Surrendering To Her Sergeant (23 page)

“Screw you, loony tunes.” The agent
grinned as he said it.

“No thanks, Dan the man.” Her
answering smile descended fast, and she shook her head. “No time
for extracurricular anyway. After tonight’s mess at the Lanza
villa, I’m afraid we’re back at square one for finding the codes to
crack the intel on that laptop.”

A ripple of shock moved around the
table. Tait dialed in his bearing at a careful neutral, hoping
nobody would notice his own jaw hadn’t plummeted along with
theirs.

Franzen threw a narrowed stare at his
bureau buddy. “Mother of a fucking sand flea. That was you guys
pulling the ninja hoedown earlier?”

Colton smirked. “I was the cute one
next to the door.”

Franz pounded his shoulder. “Asshole!
Why didn’t you say anything? Pull me aside? We thought you were
some high-end thievery ring with balls for brains and—”

“The audacity to mix Marvel and D.C.
characters.” Tait felt morally compelled to get it out.

Colton threw him a conspiratorial
grin. “I was sickened too, man. But we had a Spiderman camp and a
Batman camp, and neither was backing down.”

Franzen’s glower got darker. “You
haven’t answered my question.”

Colton swung back an
equally menacing look. “Okay, listen. We had no idea what we’d
encounter at Lanza’s villa. We were hoping the woman would be out,
maybe on Lemare’s arm at that gala. We came prepared for an army,
just in case Lor was onto us somehow. We didn’t plan on
finding
the
Army,
let alone one of its finest SOF teams. We had to maintain some kind
of edge on you guys, just in case—”

“What? We were all on Lor’s payroll or
something?”

“Stranger things have been known to
happen. You know that as well as I, cock noodle.”

The guys chuckled. They’d gotten a
hidden surprise tonight, hearing someone give their captain lip
like that and live to tell about it. Franzen rebutted, “A second
ago, I was the leader of one of the finest SOF teams.”

“Yeah, but you’re still a cock
noodle.”

Franzen’s parry to that was to ignore
it. “So you were hoping to find a memory stick that the guy hid at
the villa.”

Colton’s face tightened, producing
lines around his eyes and mouth that instilled Tait’s respect for
the guy. Pretty boys didn’t stay that way for long in their line of
work—except for Ethan, who had to be working an Oil of Olay regimen
when the rest of them were asleep.

“It was a wild hope, but yes,” Colton
said. “It’s unlikely he’s had the thing directly on him since the
courier was killed. We immediately pumped sources at the man’s dry
cleaners, car detailer, private spa locker room… Nothing’s been
found.”

Garrett leaned forward. “And you can’t
get into his house?”

Luna answered that one. “He hasn’t
been anywhere near his house. On the night they took out the
courier, Lor worked late at the studio, then checked into a
bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel.” She winced. “Made it a garden
view, too. We were blind for two days. The guy didn’t even order
room service. Who gets a bungalow at the BHH and doesn’t order room
service?”

“What did he do for fresh clothes?”
Franzen questioned.

“Bought them new off the rack, down
the street on Rodeo Drive,” she answered.

Zeke emitted another whistle. “So
you’re saying the fucker’s rich.”

Franzen snorted. “I think she’s saying
he’s paranoid.”

“Agreed,” Colton said. “We still don’t
know where he’s bound tonight. The TCA gala was at the Langham
Hotel in Pasadena but concluded an hour ago. Our eyes say he’s been
at the hotel bar ever since, pounding G and Ts like they’re the
last he’ll ever drink.”

“So he’ll likely check in there for
the night,” Z offered.

“And then what?” Garrett directed his
stare toward Luna. “That’s where you’re going with this, isn’t it?
Lor’s clearly laying low, but not for good. Even Rodeo Drive will
start to get suspicious of his ass.”

“So he’s waiting,” Zeke
supplied.

“But for what?” Garrett
scowled.

