Читать книгу Navy SEAL Newlywed - Elle James - Страница 9

Tracie Kosart had recognized the man in the casino immediately from the photo Hank Derringer had given her and realized that could be a problem. Even with his shaggy long hair, the breadth of his shoulders, the stubborn set of his chin and the steely look in his gray-blue eyes set him apart from the other gamblers there hoping to score a big win.

Though he’d been slouching on the stool, he looked as if he could spring into action at a moment’s notice. Now as he sat opposite her in the interior of her truck, he filled the space, his shoulders seeming to block her entire view.

“Phyllis, huh?” He stared at her, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t look like a Phyllis.”

“It doesn’t matter.” When he looked at her so intently, it made her body heat and her belly tighten.

“Missy?”

“What?”

“Jasmine, Lois, Penelope? I could list names all day.” He pinned her with his stare, a sassy smirk on his face. “You might as well tell me.”

“Penelope?” She shot a glance at him, her mouth twitching as she fought a smile. “You think I look like a Penelope?”

“Some parents have a sense of humor.” He raised his brows. “Well?”

She sighed. “Tracie. My name’s Tracie Kosart.”

“That’s better.” He stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Tracie. And by the way, the name fits you better than Phyllis.”

She took one hand off the steering wheel to shake his, an electrical surge racing up her arm from their joined fingers. Tracie yanked her hand back and wrapped it tightly around the steering wheel, willing the surge of fiery heat to fade.

“You and Derringer seem to have this all worked out.” Rip leaned back in his set. “Where to first?”

“We’ve looked over all the photos the dead agent left you, along with the after-action report from the extraction operation and we really don’t have much to go on. Yes, they prove the terrorists are receiving American-made weapons in World Health Organization boxes. But we don’t know for certain who is sending them or at what point they are packaged to ship via WHO.” Tracie shifted the big truck into Drive and pulled out of the parking lot.

Rip nodded. “I’m betting the World Health Organization didn’t send those boxes.”

“What we need is one of those guns so that we can trace the serial number on it back to the manufacturer. Short of going to Honduras to get one, we should exhaust all other stateside options first.”

“Okay, what options?” The SEAL beside her crossed his arms, which made his biceps appear bigger than they already did.

Tracie had to focus on the road to keep from openly drooling. The man had testosterone oozing from every pore. For a moment she forgot Rip’s question—then it came back to her. “I was hoping you had some ideas. We think the DEA agent’s boss had to have been receiving data from him. He might have other operatives inside the terrorist group or in nearby towns.”

“And how do we find Dan Greer’s boss?”

Tracie snorted softly. “Hank already has. He was able to tap into the DEA database and extract that information.” Hank had the connections, the computer power and a technical guru who could tap into any system.

“I’m surprised Hank hasn’t already contacted the agent’s boss.”

A muffled beep sounded in the console between them. Tracie lifted a cell phone out of a cup holder and glanced down at a text. Her lips formed a broad smile. “As a matter of fact, he has. We have a meeting with Morris Franks in Atlanta in three hours.”

Rip gave her a doubtful smile. “Honey, it takes a lot longer than three hours to drive to Atlanta.”

She turned onto a highway and jerked her head toward a green sign with an airplane depicted in white. “What did I say about having Hank’s Citation X available?” Tracie softened. As a former FBI agent, she remembered how unbelievable Hank’s assets were when she’d first been exposed to them. “Prepare to be impressed.”

Instead of driving through the terminal area of the Biloxi airport, she drove on to the private businesses’ hangars along the runway and parked outside one of them.

As they climbed out of the truck, the door to the structure opened and a man stepped out. “Right this way, Mr. & Mrs. Gideon. I’m Tom Callahan. We’ve topped off the fuel, your pilot has performed the preflight checklist and he’s filed the flight plan. The jet is ready for takeoff whenever you two say the word.” Tom smiled. “And congratulations on your recent marriage.”

Tracie almost did a double take until she remembered that was their cover story. “Th-thank you.”

A hand settled at the small of her back. “It all happened so quickly, we’re still getting used to it, aren’t we, dear?” Rip guided her through the doorway into a reception area.

Tom led the way past a desk to another door that opened into the hangar where a shiny new Citation X airplane sat on the tarmac. The huge hangar door slid open, sunlight cutting a wide swath into the dim interior.

“Shall we?” Tracie asked.

Rip waved a hand. “Ladies first.” Tracie climbed the short set of stairs into the cabin and took the first seat on the far side.

Ducking to keep from bumping his head, Rip entered the cabin and dropped into the seat beside her.

As soon as they were aboard, a flight attendant pulled the door closed, and the engines ignited.

