Targeted (Hostage Rescue Team Series Book 2) (10 page)

“I’ll stay with you tonight.”

Celida hesitated. “But Zoe’s there.”

“So?”

She seemed to flounder for a response and he wanted to laugh at the adorable blush that spread up her face. “So that’s just way too awkward and weird. I mean, it’s not that I don’t want you to or anything, but—”

“Why, are you really loud when you come?”

Her mouth fell open and she stared up at him with those wide, dark eyes as if he couldn’t have shocked her more if he’d tried. “What?” she squeaked.

He bit back a smile, lifted a hand to stroke the side of her face. “Just wondering what kinds of sounds you make, that’s all. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.” Like, twenty times a night when he stroked himself and imagined what she’d feel like wrapped around his cock, what she’d taste like when he went down on her, what she’d sound like when he made her shatter.

She opened her mouth to respond, closed it and tried again, but nothing came out. It was pretty rare to see Agent Morales at a loss for words.

Taking pity on her, he chuckled and captured her lips in another lingering kiss that made her sigh and her lashes flutter. He didn’t want Zoe or anyone else to hear what kinds of sounds she’d make for him.

For the first time ever, he couldn’t wait until Zoe flew back home. “Guess we better get back inside before they wonder what happened to us,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” she whispered back, and he could tell she was thinking about what he’d said, about what it would be like when they finally got naked together.

Good, he thought as he led the way back inside. The anticipation would just make reality that much better for them both in the end.

Alone in the dim hotel room, Ken tuned out the background noise of the cable news program he had on low and concentrated on his laptop screen. He’d been working on this for months and though he’d already revised the manifesto several times, he wanted to be absolutely sure each word was the right word. When the authorities read this he wanted them to know they were dealing with someone well educated and articulate, and very, very intelligent. He wasn’t a raving lunatic.

He was far deadlier than that. A man who’d lost everything that mattered to him, and therefore had nothing to lose.

He reviewed the last five pages, played with a few word choices and finally saved and closed the document. After powering down his laptop he began pulling out all the supplies he’d need for tonight’s op.

First, as always, he pulled out his wallet and opened it up before setting it on the bed where he could see the pictures that drove him. The smiling face of the most beautiful woman on earth. One shot of her in her wedding gown, glowing with promise and happiness. The other a shot of her with her hand placed protectively over the bump shielding the miracle they’d created together, glowing for an entirely different reason. He could see the difference in her eyes in the two pictures.

The first one brought back happy memories. The second filled him with a deep, unstoppable hatred.

He checked his equipment, measured out the lengths of the fuses and counted out the blasting caps. Once everything was packed away neatly into his backpack he tidied the room and hid everything in case anyone came into the room while he was gone despite the Do Not Disturb sign he’d hung on the knob, and took everything with him that could possibly implicate him in any of this before he was ready for them to find out.

Out in the cool night air he walked to the bus stop on the corner and took the bus to the closest Metro station in the heart of D.C. He rode it to the stop he needed, all the while doing last minute recon. There were too many cameras around here. He had to be careful to avoid those if he could and keep his face averted for the rest.

At his stop he ducked into the bathroom and changed into the uniform he’d packed. His heart rate picked up when he saw the security officers standing by when he emerged but they merely nodded at him in acknowledgement and he took the escalator to street level. From there it was only a short walk to his target.

Slipping into the back entry where he’d disabled the security system earlier, he made his way to the second floor of the government building. At this time of night there was no one else around, making his job easier. He got right to work placing the plastic explosives, adding the fuses and blasting caps. He intentionally used the same materials, configuration and timer that he had the day before at Quantico.

Ken wanted them to know something was coming. The Feds would quickly piece together the significance of this target, but they couldn’t predict what he’d do next and he had a completely different setup planned.

Two days. Just two more days until he could put an end to everything and maybe find peace again.

