Badass: Deadly Target (Complete): Military Romantic Suspense (18 page)

Before she can ask additional questions, I open the door and pull out my wallet, handing her a few bills. “Would you grab us some drinks? Maybe some protein bars. A few PayDays. Packages of nuts. And the largest cup of coffee you can find.”

She takes the money, but her gray eyes continue to look worried. “Sure. Be right back.” I watch her walk away. She doesn’t even hesitate to leave me with the box, the keys. Everything.

It makes me smile. The level of trust we’ve established in so short of a time is incredible. I smile broader as I watch her ass sway in the yoga pants Dave bought her. Another thing to thank him for later. Her limp is also better, and she isn’t holding her arm so tight against her ribs when she walks. She’s a quick healer. Tough. Much tougher than her delicate appearance would make one think.

Tougher than a lowly clerk.

Tougher than an innocent woman.

I shake the thoughts away. I refuse to believe them.

After the tank is full, I pull the 4-Runner to the side of the building and step out to make my call, walking to the shade of a nearby tree.

“Haun speaking,” the now familiar voice barks out.

“Jax Hawthorne checking—”

“Location.”

I grit my teeth at the interruption. “San Diego, sir. Requesting access to local safe house.”

“Hold.”

The line goes so quiet I feel sure he’s hung up on me, but the burner phone shows the line to be still connected. A couple minutes go by before he’s back. He rattles off an address which I memorize.

“Thank you, sir. Any status update on Tatiana Hewitt, sir?”

“Who?”

I force myself not to curse. “Possible Russian spy I—”

“House burned down.”

Shit. I turn and look through the store window and see Mia waiting in the check-out line.

“Did you recover a body, sir?”

“Recovery efforts have been delayed, Agent Hawthorne, while we attend to important national security matters.” The bastard’s voice is dripping with sarcasm.

“I’m attending to national security matters as well, sir, and request—”

“Request denied, Agent Hawthorne. We are knee deep and stretched thin. You have no idea—”

“Can you fill me in, sir?”

“Are you completely off grid, Hawthorne?”

“Not completely. Radio and some TV, sir, which are only replaying the events of the past 24-hours.”

“That’s good. We’re attempting to avoid a public broadcast of the latest shit storm.”

“Which is?”

“Nothing that needs to be on your radar right now. On a non-secure line.”

I scowl at the burner. “That will be taken care of shortly, sir. I’ll contact—”

“Report back tomorrow. We have a summit to protect.”

Summit?
I groan as I remember.

“Sir, please tell me they’ve cancelled the Peace Summit.”

“I’d love, simply adore to tell you that, Agent Hawthorne,” Haun barked, “but I’m afraid our fearless leaders have decided that to cancel would admit defeat to the terrorists currently wreaking havoc on our planet.”

“But sir—”

“There are no buts, Agent Hawthorne. Mutko and Campbell have jointly convinced one hundred and eleven of the one hundred and twenty-four previously confirmed countries to continue the summit as planned.”

Mutko? The name of the Russian president causes the hair on my arms to stand on end.

“Sir, what does Mutko have to do with this?”

Haun barks out a sound that might have been a laugh if the man held an ounce of humor. “You really are off grid. Mutko arrived yesterday as planned. He and President Campbell are in a safe location.”

That didn’t make me feel any better.

“Is air travel re-established, sir?”

“Yes, with enhanced scrutiny at the gates.”

I push a hand through my hair. “Sir, this is stupid. You need to call this off.”

“On whose authority, Agent Hawthorne?”

“Sir, in the twenty-four hours I’ve held Russian documents in my hands, the world has gone to hell. It can’t be a coincidence.”

“What, Agent Hawthorne, do those documents reveal?”

Damn me to hell for not knowing Russian.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Then you have zero ability to connect what you are in possession of with these developments, am I correct?”

Fuck me.

“No, sir.”

“If you are able to establish a connection, you know my number. Otherwise, I have a job to do. Report back tomorrow.”

“But, sir…” I say quickly, but the line goes dead in my hand.

Fuck!

Back in the car, I turn on the radio and scroll through stations. Media sensationalized hype, repeating the same details over and over. Interviewing witnesses. Increasing fear. Nothing about Russia. Nothing about Mutko. Nothing about the summit.

“What the fuck is happening?” I say to the steering wheel.

The car door opens, and Mia tosses some bags in the floorboard and hops in, handing me a huge coffee. “What’s wrong?”

I take a sip of the hot liquid, not caring that it burns my tongue. “Nothing.”

She looks even more worried as she extends her hand. She’s holding every type of sweetener imaginable along with little cups of regular and flavored cream. “Inside, I realized that I don’t even know how you like your coffee, so I brought everything.” Her cheeks are flushed the prettiest pink.

I take another sip. “This is perfect.” I smile when she wrinkles her nose. “Can I have a PayDay?”

When she pulls a candy bar from the bag, my heart squeezes hard in my chest. She doesn’t just toss it in my direction, she opens the top and folds the wrapper halfway down the side before handing it to me. It’s exactly what Laura would do. I clear my throat and take it from her. “Thanks. This is my favorite candy bar.”

She smiles and relaxes back in her seat after securing her belt. A moment later, she’s dumping a shitload of sugar and creamer in her smaller cup.

Pulling out of the parking lot, I hit GPS for the safe house.

“Jax, what’s wrong?”

I force a smile. What do I say? I have no idea what’s wrong, or how to fix it, or what to do in the meantime.

“My favorite ice cream is moose track,” I tell her as a means toward distraction. “I love anything with caramel or toffee in it. My favorite color is green, and I could live off nachos and beer. I hate Brussel sprouts but will eat just about anything else. Except olives. They suck.”

She’s effectively distracted and prattles on about our similarities and differences. I listen with one ear, smiling or nodding in the appropriate places.

