Hearts Under Fire (Operation: Hot Spot Book 1)

by Trish McCallan

  Aiden had to admit the shiny black rectangle of leather looked odd sitting there next to the sets of keys, boxes of ammo, and the guns.

  Tag followed Mooch’s gaze. “She left it in my truck when I dropped her off last night. Guess I’ll pay her a visit later today.”

  “Ah, the classic move a woman makes when she wants an excuse for the post-fuck meet up,” Mooch drawled, his voice brittle with cynicism. “Don’t fall for it, bro. Mail the damn thing back to her.” But a few seconds later the cynical tone shifted to admiring. “Hey, this is a sweet piece.”

  The reverence in the statement brought Aiden’s head up. There was no way in hell the man was talking about a purse. He grinned on finding a sleek, black beauty of a gun in his teammate’s hand. A shiny, compact, unidentified pistol.

  He exchanged intrigued glances with Trammel and they rose to their feet in unison, converging on the table. He recognized the weapon on closer examination, even though he’d only seen it on Smith and Wesson’s and Shooting Illustrated’s websites.

  “Hell, you picked up the Shield?” he asked, moving in for a closer look. “The .40 caliber?”

  At Tag’s nod, he turned back to study the pistol in Mooch’s hands. While the Shield had released over a year earlier, they’d been on rotation at the time. But the early reviews had been stellar. It had been heralded as the first compact, single stack, conceal carry weapon that retained the ergonomics and handling capacity of the original Smith and Wesson M&P. He’d been dying to get his hands on one since reading that first review.

  “Picked her up yesterday,” Tag said, polishing off the first piece of bacon. “She’s a real sweetheart too. Sent two boxes of ammo through her yesterday, and not one malfunction.”

  “How much you pay for her?” Aiden accepted the gun Mooch passed to him. He hefted it, checking the balance. It felt perfect in his hand—fit his grip as though it had been made for him alone. Comfortable as a veteran pair of combat boots.

  “Four and a half. I’m heading to the range after I clean up. You’re welcome to put her through her paces.” Tag’s gaze skipped between the three of them clustered around the weapon.

  Aiden passed the gun on to Trammel and glanced at the DVR. The red letters glowing on the machine claimed it was barely past seven. Even adding on the half hour it would take to get to her condo complex, it was still too early to start hammering on her door.

  “When you heading to the club?” Aiden asked. If he demanded the first set of targets, he’d have plenty of time to get a little practice in, and make a quick trip to Rocky’s House of Guns to pick up one of these babies for himself, before heading over to Demi’s place.

  “An hour?” Tag disappeared into the kitchen and returned with several more pieces of bacon. “I need to shower first and drop off the purse.”

  “An hour?” Mooch repeated with a halfhearted leer as Aiden handed the pistol to Trammel. “That’s all you’re giving her for an encore?”

  Ignoring Mooch’s comment, Tag polished off the last of his bacon as he headed down the hall toward his bedroom.

  Trammel set the Shield back down on the table, thumped Aiden on the shoulder, and dug in his pocket, emerging with his keys. “I’m gonna head to the range now. Get some solid shooting in before we start playing with Tag’s new baby.”

  Mooch waited until the front door had clicked behind Trammel and Tag was out of sight before shooting Aiden a wicked grin. “Squirrel said Tag’s score was hotter than a land to air lock.”

  Aiden ignored the comment as he collected the plates. He’d just deposited them in the sink when Mooch let loose with a long, low wolf whistle.

  “Holy Hell.” Mooch whistled again. “This gal came packing.”

  Aiden turned to find Mooch standing just outside the kitchen entry, peering into her open purse.

  “You ever heard of privacy?” Aiden asked in disgust. But then Mooch’s comment caught his attention. Packing? “She carrying concealed?”

  Mooch laughed. “Only if you consider condoms a deadly weapon.”

  Intrigued, Aidan headed over. “No shit. She’s carrying condoms?”

  “A whole damn party pack.” Mooch pulled out a driver’s license and studied it intensely. “That spiky pink hair is hotter than Kubal Ms. Demelda Barnes.”

  Aiden stopped cold on his way across the kitchen. Demi’s last name was Barnes and her hair was pink and spiky.

  A coincidence. Just a coincidence.

