Surrendering To Her Sergeant (44 page)

He laughed and pulled his pants back
on while she sashayed out toward the kitchen, deciding to leave the
top button undone when her backside mesmerized him with its typical
hypnotic powers. Dear Christ, he’d never get tired of that sight.
He couldn’t wait for this cluster of a mission to be over, so he
could get back to the fantasies of waiting for her prison term to
be over, and treating her to a nice long session at Bastille to
celebrate…

Time for a change of
mindset. He was going to be rock hard and very frustrated if he
didn’t think of something else.
Now
.

While Luna puttered in the kitchen, he
fired up the television and instantly regretted the move. It was
one of those late morning “women’s” talk shows where the set looked
like a patio from the Hamptons and everyone had a coffee mug with
the show’s name on it.

He hovered his thumb over the buttons,
ready to hunt for SportsCenter, when he heard the studio audience
on the talk show break out in screams and applause. Since the
volume was turned low, that was saying something. He watched for a
moment longer in curiosity.

He gaped for longer than that in open
shock. “What the hell?”

Luna’s gasp confirmed he wasn’t alone
in the feeling, joining him to watch as the show’s perky hostesses
escorted their new guests to a fake Hamptons seating
area.

Bella Lanza. Cameron Stock.

And Ethan Archer.

So this is what it felt like to be
brought back from the dead.

Memories of the morning had returned
to Ethan in agonizing flashes, starting with the one that brought
him back to consciousness. He’d gone from darkness to light inside
a minute, thanks to the epinephrine vial that came into view once
he could focus his vision again. The artificial adrenaline got a
giant helping hand when he realized it was Cameron Stock who’d
jammed it into his thigh. He remembered glaring at the asshole
across one of the studio’s dressing trailers. He’d been stripped
naked but considered bolting anyway. After the getups forced on him
by Grant Fulsom, streaking bare-assed across the back lot wasn’t an
unthinkable follow-up. And the idiots hadn’t even bothered to zip
tie him.

That was when his scrutiny had widened
to the other corner of the trailer—and fell on Ava, passed out cold
in a chair, clad only in her bra and panties. Her purse lay at her
feet with its empty epi pen pouch on top. Next to that was a
gallon-sized jar that trembled—from the force of the thousand
agitated bees inside.

Cameron had smiled with slow
confidence, just as he did now beneath the glaring TV studio
lights. Ethan had clenched his jaw against a cold river of bile,
recognizing why they hadn’t bothered to cuff him. If he complied
with their plan, the bees would stay cooped up. Otherwise, Ava
would die in horrific and painful circumstances.

Thinking of her was the
only thing that kept the fake smile plastered on his face now. He
sat next to Bella on a hanging love seat in his dress blues,
steeling himself against the images that played havoc with his
head. One second, he drowned in helplessness while remembering the
hotel’s atrium with the soldiers surrounding them, then the
canister clanking and the air thickening with deceptive sweetness.
The next, he floundered in panic as more recent recollections hit.
The windowless room in the back of the trailer that held his
captain, battalion mates, Sage, and Rayna, all passed out and
chained. The order from Stock to get his ass up and don his dress
uniform. The sickening recognition, during the golf cart trip
across the back lot, that calling Stock out as a terrorist on live
TV was only going to get him labeled as a “poor, traumatized
soldier who’d succumbed to the stress of his Special Forces
duties.” Not only would Lor and Stock still be free and primed to
carry out the plan that still remained a mystery, but he’d be
tossed into a padded room faster than anyone could say
the lunatics are taking over the
asylum
.

He had to put it all away. Scour it
all from his mind. Leave a fresh slate for focusing on the
materials he had to work with on accomplishing the goals. Lor and
Stock had to be taken down. His teammates had to be set free before
getting used as terrorist bargaining chips.

He telescoped his mind on a small
opening of hope. It was just a pinhole but it was all he
had.

T-Bomb hadn’t been at Stock’s
Kumbaya-fest this morning.

He had to assume that Tait
had somehow been warned off and was watching this somewhere.
Right. Because the guy’s so excited for the
summer mimosa tips coming up in the next segment,
right
?

Fuck it. Even if T-Bomb wasn’t
watching, maybe one of Colton’s spook friends was. Maybe Luna had
fed them enough details to start piecing things together and they
were in the audience now, hoping they’d get a hint of what Stock
had done with Dan and the others.

Maybe he could give them a little more
than a hint.

“…
and he’s been just
wonderful, sharing all kinds of stories that are going to help this
live broadcast be a special experience for our viewers.” Bella
paused for a breath along with the chance to wiggle closer to him,
twining their hands together. “Nothing classified, of course.” She
playfully nudged him. “Right, dear?”

“Umm, yeah. Right.”

