by Bruhns, Nina
“Got it,” she croaked.
He grunted. And glanced down at her. Their noses bumped. Their mouths were millimeters apart. The car jostled again and their lips touched.
She turned her head aside, heat blasting through her as she groped madly for the gun, wrapped her fingers around the hilt, and slid it up out of its holster.
Ho-freaking-boy. The symbolism of that was just a little too vivid.
She sat up quickly, throwing herself back onto her own seat. The seat belt snapped tight across her chest.
She stared straight ahead through the windshield, gripping the gun in her shaking fingers, face burning. “I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to—”
The roar of an engine suddenly revved behind them. She spun around to look as one of the PLA jeeps leapt over a rise into view, gaining speed. The Chinese soldiers in it raised their weapons, aiming at them.
Her pulse went into hyperspace. “Oh my God! They’re—”
“Shoot!” he commanded as he put pedal to metal.
“What? Me? No! I can’t—”
The machine guns opened fire. A hail of bullets pinged into the SUV. The back window exploded in fireworks of crystalline cubes. DeAnne strangled a scream and ducked, her heart racing.
“Shoot! Now, goddamn it! Aim for the tires if you’re squeamish! Anything! Just shoot back, for Chrissakes!”
She peered around the seat. The jeep was gaining on them. She swallowed heavily. Then raised the gun with both her hands, squeezed her eyes shut, and started pulling the trigger.
4
“Incoming helo. Clear the decks.”
The announcement boomed over the topside PA system of the USS Something-or-other. STORM Corps operator Darcy Zimmerman couldn’t quite remember the name of the navy ship they were on. Just that they were out at sea, somewhere off the southern coast of China.
Standing well to the side, she watched the helo approach.
Darcy’s head and her legs were feeling wobbly, but whether from the rocking and rolling of the deck or from sheer exhaustion, she wasn’t quite sure. The hastily assembled team had been traveling nonstop for nearly twenty-four hours straight, and hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep since pulling this assignment day before yesterday.
The others were lined up raggedly beside her, a handful of the best operators in STORM—though you’d never know to look at them. Zane, Jaeger, and Quinn all matched her for dark circles, wrinkled fatigues, and hair sticking up in every direction.
The helo reached the ship and circled once directly overhead, whipping up a froth of wind and sea spray. A man was sitting casually on the edge of the open bay of the bird, one leg dangling out the door.
Their boss. The legendary Commander Kurt Bridger, head of the Strategic Technical Operations and Rescue Missions Corporation—known throughout the world as STORM Corps.
As they landed, Bridger was shouting back and forth with a grinning navy guy in headphones who stood leaning just as nonchalantly against the other side of the open bay. The second the bird sat down, Bridger jumped off, turned to catch a small duffel, and hunch-ran over to them. He didn’t pause, just straightened and shouted, “With me, people,” over the noise of the rotors and kept going.
She, Zane, Jaeger, and Quinn all turned and trotted after him. The team was unusually small—STORM almost always sent out teams of six—and unusually experienced. The job should be an interesting one. Interesting was always good in Darcy’s book. Even if the transpo could be hell.
“Is this everyone, sir?” she asked when Bridger slowed.
His gaze sliced over them. “I understand the client’s bringing in a couple of their own people,” he said.
The client being the U.S. Navy, she surmised, based on where they were.
The four teammates exchanged looks. Hell. No one liked working with outsiders.
“I don’t want to hear it,” the commander cut off any protests. Not that anyone would dare protest. Well. Except maybe Quinn.
Just then, a white-clad officer hurried up, a captain according to his insignia. “Commander Bridger? I’m Bill Jenson, ONI. Welcome aboard.”
Office of Naval Intelligence. One of STORM’s steady customers.
STORM Corps was a nongovernmental spec ops outfit that hired out to private companies and individuals, mainly to recover and defend hostages and other assets. But they were often used to carry out sensitive or controversial covert ops in locations and situations where official government agencies couldn’t or wouldn’t go.
She wondered if they were there to break some poor schmuck out of a Chinese prison. Good luck with that.
“This your team?” Jenson asked Bridger, with a glance at Darcy that carried a shade of disapproval.
No doubt one of those old-school asshole chauvinists who didn’t like women in his navy. Or in private military companies, either, it seemed.
Yeah, screw you, too, buddy.
She felt Quinn’s hand settle lightly on her back, and her anger evaporated into an inner smile. He knew her so well.
“The best in the business,” Bridger replied, and she knew he meant it. One of the many reasons she would never work for anyone but STORM Corps.
Jenson led them into the ship, through a maze of passageways and ladders, and opened the door to a small stateroom with four berths. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting a woman,” he said, glancing at her uncertainly.
“I’m fine,” she said, and tossed her duffel onto a top bunk. This was not the first time they’d all shared accommodations, and it wouldn’t be the last.
The others claimed berths, as well, no one batting an eye.
Commander Bridger tossed his gear in a corner. He wouldn’t be staying. He never did. “Let’s get right to it,” he told Jenson.
With a nod, they were led up a couple of decks to a compact conference room. He went to the intercom and told whoever answered, “Send them in,” then turned to Bridger. “Have a seat. The others will be here shortly.”
