Hidden (Deep Ops #1)

by Rebecca Zanetti

  Her body felt both satiated and empty. She reached for his shoulders, curling her fingers over. The way he was poised over her—it was protective somehow. She’d never felt protected by a man before. He hesitated, and she widened her legs. “Malcolm, I need you.” The words were probably the truest she’d ever spoken.

  He pushed inside her, stretching her to the point of pain. She stiffened, and he paused, waiting several beats. Then he pushed more. “God, you’re big,” she murmured, trying to relax her lower half.

  He chuckled, the sound pained. Then he put his forehead to hers.

  She ran her palms down the hard ridges of his arms and back up. So much strength. Then she caressed his back, going over every bullet and knife wound. He was a survivor. Like her. Finally, he was fully embedded in her.

  Pain and pleasure and fullness swept her along with a hunger that hadn’t abated. He slowly pulled out and then pushed back in. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured, his arms rigid.

  “You won’t.” She lifted her thighs to the sides of his hips, taking him deeper. They both groaned at the sensation. “Just don’t hold back.” He hadn’t let her hold anything back all night, and she wanted the same freedom for him. “Please.”

  His body shuddered. “All right.” He went slow a couple more times, and then one strong hand grabbed her butt, partially lifting her from the bed. He tangled his other hand in her hair, holding her in place for his mouth.

  This kiss wasn’t seeking. It wasn’t even challenging. This was claiming. Deep and sure, dark and unforgiving.

  Then he started to move. Hard and fast, his muscles bunching along his body, he powered into her. Deep. All of him taking all of her. It wasn’t gentle or sweet, touching or inspiring. It was a hard-out, full-on possession.

  And she felt closer to him than anybody in her entire life. Tension built inside her with a hot edge, and she rode it, digging her nails into his back. The orgasm took her, shuddering through her, sending her somewhere else.

  He sank his teeth into her shoulder and came, his hard body tightening impossibly.

  Her arms dropped to the bed and her body relaxed. With him still inside her, his powerful body above hers, she finally found peace.

  Lifting one exhausted arm, she brushed wet hair away from his warrior’s face. She smiled.

  His green eyes burned through the darkness, although most of his face was still in shadow. Then he started to move again, his dick hardening inside her once more. “You’re mine for the night, remember? We’re not done.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alone in case room one, Angus Force dry swallowed three aspirin and watched the video of the so-called sighting of Henry Lassiter, taken at an ATM the day before in New Orleans. It wasn’t him. So much for facial recognition software he wasn’t even supposed to have access to. He needed a computer expert. Now.

  Roscoe whined from the corner, where he lay near a bowl of water. Sighing, Angus drew two more aspirin from the bottle. “Open.”

  The dog opened his mouth, and Angus neatly threw the pills in. “I told you not to drink so much, damn it.” Even the vet was stumped by how Roscoe kept surviving his bouts with alcohol. He had a better liver than most hard-drinking cops.

  Roscoe swallowed the pills, gave him a dirty look, and set his furry chin on his paws. He sniffed a few times, closed his eyes, and started snoring.

  The elevator dinged, and Angus lifted his head. The boot-steps were heavy, with a slight emphasis on the left leg. Interesting. It was early for West to show up. Very.

  West crossed into the room and tossed a fast-food bag on the counter. “Thought you might need food.”

  Roscoe snorted and opened his eyes.

  West looked at the dog, drew out a sausage patty, and tossed it at him.

  The dog snatched it out of the air, and his tail wagged for the first time that morning.

  “Don’t encourage him,” Angus said, his gaze on the screen. Nope. Definitely wasn’t Lassiter. “He deserves the hangover.” Angus looked at West. “Your eyes are clear and your shoulders more relaxed than I’ve ever seen them.” Holy shit. West had slept with the mark. Yep. That was guilt in those eyes and irritation in that expression. Would he deny it?

  West dropped into a chair. “I think you’re wrong about her.”

  Ah, man. “Is that your head or your dick talking?”

  West studied him, intelligence in his gaze. “I’m not sure.”

  Fair enough. “Please tell me it wasn’t us getting you sloshed that made you go knock on her door.” Then he’d feel guilty, too.

