Angel Down E-Book

Lois Greiman

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 398

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

A thrilling, sensual novel of romantic suspense from USA Today bestselling author, Lois Greiman. Gabriel Durrand's wingman, ex Army Ranger Linus Shepherd, has failed to return from a covert mission in the sweltering jungles of Colombia. Gabe is determined to make certain no man is left behind. Not on his watch. Recouping from an injury himself, he knows he can't bring Shep home alone and seeks an interpreter. When an unknown named Eddy Edwards is recommended for the assignment, Gabe hopes to meet him at Edwards' neighborhood bar. Hours later, thinking this Eddy is a no-show, Gabe flirts with a girl-next-door beauty. Sparks fly, but during the ensuing romantic interlude, he realizes she's heavily armed, deadly dangerous, and probably an enemy operative. Jennifer 'Eddy' Edwards has been on desk duty at the CIA for far too long and is ready to get her hands dirty, but when she meets sexy Gabriel Durrand at her local hangout, wires get crossed, hormones sizzle, and a battle erupts. Will this unlikely team save Shepherd or will they kill each other before ever arriving in South America? ''Greiman's writing is warm, witty, and gently wise." –Betina Krahn, New York Times bestselling author ''Lois Greiman delivers.'' –Christina Dodd, New York Times bestselling author "Lois Greiman is a natural storyteller." –#1 New York Times bestseller, Victoria Alexander "If you enjoy Susan Wiggs and Kristin Hannah, you'll love Greiman's stories of redemption and renewal."— New York Times bestselling author Kathleen Eagle

Leseprobe

Copyright

This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Angel Down

Copyright © 2017 by Lois Greiman

Ebook ISBN: 9781943772889

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

350 7th Avenue, Suite 2003, NY 10001, New York.

http://www.nyliterary.com

Praise for Lois Greiman

"Dangerously funny stuff."

Janet Evanovich

“Simple sexy sport may be just what the doctor ordered.”

Publishers Weekly

"Lois Greiman is a modern day Dorothy Sayers. Witty as hell, yet talented enough to write like an angel with a broken wing."

Kinky Friedman, author of Ten Little New Yorkers

"What a marvelous book! A delightful romp, a laugh on every page."

MaryJanice Davidson, NYTbestsellingauthor of the Undead series.

“Amazingly good.” (Top Pick!)

Romantic Times

“L.A. psychologist, Chrissy McMullen is back to prove that boobs, brass, and brains make for one heck of a good time…laugh out loud funny…sassy…clever.”

Mystery Scene

"Excellent!"

Library Journal

"Sexy, sassy, suspenseful, sensational!! Lois Greiman delivers with incomparable style."

Bestselling author ofTo the Edge, Cindy Gerard

"Move over Stephanie Plum and Bubbles Yablonsky to make way for Christina McMullen, the newest blue collar sexy professional woman who finds herself in hair raising predicaments that almost get her murdered. The chemistry between the psychologist and the police lieutenant is so hot that readers will see sparks fly off the pages. Lois Greiman, who has written over fifteen delightful romance books, appears to have a great career as a mystery writer also."

thebestreviews.com

"Ms. Greiman makes a giant leap from historical fiction to this sexy and funny mystery. Bravo! Well done!"

Rendevous

“A fun mystery that will keep you interested and rooting for the characters until the last page is turned.”

Fresh Fiction

"Fast and fun with twists and turns that will keep you guessing. Enjoy the ride!”

Suzanne Enoch, USA Today best-selling author of Flirting with Danger

“Lucy Ricardo meets Dr. Frasier Crane in Lois Greiman’s humorous, suspenseful series. The result is a highly successful tongue-in-cheek, comical suspense guaranteed to entice and entertain."

Book Loons

Chapter 1

Wild Turkey rippled like amber waves inside Gabriel Durrand’s whiskey glass. Ambient noises dimmed as the palpable scents of civilization drifted seamlessly into earthier odors. The desert crept into his consciousness on a carpet of darkness, swallowing him by slow degrees.

Sweat dripped into his eyes and trickled down his back, hot and slick, slipping into the waistband of his cammies. But he remained as he was, unmoving, barely breathing because this was it. He could feel it in the cramped muscles of his shoulders, on the itchy nape of his neck. They’d been living in this damned sandbox for five weeks now. Followed a hundred leads. Planned a dozen missions, but this would be the last.

They’d finally run the bastard to ground. Abdul Wakil Ghafoor. Rapist, murderer. Soon-to-be corpse.

It was oh-dark thirty. Sometime between too early and just about fucking time. The desert was as quiet as death. His comrades were nearby, but almost invisible. A squad of men with exceptional training and unsurpassed skills. He knew each of them as well as he knew himself.

Jairo…the little Latino, strong as a bull, quick as a fox. Snipes…sharpshooter and new daddy, so proud it’d make you laugh if it weren’t for that dumb-ass niggle of jealousy every time he pulled out the photos.

Intel…the genius.

Shep…

Close behind him, Shepherd’s stomach rumbled. The rangy Okie shifted his rifle, trying to ease the jacked-up tension that had been building in them all for a month. “If this fucker makes me miss breakfast, I’m gonna kill ‘im twice,” he murmured.

Shepherd…the ass…and Gabe’s wingman since boot camp.