“Something on a time frame.” Tait’s
statement came from the tightening knot in his gut. “Something like
orders to abduct someone…or attack something.” The tautened faces
of his battalion mates confirmed their thoughts had steered the
same direction. “Shit,” he muttered. “Without that stick, we have
no idea what we’re dealing with.”

Colton rolled his knuckles atop the
table. “It’s big enough that Lor is working with scum suckers like
the Aragons on it.”

Franz sucked in a harsh breath. “Yeah.
Scum suckers with ties all the way over to the Balkan drug
trafficking routes.”

“Which means Afghanistan,” Rhett put
in.

“Fuck,” Zeke spat.

“We need that stick.” Garrett clawed a
hand through his hair. “But I guarantee you, Lor’s planted it in a
furrow close to the barn. When it comes time to jump, he’ll need it
handy.”

Ethan had kept his gaze down, rotating
a cocktail napkin on the table with his pointer fingers. When he
lifted his head, it was to state the inevitable. “Then the stick’s
at the studio.”

Tait watched Luna and Colton trade
glances. They shared a telepathy that seemed purely professional
but still chapped his hide with a fucker called
jealousy.

“The bull’s-eye goes to Sergeant
Archer,” Colton declared. “And leads to how you guys have now
become our best friends.”

Rhett gave voice to the
confusion making its way across everyone’s faces. “Runway may have
just hit the target but we’re all still in the forest, my friend.
How do we figure anywhere in this? We were visitors on the set
of
Dress Blues
for
one day only.”

Colton gave him a Ken doll smirk. “Not
if the showrunners decide they need real-world military consultants
for the show’s upcoming episodes.”

Luna dropped her gaze to Ethan. “And
not if one of those consultants won’t have any trouble scooting
closer to its star and producer.”

Ethan stopped circling the napkin. His
fingers visibly tensed. “How much closer?”

“As close as you can, Sergeant. In any
manner they’ll let you.”

Tait couldn’t help it. His snicker
spilled out on top of Zeke’s and Garrett’s, though it was Rebel who
put words to the moment.

“Aha!
C’est bon
.
C’est trés bon,
I think.”

“‘
Bone’ it certainly is,
man.” Zeke sputtered the phonetic equivalent of Rebel’s French.
“All the way.”

“This is gonna be awesome,” Garrett
agreed.

Ethan lifted his head, saying nothing.
He didn’t have to. Tait had seen that look on a man’s face before.
It had been in the sports bar on base, back at home—when a guy got
told he was being deployed to Iraq for the sixth time.

* * * * *

An hour later, they had a
solid plan. Their “new role” on the
Dress
Blues
set would be announced at a table
reading for the new week’s script tomorrow afternoon—technically,
later on today—with Cameron Stock, the show’s director, to be the
only person actually aware of the charade. Orders were strict;
nobody else on the show’s team could be told of the ruse since
there was a good chance Lor wasn’t working alone.

Stock advised them the “consulting
team” shouldn’t realistically exceed three guys, although nearby
back-up teams were okay. Ethan was the obvious choice for the first
inside slot. Grabbing his six in the trenches of the assignment
would be Rhett, invaluable because of his tech skills, and Rebel,
who could sweet-talk a nun out of her grannie panties if he had to.
The rest of the team would take up tactical positions atop
neighboring sound stages at the studio, in order to record anyone
meeting with Lor outside, or engaging in unusual behavior. Tait had
joined Kellan, Zeke, and Garrett in groaning about that one. What
defined “unusual” when spying on a TV and film production
lot?

As soon as the logistics were hammered
out and lot badges issued, it was time to get to bed. Since Franzen
had the rental van, everyone started filing out toward the street,
grateful for the easy lift back to the hotel.

Everyone except for Tait.

“T-Bomb?” Kellan lingered at the back
of the pack to call it out. “Come on, man. We’re
rolling.”

