Ride the Thunder (5 page)

“Wh . . . Where did you work?” Almost in spite of herself, she was fascinated by his past, repelled yet attracted.

“Central America, Africa, South America. I moved around a lot. You’ve got to remember that I wasn’t very good at picking a winner so the wars rarely lasted long. Either that or the money gave out, which meant I wasn’t paid and there wasn’t cash to buy ammunition or guns . . . or food.” Brig didn’t go into details about comrades killed, food that wasn’t fit to eat but had been consumed anyway because there was nothing else, or sleeping on the ground with no protection against the elements. And he didn’t talk about the soldiers that fell under the bead of his gun.

“Why did you quit? You must have been young at
the time.” She stopped making any attempt to hide her curiosity as she scooted into a more comfortable position to listen to his answer.

The sheet was draped around her hips. The heavy globes of her breasts drooped against her ribcage, the large rosy-crested centers swaying as she moved. Brig was momentarily distracted from her question. His hand reached out to caress the nearest breast.

“There was an ambush. My patrol was caught in the middle of it. I remember a bullet tearing into my shoulder and then yelling at everyone to take cover. Then everything went black,” he said. “When I came to, there was a butchering doctor standing beside me. He had a scalpel and a pair of forceps in his hands. He was going to dig the bullet out of me. I was lying on the ground underneath a piece of canvas strung up as a lean-to. Flies were everywhere. This doctor jammed a bullet between my teeth and told me to bite it. The makeshift hospital didn’t have any anesthesia. When he started probing and cutting into me, I realized that I didn’t want their damned money or their war. Before I blacked out again, I swore if I lived through the so-called surgery, I was going to get the hell out of there. My life was worth more than the money they were paying me.”

“And did you?”

“Did I live through it? No, I died,” Brig mocked the question.

“I meant, did you quit after that?” Trudie elaborated.

“Yes. As soon as I could move, I headed for the States . . . and ultimately here. End of story.” He started to pull her back into his arms and begin a more intimate exploration of her heavy breasts.

But Trudie wasn’t satisfied and she laid a rigid arm against him to maintain distance. “When you came back, did you see your grandfather again?”

“No. He’d had a massive coronary. They buried him a month before I returned.” He took hold of the hand on his chest straining to keep them apart and lifted it
to his mouth. He kissed the tips of her fingers and slowly worked his way to the palm, licking the sensitive hollow with the tip of his tongue. He heard the tiny gasp of arousal she tried to conceal.

“What about his business?” She let herself be pulled down. “His money?”

“He left it all to another grandson, my cousin.” Which wasn’t precisely the truth, but Brig was tired of the questions. And the answer to that one wasn’t any of her business.

“The cousin you are going to New York to see?” she persisted.

“The very same.”

Brig rolled her onto her back. The most effective way to silence her endless questions seemed to be with a kiss. While he ravished her lips, he felt the resistance ebb from her. Cupping the weight of one breast in his hand, he teased its peak into hardness with his thumb. His knee forced its way between her legs to spread them apart.

As his mouth followed the curve of her cheek to her neck, Trudie whispered in his ear, “You are a horny bastard, Brig McCord.” Her voice was reluctant in its demand for satisfaction. He laughed softly at her loving insult.

T
HE NOISE.
H
E’D
forgotten the noise of a big city. The stream of traffic was a constant hum, punctuated by horns and whistles for a taxi. Voices with a variety of accents and languages seemed to drum into his ears. The heat was stifling after the coolness of the mountains. The sun beat down and the miles of concrete streets and buildings baked in its reflected warmth. The air was foul with the smell of gasoline fumes and automobile exhausts. Not even the hog dogs and sausages from the push cart at the corner had an appetizing aroma.

Bending down, Brig looked inside the open window of the cab. The driver was slowly and painstakingly counting out his change, fumbling through pockets and producing money from each one. It was an old ploy to try to increase his tip by wearing out the patience of the passenger waiting for his change.

“It’s your time you’re wasting, friend,” Brig dryly informed the cab driver. “I’ve got all day.” The last
bill magically joined the others and the wiry man passed him his money. “Thanks.”

As he stepped onto the sidewalk, the cab pulled away from the curb, forcing its way into the traffic. Brig paused to look up at the building towering in front of him. The main office of Sanger Corporation occupied the entire twenty-third floor.

“We grow them tall in New York, cowboy,” some wise-cracking pedestrian remarked.

His dusty gaze flicked to the young man already laughing over the comment with his companion. Brig noticed the curious glances his white straw Stetson, brown boots, and western-cut leisure suit of forest green were receiving from the passersby. He would have drawn less attention if he’d been wearing a long, flowing robe of a sheik, he thought cynically.

Entering the building, he walked to the elevators. A pair of doors slid open as a bell dinged and an “up” arrow was lit. Brig stepped inside and pushed the floor button. More passengers entered, two young women among them. Brig removed his hat as everyone shifted to allow more room. A young brunette stood beside him, giving him the eye. She didn’t look old enough to be out of school, but Brig suspected she was probably twenty. They all looked so young to him any more. He could remember when girls of twenty looked old. A sign of age, he thought wryly, and his lips twitched in amusement beneath the dark broom of his thick mustache.

“Are you from Texas?” the girl asked with a look that was certainly not sizing up his home state. She was as short as Trudie, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder.

“Idaho.”

“Idaho?” The girl repeated. Brig could tell by her puzzled expression that she had no idea where it was. A surge of disgust swept through him. Didn’t anybody in New York realize there were forty-nine other states out there? The dumb broad probably thought Idaho was a potato.

The elevator hummed to a stop and the doors slid silently open. “Excuse me. This is my floor.” He pushed his way past the girl, who was startled by his abrupt behavior.

