Running Blind

by Cindy Gerard

  Maybe it was. But still, she wondered. Every man on the team was an adrenaline junkie. But adrenaline wasn’t all that drove them. They were patriots. Some of them had lost someone—in Iraq, in Afghanistan, when the Twin Towers went down. All of them wanted to right wrongs. She got that. But what was it about these men, about this man in particular, that compelled him to willingly face his own death just by doing his job? “Why do you do it?”

  He made an annoyed sound and snuggled deeper into the covers and into her. “Do what?”

  She should let him sleep. Actually, she should kick him out of her room and go to sleep herself. It had been a difficult three days, and they’d just done their best to wear each other out. A sizzle fired through her when she thought of one particularly athletic move she’d never even heard of.

  She’d just decided that he was asleep and their conversation was over when he wearily pushed himself up on an elbow. Sleepy dark eyes regarded her from beneath dark hair and ridiculously thick lashes. His lips were as soft as pillows and as skilled as an artist’s brush. The beginning of a five-o’clock shadow darkened his cheeks and jaw.

  “Why do I do what?” he repeated.

  “The job,” she said, before she lost her nerve or got distracted by the possibility of messing his hair up even more.

  He flopped onto his back and crossed his arms behind his head. “The same reason anyone does their job.”

  Not even close. “Does it have something to do with those one-eyed jacks you guys always carry? Something to do with your tour in Afghanistan? The trumped-up court-martial charges?” She couldn’t stop wondering what had happened. Wondering how those events had shaped him into the man he was today.

  He turned his head and looked at her. “Why do you want to know?”

  Okay, it was a very personal question. One that a woman who cared about a man might ask.

  “Because the ITAP team was built around you, Mike, and Taggart. I’m part of the team now. I feel like . . . I should know what drives you.”

  God, she hoped that sounded plausible. Because this was not personal. She couldn’t let it be. This was about work.

  But she shouldn’t even have asked. Should have left it at sex. That’s all this was supposed to be about, and that’s probably why he’d suddenly become so tense. He didn’t like this up-close-and-personal stuff, either.

  “Tell you what.” His mood was much more somber than it had been moments ago. “You answer a question for me, and I’ll answer one for you.”

  The dark edge in his tone made it very clear that she wasn’t going to like his question, and she had no one to blame but herself.

  Before she could tell him to forget it, he asked, “What’s the deal with you and hospitals? And flowers?”

  Her heart jumped.

  She was so not going there with him.

  “Look. Let’s just drop it. You’d better go back to your room. We both need to get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.” She rolled over on her side, her back to him.

  “Oh, no. I’m not letting you off that easy. But just to show you what a sport I am, I’ll retract that question and start with an easier one.”

  He sounded very much awake now and very determined.

  “Where do you get those sweaters?”

  Sweaters? Wary, she looked over her bare shoulder at him. “What?”

  “Your sweaters. Where do you get them? And how many do you have, for God’s sake?”

  She rolled onto her back and frowned at him. “You don’t like my sweaters?”

  “I love your sweaters. They make me think of old movies with Jayne Mansfield or Marilyn Monroe or Brigitte Bardot.”

  So, he was an old movie buff, and he noticed things. Since this was relatively safe, she answered, “That’s because they’re vintage. I love the old angora wool and the dyes they used back then. So I haunt vintage shops and buy them when I find them.”

  “Me and the guys thank you for that.”

  He was smiling again, which made her smile. “You and the guys, huh?”

  “Yeah. Every day, there’s a pool on what color you’re going to wear.”

  She laughed, because it really was silly. And silly was a good thing now, after her stupid idea of trying to find out what made him tick.

  “Okay, Miss Burns. Your turn. A simple question this time.”

  Relieved, she asked, “Why do they call you Hondo?”

  He groaned and covered his eyes with a forearm.

  “These are your rules, not mine,” she reminded him.

  He heaved a resigned breath. “Okay. I’m an old movie buff, right?”

  “Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield.”

  “And westerns. John Wayne, especially. He was in a movie based on an old Louis L’Amour book that I’d read over and over again. Anyway, there was this scene in the book and the movie where John Wayne—Hondo—wanders onto a ranch with nothing but a saddle and a rifle.”

  “No horse?”

  “No horse. So he jumps onto this wild bronc no one’s been able to break and rides it, bucking and rearing all over the place until he finally tames it, all while managing to look like a manly man and never even losing his hat.”

  “And?” she prompted after he stopped talking.

  “And,” he said, clearly reluctant to go on, “I was stupid enough to retell the story to the guys when we were deployed.”

  “And . . . they call you Hondo because you were a fan of this book and movie? There’s got to be more.”

  He groaned, then gave up the rest. “We had this mission in Afghanistan. In the mountains. The only way to get to our target was on horseback.”

  She tried not to smile. “I think I see where this is going.”

  “Let’s just say I lost more than my hat and my pride. It wasn’t pretty, and I sure as hell wasn’t John Wayne. They’ve called me Hondo ever since.”

  She didn’t laugh, but she couldn’t help the smile.

