by J. D. Tyler
They flattened themselves against the wall and listened as the steps halted their ascent. Dalton couldn’t make out who the speakers were, but their voices could be heard very well.
“Did you hear something?”
“No. Other than the fight between our men and the agents taking place in the ballroom and elsewhere. I don’t think our side is winning this one.”
“I say we retreat,” the first one said. “The president didn’t show, no doubt tipped off when we cut the communications. This mission is pretty much a bust.”
His companion’s tone dripped with disgust. “It’s a spectacular failure. I think the Feds have already found most of the C4 we planted around the exits below, too.”
C4? Shit. That was the first he’d heard about that particular detail. A glance at Joelle showed that her face had paled.
The second one spoke up again, speculating. “Knowing Methan, though, he’s got one more trick up his sleeve.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. He’s not one to sit back and just watch his plan go to hell.”
“What do you think he’ll do?”
“Now that the hotel is a fail? What would you do if you were Methan?”
The footsteps continued upward and the other man’s reply was lost as they moved away. Dalton’s mind reeled with the implications of their words. Of course Methan had a backup plan. One he’d probably not told anyone about, except perhaps a couple of trusted people. He’d wait until everyone’s guard was down, and then he’d strike.
But where?
What would you do if you were Methan?
“I’d bring in big guns, hit the hotel with something from the outside.” He paused, staring at Joelle. “Or I’d hit the White House.”
Her jaw dropped. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“He asked ‘what would you do if you were Methan.’ That’s what I’d do.”
“And Methan is your leader, I presume?”
Crap. She’d already heard that much, so he nodded.
“The White House will be too well guarded, especially by now,” she said, shaking her head. “The property is probably hip-deep in secret service agents.”
“That doesn’t mean he won’t try.”
“Maybe. I think it’s more likely he’ll try to hit the hotel one more time, just when the Feds think everything is under control. Sort of a last, grand fuck you.”
“Which means he’s nearby,” Dalton muttered. “But where?”
The reporter frowned at him. “Don’t you know? He’s your boss.”
“He stays out of sight. We don’t contact the man, he contacts us.” Which had been a huge problem from day one. The asshole was protected better than the gold in Fort Knox.
If Dalton didn’t apprehend the leader tonight, he’d probably never get another shot.
“Well, he’s not going to get the chance to contact you again, so don’t get your hopes up. Let’s go.”
“Gladly. I don’t want to be in the building when he attempts whatever it is he’s going to do.”
She shot him a look. “I thought terrorists like you were willing to die for your cause.”
“Live to fight another day is my motto,” he said dryly.
“You’re not like any terrorist I’ve ever met.”
You have no idea. “How many is that?”
“Just you, personally, but some of my fellow newscasters have met and interviewed plenty, especially of the homeland variety.”
“Ah. So, you’re chasing their coattails, hoping for your big break.”
“I think I found it, so why don’t you keep quiet?”
“I thought you wanted me to talk?” He couldn’t help but grin to himself. His back was to her as they went down the stairs.
“Only if you have something important to say.”
“For your story.”
“Of course.”
They’d descended to the next level again and were about to continue when the nearest door suddenly burst open. Three armed Red Mantle members stumbled through, and it was difficult to say who was more surprised—Dalton and Joelle, or the men as they took in the fact that a mere woman held one of their own at gunpoint.
Things went to shit in a split second. The men went for their guns and Dalton knew they’d shoot her, through him if necessary. Sacrificing one man meant nothing to them as long as they got the enemy. Before Joelle could even scream, he grabbed her wrist, gave a twist, and neatly disarmed her.
Then, shielding her with his body, he opened fire. He got the first one between the eyes, and the man fell dead. The second man unloaded a round, which hit the wall next to Dalton’s head and sent a chunk of concrete flying. The gunman paid for his error, and went down next to his comrade.
Just then a staccato noise nearly deafened him, and the third man went down as well. When no more black-dressed figures came through the doorway, Dalton gaped at his companion, who was wielding the automatic rifle like some sort of action heroine from a video game.
“Wow. Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”
“Old boyfriend, and in a concealed-carry class.”
“You know, you could just shoot me too,” he said quietly. “Be done with it.”
“I could say the same. You’re still holding the gun you took from me.”
“I didn’t come here to kill a reporter.” He paused. “However much I might like to.”
“What am I not getting here?”
“Jesus, you’re relentless. We’re even. Both armed. Leave it at that and let’s get going.”
She gazed at him with a strange expression, voice laced with reluctant gratitude. “You protected me from them. From those men who’re supposed to be on your side. Why’d you do that?”
There was no good answer except the truth. “I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.”
“You— One of them got you in the leg!” Bending, she fingered a small hole in his black pants.
“I don’t feel anything.” Peering down, he swore. A dark stain was seeping from the hole, spreading outward. “Shit. I’m gonna be a piece of Swiss cheese before I ever get the hell out of here.”
“Doesn’t look like it’s bleeding very fast.”
