Special Forces: Operation Alpha: Mia (Kindle Worlds)

by Anne L. Parks

  "If I go out with your friend," Ben finished her sentence.

  "That's the deal." Ben didn't respond. "Come on," Ice said, breaking the silence. "Mia is great. Matthew—tell Ben how great Mia is—"

  "Mia's great." Wolf said in the background.

  Ben snorted. Man of many words. "Okay, okay, Ice. Tell me when and where and I will meet up with Mia the Great."

  "I'll text you all the information," she said. "I'm so excited for you to meet her." Caroline's voice rose an octave or two, which on any other woman would have registered as a squeal. Ice had an unusually low voice for a woman. Ben thought it made her sexy as hell, but he never let anyone—especially Wolf—know his feelings on that subject. Some things are better left unsaid.

  Most things, probably.

  "Why is it when women get married, they have to find mates for all their single friends?"

  "Because we want everyone to be deliriously happy." Caroline said with a chuckle. "Seriously, Ben. I really do think you will have a good time. Just give it a chance."

  Caroline was the SEAL team momma bear—a hot momma bear—and Ben would do just about anything for her. In the whole scheme of things, taking her friend to lunch was not a big deal.

  "Gotta go, Ice. The feds have more hoops for me to jump through today. Don't want to be late for all the fun."

  They said their goodbyes and ended the call. Within a minute his phone dinged with an incoming text from Caroline providing the details of his lunch date with Mia on Friday.

  He finished dressing in his uniform, grabbed his wallet, phone and cover, and headed out the door. Two days—and then he would see if Mia the Great was actually Mia the girl with a great personality and not much else.

  2

  A meeting notification popped up on Mia's computer screen. "Great."

  Not.

  Mr. Walton would be there in a half an hour, and Mia hadn't so much as glanced at his file in over a month. The man was nauseating, forever wanting to meet with her, go over options for his clients, and never commit to a course of action. The man wasn't going to move his business over to the firm and was using these meetings as a way to bill his clients.

  Blood-sucking lawyer turned sports agent.

  She hit the intercom on the phone. "Tabitha, do you know where the Walton file is? I can't find it in my drawer."

  Tabitha chuckled. "It's in the stack of files you have next to the credenza. You know, the avoid at all cost until absolutely necessary files? In there."

  Mia swiveled around in her chair. When had the pile of files gotten so big? They nearly reached the top edge of the credenza.

  "Well, crap," Mia said, and started going through the files. Near the bottom, she noticed a file with a dark blue label on it. Not her file. All her files had red labels. She found the file she was looking for, and placed both on her desk. She would worry about the misplaced blue file after she met with Walton.

  Her eyes caught on the accountant name, and she picked it up to take a closer look. McKenzie. Her thoughts immediately went back to the odd encounter with Riordan last night outside of her office. Had he been there looking for the file? If so, why not just tell her that?

  The pit of her stomach was burning. This was not a coincidence. Something was not right. Riordan in her office, finding his file, and now he is dead. Were they connected, or was this her overactive imagination at work? Sometimes life felt like a conspiracy, until she had an opportunity to really examine the evidence.

  A knock at the door drew her attention back to the present issue. Tabitha stepped inside, announced Mr. Walton had arrived for his appointment, and rolled her eyes. Luckily, her back was to Walton, so he didn't see her, but it was difficult for Mia not to laugh—or roll her eyes in response.

  "Mr. Walton," Mia said, and gestured to the leather chair across from her desk. "Have a seat. I was just going over your file."

  An hour later, Mia escorted the man to the bank of elevators and shook his hand. "It was great to see you again. If you have any additional questions, let me know." He wouldn't. The meeting was an exercise in futility, but Mia was not one to burn bridges.

  With Riordan's file in hand, she went up to the seventh floor. She wasn't exactly sure where Riordan's office was, since she had never been there before. A young woman she asked was able to lead Mia to Riordan's secretary.

  "Hi, I'm Mia Rowland," she said, reaching out to shake the older woman's hand. "I'm an accountant on the fourth floor."

