Running Blind (26 page)

Keep reading for a sneak peek

of Cindy Gerard's next military romantic suspense

set in the world of the One-Eyed Jacks series

TAKING FIRE

Coming Spring 2016 from Pocket Books!

1

“Lord love a duck.” Looking shocked and pleased, Ted Jensen pushed back his desk chair and stood when he saw Bobby Taggart in his doorway. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Though Jensen was the security chief at the American embassy in Oman, the grin splitting his face revealed the Alabama boy Bobby knew well and loved to hassle.

“Thought someone woulda killed you by now,” Jensen added, his grin widening.

Bobby gripped the rough hand his old friend extended across the sleek walnut desk. “Trust me, it's not for lack of trying on their part.”

Jensen laughed, rounded his desk, and trapped Bobby in a hard bear hug.

Bobby hugged him tight, glad to see him. Back in the day, when both were Special Forces, they'd served together on many deployments. Saved each other's asses more than once, too. Jensen had retired from the military and used his spotless record to get this gig in the Diplomatic Service. Bobby had hired on for private contract work in Afghanistan, but now worked for the Department of Defense.

“It's good to see you, man.” Jensen finally released him. “I really was afraid you were dead.”

“Highly exaggerated rumors,” Bobby told him.

“You look damn good, given that ugly mug of yours.”

“Says the man with the face like a waffle iron.”

Jensen chuckled. “So how've you been, Boom Boom? I heard about the exoneration. Always knew those charges were bogus. What never made sense was why they charged you in the first place.” His look promised a sympathetic ear if Bobby needed it.

Maybe if he were good and drunk, he'd indulge in a little info share. But sober, Operation Slam Dunk and the debacle that followed was a subject he never talked about.

“Water. Bridge,” he said with a dismissive shrug, then made an appreciative scan of the lavishly furnished office. “You're clearly top dog in these parts.”

“Don't let the fancy digs fool you.” Jensen gestured toward a chair before sinking down in his own. “The dog house may be top drawer, but I'm still guarding a junkyard.”

“So I've heard. And that's why I'm here.”

“No shit?” Jensen narrowed his brows. “
You're
the big shot badass the DOD sent to bust my chops?”

“Drew the short straw.”

“Huh.” Thoughtful, Jensen reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of scotch. He gave Bobby an expectant look and when he nodded, poured them each two fingers.

“All the straws seem to come up short these days,” Bobby added after tossing back the scotch. “You okay with me trying to poke holes in your operation?”

Oman wasn't exactly a hotbed of terrorist activity, but given their strategically important position at the mouth of the Persian Gulf, their shared borders with UAE, Saudi Arabia, and Yemen, plus their common marine borders with Iran and Pakistan, Oman's stability and that of the U.S. Embassy were paramount. Add in the ISIS threat and the volatility of the entire Middle East, and the State Department wasn't taking any chances.

So Bobby had been assigned to assess the security, recommend upgrades if necessary, and authorize the resources to get it done. Since Jensen was in charge of that security, Bobby was going to be tromping all over his dance floor.

Jensen said, “I've got a good team here. We've got a solid plan in place. But if I've got holes, I want them found. I don't want another Benghazi on my watch.”

Neither did Bobby. The September 11, 2012, terrorist attack on the U.S. Embassy in Benghazi, Libya, had left more than the ambassador tragically and needlessly dead. Three other U.S. nationals—their brothers-in-arms—had died protecting American interests, because bureaucrats and politicians had ignored repeated concerns about the lack of adequate security at the compound.

“At least the Benghazi debacle brought attention to the need and opened the government's wallet,” Bobby said. “So where do you want me to start?”

“You mean right this minute? Hell, no. It's almost six p.m., and we haven't seen each other in years. You can attack the defenses first thing in the morning. Right now, we're gonna go tie one on for old times' sake.”

Bobby sank back in his chair with a grin. Maybe Ted was right. Maybe a stiff drink, some good ole days conversation, and a good night's sleep were in order. Especially after the ridiculously long flight with all its delays and jet lag.

“All right,” he agreed. “I'm in.”

Then he heard a voice from the hallway—a voice he hadn't heard in six years but had never forgotten. And whatever Ted had in mind for tonight faded like a freighter sinking into a deep ocean fog.

