by Alison Kent
Cliché or not, their time together had been the best of her life. He was fun. And funny. Making her laugh about things she’d never taken the time to look at before. Like the way she never could fill an ice tray without spilling. Or how many pairs of ratty socks she actually had.
Even over the way she liked to spoon backward when they slept, tucking her knees behind his thighs and pulling his back to her chest. He said the whole point of spooning was for her to feel safe in his arms while she slept. At which point she reminded him she’d been sleeping alone for a whole lotta years, and liked the idea of being the one to offer haven to a man taking on too much of the world alone.
He’d cuddled back closer, then. Made sure they were touching everywhere possible. Which eventually led to him taking hold of her hand where it draped his waist and moving her fingers lower. The feel of his hard shaft in her palm, the soft, taut skin of his erection’s head beneath her questing fingers, meant neither of them slept much at all.
Funny thing today was that she wasn’t tired at all. She was too busy to be tired. So busy, in fact, that it took her a minute to register the opening and closing of the front door—until the snap of the blinds being drawn shut doused half the room’s light and brought her head up.
“I’m sorry.” She squinted, glanced toward the door. “I’m not quite… open… yet… oh… God…”
Danh Vuong headed her way, wielding a gun identical to the one he’d wielded on Thursday.
The weapon failed to deter her. She wasn’t going to be a victim again. She snatched up the phone’s handset and ran, punching in 9-1-1. It wasn’t until she put the receiver to her ear that she realized the line was dead.
She screamed, turned back around, flung the phone at the approaching man as hard as she could. “What the hell do you want?”
He dodged the phone, but didn’t stop or lower the gun. He simply walked straight up to where she stood and shoved the barrel of the weapon against the base of her throat. “It’s back into the storeroom for you, Miss Brighton.”
She wanted to refuse, to scratch out his eyeballs, to barrel forward and knock him over like a bowling pin. But she was rapidly losing the ability to breathe or to swallow. And so she backed her way down the hallway.
Once he’d shoved her through the door and released her, she rubbed the bruise in the hollow of her throat. “How did you get here? I saw the police take you and your gang out of here.”
“You saw them take my associates,” he said, one brow raised. “I managed to twist free of my bonds and hide in the same ceiling through which your rescuers arrived.”
That didn’t make sense. It didn’t make sense. “Why didn’t they look for you when they only found the five others?”
“Did you tell anyone there were six intruders? Because you were the only one who knew the truth. At least the only one who would’ve been around to provide the details.”
Had she told the police there were six men? Had she mentioned a number?
Or had she been too busy relaying Tripp’s story of how Danh’s men had turned on one another? How two had disarmed the others. How their leader had taken out those who had betrayed him. How she and the professor had managed to knock him unconscious and bind them all with the zip ties they carried while they were unconscious?
Preposterous, yes. But the professor had backed her up without question. And the physical evidence supported her story. Especially since the police surveillance proved no one had gone in or out through the front, the back, or the side door into the parking garage.
“So now what?” she asked.
“Now I will stand at the front door and turn away all customers but for the one man I am waiting for.”
The one from the diamond exchange. “What makes you think he’ll show up?”
“Because he’s been instructed to. If he does not, I will kill his family.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” This guy was nuts! “What could you possibly want so badly to ruin so many people’s lives?”
“That is not your concern, Miss Brighton.”
“But if I’m going to die because of it, I want to know.”
He gestured her to back across the storeroom; he stood in the open doorway once she had. “It is about honor, Miss Brighton. About retrieving merchandise stolen from my employer. And about paying my personal debt to him at the same time.”
And then he pulled shut the door.
She paced the short room, back and forth, finally slamming her fist into the metal cabinet housing the security screen. The door sprang open, bounced against its own hinges. She watched as Danh passed beneath the camera on his way to the front door.
If only she could signal Tripp’s people. But the security service had replaced the cables this morning. She shoved her fingers into her hair and tugged while she whipped around in a circle.
This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Why the hell was this happening? She leaned forward, hands on her knees, to catch her breath.
When she straightened, her gaze landed on the open lip of the Advil box and Tripp’s knife lying inside.
“Paperwork is the bane of a man’s existence,” Tripp grumbled as he filled out an expense report for Smithson Engineering, using bogus travel, entertainment and licensing receipts. He understood the company needed documentation to prove he was earning his keep.
But it was damn hard making up crap for the engineering projects on which he, uh, consulted. It meant traveling to legitimate Smithson sites and bullshitting the project managers so he’d have some clue as to what was going on if asked.
Fortunately, none of the SG-5 operatives were ever asked. Equally fortunate was the fact that none of them truly involved themselves in the construction projects or everything Smithson built would be falling to the ground.
Once Tripp had the backup organized, he printed the expense spreadsheet, attached it, and tossed the envelope across his desk with other mail needing to go out. That left him staring down at the spot where he’d been working at the information he’d dug up on Danh Vuong.
Turned out the kid was a high-ranking officer in the army of one Son Cam, a successful Vietnamese businessman with fingers in a lot of really rotten pies. His street thugs, run by kids like Vuong, handled the messier ingredients, the cleanup of the leftovers, the disposal of the trash.
