Sky's Lark

by Cheyenne Meadows

  Chapter 5

  Lark grabbed her duffel bag before marching out her apartment door and into the early morning light. She glanced around the immediate area, finding no sign of the man she had encountered the night before. A mixture of relief and disappointment settled over her as she headed down the stairs and to her waiting Mustang.

  For some reason, he stuck in her mind like bees to a beehive. Each time she confidently shoved the memory aside, it crept back, tantalizing her with intrigue and curiosity, not to mention the sizzling hot kiss.

  Boy howdy, he could kiss.

  Men came and went in her life, some faster than others. She liked it that way. No strings, no attachments, no man sitting his butt on the couch hollering for her to bring him a beer as he watched hour after hour of football on the TV. She controlled her life, did as she liked, and answered to no one. A girl's dream, in her opinion.

  But this guy caught her interest. Not just the handsome face attached to a drool-worthy frame, but the innate delicacy in his handling of her. Any other guy would have used force and brute strength to dominate the situation. Instead, he chose the opposite tactic, completely surprising her into stillness and guaranteeing she would stand steady for the moments needed to complete his goal. She would give him credit where credit was due. However, that didn't alleviate the problem at hand; his thug status trumped the rest of his persuasive sex appeal.

  For a brief moment she considered trying to locate him so she could persuade him to fall on the right side of the law, reform himself into a model citizen. Just as quickly, she discarded the idea. People had to change themselves, and for bad or worse, he chose this profession. It took rare strength and courage to rise above humble beginnings, to dig out of generations of poverty, to swim against the current until you caught a tenuous foothold on a faraway beach, full of marvelous opportunities to those motivated enough with hard work and dedication to claim the prize. Unless an individual set his goal along those lines, with boundaries of steel, they tended to stray back to what they knew: crime.

  With a forlorn shake of her head, she climbed into the car, throwing the bag into the passenger seat.

  She needed an intense workout to clear her mind and dispel the remaining tension from the mission. As much as she might have enjoyed a hard, fast round of sex, the act involved a partner, something she lacked this morning. Thus, the gym would have to do.

  * * * *

  Bryce watched the petite blonde float down the stairs and to her car, his gaze never straying until the light blue Mustang vanished from sight. Damn.

  He couldn't stay away, craving another glimpse of the beauty. She piqued his interest and revved up his libido more than any woman he recalled. Her compact form, full of feminine power, caught his attention, gave him nice scenery for a moment in time and erotic dream material for those hours when he closed his eyes. Along with the magnificent body came attitude, courage, and fearlessness. The way she had stood up to him when he'd first approached impressed him equally, if not more so than her looks. Most women would have cowered, begged, or struggled in between bouts of panic. Not her. Not his dove. No, she'd rolled her eyes and acted as if he merely interfered in her plans, the inconvenience irritating and annoying, like being served cold eggs for breakfast.

  Perhaps she did work for the DEA. It would certainly explain a few things. A woman comfortable with her handgun and well versed in self-defense as required by the federal program would carry herself with confidence, knowing she could take care of herself against one lone mugger or street criminal.

  He glanced down at the paper in his hand, a picture taken from a casino security camera. There his dove stood, in clear black and white, sidling up to Santora, wearing the same clothing he found her in last night. Not that anything surprised him these days, but his internal radar binged loudly, clearly finding more than one issue amiss.

  During the pickup a few hours ago, the very photo he now clutched came down from their distributor with a message supposedly from Santora himself. The drug lord wanted the woman, wanted her bad if the bounty he placed on her delivery to him alive meant anything. Even the richest men in the world wouldn't offer up a fortune to his followers in order to bring him one lady, except for personal reasons deeper than hurt feelings over a broken relationship. Women came and went in the lives of the rich and famous, but when a man demanded she be returned alive, it spoke of fury, wrath, and a horrific end to a woman's life.

