Hotshot

by Mann, Catherine

  “Damn it, Don, you need to back down with all these orders. I’m already up to my ass in panicked calls from that California congressman, Mooney. You’re CIA, so you get the international problems.” Her husky tones went raspy with irritation. “I’m FBI, which makes this U.S.-based mess my jurisdiction.”

  He knew the best way to sidetrack her when she got her professional panties in a twist. “So if we were in Paris, I would get to be on top.”

  Silence vibrated through the airwaves while highway lamps strobed light through his windows. They both knew jockeying for top was one of their favorite sex games.

  She cleared her throat. “Inappropriate, Don. Have you forgotten there were two dead people on your daughter’s doorstep? We’ve lost an important link to a terrorist plot.”

  “Of course I haven’t forgotten a thing.” Another reason to appreciate that numbing habit he’d honed. “Like how my daughter is still walking around out there.”

  “I’ve added a higher security detail trailing her.”

  Not the answer he wanted. “Tell that to the dead kid. A lot can happen in a few days. Vince will be tied up with his team giving the telecomm briefing, and I’ll be in D.C., which is a helluva long way to watch her back.” He’d almost lost his daughter once, the only thing to ever break his control. “She needs to know to be extra careful.”

  “Even assuming she’s completely innocent, she needs to act natural so as not to set off any alarms that would put her in more danger.” Paulina spoke slowly but firmly. “Bottom line, Don, it’s not your call. She’s already getting special consideration because I pulled strings for you. Think like an agent, not her father. You’ll only make things worse for her if you deviate from the path we both know is the safest.”

  He took his frustration down a notch. He didn’t have any choice but to keep silent. Best to move past it and hope his daughter wouldn’t hate him even more when she found out.

  Three exhales later, he’d shifted gears in his mind as well as on the Beemer. His brain filled with thoughts of seeing Paulina at the airport. After work they would race to her apartment. There was no love between them, not even like, because that would entail getting to know each other. They enjoyed something more in line with mutual respect and sex.

  And sex offered the perfect way out of this discussion. “What would you like as payback for all this special consideration you’re giving me?”

  She laughed, but with an edge that relayed clearly she hadn’t forgotten a word of their argument. “I think it’s more a matter of what else I can do for you, lover.”

  Motorcycle rumbling under him, Vince trailed Shay down the neighborhood road dense with trees. After their compulsory trip the police station, the feel of the first-rate bike should have soothed the beast at the end of a nightmare day.

  Except he’d never had a day quite like this one.

  Sure, he’d been confronted with dead bodies before, and he’d thought he could handle seeing Shay Bassett again. But no memory of her from the past could have prepared him for her in the present, standing down a coked-up kid carrying a fucking machete.

  He wasn’t naive enough to think the kid’s murder would put an end to the threat. The timing didn’t feel coincidental. Maybe the kid hadn’t been hyped up, or maybe someone got him juiced and sent him in for her. But there was more to this than any of them knew.

  He cleared the security gate and pulled into the complex of two-story brick town houses. He cruised to a stop in the spot next to hers. Shay swung her long legs out of the rusty sedan, tweaking his attention much the same way she’d done as a teen. She’d known how to use those gams to her best advantage back then in short skirts.

  Somehow her current, less in-your-grill uniform of jeans and cotton button-down with a community center logo still packed a helluva punch.

  She hip-bumped the car door closed. “I suppose you want to check the place before I walk inside.”

  Hell yes, he wanted to do a walk-through, not that she seemed happy about the prospect, and he certainly couldn’t brief her on the plan, not with her connection to the kid still suspect.

  For now though, he needed to secure Shay.

  Good old reverse psychology used to work like a charm on her. So if he wanted inside, the best way would be to make her think otherwise. “Looks like a nice neighborhood to me.” He scanned the area. Security lighting illuminated a neatly landscaped dog-walk park. “I figure you’re safe.”

  Her brown eyes widened. “It is. I am.”

