Secure Target (Elite Operators) (9 page)

As she watched him release her brother, and as Harlen got shakily to his knees, she realized that on some level she’d been thinking of Bronnik as a pretty regular guy who happened to have a risky career. More and more she was coming to understand that he was quite the opposite. He was an extraordinary man who put his life on the line every day, and did it without fear.

That scared her.

And thrilled her.

As Harlen shuffled toward the entrance of the restaurant they’d just left, Bronnik pulled out his phone.

“Stay where you are—it was unrelated. Just her brother running his mouth. We’re on the move now, keep close.”

As he turned his calm blue eyes on her, that old humiliation took one last lap at her gut.

“I’m sorry. I never thought that stupid rumor would get back to him, not so quickly anyway, and I never imagined he’d care enough to confront me about it.”

He dismissed her with a noise of irritation, crossing around the back of the car to open her door. “Don’t you dare apologize for him. He deserved much worse.”

She slumped into her seat. He slid into the driver’s side and put the key in the ignition but didn’t turn it. She looked at him expectantly.

To her astonishment, his smile bordered on sheepish. “Look, I grew up without a father, and I have two older sisters who happen to have terrible taste in men. My protective instinct is a little overdeveloped when it comes to women I give a damn about.”

“Are you saying you give a damn about me?”

Bronnik cleared his throat and started the engine. “I can’t very well save you from Hardy only to have your brother undo all my handiwork, can I? Now, on to our afternoon activity.”

She twisted to look out the window, concealing her delighted smile from his view. Secretly she tucked this moment deep inside her heart where it would be safe, ready to take out and hold on to the next time she needed it.

Chapter Seven

“A shooting range?”

“I saw it when we were driving earlier.” Bronnik forced playful enthusiasm into his tone. There was no way he was telling her he wanted to be sure she could defend herself with a firearm, if it came to that. “Have you ever shot a gun before?” he asked, although he could guess the answer.

“Can’t say I have.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste as she followed him through the main entrance. “Can’t say it’s a particularly burning, unfulfilled desire either.”

“One round and you’ll be addicted,” he assured her. They approached the slim, middle-aged man at the front desk.

“One lane, two shooters please.” He took out his wallet. The man looked at him skeptically.

“You got ID?”

Lacey dug out her driver’s license, which the man barely glanced at before handing it back and staring at Bronnik expectantly. Normally he would’ve produced his driver’s license as well, but he sensed it might be quicker if he skipped to the second option. He slid his badge across the counter.

The man’s eyes lit up. “Special Task Force,” he read with a newfound reverence. “What are you doing all the way out here in Kansas?”

“Visiting my girlfriend,” he supplied. Lacey offered a little wave.

“Well, welcome to America,” the man said warmly before turning around to ring up the lane rental. Bronnik glanced sideways at Lacey, who caught his gaze and rolled her eyes.

“At least he’s friendly,” he murmured.

“Special rate for the Special Task Force,” the man said when he returned with target sheets and two pairs of ear defenders. “Free of charge today, if you’ll do me one favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Let’s see what you’re shooting.”

He obligingly unholstered his weapon from the small of his back, cleared the chamber, ejected the magazine and handed it over.

The man turned it over in his hands. “Beretta 92FS. Nine millimeter. Very nice. Any problems with the locking block?”

Lacey shifted her weight impatiently. Bronnik shook his head. “Not thus far.”

“Very nice indeed,” the man repeated, and passed the weapon back. “You’re in lane three,” he said with a smile. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I should’ve known this would be your idea of a fun afternoon,” Lacey grumbled, draping the ear defenders around her neck as they walked through the corridor to the indoor range.

“How can you know you won’t like it if you’ve never tried?” But she was wrong—this was his idea of work, not play. If it was up to him and not a matter of practical necessity, he would have suggested they get coffee, walk around a bookstore, see a movie…

Which sounded suspiciously like a date, he realized with mild alarm.

“Do you know how this works?” He clipped the paper target onto the motorized track.

“Only from what I’ve seen in movies. You go first, so I can see how you do it.”

He hesitated. The point was for her to learn, not for him to show off. But at the same time, some long-dormant, adolescent part of him was eager to impress her. It was a strange impulse for a man who never struggled to attract women and wouldn’t particularly care if he did. It sat uneasily.

“Go on then.” He put on the ear defenders and turned around so his back was to the target. “Send it out as far as you like, then tell me when.”

He heard the squeak of the clip moving away down the track and eventually coming to a halt. He held the Beretta in two hands, pointed down, and focused on keeping his breathing steady and easy.

“Go,” Lacey called. Bronnik spun, sighted and shot in one quick motion. He squinted at his results as he lowered the gun and she began running the target back to the booth.

The bullet had gone through a hairsbreadth left of the center. Not perfect, but he’d take it.

“Wow,” Lacey breathed, popping her fingertip into the hole in the paper sheet. “That’s incredible.”

His nonchalance was completely affected—on the inside, his chest was puffing like a robin in spring. “Most of what I get called out on are kidnapping and hostage situations. I don’t have the luxury of time in those instances—I need to be able to burst into a darkened room, locate the perpetrators and disable them before they can harm the hostage, who they’re often holding at gunpoint. Precision, speed and confidence are essential.”

She simply stared at him in response, the complex activity behind those pretty green eyes a mystery to him, as usual.

“Your turn,” he urged, and sent the target back down the range, though not very far. Her expression was wary as she took her place at the booth.

He stood behind her, giving the supple curve of her hip a light pat. “Feet shoulder-width apart,” he instructed. “Safety comes off like this. Check the chamber to make sure it’s clear. Are you right- or left-handed?”

