Shoot to Thrill

by Bruhns, Nina

  Kick was red-hot furious, worried as hell, hurting like the dickens, and running on fumes. He was sure the only reason the two of them hadn’t been shot on sight, despite the help he’d given them picking off the bads, was that the villagers were too stunned by the crazy woman sleeping under a palm tree as though she didn’t have a care in the world.

  Well, except for him. She’d taken great care to shine him on. That had been patently obvious even to the villagers. The women peeking out from behind the houses had actually giggled at him when he’d gotten the bird from Rainie. Giggled.

  Females! Pure trouble from beginning to end. Why did he never listen to himself?

  Jesus, the maddening woman must have ice in her veins to lie down for a snooze while he and Lafayette were being held at gunpoint.

  Or maybe she was just fall-down, done-in tired. Like he was. When was the last time he’d slept? Except for a few stolen minutes on the plane . . . hell, not since he’d been unconscious detoxing. If he could just get some sleep, maybe the constant buzzing in his body would calm down, his stomach would settle, the cramps would stop, the never-ending reminders of the physical need would go away.

  If only he could—

  Suddenly, he realized the villagers were glowering at him. Getting agitated. Lafayette gave him an owlish look.

  “Sorry,” he told the sheikh in respectful Arabic. “I didn’t understand. Could you repeat that?”

  The old man looked annoyed. And very suspicious. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

  Beyond the circle, the broken bodies of the tangos were being loaded into the backs of the Jeeps.

  “Where are you taking them?” Kick asked instead of answering the question.

  “Far away,” the old sheikh said. “So the others won’t come back for revenge. Give me one good reason we shouldn’t add your bodies to theirs.”

  Several men shouted in agreement. Rifles rattled threateningly.

  Kick cleared his throat, doing his best to look small and harmless. And not shake. Yeah, sure. “Because I helped you, and you are honorable men. My friend and I wish only to buy water and food.”

  “You are the American spies from the plane!” he accused loudly. He pointed at the dead. “The ones they were looking for.”

  Kick shook his head. “Not spies. We are headed for the refugee camp on the Nile. I’m sorry your village was made to suffer. I assure you—”

  “Who is the woman?” the sheikh interrupted with furrowed brow.

  Kick pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly, darting a glance at Lafayette. He’d realized a while back that the STORM agent spoke Arabic and understood every word of the exchange, though he hadn’t opened his mouth.

  “She is a nurse.”

  At his prevarication, the Cajun’s brow flicked up. A challenge?

  No fucking way was he letting Lafayette touch her. She was his. “She is also my wife,” Kick said returning the look.

  The sheikh digested that for a moment, glancing from him to Rainie and back again. “She is willful. She does not obey her husband.”

  “The temper of a camel,” he agreed with enough honest chagrin to raise a rumble of laughter among the men. The old man’s lips finally curved in acknowledgment of a universal male dilemma.

  Kick’s shoulders notched down just a tad. Whatever. He so did not feel like bonding. He just wanted to get the hell out of there. Get Rainie to the DFP camp and safety. Christ, when she’d stalked off like that he’d nearly had a stroke, terrified some trigger-happy villager would stop her with a bullet in the back.

  What was wrong with her?

  Other than thinking he was some kind of homicidal monster, of course. Which, oh, yeah. He was.

  “So you wish to buy water and food?” the sheikh asked, finally motioning his men to lower their weapons, and for the women to bring the trays of tea they’d already prepared.

  “In shah allah,” Kick said, putting on his best poker face. “And God willing, I’d also like one of those Jeeps.”

  SOMEONE was shaking her. Again.

  “Go away,” Rainie groused, groped for the blanket, and ended up with a handful of sand. Crap.

  A jet of warm, mint-scented breath hit her in the face. “We have to go.” Kick. He sounded irritated.

  He wasn’t the only one. “Be my guest.”

  There was a pause, then, “All right. Have a nice walk home. Or maybe the sheikh will take you for his third wife.” The grinding sound of boots scrunched in sand. “Though I doubt it,” he added in a muttered growl.

  “I heard that.”

  She pried her eyelids open and watched Kick’s straight back and stiff shoulders march away. He’d taken off his cammie jacket so his ripped muscles were clearly visible under his formfitting khaki T-shirt. How could someone so bad and so damn infuriating look so ridiculously good to her?

  Sunstroke maybe.

  She got up and trailed after him. She was so not wanting to—Whoa.

  He hopped into a Jeep. Marc had already collapsed in the passenger seat. They had a ride? Her feet practically jumped for joy. Her mind started to panic.

  “If you’re coming with us, get in,” Kick ordered her gruffly.

  In.

  The Jeep.

  Her mind and her feet screamed at her to run—in opposite directions.

  “Preferably sometime this century.”

  She told her mind to go to hell.

  Gingerly, she approached the open-topped vehicle, and with her heart pounding, touched its ancient fender. A big clump of dirt and rust fell off, landing at her feet. She jumped and let out a squeak.

  “You going to be okay?” Kick asked, bringing the engine to life.

  “Yes,” she said confidently, far more to convince herself than him. She tamed her careening heartbeat. She would be okay if it killed her.