  “Well, good then, I’m outta here.” He started to turn toward his bike again, slow, giving her a second, then glanced back, and sure enough, she didn’t look all that comfortable about entering her apartment. “Is something wrong?”

  “Dead bodies.” She rubbed her hands along her arms again just as she’d done outside the community center. “As a nurse, I’ve seen them before, but tonight, this was . . .”

  “Obscenely violent.” He stepped closer to her, mind games over for the night. “You had also just been held up by someone with a machete.”

  “I know what to expect in my job, and I hate seeming like a wimp.”

  “Especially in front of me, I’ll bet.”

  “Nice to see your ego hasn’t suffered over the past seventeen years.” She shot him a schoolteacherish glance. “I may have thrown myself at you a while back, but you can be sure I haven’t built a miniature altar with your picture and pink heart candles.”

  He thumped his chest. “I’m crushed.

  She jabbed a thumb toward her front door, covered with a wrought-iron gate. “Pop the damn trunk, so to speak. You’re a lot scarier-looking than I am, anyway.”

  Scary? If she felt that way about him, she sure hid it well.

  Once she unlocked the door, he angled past her as she tapped in the security code. “Hold tight to that chick gun until I call the all clear.”

  The apartment echoed with silence other than a trickle, trickle, trickle that he soon realized was a wall-mounted waterfall rather than a leaky faucet. He walked down the narrow hall, past the wall fountain made of stone, a blue glow emanating from the pool at the base.

  He clicked on the switch, track lighting rippling to life in the—so far—empty apartment. He scanned the simple brown sofa, strewn with bright pillows, a blanket over the back.

  And a dog curled in the middle staring back with wide eyes.

  Vince scratched the mini mutt with wiry fur behind the ear. “You’re a rotten watchdog.”

  The bristly pup lapped his tongue over Vince’s wrist. With a final pat, he walked away, past the kitchenette with a decorative butter churn. “You okay there, Shay?”

  “Still holding up the doorframe.”

  “Keep talking to me so I know you’re all right. I’m heading back to your bedroom.” He sidestepped an antique spinning wheel.

  “Just ignore the trapeze and the garter belt hanging from the ceiling fan.”

  His pulse surged, even though sarcasm dripped from her words. “No dominatrix whip? How sad.”

  He flicked on her bedroom light. The ceiling fan circled to life without a piece of lingerie in sight. He strode past the old-fashioned wooden bed tightly made with a quilt. “Talk. I can’t hear you.”

  “Vince, hands off my panties.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” It was easy enough for her to joke when she didn’t know the full extent of the danger. He resisted the urge to lock her in her apartment until he could share details. He ducked to check under the bed and found nothing but wicker baskets neatly aligned.

  A trapeze definitely would have been a shocker in this Amish decor.

  He scanned for anything linking her to the dead kid, any evidence of her participation in the gang-terrorist connection. He tugged open her bedside table and found a stash of community center stationery. Could be innocent enough.

  His eyes roamed her CD collection in a spinning tower, searching for anything that looked like the cheap training footage the Feds had found in the dead ki
d’s apartment.

  Nothing suspicious, which meant she could either be innocent or careful.

  “Shay? Is there a back door?”

  “Nope, and if you take much longer, I’m going to grow roots here. I don’t know about you, but I just want to go to bed and put this day behind me.”

  He really didn’t need an image of her curling up in that bed wearing . . . Stopping that thought midflight, he checked the two bathrooms and computer/guest room until he was content everything was as it should be, all the way down to the doilies. “All’s clear.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate the look around, but I think we can finally turn the page on this strange reunion.” She stepped inside, giving him a wide berth.

  “Rearm your security system and double-check those dead bolts. I don’t believe you’re going to get much protection from this yippy yard shark.” He ruffled the mutt, maybe ten pounds of steel wool fur.

  “Yard shark?” She parked herself by the small dining table, the farthest point from him.

  “Dogs usually don’t like motorcycles. A charging pooch can make maneuvering tricky.”

  “Then I guess my place is officially Vince-proofed to make up for Buster’s guard doggy deficiencies.”

