Connor (In the Company of Snipers Book 5)

by Irish Winters

  “I stand corrected. You’re not my honey,” Connor assured her, but he was hers. The deep baritone honey of his voice vanquished the ghosts of war. “It’s okay, Izza. Really. It’s just a thunderstorm. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “It’s not.” Her lip trembled. Jamie’s gone. It will never be okay again.

  She debated changing her mind. As if on cue, another deafening rumble shook every nook and cranny of their hole in the wall, and Izza lost the war. She threw herself at Connor and burrowed into his side.

  He groaned when she hit him, but held her with one arm while his hand smoothed up and down her bicep. Warmth trailed in the wake of that gentle touch. He was so calm. She was so scared. Closing her eyes, she found that safe place under his chin. Lightning cracked another whip of thunder. Every muscle ached. She pushed in closer and squeezed her eyes shut to block the storm. The little girl inside of her cried, Make it go away, Connor. Make it stop. Make everything be okay again.

  “Pretend my arm is just a big ole ugly blanket,” he whispered into her hair. “You can push it off anytime you want.”

  Of course she didn’t reply. Right now she could barely breathe, she was shaking so hard. He seemed to need to make small talk. “I don’t know how to cook our first dinner in the desert. I’m leaning toward dehydration. Rabbit jerky should be fairly simple to make, don’t you think?”

  I don’t care. Just hold me and shut up! She buried her face against his chest, wanting nothing more than a safe place to hide. The smell of this damned man instantly soothed her ragged nerves. Inhaling deeply, she pulled the comfort she needed from him. Save our baby, Connor. Save Jamie. Save me. Please.

  “You’re cold.” He rubbed warmth into her bare arms. She couldn’t understand how he could be so warm and she so cold. Trembling, she conformed her body to absorb his heat.

  Another crack from Thor’s hammer shook the tiny cave. Izza yipped and all but bulldozed into his ribs. He grunted in pain, but not for one second did he let her go.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. When his breath hitched, it dawned on her that she’d just said what he’d said to her so many times before. She felt the need to explain. “I meant, I’m just sorry because I hurt you. I mean... I’m sorry because I didn’t mean to bump your side. I mean... I mean....” Izza stopped trying as tears filled her eyes. She didn’t know what she was sorry for, hurting his abdomen, or hurting—his heart.

  Without a word of admonition, he gathered her like a little girl inside the circle of his two very strong and capable arms. She didn’t want it, and she surely didn’t expect it when he kissed her forehead and sighed. But the moment he did, she knew she’d craved it since the day she’d lost it.

  And then Izza was really sorry.

  Connor held her with the greatest of care. The storm lasted throughout the night so she stayed put. He knew the exact moment she dozed off by the way her body relaxed against his. He felt it all. Once asleep, she’d placed her hand lightly on his chest and under her cheek. It rested there still, a more than friendly touch he tried to ignore the same as her warm breath in the hollow of his neck.

  Odd. As much as she hated him, she’d fallen asleep in his arms even while all that heavenly artillery still hammered away at their earthly position. For most of the night, the ground had shaken. The thunder rolled, echoing off the mountains in a roar that seemed to go on forever. But once in his arms, she’d fallen asleep as if there was nothing to fear. Odd.

  Yeah. He knew he had a reputation. He was always hopping from one woman to another, but it’s not like he’d loved them and left them. No. He wasn’t really like that at all. None of them had actually made it into his bed. That was the funny part about having a bad boy reputation. Just the slightest hint of misconduct spread like wildfire until the lie was a hundredfold more interesting than the facts. The truth was he hadn’t found any woman who could hold a stick to that one night with—

  Oh, hell, no.

  Even as the thought came into his head, he rejected it. Emphatically and absolutely, No way!

  Izza snuggled under his arm just then, sound asleep and still as mean as a mother Javalina pig with a litter of piglets. He gazed down at her olive skin, her dark hair pulled back tight into her usual ponytail. He’d only seen her hair down once, the night that he and she—

  Come on. No way.

