A Kiss to Kill

by Nina Bruhns

  He knew she’d been holding it together all morning by a thread. It was a tribute to her professionalism that she could be in the same room with him and not fall apart completely. Or pull out her gun and shoot him.

  If only she knew how much causing her pain was killing him inside. How much he ached to be a whole man for her. How much he truly loved her. But sterility was not something that might go away someday, like his PTSD. He couldn’t ask for that kind of sacrifice from her. He just couldn’t.

  “Rebel—”

  “Not now, Alex.”

  A siren wailed past on the street. Turning, she walked back toward the lot where they’d parked the SUV. He followed after. The whole way, he battled the urge to grab her and hold her tight and tell her how fucking much he loved her, and that he was doing all this for her fucking sake, goddamn it! For her future happiness.

  “I’ll drive,” she said when they got to the SUV.

  He started to pass her the keys. But as soon as his fingers touched hers, he couldn’t help himself. He captured her hand and tugged her to him.

  “Please, Alex, I can’t do this,” she said, her voice brittle with emotion.

  He gathered her into a warm embrace. The frustration was tying him in knots. “I just want you to know—”

  “You realize we’re standing in a parking lot surrounded by strangers, right?” Nearby, a two-way police radio squawked. A group of cops walked by, giving them looks.

  “I honestly don’t give a damn.” He pressed his cheek to her fragrant red hair. She smelled like sweet dreams and fairy tales. Clean. Flowery. Alluring.

  Unattainable.

  He put his lips to her temple. Forced himself not to kiss the soft expanse of skin. “I just need you to understand. It’s better this way.”

  “I know you think it is.” As he watched, her beautiful green eyes filled. “But when you make love to me, your body is telling me something different.”

  Another siren whizzed by. “I should never have done that. It was wrong to let you think we had a future when I knew damn well we didn’t.” He took her face between his hands, his heart going through a meat grinder. “I can’t give you the life you deserve.”

  A tear crept over her lashes. “Isn’t that for me to decide?” The plea was simple, eloquent. And broke his heart completely.

  He said with more sorrow than he ever imagined possible, “I wish to God things could be different.”

  “But they can be,” she said. “You will get better. And there are other options for children. It doesn’t have to end like this.”

  “Even if—” He shook his head. Firmed his resolve. “No. This was all a mistake. Nothing’s changed.”

  Those sad green eyes regarded him for an endless, heartrending moment. “You’re wrong, Alex,” she refuted softly. “Everything’s changed.”

  Then she put her mouth to his and kissed him. She opened to him, heart and soul, and he groaned in an agony of need. Every cell of his body yearned for her.

  And God help him, he kissed her back.

  SARAH cracked her eyes open and lifted her head from the desk, wincing at the crick in her neck. The big black-and-white clock on the wall swam into focus.

  Damn it! She’d only meant to sleep for twenty minutes. It had now been nearly four hours! Shit, shit, shit.

  She wobbled to her feet, shaking out her sleeping ankle, and limped over to the coffeepot. The black liquid in the bottom would eat through her cup if she didn’t drink it fast enough, but that was probably just what she needed. Jeez, she was getting too old for these all-nighters.

  Bleary-eyed, she tried to remember what was on top of her to-do list for today.

  Oh, yeah. Call Wade Montana.

  Not for a date. She was way past that childish infatuation. Call it temporary insanity, due to the man’s GQ good looks. Okay, and his awesome kissing. But the guy had major issues, and the last thing she needed in her life was a man with bigger problems than her own.

  Too bad. He really was charming when he wanted to be.

  She gulped down the coffee and waited for the buzz to hit. When it did, she dialed Montana’s number. It took several rings for him to answer.

  “Hullo?” He sounded groggy. Gee, maybe he’d been taking a nap, too.

  “Hi. It’s Sarah. Sorry I’ve been busy and missed your calls.”

  “Oh. No problem.” There was a rustling noise and what sounded like a woman’s muffled cry in the background. “Sorry. Um. The televishion.”

