by Cindy Gerard
• • •
“Are you all ready to order?” a preppy young waiter asked Rhonda.
She didn’t find it unusual that she’d been singled out as the spokesman for the group; it had always been that way. She’d been told that she had a look—social organizer, office administrator, corporate deity, boss lady, whatever—that drew others to assume she was in charge. She’d stopped fighting it long ago.
She glanced around the table. Her boss, Mike Brown, sat beside his wife, Eva. Then came Jamie Cooper. If he’d meant to annoy her by moving to a chair directly across from her, he’d done a good job of it. After him were two other team members, Enrique Santos and Josh Waldrop. Only Joe and Steph Green had made it from the other Black Ops team, rounding out the group.
“Anyone else coming?” she asked Brown. When he shook his head, she turned back to the waiter. “Why don’t you start with the big guy here”—she patted Taggart’s shoulder—“and work your way back to me?”
While the waiter took orders, Rhonda sat back, feeling the disbelief that sometimes hit her when she thought about her new job. These men were elite operatives. They made up the core group of the International Threat Analysis and Prevention Agency (ITAP), along with Brett Carlyle, who hadn’t made it to breakfast today.
Now she was one of them. A member of a covert antiterrorist team.
Never in her wildest dreams.
She’d thought long and hard before she accepted the position. She’d known from the get-go that it wasn’t as innocuous as the name of the unit implied.
And after she’d signed so many confidentiality and security clearance documents that it made the NSA’s requirements seem like hooking pinkie fingers and crossing hearts, Mike had briefed her on the unit’s real mission.
“ITAP is a cover agency created to ensure we can operate with anonymity and complete autonomy,” he’d said.
Yikes. Who in any government agency was granted autonomy?
“For instance,” he’d added, “if someone starts snooping around DOD records, they won’t discover anything, because we’re listed as a private consulting firm, hired on a contractual basis for security and threat assessments.”
“But that’s not what you—I mean, we—do?” she’d asked him.
“Security assessment is one of our functions, yes. In fact, our first field assignment will most likely be a cyber-threat analysis of a high-value military facility. But our primary purpose is rapid response and deployment when a specific threat to national security is confirmed.”
At that point, it had started to sound a lot like covert operations. And she’d been right.
The team could deploy to any U.S. military facility for the official reason of assessing potential security breaches, when, in fact, they might be there to take out an Al-Qaeda kingpin.
“So, we are and we aren’t who everyone thinks we are,” she’d concluded.
Mike had grinned. “Exactly.”
It was really quite ingenious. With the security consultant cover, the team could get into facilities stateside and internationally that no one else could.
Rhonda looked around the table. In private, the team called itself the One-Eyed Jacks; she didn’t know much about the story behind the name. She knew they all carried old, tattered jacks of hearts and spades like they were treasured club membership cards, cards that only came out of their pockets when they were drawing for who bought breakfast. She imagined there was a much bigger story there—just like ITAP had a bigger story.
“Big responsibilities,” she’d said, after absorbing all the information Mike had fed her. “Why so few operators?”
“Because we run fast and lean. Only the best make the cut. I keep the unit scaled down for that reason, and it’s going to stay that way.”
She couldn’t help feeling a twinge of pride that Mike considered her among the best at what she did. Turned out she was pretty good with weaponry, too. Passing her probation had involved time on the rifle range and in close-quarters combat drills. But even though her instructor said she was a natural, she had no interest in being part of any shoot-’em-up operations. She wanted to be on the front lines fighting cyber-terrorism with a unit that could make that happen.
Cooper was the only wrinkle in her game plan. She glared at him when she was sure he wasn’t looking. If she had an Achilles’ heel, unfortunately, he was it—which ticked her off. Not that anyone would ever know. She was not only good at finding secrets, she was also good at keeping them. Nope. No one would ever know that she’d spent far too much time wondering what was behind the pretty boy’s face . . . and what it would be like to sleep with him.
“So, how’s it going?” Stephanie Green asked, reminding her that this morning was about socializing.
“Good,” Rhonda said with a firm nod, taking advantage of the ordering and male-to-male ribbing that gave them a moment of privacy. “It’s going well.”
Three years ago, Rhonda and Steph had worked together as cryptologists at the National Security Agency. Then Steph had left the stifling bureaucracy of the NSA for greener pastures. She’d turned in her secret decoder ring for a wedding ring, married Black Ops agent Joe Green, and adopted a street orphan from Sierra Leone who had been instrumental in saving their lives. Steph had also joined Nate Black’s unit and, judging by how happy the pretty brunette looked, was loving every minute of it.
“So you’re not sorry I talked you into applying for the ITAP position?” Steph asked.
Rhonda covered Steph’s hand with hers and squeezed. “Are you kidding? You saved me from a life of endless boredom. I’m in the front lines now, chickie. I’m no longer a drone slogging through a maze of cubicles like a robot and praying for something big to happen.”
Stephanie laughed. “In the first place, you could never be categorized as a drone. Drones don’t look like you or get stared at the way you do. Speaking of which,” she added quietly after a furtive glance across the table, “what’s with Golden Boy over there?”
