Crazy Wild

by Tara Janzen

Yeah. Sure he did, but this sort of half-arousal thing they had working, with her in his lap and his hands under her clothes and her mouth all over his face, nibbling on his ears, kissing him back—hell, it was great, kind of a long, slow hum where a guy could just float and really explore her body. Her breasts were so soft and full, not big, just full, her skin so silky. There was nothing on a guy's body that felt like breasts, and the way she was straddling him on the chair gave him full access to her amazingly curved tush—but he was showing a little caution there. If he got too far down her pants, his slow hum was going to turn into a John Frusciante riff and they'd be deep into achingly hot and sweet sex in a heartbeat.

  Which maybe wasn't such a bad idea after all.

  He'd no sooner had the thought, though, than the Humvee screen blipped on. Cody was kissing his neck, and he watched over her shoulder as a white-and-yellow-striped line undulated across a green skin.

  “Hold on, babe,” he said, kissing her cheek and wrapping his arm around her waist as he leaned forward to pick up the phone.

  A couple of button pushes got him Dylan.

  “Is that you at the Humvee?”

  “Yes,” Dylan said, not sounding any too happy about it.

  “South Morrison?”

  “Roger that.”

  Skeeter's ass was grass.

  “Any sign of her?”

  “No. I'm going in. What do you think? Start in the basement?”

  “'Fraid so, boss. Go straight through the party. There's a stairwell behind the stage, and the rest of the building lays out from there. You'll be looking for a boiler.” The boss was the least mechanical of the lot of them. “Do you even know what a boiler looks like, Dylan?” Creed really had his doubts.

  The boss's “Fuck you” cleared up some of his doubts, but not all of them. Dylan could scam his way through anything—but being a great con artist was not going to find him the boiler room.

  “She hasn't turned on her cell phone, has she?”

  “No, sir.” Not bloody likely. The girl didn't want to be found out. She'd thought she could pull a fast one over at South Morrison and not get caught.

  “If she should decide to call, tell her to—”

  “Wait,” Creed said, leaning forward and clicking the mouse to bring up another screen. “She's on. Do you want to make the call or—”

  The decision was made for them when Creed's cell phone rang.

  “Hold on, Dylan. I've got an incoming,” he said, pulling his cell phone out of his pants pocket. “It's her.”

  Except it wasn't her. When he answered, he got a man's voice with a German accent.

  “We've got your girl, your Skeeter Bang. If you want her back, you'll bring us Dominika Starkova.”

  Oh, Baby Bang, you've done it this time, Creed thought, and felt his expression go from fucking grim to frightfully fucking grim in the course of a couple of seconds. He glanced up at Cody once, then focused his attention back on the call.

  “You've got an hour,” the voice said. “Call then and I'll give you directions to the drop.”

  The phone went dead, and Creed instantly went back to the land line.

  “They've got her, Dylan,” he said, his voice tight. “But they're willing to make a trade. It's a pretty straightforward deal—Dominika Starkova for the punk rock girl.”

  Geezus.

  “Did you get a lock on the phone?” Dylan asked.

  “Yes.” He zoomed in on the computer screen, pulling up a map of the city. “It's on the north side. Up in Commerce City. West of Colorado Boulevard.”

  “Ten-oh-eight Robinson,” Dylan said.

  “Definitely Robinson, and I'll take your word on the ten-oh-eight.” Creed was impressed. “How did you know?”

  “Skeeter found a paper trail for one of Bruno Walmann's business cards. It ended up at a warehouse in north Denver.”

  Dylan's photographic memory would have done the rest.

  “How do you want to do this?” They weren't going to give them Cody, Creed knew that, but there was no way in hell they were going to let them keep Skeeter.

  “Full-court press. I'm calling Royce and Lieutenant Loretta. With dead foreigners showing up all over the city, everybody's on edge. When everyone is in position, I'll move inside, and we'll roll the circus straight down their throat.”

