Storm (Bad Boys of X-Ops #3)

by Rie Warren

  “You retaliate against Los Reyes?” Storm asked.

  Finishing up the final stitches, I took stock of our tidy work. “Figured since we’re trying to start a trades relation with the cocaine cartel, I probably shouldn’t kill them all on our first meet.”

  Storm nodded. “El capitan’s wily, my man. Know that from my time with the Blood Legion MC.”

  “You two gonna kiss and make up already?” Walker, loopy from the drugs, rallied when we swabbed his ass clean and bandaged him.

  I snorted. “What are you? A fucking matchmaker? Go. To. Sleep. Already.”

  Storm and I started cleaning up, Walker watching us with glazed-over eyes. Jesus. The man had the willpower of a fucking elephant. Or whatever.

  “I’ll pass out when you two finally clear the elephant in the room,” Walker grumbled.

  “What the shit? Are you a mind reader now?” Forget about being a matchmaker. I glared at the prone asswipe.

  “Shaman.” He tiredly wiped a hand across his face.

  Middle finger. Stiff and sent in Walker’s direction.

  Scrubbing my hands, I remembered that night everything went wrong between me, Storm, and our mission in Egypt two years ago. Egypt: holiday destination and terrorist hotbed. That shit needed to be on a postcard.

  Just Storm and me, and we’d been surrounded by the Bedouin tribe we’d been trying to take out. A group who’d kidnapped a husband and wife couple, American aid workers. The simple hostage-retrieval and hostiles-takedown had gone from bad to totally fucking ballistic in the space of ten minutes. Our nighttime retreat from the land-locked, mud-daub, desert buildings cut off, there’d been little hope of escape.

  Storm had stashed our Land Rover a klick away, hidden in what little brush cover we could find, but we couldn’t reach it, taking heat from in front and behind us.

  Hiding out behind one mud hut with Storm holding out in the back of another, I’d faced the advancing targets and he the rearguard coming closer.

  “No green targets. Repeat. No green targets!” Storm’s voice came over the comms unit.

  The Bedouin warriors hadn’t come out alone. Smart fucks. Too many women and children mingled between, in, and around the armed men for us to get clean shots on our pursuers. Fuckers.

  We’d rescued the hubs and wife, but only by the skin of our teeth, with bullets flying at our heads. The two of them had been beaten and almost executed, broadcast on TV. As it was, they huddled beside me, working on adrenaline alone.

  We’d made it only as far as the settlement’s outbuildings, caught in the middle of nowhere on a Hail Mary mission.

  And we weren’t the only ones after the natives.

  Maybe the other agency was our saving grace that time.

  Maybe the Mukhabarat—also sent in for the same shakedown of the tribe—would get us well and truly fucked.

  When I turned back to check on the welfare of the couple, goddamn bullets started flying like a hailstorm toward us. Hunkered in front of the former captives, I provided a big, black-dressed barricade, hefting my Sig Saurs and popping shots.

  Mayhem. Total fucking mayhem. Storm, me, the Mukhabarat, the Bedouins . . .

  By sheer luck, I managed to keep the husband and wife unharmed.

  Not Storm, though.

  He went down, still firing.

  During the chaos created by the other agency’s volleys of shots and shouts for order, I managed to army-crawl to Storm.

  He clutched his side, a grimace on his face, blood pooling between his fingers.

  I hauled him onto my back.

  More fire crackled around us.

  I returned with my own bullets spraying, regrouped with the rescued couple, and made a dash for safety.

  For escape.

  I didn’t care if those who remained razed each other to the ground.

  We crossed the endless sandy terrain at a limp-run, me manhandling Storm and shooting behind my back, and the husband and wife huddled in front. Every step like walking through wet cement the farther away we trekked. In the end, I’d been nothing more than a human herder, continually urging the shell-shocked and beaten-near-death couple onward. Grunting at Storm to stay awake. Stay alive. Keep breathing.

  The minutes it took us to reach the vehicle felt like hours. My muscles almost gave out. Sweat dripped into my eyes.

  Storm’s blood dripped down my back.

  Just like Walker’s had earlier.

  Walker wasn’t the first T-Zone specialist I’d carried on my back, humped for miles, and sewed up.

  By some miracle, we’d made it.

