by Snow, Nicole
I’ve been told it’s more focused on espionage than the fledgling Nighthawks program currently in development and centered on deployment of highly advanced tactical combat units.
But I’ve also been told the girls are taught to defend themselves against counterintelligence operatives by any and every means possible.
And today, that includes sexist assholes sputtering on the floor, waiting for someone to help while we all just watch and wait for him to pick himself up.
Durham would probably terminate anyone who gave a man from the Pentagon the impression that we answer to them.
Nope. Colonel Asshole is an outsider here.
Not one of ours.
No one wants the liability of touching him.
She’s not even looking at him anymore.
But suddenly, her gaze snaps to me—as if she can feel me watching her.
As if my eyes touched her skin, alerted her, made her hackles stand up.
Shit. Those pale-grey eyes are smoke and blue witch fire.
They smolder.
They’re the color of ash tinged with pearl-blue, but full of all the flame that burned everything to the ground.
It makes me wonder for a brief, terrible half-second what it would be like to tame her.
God. You’d have to fight her down even for a kiss, and she’d make you work for it and give back as good as she got.
It’s like she can read my mind.
Her fingers clench tighter.
She tilts her head, and a touch of a cocky smirk crosses her lips as her tongue plays over that ball of pink candy.
Fuck me if it’s not suggestive as sin for just a second.
As if she’s saying, Wanna go?
I’m almost afraid to find out what she’s even asking.
She could be asking me to spar, or...
Yeah.
Shit.
My eyes narrow.
Was she trained in that, I wonder? How to be a modern day siren?
Reading the curiosity, the interest, the vulnerability in men’s gazes and playing into them before she rips their balls off.
Call me a gullible fool, then, because fuck.
Yeah.
I could make ten bad moth-to-flame analogies, but why bother?
I’m feeling her pull, her gravity, and I damn well wouldn’t mind finding out just what kind of moves she has outside of dismembering her targets.
Right now, though, my job is focusing on this dumb meeting and determining how it’s going to impact Galentron’s operations overseas on a strategic business level.
I’m the process guy.
NATO pulls us in on a life-saving critical mission in the Balkans, and my job is just to make sure the geopolitical ripples don’t slow down factory production at our facilities in Taiwan.
So when the military aide finally drags himself to his feet, the awkward silence in the room finally turns crisp and alert.
Our illustrious CEO, Leland Durham, rises from his chair, straightening his tie and smoothing back his slick gloss of brown hair with a facile smile that never quite reaches his flinty, dark-green eyes.
“I think,” he says, his voice rolling like overly syrupy-sweet chocolate, just a little too friendly, “we’re all deeply appreciative of Agent Brin’s courageous efforts.”
Brin looks away from me, her expression icing over.
She flicks a look at Durham like she’s hardly fond of his easy surface charm, before sparing a quick, tight nod.
No-nonsense.
Zero ass kissing—a rarity around here.
I like it.
For once, Durham actually falters. I have to swallow a laugh.
Considering how rarely he shows his face among the little people, I suppose he expected more subservience. I normally lead these meetings, but he’d decided today was the day he wanted to show off in front of the people funding our government contracts.
I guess that’s why we’re using the big conference room.
The Space Needle almost over our shoulder, zoomed in too close to enjoy its impressive profile.
Glossy wood everywhere.
And leather chairs so shiny it takes everything in me not to fall out of mine by bracing my feet against the floor to keep my ass put in the slippery seat.
After a short silence, Durham clears his throat, his easy smile returning as he moves on. “Now, for those of you who haven’t had a chance to review the briefings, our friends at NATO have just successfully completed a strike against Yugoslavian armed forces facilitated by the information Agent Brin recovered through a very skillful covert infiltration operation.”
The flattery sounds false even to my ears.
Brin just looks bored.
She loudly clacks her candy against her teeth with a pointed pop of her tongue, looking out the window.
I hide a grin.
With a sigh, Durham continues. “What Agent Brin also unearthed was a cache of Soviet-era data on a number of interesting abandoned projects the Reds were working on—projects that could prove very useful and highly relevant to our current aspirations. Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll turn your attention to the slides...”
Oh, fuck. Here we go. The real reason we sent Brin on that dangerous goddamn raid.
It was never about helping NATO or anybody else stop a bloody civil war.
Durham wants his precious monster data—stuff so secret the best of the best couldn’t ferret it out of the Russians at the height of the Cold War. Until today, I figured he was just chasing dragons. Make-believe demons.
Turns out, some of it, at least, is real. Leland Durham looks like a man who just hit the jackpot.
On and on, he drones.
How we could integrate these abandoned technologies into our new supersoldier program, and perhaps create something more than just highly trained men.
I’m not a big fan of the Ubermensch thing, but Durham’s eyes are sparkling, almost fanatic. Dr. Ross looks like he might actually be hard underneath the table. Fucking gross.
I’ve gotten a little too good at masking my reactions to this shit.
And a little too good at hiding how increasingly uncomfortable I am working for this company as they descend deeper and deeper into experiments even greed shouldn’t be able to buy. Much less justify.
