by Lucy Farago
She rolled the desk chair closer and sat before her legs gave way.
“I’m at the creek.”
Her hand flew over heart, thankful he was safe…thankful for the interruption. She didn’t need to go there.
“All right, pokey, radio silence from now on.”
Pokey? “Wow, have you been working on that one this whole time?”
“Radio silence,” he repeated.
He should really stick to things he was good at. Humor wasn’t one of them. “Just tell me the combination to the gun cabinet.” Should something happen…it was better she arm herself.
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking you’d need it. It’s been programed with four turns. Zero, zero, seven, one.”
“Does it mean anything?” she asked jokingly.
An exasperated sigh came through her earpiece. “Yes, now shush.”
Dear Lord. Fine, radio silence it was. Her butt growing numb from the icy chair, she went back to her book, and again tossed it away. This could be where those assholes could find him. And her life would go from awful to deadly—hers and his. She tried not to dwell on it, but there wasn’t anything else to do. A few days in this hole and she’d go batshit crazy. She put on her fleece and headed back to the gun cabinet.
“Zero, zero, seven, one,” she repeated, wondering what it meant before she keyed in the code. With a soft click, it opened. She chose the smallest gun—easiest to conceal—and read the markings.
“Walther.” That was James Bond’s gun. “How appropriate.” How many times had Bond taken on the Russians? Gun in hand, she returned to the warmth of the fireplace. Sitting, she’d begun to count the Bond movies when voices carried through the earpiece, and none of them were Monty’s. And speaking angry Russian.
She made out two, but maybe there were more. Had Monty been discovered? No, the commotion would have come through. A door slammed and a voice she did recognize followed.
“I do not understand. How could they vanish into thin air?” Daniel shouted.
Someone spoke in Russian.
“What did I tell you? English. It is hard enough following you when you are not babbling.”
“They could not have gone far,” the other person said, his thick accent overpowering his words even though he’d annunciated.
“And yet those idiots you hired have not caught them. The boss is not happy.”
“It is dark and cold. …many caves in area.” His voice cut in and out as the pouring rain interfered with her hearing. “That mountain man…men will find them in morning.”
“Your men…” Daniel said. “Failure is unacceptable.”
“They…” No longer able to hear the other man, she thought she heard, “found,” followed by, “And maybe they return.”
Daniel spoke next, but she couldn’t make out what he said, only that he wasn’t happy. Either Monty or Daniel had moved out of earshot… or the earpiece was failing. She bit her tongue, remembering Monty’s instructions. No talking. Several minutes ticked by before a “Shit” threw her heart into overdrive as she jumped to her feet. Should she ask what was happening? Wait? Leave and find him?
She ran to her room and grabbed the warmer socks she’d snagged out of the supply room, wishing she’d tried on her new boots and praying they’d fit. She leaned down to tie her boots, but her fingers froze on a familiar sound, one she’d really hoped to never hear again. A gunshot. “Monty,” she called out before covering her mouth with her hands. What if she did something to make things worse? What if he died because of her? What if her father was right and she was nothing but trouble? Please let Monty be all right.
Chapter 8
“Shit.” The branch caught Monty below his left eye. It stung like hell, even more so when the rain hit the gash. A moonless night made it impossible to see and damn it, he’d been so preoccupied making sure Taylor was going to keep it together, he’d forgotten the night goggles. A rookie mistake. When he reached the creek, he opened communication. “Taylor, can you hear me?”
“You’re alive? Oh, thank God.”
Her relief confused him. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He climbed over a fallen log. The same one he’d nearly broken his neck on earlier, only now the bark was frozen over with the rain. The temperature was dropping.
“I heard a gunshot.”
He’d forgotten how good the earpieces he’d built were. “They weren’t shooting at me.” Oh, no. “Did you think they shot me?”
“I heard a gunshot,” she repeated. “What was I supposed to think?”
Point taken. Now, for the million-dollar question. “Taylor, where are you?”
“Where are you?”
“Please tell me you didn’t leave the bunker.” He’d gotten the impression she’d lied about being claustrophobic and had counted on that fear keeping her ass inside. Otherwise, he was going to kill her. He was fairly certain, by the events at the cabin, that the men looking for them had been recalled for the evening. Still, he didn’t want her wandering around outside—in the dark and alone. When she didn’t answer, he repeated the question. Although why he bothered he didn’t know. She’d left the bunker.
“I’m about twelve feet from the trees outside the tunnel.”
He released a silent breath. “Good. Now turn around and go back. I’m on my way. Give me twenty minutes. Clouds have completely blackened the sky.” How the hell had he forgotten those night googles?
“You’re not hurt?”
“I’m not hurt.” Except for the smack in the face he’d just received, care of a low-lying branch, he was fine.
“Okay.”
Next time he’d know better than to underestimate her.
