by Rachel Grant
“If you have a reaction, it will occur within the first twenty-four hours, and we’ll remove the implant.”
“And what if I set off the transmitter accidently?”
“If it’s reset within thirty minutes, the implant can remain, but the transmission length is reduced by the amount of time it was active.”
“How do you reset it?”
The CIA agent picked up an item that looked like a TV remote control from the case. “With this. It scans the chip and realigns the settings. It’s like a factory reset button. We’ll do a test once we have the chip in place.”
“And if I accidently trigger it when I’m in the field? I couldn’t get back within thirty minutes.”
“At that point, we’d have to replace the implant. But these are insanely expensive.” Not-Savannah frowned. “So don’t do that.”
Morgan took a deep breath and presented her arm. This was crazy. She wasn’t being injected with top secret technology by a CIA agent—or whatever this woman was—because an Ethiopian warlord wanted to make her his fifth wife. But the sharp jolt of pain at the injection told her it was all too real. And Not-Savannah had lied about the injection not hurting. It had gone right into the muscle and hurt like hell.
“It will be tender for the first day or so. We ask that you keep a bandage over the injection spot for at least five days.”
“How will I know if it’s working?”
“You won’t. There can’t be any outward sign you’ve got a transmitter on you. Too dangerous. But we’ll test it now to make sure it’s active. Press the spot for ten seconds.”
A few curses escaped her lips as she pressed on the fresh injection site. Cold sweat broke out on her brow.
Not-Savannah looked at a screen in her box. “Nine seconds and it’s on. Good.”
She waved the remote over Morgan’s arm and pressed a few buttons. Morgan had the insane urge to power down like C-3PO.
“Okay. Now I want you to massage it,” Not-Savannah said.
Massaging hurt even worse than pressing had. The woman was a masochist and Morgan was being Punk’d by the CIA.
“Four seconds. Perfect.”
Again the woman reset the chip, and Morgan prayed she was done with the testing as her arm throbbed. “What’s the fail rate?” she asked as she cradled her poor arm. It would hurt like a sonofabitch when she dug test probes tomorrow.
“In clinical trials, twenty percent.”
“That’s high.”
“It’s also better than not having an eighty percent chance of being rescued.”
Not-Savannah had a point.
“And in the field, how many failures?” Morgan asked.
“There’s no way to know. MIAs who’d been fitted with a tracker may well have died before they could activate it, or there were no cell phone signals available. There are far too many variables to know if it was the device itself that failed.”
Her throat went dry. “How many? How many have disappeared with trackers in their arms?” Holy shit, what had she done? There was a tracker implanted in her arm, and this woman had to be a robot to answer these questions so coldly.
“I’m sorry, that information is classified.” With that, she picked up her case and walked to the door, where she paused. “I hate sparring with military assholes,” she said. “The guys all have something to prove when sparring with a woman, and the fact that I give them hives only makes them worse. I hear you’re good, and we both need to stay sharp. Tomorrow evening in the gym?”
Morgan considered the offer. She was always exhausted after the field, and her daily workouts had become weekly at best, but the spook was right, she needed to be in top form if she planned to finish out this project. She also suspected the woman had asked because she wanted to pick her brain like a true spy. “Sure…Savvy. Seven p.m.”
“Don’t call me Savvy.”
Morgan smiled and clutched her throbbing arm, glad to have annoyed the woman, even if only a little bit. “Would you prefer Vannah?”
The agent shuddered. “No. Call me James, like everyone else.”
Morgan shook her head. “You should have picked a better alias.”
“Fine. Call me Savvy,” she said with a sigh. “See you at nineteen hundred.” She closed the door behind her, leaving Morgan alone with Captain O’Leary.
“When this project is over and you return to the US,” the captain reiterated, “you’re to tell no one of the tracker.”
She nodded. Weariness settled over her as she left his office. She’d planned to go to the cafeteria for dinner, but her arm ached, and she found she had no appetite. She wanted to roll up on her cot like a roly-poly bug and wait for someone to comfort her.
