Westin's Chase (Titan)

by Harber, Cristin

  Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  FIRST LOOK AT GAMBLED

  WESTIN’S CHASE

  Cristin Harber

  CHAPTER ONE

  He saw no point in being the leader if he couldn’t guide his men home at the end of every job. His team. His operation. And right now, his disaster. Fire exploded around Jared Westin as he rolled for cover. Gravel dug into his cheek, and branches scratched at his eyes. Acrid smoke billowed, leaving the bitter taste of accelerant on his tongue.

  Radio silence was a bitch. He was fine. He would survive, despite the bite of the bullet in his calf and the shrapnel in his shoulder. His men and the rescued hostage were his concern.

  Stuck on the side of a mountain in Afghanistan, he saw that his only way out was through a hostile mess of turbans and firepower. Not the best strategic position. Jared’s only comfort was knowing the released American would soon be on their helo and out of enemy fire. Rocco and Brock had hustled the guy down the side of a cliff toward the pickup zone before the firefight got bad.

  Thump, thump.

  The enemy’s aim was blind, but close enough to cause harm. Dirt and rocks flew at him each time the bullets found groundcover instead of flesh.

  Popping up his head, Jared eyeballed the area. He had a third man in this melee. Roman remained somewhere nearby, drawing enemy fire. A flash of a grenade hit ten yards to Jared’s right, followed by Roman’s return fire. He must’ve had the same damn thought. If I’m going to die on a cliff in Afghanistan, let me do so in a pile of empty brass shells. There was no way either of them was dying without a fight.

  Jared checked his super-mag clip—full, with lots of potential. Plus he had a Sig Sauer strapped to his thigh. It had a solid reputation of accuracy, and he needed those bullets to hit their mark.

  Fire burned through the brush nearby, and he caught sight of his man. Roman’s shadow danced in the fiery glow cast against the rocky mountain. He was hunched against a boulder, reloading.

  Jared reached into the gear pack strapped to his back. He needed something explosive. A bloody distraction. In the background, the chop, chop, chop split the night as the helicopter neared the landing zone. It was right on time, and he needed to get a move on. If not, they would be on their own.

  Moving too quickly, his head spun. Blood loss must be worse than I thought. Spectacular. Jared rifled through the bag. More ammo. Two knives. And… thank the gun lords above, a handheld grenade launcher and two big-ass rounds.

  Palming the launcher, he recalled the sexy woman he had to thank for this beauty. She went by Sugar. He had no idea of her last name or her real name, but, damn, he loved working with her. She handed out grenade-launching hand cannons as gifts. Now if that wasn’t a turn on…

  And if this thing saved his life, he would have to come up with a decent way to say thanks for the cover.

  He snapped the metal handle into place, loaded up the first 40 mm grenade, eyed Roman, and shot out a blast. The explosion ripped open a possible escape route. Jared slammed the second cartridge into place. Locked and loaded. After a nod to Roman, saying this was their chance, he let it rip.

  Jared covered his face and ran toward the hellfire with his super mag firing. Brass casings spurted from his weapon, leaving a trail behind him. He pushed through the burn in his body and the pain in his leg and shoulder, ignoring the heat that seared his clothes. When his magazine clicked empty, he tossed the piece into the flames.

  Behind him, pops of firepower said Roman was behind him. Jared took a harsh breath. The smoke burned his throat. Gun pulled from the holster on his thigh, he pivoted and picked off enemy tangoes. They hit with bull’s-eye precision. Sig Sauer deserved a thank you when this shit mission was done.

  Their chopper hovered two hundred yards away in the pitch black night, hanging motionless off the side of the mountain. Roman was fast on Jared’s heels, and the two of them beat feet as quick as they could toward the bird.

  As Jared closed in, Rocco and Brock became visible, hanging from the opening, providing cover. Bright explosions ripped through the night as bullets rained down behind them. Two rappelling ropes blew in the violent mountain wind. Hell yes!

  With no time to overthink his moves, he launched over the edge of the cliff and into the inky-black abyss. He crawled through air, reaching for a lifeline. The seconds took too long. Without the ropes, he knew death was certain. A free fall down into the rocky mountain spikes meant lights-out for good.

  Gravity took over, and momentum lost. Jared’s weight began a rapid descent. His skin prickled as he splayed his fingers, reaching—hoping— for success.

  One hand fisted the rope, his wounded arm taking the brunt of his body and gear poundage. With a grunt and heave, Jared growled up to a second handhold. He had two hands tight on the rope, and Jared looked over at Roman. Swaying in the obsidian night, Roman screamed, “Hoorah!”

  Crazy bastard.

  His heart screamed, punching his bruised ribs. The jump was the best damn adrenaline rush he’d had in a long time. Jared took a painfully deep breath as the helo pulled up hard and swam off into the sky.

  ***

  The devastating sound of the chopper leaving brought tears to her eyes. Gunfire and battle cries in a language she didn’t understand screamed into the chilly night. Her saviors had come for one of them, but not both. It didn’t make sense. They hadn’t tried to find her. She heard them show up, create hell, and leave after finding her counterpart—the only other American in this camp.

