“You like that,” he growled into her ear as he moved inside her. “You like to be treated like a cheap fuck?” He came violently, pushed away from her instantly and helped her back into her jeans. Then he dragged her up to his loft, shoved her into the bathroom, and ordered her to take off all that makeup. If Marissa wasn’t mistaken, she had just caught a glimpse of his Dom mode. She had allowed him to dictate to her, although, part of her wanted to rebel because she knew his mood was driven partially by what she had to do for her job. After she had showered, he didn’t wait for her to dry her hair. He picked her up and tossed her on the bed. He fell on top of her, ordered her to hold onto the slats of the headboard, yanked her legs apart, and fucked her hard all over again.
Marissa was ashamed to admit to herself how erotic his total domination felt. She almost feared she was a submissive after all. She shook her head as she got out of the car and made her way to her room in this fleabag motel.
*****
Her phone was ringing. She shot out of bed in full alert and grabbed her smartphone. “Yes?”
“The packages are moving.”
The line went dead. That was Tim on the phone though. Marissa looked at the time, three-thirty in the morning. It was still a couple of hours before dawn. She could probably go back to Fletcher's place and do a stake out. She pulled out her cat-suit, all black and made of flexible leather. She was lucky that the snow had melted in the past few days; otherwise, it would be a challenge to blend into the shadows of the night. She zipped up her light thermal jacket, grabbed a ski mask, and left.
Forty-five minutes later, she was crouching on a hilly mound, training her night-vision binoculars on the property. She parked a mile up on a graveled shoulder that was shaded by some evergreens. Hopefully, at this time of the morning, no one would wonder about an abandoned vehicle. It’d be suicide to go on the property right now because Garett Fletcher had four Rottweilers roaming around freely. Now wasn’t the right time to tranquilize them without knowing for sure that the nerve gas canisters were there. She’d been given a week and a half to find something. Otherwise, she was going to be recalled back to DC.
It irked Marissa that the SK nerve gas was low priority right now for all the agencies. The difference between the FBI and the CIA, besides the latter working mostly on international cases, was that the FBI dealt with crimes already committed, seeking to bring perpetrators to justice, while the CIA focused on prevention and evaluating threats.
This explained why the FBI and Homeland Security were expending so many resources on Al-Qaeda that even Viktor had been drawn in. Last she spoke to him, he had been helping take down several Al-Qaeda cells that were scattered around the eastern seaboard, which was why she had no back up of any Guardians. All her black ops team members, including the ones detailed to her by the DoD, were deployed in Afghanistan. Marissa had a feeling if she didn’t turn up actionable data soon, she’d be pulled out of this mission and dumped into the Al-Qaeda one.
The CIA had deemed the attack on AGS a vendetta, and even the tip off from Stan Morgan did nothing to change the minds of their top brass. Yeager supported Marissa, but his boss—the CIA director—wanted all available assets on Al-Qaeda.
Her attention was drawn to a commercial truck, pulling up in front of the second house. The house was all lit up now and men were moving crates inside. It was hard to tell what the crates might contain. Marissa’s heart skipped a beat when she caught a glimpse of one of the faces who could very well be Owen Reed. He certainly had the build for him. After another twenty minutes, the men had shut themselves in the house.
It took her maybe an hour to get to a CIA substation. It looked like a shack from the outside, but the interior was setup with sophisticated communication systems. Marissa looked through a retinal scanner before she was allowed inside. She hooked up her laptop and called Yeager.
When her boss came on the line, she immediately said, “I need you to divert some resources for a raid on the Fletcher property.”
There was a pause and then, “Do you have positive ID?”
“No. But I’m sending these pictures to AGS to process. They have a visual on the property right now.” Marissa said. “Can I have Guthrie back?”
“She’ll be free soon. The Al-Qaeda cells were a dead end.” Yeager's tired voice informed her. “They were just a minor splinter group sympathetic to the cause and had no involvement in the attacks on DC at all.”
“So Viktor was right,” Marissa said. And the directors of every government agency can kiss his ass. She knew Viktor was frustrated by the bureaucracy that had bogged down other missions, this one included.
“Baran was right,” Yeager repeated. “And he is pissed as hell right now.”
“All right, I’ll keep you posted.”
She called Tim.
“Hanging in there, Burns?” The analyst probably had not slept for a while and was operating on caffeine.
“Yup, what you got?”
“Possible ID on Reed.”
“You serious?” Tim’s voice perked up. “Send them to me, girl.”
“Listen. We need to move in soon. Something tells me these guys won’t stay in town for long. They’ve had more than a week to assemble the SK nerve gas. Right now, they’re probably plotting their end game.”
“Sounds ominous. Viktor should be back from New York this morning.”
“Viktor’s in New York?”
“Albany. There was some tip from several folks about a disturbing congregation of young Muslim men in a house.”
“And?”
