by Ann Gimpel
Back off. She works for me.
I could fire her.
Yes, but then I’d have to marry her. He nearly laughed aloud. Would have if they weren’t under attack. He watched the lights mounted over the kitchen sink. They’d flash if the intruders breached the next beam. In all, there were three points that kicked off silent alarms. He mouthed a silent prayer of thanks that the storage batteries—deep cycle marine—had held enough juice to warn him.
Miranda moved to his side, silent as a wraith, her 9mm semiautomatic clutched in one hand. He glanced down and noted she’d traded her slippers for boots. Good girl. She raised a questioning eyebrow. He shook his head. “Watch the lights over the sink.”
“I thought they were over the stove.”
“There are three sets. For once in your life, do what I tell you without asking a bunch of questions. I’m surprised the Berets didn’t throw you out.”
She smirked. “Yeah, at the time it surprised me too. Should we kill the lights?”
“Nah. They know we’re here.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“Several.” The light bank over the sink flashed. “Damn it. Means at least some of them got through the first set of land mines.” He dove for the closet and set off the next group of explosives. Much closer, they rocked the house and lit up the windows.
“What? Hundred fifty yards?”
“You’re good.”
“It’s why I’m still alive. If the first round of mined explosives were that potent, it probably means there are a lot of ISL people out there. Do you think we should take to the woods? We’d have more maneuverability.”
Garen considered it. The crash of breaking glass made up his mind as he scooped the grenade off the floor and heaved it back through the window it had crashed through. Nanoseconds later, an explosion nearly deafened him. “We don’t have a choice,” he snapped. “Fade out one of the back windows. Stay behind the house.”
“Com devices?”
“Don’t have them. Miranda—”
She pulled her jacket hood over her bright hair and cinched it. “Boss?”
“Don’t get yourself killed.”
“I don’t intend to.”
He gathered a Kalashnikov from the front closet, slapped a high-capacity clip into it, and dropped two more into a pocket. For good measure, he detonated the last set of land mines. The blast rocked the house and pummeled his sensitive hearing. Maybe it would kill a couple more of the bastards. He wasn’t certain he’d need the assault rifle. His wolf form was better for some things, but it was best to be prepared for anything. He dialed in his lupine senses and listened intently. Nothing. Maybe the last blast had done it.
Garen slipped out the ground-level window Miranda had used and flattened himself against the rough-hewn logs of the cabin. The only thing he could smell was explosive residue. His ears still rang from the series of blasts. He grabbed a handful of dirt and smeared his face before pulling his own hood over his head.
The forest wasn’t far. Maybe twenty yards. Their best bet would be for him to lose himself amongst the trees and circle the house to gather intel about their attackers. Problem was, if the ISL thugs had any brains, they’d be doing the same thing. He made his way to thick tree cover even as he considered his options. A bullet zipped past him, and then another. Senses on high alert, he moved deeper into the woods. His nose twitched; he picked out several different human scents, counting as he went. Eight. Not so bad, but where was Miranda? Her scent should have stood out, but it simply wasn’t there.
Fear bit deep they’d killed her; he batted it aside. Even if she were dead, he’d still smell her. She was a skilled agent. There was some good reason he couldn’t scent her presence…
A branch crackled. He fired and heard a muted scream. Someone jumped him from behind. The force drove both of them to the ground. His gun was useless, squashed between his body and the damp loam of the forest floor. A gun barrel jammed against his skull. “Where is the woman?”
“What woman?” Garen tried to jackknife his body from under his assailant. It was like trying to move a ton of bricks.
“I am holding a gun to your head,” the thick Slovakian accented voice continued.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“The woman.” The gun prodded harder.
“What woman? There are so many in my life.”
“Very funny, wiseass.”
Boots crashed through the thick undergrowth. A spray of Eastern European language went back and forth. While the man who had him pinned wasn’t totally focused on him, Garen twisted hard. He gave it all he had and butted the man in the groin with the side of his head. His assailant grunted in surprise and pain. Before the second jerk got his wits together, Garen yanked his body free, levered the Kalashnikov out from beneath him, and pointed it. The beauty of assault rifles was you didn’t need to aim. He pulled the trigger and both men went down in a spray of blood and bullets.
He leaped to his feet and wiped gore out of his eyes. Voices reached him from the front of the house. It sounded as if reinforcements had arrived from somewhere. It made sense they would have been in contact with backup thugs. Garen bit down hard. Where the fuck was Miranda? He’d have sold his soul for com devices.
Rather than heading for a certain confrontation, he faded back into the trees. “Sssst,” he hissed. “Where are you?” He didn’t see where she came from, but Miranda materialized out of the darkness, smelling of blood. He hoped to Christ it wasn’t hers. “Are you hurt?”
“No. I was getting ready to kill that jackal who had you pinned. Had a little mess of my own to get out of first.”
“How many down?” The breath whooshed out of him. He sent up prayers to every deity imaginable she was still alive. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and draw her close, but he held himself back. Now wasn’t the time.
“Three. Caught ’em heading for the back door with a pile of grenades.”
He would have whistled but didn’t want to make any more noise than necessary. “I’m betting you know where the explosives are.”
