Rachael settled onto the swing beside the cowboy.
Pulling her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her legs. “It’s chilly.”
“Nights are cool this time of year.” But Bo’s mind wasn’t on the temperature, and he wasn’t the slightest bit cool. In fact, he’d broken a sweat beneath his denim jacket.
Rachael dropped her gaze to her hands. “You probably know this already, but I’m not very good at following other people’s rules. I just tend to be independent.”
Independent was an understatement, but Bo didn’t say as much. He didn’t want to get into the reasons for her recklessness. He didn’t like the way he was reacting to her. He didn’t want to have to talk to her any longer than necessary. Not because sitting on the porch with her was unpleasant, but because she was making him feel things he didn’t want to feel—and tempting him to do things he knew he would regret….
LINDA CASTILLO
OPERATION: MIDNIGHT COWBOY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Linda Castillo knew at a very young age that she wanted to be a writer—and penned her first novel at the age of thirteen. She is the winner of numerous writing awards, including the Holt Medallion, the Golden Heart and the Daphne du Maurier Award, and she has been nominated for the prestigious RITA® Award.
Linda loves writing edgy romantic suspense novels that push the envelope and take her readers on a roller-coaster ride of breathtaking romance and thrilling suspense. She resides in Texas with her husband, four lovable dogs and an Appaloosa named George. For a complete list of her books, check out her Web site at www.lindacastillo.com, contact her at [email protected] or write her at P.O. Box 577, Bushland, Texas 79012.
Books by Linda Castillo
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
871—OPERATION: MIDNIGHT TANGO
890—OPERATION: MIDNIGHT ESCAPE
920—OPERATION: MIDNIGHT GUARDIAN
940—OPERATION: MIDNIGHT RENDEZVOUS
963—OPERATION: MIDNIGHT COWBOY
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Rachael Armitage—A MIDNIGHT agent on the edge. Two years ago, she shot and killed the son of international crime lord Viktor Karas. Now Karas wants revenge. Can Rachael survive the wrath of one of the most brutal criminals in the world?
Bo Ruskin—After killing a fellow MIDNIGHT agent, he quit the agency and fled to his remote Montana ranch. But the agency needs a favor. Can Bo keep Rachael Armitage safe when he can’t even pick up his gun?
Viktor Karas—The most brutal crime lord in the world. Will he succeed in killing the woman responsible for his son’s death?
Sean Cutter—He needs a favor from former MIDNIGHT agent Bo Ruskin. Can Cutter count on him to keep Rachael Armitage safe?
Michael Armitage—He was killed in the line of duty six months earlier. But what secrets did Michael take with him to the grave?
Ivan Petrov—The professional killer hired by Viktor Karas. Will he succeed in eliminating his target? Or die trying?
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Prologue
They were going to kill her this time.
The first shot blew a hole the size of her thumb through the driver’s side window. Rachael Armitage cut the steering wheel hard to the right. The Mustang slid sideways on the rain-slicked road, but she steered into the skid. The instant the tires gripped, she hit the gas.
There was at least one vehicle behind her. Maybe two. The men inside were probably armed to the hilt. The driver was good; he knew when to get close and when to back off. But she was better. She only hoped she had the horsepower to prove it.
Never taking her eyes from the rearview mirror, she negotiated a sharp curve. The car fishtailed, but she held it steady and maintained control. The headlights behind her disappeared. When the road straightened, Rachael floored the accelerator. But she knew they weren’t going to give up.
Grabbing her purse, she emptied it onto the seat next to her. For an instant she debated whether to reach for the cell phone or the Beretta .380, but she reached for the phone.
Headlights flashed in her rearview mirror as she flipped open the cell. Cursing, she hit the speed dial with her thumb. The vehicle was gaining on her with astounding speed. Coming too fast. Getting too close. One ring. Two.
“Come on,” she snapped.
The vehicle bumped her from behind just as a voice answered. “ID and code, please.”
“This is Alpha two-four-six. Code red.” Rachael glanced to her left to see a big chrome bumper inches from her window. “Damn.”
“What’s your twenty, Alpha?”
Knowing the vehicle was going to ram her, Rachael stomped the brake. But she wasn’t fast enough. The big SUV swerved, its front quarter panel slamming into the Mustang hard enough to knock the phone from her hand. The car veered sideways. The tires screamed as they lost purchase.
She skillfully steered into the skid, but her heart was hammering by the time she regained control. Adrenaline burned hot in her gut. Too damn close, she thought. These guys were good. Professional killers more than likely. They had heavier, faster vehicles. Bigger guns. But then she didn’t expect any less from the man whose only mission in life was to see her dead.
She should have heeded Cutter’s advice and taken the Lear. But then Rachael had never been good at taking advice.
Ahead, she could see the yellow glow of Chicago’s north suburbs above the tree line. She wasn’t familiar with this particular road. Didn’t know where to find refuge. Where the hell was a cop when you needed one?
The second shot shattered the windshield. The safety glass held, but shards pelted her like sleet. Large-caliber projectile. High velocity. If they shot through the engine she would be dead in the water.
