Happily Ever Ninja (Knitting in the City #5)

by Penny Reid

I’m sure my facial expression was in communion with my words as I said, “What are you talking about? Jog back for me? I’m not staying here.”

  Greg grumble-sighed. “Fine. But you let me scope the house first before you approach.”

  “It’s like you’re talking, but everything out of your mouth is nonsense. If one of us should scope the house it should be me.”

  He gritted his teeth and even in the dark I could see the unhappy lines around his mouth. “Fe, this isn’t about who is more capable, this is about how I will lose my fucking mind if you’re hurt. So, in the interest of my sanity, will you please do me this favor?”

  “You don’t think I’ll lose my sanity if you’re hurt? Who do you think nailed herself into a shipping crate to rescue you from an illegal oil refinery guarded by goons? A sane person?”

  He closed his eyes and his head fell backward, against the headrest. “Please, dar—” He audibly exhaled. “Please.”

  I didn’t agree. I didn’t disagree. Instead, I opened my door and grabbed my equipment belt and holster. Greg also exited the truck and armed himself, casting me furtive glances. When we were locked and loaded, he led the way and we jogged in silence.

  Actually, I jogged in silence, my feet and movements soundless. Greg jogged like a large man who used to be a Marine.

  Crunch.

  Crash.

  Smash.

  Snap.

  Crack.

  Amateur.

  He also looked over his shoulder every so often to make sure I was still there.

  A little over fifteen minutes later we were standing outside a dark house. I could feel Greg’s eyes on me from where I ducked, scanning the windows. The porch was lit, but no other light source was visible.

  “How about you do a sweep of the outside, see if there’s any cars parked on the street or near the garage,” my husband whispered in my ear.

  I knew what he was doing. He was trying to keep me out of the way so he could get in the house first. He was making me crazy.

  I leveled him with a narrowed glare. “If you promise to stay here, I will do a sweep around the house.”

  “Okay. I promise.” He nodded once, pulled me forward for a quick kiss, then set me away. “You are very sexy when you’re in commando mode. I think we should resurrect this look when we get home, maybe replace the spandex with leather.”

  “It’s not spandex, it’s a Kevlar blend.”

  His voice lowered to a growly whisper. “I’m so turned on right now.”

  Despite the situation, I had to stifle a laugh. “Can we discuss boudoir costumes later?”

  “Fine. Just throwing it out there.” His hand was on my upper thigh and he trailed his fingers from my hip to my knee. “Okay, go do the sweep. I’ll stay here.”

  I hesitated. He’d agreed far too quickly. And he was trying to distract me with talk of sexy times. Ultimately though, having no reason to linger, I skipped off and circled the house.

  I found no cars parked on the street and none in the driveway. But the garage door was lowered. As well I detected no movement in the house and no cameras on the façade. Twenty minutes later, I returned to the spot where I’d left Greg only to find him gone.

  Of course. Of course he was gone. He was probably already in the house. I clenched my jaw and rolled my eyes. He was incredibly infuriating. I couldn’t go in after him, because he might mistake me for a hostile. I had no choice but to wait.

  So I waited. And waited.

  And waited.

  And while I waited I felt myself simmering in resentment, daydreaming about putting him in a chokehold and demanding he stop discounting me. I was also going to demand that he put his socks in the laundry bin. Why must he leave them everywhere? Why?

  Eventually, he emerged from the front door and jogged to my location. I sat back on my heels and watched his approach, swallowing my desire to scream at him about his tendency to break promises and confetti our apartment with dirty laundry.

  And why was I equating broken promises with dirty laundry?

  “You promised,” I accused in a harsh whisper as soon as he crouched next to me.

  “I lied,” he said distractedly, rushing to add before I could berate him further, “there’s no one in the house, but we have—”

  He wasn’t expecting me to move, therefore his resistance was minimal when I pinned him to the ground, his position such that he could easily escape. I didn’t want to intimidate; I wanted him to listen.

