Taking Fire (3 page)

4

He slept like a stone, like a man who was physically drained and sexually spent. It would be light soon, and Talia still had tasks to complete. Yet she couldn't get herself to do anything but lie here in this nest they'd made of passion and deception and tangled sheets.

She'd never thought of herself as sexual, had never anticipated that a man could make her lose control as she had with him. He was an assignment. A duty. She had no reason to feel shame that she'd let him use her body. Her mission was vital, and sacrifices had to be made.

Yet she did feel shame. Shame at the weakness that made her feel guilty for using him. Shame that his tender attention had made her forget about the school shooting. And shame because she had enjoyed him and his body and his desire, and nothing about what they'd done felt remotely like a sacrifice.

She rolled onto her side so she could see him. He lay on his back, naked and beautiful. Undeniably a warrior, even in sleep.

He'd flung an arm up over his head, revealing a tattoo on the inside of his right forearm: a helmet bearing the letters
RIP
hung over the tip of a rifle barrel supported by a pair of worn combat boots. A tribute to his brothers in arms who had died in battle.

Like her, he was no stranger to war or to loss. And she had no business thinking about that. Or about guilt. This scene had played out thousands of times in hundreds of wars. Two strangers in a war-torn country, reaching out for human companionship. Needing something to make them feel alive when their lives could be taken in a heartbeat. By a sniper's bullet, by artillery fire.

By a betrayal that ripped their world in half.

The thought finally jolted her back to her mission.

As the night teetered on the edge of daybreak, she slipped silently out of bed, careful not to jar the mattress. She felt around under the bedside table until she located the radio-frequency identification tag she'd taped to the bottom of the drawer and tugged it free. She'd already memorized the creaking spots on the old floor and avoided them as she tiptoed around the bed and searched for his clothes.

A quick glance over her shoulder assured her he was still sleeping as she found his pants and dug his phone out of a hip pocket. Checking again to make certain he hadn't awakened, she removed the back cover of the phone and piggybacked the RFID tag to the battery. Cell-phone location via GPS monitoring alone, especially in Kabul, wasn't going to do the job. The RFID tag would make it possible to track his phone and locate precisely where he was from up to a quarter of a mile away.

After quickly returning the phone to his pocket, she laid the pants on the floor where she'd found them and headed for the bathroom. If he woke now and found her up, he'd think nothing of it.

A few minutes later, she opened the bathroom door. He was still sleeping. She breathed deep and had started gathering her own clothes when two strong hands gripped her by her hips and pulled her back into bed.

“You're very busy,” he murmured, nipping at her ear when he'd dragged her close against him, curling spoonlike behind her. His erection pressed hot and hard against her back.

“A girl's got . . . to . . . oh, God . . . work to . . . eat,” she managed around her rapidly beating heart, as he cupped her breast with one hand and coaxed her legs apart with the other.

Then she quit thinking and just felt—the expert strokes of his fingers against her swollen flesh, the boldness of his domination, until finally he rolled her to her back, slid down the bed, and tilted her hips to his mouth.

“Speaking of eating,” he murmured. Then, with his busy, busy tongue and erotic and thorough suction, he drove her beyond the ability to do anything but writhe in pleasure, until she came with a soft cry. Boneless, delirious with satisfaction, she lay catching her breath and riding the aftershocks.

“That,” he whispered, kissing his way up her body, “was to make up for my quick trigger earlier.”

She pushed out an exhausted laugh. “Apology . . . accepted.”

*   *   *

“Did I break you?”

An amused male voice woke her as a gentle, callused hand skimmed along her bare hip.

Talia opened her eyes and saw him standing by the bed, smiling.

He appeared to be fresh out of the shower; his only nod toward modesty was a towel wrapped low on his hips.

She took a leisurely visual stroll up the length of his beautifully honed body to his intriguing face, his smiling green eyes, and back to the tenting towel.

“I can't believe I fell asleep again.”

“I thought you'd passed out.”

She yawned and stretched languorously. “You don't have to sound so smug.”

“Oh, I think I do. I think I ruined you.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss against her lips, then straightened and started getting dressed. “Your leg okay? We didn't rip any stitches, did we?”

“My leg is fine.”

She watched him dress in silence. Couldn't help but watch him. She'd learned his body well in the dark. A body that gave as well as took pleasure to extremes and was as pleasing to see as it was to touch. And taste . . .

And that was a train she had to derail.

She needed to seal the deal. To find out if he was corruptible and, if not, make certain he'd begun to trust her. Enough to keep coming back.

“You were right,” she said, sounding guilty with little effort, because she did feel guilt. And something more that she'd never planned for and didn't want to dwell on. When he looked back over a broad, bare shoulder, she lowered her gaze to the sheet she'd drawn over her breasts. “I do want something from you.”

