Special Ops Affair (2 page)

No one was in her house and no one had stolen anything. Maybe she was just tired.

Going back to the snack bar, she saw the manila envelope and had second thoughts. She glanced once more around the living room, unable to shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone. Or, even more disturbing, the significance of the initials on the package. If the package was what she thought it was, someone could have a damn good reason to come after her.

Steadying her quickening breaths, she parted the opening in the package and slid out a clipped stack of papers. The top one was a picture of Hersch. She recognized him instantly. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled her with eerie foreboding. The file had come from one of her most trusted sources. The initials…

Something was wrong.

What did Hersch have to do with ELF? The magnitude of it wrapped around her mind and bombarded her with unanswered questions.

Glancing behind her, she lifted the first page to reveal another photo. This man she didn’t recognize. He stood outside a coffee shop, near the front door and next to a railing that bordered an outdoor patio. He was looking up the street. It was a full facial shot. He was an older man, probably in his fifties, maybe closer to sixty.

A sound from her left sent her pulse ricocheting in her chest. She faced the dining area. Someone was in there. She felt it. Sensed a presence. Dropping the papers and manila envelope onto the countertop, she started backing away.

A man dressed in black and wearing a ski mask appeared in the entrance to her kitchen.

He was big, with a barrel stomach and hulking shoulders. He’d come from the dining room. How had she missed him? Where had he been hiding?

He advanced toward her, moving around the snack bar. She pivoted and ran for the door. He was faster, leaping in front of her and blocking her escape, standing between her and the door. Panting for air, she backed into the living room, searching for some kind of a weapon. Could she make it to the kitchen drawer where she kept her knives? The lamp in her living room was too heavy to use as a club. She looked at the masked man again. He pulled a gun from a holster on his thigh.

Blood left her face, giving her skin a stark chill. Her pulse jackhammered. He didn’t say anything, which was creepier than if he had. Asking him what he wanted was moot. Obviously he was here because he knew about the package. It didn’t take much of a stretch to figure out he didn’t want her or anyone else to know about the contents.

She kept backing up and he kept advancing. When she reached the threshold of the dining area, she turned and ran around the wall into the kitchen. She made it to the knife drawer. The man strode toward her through the kitchen. She had to abandon grabbing a knife when she saw him swing his gun to hit her on the head. She moved, but he caught her with a hard blow.

She staggered. He raised his gun for another blow. She blocked the strike with her forearm. Pain shot all the way up to her shoulder.

Stomping as hard as she could on his instep, she rammed her elbow into his solar plexus. He grunted and stumbled backward. She turned and swung her leg to kick him in the head, but he was quicker and blocked her with his arm and then swiped her off balance. Her head hit the edge of the snack bar as she fell to the floor.

Dizzy, she crawled backward, trying to get around the snack bar, closer to the door. The masked man stepped toward her, leaning as he swung his gun again. She blocked the strike with her arm, more pain stinging her. He lost his grip on the gun. It skidded over the snack bar and landed on the living room floor.

With a growl, he formed a fist and tried to punch her. She blocked him again. What was he trying to do? Knock her out? Yeah, and then take her somewhere remote to kill her. What was in that package? It must be something big.

She crawled backward again, making it into the living room. He easily followed, coming alongside her and kicking her in the ribs. She shouted in pain. He hit her, his knuckles smashing the side of her head. Dots of light sprinkled her vision.

Real fear overwhelmed her. He was a professional. It was too easy for him to overpower her and his moves were sure and practiced. She didn’t have time to grapple with the implications. The photo…a professional hit man after her…those initials…

He struck her again. She rolled onto her stomach and pushed herself up, trying to get leverage before he succeeded in knocking her out. Fear was a foreign emotion to her, but now she felt its tentacles trying to reach past her strength and choke her. He struck her head once more. Slumping to the floor, unable to support her own weight, she despaired. She was going to black out.

