Shoot to Thrill
Table of Contents
“Intense pacing . . . powerful characters . . . searing
emotions, and explosive sexual tension! Once I started
reading
Shoot to Thrill
, I couldn’t stop! This is high-
action suspense at its very best!”
—Debra Webb, bestselling author
Find Me
Praise for the novels of
Nina Bruhns
“Shocking discoveries, revenge, humor, and passion fill the pages . . . An interesting and exciting story with twists and turns.”—
Joyfully Reviewed
“[A] delightfully whimsical tale that enchants the reader from beginning to end. Yo ho ho and a bottle of fun!”
—Deborah MacGillivray
“This is one you will definitely not want to miss!”
—
In the Library Reviews
“Nina Bruhns . . . imbues complex characters with a great sense of setting in a fast-paced suspense story overlaid with steamy sex.”—
The Romance Reader
“Gifted new author Nina Bruhns makes quite a splash in her debut . . . Ms. Bruhns’s keen eye for vivid, unforgettable scenes and a wonderful romantic sensibility bode well for a long and successful career.”—
Romantic Times
(4 stars)
“The intricate and believable plots crafted by Nina Bruhns prove she is a master of any genre. Her talent shines from every word of her books.”—
CataRomance.com
“The kind of story that really gets your adrenaline flowing. It’s action-packed and sizzling hot, with some intensely emotional moments.”—
Romance Junkies
“Nina Bruhns writes beautifully and poetically and made me a complete believer.”—
OnceUponARomance.net
“Tells a very rich tale of love . . . A book you are going to want to add to your collection.”—
Romance at Heart
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
SHOOT TO THRILL
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / August 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Nina Bruhns.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-12907-4
BERKLEY
®
SENSATION
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY
®
SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
This book is lovingly dedicated to my children,
Gordon, Spencer, and Natalie.
Dream big, kids, and never lose sight of them.
I love you always.
Acknowledgments
My heartfelt thanks to Brian Kissinger and CJ Lyons for their invaluable help with the intricacies of airplanes and diseases. And to my beloved critique partners, especially Dorothy McFalls, for keeping me on the straight and narrow. Thanks, guys!
And naturally a huge thanks goes to my wonderful editor, Kate Seaver, and my fabulous agent, Natasha Kern, for believing in me. Don’t know what I’d do without you, ladies!
ONE
Manhattan
August, present day
IT
was their shoes that gave them away.
The bastards.
Kick Jackson glanced at the three suits walking into the greasy New York diner where he ate lunch more days than not. He hoped against hope he’d been wrong and it was actually Jimmy Tang coming with his stuff.
It wasn’t.
Kick had known the respite was too good to be true. That one day his former life would come rushing back at him with weapons drawn. Wanting him to do another of their dirty missions somewhere in the fetid underbelly of the world, so they could keep their own lily-white hands clean.
What part of
go fuck yourself
didn’t they get?
Kick sighed in annoyance as the blue-haired waitress, Doris, shoved the burger plate with extra fries he’d ordered over the counter at him, and wordlessly refilled his chipped cup of coffee. Of all the days for them to show up. He
really
needed his stuff.
And hell, he’d already told anyone who’d listen that he was done with his old life. For good. No more.
Finito.
He didn’t give a fucking goddamn that the national security waiver he’d signed when he was young and foolish said they could pull him back whenever they wanted for the rest of his life. Getting blown to hell had just been the last straw in a long list of reasons he didn’t want any more to do with that gig. Ever.
But Zero Unit, his former CIA NOC-ops outfit, wasn’t known for taking no for an answer. They’d tracked him down officially—well, as officially as it got with a Non-Official Cover unit, meaning top secret and highly covert—at least half a dozen times over the sixteen months since his release from the hospital, making it clear they wanted him back. Last time they’d even tried threats. Obviously they’d forgotten he had nothing to lose. Hard to threaten a man who didn’t care what happened to him—as long as it happened here in the good ol’ US of A.
He might be in a bad way, but he still had his pride. Which was why he’d shot the last guy they’d sent with orders to bring him in to Zero Unit—not so affectionately known as the ZU—headquarters by force if necessary. Like that was going to happen. The moron had actually tried to take him down. Kick’d had no choice but to shoot him. And he’d even been nice and aimed for the leg. Maybe a permanent limp would teach the kid not to mess with the big boys. Kick’s own mangled leg had certainly taught him a lesson or two. . . .
But today his former unit commander had added insult to injury by sending a team of rank amateurs after him.
I mean, really
. Who wore sneakers and combat boots with suits and ties? Kick barely resisted snorting out loud as they approached his back in an oh-so-subtle fan formation.
Whatever.
“Hello, Kyle,” said the big one who seemed to be the lead clown. To be fair, he wore appropriate black dress shoes with his blue pinstripes . . . unlike the jarhead standing to his right in combat boots with an ill-fitting brown suit or the Amazon to his left looking uncomfortable in an ugly business skirt and formerly white sneakers. “How’s the leg?”
Kick ground his jaw. “The name’s Kick, and the leg’s fine; thanks for asking.” No sense starting out on the wrong foot. As it were. The two goons had their hands within quick reach of their concealed weapons. And, well, he
had
shot that other guy. They were probably feeling twitchy. He could relate.
Pinstripes eased a hip onto the stool next to his, hooking his heel on the crossbar. “The boss would like to have a little chat with you, Kyle.”
“It’s Kick, and I’m getting bored with this ritual, Mr. . . .”
“Call me Al,” Pinstripes helpfully supplied with a fake smile that didn’t make it past the taut muscles of his cheeks. He didn’t offer his hand. Smart guy.
“Seems to me, Al,” Kick said, sparing the man a casual glance—
Large-caliber sidearm in left shoulder-holster; creds in left breast jacket pocket and right hand positioned close to calf, therefore right-handed, and probably a knife strapped to right ankle
—“that the boss would have gotten the hint by now. I’m not. Interested.”
Pinstripes gave him a raised brow. “Haven’t you been watching the news? I’d think that al Sayika incident two days ago would make you interested.”
“You mean the three-second spot on CNN about al Sayika terrorists moving from Afghanistan to the Sudan?”
As if.
Fuck al Sayika, and double fuck Afghanistan. Scene of the worst betrayal in a lifetime filled with betrayals: the place where Kick had left more blood and body parts than he cared to remember—and where he’d lost his best friend. Hell, those were the
last
fuckers on earth he’d be interested in. “Then you’d think wrong,” he said, managing to hold his face neutral despite the acid churning in his gut at the reminder of everything he’d been trying so hard to forget for over a year.