  If she truly belonged to the DEA, Santora would more than likely hire an assassin, take her out from afar, bomb her Mustang, even burn down her apartment building. For a former love interest, a simple threat of torturous death should be enough to send her running to never show her face in the vicinity again. So, what was she to him that he would give up huge profits for her return?

  Stuffing the picture back into his shirt pocket, he searched for the elusive answer to no avail. He hated mysteries that evaded him for the fact they meant certain death unless he beat another to the puzzle piece, grasping the whole picture and preserving humanity in the process. Unless he missed his guess, this would be another example. Figure out why Santora wanted the girl and fast before the demons from hell showed up on her doorstep, all battling to drag her to the boss man and earn riches in reward.

  He had to warn her, but do so in such a way that didn't give himself away or produce any ties between him and her that could be sniffed out by one of Santora's gophers, and ensure his continued undercover mission stayed afloat. The hush-hush nature of his assignment deterred him from calling anyone to personally catch up with the energetic filly and relay a message. He dared not search for a phone number, which could be easily traced if someone hacked into his cell phone. Hell, Rodriguez might already capture his cell phone records and pour over each number with a magnifying glass to ensure everything proved legit. If he tried to hang out around her apartment to wait on her reappearance, the guys might take further notice of her, putting two and two together. She didn't need the increased attention from them. Besides, if he did find her and spit out a warning, why would she believe him?

  Scrubbing a hand over his face, he forced his tired brain to think. He could sneak into her apartment and leave a note, but such an idea came with risks. If any of the other guys made her, they might break in, find his note, and he would end up floating in the river before dawn. On the other hand, it remained the best suggestion.

  Maybe he could hide the note. That would certainly work, but how would he make sure she looked in the exact spot to find it?

  Her bright blue eyes had sparkled with intelligence and attention to detail. While she might overlook tokens and small treasures that she saw each day, she surely would notice a new addition to her knickknacks. Bingo. All he had to do was purchase something small but eye catching, stuff the note in it, and pass along warnings as he learned of them via the same route. She might even end up being an ace in his pocket if times got tough.

  Tension in his shoulders eased with the decision. He would stop by the small antique shop on the corner before heading back to the Spartan apartment he called home for the time being. They would have something perfectly suited to his needs. Find a girly decorative ornament, write a note, stuff it inside, and place the item somewhere in her apartment before she returns. Easy as pie.

  Armed with a plan, he walked toward the rising sun.

  Chapter 6

  Lark caught a glimpse of herself in the dresser mirror as she tossed the small pink duffel bag on the hardwood floor of her bedroom. Sweat-soaked hair was plastered to her face with an errant drop still visible as it slid from her forehead down to the corner of her eyes. Her white T-shirt was now nearly transparent beneath the coating of perspiration, while her shorts molded to her bottom, showing additional wet spots here and there.

  The workout helped even as it zapped all her energy. No longer did frustration and built-up negativity ride her hard. Instead, a natural tiredness replaced the feeling of being too revved up. This lethargy was soothing and
comfortingly familiar. She strove to keep in tip-top shape for various reasons, not the least of which was her return to active status during operations, which required everyone involved to duck, dive, climb, and perform circus feats on a daily basis. Even when she rode a desk back at the DEA, she would still put her hours in at the gym, a habit she had developed long before becoming a cheerleader, and still carried to this very day.

  Plopping down on the end of her bed, she contemplated the rest of the day, staring ahead as her mind whirled with possibilities. Cleaning the apartment topped the list, but held little appeal. Food shopping trumped dusting. Being a bum, lying on the couch, and reading the latest romance novel she'd picked up claimed the highest rank on the list. Decisions, decisions.

  Her gaze landed on a small wooden box, just about the size of her palm, sitting on the dresser directly in front of her. A small white dove perched on the lid with an olive branch in her mouth.

  That's odd. She stood, edging closer to the new trinket, something she'd never seen in her life. Its arrival as a display in her bedroom meant someone had broken into her apartment and placed the box where they believed it would be noticed.

