“You wear that for a reason?”
The challenging question made Toby’s pulse kick. The sheriff was versed in surveillance; maybe he could tell that the pin was actually a camera. “Pride,” he said with a shrug. “I served in the 75th Ranger Regiment.”
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “What years?”
Shit. He was supposed to be the one asking questions, not the other way around. Rattling off his practiced lie, he could only hope that Homeland Security had been thorough in altering his service record.
“I’m a former Ranger myself,” Fallon announced, unsettling Toby further.
He forced a laugh. “No kidding? What years?”
The Sheriff had left the service before Toby even went in, a fact that eased his worries only slightly. “Bet you saw a lot more action than I did,” Fallon surmised.
“More than enough.” A layer of sweat formed under Toby’s jacket. He couldn’t wait to shrug it off, but he couldn’t yet, not until he’d filmed the rest of the militia members.
“There’s Hooper.” The sheriff pointed to a thick-set man with a handlebar mustache.
“Thanks. I think I’ll introduce myself.” Toby walked away, feeling Fallon’s eyes on his back.
Sheriff Hooper of Martinsburg proved to be less of a threat.
“Excellent,” he exclaimed as Toby introduced himself. “Captain Connelly must be thrilled to have you on board,” he added pumping Toby’s hand.
Toby wasn’t so sure about that. Since their kiss last night, she’d scarcely said two words to him.
“At-ten-TION!” Ashby’s booming voice snuffed the yammering in the yard and replaced it with silence. “Fall into line for muster and inspection!”
With a shouldering of packs and a rustling of dead leaves, soldiers scrambled to sort themselves into neat rows, about ten men deep. Toby followed the example of the other sergeants and positioned himself at the head of the last line. Standing the butt of his M-16 on the ground, he clasped the muzzle like the others. Silently, with just the barest scuffling feet and clearing of throats, they watched Lt. Ashby open the screen door and announce: “Commanding officer of the West Virginia Second Amendment Militia.”
Dylan stepped onto the porch, and elbows shot out as everyone present saluted. With a sense of surrealism, Toby saluted right along with them. Dylan paused on the porch to survey her troops from a distance. In the misty light it wasn’t easy to read her expression, but Toby thought he’d seen that look of exasperation on her face before. It was her XO who insisted on the formality, not Dylan herself.
With an eloquent return salute, she freed them to lower their arms to their sides. Then she stepped off the porch with her graceful, loose-limbed stride, and Toby’s gaze drifted to her honed thighs. She wore the same woodland patterned BDUs as her militia, as well as the hallmark beret on her head—only hers was burgundy, and it had a gold star on a green patch reminding him of the Czechoslovakian paratroopers. The suspicion that she’d bought the berets wholesale from Eastern Europe nearly made him snort out loud.
The head covering topped a thick French braid that kept her hair under disciplined control. With just a slash of gloss on her lips and not a drop of makeup, she managed to captivate every eye in the regiment as she paused to run a maternal gaze over her army.
How many men, besides him, were admiring the way her camouflage jacket outlined her curves?
“Good morning,” she finally called out.
“Good morning, ma’am!” the legion chorused.
“We have a full regimen in store for you today.” She clasped her hands behind her back and began to pace. “For six months to the day, we have withstood threats to individual liberties. You know what they are—tyranny, corruption, illegitimate force, and apathy, to name just a few.” She turned and covered her own tracks. “We have trained to respond to an attack or emergency propagated by the Oppositional Forces. Until now, our mission has been a purely defensive one. Yet, I believe that our passivity makes us guilty of the very apathy that we abhor.”
She paused in her pacing to fix her crystal gaze on her troops. “It is not enough to protest corruption. Our forefathers fought for their freedoms, and so must we, before they are wrested away. The time has come to take more offensive action.”
A bad taste filled Toby’s mouth as an expectant hush fell over the yard. She really was crazy. And completely serious about her intent to frighten civilians into seeing the world her way.
