Shadow Hawk

by Jill Shalvis

  Odd. It would seem that there was a large group of people here somewhere, and yet there hadn’t been a soul in the house or in any of the small storage sheds behind it.

  Which left the huge barn.

  An icy gust hit Hawk in the face, burning his skin. He had to admit, things had definitely gone from interesting to tricky, because now the metal tiles beneath them were icing over. Any movement could be detrimental to their health, because slipping off here meant a thirty-foot fall to the frozen earth below.

  Thanks to his goggles, Hawk had a crystal-clear view of the ground, and the distance to it made him want to puke. They’d been in far worse circumstances, he reminded himself, where his fear of heights had been the least of his worries. He and Logan had done some pretty ugly shit involving some pretty ugly people. On more than one occasion, they’d managed to stay alive on instinct alone, in parts of the world that didn’t even warrant being on the map.

  So all in all, things had improved.

  “Hope it doesn’t rain, because this baby’ll turn right into a giant metal slide.” Logan said this calmly, because he, damn him, did not have a height issue. “Like the one at the carnival—”

  “Logan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut up.”

  He laughed softly.

  The temperature had indeed dropped to two degrees above freezing their balls off, and with that wind icing up their organs, Hawk wanted to get a move on. But they were stuck up here until they got the signal from communications, which happened to be Abby and crew parked in a van on the main road half a mile south of here. “We need to move closer,” he said to her via his mic, over a noisy gust that whipped dust from the roof and into his face.

  “Remain in position,” she ordered, her voice breaking with static, but still sounding soft, warm…and sexy as hell.

  At least in Hawk’s opinion.

  Just listening to her made him react like Pavlov’s dog. Only he wasn’t drooling. Nope, listening to her elicited visions of wild up-against-the-wall sex, which caused a much more base reaction than slobber. “Remaining in position isn’t going to work,” he told her.

  “Soon as I hear from Watkins and Thomas,” she said, the static increasing, “we’ll move.”

  We. As in not her. He knew she used to be a great field agent, and yeah, so he’d read her files. But all her cases had ended abruptly a year ago, and no amount of digging could produce a reason. Then, after a six-month leave, she’d transferred from Seattle to Cheyenne, where Hawk had done his best to ignore his inexplicable attraction to her, because that had seemed to work for her.

  But now he wondered, how was it she’d gotten so comfortable behind the safety net? Why had she given up being in the trenches with the rest of them for a computer screen?

  “Watkins and Thomas are making their way to the east and west doors beneath you,” she added, referring to Logan’s and Hawk’s counterparts on the ground. “Wait for my cue.”

  Uh-huh. Easy for her to say. She sat out of the slicing wind in that van, and Hawk would bet money she had the motor running and the heater on full blast.

  She’d changed on the plane, out of her skirt, the one that had messed with his mind every time it clung to her thighs, which was only with every single movement she made. But her cargo pants and long-sleeved ATF button-down clung to her, too. Hell, she could wear a potato sack and do something to him.

  Logan shifted. Probably trying not to freeze to the roof. Hawk did the same, but for different reasons entirely.

  “Nearly there,” Thomas said into their earpieces. “Hearing noises from inside, a steady pinging.”

  “Affirmative,” Watkins said. “The windows are blacked out, going in southwest door—Jesus. It’s full of ammo and workstations. Definitely bomb-making going on here, guys, but there’s no one in sight.” He let out a low whistle. “Seriously, there’s enough blow in here to make Las Vegas prime beachfront property.”

  “Suspects?” Abby asked.

  “None.”

  “That can’t be,” she murmured.

  Hawk had to agree with her. Something was off, and not just because they’d managed to get onto the premises and up here, past the alarm and a pack of hungry rottweilers without being detected. But now they’d found the proof, right beneath their noses? It was all too easy. He flicked off his mic and looked at Logan.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Logan asked.

  “That we’re being set up, instead of the other way around?”

  “Bingo.”

  “I’m guessing we got too close, and he’s unhappy with us?”

  “Let’s make him really unhappy and catch the SOB red-handed.”

