Shadow of Doubt (An SBG Novel Book 2)

by P. A. DePaul

  He forced himself to take a deep breath and pick up the phone. “I’m here,” he replied softly.

  “I warned you what would happen if you didn’t meet my demands.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I expect payment to resume,” the blackmailer said, obviously ignoring the question. “I’ve given you instructions. If I don’t see the first installment by end of day tomorrow, your wife is next.”

  ***

  Griffin tossed the chunky enhanced phone onto the mattress, not really caring if he received the money or not. Jerking the Senator around was Victor’s game, not his.

  Movement out of the corner of his eye had him whirling, hands up, ready to defend himself.

  Nothing.

  He straightened with disgust. Just his goddamn reflection in the floor-length mirror. A stranger’s face stared back at him. After six years, he still wasn’t used to the new face the plastic surgeons had to give him when his old one was too mangled to save.

  Cracking his neck from left to right to relieve the stress, he flopped onto the edge of the queen-sized bed and glared at the thing thumping on top of his leg.

  He curled his state-of-the-art as-real-looking-as-a-piece-of-metal-with-a-silicon-covering-could-be prosthetic hand into a fist against the phantom voice of Major Wilson’s proclamation, “You can’t stay in Special Forces if you’re not in one hundred percent prime condition. Budget cuts. You understand, right?”

  Griffin had been lying in the hospital, missing most of his right arm, and his face bandaged from the first of what would be many surgeries when the Major strode in, revulsion eclipsing his face before he hid it. The asshole then slapped a white envelope onto Griffin’s little table and pronounced his career over. Disability Discharge. The Green Berets, no, the Army, no longer wanted his services.

  As if he asked for his fucking arm to get blown off.

  The doctor had chosen that moment to walk in holding up a temporary starter limb, crooked at the elbow, driving the point home that every goddamned thing he had worked for, everything he dreamed of having would never happen. He snapped.

  It took an MP and a tranquilizer to drag him off the Major’s bloodied body. When he woke up, Victor had made himself comfortable in the visitor’s chair. The man had a fire and zeal during his recruitment pitch, and by the time he was finished, Griffin hadn’t hesitated to become a member of the man’s personal assassin squad in exchange for a new life and all his medical expenses paid.

  Pain shot down his arm, jerking Griffin back into the present. He curled his lip in disgust. As if the thing could actually be hurt, but every fucking minute his limb ached.

  If that bitch, Michelle, had stayed in sunny California like a normal student, he wouldn’t have been ordered to help rescue her ass from the drug cartel. What the hell had she been thinking, going on a camping trip to the Osvaldo’s compound like it was Disneyland?

  The memory of Michelle’s broken body overlapped with the terrified expression he captured through his lens as she tore out of Colin’s hotel room and into the street. He chuckled into the empty room. He wished he could’ve seen the look on her face when Colin threw back the covers and showed off the handcuffs.

  Griffin could just imagine it. She probably got all googly-eyed and stuttery, maybe even squealed.

  The Senator’s son had been completely game to let Griffin into his hotel room to set it up when he guaranteed Michelle loved it kinky and rough. Of course the five Benjamins Griffin slipped him for forgoing his usual bimbos and targeting the bitch probably helped too.

  Did the Senator make the call yet? Or better yet, had Michelle kept that fucking piece of paper all these years and called Malone herself?

  No, not Malone, Cappy. The man had adopted a new name upon entering SBG just like he had.

  Whatever name the bastard used, her running to that man for help would make this plan so much sweeter.

  Sweeter, but not necessary. Victor was positive the Senator would assign his personal lap dogs to investigate his own son’s death. And no doubt Delta Squad would hop to do the man’s bidding, thereby ensuring Michelle and Cappy were together again. Griffin’s fake fist spasmed at the thought of that son of a bitch. The change that had come over the captain when they had entered the room in Colombia and her reaction to his “heroics” left little room to doubt their chemistry. Christ, the asshole had even chosen his codename when he entered SBG’s program because of her. Barf. The bastard had always strutted in front of the unit, vainly believing himself to be a great American hero. A soldier’s soldier. What a G.I. Joke. He was a decorated murderer, pure and simple.

