by Elle James
For a long moment, he sat in silence, reliving the past few weeks. He was only just recovered from the assassin’s gunshot wound. If not for his best friend and a former SEAL teammate, he wouldn’t have made it. That fact alone gave him hope for humanity. There were good people out there. His glance shifted to Tracie. She might be one of them. Only time would tell.
After what seemed like only a handful of minutes, the jet began its descent into Atlanta.
The plane’s tires kissed the runway with barely a bounce and, after rolling it into an open hangar, the pilot brought the aircraft to a complete stop.
The flight attendant lowered the stairs and stood to the side.
Rip stepped down first into the dim interior of the hangar and held out his hand to Tracie.
For a moment, she refused his proffered hand, her brow puckering. Then she laid her fingers in his.
The last time he and Tracie touched, he’d felt an electric jolt. This time was no different and the fire raced all the way through Rip’s body. What was it about the woman that had his body on high sexual alert? To get his mind off her, he leaned close and asked, “If the DEA agent was terminated for what he knew, how has his boss managed to stay alive?”
Tracie nodded. “Perhaps he doesn’t know anything.”
Rip ground to a halt. “In that case, we’re wasting our time.”
“We won’t know that until we meet with him.” Without slowing, Tracie strode across the hangar lengthening the distance between them.
A man appeared at a doorway. “This way Mr. and Mrs. Gideon. Your car is waiting.”
Rather than be left in the hangar, Rip ran to catch up, falling in step beside Tracie.
A sleek black limousine waited at the curb, the chauffeur holding the door. He didn’t speak a word as he held the door open while Tracie and Rip slid inside.
Once the door was closed, Tracie turned to Rip. “Have you considered the fact that Morris Franks’s willingness to talk to us might be an indication he knew more than he let on to others in his own department?”
Rip’s eyes narrowed and he stared out the windshield as if trying to see into the future. “Or, he could be looking for more information himself.”
“I suppose we’ll know soon enough. The hotel isn’t far from the airport.”
Tracie sat across the limo from Rip, not any single part of her body or limbs so much as touching him. Rip found himself wanting to reach across the short distance and pull her into his arms. The scent of her hair was doing strange things to him. Funny that even with her incredible legs and the classy way the red dress fit her body, the smell of her shampoo was what got to him most. It set every one of his nerves on edge and his groin tightened.
As a SEAL assigned to Special Boat Team 22—conducting missions and training their own team for missions as well as other SEAL teams—he hadn’t had the time nor the inclination to pursue a lasting romantic relationship. Not that there were many women to go around when he was stuck in the backwater swamps of the Mississippi bayous at Stennis where SBT-22 was headquartered.
If he were to pursue a woman, Tracie wouldn’t be the one. She was some kind of special agent for Hank Derringer. She didn’t have any more time than he had to get involved. Not that they would even be compatible. She was too...
Rip struggled to find the right word.
The tightness of her jaw and the slightly narrowed, beautiful green eyes said it all. Intense.
He’d bet she was just as intense in bed. Again his groin strained against the denim of his jeans. Now was not the time to think about getting naked with a woman. He had a job to do.
As a dead man, he needed to resolve the case so that he could resurface alive before the Navy processed him out of a job.
“We’re here,” Tracie said as the limo slid up beside the curb in front of what appeared to be a three-star hotel only a few blocks from the airport. “The driver will remain nearby in case we need him on short notice.”
Rip nodded and glanced at the hotel. “Once inside, who do we ask for?”
“We don’t. We check in as newlyweds.” Tracie glanced his way. “You’ll need your driver’s license and credit card. Our guy is in room 627. We’ll make our way up to his room after we check in.”
Rip pulled out the wallet Hank had provided and familiarized himself with the contents and his new name. Chuck Gideon. “Who came up with the name?”
“Does it matter?”
“No.” Rip got out, rounded the vehicle and beat the chauffeur to opening Tracie’s door. “Mrs. Gideon, shall we get a room?” He winked and smiled.
Tracie’s eyes narrowed slightly and she placed her hand in his, allowing him to pull her to her feet on the pavement.
His fingers tingled where they touched hers, but Rip schooled his expression, determined to give no indication that Tracie had any effect on him.
As soon as she was on her feet, she let go of his hand.
Not to be deterred, and using their married status as an excuse, he rested his hand at the small of her back. A slight tremor shook her body. Inside the lobby of the hotel, Rip adopted his role. “We’d like a room for the night.”
“Just a moment, sir.” The hotel manager’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “We have one suite left on the seventh floor.”
“Perfect,” Tracie smiled. “We’ll take it.”
Rip grinned at the manager. “She can’t wait to get me alone.” He held up her left hand, displaying the diamond ring and wedding band on her finger. Then he held up his left hand, displaying a matching wedding band. “Newlyweds.”
The manager smiled and handed them two key cards. “Congratulations.”
“Let’s wait to get the luggage until we’ve seen the room,” Tracie said, with a flirty bat of her eyelashes.
