by Kris Norris
The variables would change as everyone started moving. All it took was the guy taking a step. Phoenix firing half a second too early or late. A sudden gust of wind pushing the bullet off target. The six second lag time between him pulling the trigger and the bullet reaching his target wasn’t doing him any favors. Not to mention the distance widened his margin of error. Increased the chance he’d miss, despite getting all the calculations correct.
And Anna was counting on him not missing.
He’d have to drop his mark, first. Then, the agents. Take out the rest of the men as they ran for cover. Tried to escape in one of the Suburbans. All he had to do was make those first few shots count.
Phoenix focused on breathing. On slowing his heart rate. Feeling the shot manifest while he waited for the door of the warehouse to open. Unless the group of mercenaries breeched it. Did half his job for him.
Regardless, he’d down a couple before anyone realized he was there and recovered from the shock. He’d bet his ass they weren’t considering a sniper. Not this far out. Which was why his contact—Agent Smyth—had chosen the building. The only viable option outside the usual two kilometer perimeter most people considered the danger zone. Where anyone with decent skills could get off a kill shot. At over three...
It wasn’t breaking the all-time record, but it was pushing it. Definitely inside the top few recorded distances. And considering he was making multiple hits at that range…
Not that Phoenix cared about that. About records or acknowledgements. He had a mission. One that held Anna’s life in the balance. That was all that mattered. The sheer difficulty of it simply meant he had to up his game. Push past his limits. Be the man she needed him to be.
That had him laser-focused. Ignoring the hum of traffic drifting up from the interstate. The blaring horns and sirens sounding in the background. The beads of sweat stinging his eyes or how the thin pad he’d placed on top of the roof had long since flattened beneath him, allowing every tiny imperfection to push against his body. And after hours of lying there, waiting, he didn’t doubt he had some bruising.
Par for the course. Despite his best efforts, nests weren’t always ideal. Having to hide his thermal reading from any possible overwatch meant he felt like a damn caterpillar wrapped up in a cocoon. Not like the freedom he had in his ghillie suit. The one he’d handmade in sniper training. That he’d redesigned a few times since moving up to Recon.
The blanket Smyth had given him was some kind of prototype created in China. Thin. Light. But draped over him like a second skin that didn’t breathe. If he were honest, he wasn’t convinced it even worked. Had deliberately stuck his hand out for a second after the agents had gone into the warehouse just to test if they had a drone or sniper backing them up. If maybe that rogue CIA guy had men on rooftops or a predator circling above him. Continuously scanning the area.
Nothing.
Which Phoenix hoped meant his only threats were land-based. He wouldn’t count on it—couldn’t discount that he’d gotten lucky and no one had been panning his way when he’d tested the waters—but it eased a few of the doubts. That he might actually make it out of this op alive.
Afterward, he’d deal with the guys Smyth sent his way. Because Phoenix knew the man wasn’t planning on playing fair. He’d held Anna’s life out like a damn carrot. But Phoenix had promised Smyth he’d track him down if he reneged on their deal. And Phoenix planned on being alive to do just that.
A flicker of movement at the edge of his scope. Right along the curve.
Phoenix shifted slightly. Not enough to lose sight of his mark, but enough to check the area just west. But all he saw was an empty space. A flash of a shadow, then nothing.
He frowned. He knew one of the mercenaries had been standing there just moments prior. Prided himself on putting scenes into memory from only a glance. Which meant either the guy had moved or…
He panned when he thought he saw another guy drop. In the frame one second, then gone. Any proof hidden behind one of the few cars in his sight line.
Shit.
Having the damn door to the warehouse open at that exact moment didn’t help. Had Phoenix sweeping back over. Focusing on the woman, then centering on his target. He’d moved. Not much, but enough Phoenix ran through his checks, again. Kept his finger on the guard as he made a slight adjustment to his scope with his right hand. Compensated for the extra meter the asshole had shifted.