In case Daniel’s men were out and about, he kept low to the ground and as close to large trees as possible. He’d counted five men inside the cabin, six with Daniel. They were sparing no expense to find her. Thanks to Daniel’s odd insistence his men speak English, Monty had been able to make out what was being said. And if he’d gotten it right, Taylor wasn’t going to be happy. The feds had shut down Strike a Match. But right after the Russians snatched her, they’d erased their fingerprints from her database. A good programmer would eventually find something, but it might not be enough evidence to nail them. Question was, how did they know the feds were on to them? Did they know about the backup? Had that been their motivation in taking her?
Ryan would kill to see her evidence. ICU had had far too many run-ins with them, once as recently as last year. Alexei Krupin had played fair the last time one of ICU’s men had had to deal with him, but only because there’d been something in it for him. The time before, however, he’d been the maniacal, brutal pig people knew him to be.
Monty blew on his hands before climbing the hill. When he’d tripped, his gloves had gotten soaked, and he’d taken them off. His fingers were now numb. Without Taylor to slow him down, it took him a third of the time to reach the top. Although he could think of worse things than watching her ass as she struggled to find her footing. He made it to the trees, where he found Taylor huddled by the hidden entry door. “What are doing? Why aren’t you inside?”
“I-I couldn’t,” she shivered, “c-couldn’t find the door.”
Couldn’t find the door, or had been too afraid to go in alone? “You’re right in front of it.” He slid the panel open and motioned for her to take the lead. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d followed my…instructions.” He’d been about to say orders and had thought better of it.
Unlike her first encounter with the tunnel, she scrambled inside. He went in next, but she stopped so abruptly, he nearly rammed his face into her ass. Which, admittedly, wasn’t such a bad thing. “Why did you stop?”
“S-sorry. Just getting my bearings. It’s pitch black in here.”
He waited patiently for her eyes to adjust, figuring her claustrophobia was getting the best of her
. He touched her calf, wanting to remind her he was with her. She began to crawl. After dropping down into the tunnel, she waited, arms clenched tightly to her body, her fists tucked into the sleeves of her new coat.
He nodded toward her jeans. “I thought you’d chosen better pants.”
“Huh?” She looked down at herself. “I didn’t think to change. I heard the shot and…assumed the worst. You’re hurt.” Misguided concern etched her face.
“No, I’m not.” He grabbed her elbow. “We need to talk about your wanting to be my hero but if you hadn’t noticed, it’s fucking cold outside. Let’s get you warm first.”
“You have a cut on your face.”
“It’s just a scratch.”
Inside, he deposited her on the sofa and headed into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He, on the other hand, wanted something stronger than tea. He opened the cupboard over the fridge and grabbed the Jameson. Normally he didn’t drink. Normally, he didn’t handle stuff like this on his own either. It was good to know he could, though. He returned with the bottle and two glasses, in case she was of the same mind.
“Pretty dumb,” he said, taking the throw and wrapping it over her shoulders. “How wet are you?
“I wasn’t out there long. What about that cut?”
“Like I said, it’s nothing.”
“Then why is it bleeding?”
“It’s not.” But now that he was inside, blood trickled down his cheek. “A branch decided I was too pretty.”
She shot to her feet. “I’ll get the first aid.”
“Sit,” he said. “I can get it.”
“Please. Let me feel useful. I need to be useful,” she said.
He guessed he could give her that. “There’s a kit—”
“Under the kitchen sink. I know.”
While she fetched the first aid, he opened the Jameson and poured himself a shot, downed it, and poured another. Blood dripped off his chin and onto his pants, the cut bleeding and more of a nuisance than he’d imagined. Taylor returned with the first aid kit and a box of Kleenex.
Standing between him and the coffee table, she yanked out a tissue and handed it to him. “To wipe your hand. Don’t touch your face. I’m sure those fingers are dirty.”
With a cotton swap and antiseptic, she proceeded to clean his cheekbone. Her touch was gentle, featherlike, like she cared about hurting him.
She drew closer to inspect the cut. “I hate to tell you this, but that tree won this match. You have a doozy of a splinter.” She stopped the bleeding with gauze and, with the other hand, searched through the kit.
She wore no perfume, but she smelled of earth and cold Alaskan air. If Mother Nature had a smell, he imagined it would be Taylor’s. And for once in his life, he wasn’t so disagreeable about the great outdoors. Taylor was a beautiful woman.
“Let me help,” he said, ready to hold the gauze.
She slapped his hand away. “Dirty,” she scolded. “I can find the tweezers and stop the bleeding at the same time, but not if you keep squirming.”
Was he squirming? He hadn’t noticed. “Sorry.”
She returned to her task and he tried to look anywhere other than at the cute little body in front of him. Even covered in that fleece, twisted to one side, she made for a very tempting distraction that would only get him in trouble. He suspected a woman like Taylor didn’t fool around. And he didn’t do relationships; hell, he barely did dating. “Are you sure I can’t help?”
“Have you always been this much of a control freak?” she said, rummaging for the tweezers.
