One finger slipped inside her and she humped it eagerly.
Somewhere foil ripped, but who cared? She had more important things to think about, if she ever managed to think again.
“Astrid, honey.” His cock’s broad tip nudged her ass, neatly sheathed in a condom.
She whined deep in her throat and thrust back against him. “Please . . .”
He slipped into her pussy. She shifted slightly, then instinct found the best possible angle, and she shoved back onto him.
“Astrid.” He growled and thrust again and again. She moaned in pure satisfaction, her body deliciously stretched by his hot length.
He rode her hard and fast, braced by her shoulders. Both her back and legs were mantled and abraded by his heavy muscular frame. She was surrounded, both inside and out, enveloped in kubri. She keened her pleasure and drew him closer, her internal muscles gripping him close and her cream pouring hotly around him.
Magickal motes danced without, within them both until eyesight became unnecessary on the road to pleasure. Ecstasy gathered closer and closer, tighter and tighter, like a tornado racing across the prairie.
Then he nipped her shoulder.
Climax exploded through her in a glittering cascade of magick. It blew through her bones and tore apart her flesh, shattering her and remaking her a dozen times over. Astrid howled, more than delighted at the sahir-kubri connection, and let herself fly.
Jake growled something and then jerked against her. His cum jetted into her, hot and rich despite the condom’s veil.
Magickal motes dived and swooped into them, more intoxicating than the finest alcohol.
Astrid gasped and helplessly tumbled into her second orgasm, every cell transformed by magick—and Jake’s pleasure.
It seemed like a very long time before she lifted her head. Farashas would demand a week’s sleep after orgasms like that. Yet she wanted to run a marathon.
How could she explain this to Jake? And what if he’d seen any magick?
She stretched cautiously, uneasily aware she lacked a certain big cop anywhere near her chilled body.
A wary survey soon established his location—sound asleep on the kitchen floor.
Astrid began to giggle.
CHAPTER TEN
The courthouse garage’s dank smell rolled past Jake, leavened with motor oil and traces of gasoline. A few hours ago, he’d feasted on the best aromas in the world—aroused woman and fresh pizza.
But Astrid had left before he woke up, leaving only a brief, irritating note behind.
Grr. “Hope to see you again,” my ass! At dawn, he wanted nothing more than to be back in bed with his lover, not freezing his balls off for the FBI.
He stomped down hard and his boot sent a satisfying whomp! through the concrete den. A very precise pivot turned him to face the few tendrils of light drifting down the ramp.
His sergeant raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing, not with so many FBI agents and U.S. marshals around.
“Two minutes to showtime,” Murphy announced in Jake’s ear. She sounded a good deal more content than she ever had discussing Melinda Williams’s murder. Smart lady but still not one he’d choose to back him on a raid.
Sirens bayed in the distance like sheepdogs herding their flocks.
“Accident at the Beltway exit to Route One north,” Fisher added unexpectedly from the helicopter. “Less traffic than expected entering the city.”
His laconic, street-smart tones made an ice-cold wave lift the hairs off Jake’s neck. A pattern like that could open up an escape route for bad guys.
Don’t be stupid, Jake.
All the Feds here would make even make a bronze statue jump at shadows. Washington’s metro area had the second or third worst traffic in the country, depending on who did the measurement. It kicked Belhaven in the teeth every morning and afternoon. Jake had learned early how to dodge the worst choke holds.
Even if there was a real threat, cops out there would deal with it.
He forced the image back. He had a job to do down here, in this half-lit cavern, before he could go back to hunting Melinda Williams’s killer.
He broke the line and began to pace. Hell, it might have looked strange if he didn’t survey his men, given that he was Belhaven’s senior cop present. At least down here: the chief and the lieutenant were up above, soaking their bones in what passed for March sunshine and listening to nervous cops on the radio.
