by Desiree Holt
This had to be the owner, Patrick Collins, the founder of the pub’s dynasty, so to speak. Using her phone, she’d searched the Internet for anything she could find about the pub before checking it out in person. It turned out to have quite the local reputation, and not just because Teagan Collins had married famous singer Sky Adams and they treated the bar to impromptu performances when they could. She’d also discovered there was a restaurant attached to the pub, Sunday’s Side, named for Pat Collins’ late wife.
So she’d been armed with those tidbits and a few others when she’d walked into Pat’s Irish Pub to begin the next phase of her life. And so far, it had worked out very well.
She loved working at the pub. She could put everything that had happened at Tyndal, not to mention the high stress level it had pushed her to, out of her mind. No one here was looking to cut her throat or make her life miserable. Now and then, Pat would ask her why someone as smart as she was worked as a bartender for a living. She always smiled and told him she was here because she was smart and recognized a great place to work. She knew he didn’t believe her, but he never pushed for a better answer.
Frank’s sigh brought her attention back to the present. “Well, Mary my love, since you won’t agree to give me the pleasure of your company on a date, I’ll just take my single self home to my lonely little place. Probably have to drink myself to sleep I’m so sad to be without you.”
Mary burst out laughing. “Frank, you’ve got that routine down so tight you could market it.”
“Yeah?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Is it working?”
“Not a chance.” She grinned. “But your presentation keeps getting better. You should try it on some of the lovelies who come in on the weekends.”
“They’ve already given him the brushoff,” Pat said, and laughed. “Come on, drink up. Let the lady go home.”
“I can give you a ride.” Frank offered her a hopeful look.
“Thanks, but I’m good.”
Frank sighed. “Well, then. I guess I’ll finish my beer and toddle out of here.”
Pat turned to look at him. “I suppose we’ll see you again tomorrow night?”
“I need to keep pitching myself to this gorgeous beauty here.” He slapped a twenty on the bar. “Good night, gorgeous. See you tomorrow.”
In a moment, he was gone, the couple at the table following on his heels.
Mary opened the register to slide the bill into the drawer and took out the change. She always put most of it in the tip jar, to share with the others. But tonight, Pat shook his head.
“Those tips are for you,” he pointed out. “You can slip a little in there if you want, but you work hard back there, Mary. On your feet, putting up with the bullshit, filling the drink orders. You don’t keep near enough for yourself.”
“I do okay, Pat. You pay me a decent salary, and I don’t need a lot to live on.”
He cocked one of his thick gray eyebrows at her. “I don’t know a lot about you, Mary. Tris said he’s satisfied, and that’s enough for me. But what’s a classy lady like you, sharp, smart, doing tending bar in a neighborhood pub?”
She smiled at him. “You ask me that all the time, and the answer is always the same. I needed a change of direction in my life. Besides, this isn’t just any neighborhood pub. It’s Pat’s Irish Pub. Practically an institution. I should be paying you to let me work here.”
He winked at her. “One day I’ll get the answer out of you. Meanwhile, you go on home. Here’s my grandson to close up, so you scoot.”
Padraig Collins—“Little Pat”—Tristan’s son, walked into the bar from the office where he’d been doing paperwork.
“He’s right, Mary. I’m locking the door right now. Come let me watch you into the parking lot.”
Someone always insisted on waiting at the back door until she got into her car and drove away. It gave her a good feeling, the same way being included in some of their family gatherings did. Just like becoming friendly with a couple of women who came in here regularly gave her a sense of belonging. More and more she believed applying for this job was a smart decision for her.
The drive to her place was only about twenty minutes. The moment Tristan Collins had hired her, she’d taken the newspaper still in her hand, seated herself at a table in the pub with a cup of coffee, and gone through the real estate ads. How lucky was it she managed to find a duplex for rent in a nice enough neighborhood close to the pub, at way less than she was paying for her old place.
Her landlord, a man named Carl Mitchell, lived in the other half of the duplex, a situation that gave her pause at first. He wasn’t bad looking. She judged him to be about fifty, tall and bulky but not muscular. Not someone you’d give a lot of thought to if you ran into him on the street. Although he was very courteous when she contacted him about the duplex, when she learned he lived in the unit next door, she was a little leery of renting from him. She wondered if he had an ulterior motive in renting to a single female.
But the place was clean, well maintained, on a quiet side street. And truthfully, he didn’t give off the vibe of a predator.
“I’m not around a whole lot,” he told her, as if aware of what she was thinking. “My cell number is on the lease if you need anything, and I’ll get to it as quick as I can.”
She decided to take a chance, and, so far, it had worked out well.
Just as he’d predicted, she only saw him occasionally, and while he’d never win a charm school medal, he was always polite. Respectful. He was also quiet and seemed to be gone a lot at night. He told her he owned a couple of small businesses in town which were probably what took up his evening hours. Two businesses could be time consuming. Nine times out of ten, his truck was missing when she got home, and she wondered what kind of business he was in that had so many late hours. Or maybe he had an overactive social life.