  "I'm Pearl Johnson." Her eyes were red and puffy, and judging by the tremor in her hand, the woman was having one hell of a bad day. "What can I do for you?"

  Mia handed her the file. "Somehow Mr. McKenzie's file ended up in a stack of mine. I found it this morning and—in light of everything—thought you would need it back."

  Pearl took the file and inspected the label. Abruptly, she shoved it back into Mia's hand. "That's not Mr. McKenzie's file," she said.

  Did I read the label incorrectly?

  "Are you sure? It says R. McKenzie." Mia went to hand it back to the woman.

  Pearl took a half step away as if the file was an evil talisman that would burn her if she were to get too close to it. Her eyes widened and she shook her head. "It's not one of his files. He has green labels." She held up a couple of files. All of them had green labels. "I don't know whose file that it—but it's not one of ours." Her inhale was as shaky as her voice. "I don't mean to be rude, Ms. Rowland, but I have a lot of work to do, as I'm sure you can imagine."

  Mia nodded and stared at the woman for a moment longer. Pale face, eyes darting at anything and everything but me. She's scared. But why?

  "Of course," Mia said, and tucked the mysterious file under her arm. "I'm sorry to bother you. Thank you for your help."

  Turning away, Mia heard Pearl clear her throat."You didn't open it or read it, did you?"

  Mia looked over her shoulder. The woman was worried about client confidentiality? "No".

  Pearl exhaled dramatically and her shoulders sagged a little, but the tight tension remained. "Good. Don't." Without another word, Pearl snatched up a stack of files, walked into Riordan's office, and closed the door behind her.

  What the hell just happened?

  Mia slowly made her way back to her office. She tossed the unclaimed file on her desk, staring at it as if she expected it to come to life at any moment and murder her. Pulling up the firm directory on her computer, she typed McKenzie into the search box. The only name that came up was Riordan's. It had to be his file. So, why the different colored label? And what had it been doing in her office?

  And why the hell was Pearl Johnson so scared?

  Pearl's warning not to look inside the file played over and over in Mia's head. She opened her drawer, and placed the file inside. Out of sight, out of mind. She had work to do. She would deal with the cryptic file later, and decide what to do with it.

  Ben leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and groaned. Counter intelligence briefings sounded as if they'd be interesting. Not so much. The CIA managed to take something cool and turn it into the most dry, boring crap he had the displeasure of committing to memory. The day had been spent watching a Power Point presentation, a video of a counter intelligence expert spook, and reading the legalese-laden Counter Intelligence Manual.

  Ben understood why they had taken his gun from him when he entered the building. One more hour of this shit and he was liable to either go postal or blow his brains out.

  The door to the conference room opened, and a man in jeans and a polo shirt walked in, wide grin across his face. "Congratulations on making it through the day," he said as he approached Ben. "You must be Chief Petty Officer Ben Wells. I'm Lieutenant Commander Ritt Knight, POC for your new home. Everyone on the team calls me Lancelot—or just Lance."

  Ben stood and shook Lance's hand. "Humps," he said, referring to his own call sign. "Nice to meet you, sir."

  "You staying at the Marriott in Georgetown?" Lance asked.

  Be
n nodded. "Yes, sir."

  Ritt chuckled. "Okay, this is going to be a long couple of weeks if we stick to military protocol. Let's drop the obligatory 'sir' and I will assume you are extending me courtesy without actually articulating it."

  "Sounds good to me," Ben said. That was a relief. Hanging out with an officer was bad enough as an enlisted man. So far, Lance seemed like a stand up guy without the big "O" chip on his shoulder.

  "You got plans for the night, Humps?"

  "Other than getting out of here as fast as possible—no."

  Lance laughed and turned toward the door. "Well, let's see what kind of trouble we can stir up?"

  "Right behind ya," Ben said, nearly jumping out of his seat.

  The Metro seemed to be going exceptionally slow that evening. Or Mia was just overly anxious to get home. After the odd reaction she received from Pearl regarding the file, she had decided to take it home and inspect it there. She knew she would worry all night about it sitting in her desk drawer, wondering what the hell was inside Pearl didn't want her to see.