He watched Luna’s backside disappear
into the bar’s storeroom. And stopped in his tracks. More
accurately, was jerked to a screaming halt there. The center of his
chest throbbed, His palms broke out in a sweat he hadn’t felt since
sixteen.

For fuck
sake
.

He wasn’t superstitious.
Spiritual? Sure. You didn’t confront the possibility of your own
mortality on a regular basis without squaring up your shit to the
Power who created you, however you defined that. But
chest-grabbing
signs
from that Power? Honestly, did God have time for
this?

The answer to that was apparently a
big affirmative. Because she walked out again, lugging a tray full
of extra drink garnishes, and he could’ve sworn the woman
glowed.

“I’ll get a cab back,” he told his
friend. “Think I want a nightcap, after all.”

“Because the half keg you sucked down
at the Whisky wasn’t enough?”

He gritted his jaw until the ache
matched his chest. “Just go, would you?”

Kell’s stare went the shade
of a thunderhead. He probed it deeper back, beyond Tait, to where
the only sight of Luna now was the top of her head as she bent to
restock the garnishes. “Be careful.” His storm-dark tone injected
the words into the special translator they shared again.
Be careful, asshat, and think about this woman
with your big head as well as your small one. The FBI may trust her
but
I
still
don’t.

“Thanks, Mom.” Without another word,
Tait made his way back toward Luna.

She’d just shut the mini cooler and
pushed up to her feet when he slid onto the stool in front of her.
Her pupils dilated and her lips parted, even hinting at a smile,
before the bureau programming took over and her cavalier façade
slammed back down. She didn’t even greet him until after a bar rag
was in her hand and she’d taken an order from the only other guy
left on her end of the room.

“You’re missing the train back to
Hogwarts, Weasley.”

His grin likely made him look like an
idiot but he didn’t care. “Appears that way.”

She spread her arms and braced her
hands to the bar. The rope lights played across her tattoo like
divine light that couldn’t make up its mind. Angels or demons? He
smirked a little. Maybe it was possible to be both.

“So what’s up?” she finally
asked.

He shrugged. “You asked if I was
thirsty. The answer’s yes.”

“Okay.” She tossed out a napkin.
“What’s your poison?”

He locked his elbows to the dark wood
between them, determined to hold her gaze this time. Success,
though his nervous system paid the price. Every inch of it sizzled
like rice in hot oil as he took in the depths of her eyes. Goddamn,
how had he forgotten how mesmerizing those purple depths could get,
especially when she started to shed the feline detachment that the
world saw most of the time? How had he forgotten what it did to
him? How he longed to throw himself over the bar, hike her ass onto
that cooler, and fuck her like a caveman with his tongue rammed
down her throat?

You. My poison is you. And
I can’t think of a better way to die.

“A beer is fine.”

She cocked her head, seeming a little
surprised by that, though she pulled out a bottle of a dark import,
popped the top, and set it in front of him. After he took an
appreciative swig, she ventured, “So you’re not scared of catching
cooties from crazy Luna?”

“Never was.” He pushed the beer aside
and went for her hand, which she’d left on the bar after sliding
the bottle out. “You know that.”

For a second, she returned his clasp.
But a heavy swallow went down her slender throat.
“Tait…look…”

“That’s what I’m doing,
flower.”

He didn’t try to hide the tenderness
from it. Or the protective longing. She’d hissed like a ticked
adder when he’d first called her that nearly eight months ago,
ordering him never to use it again. But he’d never been one for
following orders that didn’t make sense.

The woman didn’t hiss this time. She
broke into a little laugh. Sweet. Musical. Incredible. “You’ve got
a pair of those stupid Victorian poet pants stashed underneath
those shorts, don’t you?”

He tossed back more of the
beer for fortitude. “Let the op report show that
you
introduced the
subject of what’s in my shorts.”

“Let the report show that you
noticed.”

“Just willing to do my part for the
success of the mission.”