Gut Instinct

by Brad Taylor

  Also by Brad Taylor

  One Rough Man

  All Necessary Force

  Enemy of Mine

  The Widow’s Strike

  Other Taskforce Stories

  The Callsign

  Gut Instinct

  A Taskforce Story, Featuring an Exclusive Excerpt from The Widow’s Strike

  Brad Taylor

  Dutton

  DUTTON

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA / Canada / UK / Ireland / Australia / New Zealand / India / South Africa / China

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

  Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © 2013 by Brad Taylor

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  E-book ISBN 978-1-101-60564-6

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers, Internet addresses, and other contact information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Contents

  Also by Brad Taylor

  Title Page

  Letter to Reader

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Excerpt from THE WIDOW’S STRIKE

  About the Author

  Dear Reader,

  Like the other Taskforce short stories, Gut Instinct gives readers new insight into different parts of the series. In this case, Gut Instinct begins where All Necessary Force ends. I received a multitude of correspondence from readers who wanted to know what had happened to Chase, Jennifer’s ex-husband. So I had a little fun writing that scene here. As for the story, I thought it would be interesting to put Jennifer in the hot seat for a change. Recovering from wounds received in All Necessary Force and not able to protect her as he had in the past, Pike is forced to take a backseat while she conducts the mission. Unfortunately, the Taskforce team Jennifer’s helping doesn’t want to listen to what she’s found, compelling Pike and her to go it alone. Read on and see if you think she passes the test.

  Best regards,

  Brad Taylor

  Chapter 1

  June 2011

  Charleston, South Carolina

  Jennifer went through the office with a dust mop one more time. Pike would be home any minute, and she wanted the place to look perfect. He had called earlier in the morning, from inside the airplane of his connecting flight in Atlanta, letting her know he’d managed to snag a standby seat.

  She was starting to believe that the government was going to use him as a sacrificial lamb and had felt relief hearing his voice. Initially sure that the men in the upper echelons would do what was right, she’d grown worried that they would protect their own careers at the expense of his, regardless of the selfless acts he had accomplished saving those same bureaucrats—while getting pieces of his life chipped away in the process. He said he was walking okay, but the last time she’d seen him, he’d been in bed with broken bones and bullet holes.

  She still hadn’t made a decision about what she was going to do concerning their fledgling company, an archeological firm designed to shield covert counterterrorist operations. Pike had talked her into becoming a partner because of her degree in anthropology—and other unique skills. At first she’d thought it would be exciting, but after seeing the toll it took, both on herself and on Pike, she was no longer sure. She’d thought of little else since her last conversation with Pike and had realized that it was really up to him. She knew in her heart that she couldn’t stay if he didn’t find a way to control the blackness inside him. She’d end up hating him, and she would rather leave first to prevent that from happening.

  She went into their office bathroom, checking one more time to see if something nasty had magically appeared in the toilet in the last ten minutes. She heard the front door open and someone shout, “Hello?”

  Her face split into a smile, and she ran out, shouting, “Pike!”

  Standing in the doorway was her ex-husband, Chase. All six feet four inches, oozing false charm.

  “Hello, baby. How’s it going? I told you I’d be coming by.”

  She felt the terror seize her and circled the desk, putting it between them. She sat down so he wouldn’t notice her trembling.

  “What do you want? I told you not to come here.”

  “I just want a little help. Is that too much to ask?”

  He clapped his hands, causing her to jump. He smiled at her reaction, making her feel weak and cowardly. You’re not the same girl. You are not the same girl.

  He kept his hands clasped, pretending to survey the office.

  “You’re doing pretty well for yourself, I see. I heard about that temple you found. Full of gold is what I heard. All I want is a little gift. Call it payback for all the money I spent on you.”

  The door opened behind him and Pike entered the office, awkwardly walking with a cane, one arm in a sling. Jennifer saw his smile melt into confusion. Jesus, this just got bad.

  “And you must be the partner,” Chase said. “Really good to meet you.”

  Pike shook his hand, saying, “And you are?”

  Jennifer said, “Pike, this is Chase, my ex-husband.”

  She saw Pike’s face harden and knew that Chase was now in serious danger. Jennifer had told Pike everything her ex-husband had done, a sort of therapy to excise the fear she still held because of the beatings she had taken at his hand. It had been a mistake. Pike had become enraged, wanting to fly to Texas and confront her ex. She had stopped him, but she feared what he would do now. He might kill Chase. Literally.

  Pike said, “Why don’t you just get the fuck out of here, while you can still walk.”

  Jennifer shouted, “Pike! This isn’t your business. Go. Please.”

  Chase said, “Yeah, you ought to listen to her. I’m just here for what’s rightfully mine. You say anything else to me, and you’ll have both arms in a sling.”