  “Darling?” he asked, his wide eyes moving between mine.

  I growled, “Stop lying to me. Stop discounting my contribution. Stop treating me like my opinion is nonsense.”

  “Fe—”

  “You are really starting to piss me off.”

  His gaze dropped to my mouth, and his twitched like he was trying not to smile, his voice beseeching as he said my name. “Fe—”

  “Laughing is only going to make me put you in a clasped-hand variation of the rear naked choke. If that happens, I will put pressure on your carotid artery.”

  “Sorry, sorry. I’m not laughing, I promise.” His eyes turned dreamy. “It’s just—”

  “Just what?”

  “It’s just, you’re alarmingly beautiful when you’re being a badass. And it’s difficult to concentrate when you’re straddling me.”

  I felt growing pressure against my inner thigh and I rolled my eyes, huffing. “What do I need to do in order for you to take me seriously?”

  “I do take you seriously. I promise.”

  “Just like you promised not to go in the house until I returned?”

  “No. I didn’t mean that promise, but I mean this one.”

  I bit my tongue and closed my eyes, shaking my head. And I laughed because I was frustrated. “I am so angry.”

  “Don’t be angry.”

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  “I swear I’m not.” I felt his fingers thread into my hair. When I opened my eyes I found his sincere and serious. “I’m not. I needed you to stay put—not because I’m more capable, but because I’m familiar with the house, where to look, and in this situation it made sense.”

  I narrowed my eyes on him. “Then why didn’t you say so earlier?”

  “Because I am dreadfully tired. And I know I’m responsible for putting us in this mess. The thought of you getting hurt because of me and my choices isn’t something I can live with.”

  I frowned at him, studying the handsome planes of his face, which were—blast him—etched with earnestness. I sat back and crossed my arms over my chest.

  “What did you find inside?”

  “Do you forgive me?”

  “No. I don’t know. Maybe . . . I don’t know.”

  “Darling—”

  “What did you find inside?”

  He heaved a heavy sigh. “We have a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “I found—”

  “Did you find the money?”

  “Yes. And that’s the problem. It’s—”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “If you would stop interrupting me, I would tell you what the problem is.”

  I snapped my mouth shut and glared at him, waiting for an explanation.

  “Thank you, my dear beautiful, brilliant wife. Now, the problem is the money. I found it, it’s inside, but it’s more than what I’d estimated. I don’t think we’ll have to go to any of the other sentinel houses, at least not tonight.” Greg pushed himself up into a sitting position; I didn’t move from his lap.

  “That doesn’t sound like a problem.”

  “We won’t have to go to any of the other sentinel houses because instead of one or two million dollars, I found,” he pulled the satellite phone from his pocket and showed me the screen, “two pallets of money.”

  “Two pallets of . . .” I scanned the image and, indeed, he’d found two pallets of money. Two, huge, pallets of money. They’d been placed in the garage side by side, apparently by a f
orklift.

  “Oh my goodness,” I exhaled, stunned.

  “Hundred-dollar bills. If my math is correct, estimating based on volume, that’s one hundred million dollars, give or take a million.”

  I split my attention between the image on the phone and my husband’s calm features. “Greg, what are we going to do?”

  “Well, I’ve always wanted a pony,” he said tiredly before letting his head fall into his hand and laughing quietly.

  It wasn’t a nice laugh. It was a bitter, angry laugh and I could see he was terribly upset. I reached for his face and kissed him on the lips.

  “I’m sorry, darling. I’m wiped. And finding two tons of illegal oil money in a house that’s supposed to be used to keep these corrupt, cockered measle-warts from stealing oil is just a steaming pile of horse manure on a hot fudge sundae of shitty absurdity. It’s so offensive, it’s hilarious.”

  I gave him a commiserating smile and another quick kiss. I was also exhausted, but we were working against the clock. We needed to reach the airfield in less than twenty-four hours. We didn’t have time for Shakespearean insults or wallowing in the dejected ridiculousness of the situation.

