The Hard Target, page 5
part #1 of Men of Delta Series
Right. I’m totally out of my depth here. I don’t like it. I put the cup down and stare at him. The smoky gray eyes return my gaze.
“Look, Richter, I know what happened last night was a mess. And you saved my life. Thank you for that. But I got no answers last night, and I’m sure as hell not going to stay here if you don’t give me something right now.”
He stares at me with that impenetrable, rock-hard gaze for a few seconds then looks away. His eyes are softer when he speaks. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you much.” He shifts, standing taller, and changes the subject. “You need to speak to your family, right?”
“Yes. And my friend.”
He scratches the stubble on his jaw and ponders. “We can divert the signal so it looks like it’s coming from New York. Just so anyone eavesdropping can’t get a trace on it. But it’s best not to call your friend. Only family, and that too if they have a burner phone.”
Burner phone?
Jesus. What sort of trouble am I in?
Richter rolls his shoulder and puts the cup down on the table. He really is a man mountain, his muscles popping like they’re hewn from the rocks around us.
“Who do you need to contact?”
“My father, for one. Or maybe my brother.”
The thought actually nauseates me. I can hear their snorts of derision from here. I get on better with Robert, my older brother. But he’s too much like Dad, although he tries not to be, for my sake. From the time my mother died, Dad made it his life’s obsession to mollycoddle me with teachers and helpers. I was the rich kid who got dropped off at high school in a fancy car every day. My friends were vetted by my dad. Only those deemed rich enough and from stable enough families were allowed into our home, which is ironic considering Dad is on his fourth marriage.
Michael Simpson, the media tycoon. My dad can buy and sell companies like he’s shopping for groceries. He spends his whole life working, and I barely remember seeing him until I turned into a teen. From then on, he wore a stern-faced mask, never to be questioned, always to be agreed with. Fun? I never had a good time with my father. Sure, he cares about me, loves me too, in his own way. But he loves me because I do as he says.
His choice of college. His approval of my friends and boyfriends. Even his choice of profession. But I demurred when he wanted to groom me to become a TV anchor. The latest edition of my stepmother is one, and she’s a Stepford clone, a country club–visiting, silicone-boobed, Botoxed blond bimbo. Looks great on my father’s arm. Fucking nightmare to have a conversation with.
It might sound harsh, but I’m tired of having to get on with Dad’s parade of wives. He has this weird fixation on showing the world how close he is to his children and family. I have no time for it.
“Who is your father?” Richter rumbles.
“Who is Jozdani?” I counter.
His wide shoulders slump, and he bends his neck, chin falling on his chest.
His voice is barely a whisper. “You need to forget that name.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s dangerous.” His nostrils flare, and light glints from the smoky grays. There’s a beeping sound, and I look down to see his hand reaching into his pants pocket.
CHAPTER NINE
RICHTER
❦❦❦❦
Cal’s number flashes on the screen. I take the call, walking out of the kitchen through the back door into the garden porch.
Before Cal and I set up our security firm, he used to be a CIA agent. He’s our main intel guy, but lately we’ve also got our very own smart-ass sister Samantha. Between the soft-spoken but intense Cal and my wisecracking sister, I don’t get a moment’s rest from work-related updates and general ball busting about being the boss but not pulling my weight.
“Done some digging on Dora Simpson,” Cal said. “Her father owns several TV stations all around the country. Mainly news oriented but also lifestyle. You know the America Live station that operates out of DC? That’s one of her dad’s.” Cal reels off a few other familiar and not-so-familiar names I see on TV.
“He’s loaded. Top connections as well. Does a charity ball every year on Capitol Hill. Knows everyone worth knowing.”
I’m leaning against the logs, a summer breeze cool on my chest. “He’s gonna have a coronary when he finds out what’s happened to his daughter. This could get out of hand.”
“Just sit tight and wait for my signal.” Cal pauses. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Mission safety is critical. She can’t know anything about us.”
“I know that, Cal.” I’m getting pissed off now. “What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing. It’s just that...after Charlotte, you haven’t been with a woman—”
I cut him short. “You really think I’m going to let that get in the way? You don’t think I know how important this is?”
My voice is hard, and we’re both quiet for a while. Cal is the first to speak. “I’m worried about you, big bro. You keep it all under wraps. Act like it’s all cool. But you don’t fool me.”
I move the phone away from my ear. I don’t need to hear this. A change of topic right now sounds good.
“Any news of Viktor?” I ask. “Or Jozdani’s whereabouts?” Focus on the mission. It’s what I’ve done for the last three years—hell, for most of my life. I need that focus now more than anything else.
“Jozdani has a son from his first marriage. Studies in Vermont. The son doesn’t have his father’s last name, which is why we didn't track him down sooner.”
“Are you sure J is in the U.S.?”
“He traveled on a fake passport. Facial recognition picked him up at JFK.”
“You think he’s here to see his son?”
Cal hesitates before replying. “I’m not sure. He doesn’t stay in touch with his son. The boy has an American mother, one of Jozdani’s friends when he was at Stanford doing his PhD.”
Both of us are silent, thinking. I say, “Whatever. We need to find him, right? That’s the whole mission.”