He chuckled. “Sweetheart, I don't think I have any more to give. At least, not right now.” Then he pretended surprise, a hard glint in his eyes. “But we're not talking about sex anymore, are we?”

“For God's sake, it's nothing sinister. Not like I want state secrets or anything.” Only it was.

He sat on a side chair, tugged on his boots, then finally lifted his head, waiting.

“I want to go on a mission with you.”

His slow smile wasn't very pleasant. “You can't seriously think that's going to happen?”

No, she didn't. But it had been worth a try. “I've been covering combat zones for years. Mostly after the fact. I want to be there on an operation. In the front line as it goes down.”

He reached for his T-shirt and pulled it over his head.

“You still don't believe me?” she asked when he didn't respond.

“It doesn't matter what I believe,” he said, tucking and zipping.

“It matters to me.” She sat up, dragging the sheet with her, and reached for her laptop. “Here. Look at this.” She shoved the laptop toward him after booting it up and finding the file she wanted him to see.

He glanced from the laptop to her face and shook his head. “I've got to get going.”

“Please,” she begged. “Just look at it. It won't take long for you to get the message. I'm not a danger to you. I'm not a threat to anyone.”

That brought a reluctant smile. “Trust me, you
are
a threat. To my peace of mind. I'm going to think about you all day. You know that, right? I'm going to be distracted, thinking about all the things I want to do to you.” He leaned down to kiss her, and melting heat pooled between her legs.

She made herself pull away, then shoved the laptop into his chest with shaking hands. “It'll only take a minute.”

He eyed her, eyed the laptop, and with forced patience sat down on the bed beside her and started reading, then scrolling through the articles—­complete with photos of her and bylines and commentaries about how important her voice was in spreading the human side in her war stories.

He was quiet for a moment, then shut the laptop and set it on the table.

“Is that why you were at the school yesterday? You were writing a story?”

“I'll still write the story,” she said, determined to do so. “But the question is, are you convinced now that I am who I say I am?”

He sat for a moment longer before looking at her. “Gettin' there.”

“That's something, I guess.”

His eyes and his voice changed when he lifted his hand and ran a single finger along the curve of her bare shoulder. “What do you say we continue this discussion tonight?”

She clutched the sheet tighter around her breasts, feeling inexplicably vulnerable instead of victorious. “Tonight,” she agreed, sounding way too breathless and way too pleased.

Yes, she was pleased he'd started to trust her. Yes, she was pleased he wanted to see her again. It was what she'd planned, but planning suddenly took a backseat to anticipation and arousal as he leaned into her, knotted a hand in her hair, and pulled her toward him for a long, searing kiss.

“What you do to me,” he murmured. After a deep, searching look, he stood and walked to the door. “I'm gone. While I still have the upper hand over my better judgment. Oh, and about that ride-along?” He swung open the door and looked back over his shoulder. “It's not going to happen. Never. End of discussion.” He left, shutting the door firmly behind him.

She lay back down and stared at the ceiling, torn between self-disgust and a humming physical arousal. She'd done what she'd set out to do. She'd made contact. She'd successfully engaged her target. She'd never really expected him to agree to let her go on a ride-along. She only suggested that to cement her cover—the eager journalist, willing to do anything to get her story.

So, yes. Everything was going as planned.

Everything but this disconcerting skip in her heartbeat that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with him as a man, not an assignment.

Ashamed suddenly and determined to move past these unexpected feelings of exposure, she slipped out of bed. After making certain that he was out of the hall and on his way, she dug into the wardrobe and carefully removed a loosened board from the wardrobe's base. She pulled out the SAT phone she'd hidden there and punched in a number only she had access to.

“The RFID tag is planted,” she told her unit commander when he answered. “If he meets with the target, we'll know exactly where they are.”

“We're already receiving a signal. Good work. And you, Talia?” he asked after a telling pause. “You are all right?”

His concern rang hollow. He'd asked her to prostitute herself for this mission if necessary, something he'd never asked of her before. And he'd known she would, no matter what it cost her. He'd known she would do it to get retribution for those who had been murdered.

“I'm fine. I'll notify you when I'm certain he is en route to the target. It may be several days, but I will know when he makes his next move.”

“You've done well. We don't undervalue the sacrifice you have made,” he added quietly.

She closed her eyes, reminded herself why she was here.

“In the meantime, the tracker alone may not be enough to accomplish the mission. Keep your eyes and ears open for other leads.”

“Of course.”

“Be careful, but remember, we're counting on you.” He disconnected.

She stayed on her knees, stared at the phone a moment longer, then tucked it back into its hiding place. Many people were counting on her. Her country was counting on her. And no matter what transpired, no matter what she had to do to complete her mission, she would not let them down.

