Hot As Hell
SSI Novella, #4.5
by
Monette Michaels
Hot as Hell, Security Specialists International, Book 4.5
ISBN: 978-0-9862730-8-7
Copyright, 2016, Monette Michaels.
Cover art: Copyright, 2015, April Martinez.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
Hot As Hell
Fed up with her incompetent boss, Interpol agent Dawn Wilson accepts a job with Security Specialists International. Her first assignment forces her into close contact with the devastatingly sexy, but far too pushy CIA agent Sam Crocker.
When the SSI team, plus a forced-on-leave Sam, gathers in Aruba to take down a traitor to the United States, Sam soon discovers the beautiful, feisty Dawn’s skills are a complete match for his own.
As the fairly low-risk operation goes FUBAR, their attraction ignites and turns hot as hell.
Acknowledgments
No book is written in a vacuum. I count on a small band of very special people to keep me centered and on task. Without these people, I would never have the courage to put my work out there. So, here is where I thank them for taking time from their lives to help me polish my fictional worlds.
Special thanks go to author Cherie Nicholls and Gail Northman for Dawn’s British slang.
There are no words that could even begin to express how much I appreciate my primary critique partner, author Cherise Sinclair, for her constructive criticism and unique brand of tough love. So, I’ll just say: Thanks, Cheri.
Thanks must also go to my band of beta-readers: Debbie Kline, Valerie Samouillan, and Gail Northman. These ladies are long-time fans and catch all the pesky back story and series logic issues for me.
As always, many thanks to Ezra Solomon, my copy editor. He catches everything the rest of us miss.
Finally, major kudos to April Martinez for another fabulous cover and to Gail Northman (my triple threat!) for putting my manuscript in all the formats I don’t know how to do. You ladies rock and make my work look so professional.
Dedication
To my SSI fans. Without you Sam would never have found his HEA.
“Black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel, sweet as love.”
―Charles Maurice de Talleyrand
Chapter 1
February 28th, international airport outside of Belize City
Sam Crocker sat in the boarding area, waiting for his flight to Cartagena. Feet propped up on a window ledge, he listened to the rings over his secure satellite phone as he eyed the ground crew fueling a commercial jet. He was tired. He was pissed. Nothing had gone the way he’d planned since leaving the Belizean resort where he’d assisted a Security Specialist International team consisting of Conn Redmond, DJ Poe, and Tweeter Walsh—and Interpol agent Dawn Wilson—on an undercover operation.
Maybe this call would set him on the path toward achieving his goals.
“Redmond.” The abrupt voice of his old Marine buddy growled in his ear. Conn, SSI’s man in Central and South America, had left Belize immediately after the end of the op.
“Hey, Conn—” Sam kept his voice low and atonal so as to make his conversation more difficult to overhear. The boarding area was crowded and no one seemed to be paying attention to him. But he’d spent too many years in deep cover assignments for the CIA’s National Clandestine Service to take a chance someone might listen in, and old habits were hard to break, especially when said habits had kept him alive and mostly whole.
“—it’s Sam. Need your help.”
“Anything.” His buddy’s immediate response was a relief. “Whatcha need?”
“To be put in touch with Tweeter Walsh—and Ren Maddox.”
For the umpteenth time in the last two and a half days, Sam rubbed a finger over the cheek the petite, but fiery Dawn Wilson had slapped. While the little Brit packed quite a wallop—the redness from the blow had taken hours to fade—it was the emotional impact of meeting her that still bedeviled him. No woman had ever gotten under his skin and lodged herself in his gut the way the little hell cat had. Maybe it was the way she handled a submachine gun like a seasoned Marine or the fact she swore like a sailor. Lord knew, she packed a lot of honor, courage, and strength into her tiny body—and, fuck, what a body. He’d been able to tell she was curvy even through the dark, Goth-like disguise she’d worn. She was a pint-sized package of trouble—trouble he hungered to explore more fully.
Immediately after reporting into his CIA handler, he’d gone on the hunt for Dawn. He’d been one step behind her ever since.
Earlier today, he’d finally tracked Dawn’s Interpol Incident Response team to the Belize Defense Force headquarters. There, a man by the name of Ron Lloyd, an officious asshole, refused to tell Sam where Dawn was or relay a message. Every territorial instinct Sam possessed told him the fucker wanted Dawn for himself and saw Sam as competition for the little Brit’s sole attention. He was right.
Sam’s lips quirked upward as he pictured what his next meeting with Dawn might be like. He planned to storm all her defenses, a tactic guaranteed to ruffle her fur. After which, he would wear the little Brit down until he had her purring like a kitten and cuddling up next to him.
But before he could make a move on Dawn, he had to take care of some unfinished business.
“Why now?” Conn asked. “You need to give Ren time to adjust to you being one of the good guys. Tweeter’s post-operation report on Belize will go a long way in helping the situation, but I’m not sure Ren’s quite ready to forgive and forget. I know Vanko isn’t.”