“Unless Viktor finds you first. He thinks you know where Jozdani is. Well, you and Dora.”
“I’ll keep an eye on her. Don’t worry. Find out as much as you can about her family and her father.”
I hang up. Holding the phone in my hand, I stare to the end of the garden and the mountains looming in the distance. Morning light is painting them in pastel shades of dark brown and ochre. It gives me a sense of peace. One of the reasons I call Montrose my home is the isolation and the distance from the real world.
“I can tell you about my father.”
Her voice makes me jump. I stand and whirl around. Did this woman just get the drop on me? I curse in silence. How in hell’s name did that happen?
She’s leaning against the porch door, arms folded across her chest. She has a tank top on beneath the loose-fitting dressing gown, and her breasts rise up in a soft, inviting bulge. The cleavage is barely visible above, and blood rushes to my cock like a river breaking its banks. I step back, rubbing a hand over my face, praying she can’t see my hardening manhood. I look away. It’s been a while since I’ve been so close to a woman. Not since Charlotte, in fact. Three years. The memory dims the sunlight, darkens my day.
“His name is Michael Simpson.”
Her voice is the sound of wind rushing through the trees. She carries on, telling me about his business empire.
I turn to her. She’s younger than I imagined. No more than mid-twenties. She’s slender but filled out at the right places. Those dark-brown eyes are luscious, and whenever I can wrench my eyes off them, they fall on the smooth swell of her hips. I remember how pliable her body felt when I covered her last night. My cock comes alive again.
This isn’t working. You’d think I’m some sex-starved man, and, well, you’d be right, but I have discipline, damn it. I didn’t live through Army Ranger school, get deployed, then become a Delta operative for nothing. Being tough is ingrained in me.
Then why am I falling apart every time I look at her? It’s not because I haven’t been close to a woman since Charlotte. I have. But none like this one right in front of me. She’s a curious mix of innocence and confidence, her eyes at once demure and sparkling, her words demanding then downcast.
I don’t know what to make of her. All I know is my body goes into overdrive when she’s near me. Just like she is now. I try not to show my surprise as she comes forward and sits down on the step, looking at the overgrown garden as if it’s her own house.
Did she just do that? And what the hell am I supposed to do? I could go back inside, leave her here, but that would be rude. And besides, I have a duty to look after her. If Viktor’s men find her... I can’t even finish that thought. All I know is I cannot let that happen.
“Nice place you have here.” Her voice has that rustling, soft quality. The words lie on my heart like a soothing balm, and I have no idea why. I find myself sitting down on the porch, keeping a good distance from her.
I get the phone from my pocket. “Do you know your dad’s number? You can call him. This number’s untraceable.”
She presses her lips together and looks down. “I’d like to get dressed first.”
She sure as hell doesn’t seem keen to call her own folks, which makes me wonder. But I don’t push it. “Okay. I can take you into town. There are some clothes shops. You won’t find Neiman Marcus here though.”
She smiles at that. “I’m more of a Macy’s girl. But any store will do right now.”
I shrug and head back inside. At the porch door, I say, “Remember, we’re a couple, right? Just in case anyone asks.”
She turns to look at me, her eyes bright. “Yeah, sure.”
In the kitchen, I’ve started to unload the dishwasher when I sense her behind me. She’s not moving, so I straighten, a stack of plates in my hand.
Her eyes move from my hand to my face. She’s chewing her lower lip, and her brows are furrowed. “Those men would have killed me last night, right?”
I put the plates on the table. I nod without speaking.
“How many of them died last night?” Her voice quivers then breaks at the end. She seems small all of a sudden and very lonely. Her earlier confidence has gone like a winter branch with shed leaves.
Deep inside, so far I barely feel it, something snaps in two. I shut the dishwasher door, and the soft click resonates in the rusty chambers of my heart, spreading to the hard corners of my soul like ripples in a pond.
Dora has her back to the counter, facing me. Her chin sinks to her chest, hands rising to cover her face. In a flash, I’m at her side. I’m so close I can feel her trembling. Without thinking, I lift my arms to engulf her. She’s crying now. I can hear the tears, which sound like the whisper of rain down my window on a stormy night, sniffing, sobbing. Those whispers of pain and loneliness coat my insides like dried lava in a volcano. I hear them in her lost, woeful voice as I hold her close to me as if I can do something about it, even though I know I can’t.
Her arms circle my torso, and the first contact with her body, even through the layers of cloth, is like a benediction, a calming salvation that closes my eyes and opens my mouth. I feel the wind rushing through a distant galaxy, a space opening up inside me as big as that invisible sky way up there, full of twinkling stars that send us their light even though they died millennia ago.
Her tears drench my T-shirt, and I hold her tighter, whispering words I’m barely aware of. She shudders, and I rub her back. It seems so natural, holding her like this, even if we are strangers. My hand slips down farther, and suddenly I feel the swell of her hips, so smooth and round. My splayed fingers are long enough to stretch from one side to the other.
