by Misty Evans
Bone broke and blood splattered as the man yelped and lost his balance. He tumbled into a concrete column, tripping over his feet and falling face forward onto the floor. Mick jammed a bare heel into the man's left kidney, making him grunt. “You'll stay down if you know what's good for you, brother.”
He kicked the Uzi away and took off for the staircase. His body felt slightly sluggish, the tang of metal filled his nose from the gas still hanging in the air. He grabbed the fallen tank and inhaled a good deep breath through the mask before taking out a lighter. A little bit of rigging and he had an open flame positioned to blow the oxygen tank.
The guard on the bottom step was still unconscious, and what do you know? There was a handgun in the holster at his waist.
The canister of oxygen would blow any second. Mick knew the cavalry was upstairs—the tiny American flag taped to a toothpick and stuck in his daily slice of bread had delivered the welcomed message—but he believed in being prepared for any and all outcomes. He removed the guard’s handgun—an H&K beauty—and took the stairs two at a time on bare feet. The Uzi was too cumbersome, too big to hide, but the sleek handgun was perfect.
The rooftop exit was unlocked and he shoved the heavy iron door open, glancing at the waiting helicopter as he turned his face up to the sun.
Heat and humidity—so different than his cool, dank cell—hit him full in the face. Laughter filled his chest and his lungs expanded to take in all the fresh air he could, blinking against the bright sun nearly blinding him.
The wash from the helicopter blades sent air over his bearded face, lifting his stringy hair and making his prison clothes flatten against his body. His escape vehicle had avoided the anti-helicopter netting blanketing everything but this rooftop—the one weak link in the entire area.
Freedom. Finally.
Interrupting his moment of happiness, an explosion went off behind him. Over the noise, he heard a shout coming from the helo, a command to run. He cracked his eyes open to see a familiar face leaning out the open door on the helo’s side, the man waving at him frantically.
Well, I’ll be goddamned. If it wasn’t Trace Hunter, a legend in the teams, whom Mick had worked with in Serbia. The man had disappeared right before Mick was imprisoned the first time. Mick had been sure Hunter and his SEAL team would be the ones to rescue him in Qatar, but Hunter had been absent when they came.
Shouts erupted behind him, pounding footsteps coming up the stairs. A heat of flames wafted across his back. Time to go. His re-acquaintance with fresh air and sunshine would have to wait.
He walked toward the helicopter, noting a sniper in position to mow down the bad guys coming up behind him, but the weapon in his hand felt good, solid. He hadn't held a gun in all this time and some sleeping part of him came awake.
He preferred hand-to-hand combat, but there were circumstances when a weapon, besides his fists, was necessary. As he saw the sniper take aim, he didn't look back, but casually fired off a couple of shots in the direction of the guards in pursuit.
Hunter was laughing as he reached down to clasp Mick’s arm and haul him into the helicopter. Mick’s butt landed in a seat, and looking back, he saw he’d killed them both.
I’ve still got it.
Grinning, he swept his gaze around the helo’s occupants and came to a dead stop when he saw the knockout female in the seat across from him.
“Well, hel-lo,” he said to her. The noise of the helicopter as it lifted off was too loud for her to hear, but she must have read his lips, one sexy brow cocking over her pale blue eyes that stared at him from behind a pair of glasses.
A fierce air blew through the cabin as the bird dipped to one side, and Mick grabbed his seatbelt, locking it into place. It was like Christmas—a clean rescue, a sunny day, a beautiful woman waiting for him. All he needed was a hamburger and fries to make his second escape from prison a total success.
Two years, sixteen days, and seven hours after capture, Mick Ranger was once more a free man, and damn if he wasn’t going to make every minute of that freedom count.
Beginning with her. Once again, he looked across the aisle and gave the woman sitting there a wolfish grin.
She didn’t smile back.
* * *
Practice the custom-made smile
Cassandra liked order, neatness, and rules. She prided herself on self-restraint and poise. As an attorney who’d worked for several elite US government agencies, she believed strongly in structure and hierarchy. Everything had a place in her world and she liked everything in its place.
Lieutenant Mick Ranger was bedlam, upheaval—a definite rule breaker. He didn’t fit into the lovely compartments she’d set up to make her life run smoothly.
But my God, he is drop-dead gorgeous.
He acted like a movie star in an action film, sauntering—not walking, not running—sauntering out of the prison’s rooftop exit, an explosion rocking the building behind him, flames climbing into the sky and the sound of machine guns peppering the smoky air. He hadn’t bothered to turn around when he fired his gun, simply flung his arm around and shot the emerging guards on his tail without even looking at them. Like a fictional action hero, his aim had been perfect, the bullets nailing both men with lethal accuracy.
Bulls-eye. Cassandra blinked a few times, her brain insisting it was impossible. The proof was in the pudding—or in this case, the dead guards lying on the dirty rooftop.
Mr. Action Star had grabbed Trace Hunter’s extended hand and leveraged himself into the helicopter, his tall frame hidden underneath loose, dirty, prison clothes, the look in his bright blue-green eyes one of extreme intelligence and cunning. His hair hung to his shoulders, a thick beard covered most of his face. He’d plopped into the empty seat, his eyes landing on her, and he’d smiled.
