by P. A. DePaul
He hopped to the ground and the medic wasted no time slamming the side door shut as the pilot lifted off.
“We finally ready to enter the fight, sir?” Jersey asked, turning his NVG-hidden eyes toward Malone while fiddling with the flap on his vest pocket.
Malone unlocked his clenched jaw. “Yeah. Let’s finish this.”
Chapter 3
Ridge Creek, North Carolina—Present Day
Cappy dropped his chin to his chest and shook his head. Unbelievable.
He peered at the computer screen again, praying he’d see something different, but of course nothing had changed. The large photo remained stubbornly fixed on the social media site. Goddamn it. Didn’t Jillian realize anyone could see this on the Internet?
Cappy slumped against the headboard and adjusted the laptop resting across his thighs. Unable to sleep, he had decided to check in on his three younger sisters. Jennifer, the oldest of the three, didn’t have any new updates. Julie only gave a quick mention about her two kids adjusting to the new school year. But Jillian, the youngest sibling with a ten year age gap from him, posted a picture of her raising a wineglass while trying to smack a kiss on some guy’s cheek. Cappy could practically smell the vast quantity of alcohol she must have consumed to have that wonky-eyed, red-cheeked expression. Christ. Not helping one bit was the caption, “Having a blast in Cancun!” telling the sickos of the world where to find her.
He counted down from ten in his head. At twenty-eight, Jillian should know better. For the millionth time, he wished he could pick up the phone and rip into his flighty sister. But he couldn’t. Not because it would be O’dark-thirty in Mexico but because a dead man shouldn’t be able to dial a phone.
He signed off and snapped the lid shut. He couldn’t take any more family time. Lord knew what he’d see if he continued to run down his list.
Grabbing his usual uniform of T-shirt and cargo pants out of his duffel, he quickly donned the clothing. The other double bed filling the space appeared suspiciously unused. He growl-sighed and finished lacing his combat boots. Next stop, coffee machine.
Outside of the guest bedroom, thick plastic sheeting covered the floor-to-ceiling living room windows and rapped against the surface. On top of that, the forest wind howled and whistled through the myriad of bullet holes marring the once-beautiful glass, invading what should have been a quiet Saturday morning.
He rounded the corner of a cathedral-height stone fireplace acting like a partition between the living and dining rooms and stopped abruptly. “You’ve been at it all night again, haven’t you?”
Ted Byrnes’s head snapped up and he stared at Cappy a second too long without comprehension in his blurry eyes. The thin man’s hair stood up on the back of his head and his shirt was buttoned wrong.
Cappy sighed at his temporary roommate. “You can’t keep this pace up.”
“Can’t help it.” The computer genius, and now unofficial member of Delta Squad, slumped on a dining chair, one of the few left after a sniper tried to kill them all ten days ago. “I’ve got too many projects going and not enough time to put all the fires out.”
Too true. Right now, everything was in flux, to put it mildly. Using his old military jargon, he’d describe it more like tits up, FUBAR, and SNAFU.
He needed coffee. Six a.m. was too early for all the bullshit to start grinding away at his gut and not be properly caffeinated.
“Senator Harris is worried about Uncle Victor sitting in a public prison instead of one of our holding cells. With him knowing every skeleton and dead body in SweetBriar Group’s closet, he could talk to the press and reveal the hidden side of SBG.”
Cappy snorted. “I wouldn’t put it past the bastard. Especially when he was the one responsible for putting most of those skeletons in our closet, but he can’t be moved. Too much coverage of his arrest, bail denial, and transfer to the Kansas penitentiary.”
Victor Dalmingo had been the CEO and public face of SweetBriar Group, an environmental company that was really a front for the biggest privately funded mercenary-style agency in existence, before Delta Squad joined forces with Kansas U.S. Senator Bob Harris to take him down. The pompous ass even coined the company motto “Black Ops Without the Red Tape.” The fact the U.S. government was SBG’s biggest client should have the Senator worried. The man had to keep it and all the operatives like Delta Squad out of the public’s awareness.