  Until he turned to her. “Okay—my turn.”

  She braced, afraid he’d circle back to his original question.

  “What did you want to be when you grew up?”

  Relief filled her. This she could handle. This she wanted to handle. Lying here with him, so aware of everything male and stunning and sexual about him, she was ready for a diversion. Especially when he traced one finger slowly down her arm, then moved to her breast and circled her nipple, reawakening all of her erogenous zones.

  She tossed back the covers and climbed on top of him, straddling his lap and seating herself deep. As she’d expected, he instantly grew hard.

  “Well, it’s funny that you mentioned horses . . . because I always wanted to be a cowgirl.”

  He gripped her hips and arched against her. “A cowgirl, huh?”

  “Yup. Think you’ve got a little buck left in you, pardner?”

  He laughed and pulled her down to kiss him. “That would be a big yee-haw!”

  Thursday

  If you find yourself in a fair fight, you didn’t plan your mission properly.

  —David Hackworth

  21

  1:45 a.m., Toronto

  Depravity pulsed with the deep, pounding rhythm of the rock music blaring from dozens of speakers hidden in dark corners of the dance floor. Smoke permeated the packed space as midnight-blue strobes swept over damp, sweating bodies writhing to the primal beat, rubbing and sliding against each other, simulating sex and sin and desperation.

  She’d selected this bar not only for its reputation of uninhibited decadence but also for its clientele. Gay, straight, bi, transgender, androgynous—it was open invitation. And open season for a predator.

  A girl squeezed in so tightly beside her at the crowded bar that her flesh burned and her scent enticed.

  “Flippin’ fake ID.” The bartender tossed the ID back at the g
irl. “Get lost.”

  She gave him the finger and spun around, hiking her elbows on the bar which was sticky with spilled booze. There she stayed, pouting, glaring through her heavily made-up eyes.

  “Asshole,” she muttered loudly enough for anyone within earshot to hear. “Like this place gives two flying figs about the law.”

  She was a pretty little thing—in a streetwise, chip-on-her-shoulder, hungry-for-attention sort of way. Her hair was hacked short in the back, shaved over her left ear, long over her right eye, and streaked with red, purple, and blue dye. Her very scant white halter top was nearly transparent and hugged full, high breasts. Young breasts. Soft and supple and probably tasting as good as they looked. A ring in her left nipple poked against the thin fabric, announcing to the world that she was a sexual creature. The glimpse of metal that pierced her tongue solidified the message.

  Maybe it was hunting season after all. Maybe a taste of this sweet young thing would make her forget about Ray for a little while. Or maybe it would bring him nearer. He’d not only loved making love to her, he’d also loved watching her with other women.

  “Buy you a drink?”

  The girl turned her head, looked interested, then wary. “What do I have to do for it?”

  She smiled, looked from those pretty pouty lips to the nipple ring. “Nothing you don’t want to do.”

  The girl glanced at her bald head. “You sick or something?”

  She laughed and ran a hand over her recently shaved head. “A new look for me. Like it?”

  The girl shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what I like. I’ll have a tequila and lime.”

  An hour and four tequila shots later, they left the bar together and walked the short distance to the “no-tell motel,” where a room was waiting.

  • • •

  The girl was asleep in the middle of the ruined bed when she walked into the bathroom in the middle of the night. She’d hoped that a purely sexual, animal release would fill the hollow cause by Ray’s absence. And the girl had been good. Energetic. Adventurous. But nothing erased the truth.

  Fail.

  The word echoed, haunting and harsh.

  Fail.

  She’d spun her story ten different ways to satisfy the Russians, and Vadar had actually bought it.

  Only it would never be acceptable to her.

  Only twice in a fifteen-year career had she failed. Both times had involved Eva Salinas and Mike Brown.

  It stuck in her craw like a fish bone that Eva still lived. But the woman was not invincible. And there was time to finish what she’d started.

  Meanwhile, it was amusing to think about all the others scrambling in the dark, searching desperately to find the person who would dare attack one of their own.

  A bunch of bumbling, muscled-headed fools. They weren’t patriots, as they no doubt thought of themselves. They were murderers. They had murdered the one person who had ever meant anything to her. The one person who had cared for and loved her.

  A warm body pressed full breasts against her back. Small hands wandered over her nipples, then lower, coaxing. “Come back to bed.”

  She met the girl’s brown eyes in the mirror. All that need. All that energy. And suddenly, she was angry. “Get dressed, and get out.”

  The girl looked shocked, then hurt. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Your point?”

  That hurt look again. “Did I . . . did I do something wrong?”

  “I’m done, that’s all. Don’t attach anything more to it. Now, go. There’s money on the side table.”

  Tears pooled in the girl’s eyes, then spilled over. “I . . . I don’t have anyplace to go.”

  She laughed. “You say that like you think I’d give a shit. Life’s a bitch.”

  “But—”

  “Go!”

  The girl backed away as if she’d been hit, eyes wide and scared.

  “Now you’ve got the picture. I’m not a nice person.”

  The girl scrambled for her clothes and jerked them on. “Asshole.”