  “Watkins, search the interior,” Abby directed, the static now nearly overriding her voice. “Hawk, Logan, guard the exits from above.”

  “But where is everyone?” This from Thomas. “It’s like a ghost town in here.”

  “There’s got to be a building we haven’t cased yet. Or a basement. Something,” she insisted. “Find it. Find them.”

  “There’s nothing,” Watkins said from inside. “No one.”

  Logan cocked his head just as Hawk felt it, a slight vibration beneath them. It was hard to discern between the howling wind screeching in his ear and the sharp static on the radio, but he’d bet that they were no longer alone up here.

  “What’s going on?” Abby asked.

  Neither Logan or Hawk answered, not wanting to give away their position in the icy darkness, which was so complete that without the night vision goggles, they couldn’t have seen a hand in front of their faces. Unfortunately, the goggles couldn’t cut through the heavy dust kicked up by the wind as they silently moved toward the ladder they’d commandeered and left on the northeast side.

  Which was now missing. Shit.

  “Problem,” Logan said.

  “What?” Abby repeated in that voice that could give a dead guy a wet dream. Hopefully Hawk wasn’t going to get dead, but without the ladder there was no way down without taking a flying leap. Just the thought made him break out into a cold, slippery sweat.

  Logan jerked his head to the left, and Hawk nodded. Logan would go left, and he’d go right.

  “Logan,” Abby said tightly. “Hawk. Check in.”

  “We’ve got company,” Logan said, so calmly he sounded comatose. “We’re separating to locate.”

  “Details,” she demanded.

  “Someone took our ladder.”

  There was silence for one disbelieving beat. “Watkins, Thomas,” she snapped. “Back them up. Now.”

  She was sounding a little more drill sergeant and a little less sex kitten, thought Hawk. Which was good, except he must be one sick puppy because the sound of her kicking ass turned him on as much as when she’d sounded like she was kissing it.

  “West side is clear,” Logan reported via radio, right on cue.

  “Hawk?” This from Abby. “Check in.”

  “Oh, I’m fine, thanks.” He eyed the slippery roof, the distance to the ground, and gave a shudder. At Abby’s growl of frustration, he let slip a grim smile as he looked left, right, behind him. Another gust blew through, wailing, railing, raising both holy hell and a thick cloud of dust as the icy air sliced right through him. He couldn’t see anything, any sign of Logan behind him, or anyone else.

  Which could be good.

  Or very, very bad.

  “Where are you?” Abby asked.

  In hell. Of that, Hawk had no doubt. “Logan?”

  “Hawk, get down now,” Logan suddenly said, and then came a click, as if he’d been cut off.

  “Logan?” Hawk tapped the earpiece. Nothing. The radio was dead, but he’d get off the roof because Logan’s instincts were as good as his own. He couldn’t see much, but he knew there was a tall oak nearby, with branches close enough to reach and subsequently shimmy down. All the way down. Christ.

  A sound came from three o’clock, and Hawk whipped his head around. Logan or enemy? Going
down.

  To do so, he had to shove his night vision goggles to the top of his head so that he couldn’t see the ground rushing up to meet him, not that that helped much because he had a helluva imagination, and could picture it just fine.

  The wind doubled its efforts to loosen his hold, blinding him with debris. All he could do was hold on and pray for mercy as he lowered himself, even though praying had never really worked for him.

  When his feet finally touched ground, he inhaled a deep breath and nearly kissed the damn tree trunk. Instead, he drew his gun and backed to the wall of the barn. Just to his left was a window, boarded and taped, and yet he’d swear he saw a quick flash of light from within.

  Someone was definitely inside.

  Watkins?

  Or his very secretive bomb maker?

  The radio was still eerily silent, and foreboding crept up through his veins as he slipped the night-vision goggles back over his eyes and turned the corner of the barn. There his gaze landed on a door low to the ground—a cellar entrance. Before he could try the radio again, the door flipped open, catching the wind and hitting the barn wall like a bullet.