  I kept my voice gentle and patient. “Greg, help me think through this. Why would they leave it unguarded?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head, staring blankly forward. “Unless it’s a drop site. Unless someone is on their way to collect it right now, I don’t know.”

  “Well then, what do we do? Do we take some of it?”

  “No. I was expecting a large briefcase or a box. If this group has enough money at their disposal to leave two tons of it sitting in a garage, in an unguarded house, where anyone could come upon it, then they’d definitely never ransom the hostages for a mere million or two. We have to take all of it or none of it.”

  “So . . . U-Haul?” I asked, half-joking, removing myself from his lap. Whatever vehicle we used, it would have to be big.

  He shook his head. “We can’t risk renting a vehicle. And besides, we don’t have time. We need something close by, something large, something no one would suspect or question.”

  I stared at him as he peered unseeingly at a spot over my shoulder. I hated to think we’d come this far, come this close, and would fail because of two metric tons of cash. I’d spent twelve hours in a crate just to . . . to . . . wait a minute.

  I gripped his hand and shook him. He stared at me blankly while my mouth curved into a triumphant smile. “Greg, I think I have a way for us to move the money.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Wife: What is the password for the Amazon account?

  Husband: I can’t send it to you via text, it’s not secure

  Wife: Send me the password or I will cut you

  Husband: I don’t negotiate with terrorists

  Wife: Send me the password and I will send you naked pictures

  Husband: Here is the password…

  -Penny and Mr. Penny

  Text Messages

  Florida, USA

  Married 14 years

  ~Present Day~

  *Fiona*

  Dr. Evans was scowling at my husband.

  “You want to do what with my mobile clinic vehicle?”

  “Move one hundred million dollars of corrupt oil money.”

  Her eyes bounced between Greg and me, her eyebrows suspended on her forehead. After a protracted moment, she shook her head. But before she could speak, Greg cut her off.

  “Think of it this way: you use the mobile clinic to save lives, yes?”

  She didn’t respond, just stared at him like he was a fool.

  “I’ll take your absence of outward affirmation as a yes,” he pressed on, slurring his words a little. The kidnapping and subsequent lack of rest was catching up with him. “That’s what we want to do. We want to use your mobile clinic to save the lives of six people.”

  “By moving one hundred million dollars belonging to a murderous and corrupt faction of the Nigerian government?”

  “That’s right,” he agreed quickly, then amended absentmindedly, “except it doesn’t really belong to them, does it? It belongs to the people of Nigeria.”

  For the first time since we’d woken her up, her expression softened. Dr. Evans’s gaze traveled over Greg once more, like she was seeing him anew.

  I didn’t blame her for her reluctance. After Alex responded with the address for Doctors Without Borders in Enugu, we hadn’t merely woken her at two in the morning. We’d broken into the hospital, found her sleeping quarters, placed a hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming, restrained her limbs, and—hovering over her bed—announced our presence. Our methods were sloppy, but well-intentioned.

  Now we were sitting in the small staff kitchen and she was hovering over us.

  In truth, we were tremendously tired.

  I hadn’t been this tired since Grace was three months old and Jack was two and a half; I was at home with the kids by myself, and I’d just been diagnosed with mastitis (breast infection). CIA SERE training (Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape) had actually been quite helpful preparing me for the exhaustion of motherhood.

  “What are you going to do with the money?”

  Greg looked to me and I braced myself for her reaction. “We can’t tell you.”

  Her face hardened again and she straightened her back. “You can’t be serious.”

  “We’re not giving it back to them, I promise,” Greg interjected, wiping his hand over his face. “We need to use it as leverage for the hostages still in their possession, but we’re not giving it back.”

  As far as I knew, Greg’s statement was patently false. My understanding of the situation was the opposite. We were, in fact, going to leverage it for the hostages and return the funds once they were released. However, Greg’s promise to Dr. Evans sounded so convincing it caused the hairs on the back of my neck to prickle with warning.