  There was more rustling. Presumably he went to shut it off. Waiting, she riffled through the papers on her desk until she found the printout on the fingerprint ID from the Walter Reed murder.

  “I’m gladge you called,” he mumbled when he came back. Damn. He must have been pounding them down. Was there a game on or something? “I wanted to ’pologize for my—”

  “No need,” she cut him off cheerfully. “Really. I actually just called to relay some information that could be linked to your ex-fiancée’s case. Are you still—”

  “No, that’s—” There was a thud in the background. “I mean, yeah. I am. Go ’head.”

  “Anyway. Forensics found a fingerprint at the murder scene yesterday and I got an ID,” she said briskly. “It came back to a Gregg van Halen, who seems to have worked for CIA in some capacity. Details are a bit vague.”

  “Ahh.” He sounded almost disappointed. “Anything elsh?”

  For someone who yesterday had been so determined to hunt this guy down, he seemed singularly indifferent today. “Nope. That’s it. Just thought you’d be concerned that the man who may have kidnapped your ex-fiancée is a cold-blooded murderer.” She did her best to keep the cynicism from her tone. Wow. Maybe she had totally misjudged the situation. And the man.

  There was a muffled silence. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I found out something that might interesht ya, too.”

  She sat up. “What?”

  There was a waver in Wade’s voice. Halen. “He’sh at the Watergate. Top floor.”

  “Damn, Wade. Are you serious?” She was already pulling her vest from her bottom drawer. “Why didn’t you say so right away?

  “Shorry, I . . .” It sounded like he drifted off for a second.

  “Never mind. Thanks for the tip.”

  “Sarah?” he blurted loudly, like he’d jerked awake. “Be careful.”

  “I’ll be fine. You just take care of yourself, Montana. Try making a pot of coffee. And I’ll let you know what happens with van Halen.”

  Putting down the phone, she shook her head. Wow. That was a crying shame. Not even three o’clock in the afternoon.

  Anyway. With any luck, his tip was good. She checked her weapon and slung on her vest. This was exactly the break she needed to boost her career out of the dumper.

  She yelled for Jonesy. “Grab your gear, detective! Let’s go catch us a killer!”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “STORM Mike calling STORM Dog Six, over.”

  Dog Six was military-speak for commanding officer. Meaning Quinn. It was Marc calling in. He and Kick had followed Altos to the Capitol Building when he’d left his McLean house earlier that morning.

  The whole team had gone to headsets, and been briefed on what happened with Bruce Hearn at Altos’s office. After spending two hours with the Secret Service wrangling over how best to handle the afternoon press conference, Gregg and Quinn were now speeding back to the hotel. Gregg was behind the wheel of the SUV.

  Quinn tapped his comm button. “This is STORM Dog Six actual. Go ahead STORM Mike, over.”

  “No movement from Altos yet,” Marc reported. “The meeting is still in progress, over.”

  Gregg let out a breath. “We may just pull this thing off,” he muttered off-comm.

  “Copy that, STORM Mike. Stick with the committee,” Quinn ordered Marc. “Kilo, the Homies will be on scene shortly.” Kilo was Kick. “They’ll read you into the plan. We’re trying our best to pull POTUS from the press conference, over.” />
  There was a relieved murmur from the whole team. Not one of them wanted to let the President walk into the middle of this powder keg. The potential for a goatfuck was all too real.

  “Sure hope he listens to his advisors this time, over,” Kick said. The man was notorious for disregarding personal safety. Said he preferred to be a man of the people. Admirable. But foolish.

  “You and me both,” Quinn said. “Juliet, how’s the wife doing, over?” Juliet was Tara Reeves. She’d been left on stakeout at the house in McLean.

  “All quiet here, boss, over.”

  “Good deal. Okay, updates in ten, people. Over and out.”

  Gregg sped through a yellow, taking a left on two wheels. He was anxious to get back to Gina. They’d been away for nearly four hours. Far too long for comfort. Darcy had said she was sleeping, so she hadn’t been on the comm with the others. He needed to see her. His nerves were pricking, which they only did when he sensed something wrong. He couldn’t imagine what, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.