  For now, it sat in the bag on her lap. She clutched it tightly to her body as if it contained a million dollars. She knew she should loosen her death grip on it or she was liable to attract attention she was trying to avoid. No one clutched a bag filled with books. Something being guarded potentially contained items that could be stolen and sold. The last thing she needed was some young kid to snatch it from her thinking it was valuable.

  Even knowing better, she was still unable to release her grip on the bag for fear the file would sprout legs and take off running as soon as the doors opened to the Woodley Park station. That mental vision made her inwardly chuckle. When she finally reached her stop, she forced herself to walk from the station as if it was any other day she was walking home from work. But three blocks from home, her pace increased. She darted up the steps to her townhouse, slamming the door behind her and throwing the deadbolt. She dropped her bag on the couch as if it suddenly caught fire and she needed to get it out of her hands.

  Now what?

  Disregard Pearl's warning and read it? Place it in the desk drawer in her study? Have a glass of wine or two and figure it out when she had a buzz going?

  Pulling the stopper from a bottle of merlot, she generously filled a bulbous glass, and took a healthy drink. The deep red liquid was smooth, but ignited once it hit her empty stomach. Pulling open the refrigerator door, she peered inside at the emptiness. She did this every night, expecting—what?—that the grocery fairies had shown up and filled her fridge with fully prepared meals, fresh fruits and vegetables, all waiting to save her from ordering Chinese? Again?

  Thirty minutes later, carton of Szechuan chicken in hand, Mia dropped onto the couch and flipped open the mysterious file that lay on the coffee table in front of her. Stuffing her mouth full of spicy chicken, she lifted a few of the documents to get a closer look. Bank statements. Not unusual for CPA's to have client bank statements. She took a closer look at the name listed on at the top.

  The Hutton Foundation.

  Senator Hutton's charities?

  William Hutton was an extremely well-known senator who was in the news often. As a member of the Senate Ways and Means Committee, he was a huge proponent for seeking out individuals and corporations funding terrorist activities in the US and around the world. His charitable organization was known for the "Survival through skilled labor—not terrorism" ads featuring young children in third world countries learning to shoot guns, with the obligatory middle eastern men riding in military vehicles shooting semi-automatic weapons in the air.

  The ads must be working, if the amount listed on the statements was any indication.

  Mia took a generous swig of wine. "Holy hell, good thing all this money is being used to stop terrorism."

  The rest of the file consisted of more statements from banks in other countries, a donations ledger, and invoices from the firm. At first glance, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary.

  Mia took a cleansing breath, but the nervous energy that coursed through her body had not dissipated with the discovery.

  If there's nothing unusual about the account, why was Pearl so spooked by the file? Am I missing something obvious?

  Mia closed up the file and placed it on the coffee table. No way was she diving deep into the documents tonight. She was too mentally exhausted by the events of the day. Before she went to bed, she locked it up in her desk. Maybe a good night's sleep would offer her some clarity about what the hell to do.

  The hotel bar was sleek and contemporary—and not at all Ben's style. He preferred McP's in Coronado. Laid back, cold beer, and always a good—questionably accurate—SEAL or aviator story. This place was all neon lights and acrylic bars and tables. The woman were young and on the prowl for men wearing expensive suits in powerful positions, not an enlisted military guy wearing jeans and a button-down shirt.

  Didn't stop Ben from wishing he could find a woman to take the edge off. No sex for the past couple of weeks was making Ben a cranky boy. Glancing around the bar, he gauged his chances of one-night stand success. Not likely…unless he was willing to wait for last call and see who remained after all the DC political movers-and-shakers had left with woman in various stages of arousal.

  A woman slid onto the barstool next to him and ordered a double Stolichnaya neat. Ben watched peripherally as the woman tossed the entire shot back like it was water, and tapped her finger on the bar for a refill. When she did the same with the second glass, Ben took more notice of her. Straight blonde hair fell down her back. Her legs were long and lean, tanned, and damned near perfect. The pin striped tight skirt was mid thigh. Ben's gaze savored every inch of sun-kissed skin. He had to physically hold in the moan when his eyes landed on the black and silver come-fuck-me heels. The woman was so far out of Ben's league, he felt like a little leaguer trying play for the Yankees. His big head knew the truth, his little head was still standing at attention trying to get a peek up her skirt.