All the ladies, and Cameron for that
matter, joined in teasing laughter at his expense. Like he cared.
The longer they laughed, the more he could peer around for “props”
to help him divulge the team’s location. And the sooner his
battalion was secured, the sooner he could redirect his efforts on
putting Lor and Stock into prison jumpsuits forever.

The show hostess across the coffee
table from them, a leggy, mocha-skinned model he recognized but
couldn’t name, leaned forward and queried, “I imagine this has all
been an interesting change of pace for you, hmm, Sergeant? You
Special Forces boys travel the world but I’ll bet you’ve never been
anywhere like Hollywood.”

He tilted his head a little, appearing
to weigh out his answer, though he was actually taking time to
thank the Creator for plopping this opportunity in his lap. Who
needed props when he could get creative with words?

“That’s an interesting question,” he
began. “There’ve been some days, like today for instance, where
I’ve seen nothing but the studio’s back lot.”

The model beamed a commiserating grin.
“They’re working you hard, hmm? Beginning to wish for a deployment
again?”

“Well, the food’s much better
here.”

The model giggled. A lot.
“Oh my goodness, that face
and
that wit.” She glanced to the audience and was
answered with a round of squeals that made him squirm. “Tell us
more,” she encouraged.

That he could deal with. What else
would help Colton’s team find them? “I really like the
dressing-room trailers. I’ve heard that people sleep like babies in
them, even in the middle of a studio back lot.”

The model tittered again. He managed a
convincing grin in return until Bella cleared her throat and draped
her free hand around his knee. That didn’t shift the other woman an
inch toward a yellow light much less a red.

“Have you been sleeping
in
your
trailer,
Sergeant Archer?”

He let a meaningful beat go by.
“Perhaps.”

“In your uniform, or out of
it?”

With deceiving calm, Stock rose to his
feet. This flummoxed all four of the hostesses so much, they
sloshed their coffee in an effort to match his move. The action
clearly hadn’t been discussed before the broadcast. Though this was
live TV, a general sense of choreography was followed as closely as
scripted material. Stock’s impromptu move ensured he had the full
attention of everyone on set—except Bella, who was busy sliding a
minx’s grin at Ethan. She was definitely “in” on whatever the man
had up his sleeve.

Ethan’s mind responded with only one
word, coming right after a thousand cords of tension gripped his
muscles. The same cords that the team had termed “Runway’s shit
storm sensors.”

Fuck
.

“As fascinating as we all find the
subject of Sergeant Archer’s sleep apparel,” —he let everyone in
the studio react with hearty laughs— “I am excited to ask he and my
leading lady to join me over here for an even more exciting
announcement.”

The shit storm alarms pealed through
him now. Using mind over matter, he got to his feet along with
Bella and let her drag him by one hand to Stock’s side. “Tell them
already!” she urged the director, bouncing in her stilt-high
heels.

“Patience, patience,” Stock soothed
back.

“Tell us already!” The four hostesses
belted it together. One of them motioned at Bella for a high five
on the deal but she was so riveted on Stock, she didn’t
notice.

Fuck.
It gonged through Ethan again, making Stock’s relaxed
confidence feel like a goddamn kick in the teeth.

“All right, all right.” The
man held out his hands, milking the moment, making all the woman
wail again. At last he continued, “A while ago, we heard that a
special celebrity would be rolling through town today. We asked
him, that if we could secure approval from the network to shift
the
Dress Blues
live episode to tonight, if he’d be open to doing a special
cameo on the show. To our excitement, he agreed. He’s here now to
talk a little about it with all of you, too.”

As Stock finished that, he swept an
arm out toward the entranceway, accompanied by a musical swell that
turned Ethan’s bloodstream to ice and his heartbeat into a
scream.

Hail to the
Chief
.

He slammed his shaking hand to his
sweating brow as President Craig Nichols walked out on the
stage.

Ava moaned. What the hell
had she drunk last night? And with how many kinds of hooch?
Qué paso
? She hadn’t been
hung over like this for years. Her head hammered. Her throat felt
like the Mojave, cacti plants intact. Hadn’t she already learned
this lesson? Who the hell had she been out with last night? She
couldn’t remember anything past the beautiful way she’d started the
day, in Ethan’s arms at Ricochet.

Maybe she needed to roll over and
sleep off the rest of it.

A woman’s scream ensured that wasn’t
going to happen. It was sad. Horrified. Grieving.

And oh hell…was she naked?

She forced her eyes open. She still
had her underthings on, thank God. And now that blessed silence
surrounded her again—

Except for the buzzing. Lots of it.
Too angry and animalistic to be her inner ears resisting her
headache.

Slowly, she turned her
head.

“Ave
Maria
!”

She skittered back in the chair. The
large jar of pissed-off bees, anxious to find their queen again,
was less than three feet from her toes. If even one of those shits
got to her, the situation would be—