It bothers me.
Call it obscene. It’s a sick joke how every leap in technology that eventually benefits the lives of the common person starts here.
Born from some wild-eyed, money-hungry dick like Durham who gets wrapped up in his own manic power fantasies as he drives military advancement after military advancement.
Because all the biggest money’s in figuring out how to kill people better than the people who want to kill you.
Not save them.
But it’s Brin who catches my attention as her gaze swivels back to Durham.
It’s back again.
That dead, hollow-eyed expression she wears in the photograph.
Her vibrant energy is gone, diffused, leaving her stone-cold and still.
And I realize that expression isn’t so empty at all.
It’s filled with a contempt so deep, so powerful, that it’s all-consuming and sucks the emotion out of her.
And it’s directed solely at no one but the father of Galentron—Leland Durham himself.
* * *
That look on Agent Patty Brin’s face is still on my mind by the time I make it home to my penthouse apartment. Home sweet home instantly makes me more at ease, looking out over the Seattle skyline with a view fit for the gods.
My balcony deck lords over the entire city, perfectly bisected by a more aesthetic, graceful view of the Space Needle than the Galentron boardroom.
It’s better appreciated from a distance, anyway.
Preferably while mildly buzzed.
The sunset glimmers off Elliott Bay as I settle on the balcony to pour what’ll likely be the first of many glasses from a bottle of Riesling. It’s from the Delaney vineyard in Northern Calif
ornia, a highly sought, best-kept-secret sort of winemaker that never lets me down.
I need the liquid courage more lately, something to lift the weight off my shoulders.
Too bad I’m starting to think that increasingly crushing load just might be my conscience.
Fuck.
And sooner or later, there won’t be enough wine in the world to make me forget the burden. Not until I either do something to ease it or...
...or let it obliterate me.
If Leland Durham doesn’t do it first.
This isn’t a normal office grind I can up and leave before it sucks out what’s left of my soul.
I know too much for them to let me just resign and walk away cleanly.
My fingers tighten around my glass. It’s this fragile thing I could shatter a thousand ways.
A grim reminder of how I could be shattered a thousand more by a Galentron hit team. Especially if that maniac, Dr. Ross, ever decided to unleash a pack of his mind-fucked elite soldiers on my sorry ass.
An Army Intelligence grunt like me with a hard run in the Gulf War and then inside North Korea wouldn’t stand a chance. No official training in the world preps you for coming face-to-face with enhanced supersoldiers.
Misery loves company, doesn’t it?
So I raise my glass to the sunset, toasting the only friend I’ve got in the eerily peaceful sunset.
If only that sun could do something to shine away my woes.
The mood lingers as I flop down in a lounge chair and breathe in the breezy air, mingled with the aroma rising delicately off my wine.
I can’t help wondering, what would Agent Brin do with my dilemma? My lips curve faintly against the glass as I take my first sip.
She’d probably throat-punch Durham, right at his desk, for one.
Then dare him to send the hounds after her while she strutted out with her head held high. She’s something special for already winning my respect.
Isn’t she just another one of those highly conditioned, insanely efficient monsters? Even if she’s a far prettier one than the latest crop they’re schooling in Ross’ lair.
When I take my next sip of wine, something stirs in the wind.
It’s like thinking about her summons the smell of smoke, a hint of bonfire. An unusual smell here, so close to the dense city center.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle and my nostrils flare.
Hell. I already know she’s there before I even turn my head.
I throw a sharp look over my shoulder and—
Bingo.
She’s there, all right.
Looks like a stray followed me home.
Standing in the doorway of the balcony, leaning between the frame and the glass sliding door. A fall-scented candle I’d forgotten I had is lit on my kitchen counter behind her. That explains the smell.
Damn, she’s good.
I didn’t hear her coming. Didn’t hear her picking the lock on my door, either.
And my state-of-the-art Crown Security alarm didn’t even beep once.
These girls are like ghosts. Invisible. Unstoppable. Highly unpredictable.
And from what I saw in that meeting and read in several other reports?
Very fucking dangerous.
But I don’t feel any hint of threat radiating off her. She just looks on, her sleek grey eyes as shiny as mirrors. She has her arms folded over her chest, her tight, trim figure tense but not aggressive, not ready to strike.
It really is like being watched by a large cat.
She might eat you, but she’s just not in the mood right now. Not yet.
She’s more curious than anything. She might bat you around for fun, but she’s too lazy to rip you to shreds until later.
Lucky me.
Brin looks past me for a moment to take in the view off the balcony, the glowing sunset on the bay. Her tongue works another one of those pink mini jawbreakers or whatever the hell they are with little click-clacks against her teeth.
They stain her lips pink, too, I notice.
Does her mouth also taste like sugar?
Or is it as bitter as her barbed tongue and that slicing gaze?
Which snaps back to me, locking on as she says bluntly, “You were watching me today.”
I snort.
“Damn right. You’re the living version of a loaded gun,” I counter. “Situational awareness around something like that’s just good common sense.”
“Some-thing?” Her smile looks dry but oddly pleased. “Is that what I am to you? A something?”