He double checked everything, set the timer and left, careful not to leave prints. As he turned down the hallway to head for the stairs, he heard the faint sound of someone whistling behind him. He stopped, his pulse picking up. The bombs were set to go off in eight minutes. They were small, much smaller than what was coming, but still powerful enough to do significant damage to concrete and glass, let alone human flesh.

Though he’d convinced himself he didn’t care about collateral damage, he couldn’t make himself leave. Instead he hurried around the corner and saw a janitor mopping the linoleum hallway. A middle-aged man of Asian descent, whistling along to whatever was streaming through his earbuds. He stopped mopping when he saw Ken coming toward him. Pulled the earbuds out and seemed to brace himself, his face tensing.

“Building’s closed due to a police investigation,” he said to the man. “You need to leave immediately and not come back in until the building is cleared.”

The janitor looked at him in surprise, but the police uniform Ken wore gave him all the credibility he needed because the man put his mop back in the bucket and followed Ken to the stairs. When the man was safely outside Ken turned the opposite way and hustled down the sidewalk away from the building, the nearly empty backpack bumping between his shoulder blades.

He stopped to grab something to eat before heading back to another Metro station. He’d go back to the hotel, go over the final plan again. He had only one shot at this.

Stepping off the curb to cross the street at a red light, he didn’t even flinch when two loud booms echoed down the street behind him.

****

When the knock came at the door, Celida’s heart began to pound. She drew her weapon and aimed it, her shoes silent against the carpet. An attack was coming, she could feel it. She had to protect the woman in the back room.

“Celida, who is it?”

She whirled to face Zoe, standing in the bedroom doorway. “Get in there and lock the door,” she hissed in a whisper, waving for Zoe to hurry before she faced the door again. Those fuckers had gotten the drop on her once before, she wasn’t letting them do it again.

Her grip was solid around her Glock, right index finger resting on the trigger.

It can’t happen twice. Not this time, not when you’re ready for them.

Backup was coming, but not in time. She’d kill the men on the other side of that door before they ever breached it.

She eased to the side, immediately feeling better with the wall between her and whoever was out there. All the while her gaze stayed glued to the wooden door. She had to stay away from it or she’d die.

The ball of her left foot had just touched the carpet when the shots rang out. Two rounds plowed through the wall this time. Twin impacts slammed into her chest, knocking her sideways. Pain exploded in a blinding haze as she toppled over, fighting to roll and bring her weapon up. The door. They would come through the door now.

Have to stop them. Zoe needs me.

Unable to move, barely able to breathe as the door flew inward, she struggled to bring her weapon up. Two men burst into the room. She squeezed the trigger, firing again and again until the magazine was empty but none of the shots hit them. She could see their faces now as they sneered down at her and the pool of blood she was lying in. The same men who’d been in that interrogation room at Quantico.

She opened her mouth to scream Zoe’s name, needing to warn her, but nothing came out. One of the men raised his foot and struck out, kicking her in the side of the head.

“Celida!”

She jackknifed into a sitting position and glanced wildly around the room, hands blindly searching for the Glock that wasn’t there. It took her a moment to realize where she was. In her own bed. She wasn’t bleeding, wasn’t dying. Her legs were trapped in the tangle of her covers, not paralyzed.

Violent tremors shook her as she focused on Zoe standing in the bedroom doorway. Her friend’s face was grim, her eyes wide and a worried frown creased her brow. She stayed where she was, as though afraid to approach or make any sudden moves. “Are you all right?”

Her throat was squeezed off, her lungs desperately trying to drag in air as the adrenaline crashed through her. She nodded, ordered herself to calm down. It wasn’t real. She was fine and Zoe was okay.

“You were thrashing around and moaning so I thought you were hurt…”

“No,” she managed in a hoarse voice, fighting to get a grip on her out of control nervous system. Dammit, she was so tired of this. Tired of the nightmares, sick of feeling weak and constantly afraid that everyone else now saw her that way.