But as we get closer to the safe house, I’m not listening at all.

I need technology. I need to know what those documents say. And I need all of that right now.

After circling the address I’d been given several times, I decide the location is secure enough to attempt entrance. I park on the street and pull my gun out. Mia’s eyes are wide, but she says nothing, just takes the second gun I hand her.

Trust.

I hope she understands I’m giving her more than just a weapon of defense.

Out of the car, I open the back and take out only what we need. The bank box and the mystery still inside. Grabbing Mia’s hand, I pull her toward the door. A quick scan of my thumb and we’re in.

“Oh my God,” Mia breathes, running a hand through her hair and placing the gun on the table with a clatter. “How do you handle stress like this every day?” She sinks onto a couch.

“Not in front of the window,” I tell her and haul her back to her feet. “Sorry, sweetheart,” I say when she winces and force myself to calm down. “Let’s find an interior room. This is a new safe house and not all security measures will be in place yet.” I stick her gun in my waistband.

Locating the tech room, I lead her to the chair in the corner. She drops down and curls her legs underneath her while I bring the bank of computer monitors to life. Opening drawers, I find a secure sat phone and an iPad with a secure wireless card. There’s a laptop too, and I sign it out as well before heading to the safe, scanning my thumb, and taking out fifty thousand dollars in pesos, logging what I’ve taken.

Translating the documents is the first priority. Taking them from the bank box, I scan them into the computer, pull up a translation program, and press “start.”

New identities are next on my list, and I access a system to get them done. Finding Mia in the database, I transfer her picture to a new driver’s license and passport, then do the same to mine. I swallow as I print out a marriage license featuring both of our new names. Back at the safe, I pull out a box and rifle through fifty or so rings.

“What are you doing?” she asks, and I hear the creak of the chair as she stands up.

Turning, I show her the box and her eyes widen in surprise and girlish glee. Pulling out what looks like a one carat round with matching platinum band, I eyeball the size.

“What are you doing?” she asks again.

“Maya Whittaker, will you marry me, Jack Preston?”

Her eyes narrow, then understanding dawns. “So we’re on our honeymoon?” she asks as I slip the rings on her finger. They’re the tiniest bit too small, and I have to force them over the knuckle, but at least they won’t be lost.

“One-year anniversary. A few days getaway. We live in Modesto.”

She simply nods and looks down at her hand. I inwardly wince, wondering where the CIA might have gotten them from. Most likely from a dead woman’s finger. Mia — no, Maya, I correct myself — doesn’t need to know that.

Digging through the box, I find a platinum band that looks to be my size. My gut tightens as I slip it on my finger. It feels wrong there. Hell, it
is
wrong there. It means nothing, I remind myself. Just a means to an end.

I look at Mia. Then someday maybe, one that matters can take its place.

To lighten the mood, I drag Mia against my chest and give her a hard kiss. “I pronounce you Maya Preston.”

Her hand cups my face. “And I pronounce you Jack Preston.” When her eyes grow darker, my balls tighten in their sack. “Do we have time to consummate our marriage?” she asks, her voice breathless with desire.

Glancing at the printer which is still busy with our documents, I reach into my pocket and pull out a condom. “It might be the fastest consummation in history,” I say as I walk her backwards until she’s pinned between me and a wall. “That okay with you?”

She bites her lower lip and gasps when I spin her around. “Hands on the wall,” I order her, and she immediately does what I say. Pulling her hips back until she’s bent at the waist, I push her pants and panties down just enough to reach my prize.

Unzipping myself, I roll the condom on and lick my fingers before testing to see if she’s ready. “Damn, baby. You’re so wet. Dripping.” She pushes herself back onto my fingers, impaling herself with a loud groan. I finger her hard. Two fingers, then three until her juices run down my hand, and she’s quivering through her first orgasm.

Glancing at the computer banks, I remind her, “Remember, this will be hard and fast.” Replacing my fingers with my cock, I ram inside her in one long stroke. She keens as I pull out and grip her hips, pulling her backwards to meet my next thrust. Her fingers claw at the wall as she searches for something to cling to, the diamond catching the light on her left hand.

Someday.

I thrust harder and faster, lifting her up on her toes. She wails as another orgasm hits her; cries harder when I reach around her body to find her clit. The sound of our bodies slapping together is brutal, eclipsing the noise of our heavy breaths.

My balls tighten, and I’m close. Urgency and need driving me crazy.

“Jax!” she screams, and her voice pushes me off the edge. I explode, thrusting harder and faster as the semen races for release. My brain shuts off, all light and sound disappearing for a glorious moment, then pure clarity comes pouring into me. For a split second, everything makes sense. The reason for our existence is transparent. Simplistic. Then the moment is gone, and I’m back, still balls deep in Mia, holding her ass tight against me while her internal muscles contract and release, milking me dry.

Chapter 8 – Mia

I’m shaking with nerves as we approach the border. There are soldiers and dogs everywhere. The drivers are crazy, swerving from one lane to another, then scowling as we wait at the inspection point for what feels like forever but is actually no more than an hour. When I was little, my mother took me across the border a few times, back in the days before passports were needed. There was never any line going to Mexico … coming back, that was altogether different. Something must’ve changed since the current crisis.

“Act natural,” Jax warns me then frowns at the smile I plaster on my face.

“Too much?” I ask, dimming it down a notch or two.

He brings my fingers to his lips. “A little more.” I make my cheeks relax further. “A little more.” Geez, I’ll be frowning soon. “Perfect.”

I pull down the visor mirror to see how ridiculous I look, but I actually appear fairly natural. To keep the small smile in place, I allow my mind to believe I’m on my one-year anniversary trip with Jax, that we really are skipping across the border for a fun, romantic few days.