A starving lion eyeing a gazelle—that’s what he’d looked like as his gaze swept over her. Motionless except for those eyes, sizing her up as Trace closed the helicopter door. Fighting the flood of heat from her toes to her cheeks, she returned a perfunctory smile and focused on the notes in her lap.
Navy SEAL Lt. Mick Ranger, thirty, born in California, graduated with honors from Stanford and known as King Killer among his peers and adversaries. Awarded nine various medals over his career.
As the helicopter whisked them into the air over Monaco, Trace handed Lt. Ranger a headset. “Good to see you’re in one piece,” Trace—known as Cold Play in the Shadow Force world—said to their jailbird.
Ranger continued to stare at her as he replied. “About time you showed up. I was beginning to think the US government had crossed me off the rescue list.”
Through her headset, his voice was gritty from little use, and it stirred something primal in her and she shuddered. He probably hadn’t spoken much, serving his term in solitary. Her heart pinched to think about how lonely he must have been.
“Themis,” Parker, head of the Shadow Force spy group Nemesis, barked in Cassandra’s ear. “Sit rep?”
Shoot, she’d forgotten in all the chaos of the escape —the chaos of Lt. Ranger—to keep Parker updated.
Cassandra wasn’t a spy, and the silliness of a codename—especially Themis, a goddess she’d never heard of— annoyed her. Beatrice had insisted, and Cassandra didn’t want to end up on the Queen B’s shit list, so she’d kept her dislike over the name to herself. She needed Beatrice’s support, and business, if her private firm was going to be a success next year.
“Themis?” Lt. Ranger’s turquoise eyes jumped between Cassandra and Trace, returning to Cassandra. “Interesting name.”
“Roger, Jett,” Trace responded, using Parker’s codename and sensing Cassandra’s uncomfortableness. “We’re clear of the prison, heading northeast to the drop point.”
“Health update on package?” Parker inquired.
The package—a sexy as hell prisoner of war—being Mick Ranger.
Who was still grinning like a wolf at Cassandra, his eyes like heat seeking missiles as they roame
d over every inch of the white cashmere sweater under her flak vest, down to her black wool skirt, black leggings, and boots. “Damn,” he said, returning his gaze to Cassie’s face. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
The compliment made her ears burn, but she reminded herself she was the only woman he’d seen in two years. Still, the words made her brain go blank. Just poof. Gorgeous men never said things like that to her, never saw beyond her glasses and modest clothes. She wasn’t sure what to say, a spurt of panic erupting in her stomach.
The headset she wore felt heavy and cumbersome but was necessary in the racket of the helicopter. “Package appears…”—she did an equally thorough scan of the lieutenant as he’d done to her and tried not to act as flustered as she felt— “unremarkable.”
An odd adjective considering she thought quite the opposite, but it was a widely used term in the healthcare field to otherwise state “fine” or “within normal parameters.” Her parents—both physicians—used it all the time. She didn’t know yet whether Lt. Ranger had any injuries or was sick, and her extensive vocabulary seemed to have deserted her.
The man in question drew back, flummoxed. “Adequate?” he quipped. “I’ve never been adequate in my life. I’m flipping amazing, and don’t you forget it.”
He winked.
Conceited much? She shook herself from the trap of those intense eyes and good looks. “His condition”—she clarified to her handler—”appears satisfactory.”
Bushy brows shot up, but he didn’t stop grinning.
“Mr. Ranger, we are not officially part of the US government.” Cassandra internally reached for the poise that had deserted her along with her lexicon. “We are acting under the direction of a powerful, concerned party and the details of the mission are outlined here.” She removed papers from her briefcase and held them out to him, along with a pen. “Please look this over and sign on the second page at the bottom where I have marked the line with an X.”
The grin faltered. “It's lieutenant, but you can call me Mick.” He glanced at Trace. “What does she mean, you're not part of the US government? You're not a SEAL anymore?”
Trace shook his head. “I'm part of a covert organization called Shadow Force International. To the public, we’re a bodyguard service called Rock Star Security, but behind the scenes, we take on certain sensitive, covert missions to help people.”
“Not a SEAL?” Ranger appeared shocked. “The teams were your life, man. What happened?”
The headsets made their voices sound small and far away. “I'll catch you up on the details over a beer.”
They shared a fist bump. “I’ll hold you to it.”
Ranger glanced at the papers Cassandra still held out, but didn't take them. “So you're saying Uncle Sam didn't fund this rescue?”
Yes and no. “It’s complicated,” she offered, pushing her glasses up her nose. “The important thing is that you're out now and Shadow Force wants to hire you.”
She pasted on a smile.
Ranger clearly saw the smile was less than sincere. “Hire me for what, Themis?”
The way he said the goddess’s name sounded sexy, alluring, even though the headset. Maybe it wasn't such a bad name after all. That look though…
Heat-seeking missile shooting right to her lower belly, that’s what it felt like.
Unnerved, she blinked and tried to not to lose her last thought. The arm holding out the papers grew heavy and she swallowed past the tightness in her throat. What was wrong with her? It was like he had her under a spell.
