She’d taken the stool beside him and now waggled a slice of crispy peppered bacon under his nose. “Where are you from?”
“Around,” he replied, keeping it vague as he speared a small stack of pancakes. But then he added, “I was born in Miami, but I keep a post office box in Texas. That’s my official residence.” Used to be San Diego, but that’s another story. “I graduated from the school of hard knocks, but majored in sociology at the University of San Diego.” In between deployments and before murder trials...
“Navy brat,” she murmured, taking a bite off the end of that crispy treat.
Her lips closed over the slice of meat and Hotrod had to close his eyes. Everything this woman did drew him back to sex. Either it was all her, or he was still that horny.
“Just interested in group dynamics. People. What makes them tick. That’s why I went into sociology. But how about you? You said you were an agent. I’d guess either CIA or FBI. Truth or dare?”
She snapped at that crispy slice, and he grimaced, painfully aware what those straight, pearly whites could do to a treasured part of his anatomy. If she were ever to get that close.
“You’re good,” she purred. “I was FBI, but I worked an op for the Agency last year. Not doing that again. Don’t like what they expect of their agents. Moved onto something better.”
He could’ve watched her chewing and swallowing all night. “Like what?” he asked, his voice a mere whisper. His eyes on her luscious lips and mouth. The suggestive tease of her tongue on the end of that salty slice of meat.
“Ever hear of a covert surveillance company called The TEAM, out of Alexandria, Virginia? Alex Stewart? He’s former USMC and owns that company. It’s one of the best on the East Coast, may even be the best in the States. I needed a break, so I quit the federal circuit and signed on with him last month.”
Hotrod cocked his head, finally understanding why this bungalow didn’t feel lived in. “So you’re on vacation? This place isn’t yours?”
Snap went another inch of that crispy bacon.
“Oh, it’s mine, all right. I bought it on a whim last month, but just arrived yesterday. Needed time to decompress.”
“Oh? Why?” They had yet to touch the cantaloupe.
She shrugged. “Can’t do the deep, dark infils the Agency wants anymore. Not like I worked for them to begin with. Uh uh. No, sir. I was FBI until my boss loaned me to the CIA, just because I look Spanish.” She stabbed air quotes around the bacon hanging off her lip and mumbled, “Me. A second-generation Iranian immigrant. I look Spanish. Do you believe that?”
That answered another question. “Your mother?” he guessed.
She nodded. “Yes, Mom was one of the Iranian scientists who handled mustard gas canisters during the Iran-Iraq War back in the ’80s. Do you remember that? When Israel caught wind of the attack, they bombed the weapons depot where Mom worked. No gas canisters were damaged, but she took advantage of the chaos to escape. She still won’t say how she got out of Iran.”
“Because she’s protecting her friends.”
Persia’s head bobbed. “I realize that. Anyway, I’m Iranian on Mom’s side, American on Dad’s. They still live in Mississippi.”
That surprised Hotrod. “Not working for the American government?” Usually the USA grabbed up foreign scientists.
“No. Not for Uncle Sam. Dad had just bought a rundown tobacco plantation before they met. She helped him change it from a derelict dump to one of the county’s most productive farms. They grow cotton now. They met at a baseball game, do you believe that? An Iranian scientist falls in love with a cotton farmer over baseball? Sounds like a fairytale, but I swear it’s true.”
“The American dream,” Hotrod whispered.
“I guess.” She huffed, blowing a silky ribbon of dark hair out of her eyes. “Anyway... My last job in Brazil damn near killed my heart. Too many kids involved. I hate when children get hurt. Still messes with my head. Makes it hard to remember why I was really there. You know? Part of me turns into a raging beast thinking about it. I wanted to kill anyone who touched them and save every last child. Only I couldn’t. I didn’t.”
Brazil? That cut a little too close to home. Hotrod had just been undercover in the Highlands of Minas Gerais, Brazil, along with his US Army Ranger buddy, Gregor, aka ‘Charlie Brown’ Jorgensen, Special Agent Julio Juarez, and another damned cocky female, one-time US Army Corporal Duncan. Meg. She’d planned on adopting an entire orphanage of unwanted children the last time Hotrod saw her. She and Juarez were instrumental in ending Orlando Zapata’s bloodthirsty reign. They’d done the impossible. Saved a hand full of orphans in the process.
