Atlanta Heat (2 page)

She had been taken from him. As the admiral had snapped in his taciturn voice, she had been stolen. And the admiral’s blue eyes, chips of icy rage, had glared at Macey.

“You’ll find her. Find her and hide her, Macey. You’re the best, and that’s what she needs now.”

The best. Yeah, he was the best at this. Tracking, killing. The admiral had made certain his men were the best; he considered Macey one of his, despite their problems.

Now, Macey crouched in the corner of the shadowed warehouse and told himself it was all in a day’s work. He would get through it because he didn’t have a choice, and he would do it right because that
was the only way he knew how to do things. Even when he fucked up, he always made it right in the end. Answering the admiral’s call at midnight was his chance.

He’d fucked up last month. He hadn’t just lost rank for messing with the wrong woman, but he had walked away from the woman as well. Dumb move. Hell, the admiral had had every right to be pissed when he demanded to know Macey’s intentions toward his goddaughter. He had, after all, just caught Macey in a rather explicitly compromising position with her.

Unfortunately, Macey hadn’t had the right answers, so to say he was surprised when the admiral called to assign him to the mission to rescue her was an understatement. But as the admiral had known, there was no keeping the information from him. There was no keeping him away from her. And that was besides the fact that the admiral knew Macey would give his own life to protect her.

It was partially his and the admiral’s fault she had been kidnapped, after all. The remnants of a terrorist and white slavery organization he had helped to destroy were now striking back at the admiral because of his part in the assassination of the head of that organization. And the admiral’s goddaughter was his only weak spot.

“Remind me to put your names on my birthday card list.” Emerson Delaney’s voice was soft and sweet, sugar-coated and so gently Southern it sounded ridiculously out of place here in the
darkened warehouse. “What was your name again? Mo, Larry or Curly?”

The sound of flesh hitting flesh sent his blood temperature rising. Fine, she was a smartass, but that was no reason to hit her, and some bastard inside that warehouse had hit her. He would kill the bastard who had dared to touch her.

“You, Miss Delaney, are in no position to sneer.” The accented voice was cold, purposeful. “You will pay for your godfather’s crimes.”

“Melodramatics,” she seemed to wheeze. “Pure melodramatics. Is that a French flaw or just your charming personality?”

The bastard hit her again. Macey knew he was going to have to move before the bastard put a bullet in her head.

Blood was going to spill tonight, and it wouldn’t be Emerson’s. He’d already made up his mind that the woman was his; he had only to stake his claim and convince her of it. But first they had to get her out of here. At least he had the element of surprise. The men who had kidnapped her from her bed had no clue that their route to the warehouse had been followed.

He turned to the SEAL with him, meeting the wild blue eyes of the demon stalking behind.

Nineteen months of torture and drug experimentation on Nathan had nearly broken him. It had definitely changed the SEAL for all time, but a year later, he was holding his own. Honed, savage, a creature of rage, but holding his own.

He held up three fingers. There were three guards posted at the entrance to the warehouse. He held up two more and pointed inside the warehouse. He was getting ready to give the command for Nathan to work his way around to the other side of the warehouse when the son of a bitch held up the flat of his hand and shook his head.

Before Macey could argue, Nathan was striding around the warehouse, calm, cool as hell, and crazier than a fucking loon. Son of a bitch. Macey gritted his teeth again, grinding his molars and cursing crazy Irish men to hell and back.

“Hey, dude, I need a light.” Nathan’s voice was ruined, slurred as he stumbled against the warehouse.

“Get the fuck out of here,” one of the guards cursed.

Macey peeked around, trained his weapon on the three guards.

Macey saw Nathan’s knife gleam in the darkness a second before he buried it in a smooth, hard upward strike into the heart of the first guard. The guard gasped, gave a shudder, then appeared to stagger with Nathan’s weight, taking him closer to the other two.

Three seconds later blood coated the asphalt and three French nationals, one of whom had embassy clearance, Macey had been informed, were propped up against the wall as Nathan moved into place beside the door, his demon eyes glaring across the distance.