  I’d had to arrange transport out of that shithole, Storm’s specialty. He’d been lights out and recuperating.

  But he still fucking thought I was the one who’d shot him.

  In the makeshift operating room, Storm jostled beside me at the sink.

  “I know you think that rogue bullet was mine, man. In Egypt.” I tossed my dirty gloves into the hazardous waste bin. “Why would I try to hurt you? Then do everything in my power to keep you alive?”

  Storm’s face never shifted from hard-edged. “The bullet came from a P226.” He rubbed his hands dry. “Your make.”

  “P226? Shit. That could’ve been anyone that night. Did you have the bullet traced? Because it’s a sidearm used by a fucking lot of operatives. Hell, even you carry the same piece. And Mukhabarat was there. They weren’t gunning for nothing.”

  His scarred eyebrow notched high. “You saying you didn’t do it?”

  “You don’t think if I wanted to kill you I would’ve done so already? Point blank and in your face?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “If I was intent on your death, you’d be dead already.”

  “That’s cold comfort.”

  “The truth.”

  He locked his elbows, fingers curled around the edge of the sink. “Why didn’t you just tell me before?”

  “Why were you so quick to blame me?”

  “Are we having a girlfriend moment?”

  “I miss my girlfriend . . .” Walker bleated in the background, still motherfucking conscious.

  “He’s still awake?”

  “Jade’s your wife, doucheface. Not your girlfriend,” Storm riffed.

  We almost bumped fists.

  We stopped and peered at each other.

  “So, you didn’t shoot me?”

  “Like I said. You’d be dead if I did.” I shrugged. Simple fact of the matter.

  “You’re a wild gun though.”

  “I don’t pump holes into my own team.”

  “You don’t share much either.”

  “And you do? Did I miss our Boy Scouts campout or something? ‘Kumbaya’ and all that crap?” I started peeling off my shirt, dried and crusted with Walker’s blood.

  “You have a record. A death toll.” Storm leaned back, hooking his thumbs in his pockets.

  “Didn’t kill that man on purpose . . .” I looked up with my mismatched eyes—one brown, one hazel.

  That night in NYC, before my time working with Operation T-Zone. Another encounter gone wrong. The illegal cage-fighting ring in the bowels of Hell’s Kitchen. I’d been on a winning streak. Muay Thai, my specialty. I’d been one hell of a draw by that point, my final match.

  Final, because I’d been arrested on manslaughter charges.

  My opponent had gone down after I’d punched him in the windpipe.

  He hadn’t gotten back up.

  Ever.

  That shit I’d remember until the end of my days—a wrong I could never make right.

  “And Blaize saved you from prison,” Storm added.

  “She saved me from a lot more than that, man.”

  He inhaled, filling a chest as big and hard as mine. “Yeah. She’s good at that.” Storm held out his fist. “Guess you saved me too.”

  I knocked my knuckles against his. “We solid?”

  “Yeah.” He shook his hair from his eyes. “What about this wanker?”

  On cue, Walker-t
he-wanker rolled his head in our direction. “I am so tired of being the International Poster Child for this unit.”

  “He’s feeling better.” Storm pulled the blankets over our patient.

  “I think he’ll survive.” I checked the monitors, his IVs, his temperature.

  “Can you amp up the drugs though? Knock him out cold?” Storm asked. “Less talking . . . Good thing.”

  “Some fucking nursemaid you make.” Walker whined, “I want Jade.”

  I hit the morphine pump, and his eyes rolled back into his head.

  “Nice.” Storm slapped me on the back.

  The high security locks for the building bleeped. Wary and always on guard, Storm and I strafed through silent, black rooms, gutted of everything but our necessary equipment.

  With a nod at one another, we moved, quiet and unseen as ghosts. Rounding corners, keeping stealthy, hands on our sidearms.

  Only to get jumped from behind when we neared the main entrance. I blamed Storm’s and my momentary distraction on the bro-moment we’d just shared.

  “Got you, fucker.” Justice drop-rolled me to the floor, laughing with a near-silent chuckle as our bodies tangled—strength for strength.

  “Get off me, dickbreath.” I held my Sig at his jaw.

  Storm, likewise, had been taken—so taken—by Blaize. He wasn’t fighting her off, though. No, he was groping her ass with two huge hands while she struggled against him.