She folded her arms across her chest. “Our creed clearly states that illegitimate force and illegal violence must be met with righteous indignation and superior force. It states that we should learn new skills and techniques with firearm or blade, so that we can hit our enemies hard, fast, and true.”
He realized she was quoting directly out of The Creed, which he now had mostly memorized.
Her pale gaze zeroed in on Toby. “In the next few weeks, our newest staff member, a former Army Ranger, will be refining our skills and turning us into an effective strike force. Everyone, say hello to Sergeant Burke.”
“Hooah, Sergeant Burke!” the militia shouted.
Toby turned toward the crowd, forced a smile, and waved.
“Lt. Ashby, do you have any announcements?” Dylan turned toward her XO, who stood respectfully behind her.
“No, ma’am,” he said grimly.
“In that case, Lieutenant, kindly proceed with the inspection and the march.”
Inspection required each NCO to examine the pack of every soldier in his line. Those who’d failed to fill their canteens with water, who didn’t carry three-days’ worth of rations, a flashlight, extra batteries, ammo, a first-aid kit and a gun-cleaning kit, plus the paper copies of the U.S. Constitution and the Bill of Rights were made to drop and do thirty pushups. Only one soldier in Toby’s line failed to meet the mark. Toby recognized him as the waiter, Nathan, from Private Quinn’s Pub.
“Wife had her baby yet?” he inquired.
“Not yet, Sarge.” Nathan looked upset with himself for having left his canteen empty.
Toby let the oversight slide. Lacking water to quench his thirst would be punishment enough. This wasn’t real combat training, where an empty canteen could mean the difference between life and death.
“Suit up!” Lt. Ashby called as inspection came to an end.
Soldiers shrugged on their packs.
“Atten-TION. Right FACE!” the XO bellowed.
Everyone swiveled toward the running course.
“Forward MARCH!”
Just like soldiers in the Civil War, they tramped down the hill in formation, matting the dew-damp grass beneath their many boots. The sun had edged high enough to burn away most of the fog. Toby watched Dylan hustle toward the head of the pack. At the tree line, the troops veered right, away from the running course toward the shooting range Toby had yet to see in person.
“Pick it up!” Lt. Ashby shouted. Every man, with the exception of the XO himself, broke into a jog, with Dylan in the lead.
The land rose, the trees on their left thinned. They ran for a mile over rolling hills before coming to a rocky outcrop. On the other side of the outcrop stretched a large field, which Toby recognized from the drone photos as Dylan’s shooting range. Sandbag bunkers edged one side and black-and-white bulls-eyes standing at intervals edged the other.
By now his line had disintegrated as out-of-shape soldiers fell behind. He focused his attention on motivating the stragglers. By the time the entire militia reached the range, many of them were red-faced and out of breath.
Toby led his squad toward a sandbag bunker. There, he ordered them to drink water, sharing a sip from his own canteen with Nathan. Next, he ordered them to clean their guns, to lock and load. It was all so oddly familiar.
And then the fun began. Not that Toby wanted to be enjoying himself. But as the quiet countryside crackled with the rat-tat-tat of semi-automatic gunfire and his squad competed against Ackerman’s to accomplish the most hits, he found him
self cheering on his men, adjusting their grip and stance to improve their aim. Pretty soon, his squad led the rest in direct hits.
“You want to practice, ma’am?” he asked, catching Dylan’s eye as she paused to watch his team shoot.
“Oh, no. Thank you.”
He stepped closer to her, pitching his voice low so the others couldn’t hear it. “A true leader leads by example,” he told her with a challenging smile. “Come on. Take a shot.” He nodded at her revolver, which she carried on her hip in lieu of an M-16. Truth was, he wanted to see how dangerous she was.
Biting her lower lip, Dylan looked like she would rather clock him in the head with her revolver than shoot it. Her chin came up in response to his challenge, confirming Toby’s suspicion that whatever reservations she might have about firing a weapon, the last thing she wanted was to appear ineffective in front of the troops. “Fine, I’ll give it a whirl.”
