If Looks Could Chill, page 28
“Thank God,” Zimmie muttered about the I-10 part, then said, “Shit,” about the tango’s actual position.
Intercepting a terrorist in a big city like Lake Charles was not something any of them wanted to chance. Too big of a risk for a goatfuck.
“Streaming the IR video to Zulu’s laptop,” Rand said. Infrared because it was almost midnight, so visibility would be zilch without it. “Both the sedan and your SUV are tagged. Alpha Six, you are currently four-point-two miles behind the target vehicle, over.”
Immediately, Zimmie floored it and flipped the switch for lights and siren. “Damn. We’ll never catch up before Lake Charles,” she said, ever practical.
On the laptop, Bobby Lee connected a socket to the Moby’s feed and examined the UAV video stream when it popped up. They were gaining on the silver sedan, but it was traveling well above the speed limit. Bobby Lee wasn’t a math wiz, but even he could calculate that unless they went more than a hundred miles an hour it would take them more than the few minutes they had left before hitting the city to catch the sedan.
“What’s the status of the Homies?” he asked. “How far out is the intercept team, over?”
There was a short pause, then Ski came back, “About fifteen minutes, over.”
Too long.
“What do you think?” Bobby Lee asked Zimmie. “Catch up and tail him to an unpopulated stretch of freeway, or involve the locals and have him stopped before he hits the city?”
She was gracefully weaving the SUV between the few cars on the road at this hour, going about ninety. She didn’t even hesitate. “Tail him. Wait for the DHS team. The locals won’t know what they’re dealing with. Too dangerous for everyone.”
Bobby Lee agreed.
“Romeo, is there an update on Tangos Two and Four?” he asked of the two already captured terrorists. “Are they talking yet, over?” Last he’d checked, T-4 was still in surgery for his gunshot wound, and T-2 had been turned over to the DOJ, but refused to open his mouth other than to spout insurgent bullcrap. Too bad Kick’d had to use rubber bullets on the fucker.
“That’s a negative, Alpha Six,” Ski answered. “But the doctors say Tango Four should be conscious soon, over.”
Bobby Lee hoped the interrogators would have better luck with him. Maybe the anesthesia would loosen his tongue and give them the corroborating evidence the team needed to move on Madison Square Garden. It would be useful to know if that really was where Tawhid was planning his ultimate attack.
The good news was, Lake Charles was not a logical target of any kind, so chances were T-3 was just passing through on his way to somewhere more high profile.
But as Kick was fond of saying, that all assumed these fuckers were rational. And in this biz, assuming anything was a huge mistake.
Speaking of Kick . . . “STORM Mike, STORM Kilo, do you read, over?”
“Yup, loud and clear,” came Kick’s reply. “We’re standing ready at the Moby. You want us to hop on the helo as backup, over?”
Bobby Lee considered briefly. “No. Hold off on that for now. Do you have a location on Tango One yet, over?”
“Negative on that, too,” Marc interjected disgustedly. “De foutre. Even knowing where he might be heading, the man’s a ghost, over.”
Which just made Bobby Lee all the more determined to nail T-3 before he slipped off the radar, as well. “All right, people, then let’s make sure we catch this one, over.”
Together the team swiftly debated the best way to set up the takedown of Tango Three, with Rand coordinating with the DHS team commander. The westbound I-10 passed through a large stretch of unpopulated swampland right around the Texas border, which was ultimately chosen as the best place to close in.
The laptop beeped. “Half mile from target vehicle,” Bobby Lee warned Zimmie, who shut off the siren. They were at the outskirts of the city and didn’t want to spook the terrorist off the freeway.
A few moments later she shut off the flashing lights and slowed to just over the flow of the traffic.
“There. That’s him.” Bobby Lee pointed to headlights in the distance. Just beyond, they could see the lighted silhouette of the Calcasieu River Bridge fast approaching.
Zimmie settled into maintaining a steady distance between the two vehicles. Behind the wheel, she stretched her back and flexed her fingers.