  Fear zinged through her as she realized that not only had someone violated her personal quarters and sleeping area, but the box could contain anything, from a small sophisticated explosive to a listening device. Unsure, Lark chewed her bottom lip for a moment before stepping closer, carefully checking the item from all angles yet refraining from touching it in any way.

  No wires or pins stuck out. No ticking noises came from within. It looked to be just as advertised, a small jewelry box. Still, in her profession, caution and double checks kept agents alive. Assumptions didn't just make you an ass, they killed you.

  Picking up her cell phone, she punched in a number and smiled when she heard it answered. "Good morning, bro."

  "Lark! How's my favorite baby sis this morning?" Ryan answered in his deep baritone.

  She snorted. "I'm your only sister. And I have a small question."

  "Shoot."

  Her gaze locked on the box as she tactfully asked her question, hoping to get expert input from the brother closest in age to her, who also happened to have been an explosives engineer at one time in his life before settling down with the FBI. "A small wooden box appeared in my apartment today while I was at the gym. No strings, wires, metal at all. It resembles an antique jewelry box with a small white dove on top."

  His breath puffed through the phone line. "What in the hell? Why would someone break into your apartment and drop off a gift?"

  "I have no idea, Ryan. I just wanted to make sure it wasn't some sort of explosive before I opened the lid."

  "You checked all around? And how small are we talking?"

  "The size of my palm. And yes, I checked all around it. I'm not entirely stupid, you know."

  "That's debatable," he muttered under his breath. "Okay. Does it have a smell?"

  She stepped back over and sniffed. "Like moth balls." Her nose scrunched in distaste.

  For the first time, he chuckled. "That's actually a good sign. It may contain a bug, but I doubt anything explosive. Go ahead. Open it, but gently while I stay on the phone with you."

  Lark cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder, using both hands to reach for the strange item. With infinite patience and delicacy, she gingerly lifted the lid and released a deep sigh of relief when nothing happened. Peeking inside, she found a folded piece of white paper.

  "Well? What did you find?" Ryan prompted her.

  "A note of sorts." She pulled the paper out and spread it out, her gaze quickly scanning the contents. "Oh, shit."

  "What is it? Lark? Talk to me." Ryan's voice hitched up an octave.

  "It's a note warning me…"

  "About?"

  "About some guy I helped capture recently. Seems he's looking for me." She forced her voice into calmness even as her heart continued to race at an alarming rate.

  "Does this have anything to do with you giving up full time status with the DEA and going to as-needed contractual status?"

  She gasped into the phone. "How did you know about that?"

  "I know everything, baby sis. So spill. Tell me what's going on."

  "I can't say a lot over the phone, but I took another, higher paying job full time—private sector. I really like it. We brought in a drug kingpin the other day, mostly because of me. I guess even with the creep in prison for the moment, awaiting his time in court, he put feelers out through his connections, offering a reward for me to be returned to him." She thought of how many people might be presently seeking her in an effort to collect the bounty. A shudder ran through her body as a bout of absolute fear settled deep in the pit of her stomach.

  Ryan whistled low. "Damn. You can always come stay with me. Or any of the brothers. Even Mom and Dad. All will serve just as well as a safe house."

  "No." Her voice grew stronger. "I don't think that's a good idea. Besides, someone on the inside took the time and risk to warn me. Perhaps he'll continue to do so. That'll keep me a step ahead."

  "A safe house would be smarter," he advised.

  "And we would never get goods on him if I run away. No. I've worked too hard to get where I am." Her courage was bolstered a tiny bit with the spoken facts.

  "What about your new job? Will they be able to protect you?"

  She'd forgotten about the Wind Walkers in her moment of panic. "Yes and no. I have to keep my face and position with them. You know how it is with military types who still like to push women to the back of the line in an antiquated and noble but silly show of chivalry."

