Dangerous Attraction Romantic Suspense Boxed Set (2 page)

The dim emergency lighting in the stairwell flickered on and off, casting eerie shadows everywhere. His lungs burned from the smoke, his heart slammed as he raced up the concrete steps. Two floors. Three. And the mob was still coming after them.

At the fourth—and top—floor he turned the corner on the stairs and came to a skidding stop when he saw his team gathered next to a steel exit door. Gage was staggering back from it, swearing and sweating, rifle held tight in his hands. Someone had already put a round through the lock mechanism, which was still holding somehow. When Gage moved aside Scottie backed up a step then slammed his boot repeatedly into the ruined lock. Even with the bullet hole and the ex-SEAL’s considerable muscle, the goddamn door didn’t budge.

Scottie looked back at him, his expression tense. “Get down to the third floor and try another stairwell.”

There was nowhere else to go. “They’re right behind us,” Hunter warned.

“Go,” Scottie ordered. “I’ll watch our six this time.”

Not wasting another second, Hunter turned and ran while the others followed him back down the stairs. He careened around the corner, through a door, and tore down another hallway that led to the opposite side of the building. Distant shouts echoed up from below. His teammates were a few strides behind him. In the thinning smoke his gaze locked on the steel door at the end of the hall. Only steps away, he heard the horde coming.

He dropped to one knee in firing position as his teammates escorting the diplomats rushed passed, and waited. The moment the first attacker cleared the corner he fired, hitting him in the chest. The guy fell, arms outstretched, knocking back the man behind him. Hunter shot him in the head and didn’t pause to watch him hit the floor.

He sprang to his feet and made a desperate charge for the door. Scottie saw him coming and stepped aside in time for Hunter to smash the lock with the sole of his boot. As the punishing impact traveled up his leg he felt the door gave way. One more well placed kick and the heavy door flew open to crash into the concrete wall. The stairwell to the fourth floor—and hopefully the roof—was clear.

The stairwell below them was going to be full of enraged attackers any moment now.

As the clean air rushed past him Hunter moved aside and glanced over his shoulder at the rest of his team with a nod. Two of them shoved the shaken diplomats through the doorway and followed up the stairs directly behind them to provide protection while Hunter and Scottie guarded the doorway.

Scottie stayed on one knee beside him, weapon up, his gaze trained down the hallway where the enemy were about to rush them when a door suddenly clanged against the wall somewhere below them. More men were coming up the stairs at them from the second floor.

Shit.
“Let’s go,” Hunter shouted over the blare of the alarms, the rising shouts from behind and beneath them. The rest of the team were already up the stairs. Hunter started ascending. He could hear someone kicking at the door to the roof up there.
Please open.
“Come on!”

Scottie was too busy to respond. He fired a double tap in one direction, then swiveled and took aim down the stairwell to the second floor.

Hunter cursed and turned back. He was halfway to Scottie when his friend looked back at him with a pissed off glower. “Go! You’ve got the only working radio. Get everyone on the roof and onto that chopper.”

“Fuck that.” No way in hell Hunter was leaving him here to fend off the attackers alone.

Scottie ended Hunter’s descent with an upraised fist that commanded him to stop. His voice was calm, his eyes intense as he stared up at him. “That’s an order, Hunt. Get your ass up there.”

Everything in him rebelled at the command, but he knew Scottie was right. His first duty was to the diplomats they’d voluntarily come to save. He’d get everyone to the roof and direct the bird in, then come back for Scottie if necessary. “Roger that.”

Suddenly Scottie’s head snapped around to face the corridor and he fired twice at more attackers. Hunter turned and ran, taking three stairs at a time. Four strides up, he heard Scottie grunt. Hunter whirled in time to see him struggling to his knees, blood pouring out from beneath the bottom of his tactical vest.

Without hesitation he lunged down the stairs toward his friend.

“I said go!” Scottie’s annoyed gaze bored into his, filled with resolve. Hunter read the unspoken message there. Scottie was prepared to give his life to save the rest of them. He’d stay and protect them all, fight off the attackers until his last breath. That’s what all SEALs were trained to do, and that training never went away, even after they left the Teams.