But her mother was in the US, oblivious to Morgan’s situation. Her father had never cared enough. And the man she wanted had disappeared without a word.
The days strung together. Her evening sparring matches with Savvy turned out to be fun—Morgan appreciated having someone to hang out with after a long day in the field, plus she realized how much she’d missed workouts that included taking out aggression on punching bags or other people.
Savvy wasn’t exactly a warm teddy bear, but Morgan liked her for her forthright manner and lack of soft edges. In a different time and place, they’d have made good drinking buddies. Except for the fact that Savvy refused to talk about anything personal. Or professional, for that matter. Instead, she peppered Morgan with questions about the project and everyone involved, from the US embassy employees to the Djiboutian ministers, down to the lowly field workers who’d been hired by Charles Lemaire before Morgan ever arrived in-country.
Morgan knew she was being analyzed and her brain picked for intel, but she didn’t mind. She had nothing to hide and every reason to aid the CIA’s intelligence-gathering efforts. Plus, Savvy had a wicked, acerbic sense of humor, and Morgan desperately needed the escape of laughter.
The only time Savvy’s carefully controlled expression slipped was when Sergeant Cassius Callahan came up in a conversation. There was something there, but when Morgan pressed, Savvy’s game face returned, leaving Morgan to wonder if she’d imagined the break in the CIA operator’s cool façade. Savvy claimed she didn’t know where Pax and his A-Team had disappeared to, but Morgan wasn’t sure if she believed her.
The injection healed quickly, and the pain faded. By the fifth day after receiving the tracker, Morgan’s arm was no longer sore, and she was able to forget it was there. There had been no more tips from someone within Etefu Desta’s camp, and her workdays progressed as before: unrelenting heat, walking for hours a day in the desert, conferring with Ibrahim and Mouktar, recording sites, and moving on. Test pits were dug to determine if newly located sites had depth. A new normal settled in, and she could almost forget the crazy two days that had started with henchmen toting AK-47s at the site and ended with a hot kiss at a local market.
Well, she supposed it ended with the tense meeting at HQ, but she preferred to remember the kiss.
She’d seen no sign of Pax since that meeting and had begun to wonder if he’d shipped out. Perhaps his team had finished training the locals and he’d been sent home. But if that were the case, why didn’t Savvy confirm it?
Deep down, she knew he must’ve asked to be relieved from leading her security detail, and while it was the wise choice, it still stung—if “sting” meant it hurt like being shot in the groin. But then, she was feeling melodramatic and rather pissy about the whole thing because she couldn’t ignore the stark facts: she wanted Pax; he knew exactly how she felt; he was no longer in charge of her security; and he’d disappeared without a word.
As a Green Beret, he likely had free range over the base. The fact that he knew where she lived and hadn’t sought her out in the intervening days was a special layer of hurt she’d never guessed would bother her so deeply.
Six days after being injected with the tracker, she, Ibrahim, and Mouktar took their scheduled day off. Before the explosion, her days off had be
en spent in the city, exploring the markets, meeting locals, and teaching Hugo to read. But now she was trapped on the base and didn’t think she could get orders and a vehicle for an unnecessary shopping trip, especially because Captain O’Leary insisted she have security every time she exited the gate, and given that Desta had taken an unhealthy interest in her, she wasn’t about to object.
Stuck on the base, she wondered how to fill the day. There was a library. She could check out a book and read. It was hard to imagine focusing on a novel, but then, she was so exhausted after the week’s labor, she couldn’t imagine doing anything other than hiding out in her air-conditioned CLU. Even heading to the cafeteria for breakfast sounded tiring.
Regardless, she made up her mind to grab breakfast, then explore the library. She’d just begun to braid her hair in preparation for being seen in public when there was a knock at her door.
