Secure Target (Elite Operators) (14 page)

The mere thought of him snapped her back to reality. She cautioned a glance in his direction, but he was staring fixedly at his partner, his face set and serious. Despite herself, she suppressed a sigh.

Thando finished what he had to say, there were a few questions, and then it was time to roll out. When he reached her he had the bulletproof vest in hand, which he draped over her shoulders and fastened in place with a final, reassuring squeeze on her upper arm.

“Sergeant Mason will take you in his car. Don’t worry about a thing, Miss Cross. You’re in good hands.”

She managed a weak smile. She wasn’t sure who—or what—to believe at this point.

Bronnik motioned for her to follow him, and she fell into step with the rest of the team as they made their way down to the parking lot. Outside the dimming sky told her sunset was imminent, and the quiet, crisp winter air seemed full of threat and danger.

She slid into the front seat beside Bronnik and they drove in a silence so complete, she could hear the creak of leather on his boots as he pressed the accelerator.

She stole a glance at him across the car. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, the muscles in his jaw tight and tense.

Suddenly she was overwhelmed by all she wanted to say to him. She longed to tell him how much her life had changed in only the few short days she’d known him, how she’d learned for the first time that she could respect a man as much as she was attracted to him, and that it was possible for her to be appreciated in return, not dismissed and tossed aside as a pretty, provincial girl who wasn’t worth much more than a night or two of playful distraction.

The words swelled up in her throat, choking her, as hot tears burned in her eyes. She could see the entrance to the dental practice up ahead and knew she didn’t have much time, yet she was paralyzed, hobbled by Bronnik’s insistence that she let him do his job and keep their personal circumstances out of it.

They pulled into the parking lot outside the office. It already teemed with squad cars broadcasting the police presence, their flickering lights distorting the shadows in the gathering dusk.

He switched off the car, unhooked his seat belt and looked at her expectantly.

His eyes were impatient and unyielding, and they were Lacey’s undoing. She crumbled under his gaze, choking out a sob before she clamped her hands over her mouth, furiously sniffling back tears.

Bronnik let his head fall back against the seat and scrubbed a gloved hand over his face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she wiped furiously at her tearstained cheeks, her voice trembling. “I’m just nervous.”

He stared straight ahead, unmoving. She ached for him to offer her a kind word of reassurance, a squeeze of the hand, even just a soft look. She was desperate for a sign—any sign—that she was more to him than just the anonymous target he was tasked with protecting.

“Come on,” he said finally. “Let’s get this over and done with.”

Lacey pulled together her composure with great effort. She slid out of the car and followed him shakily into the building.

Chapter Ten

The reception area of the dental office was silent, except for the occasional squeak when Lacey shifted position on her stiff plastic chair. Bronnik stood beside her behind the high-front desk, one hand resting on the butt of his gun, his whole body thrumming with tension and adrenaline.

He forced himself to conduct a systematic mental run-through of the entrances and exits to the building and the teams stationed at each one. It was partially an exercise in preparedness, and mostly an effort to keep his mind on the task at hand and not on the woman seated beside him, and how he’d feel if he couldn’t get her out of this alive. He let his eyes shut briefly at the thought, and then banished it from his brain before he could sink too far into the powerful, devastating emotions it stirred to the surface.

“Bronnik”—her voice was soft—“can I ask you something?”

“Not now,” he barked, instantly regretting the abruptness of his tone. But he had to concentrate, had to stay alert.

He glanced at the clock mounted on the wall. 5:57 p.m. Any minute now.

Everything should be in place. The building had been swept, Carver’s men were covering the front door, there was another layer of FBI units and local police out back, and Thando was covering the interior layer, where the examination rooms led into reception. The building was locked down. Short of an underground bunker, he couldn’t think of anywhere safer.

Yet a creeping wave of anxiety lapped at the edges of his awareness. Things were never easy with Hardy, and they were never quite what they seemed. The possibility that he’d missed something threatened to topple his tightly reined calm, and his free hand clenched and unclenched at his side.