  Kicking Justice away from me, I pushed up to my feet before lending a hand down to him. “Where’s Kiki?”

  “Out.”

  “Out of pocket or what?” I glanced at Blaize, worry skittering through me.

  I didn’t want to be worried about Kiki. Shouldn’t let myself be concerned about her. But—goddammit it—the woman had gotten to me in ways I could never admit. Might never recover from.

  “What does is matter to you? You’re not exactly her biggest fan.” Blaize asked while Storm helped her to her feet, then helped himself to dusting off her backside.

  And she swatted at him.

  “You tell me. You’re the one who decided I oughtta be her bodyguard.”

  “She’ll be back in a couple hours.”

  Great. What a relief. Two hours during which I didn’t have to torment myself over the woman’s face, or her body, or my secret detail.

  My mission wasn’t just two-fold—take down Los Reyes de Guerra and the terrorist cell who the cartel dealt arms to infiltrating American soil—it was three-fold. I also had to kill Kiki Damage, and she was getting more and more under my skin.

  “Hey. Forget about Baby Spy.” Justice looked between Storm and me. “Where the hell’s Walker?”

  “Yeah. About that . . . ”—I rubbed my jaw, squinting at Blaize and Jus before shooting a skeptical glance at Storm—“things didn’t go exactly as planned.”

  Books By Rie Warren

  Bad Boys of X-Ops

  Four novels, spring/summer 2016

  Walker, Book One

  Justice, Book Two

  Storm, Book Three

  Bane, Book Four

  Bad Boys of Retribution MC

  Complete series—Carolina Bad Boys spinoff

  Hunter, Book One

  Kinkaid, Book Two

  Bo, Book Three

  Coletrane, Book Four

  Carolina Bad Boys—the original Bad Boys

  Ongoing series

  Stone, Book One

  Ride, the novella from within Stone, Book 1.5

  Love, Book Two

  Steele, Book Three

  Chrome, Book Four

  Lowcountry Heat

  Sugar Daddy, Book One

  Don’t Tell Series

  Complete series

  In His Command, Book One

  On Her Watch, Book Two

  Under His Guard, Book Three

  In His Sights, novella, Standalone

  Freebies

  Jingle Bell Rock, Free download

  Heart Beats, Download for free

  In His Heart, Free download

  Connect with Rie

  Website

  Amazon

  Newsletter

  Goodreads

  Facebook Page

  Facebook Profile

  Twitter

  Pinterest

  Street Team of Awesome

  Acknowledgments

  Well, you got the total Storm effect. Hope you liked that!

  My complete, and always, thanks go to the following ladies who work so hard keeping me sane. Gilly Wright of Gilly Wright's Red Pen—she’s much more than my editor—and my PA Joelle Mendes, who handles all the fine details like an organizational guru! My critique partners—Christine Cox, April Gasaway, and Lisa Pinney—always have my complete gratitude.

  Huge cheers to the folks on Facebook who hang out with me, and always make me smile or drool. From the ‘help-me-choose-Storm’s-bike’ thread, I chose Lisa Pinney’s, but I loved all the suggestions. Thanks to Sabrina Roberts for picking out Jade’s stunning wedding dress. Mega love to all the bad girls in my street team. Ditto that to Cherie La Douceur Lord for the Cajun help in this book series.

  Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read, review, share laughs, and share my books!

  This series will end with Bane, Bad Boys of X-Ops 4. Can’t wait to see what he gets up to with Kiki Damage.

  About Rie

  Rie is the badass, sassafras author of Sugar Daddy and the Don’t Tell series—a breakthrough trilogy that crossed traditional publishing boundaries beginning with In His Command. Her latest endeavors include the Carolina Bad Boys, a fun, hot, and southern-sexy series.

  A Yankee transplant who has traveled the world, Rie started out a writer—causing her college professor to blush over her erotic poetry without one ounce of shame. Not much has changed. She swapped pen for paintbrushes and followed her other love during her twenties. From art school to marriage to children and many a wild and wonderful journey in between, Rie has come home to her calling. Her work has been called edgy, daring, and some of the sexiest smut around.

  You can connect with Rie via the social media hangouts listed on her website http://www.riewarren.com.