Blood stirs up in me again, making my cock twitch. Damn. I bend my fingers, or I’ll end up stroking her hips. And if I do, with her face and coral-pink lips being so close to mine…
I clear my throat and separate myself from her gently. Dora sniffs once then looks up at me through red-rimmed eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Don’t be,” I say, hoping my voice is firm. “What you went through last night would test the hardest of men. Not only did you survive, you acted like a real pro.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
I step away, giving her some space. “Now, let’s get ready. We need to buy food and clothes for you.”
CHAPTER TEN
RICHTER
❦❦❦❦
Before we get into the car, I give her a ball cap and dark sunglasses. I’m wearing both myself. I think she will get annoyed at the frayed old ball cap and the definitely unstylish glasses, but she puts them on without a word.
I’ve got my Glock 22 in the underarm holster and a knife strapped to my left ankle. My jacket’s undone for easy reach, just in case. I lock the house and turn on the alarm.
She’s looking out the window at the residential blocks giving way to flat grassland, rising up to the somber stacks of malachite. I struggle with what I want to say. I always have. Words don’t come easily to me, and feelings I bottle up. Something changed when I held her in the kitchen—that felt...different. But now, when I want to speak, I can’t find the words.
She turns to me, and I sneak a look at her. She watches me for a while, but it doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable. I don’t understand why. She’s a stranger—if she stares at me, I should feel weird. But it feels the opposite.
“Don’t talk much, do you?” she asks.
I shrug and raise my eyebrows. I feel more than see her smile. That puzzles me as well. By all accounts, she should be scared, nervous, worried. Instead, she seems to be taking this in stride. There is a strength in her, radiating out from her vulnerable, gentle core, and I can feel it hitting me like invisible radiation from a power source.
“So, you can’t tell me what this situation is about. But I figured you out last night, remember? You work for the government, right?”
“Hell no.” It slips out of me before I know it.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “You’re undercover. More than a cop though. You’re FBI. If we were abroad, I’d say you’re CIA or even Special Forces.”
She’s smart. Damn smart. I knew this last night, but now I know I’m in trouble. She’s nothing if not persistent.
“You must be missing your family,” I say.
She leans forward until her face is closer to mine, forcing me to look at her. “You’re gonna have to do better than that to throw me off. I’m a reporter, don’t forget.”
Holy fuck, of course she is. Damn. Double damn.
“That tattoo on your arm, it means something.”
When I say nothing, she continues, “I worked on a story about the SEAL team and their counterpart in the Army, Delta, once. It’s not mandatory, but many of the Tier 1 operatives have ink done, don’t they? Sort of like an initiation rite.”
My hands tighten on the steering wheel, so I relax them quickly. I shrug again, not saying anything. She’s still leaning close, and I’m glad my jacket’s sleeves are hiding the tat. My nostrils are aflame with her scent, the faint lilac still wafting from her hair and a light flowery perfume that I can’t help but inhale deeply. It settles inside me, the memory of that scent.
She sighs and falls back against the seat.
I ask, “Which newspaper do you work for?”
I can tell she’s examining me for another change of topic. Luckily, this time she goes with the flow.
“It’s not a newspaper. More of a current-affairs magazine with some lifestyle thrown in.”
“Daddy’s brand?” I ask.
“Why would you think that?” Her tone is sharp and angry.
I sneak a look at her. Her brows are boxed in the middle, nose crinkled.
I think of the flat tone in which she spoke of what her father does. There was no warmth in it like one would expect. I’m starting to wonder about the Simpson family dynamics.
“Wanted to strike out on your own, huh? Make your own way?”
She looks out the window, avoiding my eyes. “Something like that.”
I know there’s more to it, but I leave it for now. None of my business, to be honest. In a couple of days, Cal and Samantha will know where Jozdani and Viktor are, and we can get back to the mission: pick Jozdani up and get rid of Viktor.
And Dora Simpson will head back to her own life.
The thought shouldn’t leave me feeling empty inside, but it does.
I don’t want it to.
But it does.
I of all people should know what it’s like for someone like me to...make connections. I’m trained to kill and maim. Violence has been the mainstay of my life. First for my country then for our private security company. The job is all I have, and there’s no point having relationships when I don’t know if I’ll be alive the next day. If I do fall for someone, it makes me the asshole who doesn’t learn from his mistakes.
Well, one mistake. One whose scars will remain on my heart for as long as I live.
As we approach the mall, I pull the GMC Yukon into a parking lot and pay for a couple of hours. I check my appearance in the mirror and then look at Dora. Her ball cap is pulled low, and the dark glasses cover her eyes effectively. It’s a sunny day, so we should get away with it.
The parking lot is busy. We walk down with families around us. I come to Montrose twice, maybe three times a year. Apart from my neighbors, who don’t know my real identity, I don’t know anyone here. I like it that way. But I stay on high alert, noticing every shape around me.
When she slips her hand into mine, it catches me by surprise. She leans closer and whispers, “If we’re meant to be a couple, we should act like one. Right?”
Of course she’s right. I feel like an idiot but also relieved she thought of it. A couple sticks out far less than singletons. Her hand fits snugly into mine, and a shiver passes up my arm, making the hairs on my forearm stand up. It’s been a long time since a woman put her hand in mine. Trust? Wouldn’t go that far.