This corner of the garage was normally reserved for the judges. Special lanes on the levels above allowed those senior members of the bar to drive here surely and swiftly, no matter how heavy the traffic. Blatant signs and vivid stripes warned all comers not to approach any of these precious parking spaces. A well-lit lobby led to a high-speed elevator, which whisked the judges upstairs to play critical roles in each courtroom drama.
The garage’s floor was usually icy from water tracked in during the day that froze at night. But this morning, they’d poured enough salt and chemicals to dry out an iceberg.
“One minute to showtime.” Murphy’s voice had lost some of its crisp arrogance. Maybe she’d started to remember that no plan survives first contact with the enemy, even if it comes from the FBI.
Jake snickered privately and refrained from tugging at his godawful black uniform. No matter how unfamiliar it was, it did fit perfectly under his Kevlar vest. More important, it allowed him easy access to all of his gear.
Showtime should last only a few seconds, just long enough for the terrorist to be escorted from his vehicle to the elevator.
All the elements that made life easier for judges also made transferring a prisoner slick as shoving a cleaned and trussed goose into an oven. All an expert had to do was point the bad boy at the entrance and press the up button.
That was the plan, anyway.
All vehicles had been taken out of this section of the garage, leaving a clear field of fire for the cops stationed behind the barricades. The streets outside had been cleared and blocked off, the lights synchronized, so the convoy would have a swift drive here from the high-security prison. Helicopters circled overhead, on the alert against the smallest mishap. The entire courthouse had been checked multiple times by bomb-sniffing dogs. It wouldn’t open for regular business until after the terrorist’s arraignment was completed.
All the risk should be outside where any attacker would have a variety of attack vectors and escape routes. Jake could recite a dozen options in his sleep. His mouth was too dry to name one.
A large contingent of Belhaven cops guarded the damn building, together with enough FBI agents and U.S. marshals to police an entire presidential inauguration. They’d even taken the entire homicide and vice squads, who’d have to change clothes before they went back onto the streets.
Sirens howled again, clear as wolves rushing a caribou to its doom.
“Thirty seconds to showtime.” Murphy roughened before she steadied her voice. “Do we have go?”
Jake’s pulse quickened, then steadied into a slow, deliberate thud.
The convoy was only a few blocks away. No signs of trouble on the streets or in the skies.
Jake glanced at the chief U.S. marshal, who had the responsibility of deciding whether or not to continue.
“It’s a go,” the wiry Asian said firmly, calm as if he closed his fist around a computer joystick instead of a risky prisoner transfer.
Any other response and the convoy would have veered off and hurtled through Belhaven toward a different sanctuary.
“Roger that,” said Murphy. “Fifteen seconds ETA.”
High above, metal groaned and surged into motion, sullen as an Argos troll hauled out from under a bridge.
“Spartan entering the garage,” Murphy announced. She finally sounded as calm as her seniority demanded.
Why not? Her job would be over at the bottom of the ramp.
Jake’s stomach flopped back into place. This should be straightforward, dammit. All he had to do was hustle that wort
hless piece of treacherous trash into the elevator.
He dropped his hand and unsnapped his holster. Any of the duty sergeants would flay his skin off, if they saw him. But he’d rather have his gun ready for instantaneous use, even if he risked theft in an extremely close-quarters fight.
Headlights sliced the ramp’s gloom, faster than knives in a gangland attack. Heavy vehicles thudded across the concrete floors overhead.
A fast sweep with his eyes reassured Jake that everyone was in position. Two quick paces took him to the lobby’s edge, beside the FBI agent and the marshal.
The convoy burst into sight, moving far faster than the posted speed limit. Tires whined like hornets and their lights flashed blindingly bright.
Two big Cadillac Escalades shrieked to a stop beside the lobby and the others flung themselves into a protective semicircle. Doors slammed open and operators jumped out. The central vehicles’ windows stayed locked and dark.
The perimeter was deep enough within seconds to make the Secret Service’s presidential detail jealous.