Soon the small jet, with seating for twelve, taxied down the runway and lifted smoothly into the air.

“Okay, now I’m impressed,” Rip whispered. “How long will it take to get to Atlanta?”

Tracie glanced at her watch. “We should be there in less than an hour. In the meantime, we should go over what data the DEA agent was able to pass off before he died and the after-action report, one more time to see if we missed anything.”

RIP STARED ACROSS the narrow aisle at Tracie.

With her long, slender legs crossed at the knees and one of her red high heels bouncing with barely leashed energy, she still didn’t look like a trained operative. He was less than thrilled at the idea of Hank sending a woman to help him. He’d rather have had a man to work with. Women tended to complicate things. His natural urge to protect women and children might get in the way of a successful operation. This operation has been dangerous thus far and will only get worse. I’m not entirely sold on the idea of working with a woman.

“If it makes you feel any better, I used to work for the FBI. I received my training at Quantico and I’ve been a field agent for more than five years. I worked undercover along the Mexican border to help stop several drug-and human-trafficking rings. I know how to handle a gun, and I’m not afraid to use one.”

Rip nodded in deference to her risky and dangerous duty assignments. “Have you ever been in the jungles of Honduras?”

“No, but I’ve been held hostage in a cave in Mexico and survived. I know what hard work, prior planning and enemy engagement is all about. Don’t let the dress fool you.” She raised her hand, holding the cell phone up. “But, if you’re still worried about working with a woman, I can contact Hank now and have him send another agent to replace me.”

He liked her spunk and the fact she wasn’t taking any crap from him. Rip sat back in his seat. “What I don’t understand is why Hank sent you. I thought he was all about cowboys.”

She shrugged, making that movement look entirely too sexy, her creamy white shoulders in stark contrast with the bright red dress. “As I already mentioned. I grew up on a ranch. Hank likes his cowboys—or girls—to have that ranch-life work ethic and sense of morals and values.”

“I don’t know Hank Derringer. All I have to go on is my buddy Jim Monahan’s word.”

Tracie’s lips quirked upward and she stared out the window. “Hank and his team saved my life. I have nothing but respect for the work they do.”

“Just what is it he does?” Rip asked.

“He champions the truth and justice when other organizations can’t seem to get it right or have corruption in their ranks.” As she spoke, her jaw hardened and her mouth pulled into a tight line.

“Why did you give up on the FBI?” Rip asked.

“You know that part about corruption in the ranks?” She snorted. “Well, let’s just say, I wouldn’t be alive if I had relied only on the organization I had sworn into.”

“Surely not all of the FBI is rotten.” Rip studied her.

Tracie glanced his way. “No, not all of the agents are. But Hank made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. After two of the agents I worked with went bad, I was ready for a fresh start.”

Rip turned away and stared out the window. He knew how she felt. As a member of the Navy SEALs, Rip had been trained to rely on his brothers in arms. When one went bad, as one had on the mission in Honduras, it shook his entire foundation of trust. Especially since the bad apple had been the leader of the mission, the now deceased Gunnery Sergeant Frank Petit. Rip’s friend, James Monahan, a man he’d put his complete faith in, had helped to expose Gunny for the traitor he was.

What worried him even more was that they still had no idea who had paid Gunny to leak the information about their mission. He suspected it was someone higher up. Someone in Washington.

For a long moment, he sat in silence, reliving the past few weeks. He was only just recovered from the assassin’s gunshot wound. If not for his best friend and a former SEAL teammate, he wouldn’t have made it. That fact alone gave him hope for humanity. There were good people out there. His glance shifted to Tracie. She might be one of them. Only time would tell.

After what seemed like only a handful of minutes, the jet began its descent into Atlanta.

The plane’s tires kissed the runway with barely a bounce and, after rolling it into an open hangar, the pilot brought the aircraft to a complete stop.

The flight attendant lowered the stairs and stood to the side.

Rip stepped down first into the dim interior of the hangar and held out his hand to Tracie.

For a moment, she refused his proffered hand, her brow puckering. Then she laid her fingers in his.

The last time he and Tracie touched, he’d felt an electric jolt. This time was no different and the fire raced all the way through Rip’s body. What was it about the woman that had his body on high sexual alert? To get his mind off her, he leaned close and asked, “If the DEA agent was terminated for what he knew, how has his boss managed to stay alive?”

Tracie nodded. “Perhaps he doesn’t know anything.”

Rip ground to a halt. “In that case, we’re wasting our time.”

“We won’t know that until we meet with him.” Without slowing, Tracie strode across the hangar lengthening the distance between them.