Hotrod had to know. “Where in Brazil?”
“Highlands of Minas Gerais.” Oh, shit. And then it got worse. “Ever hear of Domingo Zapata? His brother Orlando?”
Hotrod’s heart all but stopped at the uncanny coincidence that Persia had been precisely where he’d been only weeks earlier. “I’ve heard of them. What’d you do? End the sons of bitches?”
He already knew different. She might have ended Domingo, but it was Julio Juarez who’d ended Orlando. Aka Oz, the dirtbag. With a freakin’ two-fer. In Hotrod’s mind, Julio was a straight-up hero. He’d lined up his shot to blow several diesel gas pumps, but when Orlando stepped in the way, Julio had taken down two birds with one stone, Oz and the pumps. Actually, Julio had taken down every last soldier in Oz’s army, plus a couple Russian spies, with the ensuing explosion caused by that single shot. Zapata’s gravel pit and gold mine were still burning. Juarez was a god.
“I wish,” Persia murmured, her eyes gone flat and her gaze a thousand miles away. “But, no. My mission was only to infiltrate and keep eyes on Domingo. To pass intel back to Washington, DC. Wish I could’ve killed him, but that honor belongs to my buddy, Julio Juarez. Man, I adore that Mexican stud, but he’s married, and he’s in love with his wife.”
Hotrod stifled another grimace. She knew Julio, too. Shit.
“But when he and Meg ended that rat bastard, I had to go back to DC. Domingo thought he was one badassed man, but he was wrong. Julio is. There’s nothing stronger than love, and Julio proved it in spades that day.”
Hotrod cocked his head, not sure who else Julio loved, other than Meg. That had been obvious since day one. Had he married her then? Was she the wife Persia mentioned? “So Domingo kidnapped Meg?”
Which was Domingo’s standard operating procedure. Kidnap a woman, then subject her to all manner of heinous tortures. In the end, they all died the same, with Domingo painting his ugly face with their blood.
“Nah. Meg was hurt, but she didn’t need saving. She can take care of herself. But yeah, Julio was there to rescue Dominic. Do you believe Domingo was his father?” Persia flicked her fingertips dismissively. “Least, that rat bastard was the sperm donor.”
Hotrod listened more intently. Julio rescued Domingo’s kid? Unbelievable. “Really?”
Persia kept talking. “Yeah. Really. You see, Domingo kidnapped Julio’s wife and kid, I think his name was Tomas. Poor Julio went out of his ever-loving mind, searching five years for his wife and that little boy. He finally gets them back, but Tomas isn’t a baby anymore. He wasn’t even the same kid. He was messed up, you know?”
She’d captured one long, silky black tangle with her finger by then, and kept pulling at it, as if she could straighten the curl. “He died after all he suffered in Domingo’s bunkers. But once Julio turned up in Brazil to rescue Meg and her orphanage, he ended up fighting tooth and nail to save Domingo’s kid from his old man.” Again Persia asked, “Do you believe that guy? Saving the son of the creep who’d killed his own boy? Guy’s got big, brass cojones.”
No. Hotrod couldn’t believe the kind of hero Julio was, nor all he’d suffered. “Juarez sounds like a good man, but did he rescue his wife? Or was she…?” He hated to think Domingo had hurt Julio’s wife as much as he’d hurt Tomas.
“Nah. Turned out
Domingo didn’t kidnap Bianca or Tomas like Julio thought. She went willingly, the cow. Guess she was into full body tats, sharpened teeth, and” —Persia shivered—“Who knows what else? She deserted her little son. That I know for damned sure. I was there. I watched how she walked away from Tomas. I heard him screaming and crying for her.”
Jesus Christ. Hotrod hadn’t known that, either. He couldn’t imagine any woman tossing her son to a beast like Domingo. Bile climbed up his throat.
Persia had turned into a flowing fountain of information. “Julio did go after Domingo, and he did save Domingo’s little boy, though. Long story, short. Meg shot most all of Domingo’s guards, but it was Julio who finished what Meg started. He’s the guy who put a bullet in the middle of Domingo’s ugly face. Julio, Meg, and Dominic are now living happily-ever-after outside Big Springs, Texas, not far from her parents’ ranch. You both live in the same state now. You ought to stop by and introduce yourself next time you’re home.”