“Quit your fucking swearing,” Gabe mouthed, and Shepherd grinned, teeth so white they nearly glowed. But they were well hidden, hunkered down behind a wall the color of puke. Forty feet away at one o’clock was a squat farmhouse constructed of the same material. Light spilled at a sharp angle from the building’s only window. Sporadic laughter could be heard coming from behind the closed door. Ghafoor had a hell of a sense of humor. As did his guards. There was nothing funnier to them than spilling American blood. But the hilarity would end tonight.

Intel had traced them here.

Reynolds had given the orders; no planes, no Humvees, no noise. Just a half-dozen seasoned Rangers armed with guts and patriotism.

This would be a coup to negate the growing list of Middle Eastern snafus because this was an OFP. Their own fucking program. No one knew they were there. Not their mothers. Not their lovers, and sure as hell not the shit-bricks in Washington.

Off to their left, Reynolds raised his arm. Camouflaged warriors eased out of nowhere, tightening the perimeter like a noose around Ghafoor’s scrawny neck.

A new Land Cruiser stood nearby, shining in the moonlight. Reynolds motioned toward it, one quick jerk of his head. Snipes crept forward, M-4 at the ready as he reached through the open window, retrieved the keys, then nodded once and knelt, taking cover behind a chromed wheel.

The rest of the detail found new positions, just as invisible, but closer now, every rifle trained, every muscle tensed.

Reynolds pointed to Intel, crouched as he was behind an ancient, wind-gnarled olive tree.

Just about ready, just about there.

Intel hunkered back, entirely unseen, his voice loud and clear in the dark silence, an echoing Pashto warning to lay down their guns, to give themselves up.

Then the Land Cruiser exploded. It leapt toward the sky on a rocket of flame. Fire engulfed Snipes like a glove. He shrieked, high-pitched with agony. The sound was chopped short as the vehicle landed.

Scraps of metal rained from the sky. A flaming shard struck Gabe, ripping the rifle from his hands. He threw himself onto the sand, clawing for his frags, but his fingers were slippery. Unwieldy.

Gunfire burst over them, torpedoing from behind. Reynolds grunted and spun, hitting the ground like a loosed boulder.

Gabe scrambled around in a circle, spinning on his belly. White-hot gunfire ripped at them from a dozen inky locations, and through his skewed night vision goggles, he could see the blackened faces of the men who had outwitted them.

To his right, Intel stepped out of cover and opened fire. Two Sunni rebels stumbled backward, bodies jerking to the staccato beat of his weapon. For a moment, the lone tree seemed to crackle with silver energy, then it split, ripping down the middle. Splinters burst into the air like fireworks. Intel leapt away, miraculously unscathed, rifle raised in astonishment.

“Get down! Get the fuck down!” someone screamed, but before the words ended, Intel toppled backward, twitching erratically in the exploding light.

And in that same eerie glow, Shepherd leapt forward. Gabe watched him race across the desert in slow motion, a hunkered, camouflaged sprinter on a heavy treadmill of sand. Powder-puffs billowed up from his boots as he labored toward Intel’s twitching body. Firelight echoed off his rifle as a dozen Taliban aimed to kill.

Gabe found himself on his feet. He didn’t know when he’d located his rifle. Didn’t interpret his own actions. Didn’t hear his own incoherent roar as he raced toward the duo by the fractured tree, M-4 chattering as he ran.

Someone shrieked a truncated curse. Shepherd dragged Intel to his feet. A splinter the size of a pistol muzzle was protruding from the wounded man’s throat, but he was still convulsing, limbs jerking out of rhythm, like Pinocchio gone mad.

“Let’s go!” Gabe shouted and crouched down, spattering gunfire into the anonymous blackness.

“Help me!” Shepherd rasped.

But Intel had gone limp. “Too late!”

“The hell it is!” Shepherd barked. “Grab his—”

Gabe leapt to his feet and swung. The butt of his weapon struck Shepherd’s temple like a thunderclap. He stumbled back, shock stamped across his face as Intel’s body slumped to the ground. And then Shepherd fell, too, stunned and motionless. For one horrified moment, Gabe delayed, barely hearing the harsh beat of the guns behind him. Then he threw himself atop Shep’s prostrate form and opened fire.

It was a nightmare of chaos, of pain, of terror and blood and anger and guilt.

But finally the noise ceased, though the pain continued, throbbing like a bitching ulcer.

“You okay?”

Reynolds was bent at the waist, holding his stomach. In the periphery, someone was weeping, guttural gasping sobs that slowed gradually, becoming softer, intermittent.

Gabe nodded, though he couldn’t remember the question. Blood was dripping onto his leg with mind-numbing regularity.

“Are you sure?” someone asked, and with those words reality seeped like acid into his aching brain.

He raised his eyes, letting the surroundings take hold of his faulty consciousness; the Blue Oyster, a semi-seedy club on the outskirts of MacLean, Virginia. A club where he’d been told to meet an agent named Eddy. An agent who could help save Shepherd’s ass. But Eddy hadn’t shown.

Instead, a woman stood beside his table. She was blond and slim. Cute would be the term his sister would use, and that with some derision. The Durrand women didn’t do cute.

“Sure,” he said and drew himself fully into the present, locking the past behind him in maximum security.

The woman frowned, seemed to consider leaving then decided against it. “You spilled your drink.”

