Hidden Heat: Hauberk Protection, Book 4

by Leah Braemel

  Dedication

  To my family, especially my husband, for making dinners to slide under my nose when I’m on deadline (and when I’m not). To Anara Bella and Vivian Arend for being my sounding boards as I hash out the story and for keeping me moving forward. And to the men and women in law enforcement at the Writers’ Police Academy conference in Greensboro, NC, who gave me a glimpse into a whole different world. I salute you.

  Chapter One

  The red dot of the laser site centered on the target’s forehead milliseconds before a hole appeared in its place. Not until the body dropped to the ground did Troy McPherson lower the pistol.

  “Subject neutralized.” With the call sent out, the agents positioned around the perimeter closed in. Leaving them to bundle the corpse, he walked onto the porch and surveyed the ranch bungalows along the street. No lights went on, no heads poked outside. Perfect. They’d be long gone by the time the residents of this middle-class neighborhood awoke, never realizing they’d harboured a killer in their midst.

  As one of the agents pulled the black van into the bungalow’s garage, Troy tucked the gun into a bag, stepped off the porch and onto the sidewalk. He kept his step casual, just an insomniac out for a pre-dawn stroll. Up ahead, another insomniac stopped to let his German shepherd leave his mark on a light post. Once the dog finished his business, Troy stopped by the grey-haired man.

  Cooper Davis, the head of the ultra-secret Brigade, pulled on the leash when the dog sniffed Troy’s pant leg. The shepherd whined then settled at Cooper’s feet, his nostrils flaring as he sampled the air. “You haven’t lost your touch. Harris didn’t even get a chance to react. Are you sure you won’t come work for us?”

  “Not a chance.” Troy waited as the garage door reopened and the van pulled onto the still-quiet street. Once they were again alone, he handed over the weapon. “Here’s your POS gun.”

  The bag Troy held out disappeared into Cooper’s coat pocket, no doubt to be disposed of in the Chesapeake or some nearby swamp. “I doubt Harris would like his gun being called a piece of shit. It was his favorite piece.”

  That the man had been killed by his own weapon lent a certain irony to the hit that pleased Troy. “Then you’re better off without him. No self-respecting marksman would use a laser sight. They’re for lazy assholes who couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn.”

  “I’m not shedding any tears getting rid of him, but he had his uses.”

  “Until he went rogue.” Troy couldn’t resist the dig.

  “There is that.”

  Both men stilled when an Audi started a half block away. Once the sedan pulled away at a leisurely pace in the opposite direction, Troy relaxed. “I’ll tell Chad that it’s safe for him and Lauren to return.”

  “How are they getting on? Do you think they’ll get back together?” The question was asked oh-so-casually but there was an alertness to Cooper’s expression, an expectancy, that had Troy wondering at the interest behind it.

  He’d lay big bucks Cooper was more interested in convincing Lauren to return, or more likely, using her as bait to lure Chad away from Hauberk. “What do I look like? A fuckin’ dating service?” He reached down and scratched the shepherd behind the ears. “You’ll phone me when Garcia’s on the move, and let me in on the op to take him down?”

  “That was our agreement.” A light flicked on in the kitchen window of the house two doors down. “You’d better get going. You’ll be hearing from me.”

  After giving the shepherd one final pat, Troy continued along and turned down a side street. Five minutes later, he merged his SUV in to Beltway traffic and headed back to headquarters. The empty stretches of highway filled in around him as the first of the early morning commuters began their daily trek. The radio serenading him with a Shostakovich adagio in the background, he analyzed the takedown. It had been a textbook op, all the players performing their parts with precision. Not that the head of the Brigade would have accepted anything less. That Garcia, the head of the drug cartel who had ordered the hostage-taking in Colombia, had escaped had frustrated them all. If he didn’t soon hear about a raid on Garcia from that damned rat bastard Davis, he’d pay him a visit in person.

  He parked beside a Jaguar XK in the Hauberk parking lot and walked to the company’s main entrance. Once he’d passed through the security doors, he headed to the weapons’ room.