Yeah, not going to happen. Not because Julio didn’t deserve the recognition, but because he already knew precisely who Hotrod was. But knowing Julio was finally safe back in America, and that he’d married Meg Duncan? That he’d saved that skinny little Dominic, whom Meg loved so hard? Best news ever.
Only now, Hotrod also knew Persia was a trained undercover specialist, and a damned good operator if she’d been inside Domingo Zapata’s lair. She was smart, no doubt smarter than Hotrod. For tonight, that was who he was, but come morning, she would’ve had time to think. She might’ve put two and two together by then, and come up with one escaped convict. A murderer.
Instead of talking or asking more questions, he filled his mouth with pancakes slathered in marmalade and murmured, “Mmmm.”
Yup. Definitely time to leave.
Chapter Six
She woke up with a start. Shivering when it wasn’t cold or chilly. Alone in her bed.
Wide-eyed, Persia lifted to her elbows. Her gaze shot straight to her nightstand where… Thank God! Her handgun was still where Hotrod had left it. Bless his heart. The Smith and Wesson Bodyguard, .380 auto, her favorite personal weapon. Not TEAM issue, true, but bikini bottoms weren’t stout enough gun belts for the man-sized SIG Sauer P226 she wore when on active duty. The Bodyguard was easier to hide—or sit on.
Jerking back the light woven bed cover she and Hotrod had slept beneath, the sweet musky scent of his male body lingered. On her sheets. On her fingertips.
Struggling against the silence, she cocked her head, hoping for the slightest indication he might be in the kitchen, maybe the shower. Anywhere within the confines of these four walls. Her nostrils tested the air for the slightest hint of Arabica beans or buttered toast or freshly squeezed juice. He’d make breakfast before he said goodbye, wouldn’t he?
Shaken to her core at how foolish she’d been, Persia slid out of bed and put her bare feet to the floor. Damn it. His gear bag was gone.
She grabbed her light, summer robe off the hook near her bedroom door and ran through her home-away-from-home, her heart stuck high in her chest. He wouldn’t just leave, would he? He couldn’t. Not after the way he’d made sweet, slow love to every inch of her body last night. He’d been so gentle. So tender.
And she’d been so damned stupid! There was no one in her bungalow or on the beach. Or in the kitchen. Or anywhere that she could see. Only sand. Hotrod had really left her.
The old-fashioned ringtone of a rotary phone from forever ago jangled from her cell. That tone was particular to Alex Stewart, her new boss. Him calling meant this two-week vacation between the end of her FBI career and her new life as a security specialist for The TEAM in Alexandra, Virginia, was over before it’d even started. He needed her. She’d have to go.
Persia let the damned thing ring. Hotrod couldn’t have just walked away, could he? Her heart refused to believe. He’d seemed so kind and sincere and—broken. They’d shared something last night. Hadn’t they? She’d thought so.
The rotary ringtone ceased, only to commence again. Ring. Ring. Ring.
She should answer. After all, she was the one who’d sought Stewart. That last undercover gig in Minas Gerais, Brazil, had proven too brutal for her. Then, as if all she’d been through there meant nothing, the Bureau wanted to loan her to the CIA again, for yet another undercover narc operation. One where she would have gone into Iran, the country of her ancestors, as an undercover spy. She would’ve had to cozy up to the latest ayatollah. Not only no, but hell no. That guy was a pedophile and a liar, not a prophet.
Didn’t the CIA have anyone else brave enough or dumb enough to waltz into Iran for them? Persia was beginning to feel expendable, as if dying was the least she could do for her country. She, on the other hand, thought she was a unique asset. Yes, her Middle Eastern looks gave her an inside advantage, but she’d seen enough beheadings in her short career to know that was not how she’d intended to serve.
Persia simply hadn’t the nerve or heart to go undercover again, not so soon after what she’d seen in Brazil. In the course of infiltrating Domingo Zapata’s lair, she’d done things that still haunted her. Plus, she’d done them alone.