  “Then what will you do with it?”

  “Other than arrange it into a throne of money for photo ops, we’re going to booby-trap it. Then, once the hostages are released, we’re going to alert the US embassy and let them deal with the ninety-nine million dollars.”

  “I thought you said it was one hundred million?”

  “It is. But it’ll be one hundred minus one million when the US is notified, as Doctors Without Borders will be receiving a substantial donation from the corrupt tossers of the Nigerian government.”

  Dr. Evans lifted her chin with a suspicious and prideful tilt. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

  “Yes. Is it working? I would offer sexual favors, but my wife is sitting right here and I’m too bloody tired for a lap dance. I might be able to manage the Roger Rabbit if you give me a Gatorade.”

  Her eyes narrowed, flickering to me for a brief moment as though to gauge my reaction.

  I shrugged. “I’d take the money, his sexual favors are meh.”

  Greg’s mouth fell open in shock and, thank God, Dr. Evans laughed.

  “That’s it, Fe. No lap dances for a month.” He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to look offended. But then he moved them to the table and allowed his head to fall forward into his folded arms, muttering, “So tired. So very, very tired.”

  The good doctor gave him a sympathetic smile, obviously her ingrained healing instincts were taking over, and she sighed. “Yes. All right. Take the mobile unit.”

  His head shot up, but before he could speak she lifted a finger. “But, you have to get some sleep first.”

  “We don’t have time.”

  “Make time. You will sleep for no less than three hours. Then you will both eat, shower, and dress in clean scrubs. Then and only then will you take my mobile clinic.” Under her breath she added, “I don’t need you falling asleep and crashing it into a tree on the way to get my million dollars.”

  ***

  Less than twenty minutes later, Greg and I were situated in a private hospital room. Once Dr. Evans had departed, Greg rolled t
he bed against a wall and lifted the side rail.

  “Wife. Let us sleep,” he said, collapsing onto the mattress and opening his arms to me.

  I didn’t argue. I flopped down next to him and scootched backward, my back to his front. He pulled me into a strong embrace, kissing my temple, and insinuating his leg between mine. Though I was tremendously tired, it took me a while of staring and blinking before my mind quieted enough to truly consider surrendering to unconsciousness.

  Seconds became minutes and Greg’s arms grew loose and heavy, and his breathing evened. I smiled at the plain white wall in front of me, because—whether at home in Chicago or on the run in Nigeria—listening to the soft sounds of my husband’s slumber and the feel of his weight, warmth, and strength at my back was a luxury. I relaxed as well, and was nearly asleep, when Greg inhaled sharply and his body spasmed.

  Nightmares.

  Greg was susceptible to them. Especially during times of high stress.

  “Are you okay?” I glanced over my shoulder.

  He looked at me, his eyes glassy and disoriented. Obviously, he was still caught in a web of sleep inertia.

  I turned completely so we were face to face and placed my hand on his cheek. “Hey. Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” Greg swallowed, his handsome features marred by a severe frown.

  I was about to question him further, but he cut me off by tugging me forward. Greg brought me flush against him, binding me in a constricting hug.

  “We have to get out of here,” he whispered. His warm breath on my neck paired with his despairing tone made me tense.

  “I know. We will. We’ll sleep, move the money, drive to the airfield, and leave at midnight.”

  He nodded, squeezing me again. After several moments I recognized that he had no plans to let me go. I tucked my arms between us and snuggled into the warmth of his body. Eventually, curled within his protective embrace, I dozed off.

  I slept so hard I didn’t have any dreams—at least none that I could remember.

  Then I heard Greg say, “Don’t be mad.”

  I frowned, as I was mostly asleep. I felt his fingers on my hair at my temples. Blinking, I opened my drowsy eyes, and found him bending over me. Now I was disoriented because I thought he was next to me on the bed. Based on the sunlight filtering through the window, I realized I’d been asleep for several hours, though it felt like two minutes.