by Misty Evans
Without warning, the sound of guns cocking echoed in the room. Cooper, Brad and Flynn went into fight mode, turning their backs to each other and facing out as if circling the wagons.
The colonel’s cold, smug gaze did not leave Michael’s. “One fight.” He lifted a shoulder and took another swig of his golden tequila. “That is all. Then you can have Dr. Shit.”
“Stand down,” Michael murmured to Brad and the others.
Diplomacy was usually his first course of action. Unfortunately in the middle of a Bolivian prison, facing a drunken warden with a Napoleon complex and the lives of his fellow operatives riding on his shoulders, diplomacy was about as likely to work as humming “Hello, Dolly” and doing a tap dance.
Michael glanced around the throng of people crowding them, all eager for another fight. The bleeding man in the corner and his matching counterpart were both ripped, but both were lightweights at best. Plus they appeared still exhausted from their fight.
He tipped his head in the direction of the biggest one. “Rules?” he said to Cortez.
The coldness in the warden’s eyes didn’t change, even though he smiled. Behind him, Michael heard Flynn snort in disbelief and Brad sigh deeply. It probably took every ounce of restraint the bodyguard had to keep from saying, Director, not advised, as he so often did when Michael risked safety for freedom.
“One rule,” Cortez said and held out a hand. “No guns.”
Moving slowly, Michael removed his gun from its holster.
And handed it to Flynn.
The room seemed to take a deep breath as Cortez went back to his raised seat and Cooper, Flynn and Brad surrounded Michael. Taking off his jacket, he exchanged a knowing look with Flynn. “This goes bad, put a hole between Cortez’s eyes.”
Brad looked nauseated and tried to hide his holy shit, we’re fucked expression behind a positive slap on Michael’s back. “You can handle either of those guys with one punch.”
“Um,” Cooper said, covertly pointing to a spot behind Michael. “That’s who you’re fighting.”
Michael turned and saw a brute of a man facing him. Shorter than him by a few inches, but built like a battleship. Steel bands of muscle ran the length of his arms, and his chest looked like it had been built from bricks. He took his two fists and pounded them together like a vise grip, his lips pulled back in a snarl as he stared Michael down.
“Okay.” Michael took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Cut his gaze to Flynn and then to Brad. “Suggestions?”
Brad spoke. “Cut him off at the legs, hit his solar plexus, elbow to the back of the neck.”
Flynn studied the guy’s tree-stump-sized legs. “I hope you got a chainsaw with you.”
Rolling up his shirt sleeves, Michael narrowed his eyes at Flynn. “Remind me why I brought you along?”
“Don’t worry, Butch.” Flynn shot him a double wink. “I’m going to get you out of this. Do the countdown and take a swing.”
Michael turned to face his competitor, natural instincts and Flynn’s idea kicking in at the same moment. The big Bolivian strutted forward and did the bodybuilder thing again with his fists. The crowd cheered and Michael crooked a finger at the guy, raising his voice to be heard over them. “Someone say go.”
Quick as a snap, Flynn yelled, “One, two, three, go!”
Michael stepped forward, ducked under the Bolivian’s swing and cold-cocked him with an uppercut to the balls.
It was like watching Goliath fall. First his face showed surprise, then pain as he dropped like a ton of rocks to his knees. The new target was waist level and Michael used a half-spin-kick combination to clock his solar plexus.
Goliath’s chest caved in and for the final touch, Michael smashed his nose with another kick of his booted foot. Blood sprayed and the man howled, grabbing at his face as he tumbled backward.
As the crowd roared, not caring who or what lost, Cortez slammed his glass down on the table. Liquid jumped. Michael danced on the balls of his feet and gave Cortez his best cold-hearted, merciless stare. Bring it on.
The colonel still had a few brain cells making connections. A wave of his hand told Michael to get out and take Dr. Shit with him.
Without a word, Michael accepted his jacket and gun from Flynn, grabbed Dr. Kent by the elbow and proceeded to get the hell out of the jail.