  “You got that right. Go home to Mommy and Daddy. You’re never going to survive on these streets.”

  Long after the girl was gone and forgotten, she lay in bed, the light on beside her, one of her specially loaded cartridges in her hand. Absently studying it. Pleased by its perfection.

  The plan had been perfect, yet it had failed.

  It could be perfect again, Ray whispered.

  He was right. After all, the bastards didn’t even know what was happening. Didn’t know why they were targets, let alone who was targeting them.

  And while she was lying here, an idea took shape. An idea that grew in appeal.

  Perhaps the failed attempt to kill Eva Salinas Brown could actually bring a better outcome, as she’d told Vadar. Better for them to wonder who was going to kill them. To wonder if dear Eva was safe or if she must always be kept under lock and key.

  The thought brought a tight smile. Perhaps she should up the game. Tempt them with a little clue, then watch them stumble all over themselves trying to solve the puzzle.

  That would make the outcome even sweeter. Embarrass the “elite” warriors by making even bigger fools of them, dangling an unmistakable clue in front of their bumbling noses, then laughing at their failure.

  After all, where was the challenge in total anonymity? Where was the sense of satisfaction in knowing the enemy was at a disadvantage, operating with two hands tied behind their back?

  She warmed to the idea. Maybe, in the interest of fair play, they should be allowed another small clue. Give them the opportunity to try to figure out who was after them, so they would know who the true elite warrior was—just before they died.

  The idea held much appeal. They’d see who was the failure then.

  It was time to fuck with their minds. If nothing else, it would be amusing.

  Oh, to be a fly on the wall when they opened up the special-delivery package she’d mail first thing in the morning.

  And oh, to have a bird’s-eye view when Vadar and his team attacked the Air Force compound. She’d told them that the weekend would be the best time to strike, and it was already Thursday. Which meant Vadar had to act soon—or the window of opportunity would slam shut.

  22

  Mike glared at his team as they arrived in the ITAP briefing room. They clearly hadn’t expected that he’d be waiting for them at 6:45 a.m. Or that he would have already studied the notes on the whiteboard.

  “Playing cards? Designer bullets?”

  Waldrop dropped his pen and disappeared under the table to retrieve it. Santos was suddenly preoccupied with his belt buckle. Carlyle appeared mesmerized by his mug of coffee.

  Only Taggart met his eyes, no doubt figuring he’d get a pass because of his injuries.

  When no one responded, Mike jabbed a finger at the whiteboard, where Coop had diagrammed each step of the case as it had developed.

  “Three one-eyed jack playing cards, clearly marked with our names.” Now even Taggart wouldn’t look at him. Maybe because he was nearly yelling. “One queen of hearts with Eva’s name crossed out. Four matching designer bullets. And no one thought this information would be of interest to me?”

  Taggart finally stepped up to the plate. “The general consensus was that you had enough to deal with and didn’t need the burden of this additional information. How’s Eva doing, by the way?” Taggart asked in an obvious attempt to sidetrack him. “And why aren’t you at the hospital?”

  “Eva is holding her own,” Mike said stiffly. “And I’m not at the hospital because I’m here, where I clearly wasn’t expected.”

  If someone lit a match, the room would explode in a powder keg of tension. He dragged a hand over his jaw and settled himself down.

  “Coop made the call, right?”

 
Everyone avoided his eyes again, a sure sign that he was correct. No one was going to rat on Coop.

  And Mike got why Coop had decided to withhold the information. He’d correctly assumed that if Mike had known that this psychopath had targeted the three of them and Eva, it wouldn’t have been productive. But he was still pissed.

  That was his wife who’d almost died. That was his wife suffering in that hospital bed and facing a long and difficult rehab. And that was his life the sick sonof­abitch had tried to take away from him.

  “Do not ever withhold information from me again.” He narrowed his gaze around the room, pausing at each man until he was certain his message was received loud and clear.

  Then he moved on; there was no value in beating a dead horse. “Tell me where you’re going with this, and make it clear and fast. I’ve got to get back to the hospital.”

  Five minutes later, he was up to speed. They’d ruled out any of the restaurant employees and customers as having any involvement, directly or indirectly. All the alphabet agencies, including Interpol, had turned their energy toward terrorist links, including the La Línea cartel. The team had a solid lead on Barry Hill and were hoping to haul him in for questioning within twenty-four hours.

  Still, Mike had questions. “How’d he find us? How’d he know we were going to be there Monday morning?”

  “We’re stumped on that one.” Carlyle looked embattled with frustration. “We’re the only ones who know about those breakfast meetings. The commo stays between us. B.J. mined all the SIM cards on our old phones—nothing.”

  “What about the traffic cams? How did he manage to shut them all off simultaneously?”

  Santos said, “By paying off a city employee named Maxwell Robbins, as far as we can figure.”

  “So we’ve got a possible witness? Someone who could ID our shooter?” For the first time, Mike felt a glimmer of excitement.

  “Unfortunately, no. Robbins hadn’t shown up for work since Monday. One of his coworkers stopped by to check on him yesterday and found him dead. Apparent overdose.”