by Amy Jarecki
She brushed off her jeans, making clouds of red powder billow around her. “Yeah, it’s kinda like fending off heavy fire from a foxhole in Afghanistan.”
“Been there.”
“So,” she said, retrieving her rifle from the bed. “We shoot a few rounds and then you’ll leave me alone?”
Mike retrieved his gun from the floor. “That’s the deal. At least today.” He mightn’t have convinced her to join ICE but, in his book, he’d just earned a victory, and that was far more than he’d accomplished yesterday.
The fourth rule of war? Success will be achieved only through one blood-shedding battle at a time.
***
Henri didn’t know why she’d agreed to target practice—aside from being locked in a choke hold by a man who looked like a descendant of Eric the Bloodaxe, a Viking who pillaged Scotland in the Middle Ages. Rose had to be at least 6’3” and as solid as a mountain of granite. And his crystal-blue eyes were too damned disarming. How was a girl supposed to fight a guy who attacked like a linebacker with Chris Pine eyes?
On top of all that, maybe she’d backed down because she needed a diversion from nearly being buried in the mine right before she walked in on Rose. Not only was she shaken down to her boots from the cave-in, she’d been covered in rocks and dirt clear up to her waist. Another foot and she wouldn’t have had such an easy time clawing herself out. And she’d bet her savings the intelligence consultant wouldn’t have ventured down the mine shaft to lend a hand. Worse, God only knew how long it would take to shovel out the debris just to get back where she’d started that morning.
She was already mad, then finding Rose looking at Grandfather’s map had set her blood to boiling. Henri should have shot him, not agree to shoot with him.
Maybe she’d gone along with it because she needed him to stop pressing that delicious male body against hers. Yeah, she might be angry, she might be resentful, but she was still a woman. Rose had scared the shit out of her—not because he was in her pad, but because of her own startling, nothing-short-of sizzling response. After two years in the pen and three months in isolation at the mine, Henri was no longer used to big, muscular, masculine bodies being in such close proximity. No longer used to breathing in spicy male scent. No longer impervious to sparring with hot, brawny dudes. Christ, her knees had even wobbled. And, oh, how the man could fight. He was a pro all the way. Made being a member of Delta Force look like being a Boy Scout. She’d given him everything she had and he’d just toyed with her. He’d backed her against the wall and pinned her there with...God! He had muscles where no one else on the planet had sinew.
And she wasn’t about to let herself think about sex or the rock-hard piece of anatomy that made men so...
No!
Mike Rose had needed to get the heck off her just so she could think.
In truth, Henri should be madder than a mama bear defending her cubs from a hunter. Come to think of it, now the oxygen was once again flowing to her brain, she was good and pissed. How dare this arrogant, Scottish bastard break into her pad and poke around as if he had a warrant? As if he had a right to look at her personal effects?
After they’d climbed to the top of the ridge above the mine, Rose pointed to a Joshua tree about four hundred meters out. “Let’s start with that spindly old thing. It looks like something out of Dr. Seuss.”
“The Joshua tree or the leaves?” she asked, cocking her head and looking at it critically, fairly certain that Rose’s eyesight wasn’t as sharp. Grandfather had named her Soaring-Eagle for a reason, which had everything to do with her 20/7.5 vision.
The Scot gave her a sideways glance. “I’ll take the clump on the right.”
“Suit yourself.” She swung an exaggerated gesture with her palm. “This was your idea. You go first.”
He winked with a cocky grin, raising the Remington to his shoulder. “This isn’t a Win Mag, but the best I could do without putting in a special order at the local store.”
Snorting, she crossed her arms. “Now you’re making excuses.”
“Bloody, smartarse Yank,” he mumbled under his breath.
Yeah, try to charm me with your brogue, dude.
The problem? No matter how much she wanted to resist, he was too damned charming and she suspected he knew it. What guy who looked like Rose didn’t? That’s why they were all bad news.
