by Juno Rushdan
Her pink lips parted with a startled breath and her fingers curled in his wet shirt, breasts pressed to his abdomen, nipples peaked. For the first time in his life, he didn’t give a flying fuck about making a mistake.
He leaned in as he brought her up onto the balls of her feet and indulged his craving for her, pressing his mouth to hers. The kiss wasn’t soft or exploratory, no thought, no will. Only a driving compulsion. Pure possession.
Then she kissed him back, throwing her arms around his neck, opening her mouth to let his tongue slide over hers. It was like a lit match hitting napalm.
The electric shockwave over his nerves blew him away, making his pulse race and body tighten. Reason dissolved into oblivion, and nothing else mattered.
He drove her backward against the hood of the car with his full weight, claiming her mouth with an intensity he had never expected. The taste of her was sweeter than he had imagined, and he plunged deeper.
She sank into the kiss, her body welded to his, but he couldn’t draw her close enough to ease the building ache.
Blood thundered through his veins the same as it did in a gunfight, or tracking tangos in the mountainsides of Afghanistan, or in the middle of a covert raid.
This time, she was the rush.
Their legs tangled, pelvis to pelvis, and he let her feel the swollen ridge of his erection. She shuddered, arching into him, sucking his tongue.
He clasped the tender nape of her neck and slid his other hand down, cupping the cool, lush curve of her ass that was bare apart from her thong. Her skin was delicate and soft under his fingertips. He relished the feel of her, how she tasted of sex and sin, as his mind raged. She was the worst kind of trouble.
A low purr of satisfaction rumbled deep in her throat and she hitched herself up higher. He drank in the sound, forgetting the wet and cold. There was only this potent heat, burning him up with need. He rubbed himself against the softness between her thighs, wanting more than their mouths could deliver.
Right as she spread her legs wider, accommodating the width of his frame, and palmed the erection straining against his zipper, he broke off at last. If he kept going and got in any deeper—when this went to hell in a handbasket—she was going to be the end of his career.
Their chests heaved, their ragged breaths sawing in and out.
She licked her lips, staying riveted to him.
Fighting with Kit stirred his blood. But kissing her flooded him with raw, naked emotion that seemed mirrored on her face. Aroused. Overexposed. Ready for more.
“You’re not just a POI. I give a damn about you.” He’d crossed the line from professional to personal—a fine, deadly line, not unlike the wire of a garrote. He suspected that had happened the second he’d let her into his home, against Sanborn’s advice. “You’re not alone. You’ve got me.” The intimate tone edging his voice betrayed him on a different level, implying something beyond physical attraction and comfort. For shit’s sake, what kind of cupcake was he turning into? “Feel better?”
“Yes.” She caressed his mouth with the pad of her thumb, making his groin tingle.
“No more plans to run.”
He was one of the most formidable men he knew—not that he was boasting, but with her pressed against him, every curve on display through the thin, wet dress… If their lips touched, tongues tangling in need again, he wouldn’t have the strength to stop.
“Agreed.” She nodded. “But no more ultimatums. No threats. They send me straight into rebellion mode. If you’re really with me, then you’re with me until the end of this.”
His father had been the king of ultimatums. Castle was ashamed he’d resorted to the same tactic. That wasn’t the type of man he aspired to be. Kit was swimming against a dark tide. The wrong swell would pull her under and she’d drown in this shitstorm. For her to make it through, she had to trust him—a man who represented everything she feared.
“Okay,” he said.
“I’m sorry for not telling you why we were going to my apartment. I thought you would’ve shut me down. I couldn’t risk it.”
He would’ve shut her down cold. As a naive civilian, she had no clue the degree of danger they had been walking into. She was desperate to survive on her own terms and he got that. Respected it. Admired it even.
He let her go and held out his palm. “Passport.”
She gave him a death stare. “No. I’m not giving up my passport.”
His heart raced as he geared up for another fight. Why did she have to challenge him at every turn?
Lucky for him, Castle had never been able to resist a challenge. “If you don’t plan to run, you don’t need to hang on to it.”
“That’s not the point and I think you know it.”
She needed to feel as though she had some control, that they were a team instead of her being a hostage.
“Trust is a two-way street, Kit-Kat. I’ll let you hang on to the passport that you have no intention of using, and you do something for me in return.”
Confusion crossed her face, followed by suspicion. Her chin tipped high in defiance, but she said, “Okay. What?”
He walked over to the four-by-six-foot storage unit built into the wall of the garage and entered a code. A beep resounded, then the double doors opened. She gasped at the sight of his emergency weapons stash, but that was not what he was after. He took out a small gunmetal-gray case, flipped it open, and removed the bio-injector gun. “GPS microchip. Smaller than a Tic Tac.”
“And what do you plan to do with that?”
“Two-way street, remember?” He’d planted a tracker in her jacket and messenger bag without her knowledge, but now they were at a crossroads of trust. Whether or not she’d willingly accept one would speak volumes about which direction they were headed. “I could use this on you forcibly, but I won’t. Only with your consent.”
