Heart Strike Page 4

  Then her rescuer had disappeared.

  All she’d ever found out was that his first name was Michael.

  She’d been airlifted from just below the peak, blind from the blizzard, by a U.S. Army helicopter piloted by a Captain Mark Henderson. He’d offered to track down her rescuer and later reported he hadn’t been able to. He was a lousy liar, which told Melissa that he’d succeeded but couldn’t reveal who it was. Someone secret.

  The helicopter had told her that her rescuer had been from the U.S. Army, so she’d joined. Not in hopes of ever finding Michael, but in learning the skills to pay back as he had. Her parents had been aghast. Before the climb, she’d been firmly on track for a very comfortable career in the museum’s exhibits department. Afterward, she became an Army soldier, and not a Canadian one.

  The higher she’d progressed in the United States Army, the more she’d learned about what sort of man her rescuer must have been. She’d gone 101st Airborne, then almost gone for Green Beret. But in the end, the sheer audacity of a man doing a solo winter climb on Rainier and succeeding in rescuing her by calling in Army air support made her reset her sights. She’d gone for Delta Force and made it.

  And, much to her amazement, she’d ultimately been right. Only the very best Delta operator on the planet could have saved her from those hellish conditions alone. And he had been—Colonel Michael Gibson.

  What’s more, during training, he must have known it was her. And now he’d sent her here—the thick-carpeted hallway of a luxury hotel in Venezuela.

  She inspected the man who’d fetched her from the airport acting completely as if he was an ordinary citizen. While transferring at Aruba, someone had insisted on selling her an “I (heart) Aruba” T-shirt that she didn’t want. He’d closed the sale when he’d told her, “Wear it when you get off the plane, pretty lady. It will work wonders for you.” And then he winked at her. So, the T-shirt was the identifying mark for her contact at the Maracaibo airport. She’d fought it on, at least a size too small—maybe more but avoided mirrors because she didn’t want to know—and done her best not to feel totally humiliated.

  Melissa had felt as stupid as could be stepping off the plane in Maracaibo, the only tall light-blond person of either gender on the flight, in a sea of actual returning tourists—almost exclusively of smaller stature and Spanish-dark. Though dozens of them wore Aruba-worshipping T-shirts. Voluntarily.

  In Maracaibo, a hard-bodied man had breezed up, given her a hug as if she’d known who he was. Otherwise, the embrace was completely appropriate to the circumstances, but no more; decent guy not even trying for a grope.

  He greeted her with, “Hey, sis! How was the flight?”

  No one had called her “sis” since her brother died. She couldn’t even manage a mumbled response on the blessedly short drive back to the hotel. She could hear that he was trying to be pleasant, then eyeing her oddly when she didn’t respond. Gracious, she didn’t even understand the words though they sounded like English, which made her feel like even more of an idiot than the T-shirt did. Unit operators were not supposed to feel like idiots, especially not in the first twenty-four hours after graduation. It wasn’t really fair.

  But it didn’t take a genius to pick out what he was from the first moment. Kyle Reeves—she knew once her “brother” had introduced himself—blended into the crowd a little too perfectly. Whereas she hadn’t blended in at all. But she knew. One Delta operator could pick out another just by how their eyes moved and how they shifted through a crowd, always scanning for potential threats and vigilant to have an exit at their back.

  “Like the T-shirt. Fred always did have a sense of humor,” he said as they waited for the hotel door to be opened.

  “Fred?” The disconnect only worsened, as that had been her brother’s first name, but at least she could understand his words now.

  “Fred Smith.” He glanced away as the peephole darkened with someone looking out at them. “He’s an alphabet man.”

  “Fred Smith,” she managed. Not her brother. Instead, an alphabet agency man, probably a CIA spook, who had sold her a T-shirt to make her stand out more in a crowd than she already did. And the jerk had made her pay for it! If she ever met him again, she’d squeeze him until she got her money back for making her feel so stupid.