Bobby Lee switched off his mic, swept a glance over her drawn face and rounded shoulders, and asked, “You okay?” He’d been up since before six a.m, but Zimmie’d probably pulled an all-nighter while he’d caught those few hours of sleep last night. She’d taken the first catnap in the SUV, but it had been too short and she must be running on fumes.
“No worries,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
Like she’d say anything else.
“What the—” she suddenly muttered, coming to attention and peering through the windshield.
He turned his focus back to the road and promptly cursed. “Son of a bitch!” Up ahead, flashing blue lights were peeling out from an on-ramp, in pursuit of the silver sedan. Bobby Lee hit his mic. “Damn it, Romeo! Didn’t anyone warn the locals to keep their distance, over?”
“That’s affirmative. What’s happening, over?”
Bobby Lee swore again. Zimmie floored it.
Not fucking again.
“There’s a goddamn smokey pulling him over!” Or trying to. But Tango Three was speeding up, obviously not intending to stop. “Somebody get on the horn and warn that—Ah, hell.”
Suddenly, the silver sedan made a sharp right and veered off the freeway. It cut straight across a grass barrier, then careened onto the road on the other side of it and took off like a bat out of hell. The cop shot right past, missing the off-ramp.
“Shit,” Zimmie ground out, hit the lights and siren again, peeled the SUV off the freeway, and gave chase onto the frontage road. “Damn it, this is a one-way street!” Going the wrong way, naturally.
“Where are the goddamn Homies, over?” Bobby Lee called over the comm.
“Four minutes out, over,” Ski informed them.
Fuck.
Horn blaring, T-3 scraped past an oncoming car, barely missing it as they sped around a blind curve going south under the freeway. Zimmie just managed to dodge it. Thank God traffic was light at this hour or they’d be metal confetti.
Bobby Lee furiously attacked the laptop keyboard, pulling up the map overlay and zooming in on it, but the wild ride made it hard to read. “Damn it! Anyone, where’s he heading, over?”
“Looks like . . . Lake Charles,” Kick answered. “The actual lake, not the city. South of the lake a river leads to swamps, then another big ol’ lake, and beyond that is the Gulf, over.”
Jesus. “Okay. So obviously he’s looking for a boat. Is he going to find one, over?”
Zimmie swore as the silver sedan sliced a hard right across the median to the parallel road going in the correct direction. She followed, tipping on two wheels as she made the move. They barreled past a deserted civic center.
“Affirmative,” Ski said. “There’s a string of private docks coming up in a block or two, over.”
“Let him,” Zimmie said, gritting her teeth as she fought to keep the SUV apace.
He flashed her a glance. “What?”
“We’re coming into a residential area. We can’t risk him letting the virus loose here. Let him get on the lake.”
Tango Three squealed up to the first dock, leapt from his car, and sprinted for the nearest fast boat.
Bobby Lee made a split-second decision. “You’re right. STORM Alpha, we’re gonna give him some rope. Romeo, make sure you tag that boat, over.”
“Doing it as we speak, boss, over.”
“And find me a faster one. Pronto! Also, better inform the Homies the assault is going to be amphibious, over.”
No time to call in the Coast Guard. Too bad. They were the experts at this sort of thing.
“Alpha Six, there’s a speedboat tied up at the third dock, over,” Ski informed them.
“Copy that. There’s our ride,” Bobby Lee said to Zimmie, pointing. He snapped the laptop closed and swiveled to reach in the back for their jackets and duffels. As soon as the SUV slammed to a halt, he tossed Zimmie her bag and they sprinted for the speedboat.
Jumping aboard, he made quick work of the hotwire as Zimmie cast her off, and the engine sputtered to life. He checked the gauges. A full tank of gas. Thank you, Jesus, he must be living right. “Hang on,” he yelled to Zimmie, who dropped into the passenger seat, and they took off into the darkness.
T-3’s craft had already disappeared into the black void of the lake, leaving behind only the receding whine of a motor and a rolling wake that reflected the lights of the city behind them.
“What’s the plan?” Zimmie yelled, pulling Bobby Lee’s NVGs from the duffel and passing them over.