  He’d just opened his locker when Sam Watson, owner of both Hauberk and the Jag, filled the doorway from the indoor range, his own pistol in his hand. “Good work liaising with the feds about Harris.”

  “Thanks. You can call Chad and tell him it’s safe to come back now.”

  Sam opened his locker and grabbed his cleaning kit, then straddled the bench and broke down his Glock. “Are you gonna tell me what went down?”

  “Nothing to tell. I handed over the transponder Lauren’s people had given her and the Homeland Security grunts used it to lure Harris into their nets.” For a brief—very brief—moment, he considered telling Sam the whole deal. About the existence of the Brigade, and Sam’s good buddy Cooper Davis’s involvement in it. Everything. Except he understood the need for secrecy. Especially if he wanted to be part of the group nailing the head of the terrorist group who had kidnapped his agents in Colombia. He owed Scott that much.

  “Were you in on the takedown?”

  Uncomfortable with the question, Troy turned to his locker, choosing between his four favorite pistols. He lifted the Heckler and Koch P2000 as well as his favorite Sig Sauer, trying to decide between them. “Only on the fringes. You know they don’t let civilians into their investigations.”

  Sam accepted the lie at face value, or gave the appearance of accepting it. “So you plannin’ on sticking around once Chad’s back in D.C.?”

  “For a while. Got a couple things I need to do before I head back to London.”

  Screw it, he’d shoot both. He grabbed some ammo and headed to the range. If anything did go wrong with today’s mission, at least this way he’d have a reason for a positive GSR test. Not that anything had gone wrong, so there’d be no need for him to be swabbed for gunshot residue. For the next half hour, he fired his gun until he was satisfied with the near-perfect formation of holes in the silhouette’s head and heart. He flipped off his protective earmuffs and hit the switch to bring the target to him. His hearing no longer muffled, his senses screamed there was someone behind him. Right behind.

  “Nice shootin’, Tex,” a bright female voice said from behind him.

  He whirled, his weapon raised, his finger milliseconds from pulling the trigger when he recognized the speaker. His heart pounding, he lowered his weapon. “Jesus, Sandy. You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that.”

  “I’ve been standing here watching you for a few minutes now.” She pulled off her own earmuffs with one hand, dislodging strands of blonde hair from its French braid. As incongruous as they should have been, the bright orange headset she’d donned on entering the firing range complemented her dark blue sweater. The combination of blonde hair and blue eyes gave her an almost doll-like look from far away. Up close she had a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose as if some fairy had sprinkled her with cinnamon. He’d often wondered if she tasted like cinnamon too. “You should have been aware I was here. I could have had a knife and slit your throat and you wouldn’t have been able to stop me.”

  Although she thought she was teasing, she was right. But only about how he should have been aware she’d been behind him; he’d argue the part about him not being able to stop her.

  Exhaling, he shoved his gun in his shoulder holster. “Don’t do it again. You wouldn’t want to stick me with a load of
paperwork if I’d killed you, would you?”

  “Not to mention cleaning up all that blood and trying to hide my body would be a real bitch of a job.” Her light tone lowered his blood pressure. Thank God she had a sense of humor and wasn’t the type of woman to run screaming in fear.

  “I leave the cleanup for others.” He wondered if she knew he wasn’t joking.

  “Good plan. But aren’t you supposed to warn your suspect before shooting?”

  He exhaled as he released the cartridge and replaced it with a fresh one. “That’s only in the movies. Same way the bad guy always takes the time to reveal his plan, giving the good guy time to figure a way out. In real life, you shoot first. Is there a reason why you’re standing here, plotting my demise?”

  “Scott’s psychiatric report just arrived.” She held up the brown, legal-sized envelope. “I figured you’d want to see it right away.”

  It didn’t surprise him that she’d brought it straight to him instead of leaving it in his office. He lifted his hand to take the folder then dropped it. Did he really want to confirm his suspicion that Scott had fooled everyone else about being better, even the shrink? “I think I’ll hit the showers and get changed first. Why don’t you put it on my desk for now?”