“Follow me.” She faded into the trees and led him to a neat stack of ten grenades. She stuffed four in her pockets and hefted a fifth in the hand not carrying her gun.
“How you doing for ammo?” He picked up the rest of the grenades.
“All right—” The night came alive with light and the sound of breaking glass. She made a huffing sound. “Good thing I put on warm clothes. Looks as if the place will probably burn to the ground before they’re done.”
“Maybe not. Depends how intent they are on finding you. It takes time to set a good enough fire to burn a building that size to cinders.”
She shrugged. “Grenades do a fair job. What’s next? I think I heard reinforcements drive up.”
He snapped his sat phone from a pocket, keyed in a code, and terminated the connection. “The cavalry should arrive as soon as they can get a couple of choppers in the air.”
“I meant in the meantime.” Annoyance dripped from her tone. “That will take an hour.”
“Forty minutes.”
“Regardless.”
He inhaled raggedly. Time to take a chance. He spun her to face him, put his hands on her shoulders, and spoke right into her ear. “We could spend the time lobbing death back and forth—and maybe get hurt because the odds aren’t great. Or I can take a different form where it will be easier to protect you. I’m a wolf shifter—”
Shock ratcheted through him when she hugged him, drew back, and slid out of her clothes. Then he understood what she was doing. Damn if Lars hadn’t been right about her. He wondered what animal she’d be. In seconds a gorgeous black and gray timber wolf nudged him with her snout. “What are you waiting for?”
Good question. He grabbed her clothes and gun and trotted deeper into the forest. When the going became nearly impossible, at least in his human form, He dumped everything in a hollowed out tree and shucked his own garments, wrapping them a
round the rifle to keep the damp out.
Gunfire and the boom of grenades followed them right along with men yelling in the guttural Slovakian language he didn’t understand. Miranda loped back toward the thick of things. “What are you doing?” he called after her.
“Maybe I can pick off a few if they separate from the rest.”
Her mind voice reverberated with feral overtones. His wolf side grinned and would have howled, but he muffled it. How the hell had she hidden her dual nature from the U.S. Army? The woman must have incredible control. He flanked her. Now she’d brought it up, killing some of the bastards in an up close and personal way with his teeth sounded like great sport.
Miranda stalked one of the men, so silent on her thickly padded feet he never knew what hit him until she launched herself and buried her teeth in his neck. Garen didn’t think it accidental she’d picked the side with the man’s com device or that she obliterated the plastic tubing in her jaws right along with his carotid artery. Normally, he’d have wanted one of the devices to listen in on the enemy. Not much point since he didn’t understand their language.
He watched Miranda, paws splayed on either side of her victim. He’d never seen her work before—in any form. Other businesses like his frequently deployed agents in pairs or trios, but he’d always preferred to work alone, so he made his agents do the same. It built creativity and guts if operatives had to solve all their problems with brains and courage—plus whatever they’d either brought with them or managed to filch or fashion in the field. The Company had a much lower ratio of agents who signed on to agents who finished training than any other outfit, but Garen believed he had a significantly higher quality of employee as a result.
Miranda sashayed to his side. Garen couldn’t help himself. He licked blood off her snout. She licked him back and leaned into him, rubbing the side of her head against him. His wolf’s cock swelled within its furred sheath. If it weren’t so dangerous, he wanted nothing more than to claim her and sink inside her hot, wet folds. The bulb at the base of his cock would seal them together for long minutes—maybe as much as half an hour. During that time they’d be helpless. Reluctantly, he pulled away.
“Let’s see if we can find another.” She tilted her head to one side and eyed him. “You look awfully familiar.”
“I should,” he growled. “I’m your boss.” Garen blew air through his nostrils. Damn it. He’d hoped for anonymity. Should have known better. She’s too good an agent not to be on top of something as simple as this.
“Not what I meant.”
“Look sharp. I think we can pick off a couple more. I’ll take the guy on the right.” Garen trailed his prey and leaped at the last minute. Blood—hot, salty, and smelling of copper—slid down his throat, and he lost himself in the joy of the kill.
He had to reclaim his human form before Miranda, with the instincts of a bloodhound, uncovered his secret. Of course he’d look familiar. He’d presided over the lycan group at every shifter gathering for the past several years. Fortunately, his pelt was about the same color as most of the other lycans, and she’d never gotten close enough to scent him. Thank God she wasn’t one of the many he’d mated with. Beyond the first flush of his excitement at discovering she was a shifter just like him, the reality of what it meant came crashing down. Why couldn’t she have been some other species? It would have made his life ever so much easier.
He kept his identities scrupulously separate. No one knew the head of The Company was also the lycan leader, and he meant to keep it that way. Garen left his kill long before he wanted to and made his way to where he’d left their clothes. Reinforcements would arrive soon; they’d be fine as humans again. He wasn’t worried about her divulging his lycan side. After all, he had the goods on her too, but he couldn’t let their relationship go any further. She’d want to shift and run with him, and he couldn’t let that happen. If she saw him in wolf form under any kind of light, she’d know him for who he was.