“Plan?” He grinned at her as he slid the headgear on and flipped down the eye scope. “You tell me.”
T-3’s heat signature popped into view, an orange blur in a sea of solid nothing. He was headed straight out into the lake. Good.
Zimmie slipped on her own NVGs. He grinned wider. He’d always been turned on by the sight of her in night gear. Of both varieties—job-related and bed-related. She was definitely the sexiest—
“Focus, soldier,” she snapped.
Oh, he intended to. On both fronts. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and turned back to the job at hand, totally secure in the knowledge that they would get their man.
And suddenly he realized something very important. Breaking up with Darcy Zimmerman would not improve his concentration on missions. But what would was to make damn sure she was always right there by his side. Together they were unbeatable.
Note to self: request Command that Zimmie be assigned permanently as his partner. Whether she liked it or not.
A cold mist from their rooster tail wafted forward on the wind. He shook his head like a spaniel, relishing the bracing chill on his face and neck. And the feeling of certainty in his heart.
Rand came on the comm. “DHS reports their strike team is not prepared for a water insertion.” A snort burst rudely across the airwaves. “Seems the boys forgot their wetsuits, over.”
Bobby Lee rolled his eyes as he turned the speedboat south, following the orange blob on his scope. Tango Three was headed for the river.
“Looks like it’s up to us, ladies and gentlemen,” he said with lethal determination. “Time to put an end to this wild-goose chase and show this fucker who he’s messing with.”
EVEN in full darkness and beneath his NVGs, Darcy recognized the look on Quinn’s face. Sheer exhilaration. This was what he lived for. The excitement of the chase; the amazing rush of taking down the bad guy and saving the world.
Hell, it was what she lived for, too.
At least . . . it used to be.
So what had happened? Since when had the expression of defeat and surrender on the enemy’s face become less stirring than the animation in Bobby Lee Quinn’s as he was about to cause that surrender?
Damn.
She was the one who needed to focus.
“What are you thinking?” she asked. “Flashbang or bullet in the head?”
“I’m thinking I wish we could have Rand blow him to smithereens with one strike from the UAV.”
She pursed her lips. “A bit like shooting fish in a barrel.”
He grimaced. “Save the taxpayers a buttload of money on a trial.”
“The Homies’ll get all bent out of shape if they can’t interrogate him.”
He mocked a sigh. “Shi-yit.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, then. Flashbang it is.”
He throttled up and the speedboat took off like a rocket. She dug in the duffel and pulled out two M84 stun grenades.
He glanced over and hiked an eyebrow. “Two?”
She sent him a challenging smile and shrugged. “Just in case.”
He made a wry moue as she pulled out their ear protection and they switched out those for their NVGs. “Oh, ye of little faith.”
With a snicker, she drew out a gas mask and offered it to him.
He waved it off.
She continued to hold it up. Stubborn, stubborn man. “Just put it the fuck on, Quinn.”
He gave her a lopsided smile. “So you do care.”
“Hell, no. I just look terrible in black.”
He chuckled. “Here. Take the wheel.”
They seamlessly changed places, and he told the team, “STORM Alpha, we’re moving in. Will be going silent for a few minutes, over.”
“Copy that, over,” Rand said, and they turned off their headsets.
Quinn took a stun grenade from her and wrapped his fingers around it. He spread his feet on the lurching deck, and readied his throw with a look of sheer concentration, like an athlete determined to win a gold medal.
Standing there all golden and godlike, silhouetted in darkness with the wind whipping through his hair, he was so damn beautiful her throat ached.
With the ear covers on, all Darcy could hear was the pounding of her own pathetic heart as she executed a textbook slingshot and swung the speedboat to just within range of Tango Three’s craft.
Quinn let fly the flashbang, its red arming light making a graceful arc through the night sky. She didn’t have to watch to know it would land precisely where it should, at the enemy’s feet. He wasn’t starting pitcher for the STORM interagency baseball team for nothing.
