by Dee Davis
A shadow detached itself from the wall, and Annie dug her nails into Nash’s back, instinct and training overriding passion in an instant. Nash’s muscles tightened in response, and moving with a precision gained from years of working together, they sprang apart, a bullet smashing into the headboard between them. Annie rolled to the floor, reaching for the gun she kept strapped to her thigh. In her ardent haste she hadn’t had time to remove her weapon.
But Nash had. He’d thrown his on the table as he’d carried her to bed.
Damn it all to hell.
From her vantage point beside the bed, she couldn’t see Nash or their assailant. Which meant she needed to move. Popping up to fire a round in the direction of the shadow, she rolled out from the bed, diving for cover behind a chair as a bullet shattered a lamp just above her head.
Nash was cornered between the bed and the wall, the bed giving protection, at least for the moment, but the gunman had the advantage. He stood between them and the door, with a large wardrobe to his left blocking her from taking a clear shot.
“Well, isn’t this a pickle,” their assailant said, his accent a smooth blend of American and French. She should have known. Adrian Benoit. They’d only just been in his apartment. Looked like he was returning the favor.
“Seems we’ve got ourselves a Mexican standoff,” he drawled.
“Except that none of us are Mexican,” Nash quipped. She could see him now reflected in the mirror. And when he smiled, she realized he could see her as well. Which meant he had a plan.
“Doesn’t matter,” Benoit continued. “I’ve clearly got the advantage.”
“So what, you want us to come out with our hands up?” Nash queried, nodding almost imperceptibly toward his gun lying on the table about five feet in front of her.
“It would certainly make things easier. But what I really want are the files you stole from my computer.”
“And then you’ll let us go? Right. And I’ve got some swampland…” Nash’s laugh was harsh as he tipped his head slightly, signaling for her to stand ready. Annie nodded, already shifting her position.
“Well now, there wouldn’t be any fun in letting you live, would there?” Benoit responded, anger clouding his voice.
Annie drew a breath, rolled out from behind the chair, fired once, and then dove for the table, her hand closing around the butt of Nash’s gun. “Two o’clock,” she yelled, as she chunked the weapon overhand toward Nash, still shooting in Benoit’s direction in an attempt to provide some modicum of cover. Her ploy worked, Benoit turning to return fire as Nash emerged from behind the bed in a flying leap, intercepting the gun as it tumbled through the air.
Two seconds later and it was over. Benoit lay dead in a pool of his own blood.
“Are you all right?” Nash asked, pushing to his feet.
“I’m fine,” she said as they met halfway, Nash’s arms closing around her.
“You sure?” He ran his hands down her now trembling body, double-checking to ascertain if she’d told him the truth.
“Really. He didn’t hurt me. You were the one without the gun.”
“Evened the odds.” He shrugged, his voice buoyed by adrenaline, his smile edged with a ruthlessness that had kept him alive more times than she cared to remember. “So where were we?”
“I think that ship has sailed,” she said, her gaze falling on the body.
“I suppose you’re right,” Nash said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “We’ve got to get out of here before someone starts asking questions. Benoit was using a silencer. But we weren’t.”
“I’ll start wiping things down.” She pulled away and reached for a pair of gloves, falling effortlessly into a pattern they’d perfected over countless operations.
“So what was it you said earlier?” Nash called from across the room where he was packing their gear, his tone teasing, the fact that they’d just survived death—again—already an afterthought. “Something about wondering if we’d ever be a normal couple?”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Annie smiled. She loved this man. With every ounce of her being. And the cold hard truth was that she wouldn’t change a single thing about their life. “I think,” she said, reaching down to retrieve Benoit’s gun, “that I just answered my own question.”
Drake Flynn knows how to survive behind enemy lines. But he’s about to meet one adversary he can’t subdue… or resist.
Please turn this page for an excerpt from
DANGEROUS DESIRES
Available now.
PROLOGUE
San Mateo Prison—Serrania Del Baudo, Colombia
Madeline Reynard squinted in the bright light. After three days of total darkness, the dappled sunlight hurt her eyes. She flinched as the guard shoved her forward, losing her balance and careening into the exercise yard.
“I’ve got you,” Andrés said, his voice raspy, his English heavily accented as he steadied her. “I’ve been worried.”
“They put me in solitary,” Madeline whispered. “I have no idea why.”
“Sometimes there is no reason,” Andrés shrugged. “The main thing is that you’re out now. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. It’s getting easier.” This was third time she’d been relegated to the dank, windowless cell in the far recesses of the prison. “I just try to think of somewhere else and let my mind carry me away.” She’d spent a good portion of her childhood locked in a closet only slightly smaller than the solitary cell. Her father had clearly believed the adage “out of sight, out of mind.” But the experience was not without value. If Madeline could survive living like that, she could survive anything. Even San Mateo.
A place for political prisoners, the prison lacked creature comforts. In point of fact, it lacked most everything. Which meant that days loomed long, the only bright spot the minutes spent outside under the canopy of trees. The surrounding jungle reminded her of the cypresses back home, their gnarled arms curving downward into gray-green umbrellas of whispering leaves. The bayou had meant safety. And now the Colombian jungle offered the same.