The thought of Scottie making that ultimate sacrifice turned his blood to ice. He hesitated.

Torn between duty and the need to protect his buddy, years of training and discipline kicked in. Swearing, Hunter turned and raced for the fourth floor. The door to the roof was ajar, and he caught the faint throb of rotors when he slammed the door open and stepped into the clear air on the darkened rooftop—

Stop.

Hunter blinked and sucked in a calming breath. It took him a moment to come back to the present and remember he was in his own house.

Pulling out of the painful memory, he raised the TV remote and pressed pause, freezing on screen the image of him as he emerged onto the roof. His throat was dry, his heart pounding like he was still back there rather than sitting on his leather couch at home. He swore he could smell the acrid tang of smoke, taste the bitterness of it in his mouth. On the TV he stood in the open doorway dressed in his tactical gear, radio in one hand, rifle in the other. In front of him the other security team members were kneeling with their weapons raised, facing outward with the diplomats huddled between them.

That’s the image the rest of the world had seen—a group of men gathering on the roof while the rescue helicopter came in.

Now, gazing at the high definition screen mounted on the wall across the room, Hunter searched for answers. He’d watched this same footage countless times over the past ten days since he’d been home, torturing himself with what he could have done differently. Maybe if he’d stayed in that stairwell he could have saved Scottie. Instead, once that helo had begun its descent he’d gone back inside to drag his unconscious friend over his shoulders and take him out to the waiting bird.

The camera crews on the streets below had captured shots of him appearing with Scottie slumped over his shoulders too. He didn’t need to see it on screen or in any of the newspapers or magazines again. That awful moment was permanently burned into his memory without another visual reminder.

Willing his pulse to slow down, Hunter hit the power button and turned off the TV. The recorded image of him vanished, replaced by his reflection in the black of the screen. In the empty silence the roar of the attackers slowly faded from his ears. He leaned back into the leather with a sigh and stared at the darkened screen. Though the images were gone, in his mind he was still back in that dimly lit stairwell watching Scottie bleed all over the floor as he struggled to bring his weapon up into firing position.

The news crews had only captured the chaotic scene from the outside of the ministry building. Ironic that the rest of the world would never see what had happened inside, while Hunter couldn’t close his eyes without seeing it imprinted on the backs of his eyelids.

In the stillness of his living room, the sound of waves crashing onto the shore came through the screen door that led out to the large deck outside. He and Scottie had built it last fall when his buddy had come to stay with him for a few days here on St. Simon’s. They’d enjoyed many a beer on that deck together while staring out over the rolling Atlantic. It used to be Hunter’s favorite spot in the house. Since coming home this time, he hadn’t set foot on it once.

The shrill ring of his cell phone broke the quiet. He got up and paced to the granite counter that separated the living room and kitchen. When he saw the number on the screen he almost didn’t answer it. Something—maybe morbid curiosity—made him do it anyway. “Tom. What’s up?”

“How you doin’, Hunt?”

How do you think I’m doing?
“Good,” he said, because what else was there to say? “What can I do for you?” No sense wasting time on pleasantries. Tom Webster wouldn’t be calling just to bullshit. Hunter went back to sit on the couch and picked up the pen he’d been using, fiddling with it to keep his free hand busy.

“You ready for tomorrow?” Tom asked without preamble. The owner and president of Titanium Security didn’t believe in pussy footing around, which was just as well because Hunter didn’t either.

In the reflection of the sliding glass door, Hunter could see his travel bag hanging near the back door. Inside it was his freshly pressed black suit. “Yeah,” he lied, glancing down at the pad of paper on the coffee table and all the scratched out lines that filled the first half of the page. “So, what do you need?”

“You.”

That was the last thing he wanted to hear right now. Hunter closed his eyes briefly and fought back a weary sigh, not even bothering to pretend he misunderstood. “Why?”

“I’m short on guys and I need someone over here who knows the area, knows how things work with the locals and officials. You’re one of my best, Hunt. This is a big one. I want you to be team leader this time.”

Because Scottie was gone.