  No deep breaths necessary.

  He swung his door open and leaned forward so she could squeeze past to the hard, narrow bench that laughingly called itself a backseat. It was filthy. It was cramped. It stunk like dead goat.

  But it beat the hell out of walking.

  And . . . the most amazing thing happened. When Kick slammed the door, ground the thing into gear, and the wheels lurched forward, panic didn’t swamp over her.

  “Here,” he said, holding up the GPS unit she’d found in the pack last night. “Make yourself useful.”

  She grabbed the instrument and the back of the driver’s seat, and hung on to both as they jounced between the mud huts, then burst out into the rocky desert beyond.

  “I don’t know how to work it.”

  “I need a navigator. Learn.”

  They practically flew across the landscape, which suddenly didn’t seem barren at all. The dunes and hills were beautiful, the few plants that clung to the dry ground exotic and inspiring. The sky was brilliant blue overhead. Wind whipped through her hair. Even the oppressive heat didn’t seem so bad.

  Kick’s eyes met hers in the cracked rearview mirror, holding a distinct challenge. He didn’t think she could do it. Ha. As if. She worked every day with instruments a hundred times more complicated than following a stupid arrow across a bunch of squiggly lines. This would be a piece of cake.

  “Okay,” she said.

  She smiled. He didn’t smile back. But he did manage to look relieved as he clipped out the instructions.

  Fine. Let him be surly. She wanted to laugh out loud.

  For the first time since she was twelve years old she was not terrified of being in a moving vehicle. And she was in charge of finding their way through the wilderness. It was a pure miracle.

  Almost made her wonder what other irrational fears she might be able to conquer, if given the chance.

  Like maybe her fear of falling in love.

  She met his eyes again and they narrowed. Almost as if he could read her thoughts, and didn’t care for what he was reading. She raised her chin. Dream on, baby. If she ever fell in love, it sure as hell wouldn’t be wit
h a man like Kick Jackson. Dangerous, uncivilized. Able to do things without a second thought that went against everything she believed.

  Too bad he was also able to do things to her that made dangerous and uncivilized feel alarmingly close to virtues.

  Like the caveman way he swept her off her feet and took control of her. The heart-pounding thrill of his body sliding between her thighs. The sweet, savage thrust of his arousal as it scythed deep into her.

  Damn.

  Was falling in lust the same as falling in love?

  No. No way.

  Love was so much more than physical attraction and sex. It was respect and admiration and trust and security and . . .

  God. Everything she was feeling about Kick.

  But how could she possibly feel any of those things for a man who so willingly condoned violence, who so easily killed? Who, if she allowed herself to read all the ample clues he’d thrown at her, had no doubt killed a lot more than this once?

  Impossible. She simply couldn’t know that about him and still feel respect and admiration, let alone trust the man.

  And yet . . . she did.

  Rainie let out a long sigh.

  Jesus. How scary was that.

  FOURTEEN

  GINA couldn’t believe Rainie was dead.

  No. She didn’t believe it.

  Not a chance. Gregg van Halen was handing her a big fat load of CIA BS, and that was the God’s honest truth. It had to be.

  At home in her Upper East Side brownstone, Gina had watched CNN the whole night, crying her eyes out and waiting for some mention of the terrible incident that had claimed her best friend’s life.

  Nothing had appeared.

  That’s when she’d started getting suspicious. Hello? Government agents and innocent woman killed in a fiery plane crash? When was the last time the news media had missed such a juicy, sensational story?

  So as dawn slipped over the city, she searched the Inter-net while tuning in to every TV network and cable newscast she could find, including the BBC World News. Still nothing.

  No plane crash anywhere in the country.

  No plane crash at all. In the whole damn world.

  Something just wasn’t right. No, sir.

  She debated calling CNN in Atlanta and asking outright if they were sitting on the story due to government pressure. That was possible. After all, they were dealing with the mother of all Big Brothers, the C-freaking-IA.

  But before she had a chance to pick up the phone, it rang.

  She pounced on the receiver. “Hello?”

  “How are you holding up?”

  Van Halen. Anger whooshed through her. The nerve of the man to call her sounding all concerned, as if he were actually a friend!

  “How do you think I’m holding up, being fed a pack of lies?” she snapped.

  He was silent for a moment. “What lies are you referring to, Gina?”

  Oh, right. Mr. Innocent. “There was no plane crash. Anywhere. What have you bastards done with Rainie?”

  More silence, then he said, “I have a satellite photo showing the wreckage, if you’d like to see it.” At his calm assertion her heart squeezed painfully. “We also have reason to believe there may have been a survivor,” he added.

  Hope swelled anew. “Rainie?”

  “No way of knowing. Whoever it is, they’re hiding well out of sight.”

  “Where?” she demanded.

  “Can’t tell you that.” The voice brooked no argument.

  She battled back her anger. “I want to see that photo.” Maybe the surroundings would give her a clue as to where this alleged crash had happened. Then at least she’d know where to start her search.

  “All right,” he said. “Stay where you are. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  She glanced at the clock. “I have to be at work in—”

  “You’ve been up all night. You’re tired. Call in sick.”