It took him a moment to glance down, longer to realize she was right. Blood was not dripping onto his thigh as he had assumed. It was whiskey. A neat means of losing consciousness by the quickest possible route.

“I’m fine,” he said and righted his glass, but she didn’t move away, forcing him to say more, to attempt civility. “Don’t I look fine?”

She scowled. Ginger-colored freckles were scattered across her pert little nose like wind-blown confetti, and her face was shaped like a heart, making her look as if she’d just whistled off the streets of Mayberry U. S. A.

His hands were trembling. He shoved them under the table for safekeeping. “Devastatingly handsome?” he asked. It was a line Linus Shepherd might have delivered. If Linus Shepherd were still around. If he hadn’t been such a damn fuckup.

Suddenly Gabe’s eyes stung and his throat felt tight, but Rangers didn’t cry. Sometimes they got shit-faced and brawled in the street like rabid dogs. Sometimes they shot the tires out of their own damn vehicles, but they did not cry, and he’d left his Beretta at the hotel. So he would do none of the above.

“Yet boyishly charming?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said, then, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you. I just thought you might… I’m sorry,” she said again and retreated to a table behind him and to his right.

He let her go, refilled his glass from the handy bottle nearby and wondered why the hell he was such a damned wienie. She was built like an all-American Barbie, for God’s sake, and he wasn’t dead. Not yet.

At least that’s what Shepherd had said before shipping off to Bogotá with Miller the Moron. Before half of Miller’s men had come back in body bags. Before Shepherd had gone MIA.

Goddammit! Gabe gritted his teeth against the hard rush of memories. Against the pain and guilt and hopelessness.

But he wasn’t dead. Not yet, he remembered, and closing his eyes for an abbreviated eternity, grabbed the Wild Turkey by the throat and rose to his feet.

Chapter 2

Linus Jeremy Shepherd didn’t bother opening his eyes. He’d just awakened from a dozen vicious dreams, but he knew where he was in hell. Caught, abandoned, chained like a slavering hound.

He didn’t test his bonds but shivered instead, chilled by the tropical heat. Or maybe it was a fever. He’d been shot. Again. Which was just damned unlucky. Or it could be that Durrand was right for once, and Shep was an idiot.

He smiled grimly at the idea of admitting the truth and wished like hell Durrand were there to give him shit about it. And maybe, while ol’ Gabe was hanging around, the damned know-it-all could get him the hell out of there.

Yeah, that’d be sweet. They’d take down these rebel bastards, bullets buzzing like mosquitoes. Then they’d fly home, first class, Wild Turkey at their elbows and long-legged stewardesses cuddled in their laps. Shep might even join the mile-high club….again.

Curling more tightly beneath the reaching branches of some big-ass deciduous, he shivered spasmodically and scowled into the mud, confused. Maybe they weren’t called stewardesses anymore. Dammit, everything was fucked up. But things were really FUBAR if he couldn’t remember the important stuff. What was their pc title? Air commanders? Flight assistants? Flight attendants! That was it. He smiled, teeth chattering, dreams drifting mistily past as leggy fly-girls strolled through his boggled mind. He didn’t want to piss anyone off. Especially not the big-haired blonde with the sassy come-and-get-me smile.

He didn’t want to do anything but make her happy.

And maybe, if he were really lucky, survive the night.

Chapter 3

Strawberry blond. That’s what she was, Gabe thought. She glanced up at his approach. Her eyes were green, her brow furrowed. The expression made her look like a perturbed schoolgirl, bent forward as she was, pen poised over a square cocktail napkin. It was in pristine condition but for her blocky handwriting.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said and motioned jerkily with the Wild Turkey back at his just-abandoned table. “About before. I’m not usually so antisocial.” That was probably not true, he thought, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“No problem.” Sliding the napkin out of sight, she crumpled it in her fist. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, and despite the fact that his life was going to hell with the speed of a damned torpedo, he almost smiled, because she hadn’t been quite quick enough removing the napkin; he’d read the first line.

“Drafting a resignation letter?” he guessed.

“No. Not at all,” she said and cleared her throat. “You want to have a seat?”

“A Dear John letter?” he asked.

She shook her head and glanced away as he sat down. “Why would you think that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Acceptance speeches rarely begin with ‘Dear Dickhead,’” he said.

For a moment, he thought she’d sputter a denial, but finally she smiled. A little flushed and as fresh-faced as a Girl Scout. “All right,” she said. “I am resigning. Sent the email three hours and…” She checked her wrist. It was absolutely devoid of a watch. She shrugged, unconcerned. “…seventeen minutes ago.”

He stretched out his aching right leg. “Resigning from what?” he asked.

“My desk job,” she said and took a sip. “Do you want to know why?”

“I’m going to assume it’s because your boss is a dickhead.”

“That’s right.” She leaned forward suddenly, and in that moment of abrupt animation she reminded him of every woman who made life worth living. Or a living hell. “And do you want to know why he’s such a dickhead?” she asked but continued before he could respond. “It’s because I’m a woman.”

“Are you sure?”

She leaned back in her chair, brows raised. “Am I sure that’s the reason, or am I sure that I’m a woman?”

He was pretty confident of her gender but didn’t mention the fact. “Seems to me people are dickheads for all sorts of reasons,” he said.

She watched him as he drank. Her eyes had softened a little. Maybe he’d rushed to judgment. Maybe they weren’t just green. Maybe they were forest green. Or fresh asparagus green.