The lieutenant seemed just as anxious for them to be gone, parting the crowd and hustling them back through the outer perimeters.
Before they crossed through the last door to the outside, AC-DC had started thumping again.
The night air hit Michael’s face and a rush of sweet adrenaline raced across his skin. With one hand still on Dr. Kent’s elbow, he muttered the words along with the music. “You’ve been…thunderstruck.”
Flynn joined in, and as they reached the Jeep, Cooper, Brad and even Dr. Kent were chanting along.
Chapter Forty-Five
Washington D.C.
The next day
“Truman, I need your help.” Brigit tossed another blouse on the bed and tucked her phone between her ear and her shoulder while she examined her pitiful wardrobe.
“Yes.” Truman’s voice did the slight cross-Atlantic delay. “Just say yes.”
“Yes to what?”
“If Michael Stone asks you to marry him, just say yes.”
The bruise on Brigit’s heart ached at the thought and she covered it with her hand. Still no word from Michael. After all the devastating things she’d lived through in life, this one ranked up there with the worst. Unrequited love affected thousands of people, leaving a hole in their hearts and a loneliness akin to the actual loss of a loved one. Good or bad, though, it also left hope flirting around the edges of the pain. At any moment, he might realize he loved her too. At any moment, he might show up on her doorstep with a smile and an outstretched hand. He would draw her back into his world, the circle of his family and friends.
Sighing at her pathetic daydreaming, she pushed the pain away and snagged the last blouse from its hanger, throwing it on the bed next to the others. “President Jeffries has summoned me for a meeting and I don’t know what to wear. My gray suit went up in the fire and all I have are casual clothes.”
Truman’s silence was longer than a normal long-distance delay. “You still have the Burberry?”
She’d picked the trench coat up from the dry cleaners that morning. “Yeah.”
“Shoes with a heel on them?”
A pair of low-heeled black pumps sat in the closet in preparation for a job interview with a small therapist group specializing in treating children. She just hadn’t found a suit to wear with it yet. “Yes.”
“Wear the trench like a dress with the heels. Big sunglasses, bold earrings. Red lipstick.”
“What about underneath?”
“A can of pepper spray in case the Big Bad Wolf tries to eat you.”
The image made her laugh for the first time in days. Jeffries was bound to try and put the fear of the presidency in her, but she wasn’t going to kowtow to him. She’d made up her mind she would do everything in her power to get her father out of the Bolivian prison, but not at the expense of Michael and his family. Even though the jerk had made it clear he didn’t care about her, she loved him.
It made no sense, love. Like so many emotions, you could analyze it all you wanted and never understand it. You couldn’t control who you loved or the stupid things you might do to prove it.
Like calling the Deputy Director of the CIA forty times in a seventy-two-hour time period.
Truman broke into her reverie. “How’s Tory doing?”
Tory. A good subject to keep her mind off Michael. “The arraignment’s tomorrow. I think I’m more nervous than she is.”
“I’m sure the judge will grant a tad of leniency if Director Stone put in a word in her defense.”
Brigit was sure no such word had been offered for her sister. She tried to be angry at Michael, but it didn’t work. Tory had to face the music and
the music wasn’t pretty.
“You’re staying in D.C. then for awhile?”
Brigit fingered a blouse. “At least until the trial and sentencing. I’m not sure where Tory will end up, but I plan to stay close to her so I can visit. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
“Your resurrection story hasn’t made the BBC yet. I’ve been watching.”
“The FBI’s been cooperative about keeping the truth under wraps for now. At least while I’m considering their job offer as a profiler.”
“Sleeping with the enemy now, are you?”
“The FBI is not your enemy, and besides, I have no plans to accept the offer. I just needed a few days to get my shit together before I become a media darling again.”
“Any word on your father?”
“None. That’s why I agreed to meet with Jeffries.”
“Still have a few tricks in your bag?”
Her bag was empty. All she had was a sincere desire to get her dad back. It was time to free him from the present and the past. “No tricks. I’m done playing political games. I might beg though.”
“Well, good luck. Let me know what happens.”