Her fingers were thoroughly entangled in the French braid. If she let go, she’d have to start over. She frowned down at the yoga pants and tank top she’d slept in, then glared at the door. It was probably the captain’s aide expecting another update on her progress. The man had been a daily visitor over the past week, but he hadn’t showed yesterday evening. If he was uncomfortable seeing her braless, it was his fault for visiting so early on her one day off. She flipped the dead bolt switch with her foot and said, “Come in,” then turned back to the mirror to finish the braid.
The door swung wide, letting in a rush of heat. She glanced to the side to tell him to come in again but was struck speechless by seeing Pax in a skintight Under Armour T-shirt and workout shorts.
His gaze raked her from head to toe, pausing on her breasts, which were barely covered by the tight tank top. Her nipples tightened, a reaction she felt and he couldn’t help but observe. She turned back to the mirror and tried to appear nonchalant, a challenge given her racing heart and traitorous nipples.
“Come in before you let the AC out.” Her fingers worked down her scalp, crossing strands and adding new locks to the weave from rote memory, because her brain had fritzed out at the sight of his chest. The shirt hugged his skin, tracing every glorious muscle.
He did as she bade and leaned back against the door. She’d managed to collect all her hair into the braid and had reached the task of simply crossing the three sections repeatedly to the end. She faced him as she finished. “I was starting to believe you’d been sent home.”
“No. My team was busy with the locals we’ve been training. We did a three-day in the western hills, got back late last night.”
Three-day. Meaning he’d been around last week but had avoided her. “I hope that went well,” she managed, though her throat was dry.
He shrugged. “No one died.”
“A success, then.” She grabbed a ponytail holder from the nightstand and tied off the braid. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for him to speak.
A slow smile spread across his handsome face. He was a giant of a man. Imposing. Intimidating. But his smile undermined that. It was sexy and approving. The light in his eyes could warm her on a winter day in Barrow, Alaska.
“Get dressed,” he said. “We’re going shooting.”
“We’re going shooting? I haven’t heard a pip from you since that awful meeting, and now we’re going shooting. Just like that?”
He nodded. “Just like that.”
“I haven’t had breakfast.”
“I picked up a breakfast burrito for you from the mess. You can eat in the car.”
She gave him a tight smile. “A picnic at the shooting range? How romantic.”
“This isn’t a date, Morgan. Sanchez said you haven’t been wearing a sidearm like you’re supposed to. We’re going to the range to refresh your skills, and you’re going to start wearing a damn gun in the field.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You sound like my father when you boss me around, which, contrary to what Freud believed, is a huge turnoff.”
“Good, because I don’t fool around with general’s daughters.”
“Bullshit.” She planted her fists on her hips. “You knew about my dad when you kissed me the first time.”
“That was a mistake.”
“No kidding.”
He raked her with his gaze again. “Get dressed, Morgan. I haven’t got all day.”
“What if I want to wear this to the range?” Jesus, she wasn’t entirely certain where the anger was coming from or why she was baiting him. She just knew that she was angry. Which didn’t make sense. What the hell did she have to be angry about? That she’d thrown herself at the man, he’d denied her for a logical reason, and then, when that reason was no longer an issue, he’d avoided her for days.
Yeah. That might have something to do with it.
She didn’t deal well with rejection.
And she sure as hell liked to push his buttons.
“Get real,” he said. “You’re not going shooting in a Double D tank top.”
Plus, she might have a bit of an exhibitionist streak. “Fine.” She pulled off the tank and tossed it on the floor. She turned to grab a bra from the locker, when hands landed on her shoulders. He turned her, pressed her back to the cold container wall, then grabbed her wrists and pulled them together above her head. He held both wrists in one of his massive hands, holding her exposed to his slow perusal.
She loved the way his eyes raked across her bare breasts. She loved being trapped in his hands, unable to do anything but accept the caress of his eyes. Her nipples formed tight buds she wanted him to lick, to touch, to squeeze. But all he did was look.