A man appeared at a doorway. “This way Mr. and Mrs. Gideon. Your car is waiting.”

Rather than be left in the hangar, Rip ran to catch up, falling in step beside Tracie.

A sleek black limousine waited at the curb, the chauffeur holding the door. He didn’t speak a word as he held the door open while Tracie and Rip slid inside.

Once the door was closed, Tracie turned to Rip. “Have you considered the fact that Morris Franks’s willingness to talk to us might be an indication he knew more than he let on to others in his own department?”

Rip’s eyes narrowed and he stared out the windshield as if trying to see into the future. “Or, he could be looking for more information himself.”

“I suppose we’ll know soon enough. The hotel isn’t far from the airport.”

Tracie sat across the limo from Rip, not any single part of her body or limbs so much as touching him. Rip found himself wanting to reach across the short distance and pull her into his arms. The scent of her hair was doing strange things to him. Funny that even with her incredible legs and the classy way the red dress fit her body, the smell of her shampoo was what got to him most. It set every one of his nerves on edge and his groin tightened.

As a SEAL assigned to Special Boat Team 22—conducting missions and training their own team for missions as well as other SEAL teams—he hadn’t had the time nor the inclination to pursue a lasting romantic relationship. Not that there were many women to go around when he was stuck in the backwater swamps of the Mississippi bayous at Stennis where SBT-22 was headquartered.

If he were to pursue a woman, Tracie wouldn’t be the one. She was some kind of special agent for Hank Derringer. She didn’t have any more time than he had to get involved. Not that they would even be compatible. She was too…

Rip struggled to find the right word.

The tightness of her jaw and the slightly narrowed, beautiful green eyes said it all. Intense.

He’d bet she was just as intense in bed. Again his groin strained against the denim of his jeans. Now was not the time to think about getting naked with a woman. He had a job to do.

As a dead man, he needed to resolve the case so that he could resurface alive before the Navy processed him out of a job.

“We’re here,” Tracie said as the limo slid up beside the curb in front of what appeared to be a three-star hotel only a few blocks from the airport. “The driver will remain nearby in case we need him on short notice.”

Rip nodded and glanced at the hotel. “Once inside, who do we ask for?”

“We don’t. We check in as newlyweds.” Tracie glanced his way. “You’ll need your driver’s license and credit card. Our guy is in room 627. We’ll make our way up to his room after we check in.”

Rip pulled out the wallet Hank had provided and familiarized himself with the contents and his new name. Chuck Gideon. “Who came up with the name?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.” Rip got out, rounded the vehicle and beat the chauffeur to opening Tracie’s door. “Mrs. Gideon, shall we get a room?” He winked and smiled.

Tracie’s eyes narrowed slightly and she placed her hand in his, allowing him to pull her to her feet on the pavement.

His fingers tingled where they touched hers, but Rip schooled his expression, determined to give no indication that Tracie had any effect on him.

As soon as she was on her feet, she let go of his hand.

Not to be deterred, and using their married status as an excuse, he rested his hand at the small of her back. A slight tremor shook her body. Inside the lobby of the hotel, Rip adopted his role. “We’d like a room for the night.”

“Just a moment, sir.” The hotel manager’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “We have one suite left on the seventh floor.”

“Perfect,” Tracie smiled. “We’ll take it.”

Rip grinned at the manager. “She can’t wait to get me alone.” He held up her left hand, displaying the diamond ring and wedding band on her finger. Then he held up his left hand, displaying a matching wedding band. “Newlyweds.”

The manager smiled and handed them two key cards. “Congratulations.”

“Let’s wait to get the luggage until we’ve seen the room,” Tracie said, with a flirty bat of her eyelashes.

Though Rip knew it was all part of the act, it didn’t stop his pulse from leaping and his blood from thrumming hot through his veins. They stepped into the elevator. Before the door closed, Rip pulled Tracie into his arms and kissed her soundly.

The elevator doors slid shut and Tracie pushed him away, straightening her dress unnecessarily, her hands shaking. “We don’t want to look overeager.”

“Don’t you think newlyweds are anxious to get to their hotel room?”

Tracie shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, never having been a newlywed.” Her words were tight and it was as if a shutter descended over her green eyes.

“Well, I guess that answers one question.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

He smiled, liking that he’d shaken her with his kiss. “You’ve never been married. So you’re not married now.”

Turning her back to him, she said, “What does it matter?”

“I would think it would matter a little since we just kissed.”

“All part of our cover. It didn’t mean anything.”

“If you were married, wouldn’t you hope that your husband would be a little jealous of the man kissing his wife?”

“I would hope he’d understand it’s part of the job. Not that I’m getting married anytime soon.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not convinced marriage is all that great.”