Watching her set her elbows on the sandbags, thumb off her safety and set her sights on the bulls eye at the other end of the field, Toby could see why she hadn’t wanted to show off her skills. She really didn’t have any. Her form was bad. Her aim was off. But then again, she’d served with Mortuary Affairs units, not on front lines—at least not while a battle was raging.
Crack! A chip of plywood went flying off the corner of the target, and Toby’s eyebrows shot up. Well, well, she’d actually hit the mark.
“Bravo,” he called, applauding her effort and saving her from further embarrassment. “Well done.”
Her cheeks turned pink as she put her gun away and pushed wordlessly past him.
Later as the shooting progressed and his squad emerged victorious, he sensed her approving gaze on him and it ratcheted his self-awareness. Shooting doubled his testosterone levels. Firing in front of Dylan turned him on.
But then she put him in charge of the ambush training and suddenly, he became too busy to notice her noticing him. Each NCO drilled his squad according to their role in the L-shaped ambush. Ackerman’s squad practiced concealment and using alternate radio frequencies to communicate. Sergeant Lee’s squad practiced providing support fire, while Toby and Morrison’s squads enacted their role as the assault group.
Dylan neared Toby’s group just as he was illustrating how to grapple a target into submission without causing bodily harm.
“Sergeant Burke, I want you to take down the target on our first ambush,” she informed him when he rolled to his feet.
He just stared at her. So now he had to do the dirty work?
“You already know how.” She gestured to the soldier whose face he had rubbed in the dirt. The man looked thoroughly humiliated. “It’ll save us time and ensure success.”
He was still mulling over the role foisted on him when the CPX ended. Collecting their packs, they formed loose lines and tramped back to the farmhouse to turn in their rifles. But then, instead of leaving, the soldiers toted coolers from their vehicles, and everyone flopped down in the front yard for a picnic, while June Lee served lemonade from a giant, glass dispenser.
Toby chugged down his drink while wishing it were a tall bottle of ice-cold lager. There were sixty-odd soldiers in the yard and not a single beer can in sight. Not only was Dylan the enforcer of her forefather’s liberties, but she was also, apparently, a prohibitionist.
If I weren’t working undercover, I would be so gone, right now. He’d had his fill of the militia life; he wanted to be a normal citizen again.
Thank God, tomorrow was his day off. Of course, he’d have to rendezvous with his colleagues at the NCTC. But after that, he was going to his apartment to do laundry, kick back with a few beers and watch football. The prospect of looking up one of his regular playmates teased his imagination briefly.
But it was really Dylan who aroused him, he realized, watching her pick her way across the yard. She paused here and there to share a word with her soldiers, to lay a concerned hand on them. Strands of her hair had worked loose from her braid, framing her face in fiery tendrils that drew attention to her sweet smile. God, she was pretty when she smiled.
As loony as she was, it was hard to imagine her plotting Secretary Nolan’s demise. He’d found nothing yet to suggest her innocence or her guilt, which meant that his undercover job was far from over. He might have the day off tomorrow, but he’d be back tomorrow night for another whole week of insanity.
If he didn’t want to be here a month or more, he needed to take this relationship to the next level, tonight.
***
With her back against her headboard, Dylan read from her Bible taking comfort in the words of Matthew. Out in the hallway, the bathroom door swung open, claiming her attention. Stealthy footfalls headed toward the attic, telling her that Tobias Burke was done showering. She’d left her door intentionally ajar, hoping to waylay him on his way to bed. “Sergeant Burke,” she called.
He filled her open door with his bare shoulders, and her mouth went dry. His chest was completely bare and breathtaking. He wore plaid pajama pants, and his hair was damp and spiked.
“Ma’am?”
“Please, come in,” she requested, setting her Bible aside. She remained seated as he edged into the room. His ocean-blue gaze held hers captive. When he closed the door unexpectedly behind himself, her heart kicked into a gallop. She froze in astonishment.
“What?” he asked as if he hadn’t just shut the door, giving them all kinds of privacy.