  They have no idea I’m here.

  That was worst case scenario because that meant they weren’t coming back. Big time bad news. Maybe she should have listened, stayed stateside, and handled her work headache differently. But, no, she needed an adrenaline rush. Needed to get her mind off everything at home that she wanted to avoid. And when a Middle East gun-tracking assignment popped up through black-op back channels, she’d hopped on a plane without even telling her friends.

  Not that they would let her pull a stunt like this. Because… well, she would’ve been captured.

  Hanging out with the elite gun-slinger types was problematic. Even if she was decent on the trigger, she wasn’t elite or even as good an operative as she thought. Her background was intelligence gathering. She was only a former ATF agent with a desire for something bigger and too much time on her hands. Pathetic. All she had was an ego that rivaled the size of this goddamn mountain, and—

  Sugar. Shut. The. Hell. Up.

  She shook her head, then rubbed her eyes. “You will survive. You are that good. Who the hell needs a military rescue?”

  It’d been more tha
n forty-eight hours since her dumbass partner had stumbled into enemy hands and she’d tried to rescue him. That hadn’t worked out according to plan, and she was tossed into a makeshift cell and given nothing more than dirty water and rock-hard bread. As a foreign woman, they could’ve done much worse to her—and that threat still loomed. But I can handle this. She could kill each one of her captors and walk off that mountain before she had any more woe-is-me thoughts.

  Jeers came her way from her captors who’d survived the rescue operation, and her cage allowed no escape. She stepped away, feeling the earthen walls at her back and the lump at the back of her throat. She laid her palms flat against the cold dirt and dug her fingernails in. Two men approached, shooting into the night like it was Mardi Gras. Celebrating? Oh, yeah, because they still have me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jared wasn’t in the mood for any shit. Never was. But today, his alpha flare was on fire, as if he’d guzzled a six-pack of testosterone and chased it down with a pound of jerky. He would be at the firing range later, working off this… energy until his buzz died down.

  Something was wrong. His gut said it. His instincts screamed it. But as he wrapped up the debrief meeting with his team, nothing amiss had surfaced.

  He needed to go for a run. Damn the gunshot wound in his calf that was healing at a glacier’s pace. He wasn’t one to listen to the docs, but the bullet had nicked the tibia and scrambled some nerves. Messing with his health meant messing with his livelihood, so he planned to sit on his ass for two more weeks. Begrudgingly.

  The war room was rowdy after the ending of what had to be the closest thing to an office meeting that his team would ever have.

  Nicola, Jared’s lone female operative, cursed loud enough to quiet the room and tossed her cell phone to Cash. He looked at the screen, then chucked it to Winters, who did the same, sending it to Roman, like a game of cell phone hot potato.

  Annoyed and knowing this was the detail his gut said he’d been missing, Jared scowled. He wanted an explanation. Right away. “What?”

  Nicola sat down at the table, her brow pinched and lips pursed. Cash and Winters traded glances.

  “Cut the shit,” Jared growled. “Two seconds until I knock faces for answers.”

  Roman threw him the phone. The screen was open to an e-mail from Parker, Titan’s tech genius.

  FROM: Parker – Titan HQ

  TO: Titan – all users

  SUBJ: Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

  What the fuck? Jared scrolled down to the message.

  Afghanistan captive count was TWO. Confirmed the second hostage is Lilly Chase. Will be on the news in ten minutes.

  Jared looked up, and everyone stared at him. He shrugged. “Not the first time Washington bureaucrats got it wrong.”

  They could go back in and grab hostage number two, assuming they got the contract for the job. If not, he was fine with that. His gunshot wounds needed more time to heal. Sometimes, nabbing a contract wasn’t worth the headache.

  “You don’t know?” Cash asked, dropping into a chair, his face tight. He looked ready for the next world war.

  Parker burst through the doors like his ass was on fire. What the fuck? Whiskey Tango Foxtrot was right. Every member of his team stared at Jared, waiting for a reaction.

  No one said a word. Brock nodded to Parker, who clicked on a flat screen in the middle of the room. He flipped the channel from ESPN to CNN. Commercial. He flipped the channel again to Fox News, and—

  “What the…?” Not believing the screen, Jared pushed out of his chair, balled fists supporting his weight on the table.

  “That’s Sugar,” Parker said.

  “I know”—his jaw ached as he ground out the words—“who the fuck that is.”

  Everyone looked at the screen, then at him. Anger bubbled inside his chest. His mouth went dry as a thousand insane questions mocked him.

  “Sugar’s an ATF agent. ATF. Alcohol, tobacco, and firearms, not some military operation. Not some…” His pulse pounded. Tunnel vision was in full force, and he couldn’t put the words together. It didn’t make sense. Jared swallowed his reactions and refocused. “You mean to tell me Sugar’s on the side of a goddamn mountain in Afghanistan, and we fucking left her there?”

  Parker nodded.

  Jared threw Nicola’s phone across the room, and it shattered. No one moved.

  His chest tightened. “Unmute it.”