He was dressed by the time she made her way to his side. “I wondered what happened to you.”
He used his mind voice since she was still in her lycan form. “The troops will be here soon. I’ll turn around and give you some privacy.”
*
What if I don’t want privacy? She’d been feeling pretty high. Adrenaline and killing bad guys always gave her a rush. Garen wolf-kissing her nose had been mighty incredible too. She’d hoped for more lupine foreplay, but here he was human again. And offering to turn around to boot. She would have liked it better if he’d ogled her while she got her clothes back on. The distant thump-thump of rotors told her Garen’s estimate had been spot on. She shifted and dressed. “It’s safe to turn around now.” She tried to keep the acid—and the hurt—out of her voice, but failed.
Spotlights from the choppers brightened the moonless night. She saw his face clearly. It was a study in ambivalence. “We’ll talk, but not now. Check your gun. Make certain—”
“I know all that, Daddy.” What am I doing? I work for him, and I just sounded insubordinate as hell. “Ah crap. Sorry. Don’t mind me. Not enough sleep. Thanks for looking out for me.”
Weapon fire sounded loud as the choppers strafed men on the ground. Garen pulled his sat phone out and spoke into it, voice low and urgent. She supposed he was relaying their position. It’d be a bitch to be killed by friendly fire.
Miranda wasn’t sure what tipped her off. Maybe her lupine senses were still close to the surface. She spun so her back was to Garen and fired. He shoved her out of the way and sprayed the forest with rounds from his Kalashnikov. A heaving grunt told her someone’s bullet—likely Garen’s—had found its target.
Something wasn’t right. How had one of the enemy tracked them to their remote corner of the woods? She glanced at Garen. “You just killed a shifter.”
“I already figured that out. Want to go see what he was?”
She sent her enhanced senses ahead. Whoever was there had been alone. Though not quite dead yet, it was inevitable given the stench of a gut shot. Miranda shook herself back to here and now. However disappointed she felt about Garen’s sudden change of heart toward her, her unhappiness had no place in the field. Agents who indulged in emotions got killed.
She worked her way forward cautiously. Animals in their death throes could do a lot of damage. A bear lay on its side, flanks heaving. Blood bubbled out its mouth. “I know you can hear me. Finish what you began.” The bear’s mind voice was low and rumbly, with the same Eastern European accent.
“All right. Mercy in exchange for information.” She wondered how he could possibly know she was a shifter but left it alone for now. If there was time, she’d ask.
The bear’s small eyes narrowed. “Maybe. It depends what you want to know.”
“Where is the main ISL shop here in the U.S?”
“San Diego.”
“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”
More blood burbled past his lips, staining his dark brown coat. “What more do I have to lose?”
“How did you know I was—er, that I’d be able to hear your mind voice?”
He grunted in pain and shifted his bulk a little. “We are trained to recognize one another from an early age. I do not believe they do the same in the United States. It is a bit like languages—much easier to learn if you start young. Please.” His breath came in little panting gasps. “I have done as you requested.”
She raised her pistol and hoped it would do the job. The 9mm was a little light for a bear. Garen moved beside her. “I’ll take care of it.” He settled the rifle butt on his shoulder and fired. When the report from the weapon had settled, he said, “Smart, Miss Miller. Come on. The choppers are ready to load us.”
“Can I go back inside and get my bag?”
“Sure. Assuming my laptop’s still in one piece, I need to collect it and my briefcase.” His mouth split into a grin she could only half see because of the darkness. “You’ve been so much trouble, it’s tempting to leave
you behind, but don’t worry, we won’t.”
“Gee, thanks.” She recognized clandestine ops humor when she heard it. Something nagged in the back of her mind, deeper than simple, unrequited yearning for Garen. He’d appeared familiar to her in his animal form, but timber wolves looked a lot alike, and it had been very dark.
Sharp night vision was more the purview of cats than wolves. More importantly, his scent wasn’t in her memory, which likely meant she was wrong and their paths had never crossed. Maybe he was just a shape-shifting wolf and not lycan at all. There were a few salient differences, all of which related to magic. If that were so, hers was stronger.
The more she thought about it, the more probable it seemed he wasn’t lycan. For all the years she’d dutifully attended gatherings—particularly since Lucifer took over—she’d probably have run into him.
Chapter 8
Two weeks later
Garen ran along the asphalt track that skirted Puget Sound from Seattle’s waterfront north. Sweat dripped from his forehead, and he mopped it with an equally damp arm. After the disaster outside Index, he’d put Miranda in one of the employee apartments at company headquarters. It was the only reasonable choice, but knowing she was bathing and dressing and sleeping only a few feet from where he worked had been agony. In truth, he’d gotten precious little actual work done.
About an hour ago he’d stepped into The Company’s downstairs gym to find her clad in a leotard that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. She was running through martial arts movements, so intent on her training regimen she hadn’t known he stood just inside the glass door. Watching the fluid lines of her body as she pivoted, chopped, and leaped gave him a raging hard-on. Coming didn’t make a dent in the lust setting fire to his nerves. He’d jacked off enough in the last two weeks to make himself sore. What he wanted—no, what he craved—was more of Miranda.