He stood. Hesitated. Then walked to the doorway and stepped into the hall.

And there she was, heading toward him. Head down, she focused on the sheath of papers clutched in her hand as she walked.

She hadn't spotted him yet. But she would if he didn't unglue his boots from the polished marble floor and beat his feet back into Jensen's office.

Yet there he stood. Unable to move. Barely able to breathe.

She looked the same. Knockout gorgeous and kick-ass cool. Still slim and sleek and in total control. Back then she'd worn camo or khaki, and usually twisted her hair into a thick black braid. Today it was a black power suit, crisp white blouse, and black heels. And her hair was pulled back into an elegant and sexy knot at her nape. Even before she looked up, he knew that the face he'd memorized by sight, touch, and taste would be as golden and lovely as when she'd been his.

Damn. He'd thought he was over her.

He'd figured they'd meet up again someday, but he hadn't thought that seeing her again would make him feel like a turtle lumbering across a busy freeway. Nowhere to go to escape the inevitable collision. Unable to move fast enough to avoid certain disaster.

She'd almost reached him when she finally raised her head to talk to the aide walking alongside her. Her dark eyes landed briefly on his face, then moved on past him.

An instant later she stopped, stood motionless for a long, humming second, and then turned slowly to look at him.

All the blood drained from her face when she realized it was him.

All the breath left his body.

After six years and countless regrets, he had the same reaction to her as he'd had the first time he'd seen her in Afghanistan. A searing connection, a sizzling electricity that wasn't only sexual, but intensely soulful and deep.

Oh, God. Not again. He could not survive her again.

Their eyes were still locked—stunned, disbelieving—when a massive explosion rocked the building.

Shattering glass, falling concrete, and the acrid stench of billowing smoke were joined by horrified screams; then hideous pain consumed him as the blast knocked him off his feet. He fell facedown on the floor, eyes glazed, head pounding, ears ringing.

The last thing he saw before he passed out was a black high heel flying across the broken glass that littered the embassy floor.

2

Kabul, Afghanistan

Six years earlier

Looking in the mirror behind the bar, Talia Levine studied her assignment in the dimly lit room of the Mustafa Hotel in Kabul. All the Americans in the bar were a long way from home. All were lonely. But none were easy—especially this man she'd singled out.

No matter. When she found the right tactical advantage, he would help her. He'd never know it, of course, but if all worked as planned, she'd deliver the goods to her commander within a week. Two, tops.

Even if she hadn't read his file, she'd have known that he'd once been U.S. Army, Special Ops, just like the other three men with him, who were now private military contractors with the Fargis Group. He and his kind had a battle-hardened look. This man in particular had a coiled readiness, an underplayed situational awareness that allowed him to assess every detail of his surroundings without blinking an eye. No one was going to get the drop on him. Anyone coming after him was going to die. No hesitation. No regret.

She'd known coming into this assignment that she was going to have to be very careful. And for three nights straight, she'd played it cool, kept her distance, and waited for the right moment to approach him. Tonight might be the night.

His back was to the wall, his eyes were on his whiskey, yet she sensed that he knew she'd been watching him. Just as she'd sensed over the past few nights, making herself visible at the bar, that he was attracted to her but was deciding how things were going to play out between them.

She looked away, tipped her wine to her lips, and let him think about it some more—while she thought about getting what she wanted.

“Buy you another?”

For a big man, he moved like a cat. And while she wasn't surprised that he'd managed to slip into her personal space without so much as rippling the air between them, she couldn't help feeling a little unsettled.

She glanced up at him, then smiled. “Sure. If you don't make me drink alone.”

He got the bartender's attention, made a circle in the air with his finger to indicate another round, and eased onto the bar stool beside her.

“Come here often?” His smile surprised her as much as the corny line.

She'd made certain that he knew this was her watering hole. Just as she knew it was his—along with all the other private contractors, mercenaries, spooks, and journalists who hung out here, searching for some like-minded company and a relatively quiet place to drink away the physical and emotional dirt from the day.

“Can't seem to stay away. Must be the homey atmosphere.”

“Right.” He made a cursory glance around the room's smoke-stained orange and yellow walls and worn, cracked marble floors. “That must be it. Or the cheap booze. Any port in a storm, I guess.”