Perhaps it was that he’d asked rather than demanded. Perhaps it was that he’d accepted the intense attraction burning between them, regardless of the consequences coming down the pike. He wasn’t sure which change had done it, but for once, she didn’t fight him.
“Will it hurt?”
“You’ll feel a slight pinch for a second. There’s a local anesthetic that’ll block the nerve signals to the area.”
“Where do you want to stick me?” Her lips curved into a sexy half grin.
He enjoyed her flirty nature too damn much. It was an effort not to get sidetracked around her. “Anywhere will work, but I’d suggest someplace meaty. Your hip.”
She lifted the hem of her dress, revealing a dangerous amount of skin and more feminine curves than necessary.
Gripping her waist, his thumb found the band of her lacy thong, and his palm tingled with an almost painful awareness. Her skin was moist and cool, so soft a terrible yearning tightened in his groin.
She relaxed against him, the tension in her muscles surrendering to his touch. The invitation to explore her was unbelievably erotic. He let his fingers glide across the sweet line of her high, round ass and his mouth watered to taste her.
“Are you going to give it to me, big boy?” She wiggled her all but bare bottom, making thoughts of precisely what he wanted to give to her, do with her, fire in his brain and crackle through his body.
She was teasing him but had no idea how close he was to the edge of losing control.
He pressed the barrel to her hip and pulled the trigger, inserting the microchip. She gave a little yelp. Castle rubbed the tiny red spot, and when she threw him a naughty smile, he let his hand roam freely over her tight, silky-soft bottom. Hunger, savage and possessive, surged inside him. He drew her closer. Their bodies brushed, hips, belly, thighs.
That smile of hers widened, brightened. And so did his world.
The mission, he reminded himself, his stomach muscles tensing. The mission first. “We’ve got to get a
move on.” His voice was low and rough with need.
“Upstairs to your room?” Her eyes gleamed with an irresistible playfulness.
It pained him to stop touching her, but he forced himself to drop his hands. “Not together.” Not tonight, anyway.
Sighing, she lowered her dress. “I really need to up my irresistibility quotient.”
“Believe me, you don’t. If your quotient were any higher, I’d burst a blood vessel.” Being this close to her took hold of his sanity and tore it to shreds. If there wasn’t a terrorist attack pending, with lives on the line, nothing would’ve stopped him from whisking her into his arms and carrying her straight up to his bed. He’d kiss her until neither of them could breathe, make love to her until neither of them could remember why it was a mistake. “Take a warm shower while I dry your clothes. Then we’re going to get those hard drives.”
“All right.” Face pale except for the flush on her cheeks and the rosy-pink hue of her lips from kissing, she looked certain, resigned.
Maybe this truce might be real. The third time was the charm, right? But he wasn’t letting his guard down again until he had those hard drives in his possession.
“Where are they?” he asked.
Without prevaricating, none of the hemming and hawing he’d expected, she said, “I mailed them to someone who doesn’t have a direct connection to me. An old professor of my brother’s.”
“What’s his name and where does he live?”
20
Washington, DC
10:40 p.m. EDT
“Run a search for Saturday between four and five p.m. and tell me what packages were mailed,” Bravo said, pressing the tip of the suppressor to the back of the lone FedEx clerk’s head.
Katherine Westcott knew someone was deep-sea-fishing in cyberspace for her and never would’ve used her real name, knowing it’d pop up like a four-hundred-pound blue marlin. But the surveillance footage was timestamped. No way to cover those tracks with her limited resources.
“Why is this happening to me again?” Shaky fingers clacked across the keyboard. “Two packages went out between those times. One from a Thomas Potter to Ruth Giles in Ohio. The other from Knight Industries Two Thousand.”
“That must be it.” Bravo nudged the clerk’s skull as his mind homed in on the first letters of each word: KITT. Clever woman. “Where was it mailed?”
“Massachusetts Institute of Technology.” The middle-aged man hyperventilated, quivering from head to toe. “EECS Department. Attention Professor Lenny Mendoza.”
“When is it scheduled to be delivered?” Bravo asked.
“Tomorrow.” The clerk sniffled pathetically. “No later than nine a.m.” He looked ready to come apart at the first boo. “Why do you people keep pointing guns at my head over this package?”
Everything inside Bravo stilled. “Someone else came in asking the same thing?”
Charlie and Echo both perked up.
Holding his hands up in the air, the clerk’s glassy-eyed gaze darted over his shoulder to Bravo. “That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”
There was another team on this. But whose? The wheels in his head started spinning. “How many of them were there?”
“Ten. A short, stocky man was in charge. They cleared the place out.”
“Who were they?” Bravo asked.
“How am I supposed to know?” The clerk shuddered, his voice choking. “They…they didn’t leave a business card. Who are you? So I can tell the next group of scary thugs who come in asking questions.”
Bravo cracked the butt of his gun across the back of the clerk’s head, rendering him unconscious. The man collapsed in such a wretched heap on the carpet, Bravo almost felt pity for him.
“Ten? They’re rolling heavy,” Echo said. “Too bad we’re down a guy.”