“What’d they do to you?” she asked.

He flexed his right hand, almost tempted to tell her, to let her pity cushion the pain but he tested a lie instead. “They passed me over for a promotion.”

“Me, too!” she said and smacked the table with enough force to make him wonder how much she’d had to drink.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. That’s why they’re dickheads.”

He watched her mouth form the words. He couldn’t help himself. Perhaps it was because he was wasted. But perhaps it was because there was something about hearing obscenities fall from her sweet-cherry lips that was weirdly erotic. Not that he could do anything about eroticism at that precise moment.

“Because I’m qualified,” she said and slammed down the remainder of her drink with a scowl. “I’m more than qualified.”

Probably true, he thought. She seemed to have all the qualities an employer could want: intelligence, integrity, compassion…looks. Or maybe those were the attributes he wanted.

God, how drunk was he?

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be whining when you…” She paused. “What’s your name anyway?”

He was almost tempted to try another lie. As if taking a new identity could clear out the past, could pave a new future. “Gabriel,” he said. “How ‘bout you?”

“Jenny.”

“With an ie?”

She shook her head, jiggled the ice in her glass. “A y.”

“You look more like an ie to me.”

“Maybe I’ll have to reconsider,” she said and motioned for another drink. Her blouse gaped a little at the neck; the waiter seemed to appear instantaneously, like a character in a kid’s pop-up book.

“Thanks, Walt,” she said. Burly and florid, Walt nodded once before returning to the bar. “I don’t usually imbibe,” she admitted once they were alone again. “Mom was an alcoholic. At least, that was Dad’s opinion.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh. No,” she said and waved off his sympathies. “She wasn’t…I mean…Dad was the psycho. But he was hardly ever around anyway.”

“Divorced?”

“Thankfully.”

He lifted his drink in some kind of idiotic salute. “Mine, too.”

“Your mom ever get over it?”

He shrugged, thinking of the woman most referred to as Sarge. “Ma kind of defies description.”

“Give me a for instance,” she said.

He considered remaining mute. There was lots to be said for mute. Such as, it generally didn’t get you shot or make you look like a dumbass. But he spoke anyway. “For instance, she’d kick me from here to Christmas if she knew I wasn’t making a pass at you.”

“I don’t think…” she began then paused. “What?”

He’d been wrong. She wasn’t cute. She was gorgeous. Almost too good to be true. If the bastards in Basic wanted to send the perfect woman to test his willpower, she’d be the one.

“She doesn’t hold with self-pity,” he said.

“So why haven’t…” She paused but spoke again in a moment. “Are you gay?”

He choked on his whiskey, coughed twice then wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she added, angel eyes wide as forever. “I’m not homophobic or anything. One of my best friends…”

“No,” he said.

“You’re not gay?”

“Someone would probably have informed me by now if I was.”

For a second, she looked ready to continue that line of questioning, but finally she shook her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t usually act so weird.”

“Sometimes the dickheads get to you.”

“I guess so.” She shrugged. The movement shifted her blouse a little more, showing the slightest bit of cleavage. And wasn’t that interesting—turns out half a barrel of whiskey wouldn’t limit his ability to do something about her eroticism, after all. But there were other things to consider. For instance, she appeared to be slightly younger than his combat boots. “I kind of thought he was my friend.” She glanced at her drink, causing a shiny lock of hair to fall across her cheek. He could imagine it slipping soft as a sigh through his fingers. And with that image in his mind, he realized his combat boots were pretty damned mature for their age.

“The dickhead?” he guessed.

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes even friends screw up.”

“Especially friends,” she corrected, and he nodded.

Their gazes met and held. Something sizzled through his inebriated system. Sexual tension maybe. Then again, it might be alcohol poisoning.

“Well…”

They spoke in unison, then drew identical breaths and laughed at the chemistry that bubbled between them, as harmless as nitroglycerin.

“I should get home,” she said and motioned for the nearby waiter, but Gabe shoved a fifty into the man’s hand and shook off her protests.

“My pleasure.”

She looked pretty steady as she rose beside him. “Well...I wouldn’t want to ruin your pleasure.”

He caught her gaze. She embodied an odd meld of shyness and bravado that he found dangerously appealing. Matched with her sugarplum smile and slim, rocking body, she was all but irresistible.

But he would resist. He’d been trained to resist. To overcome. To lead the damned way, as the Ranger credo said.

Pushing back the flagrant flow of memories, he lifted his left hand to the small of her back and ushered her toward the door. “Can I call you a cab?”

“No. Thank you. I only live a few blocks from here.”

“You don’t plan to walk,” he said and glanced out the window. By the glare of the overhead lights, he could see it was beginning to spit some kind of viscous precipitation.

“I’ll be fine.” She turned, but somehow he had moved closer than he’d intended. Her hip brushed his crotch. Her shoulder grazed his chest, and when she inhaled, they shared the same breath. “I’m…ummm…” Her voice was quiet, and there suddenly seemed to be a distinct lack of oxygen. “I’m tougher than I look,” she said, but her words were little more than a kitten-soft murmur.

“Yeah?” Sparkling repartee, Durrand. But what did he expect? He could barely breathe. Thinking was out of the question. “Listen.” His voice sounded oddly raspy, as if it intended to cold-cock his good sense and blindside his best intentions. “I don’t think you should get involved with someone like—” he began.

