And killed the wrong person.
Now her life as she knew it would had ended. Even if she managed to stay alive—and Mason was damned determined that would happen—she would never be able to go back to her old life. Jess Baylor essentially died when she shot Daniel Forrester.
Mason felt bad for her. And his compassion mixed with bewilderment. In less than forty-eight hours, she had been attacked, forced to kill a man, taken into custody, was being held by people she had never met before, and was still able to function as a normal human being. Too many people Mason had met would’ve been curled in the corner, rocking themselves, and sucking a thumb.
But nothing had shocked him more than when he touched her. Literally. A bolt of electricity hit him square in the chest, and sent fire through his veins. He worried that others may have felt the shift in the air, because he certainly had a hard time breathing after that, but no one seemed to notice.
Had Jess felt it too?
She seemed to be a little more relaxed after that, but it was hard to tell. She may just be settling into the fact that she was going to be his roommate for a while longer. The day before, that had pissed Mason off.
What a difference a day makes. He was actually happy—relieved, even—she was going to be around for a little longer.
He found Jess in the kitchen rummaging through the cabinets. “Whatcha looking for?” Mason asked.
“Anything I can use to make dinner,” she said, opened, then almost immediately closed the refrigerator door, and spun toward him. “You have nothing here.”
“I know.”
“Do you eat?”
He quirked an eyebrow. “You don’t get to be my size without eating a whole lotta calories per day.”
“Touche,” she said and chuckled. “What do you eat?”
“Whatever I grab while I’m out.” He shrugged when she scrunched up her nose. “I don’t cook.”
“Well, you’re in luck because I do.” She grabbed a pen and notepad from the built-in desk in the kitchen, and started writing on it. When she was done, she glanced up at him. “I’m assuming you won’t let me go to the grocery store?”
“Nope, too public. Too many cameras. We need to keep you under-wraps until we know more about what’s going on.”
“Thought so. Okay, well, here is a list of things I need.”
Mason looked at it, nervous he was going to have to purchase feminine hygiene products. “This is all food.”
“Yes, I know. I’m going to cook dinner.”
“You don’t have to do that. I can order pizza. Or Chinese. Whatever you like.”
“I like to cook. It helps calm me down and unclutters my brain.”
A woman who loved to cook…I may be in love.
“Far be it for me to stand in the way of your mental health.” He grabbed his keys and wallet, and headed towards the door. “Do not open this for anyone. Period.”
“Not even you?” She asked and snorted. Her cheeks pinked, and the little ball of fire in Mason’s chest flared. Damn, she’s adorable when she’s embarrassed.
“I have keys,” he said, jingling them. When he got to the door, he turned around. “Almost forgot. If you have any issues, there’s a gun in the drawer.” He pointed to the table next to the couch. “Do you know how to use a gun?”
She paled, and he wished he could take back that joke.
Too soon, dumbass.
He opened the door and stepped outside. “I’ll be back soon.”
* * *
Mason leaned back in his chair and let out a satisfied groan. Jess had made beef stroganoff with roasted brussel sprouts. Normally, Mason would’ve turned up his nose at the little alien heads, but the way Jess made them—he was pretty sure they had moved to the top of his favorite vegetable list.
She chuckled as she set a plate of chocolate frosted brownies chock full of walnuts and chocolate chunks on the table. Mason took a bite of one and nearly had an orgasm. If he’d had a ring, he would’ve proposed to her on the spot.
“I’m ruined,” he said, picking up a second brownie. “You have ruined me for anyone else’s cooking.”
“Well, it’s the least I can do, since you’re putting me up…or putting up with me.” One corner of her mouth tipped up and her eyes shimmered.
Damn…she needs to stop looking as delectable as this brownie. A vision of her covered in frosting while Mason’s tongue licked every bit of it off gave him a hard-on.
Holy hell, I’m in trouble.
Popping the last morsel of brownie in his mouth, he stood picked up his plate, and grabbed Jess’s plate from her hands. “You cooked, I’ll do the dishes.”