“I don’t think it hit an artery. If it did, I’ll be dead in a few minutes and you’ll have to get your story from someone else.” He’d meant the last as a joke, but she wasn’t amused.
“I don’t go around wishing ill on others, whether it’s for my benefit or not. That’s your game.”
He tried not to let the words sting, because she didn’t know the truth.
As he straightened, a wave of dizziness nearly sent him to his knees. The pain was finally making itself known in his leg as well, and it suddenly occurred to him that if he didn’t get out of here, he could be in real trouble. A gunshot wound that wasn’t initially life-threatening could become dangerous faster than one might think.
Quickly they took the men’s handguns, each of them tucking one away—Dalton’s in his waistband and Joelle’s down the front of her dress. He tried to ignore just how much that revved his libido, even in his current state. A capable woman who could hold her own in a situation like this? Totally did it for him.
She seemed to be holding up well as they descended once more. Especially after killing a man. Could be she was suppressing the horror of taking a life, and would crash much later, after she was safe. It saddened him that it wasn’t likely he’d be around to comfort her. He’d probably be holed up with Noah, giving him the rundown and typing reports until his fingers fell off.
They were almost to the ground floor when the sound of more footfalls came from below. He heard Methan’s name uttered and knew these weren’t good guys.
Grabbing Joelle’s arm, he steered her toward the exit to the floor. They pushed inside and shut the door as quietly as possible. Then he took her hand and limped as fast as he could down the hallway, scanning for any place that looked like a good spot to hide.
H
e knew he’d lucked out when he saw a maid’s cart sitting abandoned outside a room—no, it was a storage closet! Thank God. The light was still on, but there was no one around. Either the staff had evacuated or they were hiding.
“Why are we going in here?” she whispered as he dragged her inside and shut them in. “I thought we needed to get out as fast as possible because Methan might blow up the building or something.”
“We are. But I don’t think he’ll do anything with so many of his men still inside. And I need to rest for a few minutes.”
“Oh,” she said, voice soft. “Does it hurt much?”
“Only when I breathe.”
“That’s what you get for being a terrorist.” She fell silent for a long moment, her eyes searching his. “Or are you?”
“You know what I need?” he asked, putting her off a bit longer. “Some bandages or something to put on these wounds. Do you see anything?”
After giving him a searching look, she went about doing as he asked while he listened for any sign that the Mantle was on this floor. He heard nothing. Eventually she came up with a first-aid box and held it up, smiling in triumph.
“Look what I found!”
“Fantastic,” he groaned in appreciation. “Let’s see what’s in it.”
Bringing it over, she set it on the floor between them and popped open the lid. Right in the box were some wet wipes, bandages, a roll of gauze, medical tape, some antibiotic ointment, and an assortment of other items. Reaching inside, he removed the wipes, bandages, tape, and ointment.
“These should do,” he said. “Unless you’re a doctor in addition to being a reporter and a gunslinger?”
She snorted, shaking her head. “You should talk.” Focusing on her task, she unwrapped the bandages and uncapped the ointment. “These wipes aren’t the best way to clean these wounds, and the bullets are still inside, but this will have to do.”
“I’ll keep.”
Dalton was surprised how gentle she was with him, carefully easing off his flak jacket and helping him off with his shirt. Her fingers were light as she used the wipes to clean away the blood and dab at what still oozed from the small, ragged hole.
“This doesn’t look so bad,” she said, brow furrowed. “But you need a hospital before it bleeds too much more.”
“I’m more concerned about the one in my thigh.”
“Is that one hurting worse?”
“It is now.” It throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
She worked silently, smearing some ointment on the wound and then covering it with the bandage. Last, she taped it onto his skin as securely as possible. When she looked pointedly at his thigh and waited, he sighed.
“Guess that means drop my pants, huh?”
“Can’t be the first time you’ve ever been told that.”
He smiled. “No, it’s not. But it’s usually a lot more fun, believe me.”
“No doubt.”
Taking the extra gun from his waistband, he set it on the floor next to him and undid his pants. When he raised his hips and worked them down, he was gratified to see her hungry expression devouring him—even though she covered it fast, her face going neutral.
The wound on his thigh was given the same treatment, and she sat back when she was done, obviously pleased.
“Thank you,” he told her sincerely.
She studied him for a few seconds in that inscrutable way he was already recognizing as a part of Joelle. Then she pinned him to the mat. “You’re way too nice to be a terrorist. I think it’s time you came clean with me.”
He nodded. “You’re right. You deserve the truth.” Closing his eyes for a few moments, he wondered how much trouble he’d be in for breaking cover to a reporter. Or if, in the end, it would matter at all.
“My name is Dalton McCoy, and I’m a special agent with the FBI.”
CHAPTER FOUR
A freaking FBI agent?
Jolie stared at the sexy blond man who was gazing back at her with vivid blue eyes that seemed to see all the way to her soul. Could he be telling the truth?
Those eyes were completely without guile, no shadows lurking there or on his face, no subterfuge. He simply looked . . . tired. He just seemed to be awaiting her reaction, as if whatever she decided, he’d deal with it, come what may.