  Creed couldn't fault the plan, except for him not being part of it, but his priority tonight, his only priority, had been and still was to capture, detain, and protect Cordelia Stark. The whole “circus” idea would work. There was nothing like a hastily cobbled together interagency task force to create a diversion the size of Chicago. Inside the ensuing chaos, Dylan would be invisible. Skeeter hadn't nicknamed him “the Shadow” for nothing. Nobody moved with more stealth when the situation required it, and he'd have Skeeter on his side. The girl was far from helpless.

  Superman had made damn sure of that.

  SKEETER had been in worse places. The old flophouse up on Wazee had been a lot worse than this tidy little warehouse on the north side, but the company on Wazee had been better. A couple of these guys were major freakazoids, especially the one named Reinhard Klein. The gorilla-looking dude had to be what was left of the Braun twins, but he didn't worry her too much. Big dumb muscle wasn't dangerous unless it got ahold of you. Not that she wouldn't be pretty damn easy to get ahold of right now. She was tied to a chair . . . for the moment.

  She was scared, but functioning. This wasn't the first tight spot she'd ever been in. Nobody was insanely drunk or threatening to kill her. They would, if they thought it was to their advantage. She knew it. She wasn't stupid—or at least she hadn't been until she'd just had to go after those earrings.

  She really needed to reorganize her priority list. Electronic gear, however attractive, was not worth her life. That was her new mantra: no dying for battery-operated devices. She needed to learn it and remember it.

  That said, she had managed to slip the earrings into her pants pocket before they'd hauled her out of South Morrison, which was enough to make a girl wonder just how well she was learning tonight's little life lesson. But if push came to shove, she was ready to hand them over, so help her God.

  As it was, she didn't think these tangos even knew she had the earrings.

  Tangos, terrorists—yes, she was operating in real SDF territory now, even if this group didn't fit the hardened, moth-eaten picture she'd always had of terrorists. Almost everyone here tonight was in a suit. Freakin' three pieces on old Reinhard, with his slicked-back black hair and his cashmere overcoat. Definitely not the picture she'd had in mind.

  Then there were the two MIBs, the Men in Black, except one of them was a woman. They all but screamed “cops,” except they were better dressed. They had the look, though, and the attitude, the deliberate calm, the steady, modulated voices. Bruno Walmann was brooding; the Braun boy was almost catatonic; Klein was moving and shaking, the power player; and the two MIBs were in control. If one of them actually did scream something, she was diving out of her chair, because something would definitely be coming down.

  Reinhard stopped his pacing in front of her, for about the hundredth time, with his crotch right in her face. The rats in South Morrison had nothing on this guy in the creep department. He'd taken her hat and her sunglasses, which meant she was looking her worst, but that hadn't kept him from fixating on her.

  He lifted her ponytail in his manicured hand. “For a moment, in the basement, I thought you were Dominika.”

  Her hair slid through his fingers, and all she could think was “double wash, double rinse.”

  “But you've been ruined. No, liebling?” He trailed a finger down her scar. “Too bad.”

  Ruined was what he said, but all the signals she was getting said she hadn't been ruined enough to turn him off. Hawkins had taught her how to work a situation like this to her advantage. It was kind of gross, but geez, he'd even made her come on to him, and if she could kissy-face flirt with Superman, who was practically her dad, then sh
e could do it with gross old Reinhard.

  Here goes, she thought, and lowered her gaze to his crotch. If this worked, she was going to lose all respect for men.

  He chuckled, and ran his finger down her cheek. “How old are you? Fifteen?”

  “And a half,” she said, lifting her gaze back to his.

  He liked that. He liked it a lot. She could tell.

  Pervert.

  But she could live with that, especially if it got her untied and alone in a room with him.

  Her cell phone rang, and Bruno flipped it open. She had to grin. Somebody at SDF headquarters was marking her position every time Bruno got on the phone. Somebody else would already be on their way—and that thought was enough to wipe the grin off her face.

  Man, she hoped it was Creed. She didn't want to have to face Dylan for a while. If she got out of this in one piece, he was going to skin her alive and nail her hide to the garage wall.

  “Herr Klein, they are ready to deliver at a location of our choice.”