  “What’s the plan now?” he asked Quinn, clicking off his headset.

  Quinn tapped his, as well. “Get to the hotel. Grab Darcy and the gear and get back to—”

  “And Gina.”

  Quinn shook his head. “Gina’s not an operator. She’ll be in the way.”

  Gregg pressed his lips together. “I’m not leaving her alone. Especially not with what’s going down. She’s still a target.”

  Quinn hung on as Gregg took another corner. “Every indication is the Trigger is an assassin, and that he’s planning to be at that press conference after the subcommittee meeting. He can’t be in two places at once.”

  “I get that, but it’s still just an educated guess. What if we’re wrong?”

  “We’re not. But I can bring someone in from STORM to watch Gina. She’ll be fine until it’s over.”

  Gregg didn’t like it. Not one fucking bit. He needed to have eyes on his woman.

  “This is our chance to put an end to this traitor, van Halen. It’s also your best chance to get your job back. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  “It is.” He jetted out a breath and pulled into the Watergate. He parked behind a police car in the valet roundabout. “I do. But I made a vow to protect Gina until we catch this bastard and she can go back home to her real life.”

  Quinn regarded him for a drawn out moment. “You gonna be in it?”

  “What?” With a frown at the police cruiser, Gregg told the valet they’d be right back, then said to Quinn, “Darcy would have warned us if something’s wrong, yeah?”

  In answer Quinn hit the comm. “STORM Zulu, everything okay at home, over?”

  “Zulu here, Dog Six. Quiet as a mouse. Been chatting with the Homies. They’re briefing Kilo as we speak, over.”

  “Is Gina awake yet?” Gregg asked, dispensing with protocol since he wasn’t sure of her call sign. Or his, for that matter.

  “STORM Victor, I presume? I’m about to go wake Charlie, over.” So he was Victor and Gina was Charlie.

  “Don’t bother, Zulu. I’ll do it, over,” he said.

  “ETA one minute,” Quinn said, and tapped off the comm again as they stepped into the elevator. They both faced forward in formation, feet spread and arms crossed. “So,” Quinn said, “are you going to be?”

  Gregg turned his head. “Excuse me?”

  “In Gina’s life.”

  He faced forward again. “No.”

  “Because . . .”

  “I’m an operator. I don’t do relationships.”

  Quinn snorted. “Yeah, I can see that,” he drawled.

  “A comedian? Really?”

  “I’m just sayin’. You might want to rethink that whole lone-wolf lifestyle thing. Makes for a very lonely old age, I hear.”

  “I doubt I’ll live that long.”

  Quinn’s lip quirked. “Hell, you’re pretty good. It could happen.”

  Was that a compliment? “Thanks,” Gregg said. “I think.”

  “In fact, so good, after this is over, you want a job you don’t have to compromise your values, come see me.”

  The elevator dinged open, and Quinn strode out. Gregg was so taken aback he almost let the doors close on him. He stuck his hand out at the last second, bounced them open again, and followed.

  Work for STORM? Was Quinn crazy?

  Gregg knew the acronym stood for Strategic Technical Operations and Rescue Missions. Mainly STORM was hired by private companies and individuals to recover and defend hostages and other assets. But they were also occasionally hired by governments all over the world, to carry out ultra-sensitive or controversial special ops. Sort of like Zero Unit, but without the strict CIA agenda.

  The thing was, Gregg liked the CIA agenda. Values? Someone needed to defend this country in the meanest, darkest, dirtiest cesspools of the world with just one mandate: keep America safe using any methods necessary. That’s what Zero Unit did. Those values suited Gregg. Because he was dark, mean, and dirty, too. He did not play well with others. His father had seen to that.

  “Gina’s across the hall,” Darcy said when he walked into the suite.

  “What? Alone?” he burst out, reversing his momentum to double-time over there.

  “She begged,” Darcy called after him as he went. “I cleared the room myself. She swore she wouldn’t—”

  The rest was lost as the door slammed. He jabbed his key card into the lock and flung the door open.