“And nothing. These were Al-Qaeda wannabes. They downloaded instructions for a homemade bomb and have some of the materials, but that’s all they had. They didn’t need the AGS for this, and DHS could have instructed local law enforcement to do the raid. Viktor is really pissed because we’re stretched thin. He’s been dragged into every agency meeting, bored out of his mind, while he’s itching to get his hands on Reed. And he’s so damned worried about you—”
“Tim, calm down,” Marissa cut in. “I’m fine.” She looked at the time; it was almost 7:00 a.m. “I gotta go. I’m pulling a double shift at the bar. I’ll keep my eyes open. But you guys have to move in tonight, and don’t forget about the guard dogs.”
“Copy that. Most of the guys will be back this morning. Will send briefs through secure channels.”
*****
The lunch shift was almost over and Marissa was dead on her feet. Friday lunch had been busy. There were a couple of group lunches that came in like a rowdy bunch of boys trying to be men, college kids propositioning waitresses. Sheila kept them in line for which Marissa was thankful because she had the strong urge to elbow one of the frat boys in the face after he had grabbed her boobs. Marissa just wished Sheila was as assertive with Fletcher. It was sad what love could do to a person.
She was wiping down the counters when Jerry asked her to check on some inventory in the stockroom. The storage area was an attachment to the main bar with the entrance located outside. She made a right at the hallway and pushed through the back exit, turned left and took a couple of steps to the stockroom entrance.
The door was unlocked. She cautiously turned the knob, but the door was suddenly yanked from her as she fell inside. Hands gripped her upper arms as she came face to face with Henry Logan, their missing guy from Bluefield. So this was where he was hiding out. Since when?
“What are you doing in here?” Marissa put enough squeak in her voice to sound frightened.
Logan narrowed his eyes. “I’m a friend of Garett Fletcher. I store some shit here.”
Liar, Liar, pants on fire.
“Jerry sent me here to do a stock check.”
The hands released her. “Don’t let me keep you.” He stepped aside and slammed out of the room.
Holy shit. Marissa could barely contain her frustration. She needed to call this in, but she needed to maintain her cover a bit longer. She quickly took a gander of the stockroom. She had been i
n here one other time, and that bedroll in one corner wasn’t here. Logan definitely was a recent arrival and he definitely was keeping a low profile. Marissa quickly made an inventory appraisal and walked back to the bar. She was passing by the office when she heard Sheila crying and yelling at Fletcher. “I don’t trust him. What are you hiding?”
“Keep it down, you cunt,” Fletcher hissed. “Do you want the whole damned bar to hear you?”
“I want him out of my house.”
“It’s my house, too, Sheila,” Fletcher replied. “We’ll be gone tomorrow morning.”
“You’re leaving again?”
“Yes.” There was a sound of a scuffle and the wall shook as if someone was backed up against it. “And if you take that tone with me again, bitch, we’re done. You don’t own me. You work for me. And if you ain’t shutting up like a good ole’ lady, you can leave right now.”
Marissa clenched her fists, wanting to charge in there and kick Fletcher where it hurt. She heard Sheila crying, so Marissa quickly made it back to the front of the house and handed Jerry the inventory report he needed. She hoped to hell Sheila had the sense to leave the bastard.
Four p.m. was the start of happy hour, and the bar was starting to fill up again. Marissa managed to shoot off a text message to Tim requesting for an update because she had not heard anything since this morning. She was getting antsy, feeling like a one-man army on this mission. She couldn’t be freaking everywhere.
The door to the bar opened, and a young man clothed in a flannel shirt and ripped faded jeans walked in. He wore a baseball cap in reverse. Nathan Stark.
He sat at her section.
“The kitchen open, sweetie?” Nathan asked. Even dressed down, he was devastatingly handsome and all the estrogen at the bar certainly noticed. Unfortunately for them, Marissa knew that Nathan was very much in love with his fiancée, Lucy Cortez.
“They sure are, handsome,” Marissa said. “What can I get you?”
“Your house burger and a Duvell, please,” Nathan said after looking at the menu.
“Fries or chips?”
“Fries.”
“Be back with your beer.” She ordered the beer from Jerry and walked off in the direction of the kitchen.
She bumped into Fletcher who was looking at her with the same leery gaze from yesterday.
“You like working here, sugar?” he asked. Marissa did not like the undertone of his question.
“Sure do!” she answered chirpily.
“You like pretty boys like that one?” Fletcher nodded to Nathan who was frowning at them.
For Christ’s sake, was this jerk acting like a jealous asshole already? She just met the man yesterday.
“No.”
Fletcher trailed his calloused thumb across her lips and leaned in toward her. “Been dreaming of these lips, sugar. You and me. Can’t wait to feel those lips around my cock.”
Sexual harassment. This man was freaking clueless. Of course, she wasn’t an actual documented employee because Fletcher was paying her under the table. So maybe he thought she was desperate for a job, hence, the lead in question. And damn if Viktor wasn’t right again.
Marissa smiled. “I gotta hand in my order to the kitchen.”
She winced when Garett Fletcher swatted her ass.
When she returned with Nathan’s order, the Guardian was scowling at her.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t Viktor who came in, or you’d be scraping that guy off the floor. Whatever was left of him, that is.”
“Shut up.” Marissa pushed him a bar napkin with the new information about Henry Logan.
Nathan quirked a brow and took a bite out of his burger.