Fuck.
Her question sounds oddly...human.
“I don’t know what you are,” I say slowly, arching a brow. “Except exceptionally good at breaking and entering.” I gesture at the seat opposite me. “If you’re going to make yourself at home, at least have a seat.”
She shrugs, shoulders tight, her pale bare skin catching the fading light to turn shades of blush and gold, a gilded glow catching along one stark white collarbone.
Without a word, she pushes away from the door with fluid grace and drops herself down in the chair.
She carries herself like a lanky, coltish tomboy, but there’s a powerful elegance under it.
The woman knows her own strength.
She controls it.
And I could see her transforming herself in an instant from this casual, relaxed soldier into something refined and lethal.
As she sits, kicking back to prop her feet up on the balcony railing and clacking her candy against her teeth, I stand. I quickly step into the apartment to grab another wine glass off the table inside.
For a second, I consider reaching for my concealed gun hidden in the counter, too.
But what would be the point? If this is a hit, there’ll be more assassins where she came from.
While I pour, she watches me from the corner of her eye. That razor-sharp line of precision-cut hair shields her face and makes her look more vixen than cat.
“You look more impressive with your sleeves rolled up. More like a man than some empty suit,” she says, her eyes raking over my arms. “I’m partial to the shrieking phoenix.”
I try not to laugh.
It’s easy to forget what a beast I am when I’m not stuffed up in a monkey suit. It’s taken years, countless hours under the needle to turn every square inch of me that doesn’t see the light of day into art.
My thing? It’s birds.
Ravens. Eagles. Hawks. Fantastic mythological fliers plus ultra realistic birds of prey branded on my skin in freaky detail.
“Thanks.” I grunt. I think. “Plenty more where that came from.”
“Do you really feel so caged? Kinda ruins the mystery. Having to wear it right in the open and...wherever else you decided to torture yourself,” she says, her eyes dipping down to my beltline.
Shit. Speaking of ruining mysteries...
I snort again. “Got a whole aviary on my back, lady. Don’t read too much into it. I’m hardly pining away for sweet freedom like some songbird in a box if that’s what you’re thinking. My birds are part of me. Symbols. History. Life well lived. Not life I’ve missed.”
“Well lived? Hmm.” She quirks a pointed eyebrow.
I ignore her. “Do they even let you wear ink in the Nightjars?”
She looks at me and blinks.
“Right. Dorm life. Tight working units. Constant supervision. Dumb question.” Why the hell do I feel like I’ve just been thrown back to my sophomore year trying to ask the hottest chick in class to homecoming? I’m too old for this shit—especially when it involves a girl who could snap my neck in under a second.
“Hardly,” she sighs. “The dumb part was assuming a Nightjar gets to enjoy any hint of individuality. They ground that out of us in the first year.”
I cock my head. What she’s saying isn’t wrong. The program was run like every special forces boot camp meets MKULTRA CIA brainwashing lab.
But the way Brin wears her hair and that edge in her v
oice says she’s not a hundred percent ice-cold, mechanical kill-machine.
Not completely.
She props her arms over her head, folding them against her hair, just rolling that ball of candy incessantly from side to side. Just like she wants to keep me focused on her lips.
Fuck me, it’s working.
And I wonder if I’m destined to get taken out of this world thanks to thinking with my dick.
Goddamn.
I’m at least ten years older than her.
At least ten years calmer, but hell.
I’m only an overworked, overstressed, morally tainted man.
Only human.
And her mouth is a tart little thing that looks like it’d sting so sweet to kiss.
“You won’t enjoy this,” I say, holding up the wine.
She smirks. “Oh, please. I’ve had better wines with diplomats twice your age. Don’t think I can’t handle my red. This stuff is weak as applesauce.”
That actually makes me grin. “I was talking about your candy. It’ll sour the taste.”
“Then it’s perfect.” She reaches out to take the glass and swirls it, inhaling with a practiced movement far too old for that pixie-cat face. “I like bitter things, Mr. Major.”
Do you? I wonder, a quirk in my lips.
But I keep that question to myself, settling in the chair and picking up my own glass of wine. “I told you why I was looking at you. Now why don’t you answer why you came looking for me?”
She smirks again.
It’s a one-sided thing. Every time she does it, she looks more fox than feline.
Whatever else Brin is, she’s an animal.
A sleek bombshell lioness, that’s for sure.
And there’s something purely carnivorous in the way she eyes me sidelong, her fingertip twirling around the edge of her glass, making it sing with a soft, almost ominous sound.
“Maybe I just wanted to know how you taste,” she teases, a husky edge in her voice. “Better than candy or bitter like chocolate?”
“Chocolate isn’t bitter,” I point out, though I’m drawn by that tone in her voice. Sad to say, I’m hard.
“The real stuff is. That syrupy-sweet artificial mess...no.” Her gaze drifts away from me, pensive, lidded, watching the skyline over her wine. “Real chocolate is bitter and dark and pure and delicious.”
“You’re not being subtle, you know, if it’s a metaphor for yourself.”