She was Mossad, a member of the Israeli Special Forces. She must follow orders. There was no choice. She could
not
let them down.

5

Bobby fished his battle-worn jack of spades from his breast pocket, kissed it for luck, and tucked it away before he climbed into the Jeep's shotgun seat and they headed out on patrol.

He'd carried the card since the One-Eyed Jacks unit had been formed all those years ago. All the guys had. Now all but three of them were dead. He had no idea where Brown and Cooper hung their hats these days. Didn't care. Once they'd been best friends. Pretty boy Cooper. Mike Primetime Brown. The betrayal still hurt—even more than the leg he'd broken when their chopper had gone down. Now it only ached in the cold or if he'd been on it too long. Or if he thought about Brown.

Jaw clenched, he stared out the window of the Jeep he had helped armor with the skins of a decommissioned Humvee. Soon the base was several miles behind them, and they were rumbling over the rough terrain well outside of Kabul. It was hot, it was dusty, and sweat ran down his face and beneath his Kevlar vest. A pair of sand and brown camo binoculars hung around his neck; an M4 rifle lay across his thighs. The other squad members were a little less traditional with their choice of weaponry.

The men in the Fargis Group had all been through the wars playing on Uncle's team. Now that they were out from under military rule, they tended to carry oddball weapons that worked for them. Gomez and Wagoner, who occupied the Jeep's backseat, were perfect examples.

“You can never bring too much ammo or big enough guns to a fight,” was Gomez's motto. Today he lugged a heavily modified M14 that could hit hard at long distances.

Wagoner loved his ancient and battered H&K G3, even though the trigger pull was like trying to open a barn door. “As long as it goes
bang
when I want it to, that's good enough for me,” he'd said when Bobby had taken one look at the gun and said, “What the hell?”

Two up-armored Humvees, each with a crew of four, had come along for the sightseeing expedition, sandwiching the Jeep between them. Both were equipped with belt-fed automatic grenade launchers in roof-mounted armored cupolas. The big guns might be relics of the Cold War, but they were hard-core, and Bobby was damn glad for these men and their expertise with this particular type of fire power. If they found their quarry today, they were going to need it.

A ragtag group of Taliban had been playing havoc with the U.S. military's supply lines. Most likely, they were the same bastards who had attacked the school yesterday. Fargis had been tasked with finding and taking them out. That was why they'd ventured deep into Taliban country today and were on the hunt—and most likely being hunted.

So now was really not the time to be thinking about Talia Levine.

Yet there she was, filling his head, screwing with his mind. Small, perfect breasts. Hips nicely rounded but still slim. Skin so soft it defied description. A libido fueled by fire and a wanton abandon that was as big of a turn-on as the silk of her hair that he loved to lose his hands in.

Only after he'd left her bed this morning had he been capable of getting his head on halfway straight and remembering what had made him wary of her in the first place.

When, he wondered, as he raised the binocs to search a ridge ninety meters away, had he stopped feeling suspicious about her?

So he'd seen and read the articles on her laptop. So she'd provided “facts” that said she was who she said she was. A cover story could be easily faked, especially using her own equipment.

Now, however, he wanted to believe her. Now, after last night. Which made him an idiot to the
n
th degree.

The Jeep bounced over a crater-sized hole, and he lowered his binocs. Still thinking, still off his game. If one of his teammates came to him with a story about a beautiful woman, a few tears, great sex, and a request to ride along on a patrol, he'd have told him to wake up and smell the honey trap.

And what happened last night was textbook honey trap. Straight out of the
Spy for Hire Handbook
. The operative picks up a beautiful woman in a bar, surprised that she asks him to come back to her room so easily. In the morning, she's vanished, along with important documents, and the cell phone is ­missing . . .

Okay, so she wasn't gone, and neither was his phone. That hadn't stopped him from heading straight for the Fargis field HQ and tapping a buddy in the intelligence office before he'd set out on patrol this morning.

“Run this name up every flagpole and back down again. No hit is too small, okay? And no, I'm not going to tell you why. I'm calling in a favor.”

P. J. Granger, an experienced operative and all-around good guy, had squinted up at him from his bank of computers. “I didn't know I owed you any favors.”

“You will if you hang around me long enough.”

“Oh, well, in that case,” Granger had muttered.

Bobby had grinned. “And let's keep this between the two of us.”

“Never figured you'd want it any other way. When do you need it?”

Bobby had given him a look.

“Yesterday. Got it. You trigger pullers sure know how to pick your moments.”

Bobby had clapped Granger's shoulder. “Thanks, bud. I'll pick it up when we're back from patrol.”

“And you'll come bearing?”

“A big smile of gratitude?”

“Cheap ass.” With a grumble, Granger had turned back to his keyboards.