Lacey shifted beside him, and his vision blurred as memories swept across his mind like a sandstorm: her impossibly soft skin and spectacular breasts; the brave defiance with which she’d addressed a roomful of police officers making decisions about her future; her crumpled, tearstained face as she finally unburdened herself to him in the hallway. What an amazing woman.

Dammit, keep your head in the game.
Bronnik silently cursed himself, rocketing back to alertness. This was not a practice run—this was as real as it got.

“Where is he?” he muttered aloud, checking the clock.

Becoming more impatient by the second, he was about to radio Thando for an update when one of the FBI agents came through one of the side entrances, which led in from the examination rooms.

“I’ve got a status report.”

Bronnik nodded impatiently. “Make it quick.”

“Oh, I will,” a familiar voice cackled, and when Bronnik turned with his weapon raised, Hardy had already dragged Lacey off her chair. He held a knife at her throat while his other arm wrapped around her to keep hers pinned at her sides.

Panic, dismay and pure primal rage surged through Bronnik in a dizzying rush. He kept his gun trained on Hardy.

“Turn that off unless you want to watch me open her neck right now,” Hardy told him, nodding at his radio headset. “Anyway, you already told the tactical team that you’d seen me heading south into the parking lot next door. Not that these stupid Americans would have noticed, but personally I think my imitation of your Western Cape country trash accent was masterful.” He grinned. “And before you ask, your partner will be fine—when he wakes up.”

“What do you want, Hardy?” Bronnik asked, keeping his voice cool and even as he tossed the headset onto the floor. Hardy stuck out his foot and brought his heel down on the plastic device. Bronnik stole a glance at Lacey’s face. Her eyes were wide and bright with fear, but her expression was resolute—she was a long way from giving up.

“First, I want you to put the gun down.”

It felt like his thoughts were trudging through heavy, sucking mud. He was an expert sharpshooter with extensive hostage training. He’d been in this situation so many times, often at much less close range, and he had never missed. He’d always hit the perpetrator rather than the victim.

But the victim had never been Lacey. For the first time in his career, he doubted the steadiness of his hand.

“Okay,” he acquiesced finally, slipping his finger out of the trigger guard and pointing the Beretta toward the ceiling. “I’m putting it down.” He lowered the gun to the desk.

“On the floor,” Hardy instructed. Bronnik paused to look at Lacey again. Her eyes searched his, begging for reassurance he couldn’t offer. He knelt to a crouch, placing the gun on the floor beneath the desk.

“Right, I’ve done what you—”

In a single, swift motion, Hardy cast Lacey roughly aside and leapt at him as he was still inches off the floor with his knees bent. Instinctively he reached for the knife strapped to his thigh, but Hardy was on him too quickly, pinning him onto his back with uncanny strength as he took two punches to the face in quick succession.

Bronnik felt himself snap into gear. When he was negotiating with Hardy time seemed to slow to a crawl, but now everything was happening so quickly he could barely process it into conscious thought. He was running on raw, animal instinct honed by years of training.

He blocked Hardy’s next blow and returned one of his own. Hardy was squatting on his chest and reared back, his mouth bloodied, his eyes wild and rolling. He raised his hand, and Bronnik saw the glint of the blade he’d held to Lacey’s throat only moments earlier.

Hardy brought it down with a grunt, but Bronnik thrashed beneath him, rolling his shoulder off the ground so Hardy sank the knife into the carpeted floor instead. In the split second Hardy spent wrestling to pull the weapon back out, he caught Lacey’s gaze over his shoulder. She stood frozen by the desk—she hadn’t run.

Hardy raised the knife again, using his free hand to catch and grip Bronnik’s wrists to hold him in place. In their struggle, Bronnik had twisted halfway onto his side, and his own knife was now pressed between the floor and his leg, out of reach. As he shifted to avoid the next strike as Hardy’s knife dug into the floor beside his head, the sole of his boot tapped something on the floor.

