DARC Ops: The Complete Series

by Jamie Garrett

  Or perhaps it was just the reality of it all, coming back to her now hard and bright: waking in a Learjet forty thousand feet up with a sun that was too bright, and with a guy she might not have ever wanted to see again.

  A tired voice groaned out of a set of dry lips. “Oh, my God,” she said, her eyes squinting shut and then opening wide, her head lifting slowly off an armrest. Macy sat back, straight, and then squinted again, slouching her head away from the sunlight. Her morning face was now safely in the shadow, yawning.

  “I know,” Tucker said, feeling the urge to yawn, himself.

  “What the hell . . .”

  Tucker yawned and then said it again. “I know.”

  What else could he possibly say? What could anyone say about the last twenty-four hours?

  “I’m starving,” Macy said.

  Tucker laughed, half relieved that she at least felt comfortable enough for hunger. He’d been worried that Macy would wake up regretting everything, the excitement of the night having worn off and leaving her terrified of her future prospects with him. Stuck with him now, forty thousand feet high, in the middle of a DARC Ops uranium-smuggling adventure.

  Just thinking about DARC made Tucker feel a little queasy, and definitely not in the mood for breakfast. He would have to play things extremely carefully with Macy and the team. A balancing act. How should he introduce her? And then after , , , would she even want to hang out?

  After telling Macy about the mini fridge, Tucker watched her get up, stretch, and then glide over to it as if she had just awoken aboard her own private jet. She looked bored, even. Just another morning above the Kalahari in a twenty-million-dollar piece of aeronautics.

  “Cereal,” she said, her head peeking out from the fridge. “And milk. Want some?”

  Tucker declined the offer. Was it possible to ask for a gin & tonic at 6:30 AM without sounding like a raging alcoholic?

  “You sure?” Macy said from the fridge.

  “I’m good, thanks. But you better hurry up. I feel the nose tipping down.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll be landing soon.”

  She walked over to her seat across from him, her gait getting a little wide as the jet banked slightly to the left. Her thighs flexed through her jeans as she steadied herself, and he forced himself to look away again. God, the feel of those wrapped around him. He dropped his head forward, running a hand through his hair. He had to stop thinking about that if he was going to survive the next few hours at least without a permanent hard-on.

  And he really had to stop staring now that she was awake, and with the ability to stare back. She was doing just that now, standing in front of him, staring with an almost furrowed brow.

  Had she caught him?

  Probably. He had been sloppy, still sleepy, and vaguely horny.

  Macy’s face eased into a smile. And then a spoonful of something crunchy went into it. She stood there, her legs still wide, her eyes still on him.

  “Not to be weird or anything,” Tucker said. “But . . . You look good.”

  She took another spoonful. Chewing.

  Tucker said, “I mean, now that I can see you in daylight.”

  The front of the jet dipped even lower and Macy almost stumbled backward into her seat, milk flowing over the rim and over her wrist. The seatbelt chime sounded and she was already laughing. She took her seat, a leg tucked under her, then brought her wrist up to her face, her tongue lapping milk off her hand like a kitten.

  They were both laughing now.

  “Do I still look good?” Macy said. “Covered in Cheerios?” She flicked a few off her lap before drying the rest of her arm on her jeans.

  “You look delicious,” Tucker said.

  “Alright, take it easy.”

  His cheeks warmed. Had he really just said that? “Alright.”

  “They’re just Cheerios.”

  “And you’re just you,” Tucker said. “Good ol’ Macy. The mace queen.”

  She frowned and said, “They stopped calling me that.”

  “Why? You stopped macing any innocent taxpayers?”

  “Oh, God,” she said. “Happens one time and you never hear the end of it. No, I’ve stopped macing people altogether. Now I just shoot them.”

  His smile dropped away. “So I see.”

  “Almost shot you,” she said, her eyes drifting back to the bowl.

  “So how are you doing? You still feel okay about this?”