Though Rip knew it was all part of the act, it didn’t stop his pulse from leaping and his blood from thrumming hot through his veins. They stepped into the elevator. Before the door closed, Rip pulled Tracie into his arms and kissed her soundly.
The elevator doors slid shut and Tracie pushed him away, straightening her dress unnecessarily, her hands shaking. “We don’t want to look overeager.”
“Don’t you think newlyweds are anxious to get to their hotel room?”
Tracie shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, never having been a newlywed.” Her words were tight and it was as if a shutter descended over her green eyes.
“Well, I guess that answers one question.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
He smiled, liking that he’d shaken her with his kiss. “You’ve never been married. So you’re not married now.”
Turning her back to him, she said, “What does it matter?”
“I would think it would matter a little since we just kissed.”
“All part of our cover. It didn’t mean anything.”
“If you were married, wouldn’t you hope that your husband would be a little jealous of the man kissing his wife?”
“I would hope he’d understand it’s part of the job. Not that I’m getting married anytime soon.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not convinced marriage is all that great.”
Having been a SEAL for seven years, Rip had much the same perspective, though he’d never voiced his opinion on the institution. Tracie made him reconsider his own stand on matrimony. “I think marriage is okay for some.”
Tracie’s lips twisted as she glanced up at him. “But not you?”
He countered with raised brows. “Or you?”
“Marriage is hard enough when the two parties involved live under the same roof all year long. My jobs in the FBI and now on Hank’s team have kept me moving. I don’t have the time or the inclination to set down roots.”
The door opened on the se
venth floor. Rip took the lead, turning toward the stairwell instead of the room the hotel manager had assigned them. Tracie was right behind him.
He hurried down the stairs checking for security cameras. He’d seen one in the hallway on the seventh floor, but not in the stairwell. One floor down, he opened the door.
Movement captured his attention. Two men were entering the stairwell at the opposite end of the long corridor. The last one through looked over his shoulder at Rip and Tracie before shoving the guy in front of him the rest of the way through the door and crowding in behind him.
“Damn.” Tracie ducked past Rip and ran for room 627. The doorjamb was splintered and the door stood ajar. Tracie pulled a pistol from her purse and shouldered her way inside, gun pointed.
Rip dragged the HK .40 from the holster beneath his shirt and rushed in after Tracie.
“Franks is dead.” Tracie turned toward him. “Whoever did it got away.”
“The two in the stairwell.” Rip ran back to the stairwell. He took the steps two at a time, jumping over the railing as the staircase made a turn. He landed and repeated the process until he hit the ground floor where he burst through the doorway. As dark sedan rushed by, one of its windows lowered and the barrel of a pistol jutted out.
Rip threw himself to the ground as the sharp report of gunfire blasted the air. He rolled beneath a truck and out the other side, jumping to his feet. Another shot shattered the truck’s passenger window.
Hunkered low with the body of the truck between him and the fleeing vehicle, Rip sucked in a breath and dared to poke his head over the top of the hood, praying he’d have enough time to get a fix on the license plate of the sedan. Already, it was too far away and getting farther.
Rip ran across the grass, cut through a stand of trees and made it to the street as the getaway vehicle turned onto the main road.
He hammered his pistol’s grip into the driver’s side window, cracking the glass.
The driver cursed, and the vehicle slowed for a second. Tires squealing, it leaped across the crowded roadway, and three other vehicles crashed into each other as the drivers slammed on their brakes.
With the pileup blocking Rip, the killers got away.
Farther away from Tracie and the scene of the crime than he felt comfortable with, Rip jogged back to the hotel, and raced up the six flights of stairs.
Tracie was still in room 627 with the dead DEA supervisor.
Rip nudged the door open with his foot, breathing hard, his shirt torn and dirty.
“What happened?” Tracie asked.
“They got away.” Rip kicked the door closed behind him, careful not to touch anything. “Have you called the police?”
She shook her head and held up gloved hands. “No. And I’ve been careful not to leave prints on anything. We can’t blow our cover. There’s still a lot of work to do.”
“What about the surveillance video for this floor?”
“I’ll get Hank to work on that. Right now, we need to find any information that Greer might have left for us.” She slapped a pair of latex gloves in his hands.
Rip pulled on the gloves and glanced around the hotel room. Drawers littered the floor, a small suitcase lay upside down beside the drawers, clothes were strewn around the room as if someone had gone through them in a hurry. Pillows had been tossed off the bed and the mattress lay at an awkward angle, the sheets in a rumpled heap beside the dead man.
“The room’s been tossed. If there was anything to be found, don’t you think the killers would have gotten to it first?” Rip asked.
He glanced at the door. Not only had the killers splintered the frame, the chain lock had been ripped out of the door itself.
“The chain on the door was torn off. The agent knew someone might try to get to him.” Tracie checked the closet, the empty room safe and behind the dresser. “Nothing.”