  Kyle Reeves stood at ease beside her…except she’d come to suspect that nothing was “at ease” with Reeves. There was a readiness about him. He had a lively smile, a quick wit, and appeared to live on the balls of his feet, ready every instant to spring into action.

  As if she needed another sign that this was for real.

  The door locks began to rattle open.

  Reeves wasn’t tall, little more than her own five-eight. He wore a maroon-and-white jersey—“Venezuela’s national soccer team colors,” he’d told her—and had dark-haired good looks. He fit right in at the airport, and he fit right in beside her in the hall. Handsome enough to make her think some thoughts she definitely wasn’t going to be thinking.

  She, on the other hand, stood out like a runway beacon with her height, blond hair, and white skin. Operators weren’t supposed to stand out. Though there were enough foreign tourists in Venezuela that it wasn’t totally horrid; it just wasn’t good. What idiot had assigned Melissa to—

  The hotel door swung open…and there she was.

  There was no mistaking Carla Anderson. She might be in a sundress rather than combat clothes, but her dark beauty and that same impossible poise she’d exhibited in the shoot-room six months ago were completely present. She also displayed a scowl of complete distrust that would have made Melissa feel even more disoriented if that was still possible.

  “Hey, Wild Woman.” Kyle stepped forward and kissed her.

  Which actually did manage to create a new degree of disorientation for Melissa. She’d never seen a Delta-Delta relationship before. Of course she was only the second woman to make the grade, and she sure hadn’t had one. She couldn’t imagine any other unit that was crazy enough to let such a thing happen so openly. Next thing you knew they’d be repealing gravity.

  The Wild Woman looked as if she wanted to attack Melissa.

  “Ease off.” Kyle backed Carla into the hotel room with his hands around her waist.

  Carla neither stumbled nor stopped glaring.

  Kyle tipped his head to invite Melissa in from the hall. Once in the room, luxury suite or not, she knew she was in the right place. Now that they were together, she recognized the room’s occupants as the graduates of the prior Operator’s Training Course class. Individually she might not have, like she hadn’t recognized Kyle at the airport. But together they were such an incongruous bunch that you couldn’t miss them.

  There were three other guys waiting, two at a table, one on a short couch. There was a second, longer couch that showed signs that Carla Anderson had been sitting there alone, a couple of tasteful armchairs, a big-screen television, and a sweeping tenth-story view of Lake Maracaibo and the five-mile-long bridge that crossed it just south of the hotel.

  Then it struck her.

  They had gotten to stay together after OTC, while Mutt and Jeff—who she’d been missing during the entire flight down—were now on the other side of the world. That pissed her off almost as much as the discovery that she’d been assigned to Carla Anderson’s team.

  Two of the three guys stumbled to their feet when she entered; they’d been playing cards at the dining table which had the remains of a large breakfast shoved off to one side.

  The smooth one, a blond guy who looked about as dangerous as a farm-boy hamster, was already heading in her direction with a woman-eating smile.

  The quiet one, darker and sleeker than his blond friend, reached across the table they’d been sitting at and peeked at his opponent’s cards. He smiled slightly before setting them carefully back down exactly as he’d found them.

  An
d the… Melissa couldn’t quite tag what the third one was just by looking at him.

  The guy sitting on the two-person couch surrounded by a small pile of radio gear and a tablet computer simply gawked at her. He looked like he was about twelve with his mouth hanging open like that. He had straight, light brown hair and lighter brown eyes. Melissa had to remind herself that if he wasn’t Delta, he wouldn’t be in this room.

  Then he closed his mouth and suddenly he looked far more the part. He also aged from a ridiculous twelve to the seriously good-looking boy-next-door in his late twenties. He didn’t look like a typical Delta—the overly serious, intensely dedicated hard-ass. He looked like a…nice, decent guy. So what the heck was he doing here?

  “I remember you.” Carla had sidestepped Kyle and was once again right in front of Melissa, effectively blocking her last step into the room. “You’re from the new class.”