Who needed a whole team of SEALs? He and Nathan were enough SEALs for this job. Nathan might be a tad mentally unstable in Macey’s opinion, but he was a hell of a killer. And that sucked. It used to be that Nathan shed blood only when there was no other alternative. Now, he killed without mercy, with expediency. He gave nothing or no one a chance to strike first.

“Your godfather Admiral Holloran will regret his part in the strike against our leader,” the terrorist was raging, as though Emerson was going to give a damn. “He and that bitch daughter that betrayed her father. Once we have her, you will be executed, your deaths viewed by millions and cheered on by the loyal followers of Sorrell.”

Sorrell, the son of a bitch terrorist and white slaver they had taken down months before was rearing his ugly head again, even after death.

“Wish you luck with that.” Emerson’s voice was weak. “I really wouldn’t expect more than a few dozen loyal hits; the rest will be for entertainment value alone. Kind of like a train wreck.” Her voice was flippant, but Macey could hear the fear in it.

Nathan smiled that demon smile of his. A hard curl of his lips, the flash of strong white teeth and cold hard death. He was a killing machine now, determined to take down the last cells of the terrorist organization that had backed Sorrell. Until it was finished, he couldn’t return to his own life, couldn’t reclaim his wife.

Nathan gestured, signifying that they go in low,
catch the two inside off guard, and snatch the girl. Hell, it would be risky. Too fucking risky. He shook his head and began to gesture a less risky move when Nathan crouched, slammed the door open and went in shooting.

“You stupid bastard!” Macey snarled, fury and an edge of fear growing in his gut as the sounds of gunfire exploded through the night.

He threw himself into the room, rolling to the chair Emerson was tied in and tipping it over. He jerked the knife from his boot and sliced the ropes holding her wrists and ankles. The two men with her lay in their own blood as Nathan moved quickly to cover Macey.

“There’s more coming,” Nathan hissed as Macey checked the girl quickly for injuries.

She was glaring at him. Her hazel eyes were pinpoints of fury, the green in them nearly overshadowing the brown, glittering in a rush of anger as she snarled back at him. That was Emerson—fear made her angry. Made her snap and snarl and that was a hell of a lot preferable to tears. Could he handle tears from Emerson?

“We have to run for it,” he warned her.

“You have to drag your heavy ass off me first,” she panted. “Dammit, Macey, you weigh a ton.”

“Move!” Nathan snapped behind him. “Here they come!”

He jerked her to her feet, ignoring her gasp, grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her through the shadowed, cavernous building at a low run.

“I lost a shoe,” she gasped.

“So lose the other one,” he growled, checking behind them and praying Nathan kept up rather than dropping behind to shed more blood.

That boy was going to end up getting himself killed, if he didn’t end up getting them all killed.

“I’ll put those on your tab,” she informed him, her voice bland despite the breathless quality of it and the fear in her eyes. “You can pay for them later.”

“Sure,” he snarled, jerking her around another crate as the front of the warehouse erupted in curses. “I’ll go right out and buy you a new pair.”

“They’re very hard to find,” she informed him with testy patience as he jerked her low to the floor, within feet of the back entrance, and motioned Nathan to secure the exit.

“Should he be going out there by himself?” she leaned close to his ear and voiced the question. “The bad guys would cover the back, wouldn’t they?”

Nathan gave the all-clear.

“Not this time. Shut up and run.” He pulled her behind him, moving past Nathan as he collected the automatic rifle they had hidden in the back. He followed at Emerson’s back, placing himself between her and any bullets that would have flown through the night.

Lights illuminated the warehouse and the lot in a flood of color, only a millisecond behind their rapid push through the chain-link fence that they had cut earlier. The truck was on the other side of the neighboring lot, less than a quarter of a mile
and with plenty of cover. With any luck they were home free.

“I can’t run like this,” Emerson gasped behind him.

God, did he think “luck”? Didn’t he remember that luck didn’t exactly look favorably toward him, even at the best of times?

He looked back and nearly groaned. As she ran, those impressive, make-a-man’s-mouth-water breasts were jiggling, reminding him of more than one night’s worth of erotic dreams that he’d had concerning them.

“We’re almost there.” He pulled her to him, wrapped his arm around her waist, and half carried her as they snaked through the hulking, shadowed crates, equipment and vehicles that filled the industrial warehouse lot they were running through.