  Sandy brushed her bangs out of her eyes. After a breath or two, she nodded once. “You betcha.”

  “Thanks.” He watched her walk away, her long legs swinging giving her ass a nice hitch. After this morning’s hit, his body craved release. Pity she was Sam’s assistant and therefore relegated to the hands-off list.

  Once she reached the inner door of the airlock, she turned around. “Hey, Troy? Scott’s going to be all right, isn’t he?”

  Good question.

  Three hours later, the sealed manila envelope still sat unopened on top of Troy’s inbox. Unable to stand it any longer, Sandy stood in the doorway to Troy’s office while violins and some other stringed instrument softly played on the stereo he’d plugged his iPod into. Maybe he found it relaxing; it would put her to sleep listening to it all day.

  “Be right with you, Sandy. Take a seat.” He motioned to his guest chairs with a casual wave of his hand, not taking his eyes from his laptop’s screen.

  She perched on the chair, using the time to surreptitiously watch him from beneath lowered lashes. Not that he’d ever notice her watching him. Even now she doubted he was aware of her, he was so involved in whatever document he was composing. But whenever he was in the office, she’d always noticed him. When he was there. For Troy McPherson, the D.C. office was more of a pit stop, one of a half-dozen international Hauberk offices he hopscotched between.

  Runnels created by his fingers through his thick dark curls betrayed his frustration with whatever problem his agents posed. Her fingers itched to smooth the wayward curls that had sprung up at his crown. If he saw them he’d head straight to the barber for another awful buzz cut like he’d had in the spring.

  Instead of the black tracksuit he’d worn in the shooting range, he’d changed into an expensive designer suit, though he’d carelessly discarded his jacket on the chair beside her. A hint of chest hair peeked from the V in his shirt where he’d loosened his tie and undone the top two buttons. He’d rolled up his sleeves, his muscular forearms hinting at the power barely contained by the shirt. Drawn to the fingers stabbing impatiently at the keyboard, her body heated as her imagination provided images of them removing her clothes, touching her private places.

  His scowl deepening, he hit the enter key before shoving his keyboard tray under his desk. “So what’s up?”

  My libido, she wanted to answer. Damn, it hadn’t been that long since she’d had a lover, though he’d been almost as uninventive as her ex-fiancé Glen had been, but something about Troy told her he’d never let her be bored. Instead she tapped the envelope. “You haven’t read this yet.”

  “Been busy. I’ll get to it.”

  “Sam wants an update.” She pushed the envelope across the desk. Okay, so Sam hadn’t asked about it, but he would soon enough.

  Troy wielded his letter opener like a surgical instrument and slid the report onto the desk. To her surprise, he glanced up at her and waited before looking at it. Shoot. He expected her to leave.

  “You know Sam will give it to me to file so I’ll see it later anyway.”

  “It’s not that.”

  So he was afraid to open it. “I thought he was getting better. He seems happier.”

  Troy angled the envelope until the report slid out. He skimmed the contents, flipped back to the front page and read it again, slower this time, then held it out to her. “Here. See for yourself.”

  His fingers brushed hers as she took the report. Strong, callused, with a hint of roughness that would feel good on her skin, touching her everywhere. Pity he’d never given her any indication he was attracted to her. If he did, she would be all over him like snow on a Minnesota field in January.

  She flicked through the psychiatrist’s recommendation that Scott was well enough to be placed back on active duty. “He’ll be glad to get back into the field. He’s been grumbling for months about being on restricted duty.”

  “Yeah. I guess.” Troy tugged his shirt collar.

  “You don’t think he’s ready, do you?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Tug. Tug.

  “You don’t have to.”

  He huffed in exasperation. “What are you talking about?”

  She settled back into the chair, tucking one foot beneath her. “Whenever you don’t agree with something, you tug at your collar.”