  West shook his still-damp hair. “No.” He kicked back, truly looking better than he had since the case had begun. Maybe Angus should get laid. “In fact, I kinda got the feeling she was considering bolting today. A last-night kind of thing. Have sex with the crazy guy next door and then make a run for it.”

  Might make sense after the shoot-out. “Think you changed her mind with your magic touch?”

  West reached for a breakfast burrito from the bag. “Possibly. I was pretty good, I think. Although the Jack Daniel’s might’ve given me more of a hero complex than I deserve.” He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “To make sure, I disabled her car before I left today, so we’re covered.”

  Angus grinned. Yeah. The guy was good. “If she notices, she’ll probably ask her new lover to take a look at the car.” In which case, they’d know for sure she was rabbiting.

  West grimaced. “Felt like a dick doing it.”

  That’s because West was a good guy. Whether he knew it or liked it or not.

  West looked at the evidence across the table. Sighing, he grasped a piece of paper in a clear envelope, a letter from a case six years ago, and read the script out loud.

  Dearest Angus,

  I am so enjoying our game together. The women . . . they are so lovely. Like a flock seeking the light, like a moon filling the night, they are bright. Their hearts will always be mine. Until we meet again.

  Yours,

  Henry

  Malcolm looked up. “Dearest? What’s up with the corny poem?”

  Angus rubbed his chest. “It’s from an old philosophy text written by a guy named Llewellyn. He’s long dead.”

  Mal grimaced. “And the hearts? Lassiter ate those, if I remember right. That’s just creepy.”

  “No kidding.” Angus tugged the bag of food closer. “He liked to spend time with the women he kidnapped before killing them. He could be anywhere now.” Tension crawled along Angus’s shoulders until his head hurt even worse. The doubt in West’s eyes wasn’t helping. “He’s alive, Malcolm. And somehow, he’s out there.”

  West studied him for a moment and then nodded. “Okay.”

  “You’ll see.” Frustration burned bile through Angus’s stomach. Was he getting another ulcer?

  “What can I do?” West asked quietly.

  Angus shook his head. “You’re primary on the cult case. Keep on it. In fact, you’re about to go undercover again. I was going to give you a day, but if you’re up to it, we could make contact later this afternoon.”

  “I’m up to it,” West said, his shoulders straightening.

  Crap. The man was going to try to save the girl. It was in every mini expression on his face. Angus mulled over what to say and decided silence was best. For now.

  The old elevator dinged, and soon heels clipped across the room.

  Angus’s tension intensified, making even his toes hurt.

  The shrink poked her head in, her brown eyes sparkling. A box of stuff, including a plant, was clutched in her slender hands. Apparently, she was making the most out of her dreaded assignment. Angus had to respect that.

  She shifted the box in her hands. “I need a few minutes to get my office set up, and then I’d like to talk to you both about the shoot-out yesterday.”

  Angus raked her with his gaze. Silk blouse, gray skirt, black heels. “We usually dress down here on the weekend,” he drawled, knowing he was being an asshole bu
t not quite ready to hold it back.

  Her smile brightened her already pretty face. “I had a morning meeting in DC. Otherwise, I assure you, I’d be in comfy clothes to decorate.”

  Guilt slashed him. “Do you need help moving boxes?”

  Amusement lit West’s eyes, but he wisely stayed silent.

  Nari shook her head. “Nope. I’ve got it. Thanks.” Then she clip-clopped her way out of sight.

  West cleared his throat. “Is it all shrinks or just that one who make you grind your teeth?”

  “All of ’em,” Angus said, reaching for another burrito. “One got my sister killed.”

  West grimaced. “Sorry.”

  The elevator dinged again, and then Clarence Wolfe’s boots clumped swiftly across the bull pen and into the room. He set down a carrier full of coffees. “Lattes, gentlemen. The special was a springtime spice.”

  Angus frowned, glaring at the drinks. “Is that whipped cream?”

  “Yep.” Wolfe took a chair at the head of the table, his latte already half gone. “With sprinkles on top.”

  West eyed the soldier and then took a coffee, sipped. He grimaced. “Jesus. Sugar.”