She peeled the speedboat straight away from the target, locked the wheel, and hit the deck with her eyes shut tight. Quinn landed on top of her, pulling on the gas mask. A scant second later, the edges of her vision lit up like daylight and a sharp boom rattled through the speedboat.
Immediately Quinn pulled her up and she grabbed for the wheel again, turning sharply back to the target. Within seconds she’d caught up and came alongside T-3. Quinn leapt across the gap and tackled the stunned and staggering terrorist. Before the man knew what hit him, he was trussed up hand and foot.
Darcy ripped off her ear protection and shouted at him, “The virus?”
Quinn searched the deck, bent down, and triumphantly held up the canister. He tapped his comm.
“This is STORM Alpha Six actual,” he told the team. “Tango Three is contained, and the item has been secured.”
TWENTY-FIVE
DARCY felt herself being lifted by a pair of strong arms. Quinn’s arms. Without even opening her eyes, she knew his touch, his way of gathering her up against his chest, his musky, sexy smell.
When had she fallen asleep?
“You should have woken me,” she murmured, trying to pry open her heavy eyelids.
“How? With cannon shot? You didn’t get any sleep at all last night, did you?”
Uh-oh. He sounded annoyed.
Well, no, as a matter of fact, she hadn’t slept last night. That whole jerking-off-in-the-shower thing had interfered with her sleep patterns in a major way. Besides, she’d had work to do. “No time,” she murmured, curling her fingers into his soft, warm T-shirt. “Needed to find the bad guys.” And to avoid him.
Speaking of which . . . Last she knew, she’d been resting her eyes in the SUV at the boat ramp while Quinn turned over their prisoner to DHS. His conversation with the commander had taken forever and a day. She must have fallen asleep waiting.
The SUV door slammed and he started walking, carrying her.
“Hey . . . where are you taking me?” she demanded, which somewhat lost its potency when she slurred all the words together.
“To bed.”
She was finally able to prop one eyelid open and peer up at him. His well-traveled face was even more craggy than usual, a thick shadow of dark blond beard on his angular cheeks and jaw. God, he was handsome. No way could she end up in bed with this man. She’d be helpless to resist him.
She opened her mouth to protest.
He beat her to it. “Are we going to start this again?” he grumbled, even more irritated than before. “Because if we’re going to start this again, I’m just going to drop you right here and you can sleep on the sidewalk.”
She clung harder to him because she knew he’d do it, and she didn’t relish landing on her ass on the hard pavement. “Where are we, anyway?”
The air smelled . . . warm. And a bit salty. She opened her other eye and glanced around in time to see the dark, silent parking lot of a cute pink motel with a red neon crayfish waving to passersby decorating the vacancy sign. It was so quiet out, she could hear the electricity crackling as the big claw moved back and forth.
He pushed open a numbered door and carried her inside a small, neat room, the main feature of which was a giant bed. Over it were mounted three paintings of crawdads.
“Somewhere in Louisiana, I’m fairly certain,” he said. He dropped her onto the bed and started stripping off his clothes as he made his way toward the bathroom.
Oh. My. God. It was déjà vu all over again.
Except this time she didn’t follow after him, and she definitely didn’t watch him shower. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to keep her hands off him if she did.
Two minutes later, he came out again. Dry. Totally naked.
God help her.
Her limbs seemed to be paralyzed. She hadn’t moved from the spot on the mattress where he’d deposited her. Couldn’t move as he came and stood in front of her legs, which were still dangling off the side of the bed.
She gave an inward groan.
Damn, his body was magnificent. Tall and broad-shouldered, packed with muscles that had been earned honestly, hauling munitions over mountain passes and rebuilding bombed-out schools and turning winches on stuck jeeps in far-off lands. His short blond hair had been kissed by the suns of five continents, his hands calloused from the arts of war in a hundred different countries, in defense of the one nation he loved above all else.
He was the sexiest man she had ever met, and she had to fight the urge to spread her knees and invite him to take her as he’d taken everything else he’d ever wanted in life. Mercilessly, thoroughly, and without quarter.
