by Nina Bruhns
Initially, Alex had been on Gina’s tag team, but he’d kept jumping at shadows, absolutely certain she was being followed by someone other than STORM. But no one else on the team had spotted any kind of tail, or danger, or anything suspicious at all. It was just him being paranoid.
Big fucking shock.
So he’d been reassigned to watch her brownstone—a throwaway job no one had thought he could possibly fuck up . . . though no one had actually said it aloud.
How wrong they all had been.
“No worries,” Kick told him now. “Dr. Cappozi’s fine. She just got on the subway to come home.”
It suddenly dawned on Alex that Kick was supposed to be on tag duty today with Kowalski. “Then what are you doing here?” he asked. “Are you sure nothing’s happened?”
“Gina’s safe,” Kick reassured him. “But there’s been a development. NSA picked up some interesting chatter overnight.”
Alex was instantly alert. “What kind of chatter? About al Sayika?”
Kick nodded.
Alex narrowed his eyes. For many years both he and Kick had worked as operators for an outfit called Zero Unit, which was an ultra-covert black ops unit run from the deepest bowels of the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. But after the deadly disaster in A-stan, and another neardebacle six months ago in the Sudan, Kick was convinced al Sayika must have a mole working for them—either within Zero Unit itself, or someone higher up, maybe in another government agency with close ties to ZU. How else could the terrorists have obtained such accurate details of both ill-fated operations? Details solid enough to sabotage the missions and leave most of the teams dead.
When Gina had been taken right from under their noses at Zero Unit headquarters, there had been an investigation. Sure, everyone had been cleared. But Kick still had his doubts. Someone had betrayed them. Alex agreed. They were dealing with an inside traitor of the worst ilk.
So they’d both quit Zero Unit and joined STORM, a similar but non-governmental spec ops outfit. They were fairly certain that STORM had not been infiltrated by the terrorists. Last year, the organization had staged Dr. Cappozi’s rescue in Louisiana, as well as Kick’s retrieval of Alex over in the Sudan—all without leaks from their side.
Dr. Cappozi’s current protection detail was just part of a bigger mission: to find and eliminate the scumfuck traitor working as a mole in the U.S. government for the al Sayika terrorists. Dr. Cappozi was convinced the man they were looking for was her former lover, Captain Gregg van Halen, a Zero Unit operator who’d gone rogue shortly after her capture. The evidence supported her belief.
If she was right, this van Halen prick was directly responsible for Alex’s imprisonment and torture, Kick’s terrible injuries, and the hideous deaths of their teammates.
For Alex and Kick, the mission was one of pure revenge. God help van Halen when the two of them got hold of him.
And they would. That was a goddamn fucking promise.
Kick finally opened the SUV’s door and got in. “Quinn called a meeting,” he said. “He wants us back at HQ, ASAP.”
“What about the Cappozi place?” Alex asked, glancing uneasily at the three-story brownstone before hesitantly reaching for the vehicle’s ignition. “What if I’m not being paranoid and—”
“Johnson has her six on the subway. And they’re bringing in Miles to finish your shift here,” Kick told him. “She’ll be in good hands until Marc and Tara take over their regular watch at nine tonight.”
Alex pushed out a breath. “All right.” He checked the dashboard clock. It was just after five. “I guess that works.”
Kick raised a brow as he put the SUV in gear. “You good to drive, bro?”
Alex gave a humorless chuckle. “Worried about my mental health?”
“Hell, yeah. I need to stay alive. Newlywed and all, remember?”
“Like I could forget,” he muttered with a wry curl of his lip. Kick had been relentlessly happy since tying the knot. Not that Alex begrudged his friend. He was glad one of them was happy, at least.
He gunned the engine to life. “And damn, Kick. In case you hadn’t noticed, everyone behind the wheel in this town is a fucking lunatic. Trust me, I’ll blend right in.”
GREGG van Halen followed Gina Cappozi onto the subway car at the last possible second, making sure she didn’t dart out again just before the doors closed.