  “Well, it’s not like I had a choice.”

  “Yeah.” But he still wished she’d given him a different answer.

  Macy brought the bowl to her lips, taking a small sip of milk.

  “Is that really Cheerios?” he said. “They have anything fancier, like Count Chocula?”

  “So, Tucker,” she said with a smile. “On the plane, the first time around, you coming up to Luanda. When you were wondering about it, about meeting me. What did that look like?”

  “What did it look like in my head? Umm, pretty much how it went down.”

  “You envisioned hiding in the shower stall of my decoy room, and then getting into a gun fight with someone who might have been trying to kill me?”

  “Exactly. I was looking forward to it.”

  “Sure.” Macy rolled her eyes. “Well, it was somewhat of a shock for me. One minute I thought I was near death, a shootout, preparing to blow someone away, and then bam, there you were.”

  “You handled it very well,” Tucker said. “Better than I hoped.”

  “Really? A gun in your face multiple times? Even just a few hours ago I was pointing it at you in the car.”

  “You never pulled the trigger, so, I considered it a success. I think we’re off to a good start. A new start.”

  “A good start, huh? Maybe.”

  “Maybe restart,” he said.

  She stopped chewing midway.

  He swallowed, his tongue thick as he suddenly regretted what he’d said. She didn’t need that crap right now, and besides they’d already tried that once before. Not that anything had come of it, they’d barely started before the shit had hit the fan. Still, she hadn’t fought for him then. Maybe she just wasn’t interested—back then or now. He cleared his throat, as if trying to clear the air, trying to clear his mind from the past. The bad past.

  He looked out of his window, down to where the desert orange had slowly turned to green.

  12

  Macy

  She spent the rest of the flight sleeping, or at least pretending to. It was a safety mechanism. A buffer that kept things between them safe and detached. When their conversation dipped into something too serious, or even something too casual and familiar like the old days, a creeping awkwardness came over her. It would start with the warm sensation of blood at her face—embarrassment, almost. And then a burning at the tips of her ears, until they felt so hot she imagined them lit like embers. If she and Tucker could just stay in that middle ground, not too cold and not too warm, they’d be fine.

  It was that damn warmth she’d felt all morning. Warmth from the sun coming through the window, and warmth with Tucker. She was almost surprised each time she woke and found him still with her in a private jet, surprised with each of her discoveries that the whole thing hadn’t been a dream.

  If they could just keep things nice and simple, and cool, until Johannesburg. And then, until United States. If she could get there in one piece, a single solitary human with no attachments . . . Maybe then, she could properly start over.

  “Good afternoon lady and gentleman.” It was the radio-voice of the pilot coming through to the cabin. “Please prepare for landing.”

  Macy buckled her seat belt. Her hands gripped both armrests. When she looked back to Tucker, he hadn’t moved, his seatbelt still undone. He was leaning back into the headrest, his muscled body looking loose and easy. His eyes, closed. He was almost smiling.

  Tucker seemed to know where to find his people, weaving through the crowded Johannesburg airport w
ith Macy’s backpack on his shoulders, and his own two bags slung over his arms. Always the gentleman, even looking back at her every few seconds. He didn’t have to be so nice, did he?

  “Come on,” he said, smiling back at her. “Don’t make me hold your hand.”

  It was a smart move on his part, the threat propelling her forward. She stayed close, nearly attached to his heels as they needled through the crowd. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like if they’d touched. Even just their hands, for the briefest of moments. So far, contact between them had been all eyes. Not that that made it any less intense. On the plane, especially, there had been something very tactile, very hungry, with the way his gaze fell on her.

  Tucker’s friends, in contrast, seemed to barely notice her. Or if they had, they made sure to hide it with wavering eyes that looked mostly everywhere but at her. It gave Macy the impression that she had been the topic of a lot of conversation. No matter what the topic had really been, she didn’t like it.