After working deep undercover for so many years, being painted as a bad guy was par for the course. But still, Sam wondered how many times he’d have to tell Maddox that Maddox’s wife Keely hadn’t been in any danger from him. And, hell, he got shot in the back protecting Petriv’s woman Elana. If that wasn’t evidence of his being on the side of angels, what was?
“I’ll deal with Maddox—and Petriv—when the time comes.” Which would probably be sooner rather than later since Sam’s current quarry was their common enemy. “I need Tweeter to find out where Syd MacLean is right now and get current intel on the fucker’s activities.”
Sam’s jaw tightened. “I’m going after the bastard and will end him—one way or another.”
Syd MacLean or, as the treasonous fucker was now known, Sergio Manuel Lazaro a.k.a. Oraio, had sold his country’s secrets and exposed the U.S.’s black ops teams to their enemies. MacLean’s drugs and weapons businesses continued to contribute to the deaths of soldiers and innocents worldwide. His latest venture, sex slave trafficking, was just another abomination on top of all the other abominations MacLean had created while seeking wealth and power.
“Didn’t the CIA get the intel Tweeter sent to the NSA?” Conn asked.
“Yeah. But while the CIA might believe the evidence that Sergio Manuel Lazaro, a legitimate Brazilian businessman, was the crook Oraio, they didn’t want to make the leap that the two were one and the same as Syd MacLean, U.S. traitor. So, after I made my report on Belize, my handler put me on a two-month enforced leave. Said I’d been undercover too long and needed a break… to rest.” Sam blew out a disgusted breath.
“Fucking politicians have no business running intelligence,” muttered
Conn.
“Amen, brother,” Sam said. “Truth is, I’ve got no physical proof, just circumstantial evidence and my gut. Even with Tweeter and his sister Keely throwing their weight behind my conclusions, the CIA—and Brazil’s government—weren’t ready to go after a man with Lazaro’s kind of money and clout. With concrete proof that Lazaro-Oraio is MacLean, the United States could send in a spec ops team to kidnap the fucking traitor’s ass and bring him back to the U.S. to stand trial.”
“Hoo-rah.” Conn paused. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do in getting Ren and Keely to help you. Tweeter’s out of the picture for now. He and DJ are getting married in Vegas today.”
“Married?” Sam whistled. “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. The sexual vibes coming off those two were as hot as hell. I’ll have to send them a wedding gift. Maybe his-and-her handguns?”
Conn snickered. “That should work. You still in Belize?”
“For maybe twenty more minutes. I’m on the next commercial flight to Cartagena and your place. Figured if I went after MacLean that Maddox might bend enough to lend me you as my backup.”
Conn chuckled. “If Ren doesn’t sign off on it, I’ll take some time off and go in with you.”
“Thanks, Conn. If we need more boots on the ground, I have some mercs I’ve worked with who’d love to get a piece of MacLean’s ass.”
“Bet there’s a lot of ex-military who’d help us out if called upon. Need me to pick you up at the airport?” Conn asked.
“No. I arranged for a rental. I should be at your place by dinnertime. Pick a place for a late meal, preferably one with good beer on tap, and I’ll buy.”
“Sounds good. Safe travels.”
“See you soon and”—Sam paused—“thanks, Conn. I’ll owe you big time.”
“Nah, you won’t. Semper fi, buddy.”
“Semper fi, brother.” Sam disconnected and leaned back in his chair, a big smile on his face. Thank fuck for the Marine brotherhood.
Chapter 2
March 1st, Belize Defense Force Headquarters, Belize City
The Belize Defense Force conference room was filled with Dawn Wilson’s fellow Interpol Incident Response team members and the local BDF uniforms and officers who’d worked with them on the joint drug task force. Their goal had been to collect intelligence on the shady Brazilian Oraio in order to find connections to his more legitimate business persona of Sergio Manuel Lazaro and to take out his Belizean drug operations, if possible. Since both objectives had been accomplished, this would be the task force’s last meeting.
Dawn sat at the large oval table and barely managed not to utter aloud the uppermost thought in her mind—that Ron Lloyd was an utter twat.
On paper, Ron was the nominal leader of the Interpol team in Belize. Unfortunately, the words intelligence, leader, and Ron didn’t belong in the same sentence. A product of mediocre prep schools, Ron had risen to his current level of incompetency through political connections alone. The man didn’t understand how to run a law enforcement team, especially one which involved undercover operations and cooperation across international boundaries. Unlike Dawn, he hadn’t had any law enforcement training prior to coming to Interpol. He’d studied art history; her studies had been in criminal justice and international politics. Plus, Dawn had two years at Scotland Yard working on drug trafficking cases.
The only “experience” Ron had in the area of illegal drugs was in how to find the ones he used personally.
Even worse, Ron pictured himself as God’s gift to women—and had decided she’d be his next conquest, mostly because as the daughter of an earl she had the social connections he desired. His pursuit had begun benignly, then had progressed to irritating and just short of stalker-ish.
Ron could pursue and aspire all he wanted. The only way they’d become a couple would be when a zombie was elected Prime Minister of England.