But that’s when she kissed him.

Chapter 4

Her lips met his like a pile-driver. Her fingers were in his hair, and damned if he had any choice at all in the matter. Hormones were slewing up like loosed geysers and suddenly he was driving her backward. Her spine smacked the wall, but she was too busy squeezing his ass to notice.

Need, too long ignored, torpedoed through him. They stumbled into the women’s restroom. No one there. Just a mop. A bucket. Three empty stalls. The nearest banged open as they crammed inside. He struggled to lock the door, but her fingers were on his chest, distracting him. How many hands did she have? She was already peeling his buttons open, making such mundane matters as privacy seem asinine. He groaned as she kissed his nipple, rasped something inarticulate as she struggled with his belt buckle. But there was no time for nonsensical noises. Her breasts were calling to him. Teasing, begging.

He reached for her buttons, but they were traitorously small. He was sweating like a turret gunner by the time he got the second one open, and then her breasts were there, mounded above the frothy lace of her bra. He groaned as he cupped them in his hands, growled as he reached around to yank her close, but in that moment, he felt something hard and smooth brush his fingertips.

A pistol was tucked into her waistband.

Sanity sluiced in on a cold tide of memories and betrayals.

Yanking out the gun, he shoved it against her jaw before she could draw another breath.

“Who the hell are you?” he snarled, because suddenly he knew the truth. He’d been a moron. Again. She was, in fact, too good to be true. The perfect woman sent to tempt him. But it hardly mattered, because he was sane once more.

She tilted her head back another notch. Her sugar-won’t-melt expression was gone, replaced by narrowed eyes and pursed lips as she held her breath and eased her hands cautiously away from his half-bared chest.

“What’s going on?” she whispered.

He gritted his teeth against his own idiocy. “Where’d you get the weapon?”

“Colonel Edwards.”

“He your commander?”

“My father.”

“Who sent you?”

“Sent me?” She shifted her gaze toward the stall door, but he moved the pistol a quarter of an inch and shook his head.

“What were you supposed to do?” he asked. “Drug me? Shoot me? Why? Is this about Tehran?”

“Listen. I’m sorry. I don’t know…” She shook her head. “I can get you some help. Just put down the gun.”

He scowled. “Help?”

“The agency has a good therapist.”

He snorted, not failing to see the humor of the situation. “Tempting offer, but I’m in kind of a hurry. Shep…” He stopped, thoughts jamming tight in his brain. “That’s why you’re here,” he said and croaked a laugh. “You plan to stop me. Well, fuck that! I’m going after Shepherd. I don’t give a shit what—”

“I think you should.”

He cocked his head. “What’s that?”

“Shepherd.” She nodded agreeably. “I think you should…” she began then slammed the stall door against his injured hand. His fingers went instantly numb. The gun sailed through the air, arced upward then splashed into the toilet. The solid sound of lexon meeting porcelain jerked them into simultaneous action.

He reached for her a fraction of a second before she struck, ramming the heel of her hand into his eye. He staggered backward, cursing as agony exploded in his head. Her knee came up like a piston. He blocked it with his thigh. New pain screamed up his wounded leg, but even through the red haze, he realized she was already dipping into the bowl.

Yanking himself beyond the misery, he grabbed her about the waist, but she slammed against him, driving him backward. They flew through the door together, him dragging her with him as he crashed onto the linoleum. Air whistled from his lungs, but she was already on her feet, already scrambling back toward the nearest stall.

He rose with a growl, lurching toward her, and in that instant, she jerked about, positioned on one knee and gripping the pistol with both hands.

“Stay right there!” she snapped and rose, feet spread, arms extended.

Water dripped from the muzzle of the pistol. It was an ASP. Miller the Moron’s weapon of choice. Gabe did as he was told. Right thigh grousing like a bitch, he raised his hands and nodded at her unexpected success. “Who sent you?” he asked again.

“One inch closer and I’ll shoot you dead. I swear to God I will.” Her voice trembled. The ASP did not.

He forced himself to think. It was about damned time. “Not quite as affectionate as you were a minute ago,” he said, and when her cheeks flushed with color, he laughed.

Her brows dipped, drawing together. “Is this some kind of training drill?”

“Sure,” he said, mind circling hazily through the mire of whiskey and pain. “In fact…” he began, but a thought struck him like a frag grenade. “Shit!” He felt dizzy with the realization. “Miller set this up, didn’t he?”

She eased over to the wall, motioned him toward the sink.

“He doesn’t want anyone to know he fucked up,” he said and stepped toward her.

“Don’t come any closer!” Her voice was shaking in earnest now. He took another step, driven by rage, by guilt, by a wild wash of emotions he had no time to assess or regret. “I’ll shoot! I will,” she rasped.

He stopped, inadvertently remembering a dozen times Shepherd had saved his ass. “Well, if you’re going to do it, lady, now’s the time,” he said, but she hesitated, and in that moment, he lunged.

Maybe she would have pulled the trigger if given another moment, but despite everything, he was still damn quick. He smacked the grip of the ASP. It soared into the air. He caught it in his left hand, then took a step back and watched her.

She was pale now. Pale and shaken. But her chin was up, her full lips pursed.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you to shoot first and make nice later?” he asked.

“You won’t get anything out of me,” she said.

“You sure?” He took a step forward, and in that instant, she bolted.