But he took care of the outside maintenance, didn’t make much noise, and never tried to cross a line with her. She guessed she couldn’t ask for much more.
The driveway on his side was empty as usual when she pulled up to her side of the duplex. She got out, pressed the fob to lock the doors, and was just heading up the little walkway to the front door when a voice called to her.
“Excuse me. Miss?”
She turned to see a big, black double-cab pickup truck with jacked-up wheels at the curb. A man leaned out the window on the passenger side, smiling at her. Mary edged closer to her door and threaded her keys through her fingers the way she’d seen in a self-defense video.
“Yes?” Damn! She probably shouldn’t have answered him.
“Do you happen to know where Carl is?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I almost never see him.”
“When you do, would you please tell him to call Bruno?”
“You’d probably do better to leave a note on his door.” Then she could have kicked herself. Why offer him the opportunity to get out of the truck.
He shrugged and gave her an ingratiating smile. “No paper. Perhaps I could impose on you to do it for me.”
Oh, well. Anything, if it would get rid of him.
Just don’t get too close. Too bad I don’t have a baseball bat.
“I’ll write the note as soon as I get inside. I promise.”
Then, deliberately, she turned, unlocked the door, and scurried inside, double locking the door and hooking the safety chain for good measure. The blinds in the front window were closed so she opened them just a touch to peer out at the street. The truck was still there, idling at the curb.
She hurried to the little desk in the corner of the living room and dug out paper, pen, and scotch tape. She probably should just wait until he got tired of waiting and drove off. This way, though, he’d probably leave sooner. She scribbled the words on a piece of paper, unlocked her door, and crossed over to tape it to her landlord’s front door. Then she raced back into her house, waving at the truck as she did.
The man on the passenger side gave he
r a thumbs-up and a smile and drove off.
Once she secured all the locks on the door, she leaned against it, deep breathing.
I’m probably imagining things. This is just some friend of his. If he meant me any harm, he’d have gotten out of the truck.
But her common sense and emotions collided on this one. It was a long few minutes before she could peel herself away from the door. She grabbed her laptop from the desk, a big meat knife from the kitchen, and raced up the stairs to her bedroom. She placed her cell phone on her nightstand along with the knife, both at the ready if she needed them. Then, after a quick change into pajama shorts and tank top, she sat on her bed cross-legged and opened the laptop.
With her complete change of lifestyle, Mary discovered not only was she more relaxed and enjoying life, she finally had the time to pursue a secret dream of hers. The motorcycle ride was probably farfetched, but she had one that might be more attainable.
She was going to write a book.
Chapter Two
Marcus Tyree pulled his Yamaha VMax into his driveway and let it idle for a moment before turning it off. He’d been on the road, chasing the wind, since sunup this morning. He hadn’t slept a lot, but that was nothing new. He didn’t sleep a lot most nights. In fact, if he recalled, the last good night’s sleep he had was before he left for Afghanistan.
The sun was just thinking about hitting the horizon, bathing everything in its late afternoon glow. Up and down the street, people were getting home from work, kids were being called in for dinner, and dogs barked excitedly in their yards. All in all, a typical family neighborhood of small houses and ancient trees.
His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since lunch. He’d pressed the button to open the garage door, but he remained on the seat of his massive ride, feet on the ground for balance, and studied his house. It was small by anyone’s description, but it suited his needs just fine. The little Craftsman bungalow had the pitched roof and covered porch he remembered from his parents’ home. The last thing he’d ever expected to be was a homeowner, but when Grey Holden convinced him to come on board with The Omega Team, he’d also talked to him about buying his own place here in Tampa.
“It settles you,” Grey had said. “Grounds you. You’ll see what I mean.”
And damn it, the man had been right.
Oh, at first, he’d grumbled, resenting the fact he’d allowed himself to plunk down the money and tie himself up in a mortgage. He didn’t even buy furniture. He had his sleeping bag, a pillow, and that was it. Not too far from the sleeping conditions when he was on a mission with his Delta Force team.
But after a while, he had to admit it was nice to have a roof over his head when it rained, and a place where he could pace without disturbing neighbors when the nightmares hit. It had been a long time since he’d seen his parents—his fault, not theirs—and he hadn’t yet figured out a way to heal that breach. No brothers or sisters, so he was essentially rootless and unfettered.
He liked Tampa, a city that had so much to offer, crowded neighborhoods side by side with open spaces, especially in South Tampa. And, finally, it had occurred to him that he had a productive way to occupy his days and nights when he wasn’t on assignment.
He’d sweated off a lot of insomnia and nightmares getting the outside of the house in shape. Now, a row of neatly trimmed bushes were lined up against the house, the ancient tree in the front yard that had taken up practically the entire yard was clipped where the lower branches had been ragged, and two rocking chairs sat on the freshly painted porch.
Inside, there was more sweat equity in the polished hardwood floors, the new windows, and the fresh paint on the walls. The next thing to tackle was the kitchen, a big project. He worked on the place tirelessly between assignments for The Omega Team. If he wasn’t scraping and patching, he was painting and polishing, and the place was finally taking shape. He’d worked on it nonstop since the end of his most recent assignment two weeks ago.