  “Gina!” he called. “Are you—”

  But it wasn’t Gina who greeted him inside. It was a female police detective holding up a badge in one hand and a weapon in the other.

  “D.C. Metro Police. Freeze!”

  Before he could draw his SIG, the muzzle of a gun was jammed in his back. “Don’t even think about it, scumbag,” a gruff voice advised. A man grabbed his arm from behind and the hard steel of a handcuff slapped around one wrist.

  “Gregg van Halen, you are under arrest for—” the woman began.

  Screw that. “Gina!” he shouted. But Gina didn’t answer. Fear slammed through him.

  “—the murder of Gibran Allawi—”

  “There’s no one else here,” the male voice behind Gregg informed him. The muzzle in his back dropped away. His other arm was yanked backward.

  “—Bakreen. You have the right to remain silent—”

  “What have you done with her?” Gregg growled. “Where’s Dr. Cappozi?”

  “—but anything you say . . . Are you paying attention to me, mister?” the detective demanded.

  “No one else is here,” the man behind him repeated impatiently. The other cuff started to snap home.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  Instinct took over. Gregg slammed his elbow into the man’s face at the same time he kicked the gun from the detective’s hand. Surprise flashed across her face. He did a roundhouse and knocked her out cold. He spun. The man was already down, groaning and clutching his bloody nose. Gregg knocked him out, too. That’s when he noticed a piece of paper lying on the floor. Chillingly familiar.

  Fuck.

  He scooped up the man’s keys and both of their weapons, and in five seconds was halfway down the emergency stairs. He reached for his comm. He knocked it and it went flying down the concrete stairwell. Before he could swerve to miss, his boot landed on the thin plastic with a firm crunch.

  Shit!

  His phone rang. Thank God. “Gina?” he barked. The name bounced like a gun rapport off the narrow cement enclosure.

  “What the hell is going on?” came Quinn’s voice.

  “Cops were waiting for me,” he ground out. “Gina’s gone.”

  Quinn swore. Gregg could hear him conferring heatedly with Darcy. “She swears Gina was there—”

  Gregg vaulted out of the hotel’s front entry. “Save it. He’s got her, Quinn. I saw a copy of the subcommittee meeting agenda on the floor. Same as at Altos’s office.” About as blatant a message as it got. “It has to be the
Trigger.”

  The commander cursed again. “You know this can’t change anything, van Halen. The mission takes priority. We have to finish this, regardless.”

  “You do what you have to do,” Gregg said, made a quick decision, and jumped into the cop car. He stabbed the stolen keys into the ignition and gunned it. “I’m not part of your fucking team, and I’m going after Gina. I am not letting that bastard kill her.”

  “But you have no idea where he’s taken her!”

  “Hell, Quinn, we both know exactly where he’s taking her.”

  “And what about POTUS? If he decides to attend that press conference against our advice? What if this bastard succeeds in assassinating the goddamn President because your head is somewhere else entirely? We need every man together on this op. We need you to—”

  Gregg took a deep, painful breath. “Sorry, man.” And threw the phone out the window.

  Fuck.

  The woman he loved . . .

  Or the President of the United States . . .

  How could he possibly choose?

  TWENTY-SIX

  GODDAMN it!

  Sarah came awake on the hotel room floor with a splitting head and furious as hell. She peeled her eyes open and scanned the room. Jonesy was still out. Their suspect was long gone.

  Goddamn it!

  Her own fault. What a complete freaking idiot! She should have anticipated that van Halen would not come easily. He’d already murdered at least one person, probably three. He’d have nothing to lose by killing two more, even cops. The miracle was that he’d left them alive.

  Gritting her teeth against the wash of pain that flashed through her skull, she crawled over to Jonesy. On her way, her hand landed on a piece of paper. She paused a moment, letting the rockets’ red glare in her head settle down, then with difficulty focused on the paper. She read over it twice, just to be sure she wasn’t hallucinating.

  Her anger ratcheted up. Wow. Un-freaking-believable.

  But there was a God.

  Dragging the paper by one corner, she continued over to Jonesy. She peered at his battered face, wincing. Ouch. That would get ugly before it got better.