  Tucker directed her to two men, one of whom she recognized from pictures as Kyle, the American oil worker an Angola. Her last-ditch effort to get home, her one-time enemy who had unknowingly trained her assassins in Syria. “I have to be honest with you,” he said with a pained expression. “This is a little awkward.”

  “Yes,” Macy said. “Yes, it is.”

  “But I’m glad you made it.”

  Macy nodded.

  “I’m glad you made it to Johannesburg,” Kyle said. “But I’m also glad you made it out of Syria. Whether it’s appropriate or not, I’d like to apologize for my role in the whole—”

  “No, no,” she said, cutting him off. “Please. It’s not necessary.”

  Kyle’s chest heaved as he took a deep breath.

  “Maybe not even appropriate,” Macy said. “But thanks.”

  A weak smile crossed Kyle’s lips. And then he looked away, his face covered with guilt.

  “For whatever it’s worth,” she said, “I accept your apology.”

  “You guys were both screwed over pretty equally,” Tucker said. “Well, maybe not equally, but . . .”

  “It wasn’t equal at all,” Kyle said. “I’ve been taken care of. I’m over here working and living in a nice house. She’s here just trying to survive day by day.”

  “We should get going,” said the third man in the group. His head, full of red hair cropped to the side, was nodding back toward the huge expanse of the airport parking lot. “We’ll have plenty of time for apologies and all that later.”

  “No, we’re done with that,” Macy said, looking at Kyle. “Right?”

  Kyle nodded and stuck out his hand. And that was it, a quick and firm handshake settling the nightmare of Syria. It was way more than she’d expected. Her whole point in tracking Kyle down was to ask for a little help. She didn’t even think about apologies. What good would they do her now?

  But at the end of the day, Tucker was right, at least with the part that they’d been both screwed over.

  Jasper, the ginger, sat behind the wheel and sped the car down the busy highway. Next to him was Kyle, who was flipping through something on his phone. And next to Macy was Tucker. He was sitting still. No phone to distract him. He wasn’t even looking out the window, but straight ahead. Macy glanced over to him again and caught his gaze. The faintest lines gathered in the corner of his eyes, a hint of wrinkles, hints of time. Crow’s feet. He wasn’t the fresh-faced police recruit any longer, the onetime object of her desire. The onetime frustratingly unavailable man. He was just Tucker now, whoever that was. Whoever he had become. Single, solitary Tucker. Here in South Africa. And she had him all to herself, if she still wanted.

  Macy locked the door, slowly, gliding the deadbolt through the latch. She turned and the crossed the room—her new room—in a five-star luxury hotel. It was cleaner, more spacious—and safer—than she’d ever known since her journey began in North Africa. She was at the window now, looking out at the approach of evening. The shadows stretched long across the sky, already turning a deep blue beyond Johannesburg’s skyscrapers. Macy felt it coming. Night. A shift, a break in the pattern. She welcomed it.

  Still looking out the window, but now through a soft opaque curtain, she reached down to unbutton and unzip her pants. With a long, glorious sigh, she tugged her jeans down and stepped out of them. She turned around to face the bed. It was empty.

  That much hadn’t changed.

  13

  Tucker

  Jasper had his serious face on again. It was starting to get on Tucker’s nerves. He closed his laptop lid and stared back at the group leader with the same unnerving intensity. “What?” he said, breaking the silence of the hotel conference room.

  “So?” said Jasper.

  “So what?”

  Jasper was still giving that stare. He closed his own laptop and said, “So did you guys bang yet or what?”

  The rest of the men at the table erupted in laughter. So did Jasper. But for some reason, the comment irritated the crap out of Tucker.

  “Come on,” Jasper said. “I mean, look at her. You never mentioned that.”

  “Mentioned what?”

  “Come on,” Jasper said again, his head cocked to the side.

  “Would you have been more in favor of me going there if I’d told you how hot she was?”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m in favor of,” Jasper said.

  Tucker held up his hands, shaking his head. “No, that’s okay. I really don’t want to know.”