Ted blinked and Cappy’s irritation lessened a notch. He had a soft spot for the twenty-seven-year-old. The guy had made a very hard choice a few weeks ago; saving the lives of Delta Squad over a family bond could’ve very easily gone the other direction. Thank God the kid chose them. Ted may be socially awkward, but the genius was an asset Cappy would utilize to the fullest to keep his squad safe.
“We any closer to identifying Victor’s personal assassin squad?” Cappy drummed his fingers while the brewing coffee hissed and steamed. It had been rumored for years that the CEO had a personal squad who answered only to him.
“Not yet. Obviously the ones we killed were part of that group and no longer an issue,” Ted answered with a sigh, peering around at the bullet holes dotting the walls and furniture. “I know it’s important, and I have it on my ‘to-do’ list, but it’s not the highest priority.”
The single-serve Keurig machine finally snapped off. Cappy grabbed his tall thermos, and screwed the cap on. Even after he transitioned from the Green Berets to SBG, he never bothered developing a taste for things like sugar and cream. Too many years in the field without the luxuries had him set in his ways.
“What are you working on now?”
Ted ran his fingers through his hair, leaving tracks behind.
How long had it been since the genius took a shower? Cappy took a large, fortifying swallow. He’d remedy that in a minute.
“The Senator wants every SBG facility cleared out by week’s end in case the shit hits the fan.” Ted pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes. Senator Bob Harris had taken control of the clandestine side of SBG when Victor was arrested, while the Board of Directors maintained the public face. “We can’t go to any of our backup sites because Victor set those up. So I’m frantically trying to find suitable places all across the country, buying out the owners using all new fake identities I’ve had to create, and setting up the logistics of the move.”
“Where’s the rest of the IT staff? You weren’t the only one working for SBG. Why aren’t they helping?”
“They are. Since I’m one of the few IT technicians with a level-five clearance and the only one Bob trusts at the moment, it all falls on me.”
“Gotcha.” Cappy prayed the brew would kick in soon. “Not to add to your plate, but you’ve got a handle on the blackmail Victor used against the Senator, right?”
“Yeah. I copied everything off the ghost drives I found on SBG’s servers onto my own. Which not only included the Senator, but everyone else Victor kept under his thumb. I then destroyed the ghost drives and closed the ability to set up another one.”
Cappy understood only a part of that answer. “Good. I don’t trust Victor to stay quiet in prison.”
“No one does.” Ted rubbed his eyes again. “With all the squads officially ordered to go to ground it’s a good thing Grady’s allowing us to stay—”
“Seriously?” Talon’s angry disbelief had Cappy jerking his head toward the fireplace, where his operative emerged from the shadows. “We’re staying? I thought the sale of the house behind here was expedited?”
Cappy swallowed another mouthful of caffeine. His subordinate was difficult to get along with on the best of days, but now that he nursed a broken heart, his moods were evolving to downright vile.
“It is,” Cappy answered. “We should have the deed in the next few days, but you know we’ve still got the demolition inside to reconfigure the layout and to set up the perimeter security around these two
homes.”
“Hey, guys.”
Wonderful. The object of Talon’s jealousy popped out on the other side of the partition. Except for the eyes—Casper Grady’s were crystal blue and Talon’s were emerald green—the two were similar: blond hair, muscular physiques, and both in love with Wraith, the squad’s reinstated sniper. At least Cappy hoped Wraith would convert her “definite possibility” to rejoin the squad answer into a “yes.” Not only would he regain the best sniper in SBG’s history, he’d inherit Grady’s former Marine skills too, because the civilian made it clear he wouldn’t allow Wraith to go into danger without being there to watch her back.
“What’s going on? Why’s everyone up so early?” Grady asked in his deep Carolina drawl while strolling to the Keurig, forcing Cappy to the side.