  She pressed against him again, somehow in tune with his rambling heart and so peaceful in his arms. His breath caught. It had been months since she’d been this close or so sweet. Long eyelashes swept against her cheeks, pleasantly flushed in the cool of the cave instead of the anger he’d come to know her by. The peacefulness of the moment spoke to him of another night and another feeling they’d shared. That night.

  He knew little of Isabella Ramos other than her mother died when she was a little girl and her father was an abusive alcoholic who didn’t know what to do with his own children. No wonder Izza grew up tough. Neglected as a teenager, she and her brother joined the Marines out of high school. She had no other family.

  Connor made a mental note to check into that once they were rescued. For some reason, he felt compelled to make sure. Family was everything. He couldn’t imagine dealing with the ugliness of Iraq without phone calls home. Those talks had saved him, but whom had Izza called? Who was the bright light at the end of the tunnel for her? It wasn’t her brother, that’s for sure. The answer niggled at the back of his heart. Y. O. U.

  No way.

  It had happened so fast. One minute they were both crouched inside a bombed-out concrete building while the pompous Iraqi insurgents crept around outside. Both he and she were decked out in full combat gear with armored tactical vests, the latest weaponry, and you name it. She was so scared she was hyperventilating. It surprised him that this tough gal had suddenly become a scared girl, but hell. He was pretty scared, too.

  He fully believed he and she were the walking dead, that before dawn they’d be overrun, dragged from their hiding place, their dead bodies mutilated and never found. Yeah, he was afraid. Damn straight. But the next minute—silence. Not a sound. It seemed the Iraqis had just walked away.

  “It’s awful quiet out there,” he’d said.

  Her dark eyes blinked back with terror. They both knew what could happen to a female soldier. They’d seen the pictures on the infamous Al Jazeera network. He’d reached for her wrist to reassure her. “They won’t come in here. Don’t worry.”

  “How can you be sure?” she’d asked, her voice tight and breathy.

  She trembled beneath his hand. In a gallant bluff, he’d shrugged her question off like it was a no-brainer. “Because two of the meanest Marines in the Corps are still here, what do you think?”

  That false bravado must have been the comfort she needed. The next moment she’d grabbed his neck and kissed him. It was no peck on the lips first kiss, either. No. She’d planted her mouth full on his like she’d finally found food. With that hungry kiss, one thing led to another, and the next thing he knew, they were plastered together in the heat of—what? Insanity?

  It was bizarre that he couldn’t restrain his need for her that night. He didn’t even try. And she certainly didn’t, either. Not the way she peeled out of her pants like she did. They’d made love so hot and passionately, he thought for sure they’d left scorch marks on the concrete floor by the time they were done with each other. He didn’t remember asking or refusing, only complying until she was spent in his arms.

  And then they’d just hung onto each other until morning light when their squad returned. It seemed so natural. They’d dressed and chatted in muted whispers about where they went to school, what sports they liked, why they joined the Corps. He’d learned all about her penchant for physical confrontation, which explained a lot now that he had time to put two and two together. For whatever reason, Izza was born mad at the world.

  But now? She was spent again. The feel of her in his arms unleashed a warming flood that filled his body to the hilt. Izza was fi
ne silk. She was molten umber, sleek, and strong, her dark eyes pulling him in with the most powerful magnet he’d ever known. Part of him was still back in that bombed-out concrete building, locked in the embrace of his own fierce warrior goddess. Maybe that night hadn’t ended up being a one-nighter after all. Maybe there was still time for them. Somehow.

  She stretched. He ceased his foolish thoughts at the feel of her arched body against his. She’d wake up any minute now, push away, tell him she hated him and life would be back to normal. But then he felt it. The baby inside her belly kicked against his rib. And then it, no – she kicked him again. That nudge from another tiny person, so vulnerable and one hundred percent dependent on him took his breath. A girl. Izza was carrying a tiny, baby girl inside her belly. A daughter.

  My daughter. My baby girl. What was I thinking that night? I never thought of using protection.