  Wolfe nodded happily. He was wearing ripped jeans, a torn shirt, and the same leather jacket. Was that the same outfit as yesterday? Or did he have that many pairs of ripped and torn clothing? A mangled ear above his left jacket pocket caught Angus’s eye.

  He cleared his throat. “Wolfe? What’s in your pocket?”

  “Oh.” Wolfe set down his coffee and took a cracker from his other pocket. He held it up. Slowly, a dirty kitten with bright blue eyes lifted up its head, took the cracker, and dropped back down. “That’s Kat,” Wolfe said.

  “I know it’s a cat,” Angus said. Sure, the guy’s personnel file had gone into his PTSD, paranoia, and anger issues. But the soldier didn’t really seem nuts. “Why is there a kitten in your pocket?” Now those were words he’d never thought he’d say.

  “Where else am I gonna put him?” Wolfe asked, reaching for his coffee again.

  Angus turned to West, who was studying Wolfe, speculation in his green eyes. West shrugged.

  Angus took one of the coffees. As a profiler, he had been one of the best before his meltdown. Had he made a mistake putting Wolfe on the team? They’d needed an Ops specialist as well as a guy who had no trouble breaking down doors—with his head, if necessary. “Where did you get the cat?”

  “Kat. Kat. His name is Kat.” Wolfe polished off his coffee. “I found him over in the park. Looked for a mama or any littermates, but nothing. So either somebody dropped him off, or something out there got his family.”

  “He’ll need shots.” West finally spoke up.

  Angus shook his head. “You can’t make a kitten part of the team here.”

  “You have a dog,” Wolfe said reasonably.

  Well. That was true. “All right. But if he shows a penchant for booze, he’s out. One alcoholic animal around here is enough,” Angus said.

  Wolfe nodded. “Fair enough. Besides, he likes goldfish.” Wolfe gave the cat another yellow treat. “Crackers. Goldfish Crackers. I haven’t given him a real goldfish. Yet.”

  Angus watched the soldier. Very fine lines around his mouth. Oh, he was good, but he was joking. Probably. Besides degrees in psychology and criminology, Angus had extensively studied microexpressions. He’d been called a human lie detector, and it was almost true. Of course, most rules were tossed out the door when it came to sociopaths or the insane.

  Roscoe perked up from the corner. Lumbering to his feet, he padded around the table and went straight for Wolfe.

  Wolfe held still. “He won’t try to eat Kat, will he?”

  “Roscoe, no bite,” Angus said easily. He could control the dog when it came to other animals. So long as they weren’t carrying whiskey somewhere.

  Roscoe reached Wolfe and sniffed his pocket. Kat lifted his head up. One of his ears was slightly mangled, but his eyes were bright. He batted at Roscoe’s nose with one little paw. Roscoe turned and gave Angus a long-suffering look. Sighing, he moved back to his corner, lay down, and went back to sleep.

  “Gentlemen?” Dr. Nari Zhang appeared at the door.

  Angus jumped. “Jesus.” He looked down at the thick socks on her feet, which were intriguingly dainty. The new doc was way too appealing for him to be this irritated with her. Which only pissed him off more. “New rule. You keep the loud shoes on all day. No changing into socks.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I had hoped to talk to all three of you about the shooting yesterday. It had to have brought up difficult memories. How did everyone sleep?”

  “Fantastic,” West said smoothly.

  “Never better,” Wolfe agreed.

  “Like a baby,” Angus said.

  Nari sighed. “You’re all morons. You can take that as my professional opinion.”

  That quickly, she went from being a pain in the ass to being somewhat cute. Human, at least. Angus reminded himself that he liked big-boned women. Ones who could go all night and then go some more. Not some brilliant, delicate, fine-boned smart aleck. Nope. Not for him. “How about we talk about the cult case first?” he asked.

  She blew out air as if thinking over an argument. Finally, she shrugged. “All right. You profile, me analyze.” As a Tarzan/Jane imitation, it sucked.

  Angus bit back a grin. Now that was completely cute. Not just kind of. Then he frowned. “Let’s go, then. West is going undercover in about five hours. Let’s get him up to speed. If there’s time afterward, you can have sessions with both Wolfe and West.” He ignored their irritated looks.

