Heroes in Uniform: Soldiers, SEALs, Spies, Rangers and Cops: Sexy Hot Contemporary Alpha Heroes From NY Times and USA Today Bestselling Authors

by Sharon Hamilton

  The corners of her mouth turned up. “Do you ever pass up a chance to hit on a woman?”

  He pulled back and acted offended. “What? What kind of a chump do you take me for? Winners grab the ball. Losers pass up opportunities.”

  “Is that a football thing?”

  He wiggled an eyebrow. “Would it turn you on if it was? I think you’re secretly into jocks. You had me marked from the beginning. Admit it.”

  She did smile then, fully, and seeing that smile relaxed some of the tension in his chest. He leaned in again, slowly, gently, and kissed her, waited until she stepped into his arms and let go. The feel of her buzzed along his nerve endings.

  Somehow the kiss made him feel invincible, activating some primal male part of him: the warrior going off to battle, kissing his woman good-bye. His lips on hers felt good and right. Predictably, he wanted more.

  Her lips parted beneath his. He ran his hands around her waist to the back, his entire body hardening. This was why, millennia after millennia, women kissed their men before battle. To remind the befuddled bastards what would be waiting for them at home when they returned triumphant.

  Egyptian pharaohs and Napoleon, all the generals of all the armies—they conquered for this.

  His hands slipped lower and cupped her against him. “That’s one fine ass,” he murmured against her lips.

  A burst of a laugh escaped her. Then her hands went around him, mirroring his movements. The breath caught in his throat. He went in a little wilder and deepened the kiss.

  She tasted sweet and hot. He wanted her now, on the kitchen island, her long legs wrapped around his waist.

  A car horn beeped outside, interrupting that very satisfying fantasy.

  He hated to pull away, but he did. “Mike is here.”

  Her eyes were glazed with passion, her face flushed, her hair disheveled.

  Oh hell. How on earth was he supposed to walk away from her? He couldn’t, so she had to be the one to step away first.

  “Stay safe,” she whispered.

  “I’m coming home. Count on it.”

  He brushed one last kiss over her lips, then he turned and walked out, for the first time leaving a home behind when he went off to work, instead of an empty house.

  He strode up to Mike, thanked him for coming, then hopped into his Camaro and headed into Philly to meet up with Ramos and crew to do some damage.

  Ramos was waiting for him out front, standing next to Paco’s tricked-out Buick. Music blared out the windows, Rusty Cent again. Joe went over, bumped fists. Three guys went with Paco. They got into his car wordlessly, the one in the front on the passenger side grabbing a CD case and tossing it up to the dash before he sat down.

  From the corner of his eyes, Joe caught a glimpse of a green CD case with half a pink piggy sticker on the corner, then Paco pulled out and drove away.

  Ramos glanced at Joe. “No guns?”

  “Sorry, man. I can’t get them out here until tomorrow. They’re in my cousin’s garage, and the cops have eyes on him. They know he’s connected.” He looked around. “Where is Rashard?”

  “Gone with Chuck, Andre, and Will. He’s taking the long way to make sure ain’t nobody sees them.” Ramos grabbed a semiautomatic from the porch, then strode to the Camaro. “I’m driving.”

  Joe hopped in on the passenger side. Now was not the time to challenge alpha status.

  Ramos tossed the semiautomatic onto his lap. “That’s a loaner. Someone else came through this morning.”

  “Thanks, bro.”

  The Camaro’s motor purred as Ramos pulled away from the curb.

  “Got a fine sound,” he said, his shoulders relaxed, a man without a care in the world.

  But there was some bad vibe in the car that had Joe’s cop instincts prickling. For starters, why was it just the two of them? The other vehicles went out with a full crew.

  And then it hit him.

  The Rusty Cent CD on Paco’s dashboard.

  Wendy had one of those in her car. And Justin had put animal stickers all over it. Exactly like that pink piggy.

  Oh shit.

  He put his hand on his gun.

  If Paco had Wendy’s CD, that meant he’d been in Wendy’s car. That meant he’d been the one who cut her brakes. Why? Because he’d followed Joe at one point, saw Wendy, and thought she belonged to him.