Rhonda glanced at Jamie Cooper, then quickly away. Damn. He was staring. And damn, he was . . . golden. From his skin—he clearly had some Latino blood—to the gold rimming his chocolate-brown irises, to the natural highlights that shimmered in the dark brown hair that was just long enough to make him look like a badass. A very sexy badass.
“We haven’t quite figured each other out yet,” she hedged.
“Really?” Steph’s sparkling eyes smiled as she gave Rhonda an all-knowing look. “Seems clear to me. The man’s got the hots for you, my friend.”
Rhonda snorted. “What man doesn’t?” She knew what she looked like, and she liked to maximize her assets. She had a passion for Manolo Blahniks and vintage angora sweaters, and she was on a first-name basis with the clerks at her favorite makeup counter. So sue her.
When she’d decided to take the position, she’d also decided that the team was going to have to take her as she was—blond and curvy and not shy about showcasing those curves. She enjoyed being a woman. She also had a smart mouth that she’d have to make a big effort to control; so far, that wasn’t working out too well. She took way too much pleasure needling Cooper, who had the mistaken impression that he was God’s gift to womankind.
“At least, until they get to know me and they figure out what a bitch I am,” she added.
“You’re not a bitch. You’re protective of yourself. Nothing wrong with that.”
Rhonda changed the subject, as she always did when it veered too close to her emotional space. “Better give the man your order,” she said as the waiter reached them.
Steph was her dearest friend, but even she didn’t know the reason Rhonda evaded, avoided, and even sabotaged budding romantic relationships. One day, maybe she’d tell her. In the meantime, she kept it to herself.
Feeling a tingle at the base of her spine, she glanced across the table again. And again, the
re was Cooper, that cocky smile on his face, his gaze lasered in on her, irritating the hell out of her.
She was going to have to do something about that man. She didn’t like the way he made her feel . . . off her stride, a little bit out of control. And too often unfocused—not something she could afford if she was going to pull her weight on the team. She still had a lot to prove before she won their complete confidence.
Cooper might want to play silly games, but she didn’t. Before they headed for work, she’d get him alone and call him on it. By the time she finished with the Golden Boy, he’d be looking for a new hobby—one that didn’t involve messing with her mind.
4
Setting up the nest had required mechanical precision, patience, time, and tolerance for extreme boredom. It had been well over an hour since the targets had started arriving. And still, she waited.
She peered through the Leopold 3x9 rifle scope and set it to minimum magnification. The scope made the targets appear to be only thirty feet away instead of three hundred yards, making long-distance kills almost as easy as close-ups. Jamie Cooper. Bobby Taggart. Mike Brown and his bitch of a wife. Their tightly knit group would soon be gone.
Calculating the wind speed with the help of a flag fluttering on a nearby building, she adjusted the scope. The Kestrel weather meter provided temperature and humidity, since both would affect the bullet’s flight. As would the range and the thickness of the restaurant’s plate-glass window. She consulted the range card again, then made another slight alteration so that the bullets would hit straight and true.
Satisfied that everything was properly set, she made a final check of the defenses she’d put in place. If any of Brown’s team attempted to enter this room, a little surprise awaited them. They thought they were cagey, alternating their meeting days and times and locations, but they weren’t cagey enough. Her contact had told her they’d be at this restaurant this morning.
Predictability, thy name is victim.
Adrenaline shot through her veins, and she quelled the rapid beat of her heart with long, steadying breaths. Then she settled deeper behind the scope and savored the moment.
After two years of planning, another few minutes were nothing. Now wasn’t the time to get jumpy and rush the shot. There could be no possibility that this job went wrong.
When they’d killed her mentor, they’d killed part of her, too. He would approve of her ensuring that those who mourned her targets would know exactly who’d pulled the trigger and why. They would know that this was about revenge.
• • •
“I still don’t know what you see in this chump.” Coop hugged Mike’s wife, not only because it would get Mike all riled up but also because he had a special affection for her.
Eva, an attorney for the CIA, had hunted Mike down in Peru and forced him to fight the false charges that had ended all of their military careers in disgrace ten years ago. If not for her, Coop, Taggart, and Mike wouldn’t have been reunited, exonerated, and working together today.
“Hey,” Mike groused good-naturedly, as predicted. “Get your hands off my girl. And for your information, I have some very special qualities. Right, chica?”
Coop laughed when the unflappable Eva blushed, making it clear that Mike might have recently worked on perfecting those “special” qualities with her.
“Who’s organizing next month’s breakfast?” Eva asked, dodging the question.
“I think that would be me,” Stephanie said. “I hope more members of Nate’s unit can make the next gathering. In the meantime, I assume you’ll be picking up Coop and Taggart’s tab again?” she asked Mike with a grin.
“Har-har.” Grumbling, Mike tossed his credit card onto the table with the bill, then scowled at the tattered jack of hearts he’d pulled out of his wallet with the credit card; a bullet hole pierced the playing card clean through the middle. “That used to be my lucky card,” he said, tucking it away again.
“Better luck next time, boss.” Taggart kissed his own one-eyed jack of spades, which had been sliced half through with a KA-Bar knife.