“Okay, a six-pack,” Bobby had promised, sweetening the pot.

“There ya go.”

One way or another, he was going to get the truth about Talia Levine.

*   *   *

When they came in from an uneventful patrol later that day, doused in dust and sweat and empty-handed, Bobby cut a beeline straight for the intel shack.

Without even looking up, Granger held a manila envelope in the air.

“Thanks, bud. Knew you'd come through.” Bobby snatched the packet, handed Granger a scribbled IOU for the six-pack, and headed out the door to the sound of Granger's curses.

When someone called his name, he looked across the compound and spotted his immediate supervisor walking toward him. He bounded down the steps and walked out to meet him.

Wes Bridgedale, a combat veteran of both the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, was a well-respected leader among the men. Bridgedale had turned in his Army uniform two years ago because he'd felt betrayed by an administration that attempted to micromanage the military from behind pristine Washington desks instead of letting the generals in the field make the calls.

If it hadn't been for Bridgedale, who'd thought he'd gotten a raw deal from the Army, Bobby wouldn't be working for Fargis now.

“Sir.” While Bobby didn't salute, he showed Bridgedale the respect his position in the company warranted. They might no longer be in uniform, but members of the Fargis Group still adhered to the U.S. military's chain of command as their model.

“What's the latest on al-Attar?” Bridgedale asked.

“I wish I knew, sir.”

A few months ago, intel had come down the pike that Mohammed al-Attar was hiding out in or near Kabul after fleeing Israel to escape retaliation from Mossad, Israel's elite Spec Ops unit, for bombings that had killed innocent citizens. Fargis had been tasked with getting the goods on al-Attar, and Bobby had been designated the leader of the team of operatives who would make it happen.

Al-Attar was an important get, because with the drawdown of U.S. troops on the horizon, Uncle needed more intel fast. The word on the streets was that al-Attar, a vicious rogue Hamas leader, had no love for the Taliban and was willing to provide information on the locations, numbers, and firepower of Taliban fighters in exchange for cold cash.

So Bobby had sent out feelers, letting al-Attar know he wanted to make contact. It hadn't been difficult to root him out, especially with Bobby playing the part of the disgruntled and disgraced U.S. Army Special Forces who'd been cut loose from the military for dishonorable acts. Not much of a stretch, he thought grimly.

Since that first contact, Bobby had been working al-Attar for information. The Hamas leader was a gold mine of intel, but he was slow about dishing it out. So Bobby was happy as hell when Uncle Sam had recently decided to get the Hamas war chief in custody, where they could mine the scumbag for every piece of information they could dig out of him.

The problem was, al-Attar had gone to ground.

“I haven't heard from him in almost two weeks,” he told Bridgedale now. “Last time I met with him, he'd finally agreed that our next meet would be at his secret headquarters instead of some random coffee shop. I was pumped. I've been trying to get access to his hiding spot from the beginning. Maybe he got cold feet. Maybe he was just blowing smoke up my ass. But I don't think so.”

“I'm getting some heat from up top,” Bridgedale said. “They want him pulled in before he gets antsy and heads for Pakistan, where we'll never get access to him again.”

“I'm as frustrated as you are,” Bobby said. Al-Attar was too valuable a resource to lose. “I could put out more feelers, but I'm afraid he'll think I'm too eager and question his decision to take me into his confidence.”

“So what's your plan?”

“Wait him out,” Bobby said. “He's going to be hungry for cash again soon. That's our ace in the hole. Al-Attar knows that if he wants money in exchange for ratting out his Taliban enemies, he has to keep in touch with me.”

“All right,” Bridgedale said with a resigned look. “You know what you're doing. And you know what to do when he next makes contact. Let's hope for everyone's sake that he does it soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Looks like you've had a long day, son,” Bridgedale said, taking in Bobby's sweat-soaked shirt and dirt-streaked face. “Get out of here. Call it a day.”

“Got a cold one waiting for me,” Bobby said with a grin, and headed toward the motor pool.

He managed to hitch a ride on a transport truck that took him back to the antiquated hotel where Fargis put up the senior operatives.

He tossed the manila envelope onto the small bed in the small room and snagged a beer from the small fridge he'd bought for a
small
fortune from a local vendor. Groaning in pleasure when the first deep swallow was ice-cold, he set the bottle on the nightstand. As much as he wanted to read the intel on Talia, he wanted a shower more.

As usual, the water was lukewarm, but at least it was running, and the pressure didn't give out until he'd scrubbed the dirt away. After wrapping a towel around his hips, he tracked water across the floor and grabbed his beer. Then he lay back against stacked pillows and opened the envelope.

Ten minutes later, he decided that his suspicion meter needed some serious tweaking. Grim-faced, he whipped off the towel and started getting dressed.