Packing Heat
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25
chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
chapter 29
chapter 30
PRAISE FOR THE ROMANCE NOVELS OF
Penny McCall
“Razor-sharp repartee and sexy humor add fun to this high-stakes game of hide-and-seek. McCall is quickly making a mark on the romantic-suspense landscape.”
—Romantic Times (4 stars)
“A fast-paced, bumpy ride with some surprising twists and turns that keep you on the edge of your seat. The chemistry . . . was HOT.”—Romance Junkies
“Full of suspense and excitement. Sure to get your pulse racing.” —Romance Reviews Today
“Lots of witty dialogue and some laugh-out-loud funny scenes.”—Booklist
Titles by Penny McCall
ALL jacked up
Tag, you’re IT!
ace is WILD
packing HEAT
Anthologies
DOUBLE THE PLEASURE
(with Lori Foster, Deirdre Martin, and Jacquie D’Alessandro)
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
PACKING HEAT
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / April 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Penny McCusker.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form
without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-02555-0
BERKLEY® SENSATION
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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For Mary
chapter 1
HARMONY SWIFT ENTERED LEWISBURG USP— United States Penitentiary—flanked by two prison guards. A line of sweat trickled down her spine, and while it felt like each door locking behind her would never open again, she kept her pace steady and her expression calm, cool, and collected. She knew because, well, she’d practiced in a mirror.
One of the guards unlocked a door, the other ushered her into one of the rooms set aside for lawyers to talk to clients—brick walls, industrial-grade table and chairs, one angry handcuffed and shackled inmate. And another locked door.
She must be crazy. Or desperate. Truth be told she’d jumped into this with both feet and it was too late to back out. But hey, if she got caught, they wouldn’t have to take her far . . . which wasn’t very funny when she thought about it.
She set the pile of clothes she’d been carrying on the table and consulted the paperwork in her hands, hoping with every optimistic bone in her body that it had held up, then mustering every ounce of acting skill that had rubbed off on her in the first eighteen years of her life. She hadn’t grown up in Hollywood, where waiters emoted over the appetizers and cab drivers ran lines in bumper-to-bumper traffic, for nothing.
“Cole Montgomery Hackett?” she said with just the right amount of disdain and superiority.
He didn’t respond. The guard confirmed it.
She nudged the pile of clothing across the table. “Put these on.”
Still ignoring her.
The guard took a step forward, reaching for his night-stick.
Harmony held up a hand, he stopped, and she thought, Cool, resisting an urge to grin like an idiot. Sure, she was an FBI agent, but this was her first case . . . Okay, it wasn’t exactly a case, not in the Bureau-approved, call-us-if-you-have-a-problem way, but it wasn’t her fault she’d gone Rambo. It was theirs, and anyway, being in the field, where she could feel the power and respect of her rank for the first time, was a lot of fun, and, darn it, she was taking a second or two to enjoy it.
“Unlock the cuffs and shackles,” she instructed the guard.
Cole Montgomery Hackett turned his cold, intense stare on her. He didn’t lift his wrists, pull his ankles from under the table, or assist his own release in any way. Not exactly the reaction she’d expected.
Then again, nothing about him was what she’d expected. Harmony consulted the photo she’d brought along, the mug shot of a nerdy kid fresh out of college, soft around the middle, pocket protector, smiling and happy with a baby face and an innocent look in his eyes. The federal prisoner across the table bore little resemblance. Same black hair cut military short, same shape to the face except for the perpetual five-o’clock shadow and hollowed cheeks, all the baby fat gone to privation and resentment. The eyes were the same, too, so dark a brown they were almost black, but now they were intense, guarded, like his body language.
As soon as the guard had the cuffs and shackles off, Hackett crossed his arms over his chest. His left biceps sported a jailhouse tattoo of an owl with a bad attitude. Harmony stifled a smile that came as much from nerves as comprehension. The tattoo would be some other inmate’s commentary on Hackett’s harmlessness, but harmless was a relative term when the company included rapists, murderers, kidnappers, and worse. And Hackett looked l
ike he’d learned a thing or two in prison—and not about computers.