The familiar hollow sensation started up in his gut at the reminder. He tipped his head back to rest it against the couch and considered what his boss was asking. “Who’ve you got for me?”

“Gage.”

The Tarheeler’s name set off a pang inside him, dredged up those horrific few hours when his team had spontaneously rushed to the ministry building to try and save the diplomats trapped inside. “Who else?”

“Two newer guys. Marines. One ex-Force Recon and the other a Scout/Sniper. Both came highly recommended.”

He considered the logistics of it, prepared to hear Tom out and then turn him down. “What’s the job?”

“Personal security detail.” His boss paused. “John Patterson’s daughter.”

Hunter’s fingers clenched around the phone so tight they went numb. “What?” It came out a croak.

“She’s coming here to pick up where her old man left off. Gets in two days from now.”

Fuck. Did that whole family have a death wish? Hunter ran a hand over his face. John Patterson had just been killed over there in a very barbaric way because of his beliefs. And the anti-American sentiment wasn’t any better over there now than it had been at the time of the murder. “Stupid timing.” Smack at the end of Ramadan, which would only make the radicals bolder if they wanted to try anything. As if they needed more incentive to carry out attacks on Americans, he thought with a disgusted shake of his head.

“Yeah, well, the new school John’s foundation financed opens next week. Daughter’s coming for the grand opening. You know I wouldn’t ask you to take this on if it wasn’t important. I lost four of my more experienced guys, including Scottie, in the days following Patterson’s murder. After what happened to him, Al Collins contacted me. He wants Titanium to take care of the daughter’s security while she’s here.”

Hunter rubbed at the ache that was beginning to form between his eyes. Al was an influential politician and had been a close friend of Patterson’s. He and Tom went way back, had served in the first Gulf War when they were in the SEAL Teams together. Made sense that he’d reach out to Tom to protect Patterson’s daughter. “Where’s the school?”

Tom didn’t answer right away and Hunter knew the answer wasn’t going to be good. “Swat Valley.”

Of course it was. He let out a humorless laugh. “She oblivious or something?” Maybe she never watched the news or read the newspaper.

“Not at all. Sounded to me like she’s carrying out his final wishes, outlined in his will. Figured you could relate to that.”

Hunter’s eyes slid to the pad laid out on the table in front of him. Yeah, he knew all about carrying out the final wishes of someone you loved.

“This contract’s real important to me, Hunt, so I’m calling in a favor. I want you to head this detail, no one else.”

Calling in a favor for this was a low blow, but the fact was, Hunter did owe Tom. Owed him the greatest debt a man could owe another—his life. Unclenching his fingers from around the phone, he sighed and relented. “I can fly out of Jacksonville tomorrow night after the service. Text me the flight details.”

Tom’s exhalation was full of relief. “Thanks, brother. I appreciate this.”

Don’t thank me yet.
“Yeah. See you in a couple days.”

“You know it. Give my best to Scottie’s family.”

“Will do.”

Disconnecting, he tossed his phone aside and picked up the scribbled-on pad. Every single line on there was crossed out. He’d already spent three hours at this without being any closer to knowing what to write. Words just didn’t seem adequate. His gaze strayed to the framed picture of him and Scottie hanging on the wall across the room. They were out on a fishing boat together off Myrtle Beach, arms across each other’s bare shoulders, huge grins on their faces. A heavy ball of grief settled in his gut. No matter how much he hated it, it was his duty to eulogize his best friend tomorrow, then see him put into the ground.

Whatever words he put to paper would never do Scottie justice. Nothing could. Except maybe sending him off with the giant fucking party they’d promised each other should one of them die before the other.

And maybe, if Hunter got real lucky in Pakistan over the coming days, he might just get the chance to hunt down the same militants who were ultimately responsible for Scottie’s death. If he did, he wouldn’t hesitate to send them to hell where they belonged.

Chapter Two

Bent over his keyboard in his third floor office, Youssef Khan inspected the latest schematic in his AUTOCAD program. He was concentrating so hard that he jolted a little in his chair when his computer signaled an instant message with a loud ding. He frowned. He never got instant messages at work. Only at home when he was communicating with one person in particular.