Her attacker must have thought she already had. With her cheek to the carpeted floor, she watched him snatch the still-clipped papers from the counter and stuff them inside his tucked-in, black button-up shirt. He then picked up his gun from the floor and straightened, turning to face her. Odie pretended to be unconscious. He approached. When he reached her, he grabbed her ankles and dragged her through the living room.

He was going to kidnap her. She couldn’t let him, but she was too weak right now. She needed her head to clear a little more. She’d wait for an opportunity. Then she’d escape. If the worst happened and she couldn’t, then no matter how brutally he tortured her, she could not tell him a thing.

Jag parked down the street, scanning his surroundings as he got out of his Volkswagen Jetta. If he had to work with Odie, they were going to get a few things straight. He wasn’t going to put up with her smart mouth anymore. She was going to have to respect him, at least for the duration of the mission. Then she could go back to her sweet, hissing self.

She lived in the northeastern section of Roaring Creek, close to downtown—what there was of it. Most houses here were older. Newer ones were located outside of town.

Taking in the deep green paint and tasteful beige-tan trim and the immaculate yard, he was momentarily surprised. He’d have never guessed a woman like her would be interested in gardening, but he could tell by the neatly trimmed plants that in summer the front yard would explode with color. Her covered front porch had quaint wicker furniture, too.

Nothing Cullen had told him about her, or that he’d observed, could have prepared him for this glimpse of a softer side. So much piss and vinegar laced her sharp intelligence that it was hard for him to imagine any depth to her femininity. The first time he’d seen her he’d thought of girly magazines and burlesque shows. Two seconds later he’d been put in his place.

Good thing his thoughts had been just that. Thoughts. He’d stopped his purely male interest from showing in time. The contrast between her body and her brain was a thing of marvel. He’d gotten tangled with women like her before. They weren’t as intimidating as Odie could be, but they were in the same line of work. He’d also gotten tangled with the sheltered civilian type. And he couldn’t forget the closet rebel he’d married without knowing she was a closet rebel until it was too late. That had been the last attempt he’d made at having a relationship with a woman. He’d wait until he was sure next time.

Something about Odie’s tough exterior bothered him, anyway. It was almost as if she were hiding the real her. And after his last relationship, that never settled well with him. He preferred women who were more of an open book. Easier to spot a lie that way.

He stepped up the three stairs, his tactical boots thudding on the wood planks. A thumping sound from the garage followed by a human grunt propelled him into combat mode. The noise sounded like it came from a man. It definitely wasn’t Odie.

Instinct kicked into gear. He never ignored his instinct. He bent and pulled out the pistol he kept tucked in his boot when he wasn’t working. Testing the door handle, he found it unlocked. He pushed the door open, swinging his aim as he entered. A snack bar separated the kitchen from the living room. Dining room straight ahead. The door leading to the garage was open. He could hear the outer, larger one finish opening.

He hurried there, pausing at the doorway to peer into the garage. Odie’s truck was backing out of the garage. She wasn’t driving. He couldn’t see her. Where was she? He moved down the two steps into the garage with his pistol raised, aiming at the driver. A masked man. The driver saw him and ducked just as Jag fired, and then raced the vehicle out of the driveway.

Jag didn’t fire again. He didn’t want to risk hitting Odie. Was she in the cab? Had the masked man killed her? Should he check the house or go after the truck? He wouldn’t have time to check the house if he went after the truck. Movement in the bed of the truck had him running for his car. Strands of dark hair. Odie.

Slamming his car door shut, he saw the truck disappear around a corner down the street. He revved the Jetta engine and charged after it.

Turning the corner, he saw the truck turn again, heading for the highway. He pushed his Jetta as fast as it would go.

Odie’s head appeared over the edge of the truck’s tailgate. She looked behind her, into the cab of the truck and then at him. Her long hair whipped about her head. The driver looked in his rearview mirror. He drove faster along the curving mountainous road, an attempt to keep Odie from jumping out of the truck.

Odie hung on to the tailgate, letting go briefly to point to the ground, jabbing her finger two or three times.

He shook his head. “Don’t even think about it.”