Having been a SEAL for seven years, Rip had much the same perspective, though he’d never voiced his opinion on the institution. Tracie made him reconsider his own stand on matrimony. “I think marriage is okay for some.”

Tracie’s lips twisted as she glanced up at him. “But not you?”

He countered with raised brows. “Or you?”

“Marriage is hard enough when the two parties involved live under the same roof all year long. My jobs in the FBI and now on Hank’s team have kept me moving. I don’t have the time or the inclination to set down roots.”

The door opened on the seventh floor. Rip took the lead, turning toward the stairwell instead of the room the hotel manager had assigned them. Tracie was right behind him.

He hurried down the stairs checking for security cameras. He’d seen one in the hallway on the seventh floor, but not in the stairwell. One floor down, he opened the door.

Movement captured his attention. Two men were entering the stairwell at the opposite end of the long corridor. The last one through looked over his shoulder at Rip and Tracie before shoving the guy in front of him the rest of the way through the door and crowding in behind him.

“Damn.” Tracie ducked past Rip and ran for room 627. The doorjamb was splintered and the door stood ajar. Tracie pulled a pistol from her purse and shouldered her way inside, gun pointed.

Rip dragged the HK .40 from the holster beneath his shirt and rushed in after Tracie.

“Franks is dead.” Tracie turned toward him. “Whoever did it got away.”

“The two in the stairwell.” Rip ran back to the stairwell. He took the steps two at a time, jumping over the railing as the staircase made a turn. He landed and repeated the process until he hit the ground floor where he burst through the doorway. As dark sedan rushed by, one of its windows lowered and the barrel of a pistol jutted out.

Rip threw himself to the ground as the sharp report of gunfire blasted the air. He rolled beneath a truck and out the other side, jumping to his feet. Another shot shattered the truck’s passenger window.

Hunkered low with the body of the truck between him and the fleeing vehicle, Rip sucked in a breath and dared to poke his head over the top of the hood, praying he’d have enough time to get a fix on the license plate of the sedan. Already, it was too far away and getting farther.

Rip ran across the grass, cut through a stand of trees and made it to the street as the getaway vehicle turned onto the main road.

He hammered his pistol’s grip into the driver’s side window, cracking the glass.

The driver cursed, and the vehicle slowed for a second. Tires squealing, it leaped across the crowded roadway, and three other vehicles crashed into each other as the drivers slammed on their brakes.

With the pileup blocking Rip, the killers got away.

Farther away from Tracie and the scene of the crime than he felt comfortable with, Rip jogged back to the hotel, and raced up the six flights of stairs.

Tracie was still in room 627 with the dead DEA supervisor.

Rip nudged the door open with his foot, breathing hard, his shirt torn and dirty.

“What happened?” Tracie asked.

“They got away.” Rip kicked the door closed behind him, careful not to touch anything. “Have you called the police?”

She shook her head and held up gloved hands. “No. And I’ve been careful not to leave prints on anything. We can’t blow our cover. There’s still a lot of work to do.”

“What about the surveillance video for this floor?”

“I’ll get Hank to work on that. Right now, we need to find any information that Greer might have left for us.” She slapped a pair of latex gloves in his hands.

Rip pulled on the gloves and glanced around the hotel room. Drawers littered the floor, a small suitcase lay upside down beside the drawers, clothes were strewn around the room as if someone had gone through them in a hurry. Pillows had been tossed off the bed and the mattress lay at an awkward angle, the sheets in a rumpled heap beside the dead man.

“The room’s been tossed. If there was anything to be found, don’t you think the killers would have gotten to it first?” Rip asked.

He glanced at the door. Not only had the killers splintered the frame, the chain lock had been ripped out of the door itself.

“The chain on the door was torn off. The agent knew someone might try to get to him.” Tracie checked the closet, the empty room safe and behind the dresser. “Nothing.”

Rip found a set of keys beneath the corner of the bed. “Think he might have left something in his vehicle?”

“We can check, but we better make it quick. It won’t be long before someone sees the broken door and discovers the body. We don’t want to be around when the police get here.”

Rip nodded. They couldn’t afford to be tied up answering questions for the police. Their fake documents would only hold up until authorities tracked down their real identities. “Did Hank have the access to erase our fingerprints from the FBI and military databases?”

“As far as I know, he removed us from all grids.”

A sense of loss washed over Rip. His identity had been erased from the military system. He’d always been proud of his connection with the SEALs. Having been removed from the system made him feel even more disconnected than his fake death.

Rip squared his shoulders. He didn’t have time to grieve his own death. Palming the car keys, he jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”