The Beretta.

While Hardy pulled the knife from the floor with an enraged howl, Bronnik bent his knee and kicked the gun toward Lacey. Then he squirmed his way onto his stomach, wrenching one hand out of the killer’s grasp. He fumbled for his knife, but Hardy’s thighs were clamped around his waist, the smaller man’s calves pinned against his own with surprising power. Bronnik clawed at the carpet, struggling to pull free from Hardy’s hold, bracing himself for the next strike.

Hardy brought the knife down. Bronnik felt the breeze of its movement along the back of his neck as the blade stuck in the floor just beside his ear.

He turned his head to the side. The sharp steel glinted less than an inch from his eyes. Adrenaline surged through him, and he grabbed the handle. Hardy’s hand closed over his and together they yanked it free, tussling as Bronnik rolled onto his back.

He put all his strength into straightening his arms and locking his elbows, putting as much distance between himself and Hardy as he could. He had to give Lacey a clear shot.

“Lacey, shoot him! Shoot him now!” He couldn’t see her, couldn’t see anything but Hardy’s face as they fought over the knife, the killer’s eyes bulging with fury and exertion. He didn’t know if she’d seen the gun, didn’t know if she’d picked it up, didn’t know if she was even still in the room.

Hardy redoubled his efforts and leaned all of his body weight into Bronnik’s hold, trying to force his arms to buckle. Bronnik’s muscles trembled, his forearms strained, and the tight scar tissue on his side tugged until he thought it might rend apart. He gritted his teeth, growling with effort, funneling all his strength into his arms and shoulders to hold Hardy at bay.

“Dammit, Lacey, just—”

The sound of the gun cut him off. On top of him Hardy roared and dropped the knife as he slumped over to one side. Within seconds Bronnik was out from under him and had him pinned to the floor in an arrest hold, his wrists held together, one boot on the small of his back.

He glanced over his shoulder. Lacey stood holding the Beretta in two hands, visibly shaking.

He turned back to Hardy. He pulled plastic cable ties from his pocket and cuffed the killer’s hands and ankles, then rolled him over onto his uninjured side. Hardy stared up at him in eerie silence as he swept the knife from the floor and deposited it on the desk.

“He’s not—did I kill him?” she asked, her voice high and thin.

“You got him in the shoulder.” Bronnik looked down at the captive killer. “He’ll be absolutely fine.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Agent Carver, then began speaking as soon as he heard the call connect. “Hardy’s down. I need everyone on the scene now. He smashed my radio, and I don’t know what the rest of the damage is.” He ended the call without waiting for a reply.

Lacey stood behind him, the Beretta still clasped in her hands. His chest heaved, his blood pounded in his ears. He was numb and disoriented, still somewhat detached from his normal, rational brain. Everything he did was practical, efficient, but not emotional, not yet. He reached out and took the gun by its muzzle, flipped the safety and shoved it into the holster around his waist.

Removing the gun from Lacey’s hands had the same effect as deflating a balloon. The color drained from her face as her knees shook and gave way. He rushed to her side and gripped her waist, easing her into the chair.

Police sirens wailed outside, followed by the slam of the front door. Within seconds men swarmed into the room, radios crackled, orders were shouted and everyone wanted his attention, but his focus remained fixed on Lacey’s face as he knelt before her. The lids of her eyes drooped sleepily, then snapped open, their brilliant green depths honing in on him.

“Bronnik,” she whispered, and reached out to rest her cool, soft palm on his cheek.

The sound of his name brought him back to himself like a drowning man breaking the surface of the water and drawing a desperate, lifesaving breath.

“Lacey,” he managed roughly, dragging her off the chair and into his lap. He pulled her into his chest and wrapped his arms around her, holding her as tightly as he dared. Gratitude washed over him as he felt how small, how vulnerable she was, how close she had come to being lost to him forever.