What would it be like to be loved, truly loved, by a man like Quinn? Would he be as fiercely loyal to her as he always was to the land he loved?
Intercepting a terrorist in a big city like Lake Charles was not something any of them wanted to chance. Too big of a risk for a goatfuck.
“Streaming the IR video to Zulu’s laptop,” Rand said. Infrared because it was almost midnight, so visibility would be zilch without it. “Both the sedan and your SUV are tagged. Alpha Six, you are currently four-point-two miles behind the target vehicle, over.”
Immediately, Zimmie floored it and flipped the switch for lights and siren. “Damn. We’ll never catch up before Lake Charles,” she said, ever practical.
On the laptop, Bobby Lee connected a socket to the Moby’s feed and examined the UAV video stream when it popped up. They were gaining on the silver sedan, but it was traveling well above the speed limit. Bobby Lee wasn’t a math wiz, but even he could calculate that unless they went more than a hundred miles an hour it would take them more than the few minutes they had left before hitting the city to catch the sedan.
“What’s the status of the Homies?” he asked. “How far out is the intercept team, over?”
There was a short pause, then Ski came back, “About fifteen minutes, over.”
Too long.
“What do you think?” Bobby Lee asked Zimmie. “Catch up and tail him to an unpopulated stretch of freeway, or involve the locals and have him stopped before he hits the city?”
She was gracefully weaving the SUV between the few cars on the road at this hour, going about ninety. She didn’t even hesitate. “Tail him. Wait for the DHS team. The locals won’t know what they’re dealing with. Too dangerous for everyone.”
Bobby Lee agreed.
“Romeo, is there an update on Tangos Two and Four?” he asked of the two already captured terrorists. “Are they talking yet, over?” Last he’d checked, T-4 was still in surgery for his gunshot wound, and T-2 had been turned over to the DOJ, but refused to open his mouth other than to spout insurgent bullcrap. Too bad Kick’d had to use rubber bullets on the fucker.
“That’s a negative, Alpha Six,” Ski answered. “But the doctors say Tango Four should be conscious soon, over.”
Bobby Lee hoped the interrogators would have better luck with him. Maybe the anesthesia would loosen his tongue and give them the corroborating evidence the team needed to move on Madison Square Garden. It would be useful to know if that really was where Tawhid was planning his ultimate attack.
The good news was, Lake Charles was not a logical target of any kind, so chances were T-3 was just passing through on his way to somewhere more high profile.
But as Kick was fond of saying, that all assumed these fuckers were rational. And in this biz, assuming anything was a huge mistake.
Speaking of Kick . . . “STORM Mike, STORM Kilo, do you read, over?”
“Yup, loud and clear,” came Kick’s reply. “We’re standing ready at the Moby. You want us to hop on the helo as backup, over?”
Bobby Lee considered briefly. “No. Hold off on that for now. Do you have a location on Tango One yet, over?”
“Negative on that, too,” Marc interjected disgustedly. “De foutre. Even knowing where he might be heading, the man’s a ghost, over.”
Which just made Bobby Lee all the more determined to nail T-3 before he slipped off the radar, as well. “All right, people, then let’s make sure we catch this one, over.”
Together the team swiftly debated the best way to set up the takedown of Tango Three, with Rand coordinating with the DHS team commander. The westbound I-10 passed through a large stretch of unpopulated swampland right around the Texas border, which was ultimately chosen as the best place to close in.
The laptop beeped. “Half mile from target vehicle,” Bobby Lee warned Zimmie, who shut off the siren. They were at the outskirts of the city and didn’t want to spook the terrorist off the freeway.
A few moments later she shut off the flashing lights and slowed to just over the flow of the traffic.
“There. That’s him.” Bobby Lee pointed to headlights in the distance. Just beyond, they could see the lighted silhouette of the Calcasieu River Bridge fast approaching.
Zimmie settled into maintaining a steady distance between the two vehicles. Behind the wheel, she stretched her back and flexed her fingers.