  “Perfect,” Reinhard said. “Tell them we'll call them back in thirty minutes and tell them where to meet us.”

  Something told Skeeter it was going to be a long thirty minutes for her. Behind her back, she carefully slipped her needle-nosed pliers back into her tool belt. By her estimation, she'd gotten about halfway through the rope they'd used to tie her up. Maybe far enough to break it, but she hoped not far enough for anyone to notice.

  They'd taken her gun in South Morrison, but not her tool belt—which had really made her wonder just how much these guys knew about tools—and because they hadn't taken her tool belt, they'd missed her switchblade underneath.

  “Ernst.” Reinhard called the Braun guy over. “Take her into the next room. No,” he said when Ernst reached for her ropes. “Keep her tied. Carry in the whole chair.”

  Tied? Just what in the hell did he think he was going to do to her tied to a chair? Her imagination, which was really good, came up with a few things without any trouble, but she refused to panic.

  Then Ernst came up behind her and simply lifted the whole chair by its seat and carried her through the door.

  She didn't even bother trying to catch the eye of one of the MIBs and give them a pleading look. Those two were running their own game here, and saving punk rock girls was not on their agenda.

  Fortunately, this punk rock girl could save herself—she hoped.

  After Ernst set her down, Reinhard followed him to the door and locked it behind him. Skeeter heard him slide the dead bolt home.

  Perfect.

  Once this thing started, she didn't want anybody else coming in.

  C HAPTER

  28

  I N STEELE STREET, Creed was monitoring half a dozen devices on three separate computers. The Humvee was Dylan heading north into Commerce City to save Skeeter's butt. The cell phone was the location of the assholes who had taken her, and the third was an open-com setup where he was tracking everyone else who was headed up to the warehouse. He had the police radio on an open band. Royce from the CIA wasn't talking, but Creed knew by the tracker still on his car that he was definitely going in the right direction.

  “You're amazing,” Cody said, standing just behind him, watching him work.

  Yeah, it was pretty impressive how he'd gotten this all up and running in record time, and he thought it was cool that she'd noticed. He had the rep as SDF's jungle boy, but he had the rest of the gig down, too. He wasn't just good for swinging through the trees and booby-trapping the trails.

  He'd been thinking, though, and he was thinking it was time to make a move. As soon as Skeeter was free, he and Cody needed to clear out, and get lost, and make damn sure they weren't found.

  He knew the place.

  He also knew a guy in Trinidad who could paint Angelina in an hour flat. She'd always wanted to look like Jeanette, and this was going to be her chance. Pure primer, baby. He was going to turn his show ride into a sleeper. Then it was straight to Mexico and the coast.

  He always had two bags packed, ready to go at a moment's notice, one with clothes and stuff, and another with weapons. All he needed now was the moment, and something from her.

  “We've run out of time, Cody,” he said, watching the Humvee's white-and-yellow-striped signal come to a stop on the screen. Dylan had landed, but everybody else wasn't too far behind. “This thing with Skeeter has blown us up. We're not going to be able to hide out in Steele Street after Royce gets a load of what she's been up to. He's going to know I've got you, and it's going to be warrants for everyone's arrest. He's not going to be able to put me away, but it'll be the end for you—and I'm not willing to let that happen.”

  “I'm not sure you can keep it from happening.” She leaned forward, resting her hands on his shoulders and pressing a kiss to the back of his head. “Or, if you can, that you should.”

  “Well, I can, and I'm damn sure I should.” He hit a couple of keystrokes. Somehow, Royce's signal kept getting stalled. He was either hitting every red light in Denver, or ending up behind every garbage truck on the late shift, because the blinking light with his name on it was hardly moving. “If after a week, or two, or three, you decide you'd rather sit in Leavenworth than stand one more day of my company, I'll bring you back.”

  “Back from where?”

  He looked up at her. “Paradise. You won't find it on a map, but I know how to get there. I wish I could give you a third choice, but I can't. I'd rather have you in Leavenworth than dead, and you won't last a week on your own. Not even if Dylan and the CIA get every tango in Denver tonight. Patrushev will just send more.”

