Mighty Men with Weapons

by Mighty Men

  He locked his fingers and stretched his arms forward, watching his muscles flex. He snickered. He hadn’t been called out as a beautiful man for nothing.

  Most women swooned at his feet and cried their share of tears when they discovered his sexual orientation. Hell, it was the most amusing part of his job. When women were targets, he enjoyed taking them to bed and watching their dismay, never mind their discomfort, when they discovered the truth.

  Sometimes he was really quite twisted. He got off on telling a woman he fucked that the reason he could only take her in the ass was the obvious. He liked riding in the backseat. It was the only way to drive.

  “Dinner is served buffet style,” Nate barked, a raspy catch to his voice. “Personnel,” he pointed to a man digging up beach umbrellas, “claims it’s covered with our stay.”

  “And I’ll bet you aren’t the kind of guy to spend money out of pocket when something has already been taken care of for you, huh?”

  “I don’t spend my dough,” Nate informed him. “Now if you were looking for a quiet romantic dinner in, I’m sure I can swing for candlelight.”

  He didn’t smile. He didn’t act sincere. He was all fuck and no foreplay. Donovan didn’t need a man like Nate to screw up his day, or maybe later, his orders.

  Donovan let Nate's snide remark slide. “I hear the island spreads are pretty good.”

  “If you like pineapple,” Nate complained.

  “And I take it you don’t?”

  “I don’t like much of anything I can’t lock one hand around.”

  “You can’t fist a pineapple?” Donovan asked, grinning.

  Apparently, Nate didn’t find him amusing. He stalked inside and a few minutes later reappeared in khaki shorts and a bright pink Polo.

  Donovan sat sideways in the hammock. “Well, don’t you look...” Good enough to suck, sip, or swallow. He went with, “Obvious.”

  “Obvious?” Nate arched a brow.

  “Trying to look like you fit in as a tourist?”

  “Something wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  Everything. “Nothing.”

  A forced smile curved Nate’s mouth, and his lips shaped into a completely devilish grin. “I’m ready to go when you are. If I look good enough to tempt, why don’t you go ahead and dig in?”

  Donovan stood, started to pass, and changed his mind. Why the hell not? Since their first introduction, Nate and Donovan shared an unspoken understanding. They were of like minds through and through. Potential lovers, even if they never acted on desires, often connected within seconds of an initial meeting.

  He gave Nate a firm pat on the cheek and stared directly into the man’s eyes. “You know what’s wrong with you?” He didn’t wait for a reply, but he did pause. “You’ve had blue balls for so damn long, you’ll fuck just about anything without a cause or a meaning behind each and every thrust. That’s what these missions do to men like me and you.”

  Nate’s jaw set, and before Donovan prepared for retaliation, Nate kicked the door closed and pinned him to the floor. Sitting across his chest, the angry beast unleashed in a powerful form, and his neck veins pulsed with fury.

  “You think you wanna take me?” Nate asked, gripping his wrists.

  Donovan allowed his body to relax under Nate’s weight. Then he said, “I could give you good fight, soldier. But I’d hate to mess up that pretty pastel covering your body.”

  Nate drew back.

  “Go ahead,” Donovan invited. “It’s not gonna help matters. A thrown punch certainly won’t change things.”

  Nate swallowed hard, stared harder, and probably grew stiffer.

  “You gonna take that swing or let me up so I can shower and change for dinner?”

  Nate took a deep breath, one he barely concealed. There was a peculiar yellowish tint covering his brown eyes with a thick gloss. Those were the eyes set and controlled by his killer instinct.

  The woman at the airport was wrong when she compared Nate to a mountain lion. Donovan believed he was staring into the hungry eyes of a true tiger, one who possessed guts and claimed plenty of personal glory from mere survival. He gawked anyway. Donovan wasn’t the kind of man to look away first, turn the other cheek, and avoid a good fight.

  After a few minutes passed, Nate released him, and Donovan sighed when he stood on his feet again. Most men who tried something so stupid would’ve been decked, but Donovan refused to hit a man who already had his back against the ground.