  But unease unfurled inside him. That was one hell of a coincidence. Demi could even be short for Demelda.

  “Let’s see where you live, Ms. Demelda.” Mooch lifted and tilted the license, then shot Aidan a smirk. “2631 Westbury Drive. Now that’s an address I need to familiarize myself with.”

  2631 Westbury.

  The address blew through Aiden’s mind like a winter storm front. Kait, his sister, lived at 2631 Westbury Drive, condo 607. And Demi lived one floor down—condo 512. He knew that with absolute certainty, because he’d paid for the place. Not that Demi realized that, or would ever realize that. Hell, Kait didn’t even know.

  He wasn’t aware of moving, but somehow he was standing beside Mooch.

  His hand was so tense it ached, as he reached for the small rectangle of plastic. With his breath frozen in his chest, Aiden forced himself to glance down. Recognition slammed into him with the driving force of an AK-47 fired at close range. His chest went icy hot and then numb.

  He smoothed his twitching thumb over the miniature glossy photograph—high cheek bones, a sharp chin attached to a heart shaped face, dark, grieving eyes beneath spikes of neon pink hair.

  Demi…

  His Demi…

  Had been Tag’s fuck the night before.

  “I should be the one to return the purse...”

  Mooch’s voice echoed with predatory intensity in Aiden’s ears.

  “Break in a couple of those condoms…give her a taste of a real man.”

  One moment Aiden was just standing there, his hand clenched around the driver’s license with such force one of the plastic edges had cut into the crease at the base of his thumb, spawning a thin, trickle of blood. The next moment he’d grabbed Mooch’s arm and jerked him around, and his clenched fist was headed for his teammate’s mouth.

  Aiden’s knuckles connected with Mooch’s jaw with the force of a cannonball. The impact snapped his teammate’s head back and sent him staggering into a wooden table which splintered beneath his weight. Already off balance, Mooch hit the floor with a crash. What was left of the table disintegrated beneath his weight. The purse plopped to the ground beside him.

  A wave of sheer pain ricocheted up Aiden’s arm and exploded into his elbow, setting off a burst of hellacious tingling. Shaking his arm and breathing hard, Aiden took a shaky step back. A vicious ache sprang up, migrating between his head and heart.

  Lying there at Aiden’s feet in stunned silence, Mooch worked his jaw a time or two, before slowly climbing to his feet.

  “What the fuck, bro?” His gaze watchful Mooch used his thumb to wipe a trickle of blood from his mouth and took a cautious step back.

  Aiden’s teeth were gritted so hard he couldn’t draw breath, let alone talk.

  Tag charged down the hall. Naked, dripping hair plastered to his head, and rivulets of water running down his chest and thighs, he skidded to a stop behind the couch. His Glock extended in a two handed grip, he swept the living room.

  By God, the asshole hadn’t managed to grab a towel, but he’d found the time to weapon up. Typical.

  When nothing dangerous presented itself, Tag lowered the Glock. He studied the splintered table, then raised his gaze to Mooch’s bloody, swelling lip. “What happened?”

  Mooch’s intense gaze never left Aiden’s face. “Your roommate’s gone schizoid.”

  “Aiden?” Tag’s voice rose. He shook his head, disbelief stamped across his face. But when he turned his attention to Aiden, whatever he saw brought a cautious frown. He shot Mooch an accusin
g glance. “What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing, bro, he just went off on me.”

  Absolutely still, Aiden fought to wrestle the rage back. It was a damn good thing his weapons were stored in the gun safe and that Tag’s new toy was under the table rubble, because the impulse was strong to take up target practice on the parts of Tag’s anatomy that should have been covered by a towel.

  “Aiden?” Tag prompted. At Aiden’s silence, he dropped his gaze to the floor and scanned the wreckage. His focus quickly locked on the black purse, with the pool of condoms and cash surrounding it. His eyebrows snapping together he turned to scowl at Mooch. “You rooted through her purse, you asshole?”

  “Fuck you,” Mooch snapped back, swiping again at the blood trickling down his chin. “I just wanted to see what she looked like.”

  “See what…” Tag checked out the purse again, before backtracking to Aiden. His gaze sharpened when it reached Aiden’s clenched fists. “What you got there, bro?”