  Joe glanced over to Ramos, but he was looking straight ahead, his jaw set at a determined angle, a cold gleam in his eyes.

  Nobody in the gang did anything without Ramos’s approval. Ramos had to have sent Paco. Even as Joe figured that out, another puzzle piece fell into place. Oh fuck.

  When he’d been shouting, “I’m an undercover officer,” in the back of the sinking police cruiser, Officer Tropper had heard him. He’d just acted as if he hadn’t. Tropper had left him to drown on purpose so Joe couldn’t finger him as the dirty cop. Lil’ Gomez had been collateral damage. Then Tropper reported back to Ramos.

  And Ramos had put a payback plan together.

  Joe reached over with his left hand to slap some music on while, at the same time, he took the safety off his gun with his right. Ramos could turn and blow his head off at any second. Joe stood ready, watching from the corner of his eye for the smallest movement.

  Ramos drove out of the neighborhood without a word, but when they reached the boulevard, he didn’t turn to the left, toward the neighborhood where most of J.T.’s crew lived.

  The chief had the SWAT team nearby, ready to shut it all down as soon as the first car pulled up. But it didn’t look like Ramos planned on being part of that hit.

  Joe did his best to relax his posture. “Where are we going?”

  “Got a little surprise up my sleeve.” He kept looking straight forward. “You and me will be doin’ a special op today.”

  He drove maybe a quarter of a mile, then turned off to a side street of graffiti-tagged row houses, then down another side street that led them to an industrial area with rusty fences and abandoned factories.

  Ramos bobbed his head to the music, a cold smile on his lips. “Rashard and Paco are hitting J.T.’s house. You and me are gonna take out the motherfucker’s business.” Ramos reached to the dashboard and pumped up the volume until the car was rocking. “This is where J.T.’s crew cuts their cocaine,” he shouted over the music.

  Joe reached into his pocket and pushed the button that would automatically dial Chief Gleason to let him know that Joe needed immediate assistance. They were tracking his cell phone signals tonight, so the chief would know where he was.

  Among the abandoned buildings, a beat-up shoe warehouse sat maybe three hundred feet ahead, lights on inside, a familiar yellow Hummer sitting in front of it.

  Okay. This is it. Things weren’t supposed to get this far, but they had.

  Survival mode.

  Joe rolled down his window all the way. He had his own weapon in hand, but switched it for the semiautomatic, then leaned back in his seat so Ramos could shoot by him.

  And then they were lined up with the warehouse, one of the giant corrugated metal doors open, three guys working on a gleaming GTO inside, another three watching. They all looked up at the music that blared from the Camaro.

  Ramos stepped on the brake and opened fire, knocked one guy to the ground with the first bullet.

  Joe was firing too, aiming at hands and weapons. He was hoping the enemy would run. But, of course, they didn’t. They dove for cover, then shot back.

  Ramos was squeezing the trigger nonstop. Bullets ricocheted off the freaking pavement.

  “Go, go, go!” Joe shouted at him as more guys rushed from the back, spraying the Camaro with bullets.

  He didn’t have time to worry about his car. His semiautomatic jammed. He threw it out the window and grabbed his own gun. The fifteen bullets in the magazine weren’t going to get him far. Ramos was squeezing off more per minute.

  “For fuck’s sake, get out of here!” He was shooting back for real now, took out o
ne guy, aimed for the next. “Go!”

  But Ramos had his foot on the brake, open hate on his face as he switched his gaze to Joe for a second.

  He wants me dead, right now, right here. Of course he did. If one of J.T.’s guys shot Joe, Ramos would be off scot-free; he wouldn’t be the cop killer going to federal prison.

  Joe opened the door and threw himself to the pavement while squeezing off one shot after the other at the warehouse. He rolled behind his car, then ran in a crouch toward the nearest thing that could shelter him, the side of the building, bullets whizzing by in every direction around him.

  He didn’t look back to see if they were coming from the warehouse or Ramos. He ran like hell for cover.