They all remained standing. They refused his offer of coffee, too, though she knew they were all dying for a cup—or five. But that would come later, when they were alone and hashing through the best way to accomplish the job, whatever it was.
There was a knock on the door.
“Enter,” Jenson called.
The door swung open and to Darcy’s surprise, a woman walked in. Almost as tall as Darcy, she had pretty red hair and was wearing a classy black Dior suit and elegant pumps.
Whoa. She felt the men beside her stir.
Suddenly, she felt underdressed in her travel-stained fatigues and tank top. The woman was frikkin’ gorgeous.
And there was something else . . .
Hmmm.
“Come in, come in,” Captain Jenson said, gesturing to two men entering the room behind her. “Join us.”
The first guy was tall and lean, with Native American features. His shoulder-length black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He was in jeans—faded with holes in them—but his black T-shirt stretched very nicely over a broad set of shoulders.
Damn. He was gorgeous, too.
The second man stepped into the room and the entire team froze in place. He was in uniform. Navy. Big and muscular. He looked like a classic movie star who’d just stepped off the set.
Of Hunt for Red October.
My God. That was a Russian uniform!
For a moment they all stared in astonishment.
“What the hell,” Quinn muttered next to her.
Who were these people? Surely, they weren’t on the team . . . ?
Captain Jenson attempted to herd everyone toward the table, but no one moved an inch, so he gave up. “All right. Then let me introduce everyone,” he said, mildly flustered. “Commander Kurt Bridger, this is Kapitan Nikolai Romanov of the Russian Navy.” He pronounced the
rank with a terrible accent, like “cap-pee-tan.” “Kapitan Romanov is currently a guest senior lecturer at the U.S. Naval Submarine School in Connecticut.”
Bridger said something to him in Russian. The man smiled broadly and said something back. They both chuckled.
Jenson, clearly surprised, rushed to complete the introduction. “Commander Bridger is chief in command of STORM Corps, the outfit running the operation you’ll be helping out on, kapitan.”
Hel-lo. The Russian was helping them? The team glanced quickly at Bridger. From his expression, this was news to him, too.
Jenson moved on. “And this is Lieutenant Commander Clint Walker of—”
“Just Clint,” Walker interrupted, holding out his hand to shake theirs, one by one, “currently of the ship Samantha Joy. I’m a civilian now, happily retired from the navy, and sailing the world with my new wife.”
Which explained the ratty jeans. But not why he was here.
Darcy turned her head aside and murmured softly to Quinn, “We need to get everything we can on these guys.” She knew the whole team was glued to every word being spoken.
“Mm-hmm.”
Darcy was the Internet whiz for the team—among other things. She glanced at Rand Jaeger, their communications specialist, Predator pilot, and sensory operator—filched four years ago from the Air Force 17th Squadron, though he was originally from South Africa—and all-around enigma. She met his gaze, and saw he was reading her mind, as usual.
“And last but not least, this is Mrs. Julie Romanov,” Jenson began, but again was interrupted.
“Oh! Not quite yet,” the beautiful redhead said, sending a smile to the big Russian. “We can’t get married until Nikolai has his green card in hand. So ridiculous.”
“They’ll think it’s a marriage of convenience,” Romanov explained in a sexy accent, his eyes twinkling as he winked at his fiancée. Judging by the adoring looks they were giving each other, nothing could be further from the truth.
Awww. Darcy’s heart gave a warm squeeze.
Then she caught herself. Jeez, she must be getting sentimental in her old age.
Quinn, too. He moved closer and let his hand brush hers, giving her even more warm and fuzzies. Because arrogant, irreverent, and handsome-as-the-day-was-long Bobby Lee Quinn was her fiancé. Over two years, now.
No, they weren’t waiting on a green card, but they did have issues to work out.
Still.
But they would.
Eventually.
She was sure of it.
“Anyway,” the pretty fiancée said, preempting Captain Obnoxious and extending her hand to Darcy first, then to the others, “I’m Julie Severin. I’m with—”
“CIA,” Darcy supplied, and smiled at Ms. Severin’s surprise. As former CIA herself, Darcy had caught the indefinable vibe almost right away. There was a certain, unmistakable aura about a true denizen of Langley.
“Yes, well, um.” The woman’s expression turned wry. “I guess you really are as good as they say you are.”
Darcy shrugged modestly. “I have my days.”
Quinn snorted under his breath.
He’d pay for that later.
“I’m obviously at a disadvantage,” Clint Walker said as he shook her hand. “You are . . . ?”
Bridger answered for her. “This is Darcy Zimmerman, comp spec and home base six.”
Oka-ay. Not a good sign. The commander was devolving to grunt-speak in a room full of squids. He must be irritated about something.
Darcy cleared her throat. “Computer specialist and in charge of mission base operations,” she translated.
Quinn stepped forward. “I’m STORM Commander Bobby Lee Quinn, alpha six of mission sortie operations.” He gestured to the others. “Alex Zane, dive and desert spec, and Rand Jaeger, communications and Predator pilot.”
Polite greetings were exchanged all around.
