirut on the hunt for Majedah Chehab, we were working aboveboard. Well, maybe not officially. Damn sure T-Zone wasn’t recognized by the US government, but we had authorized transport as opposed to the borrowed C17s, choppers, and other vehicles pressed into mission minus legitimate paperwork. What a difference that made. Even Storm was whistling, Bane wore a grim smile on his face, and Walker kept shooting off at the mouth with his usual loaded comments.
“Welcome to DeathStar Airlines. Please enjoy the in-flight entertainment”—he bowed so low the end of his braid nearly touched the floor of the C-12 Huron jet—“care of yours truly. We hope you have a pleasant stay in the hottest vacation destination in the Middle East, after Beirut of course.” With a flourish, he brandished his tablet and opened the screen to show the exterior rubble of the American Embassy. “Sana’a!”
“You’re so fucking twisted, dude.” I stowed my gear in the overhead bin and took a seat.
“C’mon, Jus. I tell folks all the time I work in the hospitality business. I rock this shit.”
“Full of fucking shit, more like.” Storm stalked past to the cockpit, a grin twitching the corners of his lips.
Walker had always been one hell of a pain in the ass, but he took point no matter what and was the first in, the last out despite any threats thrown at him. Seeing him a little more lighthearted, I wondered just what there’d been haunting his past—that one personal hardship all of us had scattered from—that Jade had made him let go.
Because normal people did not just sign up for jobs like this. It took a special breed of warriors with hard hearts, thick heads, and bulletproof consciences.
I peered over as he spread out his lanky frame. “Great place for a honeymoon then, wouldn’t you say? You pop the question to Jade yet?”
“Jade. She’s mean as a viper.” Bane shrugged off his night-black jacket, revealing bulky arms and shoulders covered in tats.
We were turning the man into a regular chatterbox.
“Yeah, she is.” Walker sighed, a dopey-as-fuck look on his face. “And no honeymoon in Sana’a. Last place any smart-thinking silent professional would want to visit on more than one occasion. And I’m pretty sure she already got the postcard and the T-shirt. Maybe even a scar or two.”
“So basically anyplace in the Mideast is out of the question?”
“Ditto that shit.” Walker crossed his arms behind his neck and shut his eyes, still with the goofy smirk. “I’m thinking Hawaii. Yeah. Sun and surf and heat. How much trouble could we get up to in Hawaii?” He squinted one eye open.
“Volcanoes,” Bane mumbled.
“Poisonous snakes and spiders. Possibly sharks?” I mentioned.
“Probably a cartel or two too,” Storm called back, conducting his in-flight check.
“Killjoys. Fuck off. I’m in love.”
Bane leaned across the center aisle and rubbed his hands across his skull cut. “Oh, trust me. We know. It’s fucking weird.”
“You should try it, my man.” Walker licked his lips with nothing short of glee.
Yep. The badasses were back together—and not on the run for a change.
At least not yet.
We’d had two hours to get our shit together. The fake passports. False IDs. Real money in more than one currency. Firearms, ammo, MREs, spare clothes, and always an extra pair of boots and just one more knife. That left little time to say adios to loved ones.
Walker was the only one of us guys who’d had to have the official who-to-contact-if-I-don’t-make-it-back conversation.
It couldn’t feel good, leaving the woman he loved behind when so much was up in the air between him and Jade.
Still, I envied the shit out of him for finding his perfect match.
Walker sauntered to the cockpit to take the copilot’s seat even though he shut his fucking eyes on takeoff and touchdown because of the sudden change in heights. I still couldn’t believe he’d done the HAHO jump last op. From the way Storm told the story of Walker’s drop over Beirut, anyone would think he’d jumped off the ledge of a sheer, sky-high cliff with no parachute in sight instead of the state
of the art T-11 strapped to his back.
Walker maintained Storm had pushed him out the side of the Sikorsky helicopter.
Glancing at Storm’s lean, mean silhouette, I tended to believe Walker.
Once we were airborne, I turned to study Bane. He wore his seriousness like a badge of honor. No more than twenty-nine, the man was strictly professional to a T, except when dealing with Storm. They’d obviously butted heads before being put on the same team. The tension between them was thick as thunderclouds.
Maybe it was about a woman, but I doubted it. Storm clearly hungered for Blaize, and Bane showed no interest in her at all outside of the imperative.
I had no idea if Bane had a sex drive, a sex life . . . any life at all outside of work. Not that I wanted to know the details, but he was as close-lipped as they came. His shield was stitched on the outside as much as the high tech body armor he wore. As much as the roiling black ink marking the breadth of his shoulders and the back of his neck.
Maybe better that way. We all strived to maintain our silence about important life shit. I’d been driven to this lifestyle. Didn’t need to know if Bane’s reasons were better or worse than mine.
He was good at the job. Damn good.
That was what mattered.
His mind worked ceaselessly, crossing all pathways and contingencies. And despite his scary scars, he was good with his patients, those who needed his help. Putting them at ease with a touch, quickly stitching wounds as painlessly as possible. Bringing people back from the dead.
Jade.
That final night in Beirut.
Fuck.
The shitstorm had been eyeball high with Jade taking most of the heat care of Majedah’s cunt of a husband—Qasim Hassan, the Shia reactionary.
Jade hadn’t turned gray. She’d turned dead-fucking-white. Her heart had stopped more times than I could remember, and we’d never told Walker how close she’d come to walking across death’s threshold once and forever.
The way he’d held onto her in the front seat of the Hummer.