Rip found a set of keys beneath the corner of the bed. “Think he might have left something in his vehicle?”
“We can check, but we better make it quick. It won’t be long before someone sees the broken door and discovers the body. We don’t want to be around when the police get here.”
Rip nodded. They couldn’t afford to be tied up answering questions for the police. Their fake documents would only hold up until authorities tracked down their real identities. “Did Hank have the access to erase our fingerprints from the FBI and military databases?”
“As far as I know, he removed us from all grids.”
A sense of loss washed over Rip. His identity had been erased from the military system. He’d always been proud of his connection with the SEALs. Having been removed from the system made him feel even more disconnected than his fake death.
Rip squared his shoulders. He didn’t have time to grieve his own death. Palming the car keys, he jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Three
Leading the way, Rip took the staircase down to the ground level.
Tracie followed more slowly in her high heels, listening for others entering the stairwell or raising the alarm about a killing in the hotel.
So far, nothing had gone according to plan, which was right on par for the life of an FBI agent, or a Covert Cowboys, Inc. operative for that matter. Rarely did she have complete control over what happened, but she’d rather be in the position of giving the orders than taking them. She frowned at Rip’s back.
The massive breadth of Rip’s shoulders gave her a modicum of confidence. At least he was capable of defending himself and possibly her, if hand-to-hand combat became necessary.
Outside in the parking lot, Rip hit the unlock button on the key fob. A nondescript gray economy car’s lights blinked and the vehicle let out a mechanical beep.
Thankfully, the car was parked at the side of the building, not in clear view of the lobby or the hotel manager, and hopefully out of range of security cameras.
Without wasting time, Rip dove into the car and thoroughly searched the interior before he gave up and popped the lock on the trunk. It was empty.
“Check under the mat where the spare tire and tools are located,” Tracie suggested.
His hand already skimming over the edges of the trunk lining, Rip found the tab to pull it upward. Beneath the felt-covered liner was a large envelope tucked next to the spare.
A siren sounded in the distance. Tracie’s pulse leaped. “Grab it and let’s get out of here. We don’t know if that siren is headed this way.”
Rip grabbed the packet, dropped the car keys on the ground nearby and peeled off the gloves, tucking them into his pocket.
Rip put his arm around Tracie, tucking the package between them as they made their way toward the limousine the driver had parked in the far corner of the hotel parking lot.
With Rip so close, Tracie had a hard time concentrating and she stumbled.
Rip’s hand on her arm steadied her. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Which is more than I can say for Franks.” Before Rip could reach for the back door, the driver hopped out and opened the door for Tracie. Rip helped her into her seat, leaning across to slide the package onto the seat beside her. In the process, he stole a kiss.
Startled by the feel of his lips on hers, Tracie froze, her mouth tingling, her hands pressed to her chest to still her furiously beating heart.
When Rip rounded to the other side of the vehicle and slid in beside her, his jaw tight.
“Was the kiss necessary?” she whispered.
“It was part of our cover,” he said, his lips twitching in the corners.
“Well, warn me next time,” Tracie muttered.
“Sorry, I thought you’d want me to act like the lovesick bridegroom.”
He had a point. He also had her trembling, and that j
ust wouldn’t do.
He winked at her and glanced at the driver. “For now, just get us away from the hotel.”
The driver nodded and shifted gears, setting the limo into motion.
Rip pressed a button and the privacy window between the driver and the passengers slid upward.
As soon as they were back on the main road and Tracie was certain they weren’t being followed, she opened the packet and peered inside.
“What’s in it?” Rip cast a quick glance her way.
“Photos and some printouts from the internet.” Tracie thumbed through the contents.
“Photos of?” Rip queried.
“People. They appear to be Latino.” She handed one to him. The image was at an odd angle, as if whoever had taken it hadn’t been focusing on the subject. “This is marked as Juan Villarreal.”
Rip’s eyes narrowed and a muscle ticked in his jaw. “Villarreal was the leader of the terrorist camp we raided in order to free the DEA agent. He’s the one in charge of the group using the US-supplied weapons. The photos are probably more of those taken by Greer while he was embedded. I’m surprised they made it all the way to his boss in the States. I had the feeling the flash drive he gave me before he died was all the evidence he managed to get out. Find anything else?”
“More photos and a hand-drawn map.” Tracie pulled the map out of the packet and unfolded it in her lap.
Rip leaned over the map. “Looks like the layout of the camp before we raided. I don’t think it will do much good now.”
“Maybe not, but the photos might help.” Tracie gathered the information and slid it back into the packet. “We need to get this information to Hank and let him run it through his computers.”
“And how will we do that?” Rip asked.
“Back at the airport. Everything we need is on the airplane.”
Rip studied the controls on the armrest and hit the one marked mic. “Driver, take us back to the airport.”
“Yes, Mr. Gideon,” the chauffeur responded.
Tracie shot a brief text message to Hank telling him what had happened and to clear the hotel’s video feeds of their images.