But Bobby Lee was not known for either his patience or his tact. He folded his arms over his chest and said in that Tupelo honey drawl of his, “So. Why exactly are y’all here?”
There was a brief, assessing silence.
Then the corner of Clint Walker’s lip curved up. He leaned back on his heels and regarded them. “We’re just here to lend a hand,” he said pleasantly.
“To do what?” Darcy asked, unable to stop herself. She was dying to know what the mission was.
“Oh, didn’t they tell you?” Walker asked with mild amusement. “Why, we’re here to steal ourselves a top-secret Chinese AUV.”
5
The trio of Chinese jeeps was gaining on them.
Kip’s mind spun and his body hummed as he sent the SUV careening around the final curve of the rough ox trail, just before hitting the main road.
Whoa! Way too fast.
The SUV tipped onto two wheels before smacking down again. Almost there. Just a few more yards and they’d be back on the well-traveled path to civilization. Or away from it, he reminded himself as he jammed the accelerator to the floor. Depending on which direction he chose at the last second.
DeAnne was still firing blindly through the shot-out back window. The clip had to be nearly empty by now, but all she’d managed to hit were trees and rocks. If the situation wasn’t so damn serious, he’d be laughing. Was she cute, or what? It reminded him a little of that old movie where Frank Sinatra played a pilot who ran out of ammo and went down shooting at the enemy with a fizzy seltzer bottle.
Kip forced the grin from his face. This was no time for levity. The situation could get really ugly. If those jeeps caught up with them—
From behind, he suddenly heard a loud pop and a high-pitched whistle that sounded like a geyser erupting.
Relief hurtled through him. Yes! “Good girl,” he shouted with a whoop. “Kill shot!”
“What?” Her eyes sprang open in dismay. “Kill? No! I—”
“Radiator,” he clarified. A split second later came the sound of screeching metal and breaking glass, followed by a deafening crrrash! “And then there were none,” he drawled and hit the steering wheel with his palm. “Bam!”
She jumped.
He flashed her a huge smile. “Remind me to kiss you later, when we get where we’re going!”
Her eyes went even wider.
The SUV flew off the ox path and onto the main road. He skidded into the turn, then braked to a halt to yank the old-school gears out of four-wheel drive. As he did, he glanced at DeAnne.
She was still holding the Beretta M9 in a death grip.
He swiftly eased it from her rigid fingers, digging in his rucksack for a fresh clip. In two seconds he’d switched the clips and stuck the Beretta into his waistband.
She watched him with round eyes. “By the way, um, where are we going?”
A million conflicting emotions were reflected in those expressive eyes. She looked . . . lost. And . . . expectant? And beautiful as all hell.
Adrenaline surged through his veins, along with a burning need to wrap her in his arms and protect her from the very thing he was getting her into. Every cell in his body was alive with that need.
And with a sudden, fierce desire to taste her.
Later? Fuck that.
He grabbed her, pulled her to him, and kissed her. Hard.
A noise of surprise gurgled up her throat, but it melted into a reluctant mewl of pleasure as his tongue plied her lips and slipped into her mouth. His own moan joined hers at the feel of her soft curves pillowed against his chest. The tips of her breasts swirled to stiff points beneath the smooth silk of her blouse.
He was instantly, throbbingly hard.
And completely insane.
Jesus.
Hel-lo? Earth to Major Kip! Bad guys? Remember?
He broke the kiss abruptly, and set her away. With a curse, he jammed the stic
k into gear, and took off down the mountain.
And did a giant mental backpedal. Or tried to, anyway.
Holy crap. What the hell had just happened? He was not some wet-behind-the-ears recruit on a weekend pass from Pendleton.
He risked a glance at her. She was staring at him, her kiss-moistened lips parted, as though hypnotized. Then suddenly, her mouth snapped shut and she turned frontward, gripping the edge of her seat even though the road was now paved and jostle free.
They drove in tense silence for several minutes.
“I, um, actually meant that question,” she said. “You realize there’s a checkpoint coming up soon. We’re sure to be stopped.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Which is why we’re not going that far.”
“Okay.”
He knew she was waiting for him to elaborate, but the truth was, he hadn’t formulated a plan yet. “I need to contact my team and change the rendezvous point. We’ll take it from there.”
She looked doubtful. “Your team?”
Whoops. “You do actually have a cell phone, right?”
“Yes.” She straightened and glanced down, seeming to reorient herself, then plucked her bag from the floor. “I’ll check for bars.” She withdrew a smartphone and punched buttons. Then shook her head. “Sorry. Nothing.”
He hadn’t really expected any. They were driving high above a narrow valley surrounded by even taller mountains. “We’ll have to get up to higher ground.”
She pointed in the direction they were driving. “Going the wrong way for that, Major.”
“Call me Kip,” he reminded her. “I think we’ve whipped right on past formalities, don’t you?”
The color rose in her cheeks as she cleared her throat. “Yeah. Well. I assume someone in your profession is familiar with the endorphin rush that comes with fear.”
It took him a second to wade through to her meaning. “Is that what you think made me kiss you?” he asked wryly. “The heat of battle?”
“No,” she said primly. “I assume my outfit made me irresistible.”