  “I do?” He pulled his hand away from his neck and stared at it as if it didn’t belong to him. “Any other tells I should know about?”

  “If you’re impatient or annoyed with something, you fiddle with your watch band. If you’re worried, then you rub the pad of your index finger over your thumb nail.”

  “Remind me never to play poker with you. You’d bankrupt me in short order. Or better yet, I should bring you to my next poker night and introduce you to a couple of my friends with big wallets I’d love to take from them.”

  That he would never invite her, that none of the guys ever thought to invite her to any of their parties or events stung. Boys’ club didn’t begin to describe the clique mentality of the Hauberk operatives. Either you were an agent or you were invisible. “Name the time and place and I’ll be there.”

  Shooting him a bright smile that she didn’t feel inside, she hurried back to her desk.

  While he enjoyed the sight of Sandy walking away from him—what man wouldn’t enjoy ogling her curves?—he wondered at the smile she’d plastered onto her face. Oh, it might have fooled anyone else, but there was something missing in it. Did she think he wasn’t doing enough for his agent?

  He flipped through the report to ensure the shrink hadn’t missed some sign Scott was still having trouble. True, his nightmares had lessened, as had his requirement for meds. So what was it that was bugging him about placing his friend back on active duty?

  Unable to see a satisfactory answer, he tossed the file back on his desk and shoved his chair back, intent on asking Sandy if she’d noticed anything about Scott. Standing up would be a waste of motion—Sandy was busy with a client, or potential client. While he couldn’t hear exactly what the woman in her late thirties was saying, Sandy’s glance toward Sam’s closed door told him that the woman was demanding to see Hauberk’s owner.

  If she was a potential client, Chad’s agents had their work cut out protecting that walking safety deposit box. With the almost-floor-length fox coat she wore, the visitor presented a fantastic target to the PETA crowd. Snatch-and-grab artists would have a field day with the expensive designer purse tucked beneath her elbow. Or maybe they’d pull a gun on her and demand some of the diamonds glittering on her wrist or the finger she wagged in Sandy’s face.

  Despite Sandy’s smile, the tension in her shoulders betrayed that the woman had hit some sore spot. Yet she rose and poured the w
oman a cup of coffee and chatted to her, smoothing whatever remaining feathers—or fox fur—might still be ruffled.

  With a little training, she would have been a good asset in the field. Not as an agent. No, she would have been a perfect mole. She could slide into any environment and adapt, make herself useful while extracting information people wouldn’t tell others.

  The door to Sam’s office opened and Sam sauntered out, greeting the woman with his trademark smile. While everyone else might buy the mellow persona Sam exuded, Troy knew it was a façade. Only Rosie had found the way to dispel the demons he’d fought to hide.

  Sandy’s shoulders relaxed as Sam’s southern drawl thickened, charming the client, leaving Sandy free to return to her desk. The sweater she wore covered her cleavage but it couldn’t hide the curves he found so erotically enticing.

  He forced his attention off the outer office and back to the folder on his desk. He’d finally managed to lose himself in his operatives’ reports when his secure phone jangled.

  “Garcia’s planning on meeting his people in Val Varde next month,” Cooper Davis’s voice barked down the line. How Davis had managed to get hold of the private secure line, Troy had no idea, but he could only guess the Brigade had resources from all the alphabet agencies. “If you want in on it, tell me now.”

  So why hadn’t Davis revealed that nugget earlier? “I want in.”

  “Just so we’re clear, I’m only inviting you. Phillips gets nowhere near the op. In fact, I don’t want you breathing a word about it to him.”

  If he’d been the one held captive, the one forced to watch his partner tortured to death, he’d demand to go. He’d see the bastard’s death as justice served. Did Scott deserve any less? Yet if he insisted Scott be included in the op, Davis would hang up and neither of them would be in on taking Garcia down.

  “All right. Just me,” he agreed. Scott would be pissed, but knowing Garcia was dead should placate some of his ire. “Consider it a quid pro quo for keeping silent about Harris going rogue.”