  “Where did you find this bruiser?” he asked, not ready to leave her alone just yet. Instincts counted for everything in a job, and right now his instincts told him this woman needed more than a little gun and a lazy puppy.

  “Actually, he found me.” She snapped her fingers, and the dog bounded from the sofa toward her. “I went hiking with friends and stumbled across this guy abandoned with no collar. Are you ready to go now?”

  “What?” He looked up and found her eying the door pointedly. “I don’t even get a drink of water?”

  She scooped up her pet, stroking a springy thatch of bristle on top of Buster’s head. “Do you need a glass of water?”

  “Not really. Just wanted you to offer. So about those hiking friends, is there some guy in your life?” Some fella to whom he could pass over protection duty or at least split time with?

  “Noneya.”

  “None of my business, huh?” He scanned her cluttered apartment. “I don’t see cuddly couple pictures anywhere.”

  “They’re all in my boudoir on a ruffled table with heart candles.”

  “Scented?” Why was he goading her? She’d been through hell. Maybe that was it. He wanted to distract her. Yeah, he was gonna go with that. “I checked your bedroom, remember? Nice undies.”

  She set the dog down with an exasperated sigh. “What is wrong with you? We’ve seen dead bodies tonight. It’s”—she glanced at her wristwatch—“three twenty-seven in the morning, and I have to be at work in less than four hours. You never even liked me, so I know you’re not flirting.”

  “I flirt with everyone.” True enough. Women understood he was never in one place long enough for any kind of deep relationship.

  “And there your charm just lost what little shine it had.” She patted her mouth in a big, exaggerated yawn, one mimicked by Buster.

  “You’re right. I should get going.” He couldn’t stay here and pick fights with her until the threat left. He would be better served catching a couple hours’ shut eye so he didn’t fall asleep in the middle of the telecomm.

  “Yes, you should.” She crowded his space and urged him toward the door.

  He stopped dead in his tracks, forcing her to stop just short of bumping into him. There was one last detail he could take care of now. “You really should lighten up on your old man a bit.”

  “Uh”—she inched back a step—“what part of noneya do you not understand?”

  “I’ve never been good at keeping my big nose out of other people’s business.” God, he hoped she was as innocent as she appeared.

  “My dad and I don’t have business for anyone to get into.”

  “He cares.” Strange how the guy instilled so much loyalty in the teens he’d worked with but not an ounce of it carried over to his own daughter.

  She looked around the apartment. “I’m really feeling the love from Don right now. You can barely tolerate me, and yet you’re here to make sure I’m okay.”

  “People have different ways of showing they care.”

  “With Don, it’s kinda like that tree falling in a forest thing. Does it really count if you never get to hear it? Or see it? And oh my God, I can’t believe I’m still talking to you. This is it.” She spun him around, hands planted on his back. “Reunion officially over.”

  Her touch seared.

  He paused in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder. “No good-bye hug?”

  Her lips pursed tight. “Thank you for your help. Take care of yourself, and I’ll see you in another seventeen years.”

  He fished his keys from his pocket. Seventeen years?9 Think again.

  FIVE

  Don watched his back.

  A CIA guy in FBI headquarters in D.C. couldn’t be too careful, after all. Rivalry between the agencies didn’t disappear, even with better communication. Of course, communication had never been his strong suit. Just ask Jayne, who was still chewing his ass via e-mail.

  Between Jayne and Paulina, he couldn’t catch a break.

  At least he had one major thing to be grateful for. Paulina’s handwriting experts had determined that Shay’s signature on the letters found in young Kevin’s apartment had been a forgery. The Feds no longer suspected she was involved.

  She was just sitting in the middle of a bull’s-eye.

  Striding into the FBI briefing room, Don walked alongside Lieutenant Colonel Rex Scanlon, the commander of Vince Deluca’s dark ops test squadron and a man in serious need of new glasses to replace his Buddy Holly frames. Scanlon would stay in D.C. throughout the operation, acting as a liaison between Vince’s team and the intelligence community here.