  Melissa nodded sharply. After graduating yesterday and traveling overnight, she was ready for a fight. “And you’re the bitch from the class before mine.”

  Carla quirked up an eyebrow.

  “Darn it! Sorry.” That was a bit much, way too much for her. “Didn’t mean to say that.”

  But the four guys burst out laughing, even the nice one, and oddly, Carla’s scowl shifted easily to a considering smile.

  Melissa couldn’t make sense of it as Carla held out her hand. Her shake was as solid and powerful as any guy’s.

  “Just remember that and we’ll get along fine.”

  * * *

  Richie watched the new arrival as Chad did one of his smooth, so-glad-to-welcome-the-pretty-lady moves. He always envied Chad that skill. Despite being Scandinavian blond, he could charm his way right into a Bolivian coca operation run only by darker-skinned, darker-haired natives as if he was their long-lost cousin.

  Richie managed to talk to pretty women; he just always completely mucked it up. So this time he’d keep his mouth shut.

  But the new arrival was really something. He’d noticed her during his own graduation exercise, sitting on the couch and looking more like a model than a soldier.

  Even in the eye-blink moments of time after they’d cleared the shoot-room, he’d been aware of her intense, blue eyes and light, blond hair that hung almost to her shoulders. It was straight but fluffed out with just enough curl to catch every hint of light. It was longer now, pulled back in a short French braid.

  His team had unleashed havoc in the shoot-room and this woman—her name went by in an introduction and he missed it, crap, typical for him—had watched with open eyes and an eagerness to do the same things his team had just done.

  Richie had recognized the hunger of it because it rang so clearly inside him. It wasn’t about the battle for people like them; it was the challenge.

  People like them.

  What did he actually know about her? Yet he knew he was right. There was a drive—all of The Unit’s operators were driven or they wouldn’t be here—but the drives were all different. Carla fought; Chad and Duane hammered; Kyle outsmarted. And Richie…

  He’d never tried to define it for himself.

  He…played. Not that he didn’t take the job seriously, but the last year had been the most fun of his life.

  Prior to Delta, Richie had always been the outsider. Sure, he’d been valued as the top technician back with 82nd Airborne’s combat engineers, but all his time in Eagle Battalion he’d never really fit in. Once he’d proven that he was a good enough soldier to make The Unit’s grade, he’d simply belonged.

  That first time he’d seen the newbie, she’d been wearing the ubiquitous black T-shirt and gray-green camos of most Special Operations Forces.

  Now she was clad in what he guessed were fashionably tight jeans, which looked amazing, and a white T-shirt at least two sizes too small, which was right off the charts incredible. It clung to every shape, showing off her complete fitness and perfect curves. A little too short, it kept offering intriguing flashes of her flat stomach, and the “I (heart) Aruba” was stretched across her chest to the limits of the thin material.

  She gave Chad the brush-off, not something Richie had seen many women do. Of course, that would only egg him on, but Richie liked that about her.

  She, Kyle, and Carla moved from the entryway, farther into the suite’s central living room.

  “You guys have it rough.” She looked around the room.

  “Pacific Northwest,” Richie said without thinking. “Say something else.”

  The blond looked down at him strangely. “I’m not a puppet ready to perform.”

  “Washington State, west side of the mountains. No, that’s not quite right. Say something else.”

  Her blue eyes narrowed and suddenly he could see the dangerous, Delta operator side of her. Perhaps not as wild as Carla, but there, deep behind that incredible face. “How the heck did you—”

  “I was wrong. You’re too polite. Canada. British Columbia. Vancouver Island, though it’s pretty well buried, probably by the years of military service.”

  Her jaw went slack as she stared at him.

  “Q does shit like that.” Chad punched him in the arm hard enough to hurt, communicating a clear Shut up, Man!

  Richie ignored him.

  “You’re the team geek.” She nodded as if he somehow fit into place.

  “Proud to be. What are you?”

