Wild Card (9 page)

grinned rakishly. Noah remembered that smile. A smile he had once had himself and it didn't

bode well for Noah. "You are in for such a surprise."

Jordan watched as Noah stalked into the briefing room, nearly half an hour late, but the vision

that met Jordan's gaze had his eyes narrowing.

Dangerous. Powerful. Like a big jungle cat, all smooth moves and predatory awareness. This

wasn't a cold-blooded shark. His eyes weren't icy. They would never again be that Malone

blue, laser surgery had darkened the color to a navy blue rather than that neon sapphire blue

they had once been. The color of Jordan's, and his brother Rory's.

Those eyes had been hard, cold for five years now. Until tonight. Tonight, they were wild,

fierce, as Noah paused and stared back at him.

"We need to talk." There was a snarl, an animal quality to the tone that had Jordan's brow

lifting.

"Hey there, wild card." Tehya chose that moment to move behind Noah and pat his butt.

Jordan knew what the other woman had done, but he didn't expect Noah's reaction. Tehya had

been patting Noah's ass for years, mostly to piss Jordan himself off, and Noah always ignored

her. This time, he caught her wrist, loosely, and stared down at her.

"Don't." He said the word softly, gently enough, that Jordan came slowly to his feet.

Tehya's impudent smile was enough to make a man grind his teeth.

"Oh, all that testosterone." She pretended to shiver. "Watch it, Noah, I'll start thinking you're claimed or something."

Or something. Jordan sat down as the minx carried the stack of files to the briefing table and

winked back at him. "The others will be up in a few minutes. Ian and Kira were running late as

well."

As she moved through the door, Noah turned, closed it softly and locked it as Jordan leaned

back in his chair, propped his elbows on the arms and steepled his fingers in front of him.

"You have a problem, ?" Jordan asked.

Noah turned back slowly and those eyes raged.

"You knew she was dating," Noah stated.

Jordan contained his smile as he nodded. "It was in the report I give you every month. You

know, the one you toss in the trash can after simply asking me if she's safe and if she's alive?"

Noah paced closer. Danger surrounded him, fury pulsed inside him.

"She's dating." His lips pulled back from his teeth furiously.

Jordan tilted his head and stared back at him. "And this is your business how? Nathan Malone

is dead, wild card. Remember?"

Noah flinched. He jerked back as though stung, his expression instantly closing.

"Unlock the door," Jordan ordered him coolly. "We have a briefing and a mission to complete."

He turned his attention to the files Tehya had brought in. "Noah." Jordan lifted his head, staring back into those furious blue eyes. "Her husband didn't want her. Did you think she'd wait on

him forever?"

Perhaps that was exactly what a part of him had believed.

Noah took his seat slowly, forcing back emotion, forcing back the rage. He'd worked too many

years at putting his past behind him, but somehow, in all those years, he'd never imagined

Sabella allowing another man to touch her. Likely because Noah had never been able to touch

another woman.

He had sworn himself to her. Heart, body, soul. All he was, all he could ever be, belonged to

that woman.

The man that had been born from the ashes of hell in no way resembled Nathan Malone. He

had known that the day he found some clarity in his mind, months after his rescue. He was no

longer the man Sabella had married. But the man he had become still claimed that one part of

Nathan Malone's life. Noah Blake claimed Nathan's wife.

As the others filtered into the room, Noah stared at Jordan Malone. He'd even forced himself to

forget the fact that this was his uncle. That Rory was his brother, that Grandpop had been his

base all his life. He'd let go of everything but the wife.

"Okay, here's what we have." The lights dimmed as Tehya passed out the files and Ian and Kira

Richards stood to the side of the large-screened LCD monitor that hung on the wall across from

the briefing table.

Five dead men, American, Russian, Israeli, Australian, and English. They were the Elite

Operational Unit, code-named, marked by the sign of rebirth and of death. A black sun and a

scarlet sword. Dead men. They had signed their lives away for the chance at vengeance.

