by Amy Jarecki
Martin crossed his arms. “Did you listen to anything I said?”
“I can’t buy new wheels if I can’t get to town.”
He dug in his pocket and pulled out the keys. “I need it back by five.”
“Fine.”
***
After Henri had been to the big-box hardware store, to the mining equipment shop on the other side of town, and to five different car yards, she sat in Martin’s Tacoma and blankly stared out the windshield. She’d never been much for crying, but right now she wanted to bawl her eyes out and scream.
She pounded her fist on the steering wheel.
“Dammit...Arrrgh!”
She pummeled the thing repeatedly while strands of hair flicked into her eyes and across her mouth. Tenser than a wound spring, she shoved her fly-aways out of her face.
She’d been working her freaking ass off and had absolutely nothing to show for it aside from a gargantuan list of bills and a crap-ton of dirt that would take three months to move by hand.
Why did everything have to fall apart at once? Henri had jotted the figures onto a slip of paper. The truck she liked was sixty-four grand. There was a used model she could buy for fifteen, but it already had well over a hundred thousand miles on it. Then there was the mining equipment she’d need—if she ever expected to find anything other than sandstone and basalt. No one had to tell her she could swing her pick and shovel for the rest of her life and maybe come up with a couple hundred dollars in gold dust. Her grandfather had done it—though mostly as a hobby. He’d worked as a ranch hand and retired to the mine. The place couldn’t even support a damned mouse.
Shoveling for the rest of her life wouldn’t be a bad thing, except she needed to live. A person could only cut food costs so much. Her boots might last her another two years if she was lucky. She made her own bullets, but casings and lead weren’t free. Gas wasn’t free. Mining equipment wasn’t effing free. The constant need to repair everything wasn’t free.
After swiping away a stupid tear, Henri picked up the piece of paper with her scribblings. If she wanted to do things right, buy a decent truck that would last, and set up the mine so she wouldn’t break her back by the time she was thirty-five, she’d have to fork out a minimum of seventy grand and that didn’t include food. Worse? She only had fifty grand and some change in her bank account.
She’d be wiped out and then some.
Another option would be to buy the truck for fifteen, the hardware for a grand, and shovel out the dirt from the cave-in by hand. Once that was done, she could get by for a couple of years swinging a pick like she’d been doing. The downside of that was the risk of more cave-ins.
On one hand, she liked the solitude of the mine. No one bothered her. No one told her what to do...
No one cared, either.
Aunt Chenoa was right about one thing. If Henri had been trapped in the cave-in, no one would have even noticed anything amiss for weeks. Maybe months.
Maybe forever.
She could have been buried alive and no one would have known.
Would her life ever be normal? She’d learned to like being alone all the time. She’d been an outcast since the day she was born. The only place she’d ever belonged was in the army—because she was a damned good assassin. She was good enough to be accepted into Delta Force and pass their rigorous tests. Though, even in the service, people were afraid of her. Who wouldn’t be afraid of a sniper who could hit a bullseye at two miles? She was a freak, a loner.
Yeah, there’d been friends and boyfriends. Though the latter was always fleeting, and nice guys like Martin never ignited that spark. Henri only ever got that rush of passion from a bad boy—a guy who flew by the seat of his pants with his hair on fire—the daredevil type.
Not that she’d seen any action...in forever.
Maybe there was something wrong with Henri’s internal ignition switch. What would be so bad about shacking up with Martin? He was a Paiute. He’d been Henri’s friend since they were in kindergarten. Sure, he was about six inches shorter, but she was five-foot-ten. Most the guys on the rez were shorter, though most of them treated her like an outsider. Not Martin. If only she had the hots for him.
Eew.
The thought of kissing him was just plain gross.
I mean, who kisses her brother? Right?