“We have to get to Mendoza first.” Bravo tucked his gun in his shoulder rig. “We’ll try to snatch him at home before he goes to campus.”
“Who else do you think is tracking her?” Charlie asked, unlocking the front door.
Bravo pushed his glasses up along the bridge of his nose. “I suspect we’ll find out soon enough in Cambridge.”
21
Dulles International Airport
Monday, 5:20 a.m. EDT
The first signs of early morning were breaking through in the east, lightening the indigo sky.
Sierra rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck as the Gulfstream touched down on the dark tarmac. A black Suburban waited a hundred feet from the hangar, out of the airport cameras’ line of sight.
The bird slowed, coming to a smooth stop near their vehicle. The team sprang into action without exchanging a word. A clear objective and years of working fluidly side by side enabled them to go into autopilot at this stage.
She collected a black leather duffel bag in each hand and led the way off the aircraft.
During the flight, they’d rotated keeping watch over their quarry, allowing everyone a chance to eat in peace and snooze a few hours without worry.
Sucking in a lungful of fresh air, she was invigorated and ready to tackle the next phase.
Her husband, Yankee, was behind her and had Yosef Khan by the elbow, hauling him down the steps. The relative still of dawn was shattered by the clanking of Khan’s shackles. Wrist and ankle restraints had been necessary for the flight, not giving their captive the slightest opportunity to take advantage if someone’s guard slipped while they were locked in a tin can thirty thousand feet in the air.
She threw the bags in the trunk, leaving it open for Whiskey and Victor, who each carried half their body weight in weaponry. The private plane had been costly but invaluable for smuggling their gear and Khan past customs.
They had no intention of hiding the fact that the ISIS-linked terrorist was on American soil. On the contrary, they wanted the world to know. But on their terms.
Sierra took out her burner phone and sent the planned text.
ZULU homecoming. Dressed for prom.
They were an hour behind schedule and she wasn’t sure if she’d get a response, but the phone chimed with a text.
Decorations are up. Music is playing.
All the pieces were in place. She slapped the burner phone closed.
Flip phones were harder to trace. No GPS module, no data plan required, and the only way to track it was to see which tower it was connected to. Add an encrypted mobile app and their communications were invisible.
Whiskey slammed the trunk door shut. They were loaded up and ready to rock. She nodded to Yankee, giving him the signal. As Yankee removed Khan’s blindfold and restraints, Victor drew his .45-caliber Heckler & Koch HK45 Tactical handgun, threaded on a suppressor, and added a front laser sight.
“Please walk to within ten feet of the left side of the open bay, cross the front of the hangar to the right side, and walk back,” Yankee said.
Khan laughed, a coarse sound that held no joy in it. “Why would I do that?”
“Because he asked so nicely,” Sierra said, drawing his attention. “Unless you’d prefer rough.”
Khan’s gaze flicked back to her husband. “What’s to stop me from running?”
“He is.” Yankee pointed to Victor, the team’s sniper and best shot. “Fifteen rounds on tap.”
“You don’t want me dead,” Khan said. “I’ve surmised that much.”
Yankee’s hard expression didn’t change. “No, we don’t.”
Not yet, anyway. Khan’s days were numbered. Down to three.
“One bullet to the back of your knee will do a hell of a job at stopping you,” Yankee added. “Without killing you. Pretty painful.”
Khan’s weary eyes darted around in vain as if trying to think of a way around compliance.
Not that they wanted to risk firing a weapon, even suppressed, at the airpo
rt. If Khan had been well-rested and fed, that razor-sharp mind of his in good working order, he would’ve stood a chance.
They preferred his current state. Exhausted. Starved. Dehydrated. Brains like scrambled eggs. On the flight, he’d been forced to wear headphones that had blared heavy metal rock music for twelve hours straight and been denied food or water.
Khan might’ve been a mastermind for the largest, nastiest terrorist organization in the world, but he wasn’t an operative like every member of her team, trained to endure and resist enhanced interrogation—a pretty euphemism for systematic torture such as waterboarding, sexual humiliation, confinement in coffin-like boxes, sensory overload, brutalization.
He came from a world of opulence and privilege, devoid of consequences, and had been incapable of considering he might one day need to shore himself up in the event of capture. At his core, he was squishy-soft.
“Do as we’ve asked,” Yankee said in a soothing tone, “and you can have water, food, sleep. Maybe even a hot shower.”
Khan’s eyes misted over. The man was one turkey sandwich away from cracking. “Okay.” He nodded and began walking, following the instructions to the letter.
Victor tracked him the entire time, red laser dot from his gun sighted on the back of Khan’s knee.
Yankee pressed a hand to his side and drew a deep breath. A flash of pain crossed his face, setting Sierra’s teeth on edge. The agonized grimace happened so quickly, if she had blinked, she would’ve missed it. His bruised ribs had turned out to be fractured. Not a devastating break that could’ve punctured a lung or a kidney. He needed to rest a few weeks at least, but their work here for the next phase was just beginning.
As Khan crossed the open hangar bay, he was captured on three active surveillance cameras.
Sierra marked the time on her watch and the countdown began.
22
Massachusetts Turnpike