“What about you?” She nodded her thanks to the bartender when he slid a fresh glass of wine in front of her.

“When the pickings are slim, you take what you can get.” He smiled again, surprising her again. He looked hard, this American, and what she knew of his background supported that. But when he smiled, there was nothing hard about him.

“Are we still talking about the hotel?” she asked reacting to that smile.

He laughed. “Well, we're not talking about you, ma'am. You class up the place.”

“Ma'am?” The old-fashioned endearment charmed her more than it should have.

“Best I could do, since I don't know your name. Mine's Bobby. Bobby Taggart.”

Robert Andrew Taggart, to be exact. Known to his coworkers as Bobby or Boom Boom. It was the Boom she had to be careful of. It was his military history and his fall from grace that would work for her. That, and simply his one X and one Y chromosome. She needed information; he had it. And she'd do whatever she had to do to get it out of him.

“Talia Levine. You're American, right?”

“What gave it away?”

She pushed out a flirty laugh. “Only everything about you.”

He leaned a little closer. “Guess I'd better work on that. And you? Can't place the accent.”

“I was hoping I didn't have one.” She smiled. “Florida, actually. But of late, Israel, followed by London, Baghdad, and anywhere else my assignments take me. Journalist,” she supplied, when he cocked a brow.

“I should have guessed. Why else would a beautiful woman spend time in a dive like this unless she was forced to?”

“Not forced,” she corrected. “Volunteered.”

“Ah. You're one of those.” He sipped his whiskey, studying her face in a way that made her feel a bit like a mouse in a trap, when
she
was supposed to be doing the trapping.

She crinkled her brow, playing to his statement. “One of
those
?”

“An ‘all for the sake of her career' woman. You take reckless chances to get your story.”

“How would you know if I was reckless?”

“Not to point out the obvious, but you're in Kabul. And you're coming on to a stranger in a bar.”

“Wow.” She feigned insult. “That's harsh.”

“That's life. No insult intended. But maybe a little wishful thinking. You
were
coming on to me, right?”

She sipped her wine. “I was still deciding.”

He chuckled. “And now?”

“And now, I need to know more about you.”

“Me? I'm an open book.”

“Of course you are,” she said, letting him know that he wasn't fooling her. He was good at this game. But not as good as she was.

“Are you really any different than I am in the reckless department?” she asked, now that the door was open. “You were military, right? Probably served more than one deployment in the hot zones. And now you're a civilian contractor.”

She wasn't stating anything that wasn't general knowledge around Kabul. The Americans who ended up here all had military backgrounds, and most were employed by civilian contractors. “You also take reckless chances just by being here.”

He lifted his glass. “That I do. So, it's settled. We're both a little crazy.”

“Maybe. But you can't say it's not exciting.”

“Yeah. This is definitely my idea of excitement. Watching the paint peel off the walls of this bar.”

She toyed with the stem of her wineglass, then tilted him a coy smile. “You're not watching the paint peel now, are you?”

He perked up a little bit at that, because she'd just let him know she'd made her decision. “No, ma'am. I certainly am not.”

Though this was just business on her part, an unsettling awareness zipped between them. And for a moment she let herself see the man, not the assignment.

Square jaw, military haircut, watchful green eyes. Attractive, especially when he smiled. She could picture him in another era, crossing the Atlantic on a tall sailing ship, landing at Ellis Island with his German, French, and Irish ancestry. He was big and muscular, this Bronx, New York, native, and had been a bit of a street brawler in his teens. According to his file, he was a man who kept to himself.

But judging by his expectant look now, that wasn't altogether true.

An electric silence had stretched out between them before she managed to fall back into her role. She glanced up at him. “Just so you know . . . I don't make a habit of picking up strangers in bars.”

His gaze was intense but not judgmental as he shifted toward her. “So why me? And why now?”

She looked away, and when she looked back at him she had tears in her eyes. All she had to do was call up today's horrible memory to provoke them. “Why you? Because you look about as lonely as I feel. Why now? Because life—this life—
is
risky, and today I narrowly escaped with mine. Today, I need human contact.”

He watched her with cool green eyes that had warmed just enough to tell her she'd struck a chord with him, and she felt an unaccustomed twinge of guilt.