“Ted never went to bed,” Cappy answered. “I’m a light sleeper. Couldn’t rest with the plastic banging against the glass—”
“Sorry about that.” Grady grimaced. “Replacements have been ordered.”
“Not a complaint.” Cappy waved a hand.
Talon marched toward the coffee machine—the one Grady currently blocked—and paused, slapping his hands on his hips. “You going to move today or what?”
Grady casually scratched the open area at the base of his throat where a silver chain with a three-headed spiraling dragon pendant now rested against his skin. Talon’s eyes narrowed and his fingers whitened. The team’s symbol, the one they all wore proudly, had been given to Grady by Wraith when she publically declared her love for him.
Tipping his full mug in Talon’s direction, Grady leisurely stepped to the side, smirking at Talon’s death stare and taking a noisy slurp.
Cappy inwardly sighed. Those two had already wailed on each other like two schoolboys in the backyard. The bruises from that fight had only just faded, they didn’t need to add a fresh set. Regardless of who provoked whom, Cappy’s sympathy went out to Talon. It couldn’t be easy living with the man who captured the heart of the woman you’re in love with.
“Uh, Cappy,” Ted said, trepidation dripping in his voice, “you better come look at this.”
Christ. What now? His cell phone rang.
“Don’t answer that,” Ted yelled. “You need to see this first.”
Fuck.
“What’s going on?” Wraith asked, tightening her sable hair into a ponytail as she rounded the partition, wearing a Gradwick Adventure Center polo, matching Grady’s.
Cappy would bet his left nut her going into work today was all Grady’s doing to keep her away from Talon. Those three needed to get a handle on this before Cappy was forced to intervene.
The room filled up with almost the whole gang. The only two missing were Magician and Romeo—what a pair. He’d assigned those two to tie up loose ends in the mid-west and return at the end of the week.
The phone in Cappy’s hand rang again and Senator Harris’s name flashed across the display.
“I’m serious,” Ted said. “If that’s the Senator, you should look at this first.”
Son of a bitch. He strode around the kitchen island and stationed himself just to the left of Ted’s chair. The rest of the group piled in around him.
YouTube filled one of the monitor screens with a frozen video in the center. The title “Playboy’s Last Fling” dominated the space below the video screen.
Cappy’s stomach tightened.
“I took a break and trolled the Internet.” Ted pointed. “This video on YouTube already has ten thousand hits and after skipping through it, I pulled this off the nine-one-one database.” Ted highlighted another file and an audio equalizer popped up on the other monitor. Green lines jumped on a black background as voices began to speak.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” a female operator asked.
“Um,” a frazzled male voice said twice. “I need to report a murder.”
“A murder, sir?”
A throat cleared. “Yes.”
“What’s your address, sir?”
“Blakely Hotel. Down-downtown Indianapolis.”
“Did you witness the murder, sir?”
The man swallowed loudly. “Ah, no.”
“How do you know it’s a murder, sir?”
“I’m, ah, the night manager. One of my room service attendants entered the suite this morning to deliver a breakfast order Mr. Colin Harris prearranged and discovered him dead in his bed.” Audible swallow. “The blood . . .”
Oh shit.
Ted stopped the tape. “The rest is just the operator keeping him on the line until the police arrived.”
Ted clicked the “Play” icon on the video.
A shaky image from some type of handheld camera showed the Senator’s son, Colin, strolling along the sidewalk in front of the hotel. The cameraman must have been positioned at least four floors up based on the angle and lack of close zoom. The woman Colin escorted weaved and bobbed, obviously drunk. Her long-sleeved, mid-length black dress showcased a pair of generous hips, making Cappy straighten and take notice. A pair of heels dangled from her right hand and she barely missed smacking the doorman in the head with them. She giggled and petted the uniformed man before Colin pulled her inside. The video faded to black then reappeared with a blurry image of a darkened hotel suite.
The cameraman was now level with the room.
Cappy’s phone rang again. This time he needed no encouragement to ignore it.