  Because of his arrogant overconfidence, Cappy believed he could play God when he led the unit back to the wooden building where the cartel had held Michelle. One fucking command, one word changed his life forever. “Ashes.”

  Like the lemmings good soldiers were, they all blindly surged forward into a truck bomb’s path. Killing everyone . . . Well, almost everyone. Cappy had survived like the cockroach he was, but so had Griffin. Not that Cappy had any knowledge of his survival. That bastard had disappeared and the Army declared him KIA.

  The road back to recovery had been hell, but worth it. No one from his previous life would recognize him now, let alone figure out who he was with his new identity. Victor always figured the day would come when Cappy’s Boy Scout, high-and-mighty attitude would get in the way.

  That day had finally arrived.

  Took too long for Griffin to regain his skills and find Michelle, but the wait was worth it. His eyes strayed to the two large rectangular envelopes sitting beside the Remington 700 sniper rifle splayed in a row of pieces across the cheap wooden desk.

  Oh, yes. The day had finally arrived for Michelle to pay for her stupidity and Cappy to face the repercussions of his actions.

  The encrypted phone beeped.

  Griffin glanced at the display and sighed at the message on the screen. But first he had to trail the Senator’s wife before he could enact his revenge.

  He tapped the tracking app open and stared at the map showing Mrs. Harris moving at a rapid speed. He zoomed out and cursed. Grabbing his overnight bag with all his essentials and the envelopes off the desk, he mentally reviewed which source he could tap to get the Senator’s plane’s flight plan. On the way, he could make a pit stop to set up a little surprise for Cappy and Michelle.

  Chapter 14

  Michelle sat in the backseat fiddling with the strap of her purse. One thought kept blasting through her mind: Jeremy had seen the video. No wonder he kept his vow to not ask any questions. He hadn’t needed to.

  She glanced up at the ceiling as shame sparked into anger at the extreme violation of having her life splashed across the Internet. How dare thousands of strangers watch her fall apart without her permission?

  What could Jeremy possibly think of her now except that she was a tramp who made it a habit of going back to men’s hotel rooms? No wonder Talon called her Sixty-Nine and figured she’d have a pimp. So far, everything they’d seen supported that assumption.

  She swallowed past a lump of humiliated resentment. That assumption was so far from the truth she didn’t even know where to begin defending herself.

  Had she added yet another mistake on top of the growing pile? Why had she climbed into the car?

  She shivered. Talon’s cold command still resonated inside of her. The blank nothingness in his eyes when he had caught her trying to flee . . . She had no words. Her body trembled as her mind recalled two other sets of cold eyes belonging to a pair of men who loved pounding on those weaker than them. They had enjoyed their sadistic work. Got off on it most of the time and made her watch as they jerked off . . . or worse. She struggled to push the images to the back of her brain. Wrong time and never the right place to remember that hellhole.

  Jeremy turned in his seat and took off his sung
lasses. Rich, dark irises, the color of coffee without any cream, searched hers as if sensing her inner turmoil.

  Unable to face the conversation surrounding last night’s events just yet, she blurted the first thing that popped into her mind. “You’re supposed to be dead.” Her fingertip traced the zipper on her bag. “How are you still alive?”

  “I’m starting to get a complex.”

  Michelle ignored his supposed attempt at levity. “I researched you when they released me from the hospital. I saw your picture on the Army’s website. Captain Jeremy Malone. Killed In Action, yet, here you are, healthy and whole.”

  He waited a beat then asked, “If you thought I was dead, why did you call me?”

  Logical question. Did she want to answer? Not really. “What did I have to lose?” She shrugged, trying to affect a nonchalant air, but probably failing. “I guess the part of me that still believes in fairytale endings refused to accept it.”

  His eyes widened.

  Dang, why did she admit that out loud? A band of heat crept up her throat.