Brigit cut the connection and tossed the phone on the bed. Eyeing the selection of T-shirts and button-downs, she dug through the pile until she located a white tank top that matched her hip-huggers and pulled it on.
The trench coat still had the plastic bag over it from the cleaners. She ripped it off and shrugged the coat over her shoulders. The silk lining brushed against her skin, and she wondered if she really had the courage to go to the White House in such a Marilyn Monroe style.
Hell, what did she care? No one would know unless the Secret Service felt her up.
Once the buttons were secure and the belt tied in a knot, she rummaged through her purse and pulled out the single lipstick she’d bought at the local Rite Aid. Power Punch. She brought it to the bathroom and put on the only pair of earrings she had…hoops with four-leaf clovers dangling from them. Also from Rite Aid and tacky more than bold, but again, she found she could’ve cared less.
The bruise on her temple was all but gone. A layer of foundation dulled the yellow tinge, and she parted her hair on the opposite side so a thick curtain of waves concealed any tell-tale signs.
Just like the bruise on her heart, she was the only one who would know it was there.
She carried the pumps down to her car and threw them in the passenger seat. Double checking the trench’s belt was securely knotted, she took a deep breath and put the car in gear.
Big Bad Wolf, here I come.
White House
Helena’s voice over the president’s intercom made Michael jump. “Doctor Kent is here, sir.”
Brigit.
He checked his tie, rose from a chair across from the president’s desk, and shot his cuffs before Jeffries even answered his assistant. “Show her in please, Helena.”
He wasn’t the only man in the room excited to see her. The elder Dr. Kent also rose from a matching chair, buttoned his suit jacket’s top button and faced the door, anticipation making his aging features less noticeable.
The scar on Michael’s chest tightened. Automatically, he ran his hand over it and realized it wasn’t his scar bothering him. It was the hard, insistent thudding of his heart at the thought of seeing Brigit again. His voice mail box was full of Brigit’s messages and it had killed him not to call her and tell her about the surprise. It had killed him to hear her voice go from bright and hopeful to disappointed to angry and finally to withdrawn.
Without a knock, she burst through the door with Helena on her heels and a set look on her face. A look Michael had seen repeatedly from Ruth’s house to Ireland. The soldier was ready to take on the world.
His heart stuttered and then stopped in wonder for a split-second as he took her in from head to toe. The wavy dark curls, the baby doll eyes, the bright lipstick. The gaudy earrings, the expensive trench, the moderate heels. She was still a conundrum. Still beautiful.
The moment she saw him, she pulled up short, the determined set morphing to surprise. And then her gaze shifted to his right and landed on her father. She rocked on her heels, and Helena put out a hand to steady her.
Helena didn’t need to bother. Michael was at Brigit’s side in a heartbeat, his hands grabbing her around the waist.
She looked at him, her soldier’s eyes softening as they filled with tears. “What have you done?”
“He saved my life,” her father said, stepping toward them.
Michael didn’t want to let go of her, ever, but he dutifully steered her into her father’s outstretched arms. Family came first. Still, he kept his hand resting possessively on her lower back.
The two embraced and Brigit whispered, “Da.”
“Well,” Jeffries said, rising from his desk chair. “Good to see a family back together. I’m glad I worked this out for you two.”
The elder Dr. Kent broke the hug and held Brigit away from him. “Will you forgive me?” Brigit nodded and he shot a glare at the president. “The paperwork wasn’t the key to getting me released.” His gaze bounced to Michael and back to Brigit. “It was your friend here. He had to fight Cortez’s champion, and he laid the guy out with one punch. The whole time he was as cool and calm as a professional prizefighter.”
Michael had told Dr. Kent the entire story of Ella’s kidnapping, his relationship with Brigit and hunting Donovan on the flight back to the States. He’d asked for his help too, in getting back on Brigit’s good side.
Apparently, it was working. Brigit glanced over her shoulder at him. “I’ve seen him in action. He’s amazing.”
