After that, there was no way he could deny his attraction to her. It had frustrated him to no end.
He knew he couldn’t act on it. He wasn’t stupid. There was no way she’d be receptive after the way he’d treated her in the beginning. So he’d been professional. They’d figured out working together, and so what if he went home frustrated and hard?
She was wrong about one thing. He’d accepted her before they’d slept together. Granted, they hadn’t done much sleeping that night.
No, when he’d taken her home after that op, the one where she’d gotten kidnapped and hurt, he’d more than accepted her as part of the team. He’d begun to lean on her. Need her. Privately he thought more of the teams should have a co-leader structure. It was hard always being the person in charge. Melody brought out the best in them, and when he needed help, she was there.
The sex, well, that had begun as the clash of biology and chemistry.
All of this was coming out of left field.
From the beginning he’d followed her lead, letting her set the pace, their boundaries. He’d thought they were building toward something. And all this time she saw him as a problem.
Grant turned from the windows and headed upstairs.
Maybe he should grab his trunks and go down to the beach with the guys? Give Melody space to think about this. She couldn’t just decide they were done for, could she? What about his feelings? What he wanted?
Two black crates sat on the landing outside the bedrooms.
Crap.
He couldn’t leave Melody in the house with all their gear here. That wasn’t fair.
Grant braced his forearms on the railing and stared out the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the pool.
Where had he gone wrong? How were they at this point? Could he fix it?
The truth—Grant’s truth—was that he was falling in love with Melody. But she didn’t feel the same about him. Had she ever? Was the reason she wanted to keep their relationship quiet because she never intended them to be more than fuck buddies? Had he been blinded to the truth all along?
His heart thudded painfully against his ribs.
Grant had always been about duty. Doing what he needed to, what was right. He’d been raised in a career military family with clear expectations about where he’d go and what he’d do. His decisions leading up to that day were all made by asking the question, what serves the greater good?
Except, with Melody, it was about them, and he’d foolishly thought that for once he could be selfish. He could be with someone because he liked them, he enjoyed being with them. For once he’d relaxed, let himself carve out a bit of a personal life.
Grant had been prepared to have a conversation about going to the next level. Getting closer, opening up. Not ending things.
He was blindsided, stunned and he still didn’t know what to think about any of it.
The doorbell rang, breaking into his thoughts.
The chef.
Fucking hell, this was a shitty day.
WEDNESDAY. PRIVATE Yacht, Ibiza.
Liman Fahed peered through the binoculars at his team getting into place to breech the mansion positioned just off the coast of Ibiza. It was a beautiful day for an assault mission. Blue skies. Not a cloud in sight. A brisk breeze.
It was as if nature were celebrating Liman’s victory with him.
Everything was falling into place.
Finally.
“Sir?”
He turned his attention on the monitors.
They’d spent weeks, months gauging where to strike, how many people they would need, and now it was happening.
With any luck, Liman would have Elio back before the end of the week. It had rocked their whole team when the Americans kidnapped their top officer. Liman wasn’t about to leave his man there to rot. Elio was too valuable, too unique.
One monitor showed four men walking shoulder to shoulder down an old path winding between homes. They had no idea what was coming for them.
“The teams are waiting for your signal, sir,” Khaled said.
He was new to the department. Liman didn’t entirely trust him. For all he knew, Khaled was reporting unflattering versions of the truth to his superiors.
Liman had managed to place the blame for Elio’s abduction firmly on the Americans and the lack of information coming down to him. Liman had escaped blame, this time. But if he didn’t get Elio back, he knew who would pay the price.
“They took their stims, yes?” Liman asked.
“Three minutes ago, sir.” Khaled never looked away from the monitors.
“Go then. I want those four alive, not dead, understand?” Liman crossed his arms over his chest and focused on the other monitors.
Khaled relayed to the teams lying in wait. It would all happen simultaneously and be over before anyone realized what had started.
The smaller monitors that showed the body camera feeds jostled. A few of the men were still taking their stim pills, so either Khaled was lying or more than likely the order had been ignored.
Liman breathed a sigh.
He couldn’t wait to have Elio back. The man was a machine, he followed orders, there weren’t any problems with him now. Not like in the beginning.
The rest of the agents weren’t on the same level. Despite their best efforts they hdn’t been able to replicate the science that had evolved Elio. They’d only managed to produce the stim pills. They worked for a quick boost, were fast acting, but they would never be on Elio’s level. For today it would give their team the upper hand.
Liman picked up a headset and listened to the terse orders while watching the monitors.
The four men rounded the corner, heading down the stone lane toward the street. They’d be blindsided and pinned down.
Now.
The targets were in position.
As if Liman’s team had read his mind, they moved.
The stationary cameras captured those first few moments.
The van skidded into the frame, stopping in the target’s path. Any normal person would be caught off-guard and likely stand there. Not these four. They moved, two going one way, the other two sprinting out of the frame. The men on the ground divided in two, intent on their targets.