“Good to see you.” Murphy flashed a brief smile at the cops waiting in front of the elevator.
Jake nodded and waited, his stomach tauter than during his first raid as a rookie.
Murphy knocked on the lead Cadillac Escalade’s side window. “Ready when you are.”
The door opened and a civilian stepped out. Her black dress coat, black pants suit, and high-heeled black boots befitted a judge’s dinner party far more than an FBI shindig. Her cold, calm expression warned that she wielded both words and guns to kill.
Yet her diamond jewelry and coronet of blond braids were achingly familiar to Jake’s hands.
“Astrid?” he mouthed. She was riding shotgun on the most dangerous criminal in America?
Her head snapped around, fast as a wolf hearing ice crackle in the forest. Her gaze traveled over him, assessing every detail of his gear, and a woman’s hunger flashed through her expression.
Then her incredible green eyes locked onto his, brilliant as emeralds and unfathomable as the Potomac’s depths.
“Ready?” Murphy asked.
A scruffy man climbed clumsily down behind Astrid. Every move forward was a robotic dance where he fought to jerk his limbs forward and two agents guided his cuffed and manacled joints.
He didn’t look like somebody who’d blown up a day care center at a government lab. But the truly dangerous ones never looked like they were worth a second glance.
“Let me go,” the rat snarled at his handlers when he reached the ground. He tried to pull away but they tightened their grip, with little more care than they would have shown poison ivy.
Murphy’s lip curled. Astrid never looked at the prisoner, only Jake.
“Time to get this show on the road,” Murphy said brusquely.
Astrid shot a swift glance around the cavern, and lingered briefly on the lobby and the elevator. Maybe she was thinking about the private conference rooms upstairs.
God knows when he’d see her again. He’d checked in this morning but found nothing new on the Williams investigation. The FBI was still taking their own sweet time and his inquiries were going nowhere.
Texting was okay but nothing like holding Astrid in his arms. He needed a better excuse than gaming or the investigation to see her privately.
“Hammond comes with us,” Astrid announced, nodded at him, and turned for the elevator, firm as a Supreme Court justice handing down the law.
She must want to talk to him while the prisoner was arraigned in the courtroom.
Yes! Jake’s heart leaped into his throat to follow her before his feet moved into action.
The two handlers yanked the rat into motion.
“But—” Murphy gobbled hard enough to sound like a turkey and astonished jealousy darkened her eyes. She must want the chance to appear in court during a big media event. “If she needs extra firepower, I or one of my agents can do the job.”
“If Carlsen wants the cop, then he’s going. Besides, we don’t need him down here any longer,” the senior U.S. marshal retorted. “We’ll leave through a different exit.”
Jake took up position behind the rat with his two handlers, and did his best to look indifferent to the argument. This close to Astrid, he could smell her unique perfume, soft and strong as springtime flowers.
“Ready?” asked the marshal inside the elevator cab. “Time’s a’ wastin’.”
“Ready,” answered Astrid firmly and waited beside the open door.
Jake took two long strides and entered the elevator first.
The two handlers escorted the rat into the conveyance and Astrid took up position last.
Murphy’s face wore a professional mask through which blazing brown eyes burned.
The doors slid shut like the rudest of gestures and Jake could have applauded.
Numbers slid silently across the overhead display like rattlesnakes rising from their den.
One . . .
Judge Berkeley must be waiting in the courtroom by now. He was probably pissed as hell he’d had to use the staff elevator today, instead of this one.
Two, three . . .
The terrorist rocked on his heels. He and his handlers were equally silent, with all three heads tilted up to stare at the countdown. Even the marshal by the door had his head canted back to watch the numbers run past.
Four, five . . .
Astrid shifted slightly. She glanced over her right shoulder, past the rat, at Jake. A faint frown line furrowed her brow.
What the hell? Was she having second thoughts about a private chat with him?