The fact was, he hadn’t harmed her, not once, even though more than one opportunity had presented itself. But in the beginning—
“You were going to shoot me,” she stated. “Outside the rest room, when you told me to put the gun down.”
“No, I wasn’t.” He shook his head. “I was only bringing up my arm so I could hold my weapon up and point it at the ceiling so I could show you I meant no harm. I wasn’t going to shoot you, but after you shot me? Yeah, if I hadn’t been flat on my back, I probably would’ve returned fire.”
He said the last grimly, and she had to smile a little. “Which would have sucked, two innocent people shooting each other for no reason.”
The man blinked. “You believe me?”
“Well, I’m inclined to,” she admitted. “I don’t suppose you’re carrying any proof?”
“Right. Because that would be a fantastic idea, toting my badge around so the extremist leader and his men can find it and murder me.”
“Sorry, stupid question.”
“No, I’m sorry I don’t have any proof to give you. Other than I haven’t hurt you and I wouldn’t. Oh, and I’m wearing a completely useless transmitter behind my left ear that my buddies at the Bureau are supposed to be monitoring, but it’s apparently not working. Otherwise, we would’ve captured Methan and his men before this whole thing went down tonight and endangered innocent people.”
“That’s an incredible story.”
“It gets better,” he said, studying her. “I was one of the agents who assisted Nick Westfall on the Samson investigation.”
“What?” That information socked her in the gut, and she started at him, stunned.
“Yeah. It wasn’t my case, but I helped out. You and I actually met a couple of times.”
She stared at him, and finally it dawned. “You! I met you when I interviewed Nick.”
“Yeah.”
“You were really rude.” She scowled at him. Now that she recalled him, the man was still just as sexy as ever.
“Sorry.” He grimaced. “Guess I have a thing about reporters.”
“It’s okay,” she said after a few seconds. “A lot of people think we’re worthless.”
“Hey, maybe I’m changing my mind.” He tried a smile.
She nodded, and as she did it hit her. Really hit her, right in the gut.
I shot him. Omigod I shot an FBI agent! I could’ve killed him. Oh, God, what if he dies?
“I’m going to go to jail,” she whispered, feeling the blood drain from her face.
“Why?”
“I shot an agent!”
Dalton shook his head. “No. You shot a man dressed all in black you believed to be a terrorist, and you believed your life was in danger. If I even reported you for shooting me, which I’m not going to do.”
“What? But—”
“No buts. As far as anyone else will be concerned, the same guy that gave me this wound in my thigh shot me in the shoulder, too. Or I can say I caught a stray bullet. End of story. No need to muddy the waters.”
Jolie swallowed hard. He sounded so definite about that, so she didn’t argue. Who would know? Unless someone ever reviewed the security footage and found out he’d covered for her. But what was the likelihood of that?
Glancing over at Dalton, she saw his eyes drift shut. Her heart lurched, but the soon realized he was just dozing. The poor thing must be exhausted to fall asleep in the middle of a scary event like this, and she thought he must’ve been running on pure adrenaline.
Now he was crashing a bit, and she decided to allow him a few minutes to rest before they had to get moving again. She took the opportunity to study him while he slumbered, noting h
is dark-blond hair was shaggy in an attractive way, not cut suit-and-tie neat like most people’s image of an FBI agent. From being undercover, she supposed.
His face was sort of angular, with high cheekbones and a straight nose. Long dusky lashes fanned out on his cheeks, lashes that any woman would kill for. He had full lips made for kissing as well. She’d love to test them out.
His shoulders were nice and strong, but not too beefy, and she liked that. She’d never preferred men who were huge and muscle-bound, so Dalton’s tall, lean, cowboy build was perfect in her book. Those toned legs she’d gotten a good look at were tanned and went on for miles, and she wondered what they’d look like in a pair of cowboy boots.
And nothing else.
“Get a grip,” she muttered to herself. There couldn’t possibly be a worse time to become attracted to a man.
The clang of a door startled her. Voices could be heard down the hallway, moving closer. Pulse skipping, she jumped to her feet and reached for the light switch on the wall, plunging the storage room into darkness and praying nobody had seen the light go off.
Unless they were the cavalry. No way to tell until it was almost too late.
Scooting in next to Dalton, she readied her weapon. Next to her, he stirred and found her arm in the darkness, giving it a squeeze of reassurance. She felt his body tense as he prepared himself as well.
But the footsteps and voices moved away, the door banging shut in the distance once again, leaving them alone.
“No way to tell if those were the good guys,” she said, trembling a little.
“Yeah.” His arm went around her shoulders and he gave her a gentle hug, comforting and reassuring her. Or trying to. Big points for that. “How long was I asleep?”
“You only dozed for a couple of minutes. You needed it, apparently.”
“What I need is about twelve to sixteen hours of dead-to-the-world sleep. The kind where I’m not worried that one of Methan’s goons is going to drag me out of bed and murder my ass because they’ve learned I’m an agent. They still don’t trust me as it is.”