Her smile faltered. She'd be damned if she wasn’t going to get him to sign the agreement. Beatrice was much too lax on her contracts and getting clear direction put into them. She’d previously left herself open to all kinds of liabilities, and Cassandra's job, as attorney and chief operating officer for SFI, was to make sure her boss covered her backside with every mission, every employee. “The mission is outlined for you in your contract.”
She tried the smile again, trying to put more oomph into it. Trace’s wife, Savannah was a television celebrity and had been giving Beatrice and Cassandra lessons on body language. The famous investigative reporter was an ace at making people believe she cared, and Cassandra had the feeling Savannah really did care about every person and situation she reported on. Unfortunately, the Queen B and her new chief operating officer both excelled at intelligence, but lacked key emotional and social skills. Savanna had her job cut out for her working with the two of them.
Ranger glanced at the papers, but shook his head. “You’re kidding.” His gaze ping-ponged between her and Trace once more. “I just got out of prison after two years, sixteen days, and seven hours, and you want me to go on another mission before I’ve had so much as a decent meal? A mission, I assume, that is not sanctioned by the government, who apparently planned to leave me in that prison to rot?”
“Exactly.” Cassandra nodded and leaned forward, dropping the contract in his lap. “If not for us, you would still be in prison.”
In other words, you owe us.
She really wanted to say that last part out loud, but knew Savannah would definitely tell her not to. Besides, in the art of successful negotiations, it was often beneficial to leave a few things unsaid.
Decent meal. Ranger’s words reminded her of the next thing on her list. She reached under the hard seat and pulled out an insulated blue and white container. “Here's your meal,” she said, sliding the container toward him. “You can sign the contract while you eat.”
Another smile. Please, sign the contract.
It was a first for her, breaking someone out of prison, and the legalities surrounding his rescue made her palms sweat. The President of the United States may have played a hand in getting Shadow Force here, but her involvement in all of this was top secret. President Gold needed total deniability if anything went wrong, especially since she was operating without the consent of Congress.
Those higher-ups who’d left Lt. Ranger in that jail cell should be tried in court in Cassie’s opinion.
Ranger balanced the papers on one leg, opened the container, and the smell of fried meat and greasy French fries rolled out. Inhaling, he closed his eyes and his head tipped back, looking for all the world like he was in heaven.
He proceeded to dig in with the voracious appetite of a starving man and Cassie felt a ping of gratification. He deserved better than fast food as his first meal out of prison, but according to her research, this was his favorite combo.
The contract papers slid to the dirty helicopter floor, the pen dropping along with them. Ranger chewed and talked at the same time. “Oh man”—he made another face, looking like a saint filled with the Holy Spirit. There was ketchup in his beard—”this is so good.”
Her satisfaction grew, knowing she’d at least given him his favorite meal. She cut him slack over the poor manners, considering he’d given his life for his country more times then she could count. The file on him stated five different SEAL excursions where he had been a hero, and from what Trace had told her, there were many more never officially recorded. His nine medals were the tip of the iceberg.
“I'm glad you find it enjoyable.” She fought the urge to lunge for the papers and pen, collecting dirt at the man’s bare feet. He needed clothes, shoes, and a haircut in the worst way. She could scarcely see his face, thanks to the beard. Part of her job, along with securing his signature on the contract, was getting him in shape to play the role of the undercover identity Beatrice and Rory had for him.
Savannah was always telling her to find what motivated the SEALs and use that to form a bond with them. Relationships such as that unnerved Cassandra, especially forming any attachment with a handsome, chaos-causing man like the one across from her. But she had a job to do, and she needed to check all the boxes to make sure it was a success. Negotiating was one of her best skills and that’s all this was—a negotiation.
“You may have as many cheeseburgers as you like, if you
sign the contract,” she announced. “I’ll even add bacon next time, if you want.”
Men loved bacon. She'd heard from some of the SEALs at SFI that they’d do almost anything for it, kind of like sex. Dangling a carrot—or a cheeseburger with bacon, in this case—might do the trick.
Ranger narrowed his eyes and kept eating. There wasn't much left of the burger at this point and he licked his fingers. “Can I at least enjoy the first decent food I've had in years before I read your stupid contract?”
Stupid contract? Cassandra bristled. She’d spent hours, days, writing and rewriting the twelve points of that contract. It had actually started with close to fifty items, and Beatrice had insisted she whittle it down to fit on two pages, nothing more.
Five minutes. Cassie would give Lt. Ranger five more minutes to enjoy his food, and then the smile was going away and her claws were coming out.
Because underneath the glasses and conservative clothes, she could be a lion too.
COMING March 2019!
Romantic Suspense & Mysteries by Misty Evans
The SCVC Taskforce Series
* * *
Deadly Pursuit
Deadly Deception
Deadly Force
Deadly Intent
Deadly Affair, A SCVC Taskforce novella
Deadly Attraction
Deadly Secrets
Deadly Holiday, A SCVC Taskforce novella
Deadly Target
Deadly Rescue
Spies of Shadow Force
Man Hunt
Man Killer
Man Down
SEALs of Shadow Force Series
* * *
Fatal Truth
Fatal Honor