  She murmured in her sleep and turned her head into his shoulder. His every muscle was suddenly attuned to the shape and feel of her body. Her knee rested across his thigh, the other leg pressed firm along the length of his leg. Soft warm breasts pushed against his side and chest, but her shoulder felt way too bony. Her arm, too.

  He hoped he’d caught a dumb rabbit. Izza needed to eat. That baby growing inside of her needed nourishment. His foolish prayer over the snares came back to him. Okay, so now I’m serious, God. Please send us a rabbit. Izza’s hungry. I’m the only one here who can take care of her. Amen.

  He fought the wave of tenderness sweeping away what little common sense he had left. Suddenly he wanted to roll away from her. She was too close and his head too full of feelings he wasn’t ready to own. Truth was mingled in there, too. A startling image flashed to his mind. Bridgette Maher. Smiling. So damned proud.

  Not you too, Mom.

  Seventeen

  Tom Baxter called bright and early. “You’re not going to believe this. Your friend wants to talk.”

  “Who? Ramirez?” Alex asked.

  “One and the same. Says he’s got information to share, but he’ll only talk to you and me together.”

  “When?”

  “I cleared my calendar for the next two hours. I’ll be at the front door of your hotel in twenty.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Before long, both men sat opposite Ramirez in one of the Salt Lake County jail’s interrogation rooms. Shackled and cuffed, the notorious Sonoran Cartel boss didn’t look nearly so impressive or powerful anymore. Alex cut to the chase. “What do you want?”

  Ramirez’s eyes flitted to Tom Baxter and back to Alex before he spoke. “I want to know what you can do for me.”

  “What we can do for you?” Alex glared across the table. “Like I said last time, all I want is you dead. That’s what we can do for you. A needle in the arm sounds damned fair consid—”

  “Is this how you let your lackeys talk to me?” Ramirez turned to the Governor, his voice angry and low. “I am a Mexican citizen! I am an important man in my country!”

  Tom didn’t blink. “This man is not my lackey. Alex is more like a pest exterminator, and I agree with him. I don’t care what country you’re from or how important you think you are. You’re nothing but a terrorist in my country, and I intend to treat you as such. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  Ramirez seethed.

  “So what will it be? Why’d you call this meeting? I’ve got better things to do,” Alex asked. Impatience showed in every word.

  He was adept at reading body language and other minuscule tells an opponent might inadvertently give away. The flare of a nostril, the blink of an eye, or tilt of a chin – all these seemingly inconsequential bodily actions told their own stories during an interrogation. They were lies and truths just waiting for the astute man to decipher and use to his advantage. Ramirez showed all the signs of a man with his back against the wall, but not necessarily ready to crack. Not yet. He needed a shove.

  He faced Tom Baxter. “I have information that concerns a new cartel in my country, but I will not divulge it to you without the promise of two things.”

  “For hell’s sake, what now?” Alex pushed himself away from the table. His next step would be to get on his feet and head out the door. Tom followed his lead, a clear signal chances were slim the imprisoned drug lord had any leverage in this negotiation.

  A glint of panic registered in the man’s eyes before he controlled it. Ramirez didn’t fidget, lick his lips, or hyperventilate the way many prisoners did, but the panic was there nonetheless. And Alex had seen it.

  He waited for an answer to his question. Ramirez seemed stalled, maybe too arrogant to ask or too powerful to beg. Whatever. It was all the same. Alex pushed his hands to his knees and stood to leave. “Come on, Governor. We’ve got better things to do. This is a waste of—”

  “Sit!” Ramirez uttered the one word command like he had authority to do so.

  Alex sat with a smirk. “I’m only going to give you that one time, Ramirez. You’re not in charge here. Now what the hell do you want?”

  “Your solemn oath as a man and a gentleman. Is that too much to ask?” Ramirez shouted, enraged and loud. “You come to me in the middle of my dinner. You threaten my family. My wife. My children! But I saw something in your eyes that night, Mr. Stewart. I know you would never hurt my baby girls. Am I right?”

  Alex stared. That was the problem with body language. It worked both ways. The pretty smile of his deceased daughter danced through his mind. Of course Ramirez saw it. A man can only hide so much.