Bobby Lee switched off his mic, swept a glance over her drawn face and rounded shoulders, and asked, “You okay?” He’d been up since before six a.m, but Zimmie’d probably pulled an all-nighter while he’d caught those few hours of sleep last night. She’d taken the first catnap in the SUV, but it had been too short and she must be running on fumes.
“No worries,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
Like she’d say anything else.
“What the—” she suddenly muttered, coming to attention and peering through the windshield.
He turned his focus back to the road and promptly cursed. “Son of a bitch!” Up ahead, flashing blue lights were peeling out from an on-ramp, in pursuit of the silver sedan. Bobby Lee hit his mic. “Damn it, Romeo! Didn’t anyone warn the locals to keep their distance, over?”
“That’s affirmative. What’s happening, over?”
Bobby Lee swore again. Zimmie floored it.
Not fucking again.
“There’s a goddamn smokey pulling him over!” Or trying to. But Tango Three was speeding up, obviously not intending to stop. “Somebody get on the horn and warn that—Ah, hell.”
Suddenly, the silver sedan made a sharp right and veered off the freeway. It cut straight across a grass barrier, then careened onto the road on the other side of it and took off like a bat out of hell. The cop shot right past, missing the off-ramp.
“Shit,” Zimmie ground out, hit the lights and siren again, peeled the SUV off the freeway, and gave chase onto the frontage road. “Damn it, this is a one-way street!” Going the wrong way, naturally.
“Where are the goddamn Homies, over?” Bobby Lee called over the comm.
“Four minutes out, over,” Ski informed them.
Fuck.
Horn blaring, T-3 scraped past an oncoming car, barely missing it as they sped around a blind curve going south under the freeway. Zimmie just managed to dodge it. Thank God traffic was light at this hour or they’d be metal confetti.
Bobby Lee furiously attacked the laptop keyboard, pulling up the map overlay and zooming in on it, but the wild ride made it hard to read. “Damn it! Anyone, where’s he heading, over?”
“Looks like . . . Lake Charles,” Kick answered. “The actual lake, not the city. South of the lake a river leads to swamps, then another big ol’ lake, and beyond that is the Gulf, over.”
Jesus. “Okay. So obviously he’s looking for a boat. Is he going to find one, over?”
Zimmie swore as the silver sedan sliced a hard right across the median to the parallel road going in the correct direction. She followed, tipping on two wheels as she made the move. They barreled past a deserted civic center.
“Affirmative,” Ski said. “There’s a string of private docks coming up in a block or two, over.”
“Let him,” Zimmie said, gritting her teeth as she fought to keep the SUV apace.
He flashed her a glance. “What?”
“We’re coming into a residential area. We can’t risk him letting the virus loose here. Let him get on the lake.”
Tango Three squealed up to the first dock, leapt from his car, and sprinted for the nearest fast boat.
Bobby Lee made a split-second decision. “You’re right. STORM Alpha, we’re gonna give him some rope. Romeo, make sure you tag that boat, over.”
“Doing it as we speak, boss, over.”
“And find me a faster one. Pronto! Also, better inform the Homies the assault is going to be amphibious, over.”
No time to call in the Coast Guard. Too bad. They were the experts at this sort of thing.
“Alpha Six, there’s a speedboat tied up at the third dock, over,” Ski informed them.
“Copy that. There’s our ride,” Bobby Lee said to Zimmie, pointing. He snapped the laptop closed and swiveled to reach in the back for their jackets and duffels. As soon as the SUV slammed to a halt, he tossed Zimmie her bag and they sprinted for the speedboat.
Jumping aboard, he made quick work of the hotwire as Zimmie cast her off, and the engine sputtered to life. He checked the gauges. A full tank of gas. Thank you, Jesus, he must be living right. “Hang on,” he yelled to Zimmie, who dropped into the passenger seat, and they took off into the darkness.
T-3’s craft had already disappeared into the black void of the lake, leaving behind only the receding whine of a motor and a rolling wake that reflected the lights of the city behind them.
“What’s the plan?” Zimmie yelled, pulling Bobby Lee’s NVGs from the duffel and passing them over.