Grabbing the mop that leaned against the nearby wall, she swung it like a baton. It whistled through the air, catching the ASP’s muzzle, but he jerked back and steadied his aim before she could swing again.

They were faced off like badgers.

“I’ve never shot a woman before. But I’m open to new experiences,” he said.

“Tell me what this is about,” she ordered and raised the mop like a bamboo shinai.

How damned drunk was she? “You know I’ve got the gun, right?”

“My gun,” she snarled, and goddamned if murder didn’t gleam in her eyes.

“Why are you—” he began, but suddenly the restroom door swung open. A woman stumbled in, already unbuttoning her jeans. She staggered to a halt when she saw him, jerked her gaze to the gun then scuttled back into the hall, high-heels clicking like castanets.

“You’re not getting any more than my name,” rasped the mop wielder.

“Jenny, I believe you said. With a y. The obviously deranged daughter of Colonel Edwards. The question is, how you know Miller,” he said, but a disturbing worm of a thought was niggling his saturated mind. It was slippery, just out of reach, but it was there.

“That woman’s going to call 911,” she said, jerking her head toward the restroom door. “This place will be crawling with cops. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll put down the weapon and give yourself up.”

The irritating thought was beginning to hum insistently. He tried to drown it with a question. “What do they call you?” He was buying time, but a snide little voice suggested he was out of cash, and maybe, just maybe, out of his mind. “What do you go by, at your desk job?”

“I told you, I’m not giving you any more—” she began, but someone called from the far side of the door, loud and abrasive.

“Hey, Eddy! Eddy, are you in there?” And suddenly, the puzzle pieces clicked shakily into place.

Reality seemed to set the world in slow motion, making everything as clear as vodka: her face, the dingy restroom, Gabe’s own glaring stupidity.

He’d made a big-ass mistake. Had propositioned and subsequently threatened Eddy, the one agent Reynolds had recommended. The agent now pissed enough to split his head open with a mop handle. Which meant that Shepherd was shit out of luck, even if he were still alive.

Chapter 5

Gabe straightened slightly and nodded once at the mop-wielding woman across the restroom from him. Sure. Of course. Murphy’s Law was bound to make its presence felt today. “You’re Eddy?” he asked.

She blinked. Eyes more fresh mint than asparagus now, they were as wide as a doe’s and doll-bright. “Put down the pistol.”

He should probably do that, he thought, but couldn’t quite manage to make his muscles unclench. ‘Cause the kicker was, he might be entirely wrong about the mop-wielder’s identity. Again. “Eddy,” he repeated, still holding the ASP’s cool grip in both hands. “You know Captain Reynolds?”

“Eddy!” Someone pounded on the restroom door again. “Hey! Everything okay in there?”

She scowled, the affronted expression that of a toddler. “Captain Reynolds?” She straightened a little, too. “You mean Uncle Lou?”

Uncle Lou? Uncle Lou? He felt his breath catch in his throat. Captain Reynolds stood six feet, eight inches in his stocking feet. If he ever had stocking feet, which he did not because he’d been gestated in combat boots. Probably was born with six mags of ammo packed into his pistol belt, too. Gabe had known Reynolds for fifteen years and had never once called him anything more personal than “sir.”

Edwards’ scowl darkened, going from petulant toddler to angry teenager.

“Eddy! I’m coming in,” someone yelled from the hall.

She drew a deep breath, never breaking eye contact. “Just a minute.”

“Your uncle Reynolds said I might find you here,” Gabe said. The idea of Captain Reynolds being avuncular would have made him laugh if he weren’t pretty sure a show of humor would get his nuts kicked into his larynx.

“Did he tell you to attack me in the ladies’ room, too?” she asked.

He shrugged, going for casual, but the motion pulled the aching muscles tight across his shoulders and back. “Actually, he suggested the men’s room, but I thought…what the hell…a change of venue might be nice.”

“Eddy?” The voice from the hall sounded more quizzical than frantic now.

“Everything’s fine, Walt,” she said and dropped her voice. “I think.”

They had reached what used to be called a Mexican stand-off in less pc times. Gabe drew in a lungful of air and forced the muzzle of the ASP toward his knees.

Relief or something like it shone on the girl’s farm-fresh features. “I’ll be out in a second,” she called, then sotto voce, “if you give me my sidearm.” She narrowed her aspen green eyes at him. “Otherwise, I’ll see that you’re court-martialed before sunrise.”

“I’m afraid my schedule’s kind of tight right now.”

She tilted her head at him.

“I don’t have any time to spend in the brig.”

Her cheeks were flushed, her expression determined.

“I don’t want this to get messy,” he said.

“Well…” She shuffled her feet a little. “You should have thought about that before you stole my ASP and threatened my life.”

He watched her carefully, assessing her weaknesses. She longed to be tough. No doubt about that. But would she risk the lives of others? He didn’t think so. “Walt seems like an okay guy. I wouldn’t want him to get hurt,” he said and did his best to sound ominous.

Apparently, it worked because she inhaled sharply. “If you give me my sidearm we can walk away unscathed. No one the wiser. We’ll never have to see each other again.”

He gave it a moment’s thought then lifted the ASP, dropped its ammo into his pocket, and handed her the pistol.

She took it in a hand as slim as a lightning rod then tucked the weapon back into the waistband of her trousers.

“After you,” he said and nodded toward the door.