  He reached through the seats but she waved for him to stop. She wanted his touch so bad—another fantasy come true—but if he even brushed her skin she wouldn’t be able to think. Looking away, she watched the well-maintained grass median on the wide-open four-lane road scroll by.

  The warmth encompassing her cheeks pissed her off. In her current state of mind, she couldn’t answer any more questions. Who knew what she’d end up admitting in her deep-fried condition? He needed to start talking for a change. He needed to help her understand what the heck was going on.

  She turned away from the window and focused on Jeremy. The careful, guarded expression and the deep creases slowly forming on his forehead lit her fuse.

  She exploded. “I may have wanted to believe you were alive for the last six years, but without any proof I’ve carried the guilt that you died rescuing me!” Wow. Okay. She hadn’t realized just how deep that had been sitting underneath the surface of her steadfast resolve that he had lived.

  The edges of his mouth tightened and his eyes sharpened.

  I guess I can’t stop there. “Do you know what it’s like having someone’s death on your conscience?”

  He grimaced but she couldn’t tell if it was out of sympathy or empathy. His continued silence caused her head to pound. “You have no idea what these last years have been like. Broken and fractured bones, surgeries, and the therapy I’ve endured to properly move again while learning how to banish the images from that Colombian hellhole.”

  His eyes slid to Talon, who appeared very interested in the exchange as he navigated the car along the sunny streets.

  “What? SCK doesn’t know? Was that a secret? How many of those do you have?”

  “SCK?” both men asked at the same time while Talon slid his frames down.

  “Stone Cold Killer,” she retorted, meeting Talon’s challenging eyes in the mirror. “Face it, you’re a borderline psycho if I’m reading the vibes you’re throwing off correctly. Is that what you’re going for?” She was on such a roll, she couldn’t stop herself from taunting the man. Not the smartest move, provided she just called him a psycho killer.

  He lifted a shoulder. “It fits.”

  Oh. My. God.

  “Let me out.” She pushed her purse to the side and struggled to unfasten the seatbelt. “I mean it. Right now.”

  “Talon,” Cappy barked. “Not helping. Michelle, calm down. We’ll be at the cottage in a minute.”

  “Calm down? CALM DOWN?!? Nothing makes a woman crazier than to be told to calm down.” She jabbed at the seatbelt button again but it still stubbornly refused to relinquish its hold on her. “Crap on a cracker!” she roared as the lingering hangover and frustrations of the past twenty-four hours beat against her. The phrase reverberated through the car and she caught the amused smile in Talon’s eyes. Oh goody. She just entertained the nut job.

  She took a breath. With a bit more composure she asked, “Would you be calm if the ghost of your dead hero shows up and admits to watching a video you have no control over while stating he’s willing to become an accomplice to something you didn’t even do?”

  His eyebrows snapped down. “I’m no one’s hero.”

  You’re mine. Michelle looked away. A flash of him cradling her against him as he ran for the helicopter gripped her. The phantom feel of his arms wrapped around her so tightly warmed her insides. Bombs had exploded and machine-gun fire filled the air, but she had utter faith he’d never let anything bad happen to her again. That’s why she got in the car, she realized, finding a little insight to her earlier question. Did she plan to stay?

  Her brain answered before it allowed her heart to have a say. Only long enough to find out what happened after the helicopter lifted off, then I’m gone.

  Chapter 15

  Romeo perused the main floor of the oh-so-classy PussyFoot Gentleman’s Club. Not surprisingly, the inside was just as rundown as the out. The song blaring through the worn-out speakers had been a hit about ten years ago and the woman dancing up on stage probably reached her prime ten years before that.

  He’d been in a million establishments catering to men’s fantasies—some as risqué as giving the patrons hands-on participation in making their illusions come true, while others . . . well, they were dives like this one. Existing on the edge of town like the whore no one wanted to acknowledge but most were glad existed.

  “Hey.” A feminine hand pulled his chin back to face her. “Am I so tempting you have to look away?”

  Romeo chuckled, giving the exotic dancer straddling his legs a pat on the thigh. “Absolutely, Jazmin-with-a-Z.” He shifted under her to hide his lack of response to her lap dance. Hopefully she’d think he was a typical client, embarrassed to show a hard-on.