  He got maybe thirty feet away when something plowed into his back and knocked him face-first into the pavement. Shot, his dazed mind registered. For a split second, he thought of Wendy and the baby. Shook it off. He had to keep his mind in the game. He rolled into the cover of a haphazard jumble of rusty Dumpsters by the building’s side, giving thanks for his Kevlar.

  Tires squealed behind him. Ramos was driving away at last.

  Hopefully with a couple of bullets in him. Joe struggled to catch his breath as he pushed to his feet. He needed to get his ass moving. Some of J.T.’s boys would go after Ramos. The rest would come after him.

  He staggered into the narrow alley between the shoe warehouse and the next derelict building. The alleyway stretched to two hundred feet, at least. If anyone came after him before he cleared the other end, he’d have nowhere to hide, nothing but brick wall on either side. The gap was maybe three feet wide, filled with dead weeds and garbage.

  Somewhere in the distance, police sirens sounded. Too damn far.

  Engines roared to life behind the warehouse. J.T.’s crew was mobilizing. If Joe darted out of the alleyway in front of them, they’d either run him down or shoot him dead, probably both. He couldn’t go forward, and he couldn’t go back.

  He spotted half a dozen basement windows near the ground behind the weeds. One had its glass broken. He scanned the junk around him and grabbed a tattered cardboard box, ran to the window, stuck his head in. The dim, cavernous place seemed uninhabited, no sound of movement.

  Jeezus, it stunk in there.

  He gagged as he dove in, then, as soon as he was on his feet, he jumped and reached back to pull the box over to cover the window from the outside. That blocked a little more light, but hiding the window might give him a few extra minutes.

  He squinted as he scanned the place. Concrete floor, concrete block walls, a mess of broken industrial equipment thrown around. He held back a coughing fit, but he wasn’t sure how long he could keep from throwing up. Hopefully, if his stomach gave out, at least it would do it quietly.

  Voices reached him from outside, coming closer and closer.

  As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he looked around more carefully, and spotted an odd-shaped pile in the corner. He took four or five steps in that direction before he realized he was looking at a pile of decomposing bodies.

  He did lose his dinner then as he stared at the three dead men. The one on top had his face turned toward Joe. Officer Tropper.

  He cupped his left hand over his nose, pulled his cell with his right hand, and dialed Chief Gleason’s direct number. Didn’t get anywhere with that. The basement had zero phone reception.

  He snapped a picture of the bodies, then moved toward the door, ready to get the hell out of there. With some luck, everyone up above had cleared out, since the cops were coming.

  Then again, when did he have any luck lately? He ran into two men at the top of the stairs. He recognized one of them as the driver of the Hummer. Joe shot at them, but they ducked to the side, shot back with their guns held out, keeping themselves behind cover. He had to retreat into the unbearable stench. If he could get back out the window—

  No, not that either. Someone was climbing in. The men after him had figured out where he’d disappeared to.

  Joe pulled into the nearest empty corner and put his back to the wall, shot at the guy. He hit his target, and the man dropped but had enough left in him to fire back. Then his buddies reached the bottom of the staircase and opened fire on Joe from the other side.

  “You gonna go to the top of the pile, mothafucka,” Hummer guy shouted.

  More than likely. Joe fired back. He had two bullets left.

  Deathblow: Chapter Fifteen

  Wendy prepared to make breakfast, Justin helping every step of the way, when the sound of a car drew her attention to the front window. She looked out, hoping for Joe, but spotted a tow truck instead, carrying her Prius on the back.

  She pushed aside both the disappointment and the worry. Joe had said he might not be back until morning. He’d be here any minute.

  She put a smile on her face as she turned to her son. “Hey, tow truck is here. Want to see?”

  “Yay!” Justin beamed as if he’d swallowed a sunlamp. The kid was nuts for cars and trucks.

  She put a coat on him, then picked him up and went to meet the tow-truck driver, an older guy about as wide as he was tall.

  “Hi. You must be Artie. I’m Wendy. Thank you so much for doing this.”

  “No problem. I thought I’d swing your car by to see if you wanted to get anything out of it.”

  “I’d love the car seat.”

  Artie pulled it out and set it on the driveway.

  “Thank you. How much do I owe you?”