  Like a child poking an alligator lying in the sun, Chase had no idea of the danger he was in. Jennifer had seen the darkness in Pike’s soul. Seen it spill out like pus from a boil, his ability to control it completely gone. She knew Pike could kill him easily, even with only one good arm.

  She saw Pike begin to close the distance and shouted again, “Pike! Stop! Now!”

  He did, although she could tell it was taking all of his self-control.

  “Please leave,” she said. “I can handle this.”

  Pike’s glare remained fixed on Chase. “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  With what looked like superhuman effort, he slowly turned toward the door. She could sense the pain he felt at the act. But he’s doing it. She felt a sliver of relief, then realized what had just happened. He was leaving because she’d asked. No other reason. He wanted to beat Chase within an inch of his life, probably wanted to punish him more than anything else on earth, and he was leaving.

  I’m his stopgap.

  For reasons she couldn’t explain,
the fear left her.

  Pike had his hand on the knob, when Chase said, “That’s a smart decision. This isn’t your business anyway.”

  Jennifer said, “Pike?”

  “Yes?”

  She tried to remain serious but couldn’t prevent a smile from leaking out. “I’ve changed my mind. I think I could use a little help here. To keep the fight fair.”

  The pain on Pike’s face drained away, replaced by a smile that matched her own. Instead of turning the knob, he locked it.

  “As you wish.”

  Chase’s face scrunched in confusion, going from Pike to Jennifer. She circled around the desk, no longer trembling. She brought forth the memories she had tried hard to bury. The nights curled on the floor, begging him to stop. The shame of getting pummeled and being able to do nothing about it. Most of all, the loss of a daughter she never knew. She wanted to bring a little of that to the man in front of her, and she knew she now had the skills to do so.

  Pike said, “Remember, hands high. Protect your head.”

  Chase said, “What the fuck? A crippled man and a woman? You think that sort of two-on-one is a winner?”

  Pike said, “No. It’ll be one-on-one. I’m just here to make sure you don’t use a weapon when you realize you’re going to lose.”

  Jennifer saw Chase’s eyes flicker, for the first time seeing his confidence wane. The sight brought her strength. He said, “I’m not going to fight a woman. This is stupid. No matter how it turns out, I’ll go to jail.”

  Pike said, “From what I’ve heard, you’ve never had trouble hitting women. Fighting’s a little different, huh? I’ll tell you what: You make it past two minutes and I’ll open the door. You get away from her before she puts you in the hospital, and you can run away.”

  Chase’s mouth opened and closed, nothing coming out.

  Pike continued, “But you ever come back, I’ll kill you.”

  Pike’s face was a stone mask, but she could tell Chase saw the truth in the statement. She moved past him to the door, deciding to give him one more chance, “Chase, get out of here. This doesn’t have to end badly for you. Just go and don’t come back.”

  He snatched her left arm in an iron grip she knew all too well. “I’ll go after I get my fucking money.”

  Bad choice.

  She rotated her left arm in a tight circle, breaking his hold, and used her right to pop him with a jab, snapping his head back. She danced out of range, saying nothing.

  He put his hands to his face, wiping his nose, his eyes scrunched shut. When he opened them again, Jennifer saw the temper. A look that used to generate fear now made her realize how pathetic he was. He walked toward her with his fists balled up at his sides, too proud to raise them and admit he needed to defend himself. Mistake.

  She feinted another jab and he clumsily flung up his arms to ward it off. She leaned in low and hammered him with an uppercut into his floating rib When he reacted, she thumped his face with two fast strikes, then jumped back out of his reach. She found herself torn between wanting to keep hitting and wanting to drag it out. The thought surprised her.

  Chase straightened up and screamed, charging at her, his arms windmilling in the air. She easily ducked under and booted him in the ass, driving him into the wall. He slowly rolled over, and she said, “Remember the miscarriage? The one you caused? She would have been about six now. About to start school. I often think about her when I’m alone. Then I fantasize about today.”

  He slowly stood up, his face dripping rage, showing no intention of stopping his attack.

  She felt a tremble return to her arms, but not from fear. From anticipation of what she was about to do. From joy. Chase sneered and charged again, this time in control. Jennifer popped him twice and he wrapped her up, trapping her arms. He flung her bodily into the desk, hammering her head. He then rocked the other way, slamming her into the wall. She felt her head swim, fearing she was about to lose, the potential outcome causing shame to surface. He began to fling her back onto the desk, and she frantically stabbed her hands between her legs, searching for something vulnerable. And finding it.

  She ground her hands and pulled, hearing him shriek. He threw her across the room, cursing and cupping his genitals. He screamed again, and she saw him charge. She tucked, and Pike tripped him with his cane, sending him sprawling short of her.

  On her knees, she shouted, “No!”