Her mark, Domingo Zapata, the ruthless killer of men, women, and children, could’ve easily ordered her execution with one snap of his blood-stained, stubby fingers. Instead, she’d stood by while he’d imprisoned innocent women and children in his bunker, all to gain his trust, to become part of his inner circle. Not like she could’ve stopped him. The monster had guards everywhere, all as ugly and evil as him.
Then along came Special Agent Juarez. While she’d been busy blending in, he’d stormed the bunker and ended the son of a bitch, once and for all. The worst part was that he’d had to go into that bunker twice. Two years earlier to save his son. The last time, ironically, to save Zapata’s son.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Persia glanced back through her home to her bedroom and the mussed bed, where she was pretty sure she’d slept soundly for the first time in months. Last night. Without a bottle of whiskey. With Hotrod instead. With his strong arms wrapped around her like steel ribbons on a Christmas present. With her head tucked under his chin. With her hands on his chest, her thumb in that narrow canyon between his pecs, and his warm, cinna-minty breath in her face. Listening to the steady, sure beat of his heart.
For the first time in she couldn’t remember how long, she hadn’t woken up screaming. She hadn’t even been drunk when she’d gone to bed, either. Which was annoyingly interesting. Yet the jerk had screwed her, then ditched her. Hotrod hadn’t enough class to say goodbye. Just slam, bam, not even thank-you ma’am.
That hurt. Persia swallowed hard, wishing she weren’t such an easy lay. But knowing, deep down, if she had another chance to be with Hotrod, she’d do it again. Like that would ever happen.
She swiped a finger under her runny nose, not going to cry over spilled milk, damn it. That rat bastard must’ve gotten up extra early. It wasn’t even five in the morning. It was late spring, nearly summer, but the sun had just broken through the East. What’d he do, swim back to Cuba in the dark?
The phone just kept ringing!
Persia marched back to her kitchen counter, where there was no freshly made coffee, warm, buttered toast, or icy cold OJ. Not even a hint that Hotrod had ever been in her home. Man, she was stupid!
Picking her phone off the charger, she snapped at her new boss, “What?”
Alex Stewart snapped right back at her, “When can you get back?”
“I’m on vacation. Two weeks, remember?” she reminded him tersely, her gaze on the breakers pounding her beach and the gulls caught in the breeze overhead. How damned idyllic. Looked like it was shaping up to be another freakin’ day in paradise.
“Vacation’s canceled. Now, I’ll ask again. When can you get here?”
Her eyes watered at the level of snark in his tone. If she’d been in Brazil, if he’d been Zapata, she would’ve handed that snark right back t
o him. Domingo would’ve respected her then.
But Alex wasn’t anything like the Zapata brothers. He was decent and fair. Yes, he was OCD about his people, and he had one helluva nasty temper when riled, but she respected him and the work he did. There wasn’t another company like his band of former snipers, The TEAM, anywhere in the States. They got things done, and many times, they did it for free—just because they really were the good guys.
She needed a damned break from all the federal alphabet agencies she’d worked for these past few years. Besides, The TEAM had a solid reputation, and oh, yeah, Alex paid one helluva lot more than Uncle Sam.
“I can be on a jet by noon,” she replied more calmly. Then she added with a touch of sarcasm, “Unless you need me sooner.”
“Be at US Naval Air Station by eight. I’m sending a chopper. Need you now.”
She wanted to ask how he could possibly need her, his newest agent, but he’d disconnected the call. He’d hung up. But hey, that was Alex for you. Badassed. Hard-charging. One of those absolute alpha males all the way. Damn him and damn Hotrod What’s-His-Name!
Angry and fed up with the world of men—all men!—Persia cocked her arm, meaning to fastball her phone into the wall, or out the door and all the way to Hell! But she saw it then. The tiniest piece of paper. Stuck in the edge of her front door jamb.
All it said was, “Later.” Oh, that was real sweet. Downright precious, if you were dumb enough to believe anything the guy who’d run out on you said. Which she wasn’t.
“Fuck you,” Persia hissed at the only man she’d ever allowed inside her bungalow and her heart. She didn’t need Hotrod or anyone else. She had a job to do. Good riddance!
Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21) Page 5