Henri had to face the fact that she’d been an oddball all her life. Until Mike Rose broke into her pad and smashed through the barrier she’d built around herself, she’d been content enough to accept loner-dom. Heck, no normal guys ever thought girls who worked as snipers were hot. And most guys didn’t like half-white, Native American girls who could beat them at just about any sport on the planet, or pin their butts to a sparring mat. Not to mention, she couldn’t cook worth beans. If it counted, she did keep a tidy house. She was even pretty good at bead work. That was a girly hobby.
Henri shook her head.
Who am I fooling? There aren’t any guys out there for me.
She’d known it for years. In fact, everything would be just fine if Grandfather were still alive. She’d always enjoyed working with him in the mine, playing cards and watching DVDs. He didn’t care if she cooked a can of chili or barbequed a steak on the charcoal grill. The old man would have eaten burnt eggs if she’d put them in front of him.
The old man.
She looked toward the looming Red Cliffs of Saint George.
Grandfather would have asked the spirits for guidance.
In five minutes, Henri had driven up the steep hill, parked and was now ascending the Chuckwalla Trailhead at a fast march. Once she reached the summit, she gazed over the town that had always been her home. The white Mormon temple stood out as a testament to the first settlers, but what moved her was the sculpted red sandstone that gave Saint George its character—rock which endured through eons of time. Beyond the crisscrossing streets and houses lay the land of Arizona, the land of her ancestors, the Anasazi. And to the east, the jagged cliffs of Zion Canyon peeked above the hills.
Using her wide-angle vision, a sense of calm spread from Henri’s chest through her limbs. Taking in a deep breath, she sat cross-legged and let her palms rest on her knees. After two deep, reviving breaths, she became one with the heartbeat of Mother Nature. The spirits of her ancestors calmed the fire in her blood.
Above, a hawk called. Henri saw it in her minds’ eye but she didn’t move.
I hear you.
The hawk called again, the high pitch sending a shiver through her limbs.
Grandfather walked with pride and with honor. His granddaughter was Soaring-Eagle of the Paiutes. She was not afraid of anything. No one would make her fear the night, and no one could take away her soul. Soaring-Eagle would always walk with pride and honor as a tribute to the man who had raised her.
The hawk’s next call was but a whisper on the wind as the tension completely melted from Henri’s body. She didn’t move as she breathed in tandem with the gentle breeze, soaking in life-giving heat from the sun.
When she finally opened her eyes, she knew her purpose. Her gaze homed in on a hotel not far from the shore of the Virgin River. The Hilton Garden Inn. The place where Mike Rose said he was staying.
He’d offered her a chance to stop Omar Fadli from his reign of terror.
If she could accomplish one thing in this life, it would be to ensure that man never killed again. Fadli craved power. He made weaker people suffer to feed his psychotic need to feel important. How many people had he killed since the Iranian ambassador? How many people had he tortured? How many women had he raped?
Could she stop him?
Chapter Six
Staying focused on a computer screen wasn’t Mike’s forte. Put him in the field and give him a target and his focus would hone like a leopard tracking its prey. But right now, Mike wiped his fingers across his eyes and blinked at the hooked-nosed image of his boss staring at him on the screen. Garth Moore was a battle-worn ex-Marine. An American with an impressive do
ssier, the boss didn’t take shit, but sure as hell knew how to dish it out.
“I knew sending you out there was going to be a waste of time, but Lindgren was adamant.” Garth chuckled with an arrogant grin that said, “I told you so”.
Mike cracked open a pistachio nut and popped it into his mouth. “I didn’t say I was giving up. I just said she was tough.”
“Well, buck up and pay up. Face it. I won the bet. Lindgren has a line on a guy who won’t be such a pain in the ass.”
Mike arched his back against a jabbing pain. He’d never met an operative who wasn’t a handful in one way or another, especially a woman. But he knew as much as Garth that ICE needed female operatives. They brought an entirely different dynamic to the world of espionage. Some were worth the headaches, like Olivia Hamilton who just brought down an ISIS harem in Syria filled with European kidnap victims. She and her partner, Logan Rodgers, were now in Pakistan chasing a lead on Fahd al-Umari, the elusive, radical leader of the Islamic State. Mike should be there now. But he didn’t lose wagers. He’d find a way to convince Anderson to become a spy if it killed him.