Muzzle fire erupted, in the headset.
“Who is firing?” Liman demanded.
Orders drowned him out, men shouting.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
On the screen, one target was on the ground, two men on top of him. A second target was disarmed and trading punches with one of Liman’s men.
“Where are the other two?” He leaned forward, studying the body cameras.
“Still in pursuit,” someone heaved.
Shit.
Liman snapped and pointed at Khaled. “Tell the other team to go. We can’t risk those two slipping through our fingers and warning them.”
“Yes, sir.”
The day wasn’t over. Liman intended to win this day.
2.
Wednesday. Safe House, Playa d’en Bossa, Ibiza.
Grant really should have called the chef as soon as Melody had walked away from him. Now he was going to be on the hook for the rest of the payment. He couldn’t imagine eating the meal he’d hoped to share with her by himself. Or leaving it by her door to enjoy the meal cold, if she’d take it at all.
The doorbell peeled again.
“Coming,” Grant called out as he jogged across the floor to the entry.
He paused to peer through the peephole. Some habits just didn’t go away.
A man stood on the other side, his head bent, the sun glinting off his dark head of hair. He wore a dark jacket. A chef’s coat?
Had Grant ever gotten a picture of the person that company was sending over?
He blew out a breath and mentally kicked himself.
The op was over.
He shook his head, banishing the paranoia that came with every job, and unlocked the door. There was no reason for a retalia
tory attack. Besides, they’d ensured the last assholes could barely drift to shore much less pursue them.
Grant gripped the handle. “Hey, man—”
The door was shoved back, ramming into Grant’s knee. Pain radiated up and down his leg.
“Get down,” a man bellowed.
Grant was forced back, away from the door to avoid getting rammed with it again. Two more figures dressed in black from head to toe barged into the house wielding guns.
Melody.
Grant stopped breathing for a second.
She was all that mattered.
He couldn’t let them hurt her. Whoever these people were, they were armed, geared and outnumbered the two of them.
Grant held his hands up and backed away, watching the two other men proceed into the main area of the house.
How many of them were there?
The first man through the door advanced on Grant.
Now, before the others got to Melody’s room.
He moved fast, grabbing the man’s right arm by the wrist and moving with him. Grant kneed the guy in the groin, then delivered a hard right hook against the guy’s face. His attacker lost his grip on the weapon. Grant grabbed it from the man’s hand.
A fourth figure darted into the house, yelling something that Grant couldn’t understand.
“Melody,” he bellowed and prayed she was already moving.
He took a step back and fired at the man charging him, hitting him in the leg where body armor didn’t protect him. The man went down hard.
The first attacker was still bent double, but his twisted, angry face was focused on Grant.
Grant squeezed the trigger.
Blood splattered the wall behind the target as the body dropped to the floor.
He shifted his aim, back to the downed man and fired again.
Whoever these people were, he’d kill them before they got to Melody. Grant didn’t know who sent them, what they wanted or anything. But none of that mattered so long as Melody was at risk.
A heavyweight hit Grant from behind, knocking him forward. His feet flew out from under him and he went down hard, almost face first, on the cool tile. A muzzle pressed against the back of his skull and a knee drove into his back.
The man over him barked out orders, speaking to the other man across the room.
That wasn’t English.
Arabic?
Who were these people?
Why were they here?
Lepta Team’s last job was rescuing a pampered socialite from Algerian pirates. She’d stiffed payment for some sort of yacht and the pirates had come to collect the money.
Were these men Algerian? Were these the next step up from pirate enforcers?
If they wanted the socialite, she wasn’t here. But maybe they didn’t know that? Could Grant negotiate with them? Hold them off until the rest of the team got back or they could signal Zain?
A door banged open. A door that sounded like it was just down the hall past the kitchen.
Grant’s body went cold.
Melody...
Three gunshots fired in rapid succession. Glass shattered and a man let out a gurgled cry.
Grant turned his head even while the gun pressed harder against his skull.
“I’ll kill him,” the man said.
A gun fired.
Grant felt the warm, sticky blood on his cheek as the body slumped over him.
“Mel?” He shoved the dead man aside and scrambled to his feet.
Melody stood at the entrance to the hall, her hair pulled back and a gun in hand. She still wore her blouse from earlier, but she’d changed into sweatpants. The gray, loose fitting ones he’d bought her when she’d spent the weekend at his place unexpectedly. He hadn’t wanted her to leave to go get clean clothes, so he’d done one of those order online and have it delivered in two hour things.
“Are you okay?” She didn’t lower the weapon, but kept it trained on the front door.
“Yeah. You?” Grant turned his attention to the driveway.
“Fine. What the hell?”
He peered out at the van idling in the driveway. He shoved the door shut and locked it.
“I don’t see anyone else,” he said.