“It’s best if you find a way to separate yourself from the reality here,” Andrés was saying. He nodded toward the people scattered about the yard. It was nearly empty, this hour relegated to women and the infirm, her friend falling into the latter category. It had been a long time since she’d had a friend. There’d always been too much to hide. Too much to risk. But now—here—her past didn’t matter.
“Are you sure they didn’t hurt you?” Andrés asked, his voice colored with worry.
“I told you I’m fine,” she reiterated as they walked slowly across the yard, her muscles protesting the movement even as her mind rejoiced in her newfound freedom. “I’m just a little stiff, that’s all.”
She’d met Andrés on her second day in the yard. At first, his matted hair and filthy clothes had been off-putting. But after almost a week in this hell hole, she’d been desperate for human contact.
When he’d spoken to her in his halting English, it had felt like a gift, as her Spanish was limited to schoolgirl verbs and useless nouns. Which didn’t matter when she was alone in her cell, or being leered at by the guards. It didn’t take a vocabulary to interpret their catcalls. But real conversation, without English, was impossible. And it was conversation that kept the mind sharp. She’d come to need Andrés as much as she needed food and water.
Madeline closed her eyes, shutting out the small, barren exercise yard, its occupants wretched in their filth.
“You need to keep moving,” her friend said, his hand warm against her back. “It’s important to stay strong.”
“I know you’re right, but sometimes when I think about spending the rest of my life here, it doesn’t seem worth it.”
“You won’t be here forever,” he said, his tone soothing. “Someone will come for you.”
Madeline laughed, the sound harsh. “I killed a man. There’s nothing anyone can do to change that.”
�
��But there were extenuating circumstances.” He frowned. “That should count for something.”
“Maybe in a fair world.” She shrugged, shivering as memories flooded through her. Her sister’s screams, her fear cutting through the haze of the drugs. The big man pinning her to the wall of the flophouse in Bogotá, one hand gripping her wrist as he tore at her clothes. Madeline had acted without thinking, the gun in her hand an extension of her anger. She’d told Jenny to run, and then checked the body, cringing as she touched his lifeless skin. Then she’d tried to follow, but it was too late.
The Colombian police had found her. The man was a prominent politician. Jenny was a drug addict. No one believed Madeline’s story. Her sister disappeared, and Madeline had wound up here at San Mateo. But if she had it to do over again, she’d do the same. Her mother had made her promise. With her last breath of life.
“Take care of your sister, Maddie. She’s not strong like you.”
Madeline had only been ten, but she’d promised. And she’d kept her word. She sucked in a breath, pulling her thoughts from the past. Jenny was safe now. She had to believe that. It was the only thing that kept her going.
“Anyway, even if it would make a difference, there’s no one to come,” Madeline said. “What about you? You told me you have family. Why aren’t they trying to help you?”
“They think I’m dead.” Andrés shrugged.
“How horrible,” she said, shuddering at the thought.
“Believe me, it’s better this way.” His expression was guarded. “For them. And for me. Sometimes the truth is better left buried.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She nodded as they stopped by the far wall of the yard. “Anyway, we have each other now, right?”
His smile was gentle. “You have been a good friend. But I’m afraid all good things must come to an end.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I’m a marked man,” Andrés sighed. “My days are numbered.”
Madeline dipped her head, tears filling her eyes. She’d heard the shots fired late at night.
“The only reason I was allowed out here with you is that I was so sick. But I am better now, and that means I will be returned to my original cell. I overheard the guards,” he said. “I’m being moved back. Which means this is my last time in the yard.”
“No. I won’t accept that.” She shook her head, panic mixing with dread. “Maybe you can pretend to be sick again. Something, anything that might keep you here—with me. I… I can’t make it without you.”
“Of course you can,” Andrés said. “You’re much stronger than you know.”
“Señor?” A guard called from the doorway, his machine gun held at the ready. “Ven conmigo ahora.”
Madeline turned to the guard, then back to Andrés, heart pounding. “What does he want?”
“He wants me to come with him.” Andrés shrugged. “It’s time.”
“No. You can’t go. I can’t do this on my own.” She waved at the yard, and the guards.
“Yes, you can.” His smile was gentle, his teeth white against the dark growth of his beard. “You’re a survivor. Never forget that.”
The guard moved impatiently, his lips curled in a sneer. “Apurate!”
“Uno momento,” Andrés said holding up a hand. “Here, I have something for you.” He reached into his pocket and produced a grimy card. “Take this. It may be of help to you.”
She took the card, the battered face of the Queen of Hearts staring up at her. “I don’t understand.”
“If you can get this to the American Embassy, they’ll help you. No questions asked.”
“But it’s just a playing card.” She shook her head.
“Trust me,” Andrés said, closing her fingers around the card. “And keep it safe.”
“But if this truly does have some kind of significance, shouldn’t you be the one using it?”
“Señor, ahora,” the guard called, his eyes narrowing with impatience.
Madeline ignored him, her gaze locked on her friend’s. “Andrés, tell me. Why not use it yourself?”