  A man crawled out, silhouetted by stacks of ammo behind him, and piles of guns, rifles, awfully similar to the ones that had been stolen from beneath his nose. Apparently the Kiddie Bombers liked to be armed. With ATF-confiscated weapons. Hawk steadied his gun and waited for the rogue agent to reveal himself.

  The man’s head lifted and all Hawk’s suspicions were immediately confirmed. Gaines.

  He managed to get a shot off, then a white-hot blast knocked him flat on his ass.

  2

  THE BASTARD HAD shot him, point blank, and given that it felt like his lungs had collapsed, he assumed he’d taken the hit in his chest. God bless the bulletproof vest. Stunned, gasping for air, he tried to remain conscious, but his vision had already faded on the edges and was closing in as he lay on his back, staring up at the night sky as a whole new kind of hurt made itself at home in every corner of his body….

  “Hawk? Check in,” Abby said in his ear.

  Check in? He felt like he was checking out…. But the radio was back, good to know, and man, did she sound hot. Too bad he was floating…floating on agony, thank you very much, and utterly unable to move.

  Or speak.

  “Hawk.”

  Ah, wasn’t that sweet? She sounded worried. He was touched, or would have been if he could get past the searing pain. He needed to get up, to protect himself—

  A foot planted itself on his throat, and then the fire in his body sizzled along with his vision as his air supply was abruptly cut off.

  By Gaines. Regional director.

  Traitor.

  Hawk tried to lift one of his arms to grasp at the foot on his windpipe.

  “Don’t bother.” Gaines pressed harder. “You’ll be dead soon, anyway. I just wanted you to suffer a little first, you know, for screwing with me for so long.”

  Hawk found himself shockingly helpless, an absolutely new and unenjoyable experience. He simply couldn’t draw air, and good Christ but he felt like his chest was burning.

  “Hurts like a mother, doesn’t it?”

  What hurt the most was that he couldn’t remember if he’d managed to spit out Gaines’s name before he’d gone down. In case this all went to shit, he wanted Logan to know they’d been right. That is, if the radio was even back up. “Logan—”

  “Sorry. It’s going to be a tragic evening all around. You’re both going to die trying to double-cross the agency.”

  Through a haze of agony as he choked on his very last breath, he realized he was still gripping his gun. Now if only he could get the muscles in his arm to raise it. As he struggled, he heard everyone checking in.

  Watkins.

  Thomas.

  Logan. Thank God, Logan.

  Any second now they’d realize Hawk hadn’t checked in as well.

  That he couldn’t…

  “HAWK? COME IN, HAWK.” Abby said this with what she felt was admirable calm, even as a bead of sweat ran between her breasts. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t just that their equipment had failed—even the backup equipment—for five long minutes.

  “I don’t see him,” Thomas radioed.

  “Me either.” This from Watkins.

  “I’m going back up to the roof,” Logan responded. “Maybe he never got down.”

  She expected Hawk to jump in here with laughter in his voice to say that everything was good. But he didn’t. Oh, God. She needed to sit down. For several months. Because he would not joke, not at a time like this. He might be surprisingly laid-back and easygoing considering the constant, nonstop danger the job put him in, but he knew protocol. He’d been a soldier, Special Forces. He lived by the rules, and to her knowledge, always followed them. “Hawk.”

  When he still didn’t answer, she visualized him. Her therapist had taught her that picturing the cause of her grievance helped.

  Of course her therapist had meant the men who’d taken her hostage, but the idea behind it was the same. Hoping it would work, she concentrated on the image of Conner Hawk.

  It took embarrassingly little time—like one-point-two seconds. He came to her shirtless, which she didn’t—shouldn’t—speculate about. The only time she’d ever seen him that way had been six months ago, on her first day. He and Logan had spent hours lying beneath a truck in the broiling hot sun, surveying a house. After the arrests, Hawk had come into the office for a change of clothing he kept in his locker.