Dawn snorted softly in disgust. Did the bloody idiot think insulting her on-the-ground decisions during this last op would win her over? Well, his behavior simply proved he was a complete cockwomble.
The Belizean Defense Force liaison wasn’t too happy with Ron either since Ron continued to treat the Belizean officer like an indentured servant of the British Empire. Guess Ron hadn’t gotten the message the Empire was dead and Belize had been independent for years.
The sound of her name drew her attention.
“…and if Dawn had done her job, we’d have the evidence we need to demand the Brazilians turn over Oraio.” Ron glared at her.
Fuck, he’s still on that kick?
“But since she didn’t,” Ron blithely continued, all smug and self-righteous, “we now need to seek cooperation from the bleedin’ Yanks—”
“Bloody hell, Ron”—Dawn cut into his harangue—“don’t you even read your e-mails?”
Several of her fellow team members smiled at her question. Clearly, they’d read the e-mails headquarters had sent earlier that morning.
Ron frowned. “What do you mean? Of course, I do—um, did.”
Clueless and a buffoon—and a liar, even to himself.
“Then you must have skipped the bolded paragraph with the link to the summary of the information Security Specialist International’s operative Stuart Walsh gleaned from Oraio’s closed computer network. That intelligence plus a detailed preliminary analysis prepared by SSI’s Keely Walsh-Maddox for the U.S. intelligence community were provided to Interpol.”
Ron’s frown turned into a glare. His cheeks flushed with anger or embarrassment or maybe a bit of both.
As Ron opened his mouth to say something she was sure would be defensive as fuck and utterly worthless, she saved herself and everyone else in the room from having to listen to anymore of his inane remarks by cutting him off. “In addition to running a successful intelligence-gathering op in cooperation with SSI—”
Through her sole efforts which he was now complaining about.
“—our team, working in cooperation with our Belizean team members—”
Again, with her coordinating with the Belizeans’ law enforcement liaison while Ron perseverated over which agency would get credit for the bust.
“—also shut down a major drug operation. While doing so, we managed to keep the lid on the fact that Oraio’s closed computer network was infiltrated. According to intelligence from our people and the U.S.’s NSA, Oraio hasn’t a bleeding clue and is still conducting business as usual. We, that’s us and the Yanks, know where he is. We simply need to keep an eye on Oraio until the legal types go through the volumes of information collected to see if there is enough information to indict him in any of Interpol’s member countries. It’s all a matter of time … and patience.”
She added mentally—You’d know this, you odious waste of space, if you had half a functioning brain cell.
Ron turned toward her, his hands fisted at his side. She imagined she could see steam coming out of his ears. “I have had enough of your disrespect of my authority.”
Good, maybe now he’ll leave me alone and find some other earl’s daughter to harass.
Dawn barely reined in the urge to take the arsehole out at his knees. “I’d respect your authority,” she enunciated, “if you weren’t such a fucknugget.”
Several of her teammates smothered their snickers and the BDF liaison coughed to disguise his laughter.
Ron’s whole face was red now, like a two-year-old’s throwing a temper tantrum. “Go back to our hotel, milady”—he spat out the honorific as if it were a curse word—“and think about your future with Interpol. If I have anything to say about it, it will be a short one.”
What a bloody arse.
Ice-cold rage settled over her. She bet if she blew out a breath, it would be a frosty cloud. She fucking hated petty bureaucrats like Ron who thought their position made them gods. She’d been seriously thinking about quitting Interpol ever since the big bosses had appointed Ron as head of the team for this mission. She despised playing kiss arse to get ahead—and
refused to do it. Ron did it all too well. Bleeding bureaucratic crap.
Her thoughts about leaving had become even more attractive after the message she’d received two days ago from SSI’s Ren Maddox. He’d thanked her for aiding SSI’s operatives and issued a very gracious and tempting offer to come work for his private international security organization.
Since receiving his offer, she’d done some research on SSI. She’d also spoken to SSI operative Vanko Petriv whom she’d known casually when he’d worked for Interpol. She liked what she’d read—and heard—and made the decision to accept the SSI job offer after she’d finished her current Interpol assignment which was to take down Oraio-Lazaro’s criminal organization.
In fact, just that morning, she’d spoken with her Division Head at Interpol, advising him of her decision and why she’d made it.
Ron’s bully-boy pronouncements had merely advanced her timetable.
Dawn gave Ron an evil smile. “Fuck off, Ron. I quit.”
She stood and turned to walk out, then paused and looked over her shoulder. “Oh, and I’ve already filed my report on what happened at the resort, including your refusal to send backup when I and others were in danger from Oraio’s men. A copy was in your e-mail box right alongside the e-mail about the SSI intelligence sharing.”
The glee on her fellow agents’ faces was almost as obvious as the sick expression on Ron’s horsey face.
Her smile grew wider as she added, “Also, our superior received compliments about my actions from the CIA’s National Clandestine Service, the DIA, NSA, and SSI. So, I’m not sure your tenure at Interpol will be much longer than mine…you fucking arsebadger.”
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