  She stood and wiped a ribbon of blood from her nose, her eyes on Chase. “No help. He’s mine, win or lose.”

  Pike backed off and nodded but remained ready. She knew he wouldn’t listen if it came down to it. She said, “Get up, you shit.”

  Chase looked at the door, breathing hard, a thin stream of sweat rolling down his cheek. Pike pointed at his watch. Chase said, “Fuck you.” He turned to her, clenched his fists, and charged again, repeating his earlier move, intent on knocking her out—or worse. This time she was ready and ducked under him, letting him pass. She circled an arm around his waist and threw her hip out, using his own momentum against him, flinging him up and over her body and slamming him into the hardwood floor.

  She fell on top of him and crooked his arm, dragging his hand up as if she was painting the floor with it and torquing his shoulder. He let out a high-pitched wail and she said, “You ready to run yet? You want the door?”

  He said something unintelligible, spittle flying out of his mouth, and she cranked up no more than a half inch, causing him to slap his other arm against the floor, then to beg. “Yes, yes, yes . . .”

  She paused for a moment, torn. Wanting to permanently harm him but not having the heart to do so when he was helpless. She exhaled and let go. He made a show of slowly getting up, then swung a hard right cross and hammered her in the mouth. She rolled right and he was on her, sitting on her waist with his full weight. He grabbed her hair with both hands and began banging her head against the floor. She snaked her arms out, hitting the crooks of his elbows and trapping his forearms against her chest. She bucked hard, throwing him forward off balance and forcing him to let go in an attempt to break his fall. She kept the pressure on his arms, trapping them, and then rolled, hammering his head into the floor and ending up on top again. Before he could recover, she had him back in the same shoulder lock.

  She paused, savoring the triumph. She saw fear in his eyes and said, “You should have taken the out.”

  She cranked his arm up, against the way it was designed to bend, feeling something tear, then pop, causing him to scream and buck on the ground. She leaned into his ear and whispered, “That’s for our daughter. In case you ever think about swinging this fist at a woman again.”

  She rolled off him and stood, waiting. He cradled his destroyed arm, then limped to the door. Pike said, “Looks like you missed that two-minute mark.”

  Chase said nothing, exiting the door and beginning to trot, then run. Pike followed him with his eyes across the lot until he got into his car, then turned to Jennifer.

  “You okay?”

  She sat down in a chair, moved her chin back and forth, and said, “Yeah, I’m fine. Physically.”

  “And mentally?”

  She shook her head. “That felt way too good. I don’t like it. I think I saw a little of you inside me.”

  Pike smiled and rubbed her shoulder with his one good arm. “Nothing wrong with that. I thought for a minute I was going to have to step in when he was drumming you into the desk. How’d you break free?”

  She smiled ruefully. “He always used to brag about ‘going commando.’ I guess he found out what that means.”

  Chapter 2

  Six weeks later

  I dropped from the chin-up bar after ten reps, limiting each set so as not to push my injury. My shoulder and clavicle had healed up nicely, and I’d finally been given the go-ahead to start working out on my own. Which made me happy because I was sick of going to physical therapy, where I rolled a medicine ball up and down a wall or played with large rubber bands. The only thing
I regretted was the move back to my boat. I told myself that Jennifer’s apartment was much more comfortable, but I knew it was more than that. Not that I would admit it to her or to myself.

  I had taken her to dinner after her little altercation with Chase, and we’d had a pretty good night. It was the first occasion in a long while where we both weren’t worried about trying to kill someone or getting our own asses killed. She’d joked about the people in the restaurant living their lives blindly and having no idea of what she had been doing just five days before. For the first time Jennifer was experiencing what I’d felt coming home from training or deployment almost my entire military career. It was a weird connection, something I’d had only with male teammates, but there nonetheless.

  After dinner, and after a few drinks, she’d demanded that I move in with her because of my injuries. I fought back, but she did have a point. It would be damn hard to get up and down the small galley of my boat with my arm in a sling and using a cane. Not to mention working the bathroom. After she’d made it plain that there were two bedrooms and both would be used, I’d relented, fairly sure it wasn’t the rum talking. I’d eventually moved in, but after a week, I was also fairly sure she’d regretted ever offering. Suffice to say we didn’t see eye to eye on the definition of “messy.”

  Now I could definitely be defined as “back on my feet,” the worst injury being the bullet wound in my thigh. It was still stiff, but I no longer needed a cane. I might not be fully mission capable for Taskforce work, but I could certainly get up and down my boat. The thought brought a little melancholy.

  I started my wussy little box squats, wincing at the pain, when I heard a distinctive ringtone that brought a small jolt of adrenaline. It was my Taskforce cell, playing the Mission: Impossible theme song—because I’m a smart-ass—and when it came to life it usually meant some high adventure was coming my way.