  The bartender refilled the glass, but the woman let it sit on the bar untouched. Turning in her seat, she stared Ben straight in the eye. He stared back, trying to name the color he saw—greenish…grey-ish—unaware of how long he sat gawking at the insanely beautiful woman.

  "Do you always stare at women with your mouth hanging open?" She had an accent. German? No. Russian? That sounded right.

  Ben closed his mouth and picked up his beer. "Do you always drink vodka like it should come in a plastic bottle and rehydrate you?"

  A smile flitted across her lips. "Often." She raised her glass to her lips, but only took a sip of the spirit.

  "Ditto," Ben said, and took a swig from his beer bottle.

  "What is your name?"

  Ben wiped his hand on his jeans and offered it to her. "Ben."

  "Ben," she said, and the movement of her lips sent a jolt of electric heat straight to his groin. She took his hand in hers, delicate and soft. "Alina."

  "Nice to meet you, Alina." Ben wasn't about to let go of her hand. Slowly, she pulled hers away, her long fingers gliding across his palm in a seductively erotic journey to his fingertips.

  "So, Ben, you are not from here. What do you do?"

  Ben jerked his head back slightly and narrowed his eyes. "What makes you say that?"

  "You do not wear the clothes that men from here wear."

  "What if I'm just a blue collar guy who lives in the area? There are people in DC who have regular jobs, you know?"

  She shook her head. "Not that would be in this bar." Her gaze took a leisurely stroll up and down his body. "I would guess military." A spark brightened her eyes. "Am I right?"

  Ben shrugged. The counter intelligence briefs rolled through his head. Was she wheedling information out of him? "Why is what I do so important?"

  She threw her head back and laughed. "You are definitely not from here, Ben. What a man does is as much a part of him as the size of his…hand." She slid her hand into his again, and left it there.
<
br />   What the fuck?

  Ben glanced around the bar. Where the hell was Lance? Sitting across the room, Lancelot looked like a Knight at the Round Table surrounded by women giggling at whatever he said.

  The events were all too weird. Today Ben had a refresher course on counter intelligence, and tonight he was being questioned by a gorgeous Russian who wanted to know what he did for a living.

  Was he being tested?

  Ben wouldn't put it past CIA spooks to attempt to trip him up. Just seemed like too much of a coincidence after the day's briefing.

  Well, okay, let's play spy, Alina.

  "Depends," he said.

  "On what?" Alina's tongue darted out and licked her bottom lip. So fucking slowly. Ben's balls seized and drew up.

  The woman knew how to get a man panting…

  Leaning in close, Ben glanced down the front of her blouse. Hell, might as well. This was as close as he was going to come to seeing her tits. "On what answer will get you naked and spread wide open under me while I fuck your brains out."

  Ben took advantage of the brief second Alina's eyes widened and then flamed. "What is it you do, Alina? And how much will I have to leave on the bedside table after I'm done with you?"

  Her hand dropped to his thigh, slid up between his legs, and cupped his hard cock. "Not all exchanges need be monetary, Ben." Her voice was low and breathy. Ben's erection strained painfully against the zipper of his jeans, begging to be set free.

  Fair play being what it was, and all, Ben slid his hand under the hem of her skirt. Alina shifted slightly, opening her legs to accommodate his roaming fingers. He stopped at the apex and pushed against her silk panties. "I doubt I have the equity required to fuck you, lady." He removed his fingers, brought them to his nose, and inhaled her arousal. "Thanks for letting me cop a feel, though. Pretty sure I can conjure up some creative images of you while I jack off in the shower."

  Ben tossed some cash on the bar, glanced at Lance, and pointed toward the door. The raging hard did not make walking easy, and as much as he wanted to see the look on Alina's face, he dared not look back at her. He pressed the button for the elevator, stepped into the empty car, and groaned. The episode with Alina, along with the two-week abstinence, was bound to give him blue balls.