Secure Target (Elite Operators) (5 page)

“We’re going to need it,” she muttered, and let her head fall back on the seat.

One hour and an elaborate, scenic tour of the snow-packed roads of Topeka later, Lacey was ensconced in another hotel room in another part of town. She’d gotten through most of a decent dinner courtesy of room service while the two South African police officers paced the room, talking on their phones and occasionally picking at their own meals while they listened to the people on the other ends of the calls.

As Bronnik ended one call, dialed another and began speaking in rapid-fire Afrikaans, Lacey retrieved her laptop from her bag and booted it up, having noted at check-in that the hotel offered free wireless Internet access.

She pulled up a search engine, and with a coy glance to make sure he couldn’t see her screen, she typed in
Bronnik Mason
. The first few results were South African newspaper articles, and they were all reports of cases where he’d been the arresting officer, although all of the comments were made by a police spokesman rather than by him. Farther down the page were a few places where his name appeared in lists, like police department rosters and triathlon results, but there was nothing to offer any substantive insight on the man whose authoritative instructions into the phone were totally undermined by the faded T-shirt and battered running shoes he still hadn’t changed out of.

Ducking her bemused smile behind her screen, Lacey did a bit of reading up on the South African Police Service, and in particular the Special Task Force. It seemed to be the police equivalent of the SAS, or some kind of full-time SWAT team.

Then she surfed to a video sharing site and typed Bronnik’s name into the search bar. Having expected no results, she was surprised when a video popped up titled
South Africa’s Special Task Force: Part 2
. She plugged her headphones into the computer and, casting a surreptitious peek to make sure Bronnik was still busy calling everyone he’d ever met, she pressed play.

She was expecting some kind of documentary, but what she’d gotten seemed to be the South African version of
Cops
. The show had been chopped into parts, so the first few minutes were concluding an earlier segment, and she skipped forward slightly.

After a brief transitional voiceover about crime statistics and the prevalence of kidnapping in South Africa, the next segment began, and to her astonishment Bronnik was in the first shot. He was a little bit younger, his hair was a little bit shorter, but it was definitely him. He was sitting at a table listening to a briefing while the voiceover explained that the team had been called in to respond to a hostage situation in the Cape Flats, a sprawling, deeply impoverished area of Cape Town.

Lacey kept watching as the officers—looking more like soldiers in camouflage fatigues and black boots, with equipment strapped to their thighs and waists—drove to the house where the hostage was being held and took over from the regular police.

Just as she thought Bronnik might not appear again, there he was, poised outside the door with his back against the wall, holding an enormous automatic weapon. Another officer threw a stun grenade through an open window and when it popped and flashed, Bronnik pivoted, kicked down the door in one smooth motion and sprang inside, pointing the gun. His colleagues swarmed in behind him, shouting in a confusing mix of English, Afrikaans and who knew what else, and within seconds the hostage was safe and the perpetrator handcuffed on the ground.

Lacey flicked through the rest of the clip, but it seemed that was the sum total of Bronnik’s career on the small screen. She replayed the few seconds of action, marveling at his quick, decisive movements and military precision as he flowed through the door, weapon raised to shoot.

She’d assumed she was dealing with better-than-average police officers—in the movies serial killers were always handled by fancy psychological specialists—but she had definitely underestimated their tactical sophistication.

These men were more dangerous than she thought.

She clicked to replay the clip, and she was so engrossed in the short video that she jumped when Bronnik touched her shoulder to get her attention.

She slammed the laptop shut and pulled out her earbuds.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“It’s late,” he repeated. “Big day tomorrow. I think we should all try to get some sleep.”

Lacey wasn’t remotely tired, but she nodded lamely, not wanting to argue. “I’ll get changed.”

Ten minutes later she was lingering in the bathroom, staring at her own reflection in the mirror and wondering what exactly was so fascinating about it that Lloyd Hardy had traveled who knew how many thousands of miles to find her. With her dark hair, green eyes and slim figure she’d always considered herself to be forgettably pretty—sufficiently attractive to be noticed but not enough to be remembered.

Too bad no normal man had ever seemed to find her as interesting as Hardy did. At twenty-eight she’d had her fair share of flings, sure, but she never seemed able to develop her liaisons into relationships.

Not that she could remember particularly wanting to. The guys she’d dated were rarely anything to write home about, an unremarkable procession of unremarkable men who disappeared from her life without leaving a trace.

She left the bathroom with a sigh, which quickly became a stifled gasp as she nearly collided with Bronnik, who was pulling a T-shirt down over his chest. She only caught a glimpse of a flat, toned stomach and a thin line of golden hair retreating into the waistband of his dark green boxers, but she felt her face flame as if she’d seen him strutting around in the buff.

She cleared her throat, taking a sudden interest in the pattern of the carpet. “So, uh, what are the sleeping arrangements?”

“Thando’s in there,” he pointed to the adjoining room. “We’ll keep the door open so he can hear everything. I’m in here with you.”

He must have followed Lacey’s gaze as it drifted to the double bed, because he added, “I’ll be perfectly content on the floor. The bed is all yours.”

She chewed her lower lip, torn between her warring senses of manners and propriety. “You can’t sleep on the floor. I don’t mind sharing the bed,” she offered, then cringed at her own audible lack of conviction.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied dismissively, already spreading a towel over the rough carpet. “With the hours that come with this job, I’ve learned to sleep anywhere.” He pulled a pillow from the bed and dropped it on the floor with a
plop
.

“Okay,” she acceded quietly, slipping between the sheets.

“’Night, Thando,” he called, and switched off the light.

Lacey lay in the darkness for a minute, her mind racing with the events of the day. Her whole life had changed in a few hours. This morning her biggest worry was whether she’d need to top up her gas tank before payday, and now she was dodging bullets, running down hotel corridors and leaping into cars with elite tactical policemen from the other side of the world.

