Chapter Eleven

Twice! I’ve kissed her twice, and damn, I want to do it again. Chance lay breathing hard on his back, one forearm draped over his eyes, his other still around Suede, and his fingers aching to do more than massage and medically treat her delightful body. Even as banged up as she was, he knew a real woman when he held one, and Suede Tennyson was a luscious, tempting armful.

But damn. He couldn’t believe how easily he’d lost control. He swallowed hard, his throat dry and his body humming. She was injured, no doubt had whiplash from her fall, yet he’d been on the verge of taking her. Right here. Right now. Like a pig in rut. And she’d responded, melting that luscious body to his. Molding herself. Moaning into his mouth. Yeah. None of this was right, and he knew better. They were both running on emotions and this was sheer torture. It had to stop.

Chance drew in a deep breath to steady his physical reaction as much as his mind. The worst—or the best—was yet to come. He still had to help Suede into the shower, and change those dressings. The thigh wound would be easy enough. He had latex-free waterproof coverings to tape over the packing to keep it dry, but that hole on her hip was another thing. He hadn’t stitched it on purpose. It needed to drain, and that, in and of itself, was no big deal. But it was On. Her. Ass. And that ass was fast becoming a problem.

She said she cared for him, but he knew better. Females tended to crush on the guy who came to their rescue. It happened a lot during and after hostage operations. The females got dewy-eyed and flirty. They sent thank-you cards and left their phone numbers once they were home safe, ones Chance had never called. He wasn’t going to start now.

It’d be—hard. Just thinking the word sent his palm to his pants, needing to choke the little brain lurking there that overruled his good intentions. He wasn’t a bastard who used and abused women, but Suede brought the animal in him to the surface in a quick way. He didn’t dare think of her in a dress or when she was on her A-game, intentionally flirty. He’d lose.

Mind out of the gutter. Back to business. “Your coffee’s getting cold,” he said, clearing his throat when his tone sounded harsher than he intended. “I’ll let you eat. Be right back.”

Settling her back against the pillow, he set the breakfast tray on her lap and her cup of coffee within reach on the nightstand. He lingered just long enough to press a chaste kiss to her forehead, more to assure her that he wasn’t deserting her than anything else. Nothing more.

Chance cleared the bathroom of his towels and dirty clothes, then vacated his bedroom, intending to make a quick call to Sullivan before he started what looked to be several loads of laundry if he counted Pagan’s. His heart pounded as he shut the door quietly behind him.

“You kissed her,” hissed out of his brother’s big mouth. Pagan stood there by the fireplace, his thick hair wet from his shower, one forearm on the thick pine mantle, his other hand in his pocket. Gallo waggled at his knee. “Didn’t you?”

“Shut the hell up,” Chance shot back at him. “You’re supposed to be resting.” So mind your business.

“And you’re supposed to be on the wire to Sullivan.”

“On my way,” Chance replied without meeting Baby Brother’s sharp eye. “Now back off.”

Pagan followed him down the east hall that led to their communications room and his office, the workout room, laundry, and Kruze’s room in that order. “I knew it. You’re in love with this chick. Shit, Chance. It’s only been one night. What are you thinking?”

Chance growled as he dropped the load into the rolling laundry basket and backtracked to his desk to make that call. “I’m not in love, dumbass. She needed help. I helped. End of story.” Not.

“I call bullshit,” Pagan insisted as Chance sank into his leather chair. “I know trouble when I see it, and you’re in trouble. Big time. It’s written all over your ugly face. Admit it.”

Two monitors lined the desktop. One keyboard. Deftly, Chance brought up Sullivan’s private line and turned his back on Pagan. Baby Brother needed to learn when to shut up. Now’d be a good time.

The Senator picked up on the first ring. The monitor flickered to life as Chance acknowledged his supervisor. “Good morning, Senator.”

“Not unless you know something I don’t,” Sullivan replied, his lips set in a thin line as his gaze drifted out the window of the car he was riding in. Back seat. Behind the driver. Most likely his limousine. Tall as a Texas fence post and just as weathered, the silver-haired giant of a man was a cattle baron in his home state and a miracle worker at compromise in D.C. The man hardly ever smiled. His fingertips worried the ends of his handlebar mustache when he turned to his in-car monitor and stared Chance down. “What?”

“Permission to speak frankly, sir.”

“Cut the Navy bullshit, son, and stop calling me sir. You got something to say, spit it out. Make it quick. I’m busy.”

“Is this line secure?”

Sullivan’s bushy brows dropped as he leaned forward and activated the privacy screen between his driver and the rear seat. He flipped another set of buttons and said, “Is now.”

“Pagan arrived early this morning with the assignment from you to end York,” Chance declared brusquely. “Not sure why you didn’t contact me first, but I’ll be taking it.”

“What else?” That was interesting. The busy senator’s head bobbed once, but he’d offered no explanation as to why he’d tagged Pagan. Whatever was going on, Sullivan was playing hardball.

“I have Suede Tennyson in protective custody after she was thrown off my mountain late last night in the middle of the blizzard. You know the one I mean.” Chance gave that a second to sink in before he reinforced it with, “You’ve got a mole in your staff.”

“The bastard chucked her over the edge? I’m surprised she’s alive. How bad is she?”

“Nothing’s broken, but she’ll be down awhile. She could use a change of clothes, a decent winter jacket, and boots before I move her to a hospital in the valley.”