Henri watched him fire off four solid rounds, each one hitting its mark and devastating the poor Joshua tree’s branch. A yucca unique to the Mohave, Henri wasn’t overly excited about damaging a gift from Mother Earth. Regardless, Rose proved that, if nothing else, he was an adequate marksman who’d be an asset in a Delta Force shit-storm.
He turned to her with a grin, making her stomach spring into calisthenics. Caught off guard, she snapped her gaze to the ground. Jeez, she couldn’t take those damned electric-blue eyes. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
She flicked her hand at his face. “Like that—grinning as if you’re planning to seduce me into doing whatever it is you want me to do.”
“That could be arranged, lass.” Dammit if his smile didn’t get bigger, the ass. But then he snorted and shook his head like the hot guy routine was all a joke. “Go on. Let’s see what you’ve got, ace.”
She pulled her Win Mag off her shoulder. “Tell you what. Four leaves. Joshuas are fragile.”
“Leaves? From here? No one would be able to make them out, let alone shoot them.”
“Right.” She raised the gun to her shoulder and peered through the scope. This guy might have read her file, but he’d never been in combat with her.
The tips of Henri’s fingers tingled as she honed her senses. Before she ever took a shot, she became one with her rifle. As she breathed, her weapon breathed. The breeze, every gust of wind affected her the same as it did the steel molding into her grip. In Henri’s hands, her rifle was an extension of her arm; another appendage honed and trained for precision.
She flicked off the safety and pulled back the charging handle. Her heart fluttered with the sound of a sleek, hollow-point, copper cartridge slipping into the chamber ready to dance.
The caress of the trigger always brought the same shot of adrenalin. Time slowed. Her breathing became steady. Henri could even hear her heartbeat echo in the barrel. When she blinked, it happened at the pace of a desert tortoise. She eyed the first long, spiked leaf. Her finger closed in.
Crack, crack, crack, crack. Before she blinked, she shot through four leaves.
Lowering her rifle, she gave Rose a grin of her own.
His brow pinched, he looked at the Joshua then back at her. “Did you?”
“Can’t see worth shit, can you?”
“I don’t have a scope.”
Groaning, she rolled her eyes again. Guys never believed a chick could shoot until they had their faces shoved in the evidence. “Come.”
Henri led him to the tree and gestured to the frond Rose had obliterated. “Here’s your handiwork—managed to ravage the poor tree. Do you have any idea how long it takes a Joshua to grow? That one would have taken about sixty years to attain such spindly-old glory.” Not waiting for Rose’s response, she pointed to each of four leaves, elegantly pierced with individual bullet holes. “One, two, three, and four. And the tree will live.”
The man raked his fingers through his tangle of auburn hair. “Holy smokes.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean, I’ve never seen shooting like that and I’ve been around the block a few dozen times.”
She shrugged. “Yeah, well Fadli must be pretty impressive, especially if he made everyone think the ambassador’s murder was my work.”
“Too right, and that bastard’s still out there.”
Henri’s stomach squeezed. She didn’t want to admit it to Rose, but ever since Lindgren had visited her with the news, dreams had crept into her mind about facing the man responsible for sending her to the pen. She wanted to nail him. Bad. She just didn�
��t want to kiss anyone’s ass along the way.
Mike arched his eyebrow and gave her a look as if he knew what she was thinking. Before he said anything, he let a pause dangle in the air. The space between them swelled as if electrically charged, but Henri wasn’t about to be the first to move, to speak or even blink.
“Your talent is going to waste,” he said point blank without the sales pitch.
Her shoulders tensed. She’d expected more charm, more dancing around the issue. Rose just laid it out there. And Henri was not fool. Her life was going to waste—but, didn’t a girl deserve a chance to lay low and nurse her wounds for a while? “No one bothers me here.”
“I’ll give you that. And I’d wager your contact with the world is all but nil.”