Hence the second-guessing. Running an op with a reluctant geek wasn’t the same as riding shotgun on a dangerous ex-con while trying to track down someone crazy enough to take on the FBI. But she had a carrot Cole Montgomery Hackett couldn’t resist chasing.
And sure, he looked bitter and angry, but it wasn’t her fault he was in there. And it wasn’t like he’d murdered anyone. He was a computer criminal. If he hadn’t been prosecuted under the newly minted Patriot Act, he’d’ve been sent to one of the federal country clubs reserved for white-collar offenders. It would’ve been better for her if he hadn’t gone to Miscreant U, but a good agent made the best of what she had to work with.
“You’re being released into my custody,” she said in her agent voice.
Hackett looked her over, head to toe, and it wasn’t sexual—at least not entirely. The man had been locked up for eight years; his gaze lingered in the obvious places. But she recognized the moment when he made the decision, so it came as no surprise when he nodded. He knew he could take her. She knew it, too, but she wasn’t counting on muscle to protect her.
He picked up the clothing and met her gaze, one brow lifted.
She crossed her arms, mocking his raised eyebrow with one of her own. “Shy?”
He still wasn’t talking, but he began to strip, his eyes steady on hers. And he took his time.
Harmony didn’t look away. This was where the real contest would be, her will against his. But she had weapons he’d never expect.
He had some weapons of his own. Incredible weapons. Before his shirt was off, her upper lip had begun to sweat. She managed to keep her gaze level on his, but she had really good peripheral vision, and he had muscles everywhere. Really nice muscles, good and firm without being over-pumped . . . He dropped his prison britches, and her breath stalled even though she couldn’t see anything below the waist without breaking eye contact. Which she didn’t do. As much as she wanted to find out if the merchandise matched the advertising, there was a lot more at stake than her prurient curiosity.
He dropped his eyes to tug on the jeans she’d brought, and she couldn’t for the life of her think what. She knew he was dangerous, that she was putting her life on the line in every sense of the phrase, but she took a good long look at him and had to admire what she saw—from a strictly professional standpoint. Madison Avenue would love to get their hooks into him, she thought, because any American woman with a pulse—and more than a few men—would buy whatever he was selling. Especially if he did it in his underwear, on a billboard, in Times Square. And he’d caught her checking him out, judging by the smirk on his face when she lifted her eyes.
“Handcuffs.” She tossed the set she’d brought in with her to the guard.
Hackett didn’t like being put in restraints again, and there was a challenge in his eyes, when she met them. She wasn’t falling for that. She thought better of the leg shackles, though. This guy had some pride; stepping on it wouldn’t make him more cooperative.
As she’d previously arranged, the guards escorted Hackett out of the building and loaded him into the back of her government-issue SUV while she took the driver’s seat.
She heard him checking the door handle and said, “Don’t bother,” adding, “the window’s kick-proof, too,” when she caught a glimpse in the rearview mirror of his feet coming up to do just that.
“Look,” she said, twisting around so she could see him. “The FBI needs your help, and in return we’re willing to spring you from jail. Permanently. If you can be patient for a little while longer . . . At least do me the courtesy of looking at me when I’m talking to you.”
“Okay,” he said in a startlingly deep voice, “but those guys are going to interrupt you anyway.”
Harmony whipped around, and sure enough a couple of men in cheap black suits, expensive shades, and the distinctive expression she’d pasted on her own face for most of the day stood watching them. She started the Explorer.
Cole met her eyes in the rearview. “Those guys look like feds.”
Who were running for a black Lincoln Town Car and giving chase.
“They are,” she said, putting her vehicle in motion, but keeping to a non-panic speed, at least until they got out of the jail yard.
“I thought you were an FBI agent.”
“I am.”
“Then why are you running away from the other ones?” He ducked as something thunked into the back of the vehicle. “And why are they shooting at us?”
“They’re not shooting at us, they’re trying to take out the tires.” Which would be a problem, but the real worry was why they wanted to stop Hackett’s escape badly enough to draw their weapons.
“What the hell is going on?” he yelled at her.
Good question, she thought, putting her foot to the floor and pouring all her focus into driving because there wasn’t much else she could do but drive and hope to hell inspiration struck.
Inspiration was going to need a damn good imagination.