Danh had been part of Cam’s organization for more than half of his twenty-two years; he was younger than Tripp had thought. He’d hitched an illegal ride on a cargo ship, trading in a life of hell for a hell of a life. And right now that life seemed to be all about running Cam’s diamond trade.
Tripp rubbed a hand over his forehead, then pressed the heels of both palms to both eyes. He needed to get to this kid, get him off the street, get him for what he did to Glory before he did it to anyone else.
But right now he swore he wasn’t going to be getting anything done if he didn’t get some sleep. He’d been kept awake for all the right reasons, but the lack of quality shut-eye was still catching up.
With the crap that had gone down at Glory’s, he’d lost the Spectra agent posing as Professor Shore. It had gone against every kernel of Tripp’s grain to enlist the other man’s help. The Faustian bargain meant weeks of surveillance down the drain and a continuing influx of conflict diamonds into Spectra’s hands.
But it had also prevented innocent lives from being lost. That, Tripp had to believe.
A hell of a weight, the choices a man made.
He shook off his exhaustion and swung his chair around, pulling up his database on Marian Diamonds. He glanced briefly at the feeds on his surveillance monitors...
Holy fucking crap!
He hadn’t yet disconnected the Brighton feed—and a damn good thing, too. The picture of Glory’s empty shop wasn’t the problem; she’d told him she didn’t expect her usual business today.
The static was the problem. He’d write that off to line noise if not for the fact that just then Danh Vuong walked beneath the
camera.
And that the static was pulsing in an SOS.
Where the hell was Glory?
Tripp bounded from his chair, snagged his cell and his Glock, checked his clip as the safety vestibule door closed behind him. He sprinted out of the reception area and down the floor’s one hallway toward the service elevator.
The elevator opened into a maze of tunnel-like hallways connecting the garage with the Smithson building and the one out of which Brighton’s operated. He sprinted the length of the corridor, shoved open the outside door at the end, turned and ran down the alley toward the sandwich shop’s rear entrance.
He pressed his back against the wall, gun at the ready, and reached for the door handle. Unlocked. No resistance. He glanced around, grabbed up a sheet of newsprint that had blown between his feet, and wadded it into a ball. Then he eased the door open and slipped into the shop, wedging the paper to keep the door from latching completely.
Tamping down the adrenaline pumping through his body like a rush of meth, he made his way past the men’s room toward the corner and the storeroom door. He listened...nothing. No Glory. No Vuong. He swore he’d stepped into a crypt.
His nostrils flared as one, two, three, he turned, pressed his torso tight to the wall, peered around the corner. The vantage point gave him a clear view all the way to the store’s glass front.
Vuong stood to the side of one window, watching the street traffic through a slit in the blinds.
Tripp took one silent step toward the storeroom door, eyes and gun trained on Vuong. The handle turned; he sidestepped into the room, his gaze never leaving Vuong until the door was closed.
He sensed Glory long before he swiveled to meet her gaze.
She was gorgeous, amazing, and her eyes were wide with fear. She stood in front of the security cabinet, the newly sliced coaxial cable in her hands.
God, he was crazy for this woman. This time when he mouthed, I love you, he meant it. And this time when she mouthed, I love you, too, he felt all the pieces of his life fall together.
He held up a halting hand. She nodded, mouthed, I know. Stay put.
He took a deep breath, positioned his weapon, slowly pulled open the door—and found himself looking down the barrel of Vuong’s gun.
Fuckin’ shit on a stick.
Vuong cocked his head to one side, that weird shock of dark hair tumbling onto his forehead. “Mr. Shaughnessey. Why am I not surprised to find you here?”
Tripp sensed Glory moving to stand out of sight beside the shelving unit. “Because you know I’m on your ass like white on rice.”
Vuong blinked, frowned, held out his free hand. “Give me your gun.”
“I don’t think so,” Tripp said, mentally scrambling. No one knew where he was. There’d be no backup, no camouflaged cavalry.
Vuong pushed forward into the room, fired off a round above Tripp’s shoulder. He flinched, Glory whimpered, but the sound was so soft he was certain Vuong hadn’t heard. Was certain the only reason he had was because she was his.
“Give me the gun, Mr. Shaughnessey.”
“Not this time, Vuong.” A flash of silver glinted in Tripp’s peripheral vision.
“Then I’m afraid I have no choice but to kill you.”
“You have every choice in the world,” Tripp said, sweat running between his shoulder blades. “You’re taking the easy way out.”
“Easy? You think killing is easy?”
Vuong’s response was not what Tripp expected, but was a hot button he would now push because nothing would convince him this man had a conscience. “Sure it is. All you have to do is squeeze the trigger.”
Vuong laughed, a dangerously manic sound that echoed like shards of glass falling on the concrete floor. “If you think there is nothing more to killing, then you’re not the man I thought you were.”
“And if you think there is, then neither are you.”
The two men stood face-to-face, guns aimed at one another’s chests, chests that rose and fell with their audible breathing. The vein in Vuong’s temple looked ready to explode. Time was running out. Tripp felt the spinning second hand in his gut winding down.
