Danh
double-checked the contents of his pockets. His cell phone was a prepaid throwaway he would use only should he run out of options. The zip ties would guarantee his safety as well as that of any bystander he was forced to restrain.
His contact at Marian Diamonds had gone mute, and had done so at the same time the Spectra IT syndicate had begun trespassing on Mr. Cam's business. It was an unsatisfactory state of affairs, one
Danh
intended to correct today.
During the last circle the van had made around the block, he'd seen the Spectra agent enter Brighton's. By the time the traffic signal at the corner had changed, the contact from Marian's had come and gone.
Danh
was having none of it. Mr. Cam had given
Danh
a home when he had none, an education when he'd thought to never read, the food and clothing he'd wondered how to pay for.
He'd offered to pay in the same way he'd paid for his trip to New York from L.A. Mr. Cam had declined, teaching
Danh
his first real lesson.
With a family behind you, you were never on your own. Even if said family shared no blood but that which bound their oath.
Though Glory had double-checked the lock on the storeroom door, Tripp hesitated, uncertain whether she was keeping him in or keeping everyone else out. It was a subtle distinction that he doubted a lot of guys would make, but then, he overanalyzed on a regular basis.
That trait remained at odds with his tendency to take very little seriously, but it was the one that had drawn Hank Smithson's attention while the older man was busy boning up on the facts of Tripp's imminent court-martial—a future he himself had pondered while on the run from his own superiors in Colombia.
How Hank had gotten his hands on Tripp's
Top Secret
records remained a mystery the older man would take to his grave. Not a one of the SG-5 team members knew how or why he'd found and saved their sorry hides. Not a one of them really cared. The fact that he had was all that mattered.
Just like the fact that Glory had locked the storeroom door was all that mattered here.
Tripp moved his hands from her face, settled them on her shoulders,
did
his best to ignore the sensation of her fingertips flirting with his skin. It was hard when she flirted so sweetly, teasing him and tempting him there above his belt.
If he didn't ignore what was happening below, however, he'd be back at the ops center eating his lunch and wondering why the hell he hadn't savored this sweet opportunity to have dessert first.
Sweet.
Oh, Glory. That's exactly what she was.
Purely sweet.
Her mouth, her fingers, her coffee-bright eyes when she looked up while brushing his collarbone with feather-light kisses.
He shuddered, kneaded her shoulders, whispered, "Amazing."
She chuckled, still kissing his chest and shaking her head. "Mandarin cream chocolate torte is amazing. Raspberry silk truffles rolled in powdered hazelnuts are amazing. I'm just Glory."
"You make my mouth water."
"That's what desserts are supposed to do."
He dropped his head back on the door and pulled in a breath he hoped would ground him back in the world of meat and potatoes. It wasn't happening. He was dying here. She was killing him sweetly, softly.
He'd stop if she said to.
Only if she said to.
But she didn't say a thing. One more deep breath and he pushed off the door, backed her into the wall at the right, spread her thighs with the knee he wedged between, and kissed her madly, feeling the thundering beat of her pulse where he cupped the base of her throat.
He sent his other hand exploring lower, down between their bodies to the hem of her skirt and her legs that he'd parted. He found her panties.
Cotton.
As soft as her kisses, as were the plump lips of her sex swollen beneath.
He slipped a finger under the elastic at the crease of her leg.
She gasped into his mouth at the contact. He swallowed the sound, nudging his knuckle upward through her folds. Her fingers dug into his biceps. He feared she would push him away, that he'd gone too far, and readied himself to stop.
She pulled him closer instead, holding on while she whimpered, tipping her lower body upward, asking for the more that he so wanted to give her with body parts other than his fingers or thumb.
Time and place, man.
Time and place.
He continued to kiss her, continued to play her, eating up her cries and whimpers the way he wanted to eat up the rest of her. He could taste the change in her, the salty electric tingle along her tongue, and knew she was close to coming.
He wanted to take her there, to give her this pleasure. She was so damn candy sweet, so vibrant,
so
open. It was a wonder he'd been able to keep his distance at all. He doubted he'd ever keep it again.
And here he'd been so good for so long, swearing off dessert, knowing how bad it was for him. But when Glory tore her mouth from his and whispered his name, when she closed her eyes and gave
herself
up to his touch, it was a surrender that knocked him breathless.
Her entire body shuddered; he felt her tremors where his limbs were tangled in and out of hers, where his torso held hers pinned to the wall, where his fingers eased her down from the high.
He watched her lashes flutter as she opened her eyes and slowly turned her head to look at him, watched her press her lips together,
then
bathe them with her tongue.
He pulled his hand from her panties, wishing he could linger and give her even more. But his pants were too tight and he had to get back to work and, ah, hell, a storeroom was no place to make serious love to this woman. Not in all the ways he wanted to.