Lewisburg Penitentiary was a maximum security facility a couple hundred miles north of Washington, D.C., and almost that far west of Philadelphia. The jail itself squatted in the middle of farms, the fields already harvested for fall. Flat landscape with nowhere to hide.
Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, sprawled along the west branch of the Susquehanna River just a few miles from the prison, a quaint, historic little town, population six thousand, give or take, all of them innocent bystanders going about their daily business. She’d rather not take this federal squabble, with its potential to produce serious nastiness, right down Market Street. Robert F. Miller Drive had other ideas. Robert F. Miller Drive led right to Lewisburg with no consideration for the consequences.
Harmony took the first curve practically on two wheels, hearing a thump and a grunt behind her. She glanced in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of Hackett, hands still cuffed behind him, bouncing around the backseat like a pinball. Better that than the two suits in the government car catching up to them. They got caught, Hackett’s twenty-five-year sentence would get amended to life. She’d rather not think about where she’d end up.
They’d hit a long, straight stretch of road. The government car whipped into the oncoming traffic lane and pulled up alongside the Explorer. The passenger side window slid down and a gun eased out.
Harmony slammed on the brakes, and the Lincoln shot ahead, the bullet going wide. Hackett crashed into the back of the passenger seat, but she didn’t have time to worry about his likely tally of black eyes and bruises. She steered over behind the two agents in the Lincoln, straddling both lanes, swerving when they swerved, staying safely behind them and making it impossible for them to get off an effective shot.
The flat, empty fields had given way to woodland to their left, and between the tree trunks Harmony caught glimpses of the sun sparkling off the surface of a small river. It was really quite lovely, right up to the moment she crashed the SUV into the Lincoln’s rear bumper, jammed the gas pedal to the floor, and forced the car off the edge of the road and hood first into the creek.
As they whipped past the Lincoln she said, “That was a rush, wasn’t it?” trying to stop herself from grinning like a fool and not managing to. The stupid smile went hand in hand with the adrenaline popping through her bloodstream like firecrackers.
“Pollution is a federal crime,” Hackett said from the backseat.
“Guess again, Clarence Darrow,” she said, still grinning. “Dumping toxic waste is a federal crime.”
“The toxic waste is inside the car,” Cole said, adding “federal agents,” like he had a mouthful of something disgusting. “And that won’t hold them long. Toxic waste has a tendency to ooze.”
Hackett had a point—about the hold-them-long part. But seeing that car settle at a forty-five degree angle, its back wheels spinning uselessly, was so satisfying she barely gave a second thought to the fact that as soon as they got out of the
re those two agents would have the place swarming with feds in record time. “We have to get far away from here.”
“We?”
“We. I broke you out of jail because I need your help. We’re going to be a team. Starting now.”
He snorted. “I can’t wait to hear how you’re going to convince me of that.”
Harmony grinned at him over her shoulder. “You won’t be able to resist. Trust me.”
“Trust a fed? When pigs fly.”
AGENT SWIFT WAS A NUTCASE. SHE’D BARELY PULLED OFF a jailbreak with forged papers, then put two fellow FBI agents in a river, all with a big, white Hollywood smile on her face. They’d been shot at—okay, the car had been shot at, but they could have missed and hit her, or him—and she hadn’t even broken a sweat.
And sure, she might be beautiful and blond, not to mention the first real live woman he’d seen in eight years, but she was heat. Even worse, she was federal heat, and in Cole’s book that wiped out any good qualities she might have. It wasn’t bad enough that the Bureau had played fast and loose with his life once; they were trying to con him again, like he was a fucking moron who’d lost his memory along with a good chunk of his life and the future he’d busted his ass to get.
If they’d left him alone, he’d have been a millionaire, with his own private island, for Christ’s sake, in a part of the world where the temperature never dropped below seventy-five degrees. He’d be sitting on the beach right now, a bikini-clad woman in the chair next to him, tropical ocean as far as the eye could see, and a cloudless sky overhead. A wide-open sky.
And where had he been for the last eight years? Moldering in an eight-by-ten jail cell with a wall of Hugh Hefner’s finest to keep him from going completely crazy. Not that he couldn’t have found companionship if he’d wanted it, but he preferred his own devices to the alternatives available in a federal prison. He’d put on thirty pounds of muscle to ensure he had a choice.