  "Touché." He chuckled harshly. "So, what are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to wait it out, watch my back, and hope this Good Samaritan continues to stash warning notes. If he went to this much trouble the first time, surely he will again."

  "If he doesn't?"

  "Then, I'll go about my life and watch my back. Don't worry, bro, I really can take care of myself."

  "I worry about you, Lark." The whispered voice carried emotion and sincerity.

  She smiled. "I love you, too, Ryan. Oh, and please, don't tell the others, not yet. It could mess things up if they came rushing in like a Confederate cavalry charge."

  "Lark, I can't…"

  "Please. Just for a few more days. That's all I ask. And, if I get in over my head, I'll accept help from my team, the family, from anyone. Promise."

  He paused for a beat then sighed. "Okay. But you have to check in each day. Anything changes I want to be the first to know. I don't hear from you, I call in the family."

  "Thanks, Ryan. I owe you."

  "Yeah, yeah." Concern still laced his voice.

  "Love you, bro."

  "Ditto."

  She hung up, resting the phone on her bed as she re-read the note's contents and noticed for the first time that a smaller dark paper remained in the bottom of the box. Snatching it up, she spread it out, finding a black and white snapshot of her at the casino, wearing the horrendous outfit she'd peeled off less than twenty-four hours earlier. The photo was proof that Santora had to hold far-reaching strings in order to not only confiscate the picture from the security cameras, but to have already dispersed copies to his followers despite being in DEA lockup. Definitely a notch in his belt and a nail in her coffin if she wasn't careful.

  Her attention returned to the handwritten note. The short and frank words came directly to the point, telling her the name behind the contract, but leaving out any clue as to the person responsible for the warning. The fact really didn't surprise her. Anyone undercover in such an operation had to not only excel at what they did, but tip toward the paranoid side of the sanity line in an effort to stay alive in a position where one whispered rumor or odd remark would write their death warrant. It took a wheelbarrow load of bravery to take such a chance by leaving her the note. Maybe he would continue to do so, but then again, the opportunity might never repeat itself. She could only hope that
he didn't jeopardize himself or his mission in doing her such a huge favor.

  If she ever met the guy, she owed him a big smacking kiss. Hell, she would owe him dinner, a vacation, and the right to name her firstborn after him, too.

  Grabbing the phone, she dialed her boss, figuring he should know about this latest wrinkle in her life. She would argue and refuse to let them stand guard over her, but they needed to know that she had been made, thus endangering them as well. Santora's money reached far pockets, even to powerful officials in highly secretive agencies. Night needed what little information she could provide in order to protect the others and all their loved ones.

  Pissed-off drug lords didn't play nice and rarely only went after the ones responsible for their troubles. They made it personal, calling in favors to torture and kill beloved family members and friends. Santora would use the same tactics if given a chance. Prison walls only deterred him from passing the orders along in person.

  Chapter 7

  "So, what do you think?" Lark asked between sips of her cappuccino, watching the expressions flicker across her boss's face.

  Night turned his attention from the note to the photo, his lips thinning even as his jaw tightened. "I think we should've terminated the bastard when we had the chance."

  Lark could certainly agree with that.

  Once she told him about the situation, he drove immediately to meet her at a busy coffee shop near the mall, wanting to blend in with the large crush of people actively purchasing gifts for Christmas just around the corner. They ordered drinks then sat down. Night pored over the note and picture with keen eyes, a deep frown indicating his mood.

  "Whoever left you this note took some risk. My guess is he's imbedded, an undercover agent of some sort, gathering evidence on Santora. He risked his neck to get this to you."

  She nodded. "I think so, too." Her attention flicked across the room, noticing each new person as they wandered in, most with packages in hand. "I'm beginning to think that Santora has some bigwigs on his payroll with enough power to have him sent to DEA instead of jail. He sent the photo out after he was captured, so someone had to give him access to his commanders in order for that to happen."