Wind roared through the hole in the windshield. Cold night air surrounded her with icy fingers. But it wasn’t the cold that had her hands shaking on the wheel. A glance at the speedometer told her she was nearing one hundred miles per hour. A dangerous speed even in the best conditions. Downright reckless on wet pavement on a curvy back road in the dead of night.
But then Rachael had always been good at reckless.
Every nerve in her body jumped when two sets of headlights loomed behind her. She pressed the accelerator to the floor, but the Mustang’s V-8 engine had already given its all. The second vehicle came up beside her. A large SUV.
The fender slammed into the driver’s side door. Steel screeched and groaned as the vehicles locked. Rachael hit the brake, but it was too late. The Mus tang careened into the guardrail. Sparks shot high into the air as steel ground against steel. She tried desperately to ease the car back on the road, but the SUV was too heavy. She was going too fast.
In a last-ditch effort to keep the car from going through the guardrail and down the embankment, she jerked the wheel hard to the left. The SUV was ready and slammed into her again. The impact sent the Mustang into a skid. Rachael was thrown violently to the right. The car bounced off the guardrail and went into a wild spin.
She fought the steering wheel for control, but it was a losing battle. She caught a glimpse of headlights. Of trees against the night sky. The lights of Chicago through the white capillaries of t
he shattered windshield. Vaguely, she was aware of her cell phone and weapon sliding to the floor.
The car spun as if in slow motion. She was thrown against her safety belt when the car hit the guardrail on the opposite side of the road. The splintering of wood sounded like a gunshot. The airbag deployed. Then she was tumbling end over end.
Rachael tried to protect her face and head, but the journey down the embankment was stunningly violent. Even with the airbag in place, her cheek slammed into the steering wheel hard enough to daze her. Glass broke when her temple hit the driver’s side window. The car somersaulted like a carnival ride run amok.
After everything she’d been through—every crazy risk she’d taken—she couldn’t believe her life would end this way. On some back road in the dead of night at the hands of some faceless, nameless goons she’d never even met. She’d always imagined herself going down in a blaze of glory—and taking at least one of them with her.
She thought of Michael, of all the times in the last two years when she’d wanted nothing more than to lay her head down and join him. She wondered if this was that moment. If the nine lives she’d always fancied herself as having had finally run out. The prospect was not as comforting as she’d imagined.
As suddenly as the car had careened out of control, everything went still. Rachael found herself hanging upside down, suspended by her safety belt. The first thought that registered was that she was alive. She’d had the breath knocked out of her; she could hear herself gasping, trying to get oxygen into her lungs. Her elation was short-lived when the tinny thunk of a bullet penetrating steel sounded a foot away from her head. She couldn’t believe they were still shooting at her. Time to go.
Mentally, she did a quick physical assessment. A dull throb racked her left shoulder. She was pretty sure the warmth on the left side of her face was blood. But Rachael didn’t have time to hurt. She knew the men in the SUV weren’t finished. If she wanted to live, she was going to have to drag herself out of the car and make a run for it.
A groan escaped her as she reached for the release on the safety belt. Pain shot from shoulder to elbow, but she didn’t let it stop her. Survival took precedence over pain. Mind over matter. She would deal with injuries later.
The belt mechanism clicked open. Gravity slammed her into the steering wheel. Grinding her teeth, she fumbled blindly in the darkness for her cell or weapon. She located the cell on what was left of the dashboard, the Beretta next to the crushed dome light. Shoving both items into the waistband of her jeans, Rachael heaved herself toward the passenger side window.
Tiny shards of glass cut her as she clawed through the small opening. Two more shots rang out as she crawled from the car. The Mustang had landed roof down. Steam hissed from the undercarriage and spewed into the cold night air. A small fire flickered beneath the hood. The car was useless; she was going to have to hoof it.
She scrambled to her feet. An instant of dizziness, then the horizon leveled. Around her, the night showed no signs of the violence that had exploded just seconds earlier. The only sound came from the slow spin of a single wheel and the hiss of steam. A chorus of crickets. The distant bark of a dog.
Voices cut through the silence. Rachael glanced toward the road above her. A fresh surge of adrenaline burned through her when she spotted four men. Illuminated by headlights, they were making their way down the ravine. At least two of them were armed with pistols. The other two carried rifles. In the back of her mind she wondered if they had night-vision equipment.
Persistent sons of bitches, she thought, and launched herself into a lumbering run for the tree line a dozen yards away. Her knee protested, but she didn’t slow down.
Shouts rose behind her as she entered the line of trees. They’d reached the car and discovered her missing. If the situation hadn’t been so dire, she might have enjoyed the moment. There was nothing she loved more than besting some piece of scum. But she wasn’t out of the woods yet.
Pulling the cell phone from her waistband, she hit the speed dial to the MIDNIGHT Agency’s crisis line. The coordinator answered on the first ring. Rachael was breathless when she recited her ID, code and GPS coordinates. The voice told her a chopper team was on the way with an ETA of twenty-five minutes. In that instant, twenty-five minutes seemed like a lifetime. Rachael knew all too well how much could happen in twenty-five minutes.