“I don’t think I’m a control freak.” His team simply wasn’t good at the same things he was good at.
“Hmm.”
“Hmm?” What was that supposed to mean?
“Found them.” In her hand, she held a pair of surgical tweezers.
“Those are for—” Yeah, he wasn’t going to tell her what those were for. “Deep, hard to get at things.” Like bullets.
She examined the medical instrument, scrunching up that cute nose while she debated whether he was right. Which he was. He’d seen it in use. The team always had stuff like that on hand.
“Yeah, I guess so.” She put them back. “Oh, wait, there they are. I have the exact pair. Mind if I borrow these later?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Thanks. Mine are…well, I didn’t get a chance to pack mine. Now stay still,” she said, turning bossy. “You’ve seen what happens when I’m not careful. You wouldn’t want your eyeball to suffer my clumsiness.”
He glanced down at her feet and whistled. “Phew. You’re wearing the new boots. We should be good to go.”
She stuck out her tongue before leaning in and lifting the gauze from his cheek.
Trying really hard not to inhale her scent, which was honestly starting to drive him wild, he watched her brow furrow in concentration. “So, what was the hmm for?”
“What?” she said, distracted.
She cupped his jaw with a surprisingly warm palm, then ever so gently dragged the splinter out. It was over before he knew it…as was her touch. A part of him was honestly disappointed at her efficiency. Even though he wouldn’t lay a hand on her—couldn’t lay a hand on her—he liked having Taylor this close.
“Yup, the tree definitely won.” She showed him the ginormous sliver.
“Thank you. It feels better already.”
“You’re welcome. I’m just happy you’re all right,” she said…and if he didn’t know better, she’d meant it.
She’d been concerned…about him…not just herself. An odd warmth spread across his chest. And when she smiled, his male brain shot that heat right to his groin. Leftover adrenaline, he told himself.
“Let me finish cleaning it.”
He nodded. “So, are you going to tell me?” he said, unwilling to let it go. It didn’t really matter what she thought of him, but he’d been accused on one or two…or several…occasions of being a control freak, and he just didn’t see it.
“Tell you what?” She used a cotton swab to apply ointment.
He didn’t want to come across as obsessing. He was curious, that was all. “You asked if I was a control freak.”
“Oh, right. You are.” She gave him a wide, toothy grin and returned to her task.
“Why would you say that?”
“You said you didn’t think so. Which means others do. And on average, normal people don’t consider others control freaks without just cause. Trust me on that. I’ve had to deal with people like you on more than one occasion. And I think you’ve been obsessing about this for the last few minutes.”
“No, I haven’t.” Not really. “And people like me…?”
“Done,” she announced and sat on the coffee table. “I bet you’re a perfectionist.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Perfectionism kept people alive.
“Nothing. Unless nothing is ever good enough. Which I suspect is the category you fall into.”
“That’s not fair. You barely know me.”
“That’s true, but I pride myself on being able to figure people out. I have to,” she explained. “It’s part of my job. Would you believe it? People actually try to mask their true character?”
“No,” he said, matching her sarcasm. “With an online dating service? Who would have thought people could be so dishonest when trying to get laid?”
“Hey.” She grabbed the first aid kit and stood in a huff. “I’m not like those sites. If they want that kind of thing, there are plenty of other places to get it. My clients want love. They want to share their life with someone. And some have gotten it wrong so many times, they start to believe they’re at fault. So they lie on their applications.” She stuck her nose in the air and returned to the kitchen.
“Aren’t they? At fault?” They were getting off
topic, but he wanted to hear this.
She slipped the kit under the sink and tossed the wrappers and bloodstained gauze in the small garbage can beside the refrigerator. “Not always.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who believes there’s someone for everyone?” His mother did, and damn it to hell, she was going to die trying. Which, sadly, she did.
“If you’re asking if I’m a hopeless romantic, I’m not.” She returned and sat beside him, her knee bumping against his. “But I believe everyone can find a companion they can be happy with.”
“Companion? Not lover?”
“It all depends what a person’s looking for. But it should be about what that person wants, not what someone else forces on them.”
Now that was a curious thing to say. “Said like someone who knows.”
“I’ve matched a lot of couples,” she explained, reaching down to unlace her boots.
There was more to this than she was letting on, but it was none of his business.
“So, this Jedi skill you have at figuring people out—are you ever wrong?”
“No one’s perfect. It’s human nature to judge by first impressions. You can try to erase it, but it’s always there, in the back of your mind. That’s not to say you can’t modify your opinion. You can dislike or like someone, for that matter, upon meeting them and have a change of heart later on. But those are behavioral conditions, not inherent characteristics. Nice people can do bad things. I’ve learned to look past that when I meet someone. Anyone can have a bad day.”
“Bullshit.” Some people did have an innate sense, and for all he knew, she was one of those people. But for some reason, he didn’t like her thinking she knew him when she didn’t. “Characteristics drive the behavior.”