  But Artie shook his head. “Tow is free. I owe Joe plenty. I’ll call him about an estimate for the car once I get a chance for a closer look. But unless you have some special attachment to it,” he shook his head, “it’s pretty much totaled. Let the insurance deal with it.”

  Wendy sighed as she looked at her car. “Thanks.”

  Artie waved, then winked at Justin and shuffled back to his truck.

  Wendy yelled another thank-you after him as he drove away. The free tow was incredibly nice. Courtesy of Joe, it seemed. That everybody in town liked him said something about him. She was always offended when people assumed she was nothing more than a pretty face, but truth be told, she’d done that with Joe. It didn’t feel comfortable to be proven wrong over and over again.

  She set Justin down and let him run ahead as she carried the car seat. She left it inside the door, helped Justin take his coat off, then they went back to the kitchen to make pancakes, but the doorbell rang before she was finished.

  A pretty young woman stood on the other side of the door, short brown hair in a fashionable cut, holding a toddler boy who looked just like her.

  “Hi,” she said with a warm smile. “I’m Amber. Joe’s sister. He said he had guests staying over, and Max and I should stop by.”

  She definitely had Joe’s eyes. Wendy opened the door for her, recognizing Max from a photo on the fridge. “Come in. We were about to grab some pancakes, then go outside to check out that swing set. I’m Wendy.”

  “Where’s Joe?”

  “Hasn’t come home yet.”

  “Night shift?”

  Wendy nodded.

  “Work can drag on,” Amber said. “If something happens right at the end of shift, they have to stay to do the million pages of paperwork.”

  Justin stared curiously at the visitors. Wendy nudged him forward an inch or two. “This is Justin. Justin, this is Max.”

  The visitors went back to the kitchen with them and Wendy made a couple of extra pancakes for Max, who’d apparently had cereal already but never turned down maple syrup. Amber asked for a glass of water and chatted about how much better the kitchen was now than when Joe had bought the house. But the whole time, Wendy had a feeling she was being assessed, which made her twitchy.

  The boys too measured each other up during the meal, but once they were outside, they found some plastic cars in the sandbox and started into a demolition derby as if they’d been best friends forever.

  Amber leaned against the picnic table next to Wendy. “
So how long have you known my brother?”

  “A couple of months.”

  She tilted her head. “He said you two were having a baby.” She smiled. “I can’t wait to be an aunt. Why aren’t you together together? He’s a great guy,” she added with a touch of defensiveness. “Are you two fighting? How can you be fighting with him? He’s so not the type. I could barely eke a good fight out of him when we were kids. Too damn easygoing. I had to do my sibling fighting with my best friend’s brother. I’m not kidding.”

  Wendy blinked, feeling as if a bullet train was running away with her. Cleared her throat. “We’re not fighting.”

  The smile returned to Amber’s face. “Good.” The smile widened. “You’re living in his house. He’s never had a woman here before. Ever.”

  “I’m here only temporarily.”

  “Hmm.” Amber had a we’ll-see look on her face.

  “You live in Broslin?” Wendy asked, trying to take some control of the conversation.

  “All my life. I’m a realtor. Are you looking to move here?”

  “I have a place in Wilmington.”

  “Daryl was from Wilmington before his family moved to Broslin. My husband. That best friend’s brother I was talking about that I used to fight with like crazy when we were kids.” Sadness touched her face. “He died two years ago from cancer.” She blinked. “When you love somebody, you can’t put things off. You can’t know how much time you’ve been given.”

  “I’m sorry.” Wendy wasn’t sure what to say. “That must be difficult with Max.”

  Amber pressed her lips together for a second. “You’re a single mom too.” Sniffed. Tilted her head. “My big brother might have done a lot of stupid things in his life, but he’s never gone after a married woman.”

  Which didn’t surprise Wendy. Joe had a good, honest core. One more thing that pulled her to him.

  Amber narrowed her eyes. “So if you’re not living with Joe because you’re currently a couple, you must be here in connection with some police business. Like witness protection or whatever. That would explain why Mike is sitting in an undercover car across the road. I’m totally not going to ask you about that.”