Nike's Wings

by Valerie Douglas

  Byron sat back in his chair as a chill went through him.

  “In fact, there’s no one by that name and no one who looks remotely like her in any of the schools she claims to have attended.”

  There were a number of reasons why that might be, not the least among them because as an agent she’d been compromised, a variation on the witness protection program, but the NIO and the CIA were supposed to be on the same side. Her identity was no longer at risk. So why were they still concealing it? What were they hiding? It concerned him. They were hiding something. He wanted to know what that something was.

  He might need to know what that something was.

  There were a number of reasons they might hide that information from their own people. None of them were good.

  Anita studied Byron, lifted her eyes cautiously to look up at him from beneath her lashes, as if understanding Byron’s hesitation. She wanted permission. Wanted him to give it to her. If there was dirt, Anita wanted to be the one to find it, but Byron had to ask for it, had to grant it and sign for it. More than anything else though, he had to think it was his idea.

  “I can dig deeper,” Anita offered carefully.

  With a sigh, Byron nodded. “Do it.”

  Anita practically shouted in triumph. Not that it showed. No, none of it showed on her face until she walked out of Byron’s office, but she was practically dancing.

  She saw Jerry look at her, do a double-take, his expression shifting to vague alarm, and she restrained a smile.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Jake Aragon arrived at their temporary quarters with the first light of morning. The economy being what it was, the folks in Austin had found themselves saddled with a conference center of some sort on the edge of the city. The center had hotel-like rooms and a common kitchen. It had probably been a foreclosure sale and now served as occasional quarters for state and city conferences. That made more sense than renting and with the market the way it was, it was impossible to sell. The team commandeered the whole thing gratefully.

  Tall, dark-haired with tawny skin and eyes of molten gold, broad shoulders, muscles evident in his chest and bare arms in a short-sleeved shirt, along with an irrepressible personality, Aragon was the quintessential long, tall Texas Ranger.

  As if they came in any other size, Nike thought with amusement. She smothered a smile. The man’s muscles strained against his shirt, and he fit a nice pair of jeans. Not official wear, but she guessed he’d been briefed before he arrived.

  With the blessing of the Attorney General and Jake’s own superiors in the Rangers, they’d borrowed a surveillance van. They’d brought their own gear, though, some of it quite a bit newer than what the state, the Rangers and the DPS had been willing to part with.

  “How do you want to handle this?” Jake said, glancing in the rear view mirror at Ty and Niki in the back of the van as he drove. Buck rode shotgun in the passenger seat.

  “You know these streets, we don’t. You and Buck see what the word is out there,” Ty said, “Niki and I will see if we can track down Garcia.”

  Jake tried not to look at Nike Tallent, but it was difficult.

  No one had mentioned she was gorgeous. Her sunglasses hid the color of her eyes, but they were sure pretty behind them. According to the boss she was hell on wheels. Judging by the tats on her finely muscled back, he didn’t doubt it, but damn, she was cute. Nice shape, great legs. Hot as all hell with those tatts.

  While it was the best division of labor and made sense, he couldn’t help but regret not getting the chance to spend a little time with pretty Niki, especially when she was dressed in those tight leather pants. He wouldn’t mind trying to peel her out of those.

  “Why her?”

  Nike answered him herself. “What do you know about a man by the name of Chaco Dolan?”

  A major gun dealer, there were few who knew just how specialized some of the guns he dealt with were.

  Startled, Jake asked, “How do you know Dolan?”

  She smiled thinly, eyes frosty behind the yellow glasses. “I know a lot of things I shouldn’t.”

  Something in her smoky voice spoke volumes about the things she shouldn’t know.

  The name was enough to convince him.

  “He’ll talk to me in ways he won’t talk to you,” she said quietly, her tone sure.

  Looking at her at that moment Jake believed it.

  “That’ll work,” Jake said. “His shop isn’t far from a bar where my contact sometimes hangs out. Or at least someone there might know where he is and can get a message to him that someone is looking for him.”

  In every city there are sections where even the police walk with extra care, every window and door is covered with security gates and every wall with gang sign and graffiti. Some of the cars parked along the street hadn’t moved in months. They couldn’t, the tires and rims were gone.

  “That’s Chaco’s place,” Jake said, with a tip of his head in the appropriate direction. “Buck and I can start here, too, since there’s a few people who could be helpful and plenty of contacts to be made on this street. It also won’t look as direct. Folks tend to notice things around here. Good luck.”

  “Keep the lines of communication open, Buck,” Ty said.

  They might be back in the U.S., but basic operations didn’t change.

  Saluting Ty with a tug of his hat brim and a grin, Buck, with Aragon bedside him, slipped out of the back of the van, out of sight of the street, and moved away. Both wore headsets much like any cell phone. Niki, though, couldn’t wear one. Not where she was going.

  Taking a breath, Ty turned to Nike.

  “You’ll wear a wire,” he said.

  She nodded.

  Reaching for the microphone and the compact battery-power transmitter, he was surprised to find himself hesitating. Heat flushed his body at the thought of where he had to put the small devices…

  Once more she wore her leathers, the thin scrap of leather halter and the tight leather pants. There just weren’t a lot of places to hide it.