Shoving the cell phone into her waistband, she prayed she lived long enough to reach the pickup point.
Chapter One
“You want to tell me why I’m here?” Bo Ruskin rubbed a hand over his jaw, aware of the scrape of whiskers that had sprung up on the overnight flight from his ranch outside of Cody, Wyoming, to the small, covert airstrip near Washington, D.C., that was used exclusively by the CIA and its lesser known division, the MIDNIGHT Agency.
He’d received the call just before 11:00 p.m.—a time when more often than not the news wasn’t good. He had a sinking feeling Agency Head Sean Cutter was about to prove him right.
“I need a favor,” Cutter said.
An alarm went off in Bo’s head. He knew all about Sean Cutter and favors. “Must be a big one for you to ask me to fly here on a moment’s notice without so much as an explanation.”
Cutter paused outside a tall, mahogany door marked Conference Room and shoved it open. “Have a seat.”
Bo barely noticed the glossy wood table or the dozen high-back leather executive chairs surrounding it. He took a seat closest to the door, since he was pretty sure he was going to be using it to make his exit in the next minute or so.
Cutter sat at the head of the table. “One of my operatives needs a safe house and protection.”
Bo didn’t hesitate. “So follow protocol and put them into witness security.”
“I’m sure you’re aware that two months ago, Ian Rasmussen hacked the witness security program database. We still haven’t recovered, Bo. Eighty percent of our safe house locations were breached. Six high-profile witnesses have been murdered. A dozen cases federal prosecutors have spent years building are down the drain.”
“Sounds like you have a problem on your hands.”
Cutter’s jaw flexed. “I need your help.”
“I’ve been out of the loop for two years. I train horses now, for God’s sake. I haven’t picked up a rifle since—” Bo bit off the words. “I’m not interested.”
“You were a damn good agent, Bo.”
“All of your agents are good.”
“None of them have a fifteen-hundred-acre ranch in the middle of nowhere.”
Realization dawned like cold water being poured down his back. “You want me to hide someone at my ranch.”
“It’s not in your name, is it?”
Nothing he owned was in his name. One of the prices a former agent had to pay. But if Bo Ruskin was anything, he was cautious. He’d learned that the hard way. “I formed a corporation after I left the agency. Everything is registered under the Dripping Springs Cattle Company.”
Cutter nodded. “I wouldn’t ask just anyone, Bo. There are risks involved. High risks. You’re one of the most capable men I know.”
“Risks like what?”
“She’s got a contract on her head.”
“A contract?” he repeated dumbly.
“Well, two, actually.”
“Sounds like a trouble magnet.”
“Let’s just say she’s not afraid to jump into the thick of things.”
“Cutter, I’m sure you have a contingency plan for these kinds of situations.”
“You are my contingency plan.”
Bo muttered a curse. “So what did she do? Who did she tick off?”
Cutter leaned forward, as if even within the secure walls of the MIDNIGHT Agency headquarters, someone might hear what he was about to say. “She shot and killed Viktor Karas’s son.”
The words echoed like the retort of a killing shot. For an instant the only sound came from the hum of heat running through the vents in the ceiling.
“Karas wants her dead,” Cutter said. “I don’t have to tell you what that son of a bitch is capable of.”
Just hearing the name was enough to make the hairs on Bo’s neck prickle. Viktor Karas ran one of the most brutal crime syndicates in the world. Arms. Drugs. Prostitution. The last Bo had heard, the kingpin was working on getting a nuke for some terrorist group.
“It was self-defense,” Cutter added. “Her cover was blown during a sting. All hell broke loose. There was a firefight.” He shrugged. “Nikolai Karas took one in the head.”
Bo felt no sympathy. Viktor Karas’s brutality and penchant for violence knew no bounds. He’d taken out more than one good man over the years. Whoever took on the responsibility of protecting this woman would be placing himself and everyone he knew in danger.
“Karas has pretty much declared war on the MIDNIGHT Agency,” Cutter continued.
“You got yourself covered?”
“We’ve got the best security in the world.” He shrugged. “Every employee all the way down to the cleaning crew has a high-security clearance. I’m not worried about the agency. I am, however, worried about this operative.”
“So who is it?” Bo asked.
“You’ve met her.”
Bo waited, knowing deep in his gut that he was about to get hit with another curve.
“Rachael Armitage,” Cutter said.
Armitage.
The name struck him with the force of a dagger plunging into his solar plexus. Two years ago Michael Armitage had been Bo’s best friend. They’d gone through the police academy together. Been cops on the mean streets of Washington, D.C., together. They’d joined the MIDNIGHT Agency together. Worked undercover, choreographing and executing some of the most complex and dangerous stings in the agency’s history. Then Michael had been killed. His wife became a widow at the age of twenty-seven. And Bo had given up the only career he’d ever known.
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