Surrendering To Her Sergeant (21 page)

Instantly, his senses were
blanketed in peace.
Fuck.
Peace.
When was the last
time he and that word were on speaking terms? But for this
collection of moments, there was no other term to encompass this
complete connection of his mind, body and spirit.

Because of this incredible
woman.

On that thought, he forced himself to
shift far enough away to see her face. Her high cheekbones were
still stained with tears but she had the heavy-lidded happiness of
a satisfied subbie.

Nevertheless, he asked, “You
okay?”

She slowly nodded. “Thank
you.”

He frowned. “For what?”

“For helping me to start what I should
have a while ago. Getting rid of the ghosts. Colin…and
Flynn.”

He shook his head. “I told you, we
don’t have to talk—”

“I know. And we won’t. Not tonight.
But I promise, you’ll hear about them both…soon.” She tilted her
head. “Okay?”

He brushed her nose with his lips.
“Deal.”

She had the cutest nose. The tip had a
tiny dent in it. He wondered what other nuances there were to learn
about her.

“So.” She issued it with an
impish curl of her lips. The quirk deepened her left dimple.
Another nuance. “Do
I
get to ask a question now?”

He shot back a playful glower. “Am I
going to enjoy answering it?”

She squared her shoulders,
which made her breasts undulate in a way that turned
distracting
into an
understatement. “Am I
ever
going to get a proper spanking…Sir?”

Well, that did it. His cock lurched,
his chest flipped, and his pulse jumped. Screw the Tar Pits. If she
was ready for round two tonight, then he sure as fuck was. He
lifted a hand, buried it in her hair, and tugged her head back,
exulting in the shaky little gasp she emitted as he did.

“I think that can be arranged,
sunshine.”

He should have remembered it wasn’t
midnight yet. That this day, full of as many crazy game changers as
any twenty-four he’d known on the team, couldn’t possibly give up
the ghost on midnight without a fight—a fight that sounded a hell
of a lot like his phone, chirping with the special ring that every
guy on the battalion knew all too well. It was John Franzen’s
version of the bat signal, and it meant only one thing.

Drop everything.
Now.

Tait wasn’t sure what to expect when
he and Kell got out of the cab in front of the Foxfire Room. A
North Hollywood dive bar wasn’t Franzen’s normal scene for a
battalion rally-up, especially because most of them were staying in
the Hilton in Universal City.

Okay, so none of them had
actually
been
at
the hotel thirty minutes ago, anyway. In light of the throw-down at
Bella’s place tonight, nobody had been ready to turn in. He and
Kellan had made for the Whisky on Sunset for a kick-ass local band
and some ribs, while Garrett and Zeke headed someplace quiet with
their girls, in light of Sage’s condition. He’d heard Franz talking
to Rhett and Rebel about checking out the famous Pink’s Hot Dogs
joint but after what happened on the beach tonight, he needed heavy
booze, heavier rock ’n’ roll, and a place where he had to address
his best friend in a lung-busting bellow. What he had to divulge
was best done that way.

Their captain’s urgent text had
preempted his confession.

“You good?” Kellan asked it
while shrugging into his faded leather jacket. The inflection his
friend gave it, along with the expectant set of his jaw, got
instantly translated into a longer message. Something along the
lines of
You okay, ass face, because you
never drink four beers inside an hour without starting commentary
on everything in the room that moves, so I know something’s up,
probably something big, and now you can’t tell me because of this
code red call from Franzen, and is this gonna wait or do we have to
stand out here and hash it first?

Tait shoved some money at
the driver then gave his friend a nod. “Yeah.” He tugged open the
door that was set into a flagstone wall that hadn’t been trendy
since Kennedy was sworn in.
You’re right.
It’s big. Too damn big for the sidewalk between a hair salon and an
imports store with mugs screaming “Kiss Me, I’m Irish.”
“Later, okay?”

“Roger.”

After they stepped inside, they had to
let their eyes readjust to the dark, even after the murky street
they’d left behind. The place was crowded for a weeknight. There
were at least twenty stools occupied with customers of all kinds,
including some guys who looked like they’d stepped out of a trendy
magazine spread, some burly types in T-shirts from the local stage
employees union, two girls with purple hair who flanked a third in
blue tattoos, and a multipierced couple with their tongues down
each other’s throats. A TV played a silent repeat of tonight’s
Dodgers game. The ceiling-mounted speakers pulsed with one of
Tait’s favorite Dave Matthews songs, though he wasn’t sure that was
enough to officially bring the place into the twenty-first century.
Could’ve had something to do with the yellowed rope lighting tacked
up around the perimeter of the room.

Seventies Christmas kitsch aside, the
strands came in handy for guiding them to the back corner, where
the place’s sole booth already held most of their battalion mates.
Franz, Rhett, Rebel, Zeke, and Garrett were present, along with a
new guy he didn’t recognize. Wouldn’t be surprised if they called
him Ken, though. Dude looked like a supersized version of Barbie’s
famous boyfriend, complete with perfect haircut, square jaw, and
muscled shoulders that pushed against a T-shirt emblazoned with
Jack Kerouac’s face.

As they settled into the booth, he
looked around to flag a bartender. There was only one and the
friendly old guy was laughing at a joke made by a customer at the
other end of the room. Shit. That fifth beer was going on hold for
a while. Might have been a good thing, if the terse look on
Franzen’s face was an accurate indicator of the theme for this
powwow.