“Plan?” He grinned at her as he slid the headgear on and flipped down the eye scope. “You tell me.”
T-3’s heat signature popped into view, an orange blur in a sea of solid nothing. He was headed straight out into the lake. Good.
Zimmie slipped on her own NVGs. He grinned wider. He’d always been turned on by the sight of her in night gear. Of both varieties—job-related and bed-related. She was definitely the sexiest—
“Focus, soldier,” she snapped.
Oh, he intended to. On both fronts. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and turned back to the job at hand, totally secure in the knowledge that they would get their man.
And suddenly he realized something very important. Breaking up with Darcy Zimmerman would not improve his concentration on missions. But what would was to make damn sure she was always right there by his side. Together they were unbeatable.
Note to self: request Command that Zimmie be assigned permanently as his partner. Whether she liked it or not.
A cold mist from their rooster tail wafted forward on the wind. He shook his head like a spaniel, relishing the bracing chill on his face and neck. And the feeling of certainty in his heart.
Rand came on the comm. “DHS reports their strike team is not prepared for a water insertion.” A snort burst rudely across the airwaves. “Seems the boys forgot their wetsuits, over.”
Bobby Lee rolled his eyes as he turned the speedboat south, following the orange blob on his scope. Tango Three was headed for the river.
“Looks like it’s up to us, ladies and gentlemen,” he said with lethal determination. “Time to put an end to this wild-goose chase and show this fucker who he’s messing with.”
EVEN in full darkness and beneath his NVGs, Darcy recognized the look on Quinn’s face. Sheer exhilaration. This was what he lived for. The excitement of the chase; the amazing rush of taking down the bad guy and saving the world.
Hell, it was what she lived for, too.
At least . . . it used to be.
So what had happened? Since when had the expression of defeat and surrender on the enemy’s face become less stirring than the animation in Bobby Lee Quinn’s as he was about to cause that surrender?
Damn.
She was the one who needed to focus.
“What are you thinking?” she asked. “Flashbang or bullet in the head?”
“I’m thinking I wish we could have Rand blow him to smithereens with one strike from the UAV.”
She pursed her lips. “A bit like shooting fish in a barrel.”
He grimaced. “Save the taxpayers a buttload of money on a trial.”
“The Homies’ll get all bent out of shape if they can’t interrogate him.”
He mocked a sigh. “Shi-yit.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, then. Flashbang it is.”
He throttled up and the speedboat took off like a rocket. She dug in the duffel and pulled out two M84 stun grenades.
He glanced over and hiked an eyebrow. “Two?”
She sent him a challenging smile and shrugged. “Just in case.”
He made a wry moue as she pulled out their ear protection and they switched out those for their NVGs. “Oh, ye of little faith.”
With a snicker, she drew out a gas mask and offered it to him.
He waved it off.
She continued to hold it up. Stubborn, stubborn man. “Just put it the fuck on, Quinn.”
He gave her a lopsided smile. “So you do care.”
“Hell, no. I just look terrible in black.”
He chuckled. “Here. Take the wheel.”
They seamlessly changed places, and he told the team, “STORM Alpha, we’re moving in. Will be going silent for a few minutes, over.”
“Copy that, over,” Rand said, and they turned off their headsets.
Quinn took a stun grenade from her and wrapped his fingers around it. He spread his feet on the lurching deck, and readied his throw with a look of sheer concentration, like an athlete determined to win a gold medal.
Standing there all golden and godlike, silhouetted in darkness with the wind whipping through his hair, he was so damn beautiful her throat ached.
With the ear covers on, all Darcy could hear was the pounding of her own pathetic heart as she executed a textbook slingshot and swung the speedboat to just within range of Tango Three’s craft.
Quinn let fly the flashbang, its red arming light making a graceful arc through the night sky. She didn’t have to watch to know it would land precisely where it should, at the enemy’s feet. He wasn’t starting pitcher for the STORM interagency baseball team for nothing.
She peeled the speedboat straight away from the target, locked the wheel, and hit the deck with her eyes shut tight. Quinn landed on top of her, pulling on the gas mask. A scant second later, the edges of her vision lit up like daylight and a sharp boom rattled through the speedboat.