“Because it is too late for me. I have accepted my fate. And it gives me pleasure to think that perhaps I can be of some service to you. No matter what you have done, you don’t belong here.”
“Neither do you,” she whispered, her voice fierce now. “Keep the card.”
“It is yours, my friend. I give it freely. Now I must go.” He shook his head, waving a hand toward the guard. “Use the card to find your way home, Madeline. And then forget this place ever existed.”
“I can’t do that,” she said. “Because if I did, that would mean forgetting you.”
Tears slid down her face, the first she’d shed since landing at San Mateo. She wasn’t the type to get sentimental. Andrés was right. She was a survivor. But something about the man had touched her heart. Reached a place she’d thought long dead.
And now they were taking him away.
When he reached the guard, Andrés stopped and turned, lifting a hand to say good-bye. Madeline’s heart stuttered to a stop, her breathing labored as she clung to the wall, watching as her friend disappeared into the prison.
She sank to the ground, her back sliding against the rough-hewn stone of the wall, and opened her fingers, the mottled face of the Queen staring up at her. It was just a card. Unless of course she’d somehow fallen down the rabbit hole. A bubble of hysteria washed through her.
San Mateo wasn’t Wonderland. And she was no Alice. She was simply a woman who’d run out of options. Life wasn’t fair. It was as simple as that. Angrily, she dried her eyes. There were two kinds of people in this world. The ones who survived. And the ones who did not.
She’d learned that lesson long ago.
THE DISH
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
From the desk of Cynthia Eden
Dear Reader,
I like to be afraid. No, let me qualify that—I like the thrill that comes from being afraid, but I also like to know that I am completely 100% safe.
As a teen, I was a horror movie addict. I jumped every time a killer popped out of the darkness onscreen, and I yelled each time the foolish/brave heroine walked into the woods by herself. I loved the rush that came from watching those movies—and that same rush got to me even more intently when I read scary books. (It still gets to me!)
Fear gives you a spike of adrenaline; it makes your heart race, your breath heave; and, for the villain in my new book, DEADLY FEAR—well, fear makes his life worth living. The killer in this tale has an intimate connection with fear. He feels truly alive only when he can see and hear the real fear of others. So he sets out to turn his victims’ worst fears into reality. Oh, yes, this guy would have scared me as a teen.
But to give him a strong adversary, I created my heroine in the form of Special Agent Monica Davenport. Unlike the foolish/brave heroines from my past, Monica keeps her gun close, and she doesn’t let fear get to her. Instead, she gets into the killer’s mind.
Getting into his mind is, after all, her job. Monica is the lead profiler for the SSD—the Serial Services Division at the FBI. Her job is to track and apprehend serial killers. Fear isn’t an option for her.
But it is for me.
To learn more about DEADLY FEAR and to read an excerpt, visit my website: www.cynthiaeden.com.
Happy reading!
From the desk of Dee Davis
Dear Reader,
I read somewhere that “every character believes the story is about him.” That really struck a chord with me because I’ve had characters hijack a book completely. In my first novel, a secondary character had too much to drink and in the course of a conversation revealed the entire plot—in Chapter 3. I took his tankard away, rewrote the scene, and lo and behold—he behaved. In my third novel, a character was supposed to have a one-line walk-on and wound up stealing the show with his dramatic death scene. So experience has taught me to always keep this in mind when I
write, and I offer this same advice to any budding writers out there.
As a writer, I love all my characters equally. They’re like children born from the murky depths of my imagination. But if I’m being really honest, some characters have a way of digging deeper into your heart. Tyler Hanson is one of those. Unlike some heroes and heroines I’ve written, who had to be dragged forcefully onto the page and compelled to reveal their secrets, Tyler sprang fully formed onto the computer screen almost from the minute I conceptualized her. She is strong, independent, and fiercely loyal. She isn’t afraid of anything—except falling in love. And so I knew I was going to enjoy watching as she struggled with her growing feelings for Owen and, like all of us, the shadows that haunt her past.
One of the wonderful things about writing a series is that when the book ends, it isn’t the end of the characters. They get to continue their journeys, albeit on the back burner, in future stories, and happily that means that I get to spend more time with characters like DARK DECEPTIONS’s Nash and Annie and DARK DESIRES’s Drake and Madeline.
And sometimes—because, after all, it’s my world—I get to reintroduce someone from a previous book, someone I really hated saying good-bye to. Enter Harrison Blake. Harrison first appeared in my Last Chance series, and to date, he’s gotten more mail than any other character I’ve ever written. So it’s with great pleasure that I called on him to help Owen out in DESPERATE DEEDS. And I’ve got a feeling we haven’t seen the last of him.
For more insight into Tyler and her romance with Owen, here are some songs I listened to while writing DESPERATE DEEDS:
“Blurry”—Puddle of Mudd
“Mad World”—Adam Lambert
“Kissed by a Rose”—Seal
I hope you’re enjoying the A-Tac series. For more on the books and me, check out www.deedavis.com.
Happy Reading!
From the desk of Kira Morgan