Lights flashed on and the camera’s autofocus sharpened to catch the couple laughing in the foyer as Colin closed and locked the door. The cameraman zoomed in and Cappy’s pulse began to race. He must have made a sound because Ted whipped around to cast a quizzical expression at him. He ignored it and narrowed his eyes on the screen.
The woman straightened and tossed her shoes and purse on top of an ottoman near the door. She turned and the cameraman got a clear shot of her face. Cappy’s heart froze. Son of a bitch. The face of both his nightmares and dreams now stared at him. Michelle Alger of Laurel, Delaware with a rainbow butterfly tattoo on her left hip.
She tottered farther into the living room area just as Colin pulled a bottle of champagne out of a silver ice bucket and held it up. Michelle clapped a hand across her mouth and laughed, bending at the waist. Cappy gripped his coffee mug. The oily SOB peered right down the front of her modest dress. Colin popped the cork and Cappy imagined hearing the startled shriek accompanying Michelle’s laughter. Colin poured two glasses and Michelle grabbed one overflowing with bubbles.
She went to wipe her hand but Colin quickly grabbed it and licked the sparkling wine off her fingers.
“This guy’s smooth,” Grady murmured. “That was definitely a practiced move.”
Cappy had no words suitable so he kept his mouth shut. He had no right to feel the volcano brewing inside him but it built just the same. He wasn’t on a mission to rescue her anymore. She was a grown woman. It wasn’t his job to save her from making stupid choices like the one he witnessed in front of him now.
Michelle had barely taken a sip when Colin pulled her glass away and placed it on an end table. He dropped onto the couch and held his arms up. She hesitated, biting her lower lip, then laughed when he grabbed her and pulled her on top of him. The fabric of her skirt was loose enough, allowing her to straddle him. He wasted no time plunging his tongue into her mouth and running his hands all over her.
Cappy had to consciously work at loosening his fingers before he dented the stainless steel thermos. Her posture appeared stiff and awkward but Colin didn’t seem to care as he practically mauled her for God knew how long.
Finally, when Cappy didn’t think he could take any more, Colin rolled forward, helping Michelle stand unsteadily, then heaved himself up. He grabbed the champagne bottle and ushered her toward a doorway.
Lights went on in the next room.
The bedroom,
of course, because those Fate bitches hated him. Cappy swallowed and told himself he had to watch no matter what happened next.
Michelle took the bottle from Colin, weaved to the windows, placed it on a table, then pulled the curtains shut. Thank God.
The cameraman continued to film even though nothing could be seen through the heavy curtains. Four long, ulcer-producing minutes later, Michelle appeared. She ran from the bedroom, and with jerky, frantic movements, she resituated her dress. Pausing, she glanced back into the bedroom, then dashed for the foyer and promptly threw up in the corner. Shaking, she brushed a hand through her medium-length hair and wiped her eyes. Without another look, she grabbed her shoes and purse and raced out the door.
The cameraman swung the handheld to film the hotel’s front door and within a minute, Michelle appeared, running up the street.
The video ended.
Chapter 4
Michelle Holman cradled her pounding head and groaned. Closing her eyes against the bright sun piercing the fast food joint’s windows, she rested her elbows on the Formica table.
The extra-large coffee was not doing the trick.
She was already seriously late for work and bet Senior Park Ranger Rick Spitz—aka Major Prick—was probably foaming at the mouth. Tough darts. No way could she motivate her hungover body to move any faster than a snail this morning.
Another brief snatch of last night’s disaster assaulted her brain. This time shutting the hotel curtains after denying Colin’s offer to pour another glass of champagne. She groaned again softly and dug the heels of her palms into the grit weighting her eyes. She had barely slept last night due to the vertigo, roiling stomach, and constant images. Why had she allowed her coworker to talk her into breaking her stay-away-from-guys rule? Had she honestly thought last night would end differently than the other few times she’d attempted to start a relationship or even a one-night stand? If her aversion to performing most things sexual didn’t kill the mood, the scars on her body usually did the trick.