“Okay, if you’re sure,” she said. “I’ll just see what’s on TV.”
He was actually amazed at how clean the kitchen was. Apparently, Jess cleaned up after herself as she went. The dishwasher was partially loaded, and Mason only had to add their dishes, and a couple of serving bowls. There hadn’t been any leftovers, so that eliminated having to put anything else away.
Turning the dishwasher on, he grabbed another brownie. “Hey, you want another brownie before I polish them off?”
Silence.
Maybe she hadn’t heard him over the sound of the dishwasher. He walked into the living room. “Yo, Jess, you want another—”
She sat on the couch, hand over her mouth, eyes as big as saucers, staring at the TV. He glanced at the screen. An exterior shot of an old Victorian house in a suburb of Providence. A good portion of the houses in that area were converted into apartments.
The camera went to a young male reporter with perfectly shellacked hair. “Earlier today, police were called to this apartment building in Fox Hill after reports of a gunshot being fired. A search of the property uncovered the body of a woman. According to police, Caribbean Meda, a local physical therapist, was shot in the chest. The medical examiner pronounced her dead at the scene. Interestingly, Ms. Meda was an acquaintance of Jess Baylor, who was involved in a shooting two nights ago outside a bar in downtown Providence. Ms. Baylor was released from police custody and cannot be located. Suffice it to say, the police are anxious to talk to her regarding this shooting, which is eerily similar to the death of Daniel Forrester.”
Fuck!
Tears streamed down Jess’s face, but she hadn’t moved since Mason entered the room. He slid next to her on the couch, and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She was pale, and Mason was concerned she’d stopped breathing.
Jesus, they had assured her a few hours ago that her friends were okay. Now, one of them was dead. And it looked as if the police were content to blame it on Jess.
“Jess, I’m sorry.”
She stood, surprising the shit out of Mason. Unsteadily, she walked across the room, down the hall, and into the bathroom. He heard the door close with a soft click.
What now?
Mason had never been good at providing comfort and support. But his heart shredded at the thought of Jess in pain, and he wanted desperately to make everything okay.
He fished his cell phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial for Lance.
“Did you see the news?” Mason asked when Lance answered.
“Yeah, Riley and I were just watching it.”
“Why the fuck didn’t the police give us a heads up? They know Jess is with us.”
“The boss is trying to find that out as we speak.”
Good…Holt would grab them by the balls and twist until they begged for release.
“How’s Jess?” Lance asked.
“Not good. In fact, she hasn’t said a word. Just went into the bathroom. I need to go check on her.” Mason glanced down the hall at the bathroom door. “Hey, she’s going to ask me about her other friend. What am I supposed to tell her?”
“Let her know we have people on the way to Laura’s place to make sure she’s okay.”
“All right,” Mason said. “Keep me posted.”
Chapter 7
Riley stared at the whiteboa
rd in the planning room. It was filled with names, dotted lines between them, and ton of questions. Too many questions. Not enough concrete information.
The Russian Revolutionary Army was an ideologically motivated terrorist organization that believed western democratic political systems, basically anyone outside of Russia and China, should be replaced with a socialist communist state. The best way for them to achieve that end was through armed revolution. The State Department had recently added the RRA to its list of foreign terrorist organizations, along with allied European countries.
Which dictated the creation of a highly covert, dark special operations unit that was able to focus solely on taking down emerging terrorist threats. If they could remove these organizations before they became major players on the world theater—like Al Qaeda and ISIS—they could avoid the horrors of 9/11. The 13 was established to address these organizations, and given wider latitude to deal with terrorist than other special operations units.
The problem was, at this early stage of discovery, there was not much they knew about the RRA. While Riley had been an analyst in Jordan, she and Lance had uncovered two possible members of the terrorist organization. One man had worked for Riley. It still bothered her that he operated as a mole right under her nose.
It bothered her even more that his actions had resulted in the death of a Navy SEAL during one of her ops. Not a day went by that Riley didn’t think of Ripper and miss his quirky smile and sarcasm.