She raised her chin a notch as if considering his challenge and turned, back straight, movements stiff.

“I’m sorry, Walt.” She was apologizing before she reached the hallway. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I was just…feeling a little dizzy.”

“Hey.” Walt’s voice was as deep as a well. “Guess I better cut Mindy off. She thought you was with some guy but—” He stopped, brows ricocheting off his receding hairline as Gabe stepped up behind Edwards.

“Oh…” She cleared her throat. “This is...ah, Gabriel.” Even the tips of her ears were red now, and her voice had lost a little of its velvety rasp. Maybe thinking you’re about to die in a ladies’ room on the seedy side of town will do that to a girl. “He uhh…” She paused, dropping the verbal ball.

Gabe fumbled for a second, then picked it up and dashed for the end zone as best he could. “I followed her in to make sure she didn’t faint.”

Walt narrowed his eyes. He was approximately as wide as he was tall, and would have made a kick-ass drill sergeant if he decided against being an attack dog. “So everything’s all right?” he asked.

“I’m sorry if I worried you,” she said. Her tone suggested that she felt guilty about troubling him, despite the fact that she’d been fighting for her life just moments before.

It could be that Jenny Edwards had an overdeveloped conscience.

Walt narrowed his eyes, gave Gabe a warning glare and shifted his attention back to Edwards. “Well, I guess I’ll see you next week then, Eddy.”

“Next week,” she said and turned woodenly toward the door.

Gabe wasn’t sure if he should follow her or stay behind and let Walt beat the crap out of him. He delayed momentarily, debating that, but following her seemed marginally better. He turned and did just that. She’d left her coat, a cute little red number, on a hook near the door and stopped to swing it over her shoulders. He reached up to assist as Walt lumbered back behind the bar.

“Don’t touch me,” she snarled then smiled at Walt as she tugged her hair from beneath the plaid collar.  “Good night,” she called and pushed through the door.

Gabe followed her outside, careful not to crowd. He might be wrong, but he thought he sensed a little bitterness. “Don’t you want to know what this is about?”

She kept walking. “Seek help,” she suggested.

He almost laughed. “Wish I could, but if Shep’s not dead already, he doesn’t have much time left.”

She took another few steps then stopped and pivoted toward him. “Did you lie about your name?”

That wasn’t the gambit he’d expected. “It’s Gabe. Gabriel Durrand.”

“What branch?”

He paused a second, doing his best to keep up. “Army.”

She swiveled away with a snort. He stiffened at her derisive tone and wondered why? It wasn’t as if the Army had made all his dreams come true. Nightmares more like. Lots of nightmares. And that was only when he was lucky enough to be able to sleep at all.

“I need a language specialist,” he said, striding up beside her.

She kept walking.

“And somebody with computer skills.”

“Because this Shep’s in trouble,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“Where is he? In the brig for attacking an innocent woman in a restroom?”

He didn’t bother to tell her that his leg still throbbed where an innocent woman had kneed him. It seemed a little petty, considering the circumstances.

“Colombia,” he said.

Her brows lowered a little. Two snowflakes and some other snotty form of precipitation settled onto her honey-toned hair.

She stopped finally. The abruptness of the motion suggested she might still be a little tipsy. “You a Ranger?” she asked.

He felt an instantaneous swell of pride. A flush of embarrassment followed close on its heels. Some day, maybe after he was dead, he would grow up and realize that Ranger might be synonymous with chump. “Yeah.”

“Shepherd, too?”

He nodded and felt his throat seize up at the mention of the man’s name. “He was working a private op.”

“Is he your brother or something?”

For a fraction of a second, he considered trying to clarify their relationship, but since Shep’s latest idiot move, Gabe couldn’t have been madder even if the dumbass was blood kin so why bother with lengthy explanations.

He simply nodded.

She turned away. “Not interested then.”

He stepped up after her. “Why the hell–”

“Psychoses tend to be hereditary.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and ended up deciding that he’d do best to avoid both. “I was told you were a decent terp.”

She raised her brows.

“An interpreter. I heard you were pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” She stopped short, Nyquil eyes blazing.

He drew back a little. “I believe adequate was the word used.”

“Vete al diablo,” she said and pivoted away.

The words sounded kind of sexy coming from her tart strawberry lips but he had to assume they weren’t complimentary. “Listen, I know we didn’t get off to the best start but–”

She spun back toward him. “What part of vete al diablo don’t you understand?”

“All of it.” Frustration burned him like acid. “That’s why I need a damned translator.”

She stared at him a second then ground her teeth and pivoted away.

He grabbed her arm, but she jerked out of his grasp and faced him with a snarl. “Don’t even–”

“Sorry.” He raised his hands again. “Listen…” He drew a deep breath, trying to calm himself, to slow down. “He’s not my brother. He’s just a… He’s just a guy who keeps making stupid decisions.”

She glared at him. “You lied?”

“He’s the ‘or something’ you mentioned.”

“You lied.”

He ground his teeth. “It’ll be an easy job. Safe. I just need help for a couple weeks. Just long enough to get him out of trouble.”

“My father used to say that you’ll never learn to stand on your feet if you don’t spend a little time on your knees…with an AK-47 pressed to the base of your skull.”

Was that sexual? Or spiritual? God, he wished he were just a little less drunk. “Well, I’m sure that’s very…prophetic, and as soon as I find Shep I’m going to give that due consideration, but right now—”

“Why do you even care about him if he’s such a loser?”