She shifted back, refusing to allow any emotion to show on her face. But Rose was right. Isolating herself from the world had become her way of coping. Jeez, she hadn’t even seen a news headline in three months. Did she want to find Fadli and introduce him to the fires of hell? God, yes. But on her terms.
Was she ready to leave the mine and let an organized mob of military zealots tell her what to do?
No. Fucking. Way.
Mike sucked in a breath like he was about to say something, but Henri held up her palm and jumped in first. “I’ll tell you right now. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Even with Omar Fadli out there plotting his next target? Maybe he’ll hit the western US next—figure out a way to pin it on you.”
“Shut up.” She was still recovering from the last time that bastard had ruined her hopes, her entire military career, her life—even if she did dream of lodging a bullet between his eyes. “I like it here. I have everything I need. No one bothers me.”
The Scot gave a nod. “Aye, and by the looks of it, this place will always be here for you.” Glancing away, he casually slung the Remington over his shoulder. “I’ll tell you this. My organization isn’t the military. We’re a highly specialized, highly secretive group of experts. Every man and woman in the field runs his or her own op and none of us are subject to any country’s laws.” He started off but stopped and looked back. “You’ll have two months off a year to do your prospecting or whatever it is that recharges your engine.” He gave her a card that said Hilton Garden Inn with the number 322 hand-written on the back.
Henri took it, then stood motionless while she watched him walk away until he disappeared behind the hill.
Did she want to believe him?
Hell, the mine had just collapsed and nearly killed her in the process.
My life is a fucking mess.
Chapter Five
She’d put it off for weeks, but when Henri opened the cupboard and all she found was a stale Pop Tart, it was time to go to town for supplies. Aside from being out of food and low on drinking water, she’d spent last night going over the items needed to repair the cave-in. The list would cost her big. Every time she turned around, something else failed. Last month she’d had to replace the generator, then the batteries, then the pump motor for the well. Would it never end?
After a shower, she slapped on a bit of makeup and brushed out her hair, leaving the thick mop down so it would wind-dry on the way.
Heading outside, debris crumbled beneath her boots as she climbed down to her truck, Old Red, another relic inherited from her grandfather. But it worked. At least she thought it did until the damned thing growled like a two-week old Labrador and died—five times.
Grinding her teeth with a frustrated grunt, she hopped out and looked under the engine. The thing had always leaked oil, but this time, it looked like a tanker had dropped its load. The dipstick confirmed it, too. But when a person owns a 1977 Ford, they always kept a few quarts of 10W-30 behind the seat.
She added all three quarts and, in addition to writing motor oil to the shopping list, she decided to make a pit stop at Martin’s repair shop on the rez. Martin could fix anything.
Still, even after adding oil, the truck was reluctant to start. Worse, as Henri drove along the rocky and rutted dirt road to Shivwits, Old Red pinged and knocked all the way to the highway. Afraid of a breakdown, she pulled into the Shivwits neighborhood and found Martin. At least she found his legs—the rest of him was under the hood of a Mustang.
“Hey,” she said. Having been in the same grade in school, Henri had known Martin most of her life.
“That you?” he asked before he straightened and wiped his hands on a rag.
“Got engine trouble.”
“I figured.” He looked at her with brown, puppy-dog eyes like he always did, the big flirt. The only problem was there was no spark in Henri’s heart aside from the friendly kind. Martin had asked her out a gazillion times. They’d even gone to the senior prom together. The problem was they were too much like brother and sister. Martin always had her back. In fact, he was the only guy on the rez who didn’t call her Whitey on account of her worthless dad. “The only time you come around is when you need that old heap of junk fixed.”
“Hey, this Ford was Grandfather’s. He’d turn in his grave if he heard you diss his wheels.”
Martin tossed the rag and headed for Old Red. “What’s wrong with it this time?”
“Aside from leaking oil like a sieve, it’s knocking and it’s got that ‘eau de burning oil’ thing going on.”
“Knocking isn’t good.”
“At least it’s not blowing smoke.”
“The new radiator I installed is warrantied for five years.”