She jabbed her finger three more times, nodding adamantly. Damn it. She was going to jump. Jag gripped the steering wheel tighter, not taking his gaze off her.

The truck slowed into a turn. Odie swung a leg over the top of the tailgate.

“Don’t jump out now.” Damn woman. Was she crazy?

The truck’s brake lights lit. Jag slammed on his own brakes as the truck fishtailed with Odie clinging to the tailgate. The masked man slowed the truck more and Jag saw the forest access road ahead. He followed the truck as it turned there.

The masked man raised a gun and awkwardly aimed behind him, shooting out the rear window, missing Odie but putting a hole in Jag’s windshield on the passenger’s side.

Odie jumped off the truck, rolling over the top of the tailgate and tumbling to the ground.

Jag cursed and swerved to avoid running her over and then skidded the car to a halt. He was about to get out to help her when the passenger door opened and she climbed inside, grunting in what had to be pain.

“Go, go, go!” she yelled.

But he’d already floored the gas pedal, following the dust trail the truck had left behind. Glancing over at her, he saw a bruise emerging on her alabaster cheek. “Are you okay?”

“Why? You want to hold me while I cry about it?”

There she went again, hissing. All part of her armor. One he was beginning to want to crack.

“Don’t worry. I know better,” he said drily.

“We have to catch that truck.”

“I’m working on it.” The dust trail was plenty for him to follow.

“Don’t lose him.” She sounded urgent. More urgent than necessary. He didn’t need to be told to go after the truck. What did she think he was doing? Going for a joyride?

There had always been something different about her. And not just her brassy way of bulldozing her way through life. There was something else. Something about her that he couldn’t quite pinpoint. And he had a sneaking suspicion whoever was driving that truck would open a big clue.

The dust trail grew thicker and Jag knew he was gaining. The road narrowed. He had to slow down. The road wound its way to some abandoned mines, but as it climbed in elevation, the cliffs grew more precarious along its crumbling edge. Odie’s attacker wouldn’t get far anyway. The road would dead end and he’d be trapped.

The road curved and Jag spotted the truck ahead. It was moving fast, too fast for the width of the road. He felt it coming before it happened. The truck skidded, fishtailed, its rear tire catching the edge of the road. It pulled the vehicle over the cliff.

Odie’s sharp inhale resonated in the car, followed by a soft, “No.”

He wondered about the degree of her urgency as the truck hit the side of the mountain and violently flipped through the air as it hurled to the rocky canyon floor. Jag stopped his car as a plume of fire erupted upon impact.

Odie scrambled out of the car and rushed to the edge of the road, watching with her mouth open and dark eyes wide. He got out to stand beside her.

“We have to get down there,” she said, starting to walk along the road, searching for a place to climb down.

He took hold of her arm and stopped her. “We can’t.” It was too steep.

“You don’t understand.” She shrugged free of his hold. “He took something. Someone sent me a package that contained information about Hersch. That’s why he came here.”

That might explain her urgency. “What information?”

She didn’t seem to hear him. She kept looking for a place to climb down the steep mountainside.

“What information, Odie?”

She glanced at him. “About Hersch.”

Her hesitation and evasive reply raised his suspicion.

“You said that. What kind of information about him?”

He watched her stare down at the licking flames as if willing them to go out. He’d buy that she was a little stunned after her near-death experience, but she was acting strange. He didn’t think her ordeal was the only thing that had her shaken.

Jag looked into the yawning canyon. “Pretty big fire.”

“He had the back of the truck rigged to blow.” Her concentration barely deviated, her response sounding automatic.

“Better to roast you with once he got what he wanted.”

Her gaze found his for a brief moment, long enough for him to see she’d already considered that but was having a hard time accepting it.

“Why was he after you?”

“I don’t know.”

He didn’t believe her. “Who was he?”

Her eyes lost their tinge of desperate determination and the Odie he was more familiar with resurfaced. “Don’t be a smart-ass.”

“Who was he?” he repeated. She knew damn well he’d stopped being smart and was now asking her legitimate questions.