Jeffries cleared his throat. “I hate to break up the family reunion, but Brigit and I have something to discuss. Would you gentlemen excuse us for a minute?”
It was not a request, but a demand.
Michael bristled.
Brigit did too. “We have nothing to discuss, Mr. President. I’ve turned over all my information to Deputy Director Stone here. He’ll handle it from this point forward.”
Jeffries blustered and turned red, but snapped his mouth shut and sat back down in his chair.
Brigit took her father’s elbow and steered him toward the door, motioning at Michael to follow.
He couldn’t keep the smirk off his face as he passed Helena, especially when Brigit stopped and turned back to face Jeffries. “My condolences on losing the election. I’m sure that was a major disappointment. If you need to talk to a therapist, I’d be happy to refer you to one of my colleagues.”
Helena gasped. Jeffries sputtered. Michael slipped his arm around her waist and walked her out of the room. “Watch your step,” he muttered in her ear. “He’s still president.”
She giggled. “I laugh in the face of danger, remember?”
Heat shot to his groin at the memory her words triggered, and he squeezed her waist. “I do remember.”
Leaving the White House, he instructed his driver to follow Brigit and her father through D.C. and into the suburbs where Brigit now had an apartment. On the sidewalk in front of the building, he pulled her aside. “I know you need to spend some time with your dad, but I was hoping I could see you tonight. We need to talk.”
A guarded expression came over her face. She slipped off her heels and bent to pick them up. “Um, sure.”
She thought he meant something else. He grinned mischievously as he laid her worries to rest. “Dinner? A movie?”
Her eyes widened. “You’re asking me out on a date?”
He took a deep breath and tried to align his thoughts. “We sort of skipped that part of a new relationship. We should start over. A clean slate.” Reaching for her empty hand, he twined his fingers with hers. “I want to do this right.”
Her fingers tightened around his. “You broke me out of jail, hunted down the terrorist who tried to kill me and rescued my father. We are way past the dating stage, Michael.”
“Not to mention the stalking.”
He pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and waggled it in front of her.
Understanding lit up her face and she blushed. “Yeah, about that…”
“You never do anything half-assed. Which is pretty cool. In fact, it’s damn sexy. Like I mentioned before in Ireland, you’re my kind of woman.”
She glanced over her shoulder at her father, who was talking to Brad. “I could say the same for you. First an Irish prison, then a Bolivian one. You got a death wish or something?”
He definitely wanted to live right now. The future stretched out in front of him with endless possibilities. Brigit understood who he was, what he did for a living, what he had survived. She could relate and love him for all his faults, for all his regrets. She gave him hope, and most of all, she gave him back his desire to live again. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, let her go. “Call me as soon as you can get away.”
“Is that an order?”
“Yes,” he said, grinning again so hard his cheeks hurt. “And wear the trench. I like it.”
She squeezed his hand before pulling her own away and saluting him. “Yes, sir.”
Epilogue
Two weeks later
Michael fingered the ring in his pocket. All he had to do was grab Brigit, drag her away from the spackle and propose.
She was right at home, working on their new clean slate, as she called it. The wall he’d torn down in anger was being rebuilt with love.
A ponytail stuck out of the back of the cap she was wearing and bobbed with every movement. Her coveralls were coated in drywall dust and her bare feet poked out from under the rolled-up legs. She was shirtless and bra-free. Every time she bent over to tease another chunk of spackle from the bucket on the floor, the slit in the side gave him a magnificent view of her breasts.
Day by day, hour by hour, she was helping him replace the bad memories of what had happened in this room with good ones. The ghosts were gone, and in their place, Brigit’s smiling face, easy laugh and quiet determination to help him see the future as a bright opportunity full of possibilities. They’d talked for hours in front of the fireplace about their childhoods, battled over the remote for control of the flat screen, taught Pongo new tricks and played board games with Ella. They’d even confronted Ruth together about her past involvement with Peter’s group, and more importantly, they’d both believed Ruth’s innocence once all the facts were discussed. It wasn’t the most romantic setting to propose in, but it was a meaningful one.