This was it. He wasn’t going to get a better shot. He pressed his cheek against the rest. Slowly slid his finger against the trigger. Caressed it as he released his next breath…
The fucker flinched then ran. Disappearing off to the left as everyone scattered. The entire op blowing up in his face.
No. He wouldn’t fail Anna. Not, again.
Phoenix scanned the area. There. Running toward the warehouse. Some asshole with a death wish. Only way to explain it because, skilled or not, he wasn’t going to reach the building before he’d been gunned down.
There must have been three agents. One had remained in the shadows while the others had gone inside. A damn sentry, and Phoenix hadn’t seen the guy.
He exhaled. He could still make this work. If he capped the guy running the gauntlet—got everyone else to stop adapting—his main target would assume one of his men had dropped him. Would show his face long enough for Phoenix to put a bullet in it.
He zeroed in on the guy, frowning at the twinge of déjà-vu skittering down his spine. The hint of familiarity in, well, everything. The view. The situation. The guy’s frame. As if he’d lived through it, before.
He ignored the sensation, doing a few quick calculations in his head as he adjusted his scope. Narrowed in until he had the other man in the crosshairs, smiling when the guy turned. Faced him as he reloaded.
Frozen. That’s how Phoenix felt. Ice cold. Like he’d imagined death would be. Staring through the scope. Feeling his heart stop. Dead weight inside his chest because the face looking back…
It couldn’t be. Surely, he was wrong? A ghosted memory from all those years as part of Cannon’s crew. The one time he’d felt as if he belonged. Had a family. Brothers.
He closed his eyes for a moment. Something he’d never purposely done while sighting a target. A full second with his eye off his prize, only to curse when nothing had changed. The guy’s face still the same.
Still…Crow.
Look for Phoenix out in April as a crossover novel with Elle James’ Brotherhood Protectors’ World.
Excerpt ~ Force of Nature
If you want to learn more about Gibson’s BFF, Dr. Coen Brady, check out ~ Force of Nature...
“Damn it.”
Coen tripped forward, catching himself against the small kitchen table as his foot snagged in the handles of his medical bag. He vaguely remembered tossing it just inside the door when he’d slipped back to change his sweater, Finley’s blood staining the front. Somehow, he’d forgotten to put it away before heading to dinner.
He huffed out a breath, placing the small bottles in his hand on the table before gently shoving his bag aside. After tending to Finley’s wound, he was going to have to restock the damn kit. He glanced at the plastic vials. He’d stopped by the clinic and grabbed her a few Percocet and a week’s worth of antibiotics—not that he was in the habit of providing meds for his patients, but… He had a nagging feeling Finley would simply choose to go without if he didn’t all but shove them at her. And that was a risk he couldn’t take. Not when he was sure she’d be out on the trails long before it was safe to do so.
Conservation officer. That he hadn’t seen coming—not when he’d watched her go in and out of the sheriff’s station from the café across the street damn near every day. He’d noticed the gun strapped to her hip the first time he’d spotted her and had just assumed she was cop, though the unexpected twist seemed to suit her personality. She didn’t seem all that at ease with people, which probably translated into countless hours alone in the wilderness. It also meant h
er little trap incident had ruined his evening.
He’d been over an hour late by the time he’d pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot, though it had hardly been worth going. Rachael had spent more time pushing her food around her plate than actually eating any of it, not that he could blame her. She’d always been a bit on the squeamish side—nothing like him. But he was supposed to be showing his niece the beauty of northern Washington. Take her hiking, hell, go fucking bird watching. Instead, she’d watched him dig bits of metal and dirt and god knows what else out of Finley’s hand.
He sighed. Her wound had been far worse than he’d first suspected when he’d gotten a quick glimpse of it outside. The trap had torn her flesh, slicing down to the bone in one section. He’d damn near tossed her over his shoulder and driven to the hospital himself, citing the need for fluid replacement. But something in the way she’d looked at him—a mixture of stubborn bravado and paralyzing fear—he knew nothing short of sedating her would have gotten her in his truck. And it wasn’t as if he wasn’t qualified to stitch her up. He just knew the procedure would be far more painful than she’d likely suspected. And he’d been right.