  Wolfe grabbed the coffees and moved past the shrink with West on his heels carrying the rest of the food.

  Nari tapped her foot, waiting until the two men had loudly settled in the other case room. She moved toward him, her hips way too graceful. “What about you? When do you want to talk?”

  He stood, towering over her with at least twelve inches of height advantage. “Never.”

  She tilted her head, those fine features not looking intimidated in the slightest. “I’m afraid that’s not the deal.”

  He breathed in slowly. She was cute and small and smart—and she wanted to help. More importantly, part of his deal with the HDD was that he’d allow their shrink to make sure his team wasn’t going off the rails. They needed a shrink, even one who’d gotten in trouble, although they wouldn’t tell him what she’d done. He’d argued, but they hadn’t budged on that requirement. “You can talk to my team, Dr. Zhang. But my brain is off-limits.”

  “Why? I’d only need about three minutes.” Her grin lit up those glimmering brown eyes.

  He barked out a laugh before he could help himself. While she’d only met the team the day before, he’d been dealing with her for weeks now. And the more he was around her, the more he wanted to know about her.

  That wouldn’t do.

  So he gave her a polite nod. “Let’s get to work.”

  “Fine, but I’m not giving up,” she whispered in his wake.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Malcolm settled into a chair and tried to drink the sugary coffee Wolfe had brought. “Listen, I really appreciate the coffee.”

  Wolfe nodded, pleasure curving his lips. He patted his pocket. “Good. Wanted to be friends.”

  Mal tossed the rest of his sentence—where he told Wolfe that he preferred plain coffee with just milk and no syrup, whipped cream, or sprinkles—away. Maybe he could order a coffee the way he wanted at some point and Wolfe would notice.

  Jesus. He was turning into a wimp.

  Angus Force and Nari Zhang moved into the room. The tension between them was interesting to watch, but it couldn’t become a distraction. They chose seats at opposite sides of the table.

  Wolfe barely rolled his eyes, but West caught it and threw back an almost smile.

  Force grabbed a remote, and a screen dropped down in front of the murder board. He pointed the remote at the lights, and they slowly dimme
d.

  “Cool,” Wolfe said. A plaintive meow came from his pocket. “Oh. Kat doesn’t like the dark.”

  Force muttered something that didn’t sound polite and ignited a screen. “There. Light.”

  “Perfect,” Wolfe said, his tone satisfied.

  Force hit another button, and a picture came up on the screen. “This is our CI. She’s living with the cult but wants out the second we bust them.” The picture was of a fiftysomething woman with dark brown hair liberally sprinkled with gray. “Her name is Orchid, and she’s to be covered.”

  Mal memorized her face. “Got it.”

  Another picture flashed across the screen. Force’s jaw hardened. “Meet Isaac Leon, also known as the One, the Alpha and Omega, and the Prophet.”

  The guy had intense brown eyes, a trimmed goatee, and thick brown hair that curled beneath his jaw. In the picture, he wore a white tank top, a silver necklace, and a gray bandanna across his forehead.

  Nari whistled. “Most guys can’t carry off the bandanna look. He can.”

  Force cleared his throat. “Isaac was born John Landers in Iowa. Lived with his single mom until he was sixteen, when he moved to Los Angeles to make his fortune in movies. Changed his name to Emanuel Jordan.”

  Guy looked like he could be an actor. Even in a still shot, he seemed charismatic.

  Force clicked another slide, and Isaac appeared with very nice arrest numbers across his chest. “Has priors for fraud and burglary. Served two years in a California minor-security facility.” More slides clicked across. “Moved to Dallas when he was twenty-five, changed his name to Isaac Leon, and created An Teaghlaigh.”

  “The Family,” Mal murmured, reading the time line below the pictures. “They moved from Dallas to Atlanta to Milwaukee to Boise and then outside of Boston. Now they’re in West Virginia. Finding more members, I guess.”

  “Yes,” Nari murmured. “The original cult was based on a sense of family and community. A place to get clean, be yourself, and live a simple life.” She drummed pink nails on the table. “As well as worship him. We’ve interviewed a couple of members who’ve left. Apparently, sex with the good Prophet is a way to heaven.”