She didn’t. Didn’t even try.
Not that it surprised him. For the past week, since returning home to Manhattan after her lengthy convalescence upstate, his lover had done nothing to avoid being found. Nothing to escape the menace that lurked in the corners of the darkness, seeking to hunt her down.
It was almost like she was taunting him. Or fate. Except for the occasional furtive, hollow-eyed glances she gave her surroundings, you’d never know she was in a constant state of terror.
Avoiding the vigilant observation of the STORM agent tailing her, Gregg casually grabbed the center pole of the subway car along with the horde of commuters anxious to get home for the night. The sliding doors slammed shut and the wheels lurched forward with the distinctive rattle and squeal of the New York subway.
He turned his back on Gina. He didn’t need to face her. In fact, he preferred watching her in the flickering reflection of the grimy window. Better to keep the rage from showing in his face and giving him away.
Her dark green eyes went to and fro as she clung to an overhead strap, her gaze alighting for a quick perusal of each passenger before shifting to the next. Always moving. Always searching.
For him.
He allowed himself a grim inward smile. So nice to be wanted.
She’d never see him, though. Yeah, she’d see a man, a tall man, his head and shoulders obscured by a baggy hoodie. But not him, not Gregg van Halen. Not until he chose to show himself. Which he wouldn’t. Not with those STORM clowns following her every move. But he could be patient when he needed to be.
Gregg had been invisible for so much of his life, it took no effort at all to remain so. Even in plain sight, in broad daylight, he was a true shadow-dweller. A ghost.
A spook.
His lips flicked up. An apt description. For it went far deeper than his job. The shadows themselves drew him. Dark obscurity spoke to him. Even now, it whispered in his ear, beckoned to him from the pitch-black void just beyond the strobing flash of the subway window where he watched his own reflection, and that of his woman.
Alas, he could not answer the call and slip back into the void. There was something he must do before returning to the sheltering comfort of anonymity. He must deal with the overwhelming wrath in his heart. And take care of this woman. His lover.
In the mirrored film noir frames of the moving window, he searched her face for any sign of recognition. Or of alarm. And found none. Her eyes passed quickly over him.
But within himself, crouching right next to the anger that simmered and roiled in his chest, he felt a bone-deep physical recognition of her. And had a sudden, overwhelming need to put his hands on her. A need so potent and visceral it nearly sucked the breath from him.
He knew this woman, intimately. Knew her flesh and her fears. He had plunged deep inside her and felt her quake with the pleasure his presence there had brought her. And had felt her tremble with the fear of his absolute power over her.
He wanted to feel her quake and tremble again.
But she would never allow it. Never accept him again as she once had.
Because he had betrayed her.
He had betrayed everything.
He battled back a surge of sick fury. Steeled his insides and beat back the clot of unwanted emotion. Anger would not help. Emotions would not help. Only action would.
As the train screeched around a curve, he released the pole, letting his body wedge into the clutch of commuters surrounding her. No need to hold on. His balance was perfect, honed through years of hard physicality on his job as a mercenary for Uncle. Bit by bit, inch by inch, he eased close
r to her—the backward bump always accidental, the sideways step seemingly unintentional. Until his back was at her front. Not quite touching.
But oh so close.
Close enough to catch the familiar, tempting scent of the woman he’d once tied to his bed and taken in ways that had both thrilled her . . . and frightened her to the marrow.
He’d always frightened her. From their first wary, agenda-filled meeting, he’d scared the pants off her. Literally and figuratively. It was part of his attraction. And hers. She had once loved the edgy thrill of it. But now . . . she hated him. Hated him with a depth that nearly matched his own.
While she’d been at the sanatorium up north, from hidden vantage points on the grounds he had watched her body slowly heal from the terrible trauma she’d gone through. But in her mind the terror still loomed as large as when she’d been a captive of al Sayika. She’d learned to defend herself, studying deadly moves, plunging her knife into the center of a man-shaped target over and over. Imagining it to be his own black heart, he was sure.