He could still see the white cast of her skin, her pupils blown wide, eclipsing the stunning green, as she’d finally met his gaze across the table. He’d wanted to gather her close, allow the tears that had pooled beneath her lashes to find release, but then her partner had grasped her hand, and Coen had pulled back.
The tiny voice inside his head laughed. Of course, he’d pulled back. Several tours and a dozen years of patching up kids too young to drink a beer had given him no other choice. A bleeding heart didn’t get the job done. And, sometimes, his job involved making hard decisions. Ones that were at direct odds with the reason he’d become a doctor.
Coen shoved a hand through his hair, smiling at the feel of it beneath his fingers. He couldn’t remember the last time it’d been long enough to pull. Just another symbol of his attempt to leave his old life behind.
He glanced at the plastic bottles again. Finley reminded him of the younger soldiers he’d met. Idealistic. Determined. Willing to die for their beliefs. It was a noble endeavor—one he respected. He just didn’t like the inevitable outcome.
He sighed. He still couldn’t believe she’d risked her life for a cat—even a precious one. Not that he didn’t like animals. He did. He’d just seen far too much death. Hell, who was he kidding? It wasn’t her injury that had unnerved him. It was her conviction. It made him feel—on edge. She made him feel on edge. That’s why he’d stayed distant. Less than thirty minutes in her presence, and she’d had him wondering what made her tick. He would have asked her to join them for dinner if he’d thought she would have accepted, if for no other reason than to discover more of her quirks.
He chuckled. She’d called him an ass more than once, not that he hadn’t heard that before, either. But the way she’d spoken the word—it’d made him want to prove her wrong. And that, alone, was enough to make him back away. He didn’t do anything beyond sex, and his instincts told him she wasn’t the kind of girl you fucked then left. No, she’d be like her damn animals, all claws and teeth—sinking both in until he either surrendered or bled out. And, after years of erecting walls, it didn’t seem wise to lower them for a girl with such an obvious wild side.
He stalked over to the dresser then tugged on a new tee and a hoodie. He shoved the pill bottles in his pocket and headed out the door. He ignored the taunting voice in his head—questioning why he needed a clean shirt to drop off some pills. This wasn’t a date, and Finley wouldn’t care if Rachael had squirted ketchup on his shirt. He followed the short path between his cabin and hers. A soft glow lit the way, the moon peeking out from behind scattered clouds. Pine infused the air, mixed with the heavy scent of smoke.
He climbed the two stairs to her porch, frowning at the light gleaming through the front window. It was damn near one. She shouldn’t be awake, unless… Fuck. The freezing had probably worn off, and he knew the kind of pain that would have surfaced.
He knocked on the door, waiting for a few moments before trying the handle. It twisted easily within his grasp, the wooden slab swinging effortlessly away from him. Anger burned hot in his gut. It was bad enough she’d left her damn door unlocked while at work. To leave it that way at night…
He stepped inside, hands clenched at his sides. “Damn it, Finley. Don’t you have any…”
She was propped up on the bed, head lolled off to one side, eyes closed with her hand cradled against her chest. She still wore her uniform, dirt-caked boots hanging just off the edge. Thick brown hair hung in soft waves around her face, several strands poking in different directions as if she’d only run her fingers through partway. She’d pulled it free from the ponytail she’d had earlier, the tresses stretching down to her breasts. Long lashes rested against sun-kissed skin, a scattering of freckles dotting her nose. Her full, pink lips were pursed into the beginnings of a pout, her chest rising and falling rhythmically as her breath whispered through the air. Her leg twitched, a muted groan rumbling free as she grimaced, a rough exhalation fluttering wisps of hair about her head.