Melody was already kneeling over the first man she’d dropped, feeling at his pockets. “We have to get out of here.”
Grant nodded. “There’s probably more outside, waiting for us to go out the front.”
“I’ll grab our bags.” Melody straightened. “We should leave out the door in my room.”
He jerked his head in a nod as he continued to strip the other bodies of any identifiable information that would help them determine just what the hell was going on. Melody returned from their gear stash with two uniform black bags.
This was a no-win situation.
If they left, and they were, their full complement of gear and munitions would be just sitting here waiting for someone to scoop it up.
If they stayed, Grant had no doubt that a second wave would take them down and then it wouldn’t matter who had their gear because Grand and Melody would be captured or worse.
“We need to warn the others,” Melody said.
Grant checked his sidearm, ensuring it was loaded. “After. Come on.”
With luck, the guys were safe at the beach for now. There was time to signal them later.
Melody didn’t offer any argument. She slung both bags across her shoulders, refusing his help when he tried to take one.
“You need to be unencumbered,” was all she said.
He grit his teeth for the millionth time today and headed for her room.
When Melody had laid claim to the pool-side suite, Grant had been irritated. This distance she’d put between them lately was noticeable. But with the guys horsing around in the pool until the early morning hours, Grant hadn’t been able to get a private word with Melody before she went to sleep.
The room was just as neat and tidy as Melody liked things.
He edged his way through the room to the floor to ceiling glass wall and peered out.
The pool patio was mostly flat stones. That area was bordered by cultivated greenery and palm trees. There was a beach twenty yards out, but it was rocky and the sand course.
The bonus? No cover for their attackers to hide in.
Without needing to speak, Melody unlocked the sliding glass door and stood aside, gun pointed at the ground, waiting for Grant to take the lead. They might have struggled in the beginning with becoming co-leaders, but they’d figured out a rhythm.
Grant stepped out onto the patio. The late morning sun beat down on them. Only a few fluffy clouds flitted across the sky. Out in the water, a large luxury boat was anchored fairly close to shore.
He turned toward the front of the house, visually sweeping the grounds, but no one moved. As expected, with little to no cover on this side of the house there was no one lying in wait. The real test would come when they made a break for it.
Melody shut the door behind them as Grant began creeping toward the back of the house. There was a small section of ground shaded by trees with large, leafy bushes offering some cover.
A shadow stretched across the grass in front of Grant.
Someone wasn’t paying attention to the position of the sun.
In that moment he made a decision. Instead of coming around the corner, brandishing his weapon, he reached blindly, grabbing the man by the front of his clothes. Grant yanked the man forward, clocking him in the head with the butt of his weapon.
“Look out!” Melody sidestepped Grant and fired so close to him that his ears rang painfully.
“Run.”
Grant took off, Melody staying close at his side. They kept pace with each other across the partially sheltered ground. He skidded to a stop at the wall, going to a knee and boosting melody up and over the fence before hauling himself over and onto the neighbor’s property.
“Go. Keep going,” Grant said when she paused.
The
re could be more men out there. Melody kept close to the trees lining the property on this side, using them as cover.
They reached the narrow lane serving the beach front homes just as a farm truck rounded the bend. Grant shoved his borrowed gun back into the waistband of his jeans, pulled his shirt over the weapon and held up his hand. The truck lumbered to a stop.
“Hi. Hello.” Grant did his best to smile at the man. “Can you, uh, give us a ride? Into town?”
“Here.” Melody shoved cash into his hand.
“We’ll pay. Just a ride into town?” Grant offered the cash to the farmer.
The older man eyed the money than them.
He probably thought they were vacationers.
The man nodded at the back of the truck and took the cash.
“Thanks.” Grant placed his hand on Melody’s back, just below the bags. “Come on.”
They climbed into the truck bed, hunching low as the truck picked up speed and headed into the heart of Ibiza Town.
Melody already had her phone out. She met his gaze. “Riley’s not answering.”
What the hell was going on?
WEDNESDAY. KOOL CAFE, Ibiza Town, Ibiza.
Melody retreated to a small table at the back of the café while Grant got them drinks. Neither of them had been able to reach Riley, Nolan, Vaughn or Brenden. She knew Grant had tried to reach their boss, but hadn’t gotten through either. Her battery was just about dead so she’d turned her phone off to conserve battery.
She dumped the contents of the side pocket of her bag out on the table and stared at the collection of random stuff they’d taken from the men who’d attacked them.
A couple phones.
Bottles of unmarked pills.
Bits of paper.
Some local currency.
And a wad of bills with the words BANQUE DU LIBAN printed across the top.
“Shit,” she muttered.
“What?” Grant sank down across from her and set two bottles of water and two wrapped sandwiches down.
She picked up the wad of cash, Lebanese pounds, and handed looked at Grant.
For several moments he stared at the money. His brows drew down and his lips parted.
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