Jordan and Ian commanded the group. The rest of Durango team, Reno, Kell, and Macey, were

their backup. They knew who he was, what he was, what he had walked away from.

"The Black Collar Militia." The first of the photos began to flash.

"Angelina Rodriguez, the wife of a Mexican-American Texas Senate hopeful, killed, their

brand on her hip. 'BCM' was indeed branded on her slender hip. Emilio Rodriguez dropped out

of the senatorial race when his wife's body was found and a message indicating that his twin

daughters would be next. The FBI covered the murder to allow an investigation into the BCM.

Stated cause of death was accidental, due to the fact that she was found in her vehicle, in the

bottom of a ravine not far out of Odessa where she had been visiting."

The photos glared back at them from the screen. The woman was pretty. Long black hair, dark

brown eyes. A generous smile in life, a grimace in death.

"Added to her death." More photos, these of illegal Mexican aliens found throughout Texas and

New Mexico. Victims, Noah knew, of illegal hunts. The BCM brand was buried on the flesh of

their backs, some on the buttocks.

"We have a dozen hunts and deaths," Jordan stated. "We have three dead FBI agents sent to

investigate the information that BCM is based in Alpine. Two men, one female. Their bodies

were mutilated beyond recognition, teeth pulled, fingers removed. DNA identified the bodies."

The photos were horrifying. Burned, hacked, faces beaten until the features were obliterated.

"The Black Collar Militia is being coined a white supremacy group; they're actually closer to a

homeland terrorist organization." Ian stepped forward at that point. "You have all the

information in your files. Black Collar is centralized in Texas, but it's moving swiftly into

neighboring states. Rodriguez was only the most public figure they've targeted. Several so-

called accidents at plants and manufacturing firms that use legal as well as illegal aliens have

occurred. Owners have been kidnapped, tortured, their family members have had a variety of

suspicious accidents, some fatal, some not."

"And no one has identified the members?" Travis Caine, formerly British Secret Service, spoke

up then, his light blue-gray eyes narrowed as he stared back at Ian, then Jordan. "Isn't that a bit

unusual?"

"Each investigation focusing on them has ended in cases abruptly closed, or agents dying. This

group has at least one highly placed government informant, perhaps more."

"Public support of immigration laws is growing," Nikolas Steele, formerly Russian Special

Forces, said then.

"Nothing's perfect," Jordan breathed out roughly. "But this." He pointed to the image of the dead agents. "Has to stop. Our job is to identify and interrogate the commander of the group

located here, in Alpine. All signs lead here."

"We have an Israeli, an Irish immigrant, and a Russian," Noah said. "We should be able to

target interest."

"We also have this," Jordan stated, and the screen flipped a satellite view of the garage Rory

and Sabella owned.

Noah stared at it silently, aware of the looks directed his way.

"We keep her out of it," he grated out.

"That's not possible, Noah." Jordan sighed. "Her name is already in it, as you know. The garage itself is a target. Profitable, a central point for gossip, and in the past months showing a

measure of growth. The last report those field agents sent in was that Malone Service and

Repair was a target. Owned by Rory and Sabella Malone. That report stated there were plans to

either incorporate Sabella Malone into a marriage with one of the central figures or kill her and

Rory. We can't overlook that report, and we can't just keep Sabella Malone out of this."

"Why target a gas station?" the Israeli Mossad, hard-core ice, Micah Sloane, asked the next

question. "It's not busting millions. Why not open their own station and use it for whatever they

need Malone's for?"

"Malone's is established," Noah answered the question. "Started by Nathan Malone, a man

most people in that town either respected or feared. It would be above suspicion for the

movement of arms or the laundering of funds."

"Bingo." Ian stared back at him coolly. "Several suspected BCM members have tried

establishing relationships with her. The only one to have shown progress is this man."

Duncan Sykes's picture showed up on the screen.

"Duncan Sykes. Owner of a profitable electronics business in town. Never hires aliens, illegal

or otherwise. Known to have been a close, personal friend of Nathan Malone's before his death.