The elevator lurched to a stop. The display flickered five, then six like a baffled drunk.
Oh, shit, not again! Was there an elevator in this building that hadn’t broken down in the past year?
Something grated quietly within the elevator cab. A cold whisper rolled over Jake’s skin.
Time slowed.
“What’s wrong?” the prisoner whined. “If you’re going to make me climb a dozen flights just to prove how tough you are, I’ll call my lawyer. That’s inhumane!”
“Don’t worry, we’re all in this together.” The marshal’s shoulders were very stiff, as if he wanted to forcibly silence the yammering fool but wouldn’t allow himself that luxury. He opened up the control panel. “Help will be here in no time.”
The chill touched Jake more directly, this time from overhead. He craned his head back but was too late.
A very soft pop sounded and the lead marshal’s knees buckled. He collapsed onto the carpet and the control panel door fluttered over his head like newspaper obituary pages.
Time stopped. The world became a tunnel, centered on a very small gap in the ceiling through which a silenced pistol protruded like a cannon.
The other two handlers dived onto the prisoner and knocked him onto the floor.
Jake dropped too, anything to get away from that damned elevator wall, which drew bullets like flypaper drew vermin.
Another splat and one of the guards grunted, the bone-deep sob of a strong man hurt bad. Blood spewed across the wall brighter than any signs leading to a trauma center.
Astrid was still upright, backed into the corner and staring at the pistol as if hypnotized. Jake couldn’t reach her, not without crawling over the prisoner.
Jake’s heart careened into his mouth. He had to do his job first, God help him, not take care of his girl.
“Finally!” the terrorist yelled. “Get me out of here, you idiot.”
The other guard drew his gun and somehow shouldered the rat deeper into the floor, silencing his demands. His partner wasn’t moving at all.
The remaining guard and Jake fired again and again at their attacker. The sound blasted their ears and shook the cab’s thin walls like a giant’s fists.
Yet more shots came down from the ceiling, more merciless than spearfishing trapped fish in a lagoon.
The last marshal’s gun fell silent, half-hidden on the floor
beneath its owner’s bloody head. Astrid was wringing her hands.
Jake cursed under his breath and wished the damn cavalry would arrive.
Astrid lifted her hands and shoved something invisible toward the damn hole.
What the hell was she trying to do?
The assassin’s next few shots zipped into the elevator shaft, not the cab. A man cursed overhead but not in any language Jake recognized.
Astrid chanted something, looking as deadly as her barbarian counterpart, and made a complicated gesture.
A web of purple lightning enveloped the enemy’s gun.
Magick? Stage magicians needed time and effort to pull off tricks like that. They’d never try it while they were being shot at, let alone when people were dying.
The weapon turned incandescently bright and the man yelped in pain.
The pistol disappeared—but Jake didn’t dare draw a deep breath.
Another gun appeared and this one was no quieter than Jake’s.
His finger tightened on the trigger, but Astrid acted first.
“Begone, you bastard, and never enter these premises again, lest you die!” she yelled. Bone-deep certainty that she’d be obeyed laced her voice. Another gesture sent purple lightning to wrap itself around the man’s hand and pistol again.
Magick. Oh shit.
Jake’s stomach was an appalled knot somewhere near his knees. But his gun hand was rock steady.
The assassin screamed and yanked his gun away. The panel slammed shut and feet pounded briefly on the ceiling.
Jake dared to shoot a glance at Astrid.
She slowly released her attention from overhead and turned it to him. “He’s gone.”
“Great.” For fifty cents, he’d chase the bastard. Yeah, and if he did that, three lawmen would lose their best chance at first aid.
The terrorist was blubbering like a well-spanked three-year-old under his two guards’ bodies.
Astrid dropped to her knees beside the heap, her expression sober.
“Three officers down!” Jake yelled into his shoulder radio, grateful to his tactical uniform for making it handy. “South elevator, fifth floor.”
The Shadow Guard Page 10