Another nod told Chance those supplies would be delivered to his front door via drone once the weather cleared. “I knew York was in Montana, but I didn’t realize Miss Tennyson was with him. So the wedding of the century is off.” Another evil-eyed squint and Sullivan’s lips pinched to the side. “Which begs the questions, why your mountain and who knew what, right? That why you’re calling me out, son?”

“Yes.” Chance bit his lip at the automatic ‘sir’ that nearly tumbled out of his mouth. Navy habits died hard. “My question is how York knows where I am, and if he also knows he’s at the top of your hit list. This can’t be a coincidence. Someone on the SOB Force had to have fed him that intel.”

“I’ll check into it.” Those silver brows collided like two Rocky Mountain rams in spring rut.

“Just to clarify, I’m taking him down because he’s trafficking drugs?” Chance asked. It wasn’t often Sullivan went after drug dealers. They were plenty worth the effort, and Chance would gladly wipe every last one of them off the face of the planet, but for the most part, they were no more bothersome than mosquitoes in a world gone crazy with the more dangerous suicide bombers, unprovoked attacks on civilians, and the continual threat from the Mideast.

Sullivan had set up a strict protocol to this federally funded, blackest of black ops worlds. All the teams he’d assembled operated outside the law, yet all were comprised of men who’d honorably served America as spec ops guys while in the military, CIA, or FBI SWAT. After witnessing man’s depravity to man and various nations’ failures to protect the people, the men Sullivan had tagged pledged allegiance to the SOBs to make a difference. They wanted to turn the tide of evil in the world while it was still doable.

None took their assignments lightly, and each decision to end a life required a unanimous vote from each individual team leader before any job. From that point, the team leader decided who did the actual hit. No reports were filed afterward, nor was forensic evidence collected at any scene. Once the selected agent reported job complete, the SOBs moved on.

Surprisingly, among men who’d seen what most combat-hardened SEALs, Green Berets, Rangers, PJs, and SWAT officers had, there tended to be more unanimous votes than not.

Discussion, when it surfaced, was brief, punctuated with acronyms, and buried in code. But decisive and final. Predators existed. The SOBs vowed to end them, and one by one, they were.

Were the SOBs a behind-the-scenes organization to exact justice for crimes against man and nature? Hell yeah. Was it legal? Authorized? Moral? In a redacted, change-the-names-to-protect-the-innocent kind of a way, yes. Could the men who stood up and answered another call to serve their country be termed super heroes? Chance nearly grunted at the notion that he or his brothers were anything like Iron Man, Superman, or Thor. He’d heard the banter amongst the other team leaders. If anything, they were supper heroes. Just ring that dinner bell and see who came running. But this time was different. Something bigger was going on. Chance tried again. “Was there a vote I missed since the last time we talked?”

“York’s involved with some cartel out of South America, but it’s not just the drugs…” Sullivan slow-rolled that lead-in, his gaze out the window again. “This is out of my hands, Chance. Can you do it or do I need to get someone else?” That stung. Sullivan knew Chance’s demons, but he also knew his record as a SEAL. And Chance knew what he was really asking. Are you fit for duty or not?

“I can handle York,” Chance replied evenly. Especially since he’s in my territory, but man. This guy had to be high on somebody’s radar to force Sullivan’s hand. What’s really going on?

“How long will it take?”

Chance rolled his neck as he mentally sized up and calculated climbing Old Man Mountain in this weather. It’d be tough, but he’d climbed tougher in worse conditions. Winter ops weren’t any different than others, just a helluva lot colder. Slippery. “Forty eight hours, tops. Can you confirm York hasn’t heloed out of here yet?” There was no sense wasting time going after a man who wasn’t there. A satellite image would be helpful, but that wasn’t happening in this storm.

Sullivan’s silver head bobbed again. His eyes narrowed. More lethal bear traps hadn’t yet been made. “He was there an hour ago. Give me five to ensure he’s still on-site.” The mute button flashed to vivid green in the lower right corner of the monitor as Sullivan switched frequencies and double-checked his intel.

“You need to know who else is up there with him,” Pagan added from the doorjamb where he lounged, his ankles crossed. “You can bet he’s not alone.”

“Copy that,” Chance agreed, “but I’ve only got the green light to off York. By the way, you’re grounded. If I’m going up, you’re staying down here with Miss Tennyson.”

Pagan grunted. “So it’s Miss Tennyson now, not Suede baby?”

“It’ll always be Miss Tennyson to you.” Chance made that clear. “Do me a favor. Pull the black ops file on York, and there had better be one. We need to know what’s really going on. Sullivan’s not acting like himself.”

Pagan’s chin hit his chest in an affirmative. Lifting the ruggedized laptop from its docking station, he headed to the kitchen as Sullivan re-engaged with more bad news. The wrinkles etched on his forehead hadn’t let up since he’d taken the call. “Sorry, Chance. The timetable’s been moved up. We need York out of play, the quicker the better. I can only give you twenty-four hours.”

“Roger that.”

“And Chance,” Senator Sullivan cut in. “Make it hurt.”

“Yes, sir,” Chance snapped back, wincing as he did. “Keep your ears on.” He ended the call. Shoving out of the chair, he headed to his room.

“One last goodbye kiss?” Pagan taunted from the kitchen table where he’d set the laptop.

Chance let him think what he wanted. “Check this place for bugs while you’re at it. Do it now. It’s just possible our guest is an unwilling pawn in a bigger game, that she brought something in with her. Sullivan’s too antsy. Something’s up.”

“Will do.” Pagan might growl and complain, but he snapped to when needed.