“Right.” Her voice was uncertain, and he had a stab of guilt at putting her through an exercise she was clearly unhappy about. Still, he knew he had to press on.

“Step out a bit with your left foot.” He reached around her and put the Beretta in her right hand, steeling himself against the heady rush of desire that flooded through him at the proximity of her body.

“Right hand grips here.” He moved her fingers into position. They were soft and small in his big hands. “Left hand wraps around the frame. Hold it tightly, and bring it up.” Keeping his hands over hers, with his arms on either side of her, he gently helped her heft the weapon until her elbows were almost completely straight.

“That’s it,” he murmured. The sweet, delicate scent of her was intoxicating. He blinked hard to clear his mind—it didn’t work. “Take aim. Easy, slow breaths. And fire.”

The shot resonated in the empty range, and Lacey let out a muffled squeal as the recoil threw her back against his chest.

He gritted his teeth against the surge of physical arousal that threatened to overwhelm him. He felt her arms sag and he locked his own, keeping the gun held up.

“That’s it, hold your stance—and fire,” he called, and she squeezed the trigger a second time.

After five rounds Bronnik was struggling to keep a grip on himself. Lacey’s minutest movements sent shockwaves dancing up and down his spine. The swing and shift of her glossy dark hair was hypnotizing. He felt like he was drowning in the touch and smell of her, hurtling toward a sensory overload that could only be relieved if he pressed her against the wall, ripped off her clothes and made love to her until she moaned his name in ecstasy.

His vision blurred at the thought. Carefully he guided her arms toward the floor and took the Beretta from her, thumbing the safety into place and shoving it into the holster clipped at the back of his belt. He plunked his ear defenders down on the ledge.

She turned to face him, flexing her fingers as she reached up to remove her own headset. Her eyes were bright with excitement, her cheeks flushed.

“How did I do?”

The last thread of his control snapped with a twang. “Amazing,” he managed hoarsely, and then his lips were on hers, his fingers buried deep in her thick, silken hair.

Lacey made a stifled sound of surprise, and his breathing froze—had he misread the signs? Maybe she didn’t want this, maybe he should stop, he should’ve asked her—

And then she relaxed in his arms, slipping her hands up his chest to grip his shoulders. Her touch left a trail of sizzling sensation in its wake, and he shuddered involuntarily, the force of the kiss resonating all the way through to his core.

Without breaking contact he scooped his arm under her thighs and hoisted her to a sitting position on top of the ledge at the end of the firing booth. She opened her jeans-clad legs and he pressed between them, redoubling the pressure of his mouth as she crossed her ankles behind his knees.

Lacey parted her lips tentatively, shyly. He responded in kind, and she slid her arms around his neck. Encouraged, he began to explore, gently probing her mouth with his tongue. She moaned softly, and he stiffened and ached. She was so soft and pliant under his hands, yet he could sense a thinly concealed flame burning within her, an untapped ferocity that fascinated and excited him. Her fingers dug into the taut muscles of his back, and he kissed her hungrily, feverishly, desperate to fill a need he’d never had before.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, the repetitive buzzing piercing the silence of the range.

He pulled back from her, growling a few choice words in Afrikaans. She watched him take out his phone like she was in a daze, her eyes dreamily half-closed, her mouth swollen. If this was Harris calling to give him another lecture on propriety…

“He’s in the ventilation system.” Thando’s voice was urgent when he took the call. “We saw him crawl in, but he could be anywhere by now.”

Bronnik looked up at the big metal duct that ran along the ceiling, spanning the length of the long, narrow room. He swallowed hard and reached for his weapon.

“FBI units are surrounding the building. Hold him if you can.” Thando’s tone dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. “But if he attacks you, take him out. Don’t wait for tactical backup and an arrest. End this if you can.”

Bronnik’s mind raced as he envisioned several potential conclusions to the next few minutes—and clamped down hard on the ones that involved Lacey’s blood anywhere but coursing through her veins. He looked at her, and she stared back, her brow wrinkled in confusion. He opened his mouth with nothing more than an “okay” on his tongue when a crashing metal clang sounded above him, a section of steel grating fell from the ceiling, and the man who’d loomed large in his nightmares for six months was standing before him.

The shriek that tore from Lacey’s throat was so involuntary that as soon as it registered she clamped her hands over her mouth as if she could stuff it back in. She slid off the ledge where she’d been perched. Bronnik motioned her behind him, his eyes never leaving the intruder, the Beretta drawn and held at his hip.

“Hello, Lloyd,” he said coolly.

“Sergeant Mason. It’s been some time.”

Lacey tried not to gape. This was Lloyd Hardy? This forty-something, squat, balding man barely three inches taller than her? He didn’t look remotely threatening—except for the four-inch knife clutched in his right hand.

“How’s your leg?” Bronnik asked flatly.

Hardy chuckled and it was a sinister, blood-chilling sound. “Much better, thank you. How are your internal organs?”

She sensed Bronnik tense in front of her, but when he spoke his voice was as even as if he was discussing the weather. “Ticking over quite nicely, as far as I can tell.”

“I caught you sampling my wares earlier.” Hardy was suddenly agitated, his face contorting. “Impolite though that is, I hope you don’t think it’s going to make me lose interest. Tomorrow night she’s mine, no matter where your clumsy farm-boy hands have been.”

“Not this time.” Bronnik sounded certain.

“I should’ve gotten rid of you a long time ago.” Hardy brandished the knife to emphasize the last three words.

To Lacey’s surprise and slight concern, Bronnik laughed. “It’s not my fault you’re a terrible shot. Come on, Hardy, this has gotten old. Aren’t you tired of running? I don’t think you want to die, but the longer this carries on, the more likely you’re going to finish this in a body bag instead of a courtroom.”