During the months he’d observed her and covertly listened in on her debriefs and conversations via the device he’d planted in her room at Haven Oaks, one thing had become abundantly clear: Gina Cappozi wanted him dead. And she wanted to be the one to kill him.
Too bad he couldn’t let that happen.
The train sliced through the black tunnel, lights flashing to the cacophony of the steel rails. He cocked his head to the side and inhaled, picking out his lover’s unique fragrance from the potent olfactory brew of refuse, burning brakes, and the perfumed sweat of a thousand bodies.
She glanced around uneasily. Nervous. Instinctively sensing a predator close by.
Impassively, he read an ad sign hanging on the wall, keeping his face hidden. She anxiously caught the eye of the STORM agent across the car from her, who shook his head reassuringly. She shuddered out a breath and tightened her grip on the strap above her again as wheels screamed and the train pulled to a herky-jerky stop at the next station.
Passengers all around disgorged, jostling them so her body was wrenched away from his. New people crowded around. He steered closer. The doors slammed shut again.
Heedless to the danger, he turned and deliberately stepped up right behind her, this time his front to her back. She was tall, especially in her work heels, but he was taller. Much taller. Heartbeat accelerating, he spread his feet and grabbed the strap next to hers.
He hovered over her. Close. So close. Silky strands of her long black hair tickled his nose . . . smelling of the woman he had stripped naked and taught to pleasure him as no other woman ever had.
His body remembered those nights. Achingly well. He could still hear the echoes of her groaned sighs and throaty moans as he took her. Could still feel the touch of her fingers and the tip of her tongue as she explored his body to their mutual, shivering delight.
His cock grew thick and hard, remembering.
Again the brakes squealed, the car slowed; people shifted in readiness to exit.
He nearly vibrated with the urge to touch her. To step into her. To press his body right up against hers and feel her succulent curves fitted against his unyielding muscle. Just for a fleeting moment.
But he didn’t dare.
She must have felt the air around them quicken. Must have sensed the taut, electric thrum of lust, which pulsed through his whole body for want of her. Must have inhaled his eager male pheromones as they sought a way to lure her to his bed again. Suddenly, she went rigid. Her knuckles turned white on the strap she clung to. Her head whipped around and she raked his features with a fear-sharpened glare.
But he had already looked away. Averted his hooded face so she couldn’t see the hunger prowling in it like a trapped tiger. Or read the intent lying there, in wait. Waiting for the right moment.
To take her.
The train jerked to a halt and she stumbled backward into him. She gasped. He didn’t move. But she felt it—the long, thick ridge that the memories had raised between his thighs. Her breath sucked in. Her hand dropped. To touch him?
He knew better. She was reaching for her knife.
But too late.
He was already out the door.
It wasn’t time. Not quite yet.
But soon he would have her.
Very soon.
TWO
THE rest of the team was waiting for Alex and Kick in the penthouse of the classy Park Avenue hotel they were using as their Manhattan base of operations.
One thing about STORM Corps, they didn’t scrimp on amenities for their operators. STORM Commander Kurt Bridger always said as long as the team was INCONUS—inside the United States—they should be enjoying life’s luxuries. Because you never knew what fetid armpit of the world they’d be sent to tomorrow, expected to lay down their lives for the client. Nice digs were the least the company could do in return, Bridger said.
Alex had become all too familiar with fetid armpits during his dozen years with Zero Unit—not to mention his sixteen long months at al Sayika’s Club Torture. Even now, he’d sometimes wake up as the sun peeked over the horizon and find himself shivering on the cold marble floor of some gilded hallway or crammed into the deepest, darkest corner of a closet in whichever lavish rooms he was occupying, stinking of fear.
Old habits died hard. Especially when they’d been formed at gunpoint. Or worse.
But on the nights he actually remained in his bed, it was nice to wake at dawn, nose-deep in feathered comfort, five-hundred-count cotton soothing the savage itch of his still-tender scars. So, yeah. Alex appreciated STORM’s generosity more than he could say.