  “Just tell me you’re trying to make some progress,” Jasper said, laughing again. “Tell me it’s at least a possibility, or else I’m taking you off that assignment.”

  “Jasper, Jasper . . . I thought we all had to be focused a hundred and ten percent on the mission.” Tucker pushed his laptop aside and replaced it with a restaurant takeout box. “That’s what you kept saying. You were such a prick about it, too.”

  Tansy cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, it should be pretty obvious, based on Tucker’s mood, that he most certainly did not get laid last night.”

  Tucker opened the lid of his takeout box, his mouth immediately watering at the aroma of smoked ribs and South-African-style polenta with tomato gravy. It felt like forever since he’d had a real meal. But more than just a meal, their takeout had been ordered from one of Johannesburg’s premier BBQ spots—or Braai as they called it. Braai was said to be an improvement over the American version, and so far, from just opening the takeout lid, Tucker had an inkling that they were right. He leaned in to break off a rib, when he heard Jasper’s voice again.

  “What’s she even doing right now?” he said.

  “Huh?” Tucker shot him another look.

  “Macy,” Jasper said.

  He sat back in his chair. He apparently wasn’t going to be able to eat—or at least enjoy it—if he didn’t answer Jasper’s questions. He closed the lid. “Macy’s back upstairs, in her room.”

  “Just laying low?”

  “She’s had a pretty rough couple of days. And now this, with me, and with South Africa. And now you guys.”

  “Hey, what’s wrong with us?” Tansy said, feigned hurt in his voice.

  “Do I even have to answer that?”

  Jasper said, “Well I was just thinking . . .” He reached back and grabbed something from the table behind him. When he turned around, another white takeout box was in his hands. “I was thinking you should take this,” he said, placing it on top of Tucker’s takeout, “And take them both up to the room with you. She could probably use a good meal.”

  Tucker looked around at the rest of the men in the room. No one seemed to be laughing now, including Jasper.

  “Go ahead,” Jasper said. “No bullshit.”

  Tucker looked at both boxes. Damn, when was the last time she’d had a proper meal? He was doing a completely shit job of all this.

  “You look tired, man,” Jasper said.

  “Yeah,” Tansy said. “You’re no use right now. Take
the night off.”

  “Go ahead,” Jasper said.

  Tucker was already imagining Macy alone in another hotel room. This time she wasn’t stressed out or scared, or waiting for a break-in at her decoy room. This time she was lying in bed, relaxed. And maybe waiting for him.

  They had only been together for half a day, and now apart for even less. But in her absence, he felt something aching inside.

  Could she be feeling the same way?

  The food could be an excuse to find out. A nice gesture, either way.

  “Go ahead,” Jasper said again, tapping the lid. “Go before it gets cold.”

  14

  Tucker

  It was only a quick walk across the empty mezzanine to the elevator bay, Tucker balancing the takeout boxes on top of each other while his mind buzzed with thoughts of Macy. Through the excitement, he’d just about lost his appetite.

  The elevator doors shut, and after a loud chime, he was on his way to the fourteenth floor. It was fast-moving, the chimes at each floor dinging away, Tucker stared at the LED display . . . 6 . . . 7 . . . 8 . . .

  He just wanted to see her, to make sure she was alright. That was all.

  It had felt a little odd leaving her alone in the room, despite Macy’s proving to be completely capable of taking care of herself. Hell, she could probably take care of him at the same time. She had great instincts, and she had always been a very competent shooter. Despite the psychological ravages of what she’d been through in the last two years, her mind seemed sharper than ever. She even had a sense of humor. How the hell could anyone have a sense of humor after all that?

  . . . 12 . . . 13 . . .

  The elevator slowed, and Tucker suddenly realized that he had no idea what to say to her. No idea of how he would go about doing whatever the hell he was about to do. Would he just invite himself in? He was carrying two boxes. Did that imply something?