  Within minutes, the briefing room would be filled with Congress members and NSA representatives. All were gathering for the telecomm with Vince Deluca and the team of crewmembers he’d put together in Cleveland.

  A single table stretched down the middle of the room with a television suspended from the ceiling, the monitor filled with the image of a room similar to this one. The select team of aviators began to file into that faraway room.

  Scanlon made a beeline toward the coffeepot like a man on a mission for java, the manna of any respectable workaholic. The commander kept his voice low as he gave Don a running commentary on the flyers filing in after Vince, starting with a lanky, athletic type. “That’s Captain Jimmy Gage, a copilot who used to fly surveillance planes. Hotwire’s the man to watch your back in a bar fight—if he hasn’t started the brawl himself.”

  Don watched Jimmy Gage fold into a seat next to Vince. “Jimmy Gage’s file says he’s fearless, that he will try anything in a plane.”

  “And his file is right.”

  God, he missed the crew days. Mentoring kids was important to him, but it hadn’t completely filled the void, and his CIA work tended to be solo or administrative. Fingering the nitro tablets in his pocket, he had to face reality.

  Getting old stank.

  Scanlon filled a cup with steaming java as the next aviator in a green flight suit streamed into the room on the television. “That’s Tech Sergeant Mason ‘Smooth’ Randolph. He’s all about finesse on the ground and in the air.”

  Don mentally scanned the files he’d read. The flight engineer also pulled gunner and loadmaster duties. These dark ops test aviators could fly anything, anywhere, even swapping out positions without hesitation. Of course, working in the test world meant being able to fly a new aircraft or an old one with cutting-edge modifications and write the manual—if the aircraft didn’t crash and burn first.

  Scanlon gestured with his coffee cup toward the TV screen. “Watch your women around Smooth. He uses that same finesse with the ladies.”

  Don’s eyes shot straight to Paulina, who was adjusting the volume on the telecomm monitor. Damn, her ass looked gr
eat in those pencil-thin skirts, and it appeared the young sergeant had noticed, too, as she walked back out the door. Don frowned as Scanlon continued.

  “Lastly, Deluca brought in the expertise of Captain David ‘Ice’ Berg. His analytical genius is invaluable in synthesizing data.”

  “A navigator, right?”

  “That’s what he started out as, then later trained to be a fire control officer. He and Deluca haven’t worked together often. He’s stepping in for the nav Deluca usually flies with, Chuck Tanaka.” Scanlon’s face went dark.

  Don trod warily. Tanaka’s hellish experience overseas had rocked the CIA world. Two and a half months ago, Tanaka had been kidnapped in Eastern Europe by a group selling military secrets to the highest bidder. Vince’s test unit had been instrumental in breaking up the ring while locating and rescuing Tanaka. But not before the man endured two weeks of torture. “Tanaka’s still in the hospital, correct?”

  Scanlon topped off his coffee with an overly controlled precision. “He’s actually right up the road in Maryland at Malcolm Grow Medical Center at Andrews Air Force Base. Being here in D.C. gives me a chance to check in on him.”

  Tanaka had a long road ahead of him. No doubt he would spend some time on a shrink’s couch. Don’s hand dropped to his BlackBerry.

  Why couldn’t Jayne understand it was guys like Tanaka who suffered from PTSD, not him? So he’d flown combat missions. The stress had been intense at times, but he dealt with it fine on his own. He still was, damn it. She was just looking for ways to blame him for the past rather than owning up to her part.

  Paulina returned, cutting his thought short as she es corted in Congresswoman Raintree, Congressman Mooney, and two representatives from the NSA. Don settled into his seat along with everyone else, careful to keep his eyes on Paulina’s face and nothing else.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. And welcome to our air force contingent in Cleveland. For those of you I haven’t met yet, I’m Special Agent Paulina Wilson. Thank you, Colonel Scanlon, for sharing some of your people with us for this operation. We realize how undermanned units are these days and appreciate your help in getting to the root of this terrorist threat.”