  Then there was a click. He’d hung up.

  My God. How had he known she’d been up all night? She glanced uneasily at the drapes she hadn’t bothered closing last night. Had he been watching her the whole time?

  In which case the last thing she should do was call in sick. What she should do was get the hell out of there before he—

  There was a loud knock on the door.

  Hell. A few minutes? That had been more like seconds. He must have been calling from the sidewalk out front.

  “Gina, it’s me. Open up.”

  His voice sounded so neutral. So harmless. So . . . deep and reassuring. More lies. Lies, lies, lies. This guy was harmless like a yawning cobra.

  He knocked again. “Gina!”

  Should she run? She probably would have, but she really needed to see that satellite photo.

  She unlocked the two dead bolts, slid off the heavy chain, and swung open her door. He stood there on the landing in the early-morning light, bigger than life and just as serious. Today, under the black leather jacket, he was wearing urban cammie BDUs and black combat boots. Trying to blend into the surrounding buildings? His silver aviator shades hung casually from the collar of a snug black T-shirt. She could see the imprint of his compact male nipples poking provocatively at the fabric.

  Good grief, what had made her notice that?

  “I thought you might have bolted out the back way,” he said, regarding her with an expression she couldn’t decipher.

  “Don’t be absurd. Come in.”

  Too late she remembered she hadn’t gotten dressed yet.

  He was perusing the crop-top and plaid boxers she used as pajamas, his eyes lingering on her nipples . . . and her bare legs. His gaze eased back up again and met hers. Damn, she must be a sight, her eyes puffy and face blotchy from hours of crying, and not a speck of makeup on.

  Not that it mattered. She didn’t care one bit if she looked like death warmed—

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” he said, moving past her into the foyer. Setting down his motorcycle helmet on the hall table. “I really am.” Without comment, he extended an eight-by-ten black-and-white aerial photo to her.

  “I still don’t believe it,” she countered stubbornly. Maybe if she refused to believe it, it wouldn’t be true.

  She took the photo and walked into the dining room, setting it on the table to examine under the light of the chandelier. Behind her, she heard the front door close, the chain slide back on, and the dead bolts click home.

  “I’m afraid there’s no doubt,” he said, coming into the dining room. “There were witnesses to her going onboard that plane.”

  She shot him a look, but his face was as impassive as ever. Did the man never crack? Or let his thoughts and feelings slip past that unreadable façade?

  Meanwhile . . . he had locked himself in with her.

  She was proud of her brownstone. She had rehabbed the three-level town house as a fixer-upper, doing a lot of the work herself. It was beautiful. But not particularly large. As in, nowhere to hide. Not from a man like him, a trained hunter of human prey. Not if he was determined to—

  To what?

  Don’t be ridiculous, she admonished herself silently. He was not out to get her. That was just paranoid thinking.

  Or was it wishful thinking?

  Hell, no!

  Suddenly he was there, standing next to her. His arm brushed hers. When had he taken off his jacket? She swallowed and stayed very still.

  He handed her a magnifying glass. “Here. It’s easier to see with this.”

  Oh, Jesus. She let out a breath. What was wrong with her?

  “Thanks,” she said unsteadily, taming her thundering heart. She gave herself a mental shake and bent over the photo, peering through the glass.

  He brushed closer, pointing. “See the debris, here? And here?”

  Her throat closed at what she was seeing. A small plane scattered in bits on the ground in a desolate landscape.

  “Dear God.”

  So it was true. But she still didn’t unders
tand how a woman who was even afraid to ride in a car would have willingly flown in an airplane, especially a small one like this. Rainie had just met that dangerous-looking man. Gina should have stopped her from leaving the speed dating with that character. This was all her fault. If Rainie had really been on the plane.

  “Why would she have gone with him?” she whispered. “To this place? On an airplane?”

  “As a favor,” van Halen said. “She was helping him get clean. Apparently he was addicted to some kind of pain medication and going through withdrawal. She wasn’t supposed to be on that flight, but he started having symptoms and she went with him just in case they got worse.”

  Gina took a shuddering breath. Yeah, that sounded like Rainie. Always the first to volunteer to help someone in need. Still . . . this didn’t make sense. This place. Gina studied the landscape on the photo. Some kind of harsh desert. It looked like a different planet. Even if they survived the crash, how could anyone live for more than a day in that environment?

  “What makes you think there are survivors?” she asked, her optimism waning.

  “Maybe just one.” His body pressed against her side and he grasped her hand, guiding the magnifying glass past a section of burned, crumpled fuselage with ‘Ex’ . . . something . . . painted on it, and over to a jumble of what appeared to be giant rocks. “Here. See that?”

  “It looks like . . . a sheet or something flapping in the wind.”

  “A parachute. And see here.” He pointed to an odd-shaped shadow.

  “What is that?”

  “The better question would be who is it? Unfortunately, we don’t know which of the team it is. Or Ms. Martin.”

  Gina sucked in a shaky breath as she straightened and looked up into his eyes. “But you’ll send someone, won’t you? To rescue that person.”

  “Trust me. If your friend is still alive, we’ll get her.”

  Gina closed her eyes against the stinging in them. Trust him?