“To remind you that you're human?”

She shook her head. “To remind me that humanity isn't dead . . . even in the midst of this inhumane war.”

He studied her face, then studied his whiskey before tossing the rest of it down. “My room or yours?”

•    •    •

She'd surprised him, this Talia Levine or whatever her real name was. He'd been certain that his crude and direct invitation would have had her bolting with second thoughts. That she would've told him this was a bad idea, before telling him good-night.

But here he was. Following her and her exceptional ass up three flights of stairs. The question was why. Why was she lying to him? And why go to the trouble of staking him out in a bar for three nights running? If she was a journalist, he was a freakin' nanny.

Except, oh wait—he was as American as a Chevy truck, and she clearly wanted something from him.

How far will you go to get it, sweetheart?
How far would he let her go?

One thing she hadn't lied about: Afghanistan was a hellhole. Every day was a crapshoot. And yeah, the need for human contact in the midst of all this brutality sometimes got you by the balls and wouldn't let go.

So he followed her out of the elevator, down the dim hallway, and stopped when she did at room 309. Three was his lucky number, and he could make four threes out of that room number—which quadrupled his luck, good or bad.

She fitted the key into an antiquated lock, turned it, and pushed the door open.

“Home sweet home,” she said, flipping on the overhead light and stepping aside for him to follow her in.

He glanced around the room. A double bed. Two side tables. An open laptop sat on one of them. A camera with a bulky lens sat beside it, along with a notepad filled with scribbled notes.

Nicely done, he thought, and walked to the closet, opened the door, and checked inside. Empty except for her clothes. Same thing with the bathroom—no terrorist lying in wait to whack an American.

“Do we call this paranoia, or a basic distrust in women?” she asked after he'd checked under the bed.

“Call it anything you want,” he said agreeably. “Mostly, it's called life lessons.”

She nodded slowly, clearly entertained. “Do I pass inspection?”

“Well,” he said with a smile as he walked toward her, “the room does. I haven't thoroughly inspected you yet. Got any explosive devises hidden under that horribly drab shirt?”

“Sorry I didn't dress for the occasion,” she said as he gripped her hips and pulled her against him.

She didn't resist him. Didn't exactly melt against him, either. So he pushed a little further to see how far she'd let this go.

“Dressing is highly overrated,” he replied. “Now, undressing—that's something I could get into.”

“No surprises there,” she said, but still made no effort to get on with the festivities.

Which told him she
was
having second thoughts. “It's not too late to back out, Talia—if that's really your name,” he added just to see how she'd respond.

“Ah,” she said, and looped her arms around his neck. “You really don't trust me.”

“With my heart? You're going to steal it, for sure. And I'm okay with that.” His smile quickly faded. “With my life? Not so much. What do you want from me?”

“I told you what I wanted,” she said, suddenly sober. Playing no more. Suddenly shaken.

She could act. He'd give her that.

“Look. I told you I'd never done this before. Clearly I'm no good at it. Maybe you should leave.”

She pushed away from him, walked toward the door, and opened it.

He'd detected a hint of a limp when she'd slid off the bar stool, but had been too busy watching her ass and wondering what she was up to, to process it. Now he wanted to know.

“Why are you limping?”

“I told you,” she said still gripping the handle of the open door. “I had a close call today.”

He walked across the room. Closed the door. “Let me see.”

“Why? Because you don't believe me?”

“Because I want to see.”

He was angry now, and not sure why. Just like he wasn't sure why he grabbed her arm, dragged her to the bed, and pushed her down on it.

“Take 'em off,” he ordered as she lay there, looking up at him like a defiant bunny.

Evidently his look told her that either she do it or he would, because she finally lowered her hands, unbuttoned her khaki pants, and undid the zipper.

“Where?” he demanded.

“Right leg. My calf.”

He lifted her leg by her foot, undid the laces on her boot, and slipped both it and the sock off. Then he helped her tug the pants down so her entire right leg was exposed—except for the white bandage that wrapped around her leg from below the knee to her ankle.

She said nothing during this process. She just lay there, her eyes a little wide, her ugly shirt open just above her naval, revealing a smooth expanse of olive skin between the shirt hem and the band of her bikini panties. Flesh-colored. Practical. Sexy as hell without meaning to be.