“No bloody way,” Mike said. “You gave me a fortnight. That was the deal. If you turn yellow and back out now, you owe me a hundred quid, asshole.”
“Hey, watch who you’re talking to.”
Mike used the touchpad to move the pointer to the “end call” button. “Pardon me, sir.” He sniggered. “Same time tomorrow?”
“You’d better have something to report, smartass.”
Chuckling, Mike clicked off and headed for the shower. As he turned on the hot water, he was already planning his next attack on the Anderson mine. Nothing like fielding sass from Garth to make him want to win all the more.
He stripped off his shirt and examined the foot-sized bruise over his ribs. It was tender, but he didn’t think Henri had broken anything with the vicious side kick she’d planted during yesterday’s impromptu sparring round. He pulled back the shower curtain. The lass had some moves, he’d give her that.
Bloody oath, Mike had never seen anyone with her talent, either. She shot perfect holes through four slender leaves as if she could create art with her rifle. Hell, if she didn’t make it at the mine, she could start a new art genre—go on the road and give demos at county fairs.
But complimenting the woman on her talent with a rifle wasn’t the way to get through to her. Nope. Spending a bit of time in her place had given Mike a few ideas, though. Make no bones about it, he wasn’t about to lose his goddamned bet.
It took him less than five minutes to lather up and rinse off. But he didn’t expect to hear a knock at the door when he reached for a towel. His heart skipped a beat. Damn, his Glock was beside the bed. Who knew he was in Utah? Mike had a gazillion enemies, but he doubted anyone would have followed him to the ends of the earth, especially since his passport read Michael MacLeod—an American.
He wiped his face and tucked the towel around his waist. Looking through the peephole was a sure-fire way to get his brains blown out. He cracked the loo door open. “Yeah?” he asked with a growl in his voice.
“It’s Henri.”
His stomach pulled a handstand then back flipped off the high dive. There was a God after all. In two strides, he opened the door. “Hiya—”
Something made him stop talking. Not that he was planning to pull the lass into his arms and plant a kiss on those delightfully pursed lips but, nonetheless, Mike suddenly was at a loss for words. Henri looked much the same as she did the day before, sans the red dust. Scratch that, she looked a gazillion times hotter than the day before. Her lips were shiny, her eyelashes feathery and long and, good God, she had a mane of gorgeous black hair that spilled over her shoulders and down to her waist. Goddess wasn’t the right descriptor, though. Boots, jeans, flannel shirt unsnapped low enough to catch a peek of cleavage made her look more like a country western goddess.
She stared at him expectantly. It might have been the light in the corridor, but her eyes were incredibly expressive. And those precisely arched eyebrows slanted over deep pools of liquid chocolate—not milk chocolate—this woman’s eyes had the depth of intense, dark, smooth, delicious...
Her lips parted and a sexy tongue tapped the corner of her mouth. “Ah...” Her gaze trailed down to Mike’s abdomen as those eyebrows arched higher. Then she stared at his bruise. “Did I do that?”
He glanced down. “Nah...well, aye.”
“Sorry.” She cleared her throat and started backing away. “It looks like I’ve caught you at a bad time.”
Mike raised his palms and shook them. “No, no, no. I was just about to head to the mine for a friendly visit.”
She pointed to the bruise. “You mean I haven’t scared you off?”
He chuckled. “If anything, you’ve made me more determined.”
“That makes about as much sense as a bee sucking nectar from a plastic daisy.”
“I ken, but you’re going to give me an opportunity to explain.”
She crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one hip. “I figured I owed you that.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I need a new truck and the mine caved in on me yesterday.”
“The red dust?”
“Yeah.” She crossed her arms. “But this doesn’t mean I’m joining you. I’m just considering my options.”
Mike glanced to his towel. “I’ll be in the lobby in five. Can you wait that long?”
“Five’s stretching it.”
“Three.”
Heading for the lifts, she threw a smirk over her shoulder. “I’m timing you.”