  It had been years since he’d wanted a woman this much. He’d thought those days were behind him. Apparently not.

  The advantage to the halter and the thin leather pants was that it seemed impossible to hide anything beneath them, but she was full-breasted enough that a transmitter and battery pack could be concealed between her breasts. If she did it, though, they couldn’t be certain she had the microphone and transmitter taped securely and he’d still have to check to make sure none of the wires showed.

  “Ty,” she said, quietly. “Do you want me to do it? I can.”

  He looked into her eyes and took a breath. “No. I’ll do it.”

  Setting the wire aside, he slid his hands around to the back of her neck, leaned close enough to breathe in her scent, to feel the warmth of her body.

  “What’s with all this, anyway?” Ty asked. Anything to distract him from what he was doing.

  He gestured at the leather halter and slacks.

  Niki’s breath came short, her eyelids fluttered as she bit her lip and held the halter in place. To his astonishment and her own very obvious consternation she was blushing. It was oddly charming and amusing. It was also good to know he wasn’t the only one discomfited.

  “It’s…a diversion,” she said, not looking at him. “And a uniform of sorts.”

  “Diversion?”

  She cleared her throat. Behind the glasses, her eyes flashed toward him. A wry smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

  “Very few people look at my face when I’m wearing it,” she said. “The leather moves better and is better protection against concrete or brick.”

  “I can imagine.”

  A sharp tug on the strings and the halter came free, spilling over her hands where she held it in place over her breasts.

  Ty’s breath caught and his jaw worked. It wasn’t just to see so much of her revealed, the rounded curves of the top of her breasts exposed, but the rest, what he had
n’t yet seen that had been concealed behind that thin piece of leather.

  Another scar, small and round, sat just beneath her collarbone, not far from her heart. A gunshot wound. It hadn’t killed her, but it must have been close. More long thin scars were scattered across her chest.

  Only her slender hands held the thin, pliant leather in place over her breasts.

  Ty’s whole body tightened. He struggled to remain professional, to keep from reaching out to touch.

  With an effort, he concentrated on what he needed to do. He taped the microphone and the tiny battery pack between those full breasts and made certain the wire and transmitter were secure. Her life would depend on it. It was something he couldn’t, wouldn’t ever, let himself forget. No one else would die on his watch.

  Nike closed her eyes, struggling to keep her breath even. His touch galvanized her, sent sparks through her. She swallowed a gasp, tried not to show how it affected her. It was maddening though. She could only hope he would credit the more visible signs of her reaction to the cooler air that brushed over her bare skin when he’d released the halter.

  Then he drew the leather back up over her while she lifted her hair so he could tie it in place again. Their faces were so close. Her breath snagged in her throat. With an effort, she didn’t turn her head to look at him.

  He tightened the knot at the back of her neck. She let her hair fall to spill over her shoulders.

  Reaching for the sound equipment, Ty turned the sound up and tapped the spot between her breasts where he’d placed the microphone. A soft thumping echoed from the speakers.

  “I’ll be listening,” he said. “You won’t be alone in there.”

  Nike’s heart twisted as she looked into his blue eyes.

  She wouldn’t be alone. If something happened, if something went wrong, someone would be there. Ty would come after her if it went bad.

  That look ripped Ty’s heart out. How alone did you have to feel to get that look in your eyes? He remembered what Mitch had said that first day and his jaw flexed.

  “Be careful,” Ty said.

  She nodded as she pulled a jacket on to cover the guns in their holsters at the small of her back, and then stepped out of the van the same way Buck and Jake had, from the back.

  Ty watched her go, walking with that long, unconsciously sexy stride. Her hips and thick hair swung; the sunlight streamed over her to spark fire from her hair and make her skin glow.

  With an effort, he turned away and put on the headset, wishing he could go in there with her, cover her back, visualizing the situation as he listened to the pickups from the microphones they now all wore.

  Like Buck and Jake Aragon, she circled so the security cameras on the shop wouldn’t pick up the direction from which she’d come.

  Ostensibly it was a pawn shop, common enough in that part of town, a little hole-in-the-wall place with iron grills protecting the windows. The walls were lined with guitars, both acoustic and electric, the shelves beneath and behind the glass counters full of jewelry. The back wall was full of handguns. A few rifles and such stood in cabinets with drawers beneath for ammunition.

  The round security mirror gave back a distorted image as Nike walked into the shop wearing an embroidered leather jacket over the halter and her leather pants. She was so used to wearing them she didn’t even think about it. The jacket hid her guns, but barely. She made minimal effort to conceal the fact that she was packing, letting the stainless steel butts of her little automatics wink from beneath the hem of the jacket. She wore a pair of cowboy boots with all the panache of a native Texan. All that was missing was the hat, some chaps, and she’d have been the sexiest gunfighter any man had ever seen. The effect was deliberate. Draw the attention, catch the eye.

  The clerk at the counter looked up.

  Behind the yellow glasses, her eyes frosted over, going still and hard, her face deliberately expressionless once again.