The lamp beside her bed cast just enough of a glow to highlight his raised pectorals and the rippling muscles of his flat abdomen. A mat of dark hair fanned between his dusky nipples, narrowing to a line that ran toward his naval, disappearing past the waistband of his low-slung sleep pants. Dylan’s head swam. She’d forgotten what she even meant to tell him.
If you want to lean on me from time to time, that’s okay, too. The inference that he’d like to deepen intimacies kept her pinned to the bed like a fearful virgin, even as it brought a warm flush to the surface of her skin. Recalling his perfect kiss the other night, she found she had no desire to eject him from her room just yet.
“You wanted to ask me something?” he prompted, looking completely at ease with himself.
She finally remembered what it was. “You didn’t look pleased to be tasked with the take-down of the target. Is there something about the mission you object to?”
His faint smile disappeared. Thick lashes obscured his eyes for a moment as he glanced down at her threadbare rug. “Not at all,” he said flatly.
He was lying. The concern that he might leave her militia after proving so useful propelled Dylan off the bed. Drawing her robe about her, she searched for loyalty in his dark-blue gaze as she approached him, but it was hard to concentrate on just his face with his chest so broad and bare, the dark thatch of hair so distracting. “I hope you’re not questioning your decision to join the militia,” she said, revealing her sudden worry.
“Not at all,” he assured her, his gaze falling to the gaping edges of her pink velour robe.
“Will you come to church with me tomorrow?” she pleaded. If anyone could inflame his willingness to battle injustice it was her priest, Father Nesbit.
Her question wrested Tobias’s gaze upward. “What time?”
“I like to attend the early service at oh-eight hundred.”
“Hmmm.”
His less-than-enthusiastic answer made her wonder which he deplored more—the early hour on his day off or the destination. Did he not believe in God?
“Please,” she added, persuaded that his attendance would assure his commitment.
His sexy mouth quirked. “Tell you what,” he said in a gruff voice that had an immediate tingly effect on Dylan’s nipples. “Why don’t you give me a reason to confess my sins, and then I’ll go?”
She was still making sense of his words when he hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her gently but forcefully into his arms. Her indrawn breath filled her head with the scent of soap and clean man. His naked chest,
like warm silk beneath her fingers, caused them to unfurl. As soon as her palms made contact, she longed to explore further.
And that was her excuse for offering him her lips. His eyes glinted with triumph as he ducked his head. With little restraint, this time, he covered her mouth passionately, slipping his tongue between her welcoming lips, and conveying the determination to possess her completely.
Dylan’s mind went blank. The worry of what it would cost to be caught fraternizing evaporated. The delectable feel of his lips melded to hers, his tongue delving, his aroused male flesh branding her thighs preoccupied her every thought. Desire pooled low in her belly spreading to her extremities like a drug, so that her body felt heavy, her head light.
The belt at her waist went slack, and cool air wafted up under her nightshirt as he gathered it in his hands. His palm, warm and slightly calloused, grazed her thigh, her hip, and her waist, drawing a trail of gooseflesh behind it. Her heart thudded in anticipation as he closed in on her left breast and gently palmed it. A moan escaped her as he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, eliciting a spark of pleasure both there and below.
Her back hit the wall. At some point, Tobias had turned them around without her realizing. He pressed her against it, kissing her unceasingly. She buried her fingers in his thick, damp hair, responding to him mindlessly, only half-aware that his other hand had found its way beneath her gown. It breached the elastic waistband of her panties to rake the trimmed curls at the juncture of her thighs. She broke the kiss and gasped in surprise. “You shouldn’t.”
But he did. Gazing intently into her eyes, he slid a finger into the moist cleft within her curls, seeking the silky nectar seeping there and using it to coat the nub that swelled at his touch. She closed her eyes against a torrent of pleasure, her protest silenced.
What they were doing was wrong, and yet, when she clutched his shoulders, it was only to draw him closer, not push him away. Dear Lord, how could something so illicit feel so good? Her thighs quivered, her chest heaved as tongues of pleasure lapped at her.
The Enforcer Page 8