She had never killed a man—but she never regretted killing Andrew Kelly. Rubbing the raised scar tissue at her side from a recently healed gunshot wound, she remembered lifting the gun. All her training had been to aim center mass. But that went out the window when she had a clear shot to the head. The bullet hit the bastard right between the eyes. She never allowed herself to consider whether or not she would have shot him even if he hadn’t been trying to kill her. It didn’t matter.
What did matter was, with Kelly dead, it made it more difficult to ascertain if he was actually a member of the RRA, and if so, who else was inside the organization. Luckily, during the same raid on the Embassy, Lance had captured another RRA operative, Alrick Orlov, who sat in a cell down in Guantanamo Bay. So far, Orlov had been less than forthcoming with information. However, with the new administration in place, GiTMO had returned to a harsher environment. Riley had been told that Orlov was beginning to crack.
She stared at the information her team had obtained regarding Daniel Forrester. It wasn’t much. The only reason they had an inkling that he was potentially a member of the RRA was the cage-rattling of a man named Yurik Stepanov. That was a name she was more familiar with.
Stepanov was the nephew of a high value RRA member, Komandir Grigory Petrov. Ben Wells, another member of The 13, had killed Petrov in Colombia. Stepanov was the man dropping threats against Jess Baylor to avenge the death of his son.
Daniel Forrester.
Lance walked into the room, and dropped into the chair next to her, and her heart rate sped up. The man was gorgeous—and all hers. Not that anyone other than Colonel Holt knew about the relationship. No doubt people would find out eventually, but no need to jinx the burgeoning relationship but letting everyone in on the secret.
“Solve the puzzle yet?” he asked, gesturing toward the whiteboard.
She snorted. “It’s like trying to force pieces together that just don’t fit. Plus, I don’t even have half the pieces I need to make a complete picture.”
“So, what do we know about Daniel Forrester?”
Born in Cleveland, Ohio, to Rudy and Beverly Forrester. Father was a dentist. Mother was a stay-at-home mom. Both deceased.”
“Kind of young. How did they die?”
“Car accident. Four years ago. Ruled an accident, but given what we are learning about Daniel, it’s a little suspect.”
“Think they were killed?” Lance asked.
“I think it’s a possibility.” Riley leaned back in her chair. “I also think it’s possible Daniel Forrester was adopted.”
Lance raised an eyebrow.
She knew where his thought train was headed. The same place as hers. Andrew Kelly had been born in Russia and adopted by very wealthy parents through a private adoption. Andrew’s parents were able to have his birth certificate altered to appear he was the natural born son of Edward and Martha Kelly. Born in the U.S.A.
“We need to find out if Daniel Forrester’s parents adopted him from Russia.”
Tony Abbott, a CIA analyst Riley had brought with her from her former team, popped his head around the corner. “Riley, I got something.”
Riley and Lance swiveled to face Abbott. “What’s up?” she asked.
“We obtained some information and did a little digging to verify authenticity. It appears Laura Townsend is missing. No one has seen her since after she left the police station last night.”
Shit…the other woman at the bar with Jess. One of her friends.
“Could she have decided to get out of town to escape the media?” Riley asked.
“We’re looking into that. We intercepted some chatter that suggests she may have been abducted.”
“Anyone taking responsibility?” Lance asked.
A grim line crossed his face. “RRA.”
Riley groaned. “Well, fuck…”
Lance exhaled and rubbed the growth on his chin. “That’s not good news.”
Riley looked at Lance. “I think it’s time to make a trip to GiTMO.”
“Agreed,” Lance said and stood. “I’ll call Mason.”
Chapter 8
Mason parked in front of the small beach house Lance rented in Middletown, and walked up the front walk. He was early, but thought it was best to get a head start on their hour-long drive to Hanscom Air Force Base just outside of Boston. They were scheduled to depart at nine-thirty for their three-and-a-half-hour flight to GiTMO. Knowing Lance, he’d been ready for an hour, and was waiting on Mason.