He let his gaze wander the length of her body. Lean muscles countered by shapely curves comprised her silhouette, no doubt a by-product of long hard days on the trail. She didn’t emphasize her femininity with makeup—just a natural glow that seemed to radiate from every pore. The girl was breathtaking in a way he’d never stopped to appreciate before—usually sidetracked by glamorous offerings. But he liked that she didn’t hide who she was. The raw honesty a refreshing change. And he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d shine even more after a night between the sheets. Hair rumpled, lips kiss-swollen with a pink hue to her skin as testament to hours of writhing within his arms. If she screamed half as much as she’d argued with him…
Fuck. He gave himself a mental shake. Hadn’t he just concluded that Finley McKay wasn’t the sort of girl he took for a quick tumble? While he admittedly sucked at relationships, he read women pretty damn well, and the good officer had forever written all over her.
Coen closed the door, flipping the lock just to ease his nerves. He loved her faith in humanity. He just didn’t share her optimism. She groaned again as he toed off his shoes and crossed over to the bed, the grimace deepening. He knew that look, too. She was in pain.
He shook out a couple of pills, leaving them on the side table as he detoured to grab her a glass of water, though she’d probably take them dry just to spite his efforts. Then, he returned to the bed, staring down at her as she mumbled in her sleep, the low, raspy tone smoothing across his flesh before curling around his dick. It hardened against his fly, making him shift in an effort to relieve some of the tension. This definitely wasn’t unfolding the way he’d envisioned.
“Finley.”
She sighed, rolling slightly without opening her eyes.
He put the glass on the table beside the medicine then curled his fingers around her arm, careful to keep the contact light. Her skin warmed beneath his touch, the soft feel of her flesh against his increasing the need building deep in his gut. It moved through him, gaining strength until is was a constant pounding in his head. He groaned inwardly. Nothing was going to happen. Period. Not with her.
He gave her a gentle shake. “Finley. Wake up.”
She hummed, eyelids blinking rapidly as she gazed up at him, pupils still glazed with sleep. She gave him a ball-busting smile. “Come back to bed, Coen. I’m cold.”
He stared at her, fingers still touching her arm, his heart lodged tight in his chest, as her words skittered along her skin. Fuck, just thinking she’d been dreaming about him…
She rolled slightly, the pull of his hand stopping her. She looked down at his grasp, squeezing her eyes shut before tilting her head back and opening her eyes, her gaze finally focusing.
She screamed, bolting upright as she effectively freed her hand, landing a boot against his chest as she moved. He reeled backwards, slammi
ng into the wall before regaining his balance.
“Damn it, Finley. It’s just me!”
Her breath echoed through the room, the rapid inhalations dampened by metallic squeaks as she rolled off the bed, scrambling toward the table. She took a few stumbling steps then stopped, bandaged hand pressed to her chest as she focused on him, recognition clearing her sleep-dazed eyes. She hissed out a breath, shaking her head as she braced her weight against the table. “Jesus Christ, Coen. You scared the shit out of me.”
Coen cocked his brow, rubbing the small scuff on his chest. “Maybe if you locked your door, people couldn’t sneak up on you in the middle of the night.”
Confusion shaped her features. “Don’t be ridiculous. I always lock the door at night. I’m not reckless.”
“Sweetheart, you are so far beyond reckless you can’t even see it in your rearview mirror. And if it was locked, how did I get inside without you answering the door? And before you suggest it…no, I didn’t climb through a damn window.”
She scrunched her nose, glancing at the bed then down at her clothes. “I remember relaxing on the bed for a few minutes after Jonah left. Was going to wait for you…” She trailed off into a groan, slumping against the table as she cupped her elbow. “Damn.”
Coen released a slow breath. Seems the pain had finally bled through her adrenaline.
He picked up the glass and the pills, joining her. He held out his hand. “Take these, before it gets so bad you try to pound your head through the wall.”
She looked up at him, mouth pinched tight, sweat just beginning to bead her brow. “Thinking it might be a bit late.” She pushed out her next breath. “What the hell did you do to me? It didn’t hurt this much before.”
He shook the glass, offering the medicine again. She glared at him but opened her hand, tossing the pills in her mouth before accepting the water and taking a quick sip. A shiver worked its way down her body, and she closed her eyes, looking as if she might fall face first onto the floor.