Sykes as well as Mike Conrad, another friend of Malone's. were mentioned in that final report,

which, I should point out, disappeared within days of transmission to the D.C. office, just

before the agents' disappearance."

"High level," John Vincent murmured. Code-named Heat Seeker, the Australian Special Forces

soldier had pissed off the wrong group in Australia.

"Very high level." Jordan nodded. "Alpine is a central base, we bust it, gather their head generals, and we can backtrack it straight to D.C. and our leaks. That's our mission,

gentlemen."

"Nik and I will be in the garage," Noah stated, still staring at the aerial view of the garage.

"Initial information is that two of the mechanics are BCM. If Malone's is one of their primary

targets, and Sykes is a general, then we'll see how they like being screwed back."

Sykes was gone. Noah would make certain there wasn't a chance in hell that Sabella would

continue that little friendship.

"First phase, information only," Jordan ordered them. "We'll meet back here in a week, see what we have and then go from there. Travis will be at the college as a professor of English

history. John, you and Micah will cover. You're just drifters out for a good time. Target the

bars, the college hangouts where they recruit from, and you'll also be backup."

Micah and John nodded to that. They made damned good shadows. All of them did, but Micah

was a master at it.

"Durango team is in place to provide backup as well if we encounter trouble. Other than that,

we're on our own," Ian told them. "We have six weeks to complete this mission, because in six

weeks, we have this."

The screen changed again. The letter was simple, to the point. Addressed to the owner of a

manufacturing firm in Dallas that hired legal aliens from around the world. The message was

clear. He had six weeks to ensure his firm hired naturally born Americans only, or he'd pay the

price.

"The owner of this firm is who?" Micah asked.

"The owner of this firm just happens to be a financial supporter of Helping Hands, an

organization that encourages multinational growth and harmony." Jordan smiled tightly. "Boys,

meet one of your employers."

Three days later, Noah forced himself away from the garage as he watched Sabella roll herself

beneath another vehicle. One of the vehicles he'd completed. She was going over his work as

though he hadn't spent the better part of thirty-five years working on vehicles.

Top to bottom, she was spending the day going over every move he made.

He grimaced as he shoved a wrench in his back pocket, threw another look at her over his

shoulder, and pushed into the office.

And stopped.

"Excuse me." He turned to walk right back out.

"Ah, Noah Blake." Grandpop Malone rose up from where he had been sitting next to the desk

he'd had Rory blocked in at. "Don't leave so soon, son. I hear we have something in common."

Noah grimaced, gritted his teeth, then turned back and let the door reclose behind him and

faced the man who had been the base of his entire life.

Grandpop. He was wrinkled, stooped, his dark face was still imposing, his eyes were still that

bright sapphire blue that Noah had opted to have changed.

"We have something in common?" he asked, glancing at Rory's shuttered expression.

"Irish, son." Grandpop's smile had Noah pausing. The old bastard knew, and Noah knew it.

"We're both Irish."

He couldn't deny it. He was fully prepared to lie to the old man. Knew he'd eventually meet up

with him. But now that the moment had arrived, he couldn't do it.

"A bit," Noah answered carefully.

Grandpop had sat back down and now he shifted in his chair. His long body was weaker than

last time Noah had seen him, checked on him. His hair was completely gray now, there was

barely a hint of the black it had once been.

"Rory, I'll be heading out for a while," Noah tried.

"Running away?" Grandpop lost his smile. "Irishmen don't run away."

Noah's brow lifted. "Should I be running away?"

Grandpop stared back at him. That knowing, certain look as Noah looked at Rory once again.

He'd kill the little shit if he'd spilled his guts.

Rory gave his head a subtle shake, but he grimaced. As he'd been warning Noah, hiding things

from Grandpop wasn't easy.

"I wanted to meet you." Grandpop rose to his feet and Rory followed him. "Wanted to see this new man that had my little girl in there so upset. No one's upset my girl since her husband left."