This morning when he had been prowling the house at five o’clock, he’d decided he needed to get out of here for a few hours and just forget about everything—house, job, every single thing. He could have taken the pickup and driven around, but he needed the sense of freedom the huge motorcycle with its powerful motor gave him. His knee hardly bothered him anymore, so riding the bike had again become the pleasure it once was.
At six o’clock in the morning, he’d fired up the bike and rumbled through the quiet streets to the interstate. He was sure his neighbors had probably cursed him up one side and down the other, but since he usually didn’t ride this early, he hoped they could handle it this one time.
Once out of the city, he’d exited the interstate and taken off on a two-lane country road. The sun rose, bright and hot, but the wind at his face kept him cooled in the rising heat. He rode through one quaint small town after another, enjoying the change from the city. He had brought water with him and stopped in the early afternoon for lunch, taking his sandwich and chips to a local park where he ate beneath a big tree with wide branches and thick leaves that formed a canopy over him.
As he sat there enjoying the beauty and quiet, it shocked him to realize this was the first truly peaceful day he’d had in a very long time. Not that he fooled himself into thinking his demons had been put to rest. He wasn’t sure if they would ever be tucked away. Too many memories of missions gone bad, IEDs, assignments that had gone FUBAR—fucked up beyond all repair. Even the successful ones carried with them the memories of death and destruction.
After his last tour, he’d finally had enough. He didn’t need any more nightmares to add to the ones he was already dealing with. Maybe if he’d gotten laid sometime in the recent millennium, but that hadn’t happened because no woman made his cock hard enough to tempt him. On the rare instances an erection surprised him, his good right hand did the job with no complications. And what did that say about him, anyway?
Sometimes he wondered if he was destined to be alone for the rest of his life.
Sighing, he rolled the bike into the garage and set it in the space next to his pickup. He was just about to enter the house when his cell rang. It had to be either Grey Holden or Athena Madero, the two partners who owned The Omega Team, a private security and black ops agency. He and Grey had served together in Delta Force, and when Marcus finished his tour, somehow Grey had known and reached out to him. His lips curved in a wry smile as he remembered his reaction to that call. The last thing he’d ever thought he’d be doing was an extension of his Delta Force days, yet here he was, and fortunately without the politics.
He pressed the button to answer.
“Did you think I’d had enough time off?” he joked.
“Yeah.” Grey’s chuckle rumbled over the connection. “Two whole weeks. Can’t imagine what you did with all that time.” He paused. “I need you to come into the office, Marcus.”
Marcus looked at his watch. Six o’clock. “Right now?”
Assignments could come in at any time, although they were usually handled during the day unless there was an urgent crisis, like a kidnapping or a hostage situation.
“I have someone here you need to talk to,” Grey told him. The tone of his voice indicated this was more than routine.
“Do I get a hint?”
“You’ll get all the details when you get here.”
“Okay. I’ve been out on the bike all day. Just give me a minute to wash and I’ll be on my way.”
Five minutes later, having rinsed the trail dust off his face and hands and put on a clean shirt, he backed the pickup out of the garage and headed toward The Omega Team offices.
The agency was headquartered in an old warehouse Grey had purchased for an unbelievable price. He had rounded up as many people as he could to do the renovations, and Marcus knew there was still a lot to do. But it served Omega’s purpose, and they could operate in an innocuous situation. The offices, with their own entrance, took up part of the space. The rest of the building
housed three SUVs that were at the disposal of the agents, a carefully selected armory of firearms, and at one end, a gym had been created for the agents to work out and keep in shape with their training.
The offices were quiet when he opened the door and walked in. Straight ahead, another door led into what everyone called the war room. That was where Jacquie LaSalle, their crack computer ace, presided over an electronics setup resembling the deck of the Starship Enterprise. He often wondered how she even knew what she was doing, but, in fact, there was nothing she couldn’t trace and nothing she couldn’t find, and certainly nothing she couldn’t track.
To the left was Grey’s office. Through the partially open door drifted the low hum of conversation. Marcus was damn curious who would be here in the evening who needed his immediate presence. Usually Grey or Athena filtered the assignment, called the agent, gave them a two-sentence synopsis, and called them in for a briefing. It was rare not to have any idea at all in advance.
But when he pushed open the door to the office, he realized why Grey had been so evasive. Sitting in one of the armchairs was Brad Phillips, a special agent based in the Washington headquarters of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. Marcus was aware that Omega had assisted ATF a couple of times when they needed someone to do a black ops for them.
Marcus had actually been on the team for one of them, and he hadn’t liked the man from the git-go. He pegged him as an egotistical asshole who had never learned how to play nice with others. He had gotten the job done, but the two hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Why the hell would he want Marcus involved in another op?
He made his face completely expressionless as he walked into the room and nodded at Grey.
“Ah.” Grey smiled at him. “Here’s the man right now. Marcus, you remember Brad.”
“Yeah. I do.” He gave a curt nod.
The other man rose from his chair and held out his hand. “Good to see you again.”