He glanced to the side and blinked, but not because he was going to cry. God no. “We go back a ways.” She was staring at him. He felt his hands shake and tried to refrain from saying more. “And it might…there might be some danger.”

She pursed her Blow Pop lips at him. A trio of young women were laughing as they crossed against the light. Laughing as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

She nodded crisply. “I’ll think about it,” she said and turned away.

It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to let her go. But nothing could have prevented him from speaking again. “We’re out of time,” he said.

She didn’t glance back. “You’re out of time,” she reminded him and kept walking.

Chapter 6

Eddy gave Damian three rapid-fire jabs to the midsection then danced back. He swung to the left, but she ducked, dodged, then kicked up, slamming her heel into his lower regions.

He groaned weakly.

“That’s right,” she snarled. “Touch me again and you’ll be singing soprano for the rest of your pathetic life.” Turning jauntily, she walked away with a swagger that would have made Eastwood proud.

The tattered punching bag she’d dubbed “Damian” made no clever retort.

Sweat dripped from Eddy’s neck and slipped into her sports bra, but she didn’t mind. She liked to sweat. It counteracted the vague fringes of the hangover that threatened and made her muscles loosen and flex. It geared her up, pushed her past the polite boundaries that were as much a part of her as her freckled nose and knobby knees. She may have inherited her father’s Kelly green eyes, but her apologetic demeanor came strictly from her maternal side. Perhaps her mother’s easy pliability had been one of the characteristics that had most attracted Colonel Edwards in the early days of her parents’ relationship, but in the end, when her mother began to feel the need to spread her fledgling wings, it had torn their family asunder like a house of straw. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t surprising that Eddy had silently vowed to be tough. It was rather shocking, however, that she had failed so miserably.

She closed her eyes as memories of the recent evening screamed through her mind. What the hell had she been thinking? Or rather, had she been thinking at all? It wasn’t as if she made a habit of attacking men in restroom stalls. Neither did she generally agree to consider absurd propositions offered by the aforementioned men.

True, the alcohol she’d imbibed had probably adversely affected her decision-making abilities, but those effects had long ago faded, leaving her reluctantly sober and dismally uncertain.

Indecision gnawed at her. Should she accept Durrand’s challenge? Maybe his entrance into her life was providence. She’d wanted field experience since the day she’d first considered becoming a spook. Hadn’t she? Or had that just been another lie she’d told herself while safely hidden behind her computer monitor?

Obviously, this wasn’t a decision to be made lightly. But with whom could she discuss it? Her mother, though intelligent and caring, would see little but the risk factor. Her father, on the other hand, might well see the value in her following through. It might, as he was apt to phrase it, put some hair on her chest. But unless mandated by a court order, she preferred to avoid speaking to Colonel Edwards. On the other hand, each of her friends would look at the situation through their own lens, when what she needed was objectivity. Someone to give it to her straight.

She practiced her Eastwood glare a moment longer and was blessed with an idea.

In another moment, she was dialing the phone.

The familiar voice on the other end of the line was atypically breathy.

“Ms. France?” Eddy scowled, wondering if she had gotten the wrong number. The woman’s tone lacked its usual workmanlike quality. But maybe that was to be expected at 0200 hours. Then again, she had no idea what time zone—or even what country—the operative lived in. “I’m sorry if I woke you. Shall I call back at another—”

“Who is this?” The words were husky, a little brusque. Ms. France, apparently, had not been raised by a soft-spoken pacifist.

“Edwards, Jennifer,” Eddy said, converting to a military stiffness she sometimes hid behind in uncertain circumstances.

There was a moment’s delay then, “Calling from Langley?”

“Not this time.” Eddy refrained from clearing her throat. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. Sylvia France was a private citizen, an intelligence gathering individual who worked for the highest bidder. “This is for my personal edification.”

“Very well, I’ll bill it separately. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes.” The conversation felt strange, making Eddy feel twitchy. She half wished she had done more research on her own; she was something of an IT expert in her own right, but Silvia had been known to obtain more information in ten minutes than others could in a week. So she punted, reaching for some kind of socially acceptable small talk. “How are you doing this morning, Ms. France?”

“I’ve been better,” the other woman said and muffling the phone, rasped something low and quiet before speaking to Eddy again. “I hope to be so again soon.”

“Oh. Oh!” Eddy said, suddenly understanding the situation; Sylvia France was not alone. But it didn’t matter. Eddy wasn’t an adolescent. She was twenty-seven years of age and not as innocent as she looked. She’d been told by a number of people that such a thing wouldn’t even be possible. “I’m…” She was floundering badly. “I’m so sorry I bothered you.”

“No need to be.

“Omar,”—Sylvia’s voice was very low. A little hoarse—“don’t stop.

“What do you need, Edwards?”

A man moaned. Apparently, Silvia wasn’t the only one hoping to improve her circumstances in the very near future. The idea made Eddy fidget like a toddler, but she could hardly hang up now.

“I need some information,” she said.

“I assumed you weren’t calling for a kidney transplant,” Sylvia said then sucked in a long, shuddering breath.

Eddy forced a chuckle and closed her eyes. What was wrong with her? She was a grown woman, wise to the ways of the world. Educated. Liberated.  Accomplished.

“Now, Lance!” Sylvia growled.