  Parker flicked the remote, and a news anchor’s voice filled the room. “…but what we do know is a state department spokesperson reports that diplomatic efforts are being made, but since this woman made an unsanctioned trip to—”

  “Turn it off.”

  The screen went black.

  “Diplomatic effort? They just sent us there and didn’t tell us there were two fucking people.” He took a growling breath. “Unsanctioned, my ass.”

  They all nodded, knowing it had been an official op gone bad. The government pulled this shit, and then had Titan fix their mistakes. Often.

  “What’s a fuckin’ ATF agent doing in Afghanistan?”

  No one answered. Probably, no one knew, but he didn’t care. Jared slammed his hands onto the table. “Parker, find out. Now.”

  Roman and Brock slipped into chairs at the table, and everyone sat there, with the exception of Parker, who’d likely started hacking into every classified federal database that existed.

  Jared dropped into his chair and scrubbed a hand across his face. “Her name is Lilly, and she’s a Taliban playtoy right now.”

  “You didn’t know her name?” Cash asked, raising his eyebrows. Jared knocked a glare at Cash, who threw his hands into the air. “Sorry, man. Thought you two were vibing.”

  “‘Vibing?’ Shut it, Cash,” he growled.

  “You two aren’t… weren’t?” Winters asked.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. No. She’s our arms dealer. She’s part of the Titan network. I don’t have to fuck everything that’s hot. Case in point—Nicola.”

  Cash smirked. “Easy, man. Leave my wife out of that comparison.”

  “And don’t say that shit about my sister.” Roman sneered.

  Nicola rolled her eyes. “I think we all thought that you and Sugar… saw eye to eye on some things.”

  “Everyone, shut the hell up.” He needed to think. Goddamn, my gut aches. Not his leg or his shoulder, where fresh wounds were healing, but his gut. “Gear up. We’re going back in.”

  No one moved. This wasn’t his typical “calm, cool, collected, plan everything to the nth degree, then execute” reaction.

  “Now!” He slammed his hands on the table.

  Brock stood up, looking ready to pull the second-in-command card. “We don’t have a contract.”

  “She’s our girl, and I owe her more than one favor.”

  “We don’t have State Department approval.”

  “I don’t need it.” Jared smirked. “I’d call over to Sixteen Hundred Penn Ave and buzz the president if I gave a damn about protocol, which I don’t.”

  Brock crossed his arms. “We don’t have a plan.”

  “Do what we did before, but finish the job this time.” Why am I explaining myself?

  Brock countered, “You’re recovering and aren’t thinking clearly.”

  No shit. “If you want to keep your paychecks coming, you’ll be ready to move out.”

  Jared stormed out of the room, not caring about the opinions behind him. The clack, clack, clack of Thelma, his bulldog, followed him from the war room to his office. Now there was some loyalty. That dog could eat the carpet, the drywall, and the silverware off his kitchen table, but she always knew when to fall in line and come along.

  The secure door closed behind them, making him wish Sugar was standing there, too. Intense eyes that distracted him. Lips that gave him wet dreams. And one killer body. From tits to ass, that woman had it going on. Besides that fun-land of a figure, she nipped at his pissed-off personality, tossing grenade-style sass and a smile that kno
cked him senseless. He hated it. Sugar was IED-dangerous. One misstep, and kaboom.

  They both knew it. Both avoided the other. Apparently, to the detriment of learning, she’d hightailed it to hell’s playground.

  Jared’s phone buzzed. He swiped the handset to his ear, didn’t listen, and then grumbled. “The only thing I want to hear is, ‘Wheels up in thirty.’”

  ***

  Chewing on cinnamon sticks was a nasty habit. But Kip Pearson embraced the god-awful taste. Since his childhood, the scent had always soothed his agitation, though the damn bark turned his mouth the color of Indian clay and chased away the ladies.

  Twenty minutes were left until he had major explaining to do, and that shit was for the grunts.

  Working for GSI’s Internal Affairs Division meant he didn’t have to deal with the headache of following the rules. He only enforced them as he saw fit. That was why he loved carrying on with the IA routine, and that title meant he didn’t need to sit in his truck, contemplating where to tell his boss to shove it.

  Kip glanced in the mirror, wiping orange spittle from the corners of his mouth, and then opened the truck door. He flicked the spit-covered spice stick like a cigarette butt and ignored the guard on the way in to GSI’s main headquarters.

  Growling at people in the halls, he swung open the pompous doors, emblazoned with “Buck Baer.”

  Buck’s secretary didn’t bat an eye when Kip announced himself. She must be used to the ballbusters who work for Buck. Very well-paid ballbusters. And considering that the rocks hanging from her ears weren’t knock offs, Buck’s secretary was making serious dough, too. Everyone’s on the take. Impressive.

  “Mr. Baer will see you now,” she said from the desk, not taking her eyes of the monitor.

  Yeah, I bet he will. Good thing Kip hasn’t wasted time resting his ass in some cushy chair. Buck’s place was too nice, had too much glitz. Kip would rather have hard-nosed furniture that’d been beat up and torn down. That would fit his demeanor. But not Buck. He liked the show. But if that’s what the prick wanted to do with his moolah, it wasn’t worth a second thought to Kip.