Habit returned the hat to his head once he was out of the elevator. Glass doors were emblazoned with gold and black letters that spelled out “Sanger Discount Stores,” below that “Corporate Headquarters.” Brig felt the tightening in his gut, a sensation he hadn’t been conscious of feeling since his guerrilla days. His jaw hardened, flexing a muscle in his sun-browned cheek. A deadly calm settled over him.

With long, unhurried strides, he walked to the glass doors of the main reception area and pushed them open. A very attractive black woman sat behind a large desk. Her appearance was one of efficiency, embellished with smooth sophistication. Her eyes were softly brown, and sharply intelligent. The smile she gave him was polite and nothing more.

“May I help you?” Her voice had a husky, soothing quality that was very easy on the ear.

The hat came off again as he towered in front of her desk. “Max Sanger, please.” Brig clipped out the request.

Her eyes made a quick assessing sweep of him, an eyebrow arching briefly in hesitation. “The President of the company?”

“The very same.” The dryness of humor was in his look. Obviously, he didn’t fit the required standard of people who asked to see the President of the firm.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Sanger is a very busy man. He doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. I’ll connect you with his secretary if you like, and she can acquaint you with his schedule and when he might be available to see you.”

He was very politely receiving the brush-off. Brig smiled, but it was a cold expression. He tapped the
brim of his hat on her desk phone. “You call Max and tell him Brig McCord is here. He’ll see me.”

Without waiting for a response, Brig turned away from the desk and walked across the width of the reception area with its potted plants, ultra-modern furniture of glass and chrome, and lush pile carpeting. He stopped at the window overlooking midtown Manhattan and the glimpse of green to the north that was Central Park. His stance was a slightly wide-legged one of command, a hand negligently thrust in the pocket of his pants. Holding his hat by the crease in the crown, he tapped it against his thigh in vague impatience.

Behind him, he heard the receptionist pick up the receiver. A few seconds later, she was speaking softly to someone, her low murmur making the words unintelligible.

“Mr. McCord?” At her questioning voice, Brig made a half-turn to give her a sidelong look. She held the receiver in her hand, the mouthpiece covered. “His secretary informs me that Mr. Sanger is in a meeting. He left word to hold all calls. Would you like to speak to her?”

After a negative movement of his head, Brig said calmly, “Tell her to take him my message.”

“I’ll tell her.” She looked skeptical, but complied. As the minutes ticked by, Brig returned his attention to the haze and dust hanging around the tops of the skyscrapers. At the click of the telephone, he sent a glance over his shoulder. There was a new look of respect in the attractive features of the black receptionist. “Mr. Sanger will be right out, sir.”

“Thank you.” His lip curled in cynicism. Nothing had changed since his grandfather’s time. A man was still judged by who jumped when he called. Brig didn’t turn from the window until he heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor.

The man walking toward him had a smile fixed on his face. For all the naturalness of its expression, it didn’t reach his cool, blue eyes. Dressed in a dark
vested suit and color-coordinated shirt and tie, he had the slender build of a dancer. Brig didn’t need to see the lining of the suit jacket to know that it was hand-tailored by the best in the business. The only changes fourteen years had made in his cousin was the distinguished sprinkling of gray in his black, curling hair. Max was ten or eleven years older, approaching fifty. His appearance was smoothly polished to project the proper image. Brig caught a whiff of a manly cologne and couldn’t help comparing it to the pungent odor of a skunk.

“Brig!” Max Sanger’s voice sounded genuinely delighted to see him, but Brig knew better. “My God, man! How long has it been?”

“Fourteen years.” His hand was gripped by smooth fingers while another hand clasped his forearm to demonstrate affection. Brig was conscious of his calloused palms. “A nice, firm handshake, Max,” he observed with arid coolness. “Just the way the old man taught.”

An uneasiness flickered in the blue eyes, but it was quickly masked as his cousin laughed. “You haven’t changed, Brig. You’re still the cynic.” He clamped a hand on Brig’s shoulder in a further attempt to establish a camaraderie that had never existed between them. “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I couldn’t believe it when my secretary told me you were here.”

“A tactic held over from my mercenary days—never give advance warning before you strike.”

His cousin abandoned his pretense of friendliness, his arm dropping to his side. “I’m not your enemy, Brig,” he stated.

Brig feigned a mild surprise. “Did I say you were?”

With a thinning mouth. Max Sanger made a sweep of the reception area and suggested, “Why don’t we go to my office where we can have some privacy?”

“By all means,” Brig agreed and followed a half-step behind, as his cousin led the way down the corridor. At the far end was a set of double doors. Max
opened one and waited for Brig to precede him. His secretary glanced up as they entered, her gaze swinging curiously to Brig. She was an older woman, starched and pinched.

“Hold all my calls, Agnes,” Max ordered. Another set of doors led into an inner office.

It was a massive room, occupying a corner of the building. Large windows lined two walls. A large hardwood desk sat diagonally in the corner with an executive-style leather chair behind it. Along with two stuffed armchairs, there were a long sofa and coffee table as well as a wet bar. Brig walked to the window to look at the view.

“Impressive,” he murmured with a trace of sarcasm. “But it was designed to be, wasn’t it?” No comment was forthcoming from Max Sanger as he sat down and let his slender build become enfolded in the plush chair behind the desk. He swiveled toward Brig, leaning back to regard him through narrowed blue eyes. Brig reached in his shirt pocket for the pack of cigarettes. His hand stayed there for an instant. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“It wouldn’t stop you if I did.” Max moved the heavy copper ashtray on his desk to the side closest to Brig. ‘Why don’t you come to the point, Brig? This isn’t a social call. You aren’t trying to re-establish family ties. Just exactly why are you here?”