  They stared at one another for a lingering moment. Then Nate walked outside. Donovan headed for the shower. Once there, he locked his left hand firmly around his cock and tugged his dick through a closed fist. Squeezing his eyes shut, he captured the recent image of the man he’d soon have nearby for assistance.

  * * * *

  Colby Carrington watched Donovan Collier and Nate Francisco from a safe distance. He refocused his field glasses a few times as they moved through the serving line. Finally, they were directed to a table right smack dab in the middle of the restaurant. He bet his friend Nate loved every minute of the wide-open exposure.

  He could almost hear him now, bitching and griping about where they were seated, how vulnerable they were. Too damn bad for Nate. Or maybe not.

  Before Colby enjoyed one too many chuckles, he saw Nate motion for one of the wait staff, and soon he pointed out the precise table he wanted. That was Nate. He was nothing if not thorough to a fault. Still, for a few seconds, he allowed himself a rare weakness, and anyone on the opposition would have seen the advantage. A shooter would’ve taken his shot and reveled in Nate’s carelessness.

  Colby didn’t pull the trigger, but he could have. If required to take the perfect shot, death’s kill, he would’ve had opportunity, and life as Nate had known it would’ve been over.

  “Not now, my friend,” Colby muttered, eyeing the gun at his side.

  Colby arrived two days before Nate and Donovan for a reason. He knew Nate better than most but considered Donovan young blood with too many kills under his belt. Donovan was the red flag, the reason Colby knew this mission wasn’t just another job.

  Amateurs like Donovan, regardless of how good they were or how talented they appeared, rarely worked with seasoned operatives. Many of the operatives had reputations for short fuses. One or two good soldiers lost their lives right after training because they were assigned to a tough mission with the wrong son of a bitch. Donovan was seated directly across from hell’s worst.

  Donovan Collier had something special. Colby wasn’t sure why Donovan was a rare find, but he undoubtedly had something. His skills placed him across the table from Nate Francisco.

  Nate was an ISO who would, in fact, cut off a man’s pecker and hand it to him across the table if he stepped out of line. He’d never stop eating his steak dinner in the process. In fact, he might even ask the loser to pass the salt as he drew his last breath.

  Colby dropped the binoculars, narrowed his gaze, and rubbed his chin. The stubble alerted him to the obvious. He hadn’t taken the time to shave. He’d been wound up like a ticking time bomb since he received his assignment.

  Raising the glasses to the bridge of his nose, he asked the million dollar question. “Who’d you piss off, asshole?” He stared harder. “What the fuck did you do to deserve a seat next to Nate Francisco?”

  He scoured the restaurant, looking for familiar faces. No one stood out or acted particularly interested in Nate and Donovan. So far, all registered guests checked out and proved non-threatening for the time being, which added credit to Colby’s bizarre theory. The targets weren’t among the current vacationers, if they were tourists at all.

  * * * *

  Nate scanned the crowd. He glanced to the left and right. He memorized faces, the discreet way some of the women snuggled closer to their companions, enjoying the island ambiance and romantic atmosphere of the restaurant. Then he focused on vocal inflection, the rise and fall of various pitches in the voices heard throughout the room.

&
nbsp; Donovan kept a keen eye on his plate and Nate, but Nate noticed he didn’t seem too interested in the comings and goings of the guests in their midst. Donovan's lack of concern irritated the hell out of him.

  “What?” Donovan asked suddenly.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Nate stated dryly.

  Instantly, Donovan rolled his shoulders back, tossed his napkin on the table and reached for something at his side. He only turned his cheek slightly to the left, but it was enough for Nate to see the distinct difference in his facial expression.

  Nate prepared for whatever headed their way, and by God, whatever the threat, the crisis approached fast and moved too damn close for saving grace. He needed a true miracle, and since he let his guard down, he probably needed one in the next several seconds.