  Young, the clerk was slightly over medium height, wiry, thin and jittery enough to make her think he was probably hooked on meth, or cooking it at home himself out of desperation. His hair was dark, lank, and greasy. He leaned one elbow on the counter, paging through some heavy metal magazine. His gaze danced over her, especially her breasts, and he grinned.

  She walked up to the counter, glanced at the guns on display dismissively.

  “This all you got?” she said.

  His eyes on her cleavage, he said, “Yep.”

  “Pity,” she said. “I heard different. Word was this was a good place to come if I was in the market for something a little special.”

  “You heard wrong,” he said bluntly.

  Nike could almost hear him think, ‘What would a chick - one as hot as this - want with some serious weaponry like the boss had in the back?’

  “Did I?” she said. “Maybe I should talk to the owner. Maybe you should go get him. He might be looking to make some money rather than lose it up your arm or nose.”

  “Hey, chica,” he snarled, “you watch that smart mouth.”

  Nike shot a hand out, grabbed his wrist and yanked it from beneath his chin so swiftly his face smacked down hard onto the glass of the counter. Swinging his arm around behind him in one smooth movement, she grabbed him by the back of his shirt with her free hand. Even as she jerked him up, she swung him around. She jammed her knee into the back of his, so he suddenly found himself on his knees facing the back of the shop, with his arm wrenched up behind his back, in no position to fight.

  “Don’t,” she snarled quietly, but fiercely, “call me chica. I hate it when people call me chica.”

  A man hurried out from the back of the shop.

  Nike shoved the clerk away, drew both her little automatics as quickly as any old-time gunfighter and stepped back. One she pointed at the clerk, one at the proprietor.

  “Whoa,” the man said, skidding to a halt. “There’s no need for that.”

  An Anglo with a pock-marked face. Sunken chest, beer belly. The man matched the description of Chaco Dolan.

  Just as smoothly, Nike put her guns away.

  Staring at him levelly, she said, “Can we do business?”

  “Maybe,” the man said, “if you’ve got the cash.”

  She gave him a disgusted look. “Get rid of Junior here. Let him go pump more junk into his veins. It might mellow him out. Junkies talk.”

  Eyebrows flew upward, but the proprietor jerked a thumb at the kid. “Go.”

  The clerk went, giving her a glare.

  “I’m not seeing what I’m looking for,” she said, looking around.

  The proprietor looked at her. “You a cop?”

  Once more she looked at him, rolled her eyes, and then spread the lapels of the jacket to reveal the halter. “Do I look like a cop?”

  He eyed her, taking in the thin leather halter over her full breasts and shook his head, his next question superfluous. There wasn’t any conceivable place to hide a wire, either, that he could see. His mouth closed on the question before he asked it.

  Technology had improved quite a bit these days. Apparently, Chaco didn’t know of the newer developments, Nike reflected.

  “Why should I trust you?” he said. “I don’t know you.”

  She smiled thinly and laid one of her .32s on the counter. Her eyes never left his face, but his fixed on the weapon. Not the product of any known manufacturer, it was clearly custom made, the grip fashioned for her hand.

  Both guns were small, but accurate. The .32 was the caliber of choice among many law enforcement officers in Europe, but even besides that the guns suited her. The kick wasn’t too bad, and the small report they made could be muffled by something as simple as a pillow.

  Victor had wanted something bigger, higher caliber, but she could hit almost anything with the .32s, depending on the range. She’d taken one target from a motorcycle. The opportunity had been there and she’d taken it. The motorcycle gear had hidden her sex, and the machine itself was agile enough to avoid most pursuit
.

  In any case, most of her targets had been shot at close range. Most had been made to appear to be the result of internal power struggles, since no one thought anyone else could have gotten so close.

  Tentatively, he touched the handle. “Where did you get these?”

  “Marseilles.”

  Dolan took a breath. “I’ll have to check that.”

  She smiled. “Here, I’ll make it easier.”

  Pulling a pad of paper over, she wrote a number on it. “You can reach him here.”

  His gaze shot to hers as he flipped his phone open, stepped a little away. He compared the number to the one on his phone. His eyebrows lifted even as he spoke to the person on the other end.

  “Take off the jacket,” Dolan said. “Turn around.”

  Watching him in the security mirror, she did, revealing her other weapon and her tattoos.

  It was enough. Dolan flipped the cell closed.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked.

  The eyes behind the yellow shooter’s glasses looked at him. “A sniper rifle, a good one. Not the Polish one. What have you got?”

  Gesturing gracefully, the man said, “This way.”

  As they entered the hall at the back of the shop, he pressed a concealed button and a section of the wall folded open.

  Inside the room was a smorgasbord of state-of-the-art weaponry, glittering and shining behind glass.

  He did know about the newest things in weaponry, it seemed.

  Nike eyed it all. It was like being a kid in a candy store, but it wasn’t what she was looking for.

  She glanced at Chaco.

  “I’m really looking for custom work,” she said, spreading her hands. That was all she needed to say.

  Women had smaller hands than most men, which made many guns uncomfortable to hold, and more uncomfortable to shoot.

  Sighing, Chaco shook his head, but there was a light in his eyes. He knew someone.

  “I’ll pay for a good recommendation,” she said, tilting her head, smiling provocatively.