  Abby had been sitting at a table in the employee room eating lunch, her fork raised halfway to her mouth, her salad forgotten as he’d stalked past, eyes tired, several days worth of growth on his lean jaw, sunglasses shoved up to the top of his head. He’d ripped off his sweaty shirt and stood there in nothing but jeans riding dangerously low on his hips as he and Logan laughed about something while he fought with his locker door.

  Ever since the hostage situation, her therapist had been promising her that her physical desire for men would eventually return, probably when she least expected it. She’d traveled a bit, visited her parents and sister in Florida, where they’d busily set her up on all the blind dates she’d allow, and yet nothing had really taken. But sitting there in that room, it had not only returned, it came back with bells and whistles.

  Holy smokes.

  Conner Hawk had it going on.

  Unable to help herself, she’d continued to stare at him, soaking in his tanned, sinewy chest, the tattoo, the various scars that spoke of how many years he’d been doing the hero thing. His jeans had a hole in one knee and another on the opposite thigh, exposing more lean flesh.

  Then he’d glanced over and caught her staring.

  Unnerved, she’d dropped her fork in her lap. Unfortunately it had still been loaded with the bite she’d never taken. Ranch dressing on silk. Nicely done.

  Those melting chocolate eyes had met hers, filled with that cynical amusement he was so good at. He hadn’t said a word as he’d yanked a fresh, clean shirt over his head, the muscles in his biceps and quads flexing, his ridged abdomen rippling as he’d pulled the material down. His eyes, even heavy-lidded from exhaustion, had still managed to convey a heat that had exhilarated her in a way she hadn’t wanted to think about.

  After that, he’d never quite accepted her icy silence for what it was—a desperate cry for him to stay away, because she needed her distance.

  Oh, boy, had she needed her distance. And she couldn’t blame him for not really buying it. Hell, she’d definitely, at least for that one moment, given him the wrong impression. She’d given herself the wrong impression, because she’d wanted him—wanted his arms to come around her, wanted him to dip his head and kiss her, long and deep and wet as he slid his hands over her body, giving it the pleasure she’d denied herself all year.

  But she’d come to her senses and hadn’t let herself lapse again.

  At least not publicly.

  As the newcomer to t
he division, she’d made a big effort to fit in, to get to know all her co-workers, while definitely staying clear of Hawk. She’d been aloof and stand-offish with him and him alone because she’d thought it best for her to keep far away until she was ready for the feelings he evoked. Which she still wasn’t.

  That didn’t mean she didn’t care, because she did. Too much. Therein lay her problem.

  From that salad-in-the-lap moment, Abby had taken one look at him, past the bad boy physique, past the knowing grin, and had known.

  She could care too much for this man.

  Now she sat in the van, with the night whipping around them, desperately visualizing Hawk checking in because she had to believe he was okay.

  Please be okay.

  “Someone’s down,” came Watkins’s voice. “Repeat, agent down.”

  Oh, God. Once upon a time, she’d been the agent down, and just the words brought back the stark terror.

  Dark room.

  Chained to a wall.

  Cold, then hot, then fear like nothing she’d ever known when she’d realized her captors wanted information she didn’t have, and that they were going to torture her anyway….

  But this wasn’t then. And what had happened to her wasn’t happening now. Concentrate, damn it. Focus. “Where is he?”

  The men behind her, Ken and Wayne, already in high alert from the equipment failure, worked more frantically, trying to get feed on him.

  “Watkins,” she said. “Clarify.”

  Nothing.

  “Thomas, are you with Watkins?”

  More of that horrifying nothing. Whipping around, she looked at the two men in disbelief. “Are we down again?”

  Wayne’s fingers tapped across his keyboard. “Fuck. Yes.”

  Was it possible for a heart to completely stop and yet pound at the same time? “They need backup.” She stood to yank off her blazer.

  “What are you doing?” Ken demanded.

  “Getting ready.” Abby tossed her useless headset aside.

  “No. We’re not supposed to—”

  “We have at least one man down and no radio.” She slapped a vest over her shirt, and then grabbed a gun, emotion sitting heavy in her voice. No cool, calm and collected now. No, all that had gone right out the window with her last ounce of common sense, apparently. “We’re going in.”