  Chapter Three

  Donovan sensed the danger. With only a sixth sense to go on, Donovan reacted fast. No one ever understood Donovan’s remarkable instincts, and he himself didn’t like to rely upon them. Yet there he was in a middle of a restaurant, using his attacker’s own blade to slice the bastard’s throat.

  Those in the crowd didn’t act scared or leery of the hostile sudden approach. They shouldn’t have. They never saw the perpetrator stroll into the dining hall or draw the shiny weapon he fully intended to use.

  Nate looked surprised when the man made his way into the room’s center and pushed right past the maître d’. By the time Nate reached for his side, perhaps to draw a pistol, Donovan gripped his assailant’s weapon. Instead of using his own weapon, he slickly reached around the enemy’s waist and pinned the knife to the fellow’s chest, maneuvering it upward and slanting it toward the young man’s throat.

  He held his palm firmly to the wound and gritted back stark anger. Death filled his senses, and the sudden kill flared his fury.

  “Get him out of here, now,” Nate barked, pointing to the open doors leading to the outdoor swimming pool.

  With the corpse in hand, Donovan positioned the man’s right arm over his shoulder and carried his slumped form like he was helping the injured, or perhaps assisting someone who drank far too much. Refusing to notice the blood spilling from the man’s neck and soaking his fingers, he took four steps to the safety net of open air and then rushed toward the cabana. Ignoring the wet sand beneath his unsteady footing, he hurried past one hut and then another.

  He strode across the porch, nudged the door open with his hip and dropped the body to the floor. Immediately, the bedroom and bathroom were checked, and then he called to Nate upon his entry, “We’re clear.”

  “Not quite,” he said. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  Donovan glared straight ahead and shook his head once, the adrenaline still pumping through his heart and veins. “If I'd relied on you, we would’ve been killed!”

  Nate knelt over the fallen form. “How’d you know?”

  “A feeling,” Donovan said.

  “A damn feeling, that’s the best you can do?”

  “Luck,” Donovan said, changing his story.

  “Luck won’t save your life again and again. Everybody runs out of good fortune sooner or later,” Nate snapped. “What the hell tipped you off?”

  “The air changed,” he muttered.

  “Is that right?” Nate said, clearly irritated to the point of no return. “What the fuck are you...some kind of psychic or something? I didn’t even see this fellow!”

  “I know,” Donovan said calmly. “But I saw him when it mattered most.”

  A door slammed and another voice filled the room. “Neither one of you spotted him when you entered the restaurant.”

  Nate and Donovan drew their weapons and aimed them toward the doorway. There, Donovan discovered by far the sexiest man he had ever spotted in his life.

  “Nate.” The soldier tilted his head but avoided eye contact. He reached around Nate and extended his arm toward Donovan. “I’m Colby Carrington,” he said.

  If Donovan had been a woman, he might have fainted when he gripped the operative’s hand. They locked gazes when their palms met. Donovan felt the tension slice through the confined quarters and noticed how uneasy Nate seemed after watching the way they connected on a handshake.

  “So, you two know one another?” Donovan asked, amused and definitely interested in how well they were acquainted.

  Nate and Colby stared at one another. Contempt flashed bright in Colby’s light blue eyes, but then they immediately showed something else. Concern, maybe? Fear, perhaps? Oh no, there was something else there, an alluring quality too deep and full of meaning.

  Donovan had been in bed with the hardest of men. He recognized that particular look. He’d been the recipient and the one delivering such a cold glare.

  “We’ve been on assignment together,” Nate bit out.

  “Hmm,” Donovan said, leading. “Where?”

  “Afghanistan,” Colby replied. “And it was a long time ago.” The edge in his voice wasn’t necessarily bitter but driven by unsettled emotions.

  Shit, Donovan thought. Nate and Colby had definitely been lovers, but some obstacle—perhaps even the job—drove them apart.

  Nate returned his focus to the dead man. “You saw this bastard in the restaurant before we got there?”

  “He’s been parked on the sand outside this hut since you two arrived,” Colby said, clearly amused.