Immediately Quinn pulled her up and she grabbed for the wheel again, turning sharply back to the target. Within seconds she’d caught up and came alongside T-3. Quinn leapt across the gap and tackled the stunned and staggering terrorist. Before the man knew what hit him, he was trussed up hand and foot.
Darcy ripped off her ear protection and shouted at him, “The virus?”
Quinn searched the deck, bent down, and triumphantly held up the canister. He tapped his comm.
“This is STORM Alpha Six actual,” he told the team. “Tango Three is contained, and the item has been secured.”
TWENTY-FIVE
DARCY felt herself being lifted by a pair of strong arms. Quinn’s arms. Without even opening her eyes, she knew his touch, his way of gathering her up against his chest, his musky, sexy smell.
When had she fallen asleep?
“You should have woken me,” she murmured, trying to pry open her heavy eyelids.
“How? With cannon shot? You didn’t get any sleep at all last night, did you?”
Uh-oh. He sounded annoyed.
Well, no, as a matter of fact, she hadn’t slept last night. That whole jerking-off-in-the-shower thing had interfered with her sleep patterns in a major way. Besides, she’d had work to do. “No time,” she murmured, curling her fingers into his soft, warm T-shirt. “Needed to find the bad guys.” And to avoid him.
Speaking of which . . . Last she knew, she’d been resting her eyes in the SUV at the boat ramp while Quinn turned over their prisoner to DHS. His conversation with the commander had taken forever and a day. She must have fallen asleep waiting.
The SUV door slammed and he started walking, carrying her.
“Hey . . . where are you taking me?” she demanded, which somewhat lost its potency when she slurred all the words together.
“To bed.”
She was finally able to prop one eyelid open and peer up at him. His well-traveled face was even more craggy than usual, a thick shadow of dark blond beard on his angular cheeks and jaw. God, he was handsome. No way could she end up in bed with this man. She’d be helpless to resist him.
She opened her mouth to protest.
He beat her to it. “Are we going to start this again?” he grumbled, even more irritated than before. “Because if we’re going to start this again, I’m just going to drop you right here and you can sleep on the sidewalk.”
She clung harder to him because she knew he’d do it, and she didn’t relish landing on her ass on the hard pavement. “Where are we, anyway?”
The air smelled . . . warm. And a bit salty. She opened her other eye and glanced around in time to see the dark, silent parking lot of a cute pink motel with a red neon crayfish waving to passersby decorating the vacancy sign. It was so quiet out, she could hear the electricity crackling as the big claw moved back and forth.
He pushed open a numbered door and carried her inside a small, neat room, the main feature of which was a giant bed. Over it were mounted three paintings of crawdads.
“Somewhere in Louisiana, I’m fairly certain,” he said. He dropped her onto the bed and started stripping off his clothes as he made his way toward the bathroom.
Oh. My. God. It was déjà vu all over again.
Except this time she didn’t follow after him, and she definitely didn’t watch him shower. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to keep her hands off him if she did.
Two minutes later, he came out again. Dry. Totally naked.
God help her.
Her limbs seemed to be paralyzed. She hadn’t moved from the spot on the mattress where he’d deposited her. Couldn’t move as he came and stood in front of her legs, which were still dangling off the side of the bed.
She gave an inward groan.
Damn, his body was magnificent. Tall and broad-shouldered, packed with muscles that had been earned honestly, hauling munitions over mountain passes and rebuilding bombed-out schools and turning winches on stuck jeeps in far-off lands. His short blond hair had been kissed by the suns of five continents, his hands calloused from the arts of war in a hundred different countries, in defense of the one nation he loved above all else.
He was the sexiest man she had ever met, and she had to fight the urge to spread her knees and invite him to take her as he’d taken everything else he’d ever wanted in life. Mercilessly, thoroughly, and without quarter.
What would it be like to be loved, truly loved, by a man like Quinn? Would he be as fiercely loyal to her as he always was to the land he loved?