Nathan moved quickly ahead of them now, securing the area to the truck as Macey gritted his teeth again. Her left breast was moving against his side, a firm, erotic weight that he should be shot for noticing.

Save the girl first
, he reminded himself.

But it wasn’t the breasts that drew him and Macey knew it. It was the woman, and that was what terrified him clear down to his combat boots. The woman could take him down, and he had a feeling he was getting ready to go down hard.

EMERSON DELANEY KNEW SHE
was in trouble the minute hard hands jerked her from her bed and
pulled her from her home. She had been driven through Atlanta surrounded by hard, cold-eyed terrorists intent on death. There hadn’t been a doubt in her mind that they intended to kill her. Just as there hadn’t been a doubt in her mind that Macey would be sent to rescue her.

Tall, over six feet four inches, perhaps six five, dark brown eyes, long dark hair, and a bad-boy sexy face. He was the rebel, the troublemaker. The man she couldn’t stop thinking about or dreaming about. And the one she knew would come for her.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Macey March tossed her into the backseat of the dual cab pickup, followed in after her, and gave the other man the order to drive. They eased out of the parking lot slowly, lights out, rather than tearing out of it in a scream of tires, which would have surely alerted any terrorists nearby.

The dark vehicle blended in with the shadows of hulking semis and eased out of the warehouse district and into the stream of traffic bordering it. The headlights came on then, and she wondered if it was okay to breathe yet.

She glanced over at Macey, aware that he was watching the traffic with narrow-eyed intent, his weapon held low against his thigh, his hand still pressing her shoulders against the soft leather seat, keeping her hidden from view.

“Could you pull my skirt down? It’s riding up.” There was a demon imp that came out every time she came in contact with the huge, taciturn SEAL.
She couldn’t help it. Needling him was her favorite sport.

A large, broad hand smoothed her skirt from high on her thigh back to her knees. And he did it … slowly. As though he were savoring the act.
She
sure as hell was. She stared up at him in the darkness, aware of the fact that he was apparently unaffected.

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” She shifted her legs against his. “Next time I get kidnapped, remind me to wear panties.”

His expression tightened, as did the hand on her knee. “Don’t fuck with me right now.”

“I’m fully dressed, Lieutenant, so ‘fucking’ with you is the least of your worries at the moment.”

He smiled a slow, predatory smile.

“If you don’t shut that smart mouth of yours, I’ll have to shut it for you.”

“How are you going to do that?” she whispered back. Excitement churned inside her as he leaned over her, bringing his face closer, his lips so much closer, making her mouth water.

“By cutting out your tongue. I’ll blame it on the terrorists.”

She sighed with dejection. “Damn. There goes that tongue ring I was going to invest in.”

A rough chuckle sounded from the driver as Macey’s eyes narrowed in contemplation.

“Give me trouble, Em, and you’ll regret it.”

“Give me lip, Macey, and I’ll bite it.” She snapped her teeth back at him and was rewarded with a flare of lust in his gaze. Unfortunately, the lust came with
more than she expected. It came with a wolf’s grin and a knowing smirk.

“Be careful, Emerson, because I’ve been known to bite back.”

EMERSON JENNIFER DELANEY WAS
shaking. At least on the inside. She’d be damned if she would let Macey, the big, tough, larger-than-life Navy SEAL she’d always lusted over, see her shake on the outside. She wouldn’t let
anyone
see her shake on the outside if she could help it. It wasn’t acceptable. Good Navy children had a stiff upper lip and kept their fears to themselves. They weren’t whiny babies or wimps, and if they made the mistake of being one in her family, then they learned fast the error of their ways.

So she let herself shake inside. All through the ride, while her legs remained draped over his, his large hand occasionally cupping her knees as he flicked a heated look at her.

Otherwise, he watched the traffic, kept a careful check through the back window, and talked to Nathan Malone in SEAL jargon that Emerson had only halfway learned to translate throughout her
life of dealing with Navy SEALs, admirals, and various officers. Even her mother was an officer, as were her aunts on her father’s side, various uncles, and cousins. Out of her entire family on her father’s side, in three generations, Emerson was the only one to buck tradition and make a life and a career outside that hallowed institution.