Henri nodded. When she’d first returned from the slammer, she’d had to shell out two hundred fifty bucks because Old Red had a rusted-out radiator. She kicked the rear tire. “How long do you think the repairs will take?”
“That depends on what’s wrong.”
“Okay, how long until I can drive to town for supplies?”
“Give me an hour—then we’ll see.” He shook his head. “You really need to trade this thing in.”
Henri cringed. She’d looked at truck prices and even used ones were outrageous. “Yeah, but I like this one.”
Martin raised the hood and pulled out the dipstick. “How many quarts of oil did you put in before you left the mine?”
“Three. That’s all I had.”
Shaking his head, he blew out a sigh. “You need a new truck, Sister.”
“Just figure out the damages and get me on the road.” She threw her thumb over her shoulder. “I’m heading to Aunt Chenoa’s for a minute.”
“See ya. And, Sister?”
“Yeah?”
“You look nice with your hair down.”
“Thanks.”
Awkward.
Heading off, Henri hoped her aunt wasn’t home so she could just pick up her mail without having to be sociable, but Chenoa opened the door as Henri walked up the dirt path. “What brought you down from your gold mine?”
“I’m out of food.”
Chenoa held the door and ushered Henri inside. “Figures. Otherwise you’d never pay a social visit.”
“Do I have any mail?”
“In the kitchen where it always is.”
While Auntie rambled on about all the gossip on the rez, Henri leafed through the pile of junk. Some things never changed. The only thing she didn’t chuck was a bill from her credit card company.
“So, I saw the silver Jeep head toward the mine yesterday.” Auntie said, raising her eyebrows. “What did the Scottish man do at your place? It seems like he was up there an awfully long time.”
“Target practice.”
“He’s a sharp-shooter?” Chenoa hated the word sniper. She thought it was akin to assassin...which it was.
“Sort of.”
“What’s the job he’s offering? It sounds promising. Where would you be working?”
Henri shrugged, her head starting to pound from the interrogation. “Not around here, that’s for sure.”
Auntie leaned on the counter, squinting like she was about to give some unwanted advice. “Goodness,
you’re not attached. Why don’t you take it? I worry about you holed up there in that mine all by yourself. What if something happened?” she asked in an accusing tone. “You could be trapped for weeks before anyone even realized you were in trouble!”
Well, that had almost happened yesterday. Regardless, Chenoa had a way of making Henri want to hit something. Without even knowing what Rose was offering, good ole auntie was encouraging Henri to take a job. It could be a one-way ticket to Syria and the woman would tell Henri to go. Heck, Rose could be asking her to assassinate the President of the United States.
Secret organization? Answering to no country? WTF?
But Henri knew better than to disclose anything to her aunt, lest it be broadcast to everyone in Southern Utah. “Yeah, well, I want to stay around here.”
“So, is it a civilian job?”
“Sort of.”
“That wouldn’t be all that bad...”
Thank God the doorbell rang.
Henri answered.
Martin stood on the porch with a frown. “You want the bad news or the really bad news?”
Cringing, she rubbed the back of her neck. “Shit.”
“Your engine’s shot. The camshaft is no longer working in time with the pistons and it can’t be fixed.”
“What’s that going to set me back?”
“Five grand, but I’m not finished. Your undercarriage is rusted through. You need a ton of body work—I tapped the rear fender and it fell off. The springs in the seat are shot. Your steering column is a wobbly mess.” He stopped and took a breath. “You want me to go on?”
Shaking her head, Henri jammed her fist into her hip. “Just tell me the damages.”
“That’s what I’m trying to say. You need a new goddamned truck. It’ll be a miracle if that heap makes it to town for you to get your supplies...and if it does, there’s no way it’ll make the return trip.”
No one needed to tell her that after buying a truck, the equipment she needed for the mine and to keep feeding herself, her back pay wasn’t going to last. Henri held out her upturned palm. “So, can I borrow your Tacoma to drive to town?”