“You have fucking beautiful breasts, Morgan. The most perfect I’ve ever seen. I want to taste you, suck on your tits, lick your clit. I want to fuck you blind.”
None of the pro-estrogen activists she’d dated would ever use the word “tits,” making the word shockingly sexy. It was as if he had inside, secret knowledge of what turned her on and had zeroed in on a trigger she herself wasn’t aware of.
“Do it, then,” she said, her words a breathy plea.
“No. I won’t lick you. I won’t touch you. I won’t slide my tongue inside your wet pussy. I won’t fuck you. What I will do is take you to the range and shoot at some targets. When we’re done, I’ll drop you off here and go back to my CLU. As soon as I’m alone I’m going to close my eyes and picture your perfect breasts, and I’m going to jack off.”
“Why?” Her throat was so dry, her voice was hoarse.
“Because I’m still head of your security detail. Tomorrow, I’ll be back with you in the field.” His grip on her wrists loosened. “Now get dressed.”
“You’re still—? But you were gone—I assumed—” He had her so addled, she couldn’t finish a sentence.
“My team needed me for the three-day. My XO agreed to let me see that through.” He turned and ran his hand over his short-cropped hair. “After the meeting, he gave me direct orders not to get involved with you.”
“How can he do that? I’m not in the military. Not part of your chain of command. How is it any of his business?”
“I’m in the Army. My private life isn’t mine, and it isn’t private. Especially when I’m deployed and living on base, and assigned to protect a civilian who happens to be a general’s daughter. Don’t for a minute think the brass won’t get up in my business if we screw around. I won’t sneak, and I won’t lie to my XO. I won’t fuck up my job.” His eyes flattened. “My job is every bit as important to me as Linus is to you.”
She gave him a sharp nod as she reached for a bra. His words drove home exactly what was at stake for him. She’d stop baiting him, wouldn’t take his rejection as a challenge. It was time to start acting like the professional she was.
Chapter Thirteen
The coming weeks would be a special slice of hell, playing bodyguard to the hottest woman Pax had ever encountered. He’d wondered if the attraction would still be there without the adrenaline booster. Today he had his answer.
Mor
gan wore sensual like some women wore faded, ripped-up jeans, and she was so comfortable in her sexuality, she didn’t need to don makeup, stilettos, or a fancy dress to display it. Hell, he hadn’t seen her wear anything other than sturdy leather field boots, doubted she’d even brought basic makeup to Djibouti, and would take a plain T-shirt on her curves over a sexy cocktail dress any day.
She wanted him with an intensity that matched his, and he had to keep his hands off, for so many reasons.
Fuck me.
At the firing range, he laid out a series of weapons to test her. “You said you’re good. Time to put your money where your mouth is.”
“Bring it,” she said with a cocky smile.
He shook his head and picked up his M4 to demonstrate how the first target worked: a direct hit on the round disk on the end caused the arm to swing from left to right. Hit it again and the arm would swing back. “Don’t feel bad if you miss. I won’t tease you too much.”
She took up the rifle, and the metal arm swung back and forth as if she were flipping switches.
“Rifles are easy,” he said, unable to suppress an impressed grin.
She laughed. “I forgot how fun this is.”
He had a strong urge to kiss that satisfied smile, but instead left her to set up smaller targets down range. Clearly, the closer ones wouldn’t be challenging enough.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me where you were this week?” she asked when he returned to the firing line.
“Trainings like the one we were on—three days outside the security fence with forty-plus local trainees—are top secret. If al-Shabaab or al-Qaeda got wind of our location, we could have a bloodbath. Not even the trainees knew where we were going. If you were confined to base, you’d have been told, but you interact with locals every day and are in regular contact with various government ministers. The decision was made not to tell you. It wasn’t my choice.”
She frowned. “I suppose that means being pissed at you was unfair of me.”
They had the range to themselves, but still, he lowered his voice. “Considering you showed your anger by flashing me, I’m not complaining.”