  HE was right, and Cody knew it. She could run until she dropped, and there would still be somebody after her.

  “There's a price, though, babe, and it's got to be paid,” he said, swiveling around in his chair, the computers momentarily forgotten. “No compromise on this, Cody. I have got to have the book. You need to be as far away from it as you can get, and the U.S. government needs to find that nuclear bomb. The world can't have that threat hanging over its head.”

  He was right. Hiding the book was one thing, but it didn't make the bomb disappear. Somewhere in Tajikistan, it was waiting, and someday, map or no map, it was going to be found.

  He was offering her a chance, the same way he'd offered her forgiveness for her sins. He'd lifted a weight off her shoulders, and he was willing to do it again.

  “It's an awful burden, Creed.” Truly terrible.

  “I know, querida.” He reached for her hand, then gently pulled her onto his lap and nuzzled her neck. It wasn't sexual. It was warm, and loving. It was being close, sharing the same space, and she'd never felt anything like it with anyone else, ever. “Come with me, Cody. Let's give them what they want and escape.”

  A few simple words would set her free, would be the end of it, and with his breath warming her skin and his body close, touching her, she found the strength to just let go.

  “I hid the book in the library.”

  SKEETER looked down at poor old Reinhard Klein with his dick hanging out of his pants, and his glass jaw broken, and his four-thousand-dollar suit looking like yesterday's news, and she would have given away half her new Humvee for one can of spray paint. She'd bagged the bastard, and now she really wanted to tag him. SB303. From the way he was moaning and groaning on the floor, she figured there was a good possibility that she'd actually broken his balls.

  He had Superman to thank for that. She and Hawkins had spent enough time in Steele Street's fourth-floor gym to fill the basement with sweat—and tonight, it had all paid off.

  You will never be hurt again, he'd told her. Never. And then he'd proceeded to make it so.

  Poor old Reinhard. He'd never had a chance once he'd unzipped his pants. He'd thought he was going up against a girl. That's what he'd seen. What he hadn't seen was Superman's blood pumping through her veins, making her heart strong. No one could see it, but she knew it was there.

  She looked around the of
fice, but of course, there was no paint. Damn.

  There had to be something she could—ah, she had it. Using her pliers, she snipped one piece of chain off her knife sheath, pried it open a little bit more, and then threaded it through his lapel button.

  SB303, sucker.

  From the pounding on the door, Reinhard's buddies had figured out all was not wine and roses in the love nest. It was time to get out of Dogville.

  Stepping on the chair and the desk and up onto the bookcase, she climbed to the one window in the office, slid it open, shimmied her butt through it, and dropped the ten feet down on the other side. She landed soft on the balls of her feet, her knees bent, her mind clear.

  DYLAN stood behind Loretta and the guys she'd brought from her SWAT team, which had not been his choice, but they were the ones with the breaching loads, so they got to blow the door. Supplies, that's all it was, simple supplies. The guys with the most toys got to play first.

  He had breaching loads at home, and a Mossberg 500 Cruiser to deliver them, the operative words being “at home,” as in “not here” outside this goddamn German warehouse, wading through snow up to his butt cheeks.

  Four guys were lined up in front of him, each with their hand on the shoulder of the guy ahead of them. Everybody needed to know where everybody else was when the door went and they all peeled off into the dark building.

  He was man number five, and he'd been told to stay put until he got the all clear, even though it was his employee, his friend, they were all there to save.

  Actually, out of everybody sneaking through the dark and getting into position out here on Robinson Street, he and Loretta were probably the only ones who gave a damn about Skeeter. Everybody else wanted a piece of the action and their chance to do the deed, take down some assholes, get back at Osama, and hit one for the home team.

  He didn't blame them; if it wasn't for Skeeter, he would have felt the same way.

  But for him, this was about Skeeter, and his gut was in a knot of fear. He didn't want her hurt. If she was okay, then he got to strangle her himself, and that's what he wanted, what he needed. To have the luxury of shaking her until her teeth rattled and kissing her until she melted in his arms.