After another head check around the
table, he threw out, “So Archer’s in the head?”

Rhett waggled his brows. The rope
lights picked up the red tints in them, making him look like a
demon king from those bow-and-arrow computer games he played.
“Archer isn’t here yet.”

“What?” Kell got the
rejoinder out before he could. “
We
beat Ethan?”

Zeke smirked. “Twenty says Mr. Time
Clock was busy getting laid.”

Nobody took him up on the bet. Ethan
was always the first one in the door at team meetings. An exception
could only involve a woman or a natural disaster. Best as he knew,
the only disaster tonight had been what the Dodgers had wielded on
the Mariners.

They didn’t have to wallow long in
curiosity. The door opened and the rope lights illuminated the dark
head of their party’s last arrival. Runway hurried to the booth and
scooted in across from Tait, next to Rhett. “Hey.” He nodded in
deference to Franz. “Came as fast as I could.”

Zeke made sure that didn’t get
ignored. “Aw, we sure hope not, Runway.”

“Huh?”

Z snickered. Garrett backhanded the
purple-and-gold Hawaiian print that covered his friend’s huge torso
and gave Ethan a diplomatic smile. “Dude, it’s always a good idea
to check in the mirror before dashing out the door.”

“What?” Ethan looked down.
“Why?”

“
Your shirt’s inside out,
your fly is open, and for the record, a little hand sanitizer or
olive oil is great for getting lipstick off your
earlobes.”

“Shit.” Runway joined the rest of them
in chuckling at his expense. The moment was temporary. Ethan’s grin
fell to a shocked gape, aimed right at Malibu Ken, who’d been
hidden from him by Zeke’s bulk. “Colton?”

The guy jabbed his chin up. “Pleasure
to see you, Archer.”

“Likewise, but what the hell
are—”

“You’re getting on the tracks in front
of the train, Runway.” Franz sliced it in before jamming his elbows
to the table and circling his stare over all of them. In the dim
light of the room, he looked like Don Corleone had gotten a
makeover from the Scorpion King. “Gentlemen, thanks for circling
the wagons even on your vacation, which I’m afraid is being cut
short.” He paused for a second, smiling a little when nobody at the
table so much as flinched. “I know it’s not the first time you’ve
heard that from me, nor will it be the last. The fresh factor here,
as you’ve all surmised, is the pretty young thing sitting to my
left.”

The Ken doll snorted. “Pretty young
thing who whipped your ass last time we were at the firing
range.”

“Eight months ago,” Franz
sneered.

“You’re still buying my Scotch
tonight.”

Good luck with
that
. Tait glanced at the bartender, who’d
headed back their way but stopped halfway. It was like someone else
was tending the second half of the bar, a ghost only that old guy
could see.

“Now you’re talking,” Ethan added to
Ken doll’s comment. They bumped fists in front of Zeke’s rolling
eyes.

Franzen chuckled. “Clearly, some of
you are familiar with Agent Colton already.” He glanced to Rebel
then Tait. “For those who aren’t, allow me to introduce Daniel
Colton, one of our best guys currently serving the Central American
region of the CIA.”

Ken doll muttered, “And
South.”

Franz frowned. “Huh?”

“Central
and
South America, shit
for brains.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s right.” He added
under his breath, “Overachieving spook.”

“Adrenalin-whore ground
pounder.”

Tait exchanged perplexed scowls with
the other guys as Franz and Colton snickered like they’d slung the
last decent insults in history.

Archer was the next to speak. “Sorry
to break up the riff, Captain, but what the fuck’s going on?” To
Colton, he queried, “What’re you doing on this side of the border?
You didn’t let the Aragon truck get away, did you?”

That
caused a ripple of tension at the table. The entire team had
nearly ground their nuts to dust in helping the spooks track the
Aragons from one side of the globe to the other. Raids, searches,
surveillances, interferences…an undercover op that had included
Rebel in drag…Ethan practically going comatose from questioning
dirtbags from Abbottabad to Zacatecas…they’d pulled out all the
stops on the fuckers, leading to Bernardo Galvaz finally spilling
about the massive heroin shipment due for the border three days
ago.

But confiscating the smack
was only part of why that goal was important. Several families had
paid the Aragons for safe transport into the states on the truck,
not knowing the Aragons would never allow loose ends like that in
their business. If the CIA had let the
Especiales
“handle” that truck into
invisibility, Agent Colton might find himself resembling Mr. Potato
Head instead—with the parts in the wrong places.

“We didn’t lose it,” Colton
stated.

“Thank fuck.” Rhett and Ethan muttered
together.

Tait threw an assessing look at the
spook. “So why do you still look like you’re going to tell us Bin
Laden is really alive?”

Colton went still as all eyes at the
table riveted back to him. Franz leaned and muttered, “Sergeant
Tait Bommer. He’s half of my sniper team.”

“He’s the spotter?” Colton
returned.

“Oooo, you
can
be bright when you
want to be.”

Despite the banter, Colton’s mien
didn’t change. He steepled his fingers and stared over them back at
Tait. “You have good instincts, Sergeant,” he stated. “Our interest
in the Aragon Cartel has gotten a whole lot more urgent since we
stopped that truck.” He swung his gaze to everyone at the table.
“No. Fuck ‘urgent.’ This is sticky. Peach pie on the sidewalk in
the middle of July, being eyed by a thousand flies, sticky. Got
it?”