  “Do you think of these missions as mini-vacations or something? You were outside most of the afternoon. While you were soaking in the rays and dipping your toes in the ocean, could you have possibly noticed a light on your forehead?” Donovan asked Nate, pointedly.

  “No way. I didn’t see this guy. I would have remembered him,” Nate said confidently.

  Colby smiled. His dimples were absolutely addictive. “He was here, Nate.” He thumbed thin air over his shoulder and said, “He’s the registered guest of the cabana next door.”

  Nate didn’t argue, but his blood pressure probably peaked. His face turned bright red, and his balled fists hung low at his sides.

  “I had your back,” Colby said, winking once.

  Nate’s lips formed a tight line. He stalked into the bedroom and reappeared with a death kit. A body bag unfolded when he snapped the small box top, and a bottle of solution rolled to the floor. Used by government agencies only, the clear liquid would ensure finger prints weren’t lifted. The kit also guaranteed operatives protection. Once bodies bagged appropriately were found, officials in the right agencies instantly realized one of their own delivered the person’s death.

  “Thought you were a pro?” Donovan asked popping the lid off the bottle while Colby and Nate lifted the man onto the black sack perfect for a dead man.

  Nate dropped an arm and then a leg onto the tarp-like material. Before Nate snatched the opportunity to defend himself, Colby said, “He’s one of the best. He saved my life once.”

  “Once?” Nate questioned, arching a brow. “I seem to recall fourteen days of guerilla warfare where I saved your butt time and time again.”

  “One mission, one life saved. It doesn’t matter how many grenades you tossed or how many times you drew your knife or fired a gun. It’s the end result. The last second of the last hour is the only one that counts,” Colby said.

  Nate held the zipper. Donovan poured the liquid over the body, drenching the man’s skin with the fluid reminder that at least one man wouldn’t make it out of Rarotonga alive. Nate closed the bag, sealing off any potential evidence.

  “Now, genius,” Colby began. “Where should we dispose of him?”

  “I don’t know, Colby. Since you seem to have all the answers, why don’t you decide?”

  “I always find solutions, Nate. It’s the questions I hate.” He turned to Donovan and said, “I know the perfect place. There’s a small perfume factory on the south end of the island. We’ll drop him off there. With any luck, the scent of his decomposing body won’t alert authorities until we’re long gone and out of here.”

  Chapter
Four

  “Do any of them have a clue who their targets are?” Admiral Shoemaker asked, pacing the floor of his expansive new office.

  Dressed in black slacks and a bright red shirt, the young woman staring back at him acted more attentive than usual. Perhaps she had an eye for older men, those with clout and power.

  “If anyone suspects anything, it’s Carrington,” she said, flipping through her notepad and glancing up only once. Her gaze held at his belt, and she flinched, returning immediately to the summarized scribble she tried to pass off as detailed memos.

  “Something there of particular interest, or do you want me to be impressed by scattered notes?”

  Swallowing a few times, she looked up. “Admiral, with all due respect, sir, I try to be as thorough as possible when I’m working with you. I know you expect the best on your missions. I won’t let you down.”

  Narrowing his gaze on the rise and fall of her chest, he smiled. “I have every reason to believe you won’t. In fact,” he said, licking his lips, “why don’t you come on over here and show me what a good team we make. I think it’s long overdue, don’t you?”

  The brunette stepped right into place, just like they all did before he cut them loose. Sometimes he wondered if they suspected their time on the payroll was coming to an end. Her hands went to his neck, and she latched onto his lips like she’d kissed them a few too many times.

  Karen Whitaker kissed him without passion, no tongue or even a low moan in an attempt to force a heat filled sigh. They only mashed their lips together, and she reached then for his belt, loosening the strap as quickly as possible.

  Nipping at her jawline, the admiral said, “I want you to give me a blowjob. While you’re down there on your knees, you think about those soldiers we have out there in combat already in the throes of their mission. Fantasize about those big bad boys with their hands all over one another. You do that for me, okay?”

  Yeah, she could do him up right with those boys plastered in her mind. He might even enjoy himself, too, thinking about three hard and ready pawns.