  Battling the urge to converge on Tag and start swinging, Aiden glanced down. A sharp, reddish edge of plastic poked through the space between his thumb and forefinger.

  Demi’s license.

  He opened his fist. When the plastic rectangle didn’t budge, he shook his hand and watched it break loose and fall to the floor.

  Tag stared at the tiny image with its blast of pink hair and realization settled over his face. He glanced at Mooch. “You better go.”

  “I ain’t leaving you alone with him.”

  “He didn’t hit me,” Tag pointed out dryly.

  Cold amusement curved Aiden’s lips. He wanted to hit Tag. Every muscle in his body tightened beneath that impulse. Christ, the thought of Tag touching her, covering her—he shuddered, his fists clenching.

  “Go,” Tag said, his voice clipped. While the command was directed at Mooch, his wary gaze never left Aiden’s face.

  Mooch finally shrugged. Turning, he headed for the door. Tense silence stretched between Tag and Aiden as they listened to Mooch’s boots ring out against the tile.

  Tag waited until the door opened and closed. “You know her.”

  Aiden opened his mouth, but could only manage a low growl. Jesus Christ, he sounded like an animal.

  “Just so we’re clear,” Tag said in a slow, clear voice. “I didn’t go looking for her. She was the one looking, and I never—”

  With a feral snarl, red mist clouding his mind, Aiden stalked forward.

  Tag drove a halfhearted fist into Aiden’s belly to back him up. “God damn it, stand down and listen to me. I took her home, and we kissed, but—”

  Aiden swung, aiming for the bastard’s mouth. The asshole wouldn’t be kissing anyone for a very long time. He’d make sure of it.

  Tag blocked the blow with his elbow, and sent another fist into Aiden’s abdomen. “Son of a bitch, listen to me, you crazy motherfucker.”

  Aiden swung again, and while Tag was busy deflecting that blow he leaned in for a sharp knee to the groin, hoping to neuter the bastard.

  With a strangled hiss, Tag folded, his hands instinctively dropping and cupping to protect his genitals. “God damn it,” he bellowed, still hunched over. “I didn’t touch her, okay? I didn’t fucking touch her.”

  Breathing hard, that red mist hissing through his mind, Aiden backed up. The beast inside him demanded action, retribution, revenge, so he struck where he knew it would hurt the worst.

  “Like you didn’t touch Sarah?” he snarled. “What is it with you and poaching teammate’s girls?”

  “You don’t know a fucking thing about that,” Tag shot back. He straightened, fire crackling in his eyes. “And you should be kissing my ass. The way she was dressed, every guy in the joint was panting after her. She sure as hell didn’t act like she was your girl.”

  “She’s off limits,” Aiden roared, his voice bouncing off the walls. He stepped forward again, his fists clenched.

  Tag squared off against him, his fists rising as well. “Maybe you should tell her that? Or better yet, how about trying your luck with her instead of cockblocking when someone else goes after her?”

  Aiden’s muscles tightened to the point of pain. “Maybe you should work on getting your own love life online instead of using Demi as a substitute for Sarah.”

  Tag went rigid, his face paled. “Leave Sarah out of it.”

  Aiden smiled and drove for the kill. “Oh, I think Sarah took herself out of it when she chose Mitch over you. How does it feel knowing she’s waking up next to him right now, that they’re probably getting it—?”

  He stumbled back several steps beneath a series of vicious blows to his abdomen. Before he had a chance to recover, a right hook came out of nowhere, snapping his head back. Pain exploded in his jaw, but it was quickly followed by a tingling numbness. With a silent snarl, he launched himself forward, only to find himself jerked back. The sound of cloth ripping sounded behind him and his shirt slipped off his right shoulder.

  “What the God damn fuck! I told Mooch he was crazy when he called.” Trammel’s voice cut through the thick air like a bull horn. “Stand down, both of you.” He grabbed Aiden’s arm, jerking him back, then stepped in front of him to shove Tag back as well. “What’s wrong with you two? This kind of crap is exactly why there’s a code. You remember the code,” he snapped, disgust thickening his voice. “Bros before—” He broke off to shove Tag back again, even harder. “God damn it, don’t even think about it, I’ll lay you out good.”