***
Henri’s fingers were still shaking when she hit the lobby. Why hadn’t she just picked up a phone and called his room? I spend three months alone and suddenly I go brain dead?
She coughed out a groan. Who showers at eleven a.m.? Jeez, it was as if Rose had been sitting around in a towel all morning waiting for her to stop by. Except his hair was wet. Maybe he just kept wetting it?
Not.
By the time she sat down and opened a complimentary newspaper, the big Scot slid in beside her on the couch and held up his watch. “Under two minutes.”
He could stop with the grin. Now.
She gave him a pointed stare. How men could look like a million bucks by combing their hair, she had no idea. Her gaze trailed down from his jeans to his sneakers. “No socks?”
“Hey, when a woman says she’s timing me, I cut every corner possible.”
Henri folded the paper and set it on the side table. “I want a steak.”
“The Chop House okay, or do you ken of another place in town?”
“The Chop House is fine.” At least it was adjacent to the Hilton Garden Inn and they could walk.
She kept him at arm’s length as they strode across the parking lot to the restaurant.
“Hey, Anderson,” he said like they’d been teammates in boot camp.
“Yeah?”
“Your hair is...ah...”
She brushed it back. “Too long?” She’d never worn it down in the army—against regs.
“No.” He shook his head. “Cutting that mane would be a sacrilege.”
She pursed her lips to avoid smiling. She might be able to get along with Rose.
After they stepped inside the Chop House, they followed the host to a table in the bar at Mike’s request. It was Thursday and there weren’t any people in there. As soon as Henri put down her menu, Mike signaled the waiter, they ordered a couple ribeyes and then Mike told the man to leave them alone until the food was ready. As soon as he disappeared, Mike looked across the table. “What do you remember of your meeting with Anders Lindgren?”
“Was that his name?” Henri asked, thinking back. “To be honest, as soon as he told me Omar Fadli had killed the Iranian Ambassador and I was a free woman, I tuned him out.”
“Understandable. I probably would have done the same.” Mike sipped his glass of water. “Lindgren
never has much to say. And he does things bass-ackwards of you ask me.”
“He was pretty brief. Wanted a commitment I wasn’t half-ready to give.” She chuckled. “Was the letter from the President authentic?”
Mike glanced behind him before he answered. “Aye. That’s the tool Lindgren uses to get his man—or woman. Truth be told, verra few people ever have the opportunity to meet the Icelander, let alone receive a letter from the leader of their country.”
“How were you recruited?”
“Much the same. I was in the SAS. Twenty-second regiment. Did a fair bit of time in Iraq. Flew home from a tour and happened to be sitting beside Lindgren on the flight.”
“Was that a coincidence?”
“Oh, no. Nothing is a coincidence when it comes to ice—ah—I mean Lindgren’s operation.”
“So, what’s the job?”
Mike scratched his neck and twisted his mouth. “Mostly classified. I canna tell you much.”
“You’ve seen my place. I don’t even have a dog to tell secrets to.”
“What about your auntie?”
“I talk to her as infrequently as possible.” Henri huffed. “Look, I’m not signing on for something I know nothing about, otherwise you’ll be blowing as much smoke as your Icelandic boss.”
The big Scot leaned in, his blue eyes honed like crystal lasers. “Headquarters is not in the US. The ops facility is in a cold and out-of-the-way place.”
“Like the North Pole?”
“Close.” He gestured with a karate chop. “Only heads of state are aware of our existence, though we’re unofficially beneath the NATO umbrella. Because we’re an unknown entity, we operate under the radar, so to speak.”
“Do operatives have diplomatic immunity?”
“Aye. When they can. And I’m no’ going to tell you the work isna dangerous. There aren’t many jobs more dangerous, in fact.”
“What about money?”
“About three times your service pay for starters. Bonuses for achievement.”
“What kind of bonuses?”
He waggled his eyebrows. “Bigger than your salary, but that depends on who you bring in and how many toes you step on whilst doing it.”