She moved her hands up and pushed her thick mop of black curls from her face. She smiled then, as she looked at him and said, "Wow."
He
grinned
right back. "Good stuff, huh?"
She pulled in a deep, steadying, satisfied breath. "Lemon tortes have nothing on you,
Shaughnessey
."
He tossed back his head and laughed. This one was going to be a hell of a lot of fun to get to know better.
A hell of a lot of fun.
Danh
ordered his men out of the van with no more than a wave of his hand. Footsteps fell soundlessly in the alley. The vehicle's doors closed without a creak. He waited for the five to fall in behind him, pressed to the building's wall, before he eased open the sandwich shop's back door.
He knew from earlier surveillance that they would be stepping into a small hallway that serviced the shop's restrooms and storeroom. The goal was to make it into the main shop undetected. Once there, phase two of the plan would be set into motion.
Right now, however, it was time to complete phase one.
He slipped through the door behind his number one man,
Qua
^
n
, standing guard while the other man checked both rest-rooms—empty—and the storeroom—locked—before blacking out the shop's security camera with spray paint.
Danh
then signaled for the rest of his men to enter, left
Qua
^
n
at his post in the back hallway. He knew there were no scheduled deliveries the rest of the afternoon. Unscheduled, he had to cover for.
At his command, his four men spread out through the sandwich shop on catlike feet. Gasps and screams were cut off rapidly with a single wave of a weapon as
Danh
motioned the sole employee and five customers to gather at the rear of the shop.
Behind him, his men went to work lowering the blinds on the front windows, the ones covering the main door, the set hanging over the rear exit into the garage. The signs on both doors were turned to "Closed." The locks were secured as well.
Good.
Done.
Now to get what he had come for.
"Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon.
We will take no more than a few minutes of your time,
then
be on our way. If you will each stand and place your hands behind you, my men will secure both your safety and ours."
"Just take the money from the till and get the hell out of here."
Danh
turned his attention to the young man wearing the name tag and the brown apron with Brighton's green-and-yellow logo. "If we were here for the money, Neal, we would be gone by now. Face the wall.
Hands at your back.
Everyone but you, sir, in the tweed sport coat."
Two of
Danh's
men quickly circled the hostages' wrists with zip ties. A third spaced out chairs against the side wall and settled their captives as comfortably as possible. The fourth of his men, along with
Danh
himself, ushered the Spectra agent into the shop's hallway.
Danh
circled him slowly, taking in the costume of wool, cashmere and tweed, the ink-stained fingertips, the brown leather journal he still held tucked beneath his arm. The tiny gold-framed spectacles completed the picture, giving the agent the look of a scholar, a writer, the perfect cliché.
"Professor Shore, correct?"
Danh
queried,
appre-ciating
the brief flash of anger before the other man's features settled into an expression of fearful concern more appropriate to the situation.
The agent cleared his throat. "If you'll return the use of my hands, I'll gladly give you my money clip, my watch, anything you want."
Danh
admired the man's absorption in his role. Spectra IT trained their agents well. "I am not interested in your money or your possessions, Professor. What I want is something that interests only you and
I
. Once you turn it over to me, I will release all of you and be on my way."
"You
ain't
going
nowhere
, dickhead."
Danh
turned at the rudely shouted challenge and stepped back to view the customers lined up like a shooting gallery's ducks.
"You, sir.
You plan to stop me?"
"You bet your sweet
bippy
.
Me and my brothers in blue.
You've heard of New York's finest? I'm off duty." He indicated the phone hooked to his belt at his waist. "This baby's been transmitting to 9-1-1 since you and your Halloween parade started marching around."
Danh
nodded to his nearest associate who removed the cell from the officer's belt and nodded. A sharp stirring of unease had
Danh
clamping down on saying more. After all, silence intimidated far greater than swagger. His temples throbbing, he simply inclined his head.
His man sent the hostage to the floor with a blow from the butt of his gun. The two female customers screamed, whimpered, sobbed.
Danh's
man acted automatically, quieting them both with duct tape before taking up his position again.
Ignoring the tic at the corner of his eye,
Danh
returned to his interrogation. Seconds later, a bullhorn outside sounded with a loud, "This is the police!"
The tic grew impossible to ignore. Now
Danh
was facing the only contingency he'd never planned for.
A standoff.
Four
"What the hell was that?" Tripp jerked his head away from Glory's and toward the storeroom's locked door. He stepped back while she smoothed down her shirt, adjusted her skirt and her panties.
Frowning, she followed the direction of his gaze. "It sounded like"—he pressed a silencing finger to his lips; she lowered her voice—"a police bullhorn."
"Yeah.
That's what I was thinking." He held out a halting hand. "Stay where you are."
"Uh, okay," she said, agreeing like the good little girl who followed orders he obviously thought she was when what she really wanted to do was move the hell away from the one and only entrance into the room. "How long do you want me to stay?"