  She laughed. “I’ll be damned if I know.”

  It was a sudden, simple laugh, not angelic or calculated. It was the honest kind that happened around the dinner table with family. It also made him decide something.

  “Here.” He moved his gear farther down the coffee table he’d been using for a desk then shifted so a spot opened up between him and the arm of the two-seater sofa. His tablet computer had a classified Unit-internal report on a new stealth drone, so he closed that just in case she wasn’t cleared for it. “Have a seat. It will protect you from, you know”—Richie nodded toward Chad who was still hovering—“man-apes.”

  She nodded agreeably and dropped down beside him.

  Chad didn’t counter the insult or even offer a riposte. He just looked at Richie as strangely as if he’d grown another head like Zaphod Beeblebrox in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

  It would be cool to have a second head, kind of like an outboard processing unit. But he knew he didn’t. So it didn’t explain why, not just Chad, but all of them were looking at him like that.

  Honestly, he’d spoken to women before.

  Chapter 2

  “No, seriously, I don’t know what role I fill in a team’s structure.” And Melissa felt even more awkward for repeating it. She’d been trained well enough to walk into a city alone, extract or remove a target, and disappear with no one the wiser. But her only specialty in OTC had been coercing a group of nonconformists to function as a well-oiled machine. As that was clearly Kyle’s role in this team, she decided against bringing that up.

  Outside of that one skill, she could use explosives, but she wasn’t a breacher. She could easily cover for a med or comm tech, but she’d never been focused on either. Mutt had been a hell of a breacher and Jeff a top paramedic. All Delta were good shooters, but she wasn’t a sniper. She was… Melissa honestly didn’t know.

  “I speak four European languages.”

  “Including Spanish, I hope.” Carla sighed from where she sat with her back against one arm of the other sofa with her bare legs draped over Kyle’s lap. “Or you’re gonna be a real pain in the ass.”

  “Sí.” Melissa kept it short and sweet.

  “Richie has seven.” Carla put it down as a challenge.

  “Four,” Richie corrected her. “Six if you count both English and bad English.”

  “Bruce Willis, The Fifth Element.” Melissa knew the reference.

  “Wasn’t that a great movie?” Richie�
��s smile went brilliant and for a moment she wondered just how alone he’d been to light up so. Or was that something he simply did in the joy of a moment? Either way, she could definitely relate to the movie. Then they both looked around the room and the four others were looking at them blankly. He leaned in close. “Don’t mind them. They’re total heathens when it comes to good film.”

  Calling The Fifth Element a good film was something of a stretch, but it had been filled with any number of good one-liners.

  Richie started tapping out the diva’s aria with a couple of small screwdrivers on the coffee table’s surface.

  “I made it through OTC yesterday,” Melissa continued to the room at large. “Which means I haven’t slept in a seriously long time.”

  That got her groans of sympathy and a little drum roll finish from Richie.

  “I’m a good shooter, but not the best.”

  “That would be me.” Carla made it sound like a brag. But by the others’ nods, Melissa could see that it wasn’t.

  “She was afraid you were coming in to take over the team,” Richie told her. Mr. Techie was acting as interpreter for what was going on. While it was odd, she appreciated knowing the subtext of the dynamics, and she was especially glad she hadn’t mentioned her typical leadership role. “She’s also much nicer when she hasn’t been caged up in a hotel room in a city for a week.”

  “It’s been less than twenty-four hours,” Chad offered with a hard-suffering sigh. “It only feels like a week.” He was being outwardly charming, but he was so transparent that she wondered if he ever succeeded with his act. Were women really that desperate?

  Hopefully she hadn’t ever been.

  Far stranger would be Carla Anderson having even a sliver of nice. Melissa would believe that when she saw it. “I’m a good hiker in any terrain.”

  “That’s me again.”

  Melissa was starting to take Carla’s jibes personally and had to remind herself that Carla had admitted she was a bitch. Well, Melissa might be Canadian, but she could bitch right back.