Nathan left forty minutes later. They didn’t get to exchange more information, except to confirm that the Guardians would be moving in on Fletcher's residence tonight. Marissa was on edge, probably from a combination of adrenalin and a lack of sleep. She really wanted to be in on that raid.
Fletcher was behind the bar, and was polishing some glasses, ignoring customers and just following her with his eyes. Poor Jerry had to pick up the slack, and Sheila couldn’t be found anywhere. The other two waitresses were, thankfully, pretty competent, even without the manager around.
“Hey, Olivia, come here a minute,” Fletcher called to Marissa.
“What’s up, boss?”
“I need some of the margarita mixes from the back, can you go get them?”
“We have some—” Jerry protested, but Fletcher shut him up with a glare.
Marissa wasn’t stupid, she knew what this jerk was up to, even as she tried to suppress the bile in her gut.
“Sure thing, boss,” she said as he tossed her the key to the stockroom, a gleam of triumph in his eyes.
She wasn’t looking forward to knocking down a guy the size of Fletcher, and was hoping to escape this watering hole unscathed. She grabbed a steak knife from the utensil caddy on her way out and tucked it in the back of her jeans. She pulled out her t-shirt to cover the knife, hoping she wouldn’t have to use it.
The door to the storage unit was unlocked, although she remembered locking it earlier. She had her answer when she flicked the lights open.
Morris Tyrell was waiting for her
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
This was bad.
Marissa stared warily at a stoned Tyrell. His eyes, glazed but still lustful, gave her body a leery head to toe appraisal. He sniffed, rubbed his nose, and reached for her. She evaded him.
The door behind her clicked shut, and Marissa’s heart rate skittered a fraction. She was trapped.
“Damn it, Tyrell, I told you to lay off the coke,” Fletcher hissed at his friend.
“Ah, but fucking is more heavenly when you’re all high, brother,” the other man said, laughing.
“We don’t want to hurt you none, Olivia. Just want to have some fun. Candy ran out on us,” Fletcher whined.
Marissa stepped to the side and turned so she could keep both men within her sights.
“I don’t think we have the same idea of fun.” Marissa’s tone was frosty. “If you both let me go, I won’t say anything.”
“You came here willingly,” Fletcher pointed out.
“You sent me to pick up the margarita mix.”
“You’re the new girl in town, honey. Who do you think the local sheriff will believe?” Fletcher said.
Tyrell got impatient, lunged at Marissa and got her elbow. Fletcher took the opportunity to lock her in a bear hug. “Such a fighter, I love that.” He suddenly released her and she felt his hand in her back pocket. Marissa realized he had found her knife.
“What’s this?” the bigger man muttered. “What the hell is this?” Louder this time. “You gonna stick this to us, huh? You cunt!”
Marissa estimated her chances. It didn’t look good. She could probably scream. Or not. She hauled back and kicked Fletcher in the groin and the man dropped like a ton of bricks. She ran past him, but he managed to grab her foot. She kept her balance, and was about to kick him in the face, when Tyrell tackled her to the floor. Marissa’s scream was muffled when Tyrell covered her mouth with his hand.
She bit him and he howled in anger. Tyrell was yanked off her, and she was dragged up by Fletcher who took the opportunity to backhand her across the face. She felt her whole body spin around as she sank to her knees. Her nose was bleeding.
“What the hell’s going on here?” A third voice bellowed through the melee of heavy-breathing angry males.
Marissa glanced at the newcomer.
Owen Reed.
“I can’t believe you clowns. We have an op cooking, and you two are dicking around,” Reed said angrily. He turned his attention to Marissa. “Get out of here.”
Thankful for the reprieve, Marissa quickly got to her feet to move past the men. Reed’s hand shot out and stopped her, his eyes narrowing.
“What’s wrong with your nose?” he demanded.
Marissa’s hand flew to cover the body part in question. �
��I think Garett broke it.”
“No,” Reed said grimly. He reached for her face and yanked the prosthetic off her. Marissa flinched as the adhesive took some skin with it.
Oh, shit.
The other two men gasped in surprise as Reed shouted in fury, “Who the fuck are you?”
Marissa was dumped into the backseat of a pickup truck, hog-tied and gagged. From the turns and sounds along the way, she could tell they were heading back to Fletcher's house. Once they arrived, Fletcher hauled her out and tossed her over his shoulder. Marissa heard other voices, possibly Logan, but she wasn’t sure.
Marissa watched them carefully move a couple of crates to the waiting truck.
The Guardians were going to be too late. The raid wasn’t scheduled until 7:00 p.m. to take advantage of the best cover of night. Her and her prosthetic nose had put Reed and his men on high alert. She fucked up.
Reed approached her, a mixture of contempt and regret on his face. “I don’t know how you found us. I don’t have time to torture the information out of you, and I don’t want to bring you with me just in case you have a damned tracker on you. Such a waste. You should’ve just let DC rot, Ms. Cole.” He smiled derisively. “I’m afraid I have to leave you with Fletcher and Tyrell after all.”
He looked at the two men in question. “Get rid of her. Make it quick. I’ll meet you guys at the rendezvous.”
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