With so much to process, she thought she’d never get to sleep.

And then she was out.

Chapter Four

That night, as on most nights, Bronnik’s dreams were full of smoke.

He ran through a smoke-filled tunnel, unsure whether he was chasing someone or being chased himself, but certain he couldn’t stop to find out. Sometimes he came up against a cold, damp brick wall, and then he turned or backed up, never knowing whether he was making progress or just retracing his steps.

Suddenly a face loomed out of the thick, swirling haze, laughing at him, sneering, its eyes the opaque black circles of a gas mask. He lashed out but he was bleeding, the blood coated his hands, and then something was on him, shaking him—

“Bronnik,” Lacey whispered, and his eyes snapped open, his heart pounding. He sat bolt upright, his hands tensing in readiness.

“What’s wrong?” he asked breathlessly. “Are you all right?”

She hushed him with a finger to her lips. “Everything’s fine, except that it’s freezing in here and you’re going to get pneumonia lying on that floor. Get in the bed—I don’t mind.”

He frowned up at her, trying to clear the fog of sleep from his mind. Her smooth, peachy complexion was luminous in the moonlight filtering through the cheap hotel curtains, and her dark, shoulder-length hair tumbled forward. She was radiant, and for a moment he wondered if he was still dreaming.

She straightened from her crouch and, reassured that she was real, he pulled himself up from the floor. He was stiff from the hard surface and he moved tentatively, favoring his left side. Lacey slid into the bed before him and pulled back the duvet, giving the empty space beside her a little pat.

Bronnik eased himself between the sheets and lay on his back, his left hand still cupping the angry scar below his rib cage. He began to contemplate the dubious professionalism of sleeping in the same bed as the woman he’d been charged to protect, but before he could pursue that debate to its conclusion he fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

The next morning Bronnik woke before his alarm, as usual, and with a rigid hard-on, which was less usual. As he reached for his phone on the nightstand he felt a light pressure on his hip, and looked down to see that Lacey had flung her arm around his waist during the night. Her face was pressed into his spine, and the bed was awash with her sweet berries-and-vanilla scent.

His erection throbbed, and he groaned softly.

He carefully disentangled himself from Lacey’s grasp and slid out of the bed, not wanting to wake her. He stood and stretched, when a low, familiar chuckle came from the adjoining doorway.

“Standing to attention this morning?” Thando whispered. “At ease, soldier.”

He snatched up his bag from the floor and strategically positioned it, showed Thando his middle finger and then hobbled into the bathroom.

Alone in the room, he took a deep breath and looked at himself in the mirror. He didn’t remember his father, but he’d seen photos, and every day it seemed he looked more like the man in the pictures. The stranger with his face.

He was a few months past his thirtieth birthday now. This time next year he’d be older than his father ever was.

Except by the time his father was killed in a car accident, he had a wife and three children, whereas he didn’t even have a pet. He’d never thought of himself as the settling-down type—he loved his job, loved the chaos, loved the unexpected. But this Hardy thing was making him weary. For months now he’d felt like Hardy’s puppet, dashing across the globe in pursuit of him, always in the right place but never at quite the right time.

He wanted this to be over.

And that could be the only explanation for the desire he felt for Lacey. She was a symbol—the last pawn in a long, stale game of chess. If he could just keep hold of her, he would finally win.

Although it was a shame that they hadn’t met under different circumstances, he considered as he stepped in the shower and let the hot water pelt his skin. Otherwise he would’ve at least tried for a fling with her.

She was absolutely stunning, if somewhat different from the robust, voluptuous blondes he normally fell into bed with at the end of a sloppy night out. Lacey was slight and willowy, and her green eyes were big and mysterious in her heart-shaped face.

Definitely a shame. He imagined tugging down her snug running shorts over her toned thighs, his hand finding the warm softness between them, her perfect pink lips parting in surprise and delight…

He groaned and leaned against the cool tiles of the wall. He really had to get this girl out of his thoughts.

“This is not professional,” he chided himself, and reached down to grasp his erection. He wrapped his hand around the swollen shaft and began to work off some built-up tension.

With his eyes closed, Bronnik rooted around in his mental library of surefire turn-ons. Lying flat on his back as the Dutch tourist straddled his hips, enjoying the view of her spectacular breasts. The surfer girl from Durban he’d met on the beach, the gleam of a distant bonfire on her skin as they had sex on the sand. The statuesque waitress who’d caught a glimpse of his badge and been so turned on she shoved him into a storage closet and gave him the most tantalizing, lingering oral sex he’d ever had.

Nope, he wasn’t getting anywhere. His faithful standbys were failing him completely. He braced his other hand against the wall and adjusted his grip.

He thought about Lacey’s tight, pert behind swaying in the taut sheath of her pencil skirt behind the reception desk. He thought about her soft, rosy mouth, imagined the way it would gape with desire at his touch. The buttons flying as he tore open her prim, spotless blouse, exposing the supple, heaving mounds of her breasts. Her eyes shining with anticipation as he slipped his hand between her legs, finding the betraying dampness in her panties, sliding his fingers beneath the thin cloth to plunge into her silky heat, her eyes clenching shut…

Bronnik moaned and shuddered as he came, pressing his forehead against the tiled wall. His breathing was quick and short, his heart racing with the force of his release. He remained completely still for a moment, savoring the afterglow, letting the hot water pummel his back and shoulders.

“Right, back to business,” he muttered, straightening and giving himself a mental shake, willing himself not to dwell on the particular imagery it had taken to get across the finish line. He reached for his towel but realized he’d left it hanging on the doorknob. He stepped out of the shower, and just as his hand closed on the towel, the bathroom door flung open.