  A beam from one of the spots flashed over Jazmin’s face, glinting off the sequins on her barely-there bra. She wasn’t bad to look at but this business tended to take a toll. As evidenced by the hardness in her eyes and the tight skin around her mouth, making her appear older. Wonder what made her choose this life? She draped her forearms on his shoulders, dangling her bronze cleavage an inch from his face. He blinked at the sudden sight of her plump breasts wiggling then pulling away, working to entice him to bury his face in the mounds and shut the world out for a few hours.

  Ah well, guess some people choose whatever path is available to them. I can’t save everyone.

  Not even when he tried help save someone from herself. No matter how strong she thinks she is. A pang stole through his heart at the rush of images of Magician’s battered body after she had infiltrated a sex-slave ring seven months ago to help the team shut it down. He personally killed as many bastards as he could by twisting their necks or shooting whoever got in his path to rescue her, but the damage had been done before the squad even showed up that day.

  A shaft of light pierced the gloomy club, drowning out the Pepto-Bismol effect from the pink neon tubing. He tightened his fingers on the dancer’s thighs at the small silhouette framed in the doorway.

  “Hmm,” Jazmin purred, “liked that, did you?”

  Huh? The light disappeared with a resounding thud of the front door slamming closed.

  “I’ll do it again, baby.” She swiveled her hips centimeters from his cock, the inner part of her thighs rubbing against his suit pants as she moved. Making up the story explaining the glitter she left behind promised to be a lot of fun.

  Magician, aka Special Agent Sonya White, paused at the edge of the bar, scanning the busy club. Their gazes collided for a millisecond but it was long enough for him to catch the rolling of her eyes.

  It may be childish for his twenty-eight years but he couldn’t help taunting her. He wrapped his hands around Jazmin’s back and leaned forward.

  Jazmin trilled at his sudden interest, increasing her gyrations to the beat of the song. E
xactly the reaction he’d hoped for. He peered just over the exotic dancer’s shoulder and grinned—knowing Magician couldn’t see his smile. His partner stormed in his direction, her back ramrod straight and her face puckered as if she sucked on a lemon.

  Smoothing his fingers down the dancer’s spine under the guise of being enchanted by the woman’s skin, he followed Magician’s progress across the floor.

  In three. Two. One. . . .

  “Special Agent Stiles,” Magician snapped, halting just to the side of his table. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Jazmin froze, whipping her head toward his partner.

  A long scar ran along Magician’s check, disappearing into the hairline near her ear. She received the souvenir courtesy of the slave-trade bastards while she was undercover. Romeo didn’t think the scar detracted from her good looks; in fact, he thought it made her even more beautiful, giving her a depth no one else could ever possess. Just another weapon she had in her arsenal to manipulate the men salivating at her feet.

  He placed a small kiss on the dancer’s shoulder and sat back, widening his grin as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Obviously I’m interviewing Jazmin-with-a-Z Hott.”

  Jazmin settled her weight on his legs as Magician raked her gaze up and down the dancer’s body. His partner’s eyes narrowed onto the juncture where Jazmin rested against his unexcited cock. Not that Magician could tell that with the dancer covering him, but Jazmin was now clued in. Busted.

  Jazmin turned away from Magician and searched his face in confusion. He shrugged and played it off by hooking a thumb at his partner. “What can I say? Buzzkill.”

  Magician’s chin shot up and Jazmin let out a giggle.

  Much better. A woman should be made to feel as if she was the sexiest siren in the world, even if he wasn’t interested in the slightest.

  The light dimmed and heavy metal music pounded from the speakers, forcing him to divert his attention to the stage. Two women appeared, each strolling toward the other from the side entrances, their steps timed to match the rhythm of the double-bass drumming. Tall black leather boots climbed to their mid-thighs with thick fishnet stockings covering the rest of their legs. Skimpy black shorts and full-bodied bras along with masks and whips helped complete the dominatrix fantasy.