All it would take would be one bullet. One twitch of his trigger finger. One decision made in the blink of an eye. He could do it one more time, kill one more man. This was what he’d been trained to do. What he’d done in the jungles of Colombia so many times, he’d lost count.
He saw Glory raise the knife before he could think of the words to stop her. She lunged, hands clasped overhead, swinging down in an arc, burying the blade to the hilt in the slope of Vuong’s shoulder.
His eyes shot wide, he twisted. Tripp brought his wrist down on Vuong’s gun hand, his knee up on the elbow.
Crack!
Vuong went down in writhing silence. The gun spun across the room, hit the far wall, and went off. Glory screamed and ducked. Tripp jumped back, his pulse exploding, staring down at the gaping chasm where the kid’s neck had been. Jesus! Blood pooled on the floor, Vuong’s expression an agonizing death mask that softened into an eerie childlike face.
Tripp stepped over the downed man and did the only thing that mattered right now. He took Glory in his arms and squeezed until even he wasn’t able to breathe, guiding her from the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
He didn’t stop until they were standing embraced in the center of the shop. He’d call the cops in a minute. Or two. Or three. When he could think to explain what had happened. When he could think beyond the fact that Glory was safe.
“Amazing, amazing, amazing.” It was all he could say, his voice hoarse and ragged, his throat closing around a ball of emotion the likes of which he swore he would never survive.
“Did you mean it this time?” she whispered into his shirt, tears wetting him, her heartbeat synced with his. “About loving me?”
“Oh, goddamn yes, I meant it. I am out of my mind over you.” There. He’d said it. And he’d gotten it out around that damn frog squatting in his throat.
“Oh, Tripp.” Her arms tightened further where she’d wrapped up his waist. “I couldn’t stay put. I just couldn’t.”
“Shh, sweetheart. You did good. You did just fine.”
She sniffed. “For a girl without super powers, you mean?”
“Oh, Glory.” He tucked her head beneath his chin, cupped the back of her head and held her. He couldn’t manage another word. He could barely breathe. He stared at the clock on the wall, at the second hand ticking its way the length of the pickle and back.
“You don’t need super powers. You have me.” Then he closed his eyes and mind to everything but Glory. “And I have you.”
Dear Reader,
THE SHAUGHNESSEY ACCORD is the second in a series of eight connected books, with four additional companion titles. The stories were written between 2003 and 2008, and still reflect the tech of the time. Rather than updating them, I’ve left the books as originally conceived.
They are fun, over-the-top, B-movie, cracktastic, adrenaline rides, and I had a blast writing them. They were also the first erotic romances I wrote. Things have come a long way in the decade-plus since, but at the time of publication, Brava Books was considered an innovator in the erotic romance subgenre, and I loved being a part of its early years.
If you enjoyed Tripp and Glory’s story, I’d love for you to visit my website and learn more about my books (written under this name and others), and sign up for my newsletter for updates. Thanks again for reading! Turn the page to see what’s next from the Smithson Group!
Alison Kent
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Coming 5-17-2016, THE SAMMS AGENDA:
Julian hit the ground with a jolt, seams ripping, bones crunching, joints popping as he rolled to his feet and came up into a full-throttle run.
Coattails flying, he sprinted across the pool’s cement deck, hurdled the shattered planter, and gave Ka
trina no chance to do more than gasp her surprise as he grabbed her upper arm and ran.
“Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!”
He propelled her forward, knowing he could run a hell of a lot faster then she could, the both of them dragged down even more by the slap, slap, slap of her ridiculous shoes.
She seemed to reach the very same conclusion at the very same time, however, and kicked off the slides to run in bare feet.
Once across the deck and up the courtyard stairs, he shoved open the enclosure’s gate. Another bullet ricocheted off the iron railing.
Katrina screamed, but kept up with the pace he set as they pushed through and barreled down the arched walkway toward the parking garage.
Her Lexus was closer, but he doubted she had her keys and didn’t have time to stop, ask, and wait for her to dig them from the bottom of her bag.
Even breaking in, hot-wiring would take longer than the additional burst of speed and extra twenty-five yards they’d need to reach his Benz.
“My car. Let’s go,” he ordered.
She followed, yelping once, cursing once, twice, yet sticking by his side all the way.
A shot cracked the pavement to the right of their path, a clean shot straight between two of the garage’s support beams. Way too close for comfort.
Rivers’s practice was about to make perfect in ways Julian didn’t want to consider.
The keyless transponder in his pocket activated the entry into his car from three feet away. He touched the handle, jerked open the SL500’s driver’s side door.
Katrina scrambled across the console, tossed her bag onto the floor; he slid down into his seat, punched the ignition button, shoved the transmission into reverse.
Tires screaming, he whipped backward out of the parking space and shot down the long row of cars. He hit the street ass-backward, braked, spun, shifted into first, and floored it, high-octane adrenaline fueling his flight.
Halfway down Grand, several near misses and an equal number of traffic violations later, he cast a quick sideways glance at Katrina and nodded. “You might want to buckle up.”