“Not a word out of you, Cooper.” Mike gave him the evil eye.
“Wasn’t going to say a thing,” Coop said. “Certainly wasn’t going to point out that your card has let you down the last nine out of ten times.”
“Nope. Because you’re not that kind of guy.” Mike grunted.
“I’d never gloat.” Coop grinned. “Sure did enjoy those pancakes, boss.”
He glanced down at his own card, a faded jack of hearts that was burned around the edges. Every time he looked at it, or saw Mike pull his out of a pocket, or watched Taggart flip his over and over between his fingers, he was transported back ten years to Afghanistan, where all the men in their unit had carried one-eyed jacks as a symbol of solidarity, of brotherhood.
Mike, Bobby, and Coop were the only ones left, and they carried their cards in honor of their fallen brothers.
And because none of the three of them could resist a gamble, they always drew cards to see who paid for breakfast.
“I hate to be the one to break up this friendly sparring,” Eva said as she shrugged into her coat, “but I’ve got a nine o’clock meeting I need to—”
A huge, booming crack cut off her words as the front window exploded, and flying shards of plate glass flew through the room like Hellfire missiles.
“Shooter! Contact front!” Coop yelled. He dived across the table and tackled Rhonda to the floor.
The rest of the team members scrambled for cover, reaching into concealed shoulder or waist holsters for their handguns.
“You okay?” he asked Rhonda.
She squirmed beneath him. “I’m fine. Get off of me!”
He rolled, scrambled up onto all fours, and, heart slamming, appraised the situation.
Stunned civilians, frozen in shock, sat with mouths agape. Then the restaurant erupted in terrified screams.
“Get down! Get the hell down!” Coop yelled. His 9mm in hand, he crab-crawled across the floor, sweeping glass aside with the heels of his hands. Mike was right beside him.
“Get down!” Mike dragged two screaming women to the floor. “Everyone hug the floor! Get as low as you can, and stay there!”
When people finally realized that they were the good guys, they scrambled to make themselves as small as possible. Behind Coop, tables slammed to the floor as the team flipped them over to use as shields. He crawled low over broken glass to get a fix on the shooter’s position.
The eerie silence was broken only by soft, terrified sobs and the sounds of 911 calls flying out from cell phones. A cutting wind scuttled in through the shattered window.
“Did it stop?” a woman’s voice sobbed.
“Just stay down,” Coop repeated loudly, so everyone knew to stay cautious. “Is anyone hit? Anyone hurt?”
Silence among the sharp breaths and muffled sobs.
“Check your neighbor. Make sure everyone’s okay!” Mike said from under the open window.
Taggart and Waldrop belly-crawled across the floor toward them, and the four of them made a quick check on the civilians.
Joe Green made a break to cover the back of the restaurant. Santos, hunched low, ran to support him.
Another shot rang out.
Santos spun in a circle and went down. “I’m okay,” he assured everyone quickly as he scooted behind a downed table. “Just nicked my arm. I’m okay.” To prove it, he scrambled toward the back door and got into position with Green, his gun trained outside.
“Mike,” Rhonda said tremulously.
Coop looked over his shoulder. Her face was white.
“Eva’s been hit.”
“Oh, Jesus, please,” Coop prayed under his breath as Mike tore across the room to get to his wife.
Another shot sang through the air right behind him, missing its mark
.
Coop left Taggart with the jumpy civilians and rushed after Mike.
Stephanie knelt beside Eva, who’d been lowered to the floor. She’d tucked her coat under Eva’s head, and Rhonda covered her with her jacket.
“We need to stop the bleeding.” Rhonda scrambled off in search of something to use.
Oh, God, Coop thought. Eva was so pale and still.
Mike carefully peeled back the jacket to see where his wife had been hit, and a horrible, gut-wrenching sound welled from deep in his chest. Coop made himself look and bit back a gasp. Eva’s pale, delicate hand lay low across her ribs. A steady trickle of blood spilled between her fingers. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, then drifted shut again.
Mike folded her into his arms. “Call 911!” he yelled, knowing full well that several calls had already gone out. “Call 911!” he roared again desperately as Stephanie placed another call requesting an ambulance.
“How bad?” Coop whispered, glancing up at Stephanie, but he already knew the answer.
Grim-faced, Stephanie shook her head.
Eva was bleeding out. No one had their gear with them. No medic’s kit, no QuikClot. No IVs. Nothing.
Rhonda crawled back to Eva’s side with a thick stack of linen napkins that Mike pressed against the wound and applied pressure on the bleed.
“Get her flat, Mike,” Steph said when he tried to hold Eva tighter in his arms. “She needs to be flat.”
She needs a doctor, Coop thought, sick with helplessness and fear. Eva was semiconscious and fading fast. Her skin was so pale. He reached for one of her hands. Cold and clammy. Then he checked her radial pulse. Weak and thready.
He knew just enough medicine to treat field wounds and understood that her body was trying to shunt blood to her central organs. Not good. Not good at all. It meant things were shutting down.
“We need to locate the shooter,” Taggart said, meeting Coop’s eyes from across the room.