Zoe was quiet a long moment and Celida finally found her coordination and reached a trembling hand up to shove her hair off of her sweaty face. Her whole body was damp with it, suddenly making her cold. She shivered and pushed the covers off, got up and walked on unsteady legs to the master bathroom where she locked the door and sank down onto the seat of the closed toilet, burying her face in her hands.

God. They were always so real. So vivid. The pain was raw, the iron scent of her own blood still thick in her nostrils. Each time she failed to stop the attack. Each time they shot her even though she had her weapon aimed and ready to fire. Even her subconscious couldn’t let her off the guilt hook. Constantly mocking her that she hadn’t been fast enough, would never be good enough to stop it.

Her, a decorated former Marine.

Celida wiped a hand over her slick face and stood to reach over and run the water in the tub. When it started steaming she pulled up on the lever to activate the shower, stripped and climbed in, tugging the shower curtain shut behind her. Under the flow of hot water everything muted. The sickly thud of her heart vanished along with the voices in her head that said she was useless. That Rachel Granger had been taken and nearly killed because she’d failed to do her job.

By the time the water began to cool she felt like herself again. She got out, pulled on her robe and blew her hair dry. Emerging from the steamy bathroom, she stopped short when she saw Zoe sitting on the foot of her bed, watching her.

“They’re not getting any better,” her friend said in a flat tone.

Celida sighed. “It was just one dream. They don’t happen all that often anymore.”

“Define
all that often
. I’ve been here two nights and you’ve barely slept at all. How long do you think you can function like that?”

No way was Celida touching that one. “Sorry I woke you.”

At that Zoe made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat and shot to her feet. Folding her arms, she glared at Celida. “I don’t care that you woke me, you stubborn-ass idiot. I care that you’re still suffering like this.”

“I’m not suffering.” She wasn’t a fucking
victim
.

Zoe shook her head in annoyance. “Does Tuck know?”

Celida blanched. “No, and if you say anything to him I’ll never forgive you.”

“Why? Because you’re embarrassed?”

Yes. “No.”

“Then why? Who else would understand better than him?”

“I don’t want him to know, okay?” Jesus, it was humiliating enough that Zoe had seen her this way, let alone the man she’d just entered into a committed romantic relationship with and was rapidly falling in love with. “It’s my stuff and I’ll deal with it.”

“Lida, he needs to know. You can’t hide this from him, not when it’s buried in you this deep.”

Tuck had been over for dinner earlier but then had been called into work about something so she’d been spared the ordeal of having him stay the night and witness this drama. The thought of him seeing her in the throes of a night terror or panic attack made her skin prickle with shame. “No, Zoe.” Her voice held a hard edge. “Just no.”

Her friend shook her head, her expression one of disappointment, or maybe pity. The pity made it feel like her insides were being raked with thorns. “He’ll understand. He’ll help.”

“He can’t help, and even if he could, I wouldn’t want him to.”

Zoe stared back at her, her face incredulous. “You’re ashamed.”

“Hell yes, I’m ashamed,” she snapped back, angry that they were even having this conversation and scared as hell that Tuck or another of her coworkers would eventually find out. “I screwed up, okay?
I
was the one left to guard Rachel that day.
I
was the one the agency trusted to keep her safe. How do you think it looks to everyone I work with? To Tuck, who’s seen more shit than I ever will in this lifetime, let alone more combat, and still manages to function without any noticeable signs of PTSD?” Man, she fucking hated that catch-all term. Made her feel like a statistic.

“Maybe he hasn’t been diagnosed with PTSD, but his military service changed him forever. He’s not even close to the same happy-go-lucky guy he was before he enlisted. You need to talk to him about this. Let him help.”

Celida threw her hands into the air. “What’s he supposed to do, huh? Wave a magic wand and cure me?”

Zoe’s stare hardened. “I never said you needed curing, Lida.”

Whatever. “I got clearance from the agency shrinks, so I’m fine. It’s probably just the bombing yesterday and me being back at work.”