He had left Jess curled up on the couch, sleeping. He’d have to find out what that was all about when he got back. Maybe there was something wrong with the bed in her room. Mason had never slept on it, so he had no idea if it was uncomfortable or not. He hated that she found the couch more comfortable than the bed. If that was the problem, he would let her sleep in his bed and take the guest room. He was used to sleeping on hard ground. Any bed was comfortable to him.
Of course, the idea of sleeping with Jess was intriguing…but out of the question. She was off-limits. Didn’t make Mason want her any less, though.
When Lance had called the night before to tell him about Laura Townsend being missing, Mason had decided not to tell Jess about it. Might be a really bad call on his part, especially if the media caught wind of the story. But he didn’t want Jess to be alone—grieving one friend and worrying the other might also be dead—while he Lance got answers from Orlov. The only way to potentially find Laura Townsend before she was killed and end this entire escapade was to question Orlov.
He knocked on Lance’s door.
“Hey, you’re early,” Lance greeted him.
“Yeah, I want to beat the morning traffic in Boston as much as possible. You going to let me in?”
Lance glanced over his shoulder, and reluctantly stepped out of the way.
“Jesus, dude,” Mason said as he pushed past Lance, “I don’t give a shit if you’ve got a girl in here. Get her ass up and out the door so we can get moving.”
Lance huffed. “It’s not that—”
“Lance, did you get the dry cleaning yesterday? I need my—” Riley walked out of the bedroom wrapped in a towel and came to an abrupt halt. “Oh—hey, Mason.” She glanced at her watch, Lance, then back at Mason. “You’re early.”
“And you’re half naked. In Lance’s house. At six-thirty in the morning. Is there something going on between you two?” Mason knew he was toying with them, and probably being a bit of a dick, but this was too good to pass up.
Riley narrowed her eyes. “Oth
er than Holt, no one else knows, Tink.”
“And we’d like to keep it that way,” Lance added.
Mason nodded. “Okay, okay—I get it. But, now that I know your secret…I own you. Both of you.”
“Lovely,” Riley muttered.
Lance let out a long, exasperated sigh, grabbed his backpack, and gave Riley a quick kiss. “Bye. I’ll see you tonight.”
Mason stepped next to her, and put out duck lips. “Bye, Riley.”
“Tink, get the fuck away from me or you’ll be going to GiTMO without your balls.”
Mason frowned and looked at Lance. “She’s mean in the morning. Did you not properly sex her up? Because, if you need some pointers—”
Lance shoved Mason toward the door. “Shut the fuck up.”
* * *
Lance watched as the guards brought Alrick Orlov into the interrogation room. The last time Lance had seen the Russian was in Jordan where he, and other members of the RRA, had led an attack on the US Embassy in Amman. Lance had chased the man through an underground parking garage and managed to activate a barrier before Orlov could escape. Orlov had been in US custody ever since.
“Mr. Orlov, do you remember me?” Lance asked when the man sat down across the table from him. Mason stood behind him, stance wide, massive arms across his chest to showcase his enormous guns.
“Of course,” Orlov replied, his Russian accent heavy. “How could I forget?” He placed his forearms on the table and leaned closer. “Tell me, how is Agent Bray? I heard she suffered a near fatal gunshot wound.”
A vision of Riley, sprawled on the floor, eyes closed, blood pooling beside her from a in her side nearly stole all the air from Lance’s lungs. He felt every emotion again—as he did every time he had this memory—the fear of losing her. The pain of never being able to hold her again. It was still so raw, and wrung his heart out.
But he’d be damned if he let Orlov see any of that. Riley had survived because she was the strongest person Lance had ever met. It was so easy to love her. And, for some reason, he was the lucky bastard she loved in return.
“Alive and well,” Lance said. “The same can’t be said for your associate, Andrew Kelly. He took a bullet between the eyes, courtesy of Agent Bray. I assume you were made aware of that?”
Special Forces: Operation Alpha: Mason (Kindle Worlds Novella) (The 13) Page 4