  Which was enough of a threat to force Aiden back too. While Aiden’s exercise of choice was jogging, Trammel’s was boxing. The guy had a right and left hook that could knock you flat for a week. As he stepped back, he heard something crunch beneath his boot. Easing to the side he discovered a squished tube of lipstick. Next to it, Demi smiled up at him from the small plastic rectangle.

  He stooped to pick up her driver’s license, but his swollen fingers wouldn’t bend with enough dexterity to grasp the damn thing. He grabbed her purse instead and opened it wide, but before he had a chance to sweep everything inside, a brilliant glitter caught his eye. Using his throbbing forefinger, he separated a diamond ring from the wad of cash it had been partially hidden within.

  Her wedding band.

  For one long moment he crouched there, staring at the glittering object. Fourteen months ago, the last time he’d seen her, she’d still been wearing the ring on her middle finger. Yet here it was now, threaded through a thin gold chain. He wasn’t sure why the discovery of her wedding band in her purse felt like another blow to his chest. Maybe because he’d wanted to be the reason the band came off her finger, or maybe it was something much simpler—like the urgent questions the discovery raised. How long had the ring been off her finger? How often was she hiding it away while she hit the bars?

  And most important of all, just how many guys had she picked up in the past year?

  It took a few moments for his muscles to unlock and allow movement so he could sweep her belongings back into her purse, and a few more seconds to find his keys in the rubble. When he finally straightened, Trammel was still playing the buffer, a hand out-stretched toward Tag, like he was a damn street cop.

  Tag didn’t look like he was any more willing to drop the fight than Aiden was. He raised his eyebrows, pure disgust crossing his face, when he caught sight of the purse in Aiden’s hand.

  “Oh yeah, that’s brilliant, dude,” he said, his face twisting into a sneer. “Nothing like having it out with her when you’re all amped up and look like shit.”

  Aiden gritted his teeth, wishing he could claim that he hadn’t been headed over to Demi’s place, but yeah—that was exactly where he’d been going. Forcing himself to turn away, he stalked toward the front door. He sure as hell couldn’t stay here.

  “Damn it, Aiden, hold up,” Trammel said from behind him.

  Aiden kept walking. When he reached the front entrance, a hand closed over his shoulder. Fists lifting, he pivoted, watching as Trammel jumpe
d back with his hands in the air.

  “I swear to God,” Trammel snapped, irritation glittering in his dark eyes. “I’ve had it. You swing at me, and I will drop you. We clear?” He waited for Aiden’s tight nod. “Good. And Tag’s not wrong. You’re a God damn mess. At least clean up the blood, put an ice pack on that lip, and change shirts.”

  The moment the words blood and lip hit the air, his mouth started throbbing. So did his jaw. A trickle crawled down the side of his mouth. Since he couldn’t get his fingers to uncurl, he swiped at it with the back of his hand and stared at the smear of blood sprawled across his wrist. Trammel was right. He did need to clean up. But Jesus, if he ran into Tag inside…with the anger still churning at high boil on both sides…yeah, the condo might not survive another round between them. He’d be smarter to head to Kait’s place, take a shower there, and wait for his blood pressure to fall before hunting down Demi.

  He glanced down. His jeans weren’t in bad shape, just a spot or two of blood. His face and shirt had borne the brunt of the abuse. So after a long, hot shower, all he’d need was a fresh shirt.

  Lifting his head, he studied Trammel thoughtfully. They were around the same size, and the shirt Trammel was currently wearing looked clean enough.

  “You want to make yourself useful?” Aiden asked, lifting his arm and wiggling his stiff, aching fingers. “Give me your shirt.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Trammel tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, his mouth moving like he was silently counting to ten.

  “Trust me,” Aiden said grimly. “You don’t want me walking back in that room. Not if that bastard’s still in there.”

  Swearing, Trammel dragged his shirt over his head, balled it up, and fired it at Aiden’s head. “I hope to God you’re not headed off to see this girl, because Tag’s right about that too,” he said, watching Aiden snatch the shirt out of the air. “It’s a bad idea. You confront her in your current mood and she’ll never talk to you again.”

  Aiden clenched his jaw, another wave of anger rolling through him—only this time it was directed at Trammel. He’d roomed with the asshole for three years; you’d think the bastard would know him by now.