  “There it is. I see the truth in your eyes even now.” Ramirez breathed a sigh of relief as he too stared into the soul of his adversary. “You would never hurt my Christina or Sophia. I knew you were a good man.”

  “I’m only asking one more time,” Alex muttered. “What do you want?”

  “I want your solemn oath you will not hurt my daughters. On your life, Mr. Stewart. That you will save them if you can.”

  Alex slouched back in his chair, feigning disinterest but deeply touched. “Why the hell would I care to save your daughters?”

  “Because....” Ramirez caught himself. He studied Alex as Alex had studied him, both men locked in nonverbal communication that Tom Baxter could only observe. Alex noticed how intense the dark eyes were that stared back at him. And desperate.

  “You saw something in those pictures, didn’t you?” he asked as he leaned forward with interest. “Something besides the danger to your wife and daughters from my men?”

  The question was no sooner asked than Ramirez dropped his gaze for less than a second. Some might have said that he blinked, but Alex saw the truth. Whatever Ramirez had seen in those photos at the Pink Iguana concerned him.

  “Why should I promise to save your daughters after what you’ve done in my country?” he asked drily.

  The conversation turned from interrogating a prisoner to one father speaking with another. Ramirez’s tone transformed from arrogant to naked honesty. “Because I saw how close your people came to my children. Your men were inside my home. They didn’t harm my family, and yet they could have.”

  He looked deep into Alex’s eyes, his voice soft and pleading. “Please. Your word as a gentleman that you will save Christina and Sophia is all I ask. If not for me, save them because you are a better man than me, Mr. Stewart. Save them just because they are two sweet little girls who deserve to live, to grow up and to have their own babies.”

  “Why do they need to be saved?”

  “Because....” He faltered, his eyes staring off into the distance. Ramirez was thinking too hard. Too many angles, too many chess moves must have clouded his senses, obscured his deepest desire. A proud man does not fall easily.

  “Listen, Ramirez. You’ve given me no reason to promise anything. In fact, why should I lift a finger to help you? You’ve abducted two of my agents. God help you if they’re hurt in anyway. I’ll tell you what. I’ll save your daughters, and you give my agents back.” Alex cut to the truth, but then he saw
another signal from the cartel boss, a scant twitch of his lip. A twitch that exaggerated could become a snarl. And a snarl meant hatred. And hatred meant—something else was going on here. Ramirez hated somebody worse than he hated Alex Stewart. Interesting.

  And still the proud man couldn’t bring himself to breach his own ruthless code. Despite the initial plea for his children, the mask of a cartel boss shifted back into place once more. Absolute control. Absolute power. No need of help from anyone.

  “Never mind. I see I was mistaken.” Ramirez pushed away from the table as far as his chains and manacles would allow and signaled the guard to release him. “I am done here. Take me back to my cell.”

  Alex leaned across the table to offer one last incentive. “You know I’m the only one who can help. You tell me. What’s going on in Hermosillo?”

  Ramirez blinked. Yes. He had recognized the truth of Alex’s words. But no. He was done playing the unfamiliar role of beggar. He stared, unspeaking and unwilling, the moment of cooperation past. The guard closed the interrogation room door as he led the proud man away.

  “Well what do you make of that?” Tom asked as he and Alex walked out of the building.

  “He doesn’t know who to trust.” Alex lowered himself into the passenger seat of the governor’s car.

  “What do we do now?”

  Alex sighed. “First of all, I’ll have my techies in Virginia take a second look at those pictures. I know Ramirez saw something I didn’t. And I’ve got a man in Mexico. Maybe he knows what’s going on by now. In the meantime, let this bastard stew.”

  Izza was right. It had gotten cold overnight. Connor was thankful she’d given in and decided to join him on his ratty bed or he’d have been doing his own share of shivering. As it was, he awakened with her in a warm embrace, his hand firmly cupping the swell of her very feminine backside. She didn’t seem to mind, and he sure didn’t. Of course, she was sound asleep and didn’t know where his hand had wandered.