This evening, the penthouse serving as the Cappozi op HQ carried the scent of old roses, sweet coffee, and . . . lasagna? In the white stone foyer, Alex paused for a second to inhale the welcoming scents before following Kick into the suite. They headed for the situation room—the kitchen—where Bobby Lee Quinn always held his team meetings.
Quinn was the op leader this go-round. He’d recently been promoted out of the field onto STORM Command, but because he’d led the ground team that had rescued Dr. Cappozi four months ago in Louisiana, at his request Bridger had reassembled most of that team and put Quinn back in charge of it. Alex had heard all about the Louisiana op from Kick, who’d been an integral part of it, and from Dr. Cappozi herself. Despite some major setbacks, the team had successfully saved the hostage, foiled a biological attack on U.S. soil, and shut down the entire al Sayika sleeper cell that had kidnapped her. The tangos were now all either dead or in jail.
Alex, of course, had been flat on his back at that time, recovering from his captivity and totally useless up at Haven Oaks, a STORM-owned sanatorium in central New York. Which was also where Gina Cappozi had gone to recuperate from her horrific experience, and where he’d gotten to know her.
It helped that she had met and trusted the people protecting her now—and that everyone on the team had a very personal stake in the outcome. Hell, Kick had even married Gina’s best friend, Rainie, who was now working as a nurse at Haven Oaks.
There were eight on the Cappozi protection detail, rotating in shifts: Kick Jackson, Commander Bobby Lee Quinn, Darcy Zimmerman, Marc Lafayette, and Tara Reeves, all of whom had been on the Louisiana op, plus Dez Johnson, Miles Cavanaugh, and Alex himself.
As he strode with Kick through the penthouse to the kitchen, Darcy Zimmerman, the team’s whiz of a computer specialist, glanced up. She was sitting at a polished wood desk covered by a conglomeration of high-tech monitors and towers. Darcy was tall, blond, and model-gorgeous. Oh, yeah, and she could kill you seven different ways before you even knew she’d moved.
She rose to tag along. “Hey guys. Anything new on the surveillance?” Darcy wasn’t on the watch team. Her assignment was to work her electronic magic and get a bead on the enemy through cyberspace.
“Same ole same ole,” Kick answered, thankfully keeping mute about the flashback incident. “But Alex still thinks Gina’s bein
g followed by someone besides us.”
Darcy flicked Alex a glance. “See anyone today?” She actually took his paranoia seriously. Sweet.
He shook his head, torn between gratitude and embarrassment. “Just the usual demons.”
Darcy gave him a sympathetic smile, hooked her arm through his, and gave his cheek a sisterly peck as they entered the kitchen. “Don’t worry, Zane”—Darcy always addressed everyone by their last name—“it’ll all get better with time.”
“Hey!” Quinn feigned a protest at her intimate gesture. The commander and Darcy were an item. Well, more than an item, actually. They’d gotten engaged and moved in together a few months back.
She went into Quinn’s arms and they shared a soft kiss. Not a sisterly one. “You know I only love you, babe.”
Alex turned away with a grimace. Excuse him while he puked. Like it wasn’t bad enough with newlyweds Kick and Rainie mooning over each other every chance they got, via the phone or otherwise.
Alex so did not want to be reminded of love, or anything remotely close to it. Unfortunately, the affliction seemed to be epidemic on the team of late.
Kick caught his eye and gave him an impertinent wink.
Alex scowled back, pretending to have no idea what his friend was alluding to. Or rather, who. As fucking if.
Kick had been there through the whole sordid mess Alex laughingly referred to as his love life, since his return from captivity. Kick believed he had soured on women because his longtime fiancée, the perfect, flawless, Southern belle society deb Helena Middleton, had dumped his ass the day before their wedding, effectively leaving him at the altar. And by the way, yes, that would be the same fiancée who had reportedly remained faithful to Alex’s memory the entire sixteen months he’d been at Club Torture and presumed dead.
