Hunt for Evil

ICE

The Series

An International Clandestine Enterprise Novel

by

Amy Jarecki

Rapture Books

Copyright © 2017, Amy Jarecki

Jarecki, Amy

Hunt for Evil

ISBN: 9781942442257

AISN:

First Release: August, 2017

Book Cover Design by: Dar Albert

Edited by: Scott Moreland

All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences.

To Lenna Hendershott for a thorough beta read.

And to authors Liliana Hart and Scott Silveri from the SWAT Academy. Your help and the hands-on experience were invaluable.

Thank you!

Table of Contents

Hunt for Evil

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Epilogue

Excerpt from BODY SHOT

About the Author

Other Books by Amy Jarecki

Chapter One

Gulf of Oman, 50 miles off the coast of Pakistan

Focus. It never changed. No matter the job, when Commander Logan Rodgers headed into enemy waters, he operated on full alert. His senses honed by years of tireless dedication to United States Navy SEALs, the task before him consumed his mind, body and soul. The beat of his heart thrummed in a rhythm matching the hum of the two-man SEAL Delivery Vehicle’s prop.

Tonight, the faint sliver of a new moon brooded in the sky, making visibility underwater impossible. But the murky abyss posed no obstacle for Logan and Petty Officer Quarles. Onboard navigation guided their SDV through the obsidian Gulf toward their target. Twenty minutes ago, they’d launched, casting off from the USS Washington after the captain had received orders to proceed.

Logan’s jaw twitched with anticipation. Visibility didn’t matter. Underwater at 2 a.m., everything looked inky even with night vision.

What mattered was the plan, the years of training to flawlessly execute that plan, and the guts to see it through to completion. No, it wasn’t the first time Rodgers had cruised sightless. After seven tours in various parts of the Middle East, he’d run out of firsts. Still, this type of challenge always gave him a rush. The exhilaration of a mission amped his adrenaline, even though this one was vanilla—almost as straightforward as a routine training exercise. And this time, he’d only brought along Quarles to keep it simple.

In. Out. Bada boom.

The black-lit monitor flashed, indicating they’d arrived at their destination. He brought the SDV to a halt.

“This it, sir?” Quarles’ voice resounded through Logan’s earpiece.

“You got it, sailor,” Logan said into the hydrophone. He could barely see the hull six feet in front of him. Above, the kaleidoscope of white shipboard lights played through the murkiness. After catching Quarles’ attention with a nudge, he gestured upward. “Night vision only. If you even flicker a flashlight, someone up there might see.”

The PO nodded.

“Wolf.” Logan used the captain’s call sign, fully aware the skipper of the Washington sat in the frigate’s navigation room watching monitors displaying the live action from the fiber-optic camera attached to Logan’s mask. “This is Red Riding Hood. Ready to enter the forest.”

“Roger that, Red Riding Hood entering the forest,” came the captain’s voice.

After checking the sonar reading on his wrist, Logan swam under the hull. Nothing happened without a plan—not on his watch. Quarles’ job was to set two charges on the yacht starboard, at the bow, and astern while Logan did the same port side. Once they were back on the ship, the bombs would be remotely detonated.

Easy.

All continued on schedule. Logan set the first charge. One would be enough to sink this boat, but SEALs never did anything half-assed. They’d lock on enough C4 to ensure the job didn’t need to be done twice just in case they ended up with a dud. He swam aft, skimming his fingers along the hull until he reached the stern. He pulled the second charge from his vest and clamped the magnetic box to the hull—once in place, the suckers held so tight, it took a crowbar to pry them loose. That’s why they were fitted with ejection levers.

Pulling up the detonation antenna, the damned thing snapped off. Christ, he’d barely touched it.

Where the hell is the Navy buying this crap?

“Wolf,” Logan said. “Muffin four has been compromised. Setting timer to thirty minutes, zero seconds for manual roast.”

“Roger that.”

“You copy, Sleeping Beauty?” Logan asked.

“Roger. Sleeping Beauty is ready for bed.” A hint of a chuckle came with Quarles’ response telling them he’d finished his task and was waiting to hightail it back to the ship.

Logan flipped open the cover of the broken charge. A red 00:00:00 flashed, ready to be set. Pushing the button and holding it down, he watched the numbers climb until they hit 30:00:00. He checked his watch: 02:16. “Muffin four set for thirty minutes zero seconds at o-two-sixteen.”

“What?” the captain’s voice came through loud and clear. A clammy chill shot through Logan’s wetsuit. “What” wasn’t remotely close to what he expected to hear. “And we’re just finding this out now?” Clearly, the captain wasn’t speaking to him.

Logan’s gut squeezed. Ten years of experience under his belt, and a gut squeeze in the midst of a mission had never signified anything good. “Sir?”

“The duchess is on the goddamned yacht. Abort!”

Shit. A twist of the gut meant disaster every time.

Worse, the captain’s use of “duchess” meant a female MI6 operative was aboard—someone important enough to jeopardize his team’s past six months of work.

Red numbers counted down on the display in front of his nose. 29:02:56. Plenty of time. “Entering code to disarm muffin four.”

All four charges were programmed to be disarmed with the same code. Logan had memorized it backward and forward—could recite it in his sleep—could recite it with loaded gun to his head. 9978#3192#8816. The red numbers flashed in a watery blur. 28:45:00, 28:44:00, 28:43:00.

Stop, you piece of shit.

He let it click down two more seconds. “Entering code a second time.”

His teeth clamped around his regulator’s mouthguard as he keyed the figures—slower, as if working at a reduced pace would ensure no numbers were tapped too lightly.

Still nothing.

He took a deep breath on his regulator. “Entering code a third time.”

When he finished, the screen read: 27:52:43 and counting.

He flicked the ejection lever to dislodge the magnet from the hull. The damned thing broke off as well. He held the little lever up to his mask while his tongue turned as arid as the desert.

What the hell is this made of?

Dropping it, Logan cleared his throat. “Ah…Wolf? Muffin four is locked and loaded and will be toast in twenty-seven minutes, sir.”

“Repeat, Red Riding Hood. What the hell are you saying?”

“She doesn’t respond to the code. Release bar busted and is at the bottom of the gulf. Muffin’s still hotter than coals in Grandma’s fire.”

Logan was met with silence for what seemed like an eternity while his heartbeat rushed in his ears.

Easy, my ass.

And he wasn’t about to waste one more second. The commander in charge of this operation, he made a snap decision. “I’m going in. Sleeping Beauty, head back to Red Riding Hood’s house.”

“You serious, sir?” Quarles asked.

“That’s an order.” Though he had no intention of dying, Logan would damn well ensure his PO got out of the blast zone.

“I’m giving you ten minutes,” the captain barked.

“Fifteen,” Logan growled as he swam across the hull, feeling for ladder rungs.

“Sending out the beanstalk to ferry you and the duchess.”

“Thank you, sir.” His hand hit an iron bar. “Red Riding Hood going silent.” Though Logan kept his hydrophone turned on, this would be the last he’d report until he secured the MI6 asset. He kicked off his flippers and scurried up the ladder.

***

Olivia Hamilton finished obliterating her sent email files and opened the door to the ship’s library—the one place on this yacht rarely visited by anyone. She inspected the corridor before she slipped through. It was dangerous to make contact with the outside, but it had to be done. Tonight, Jamal had finally confirmed what she’d been waiting for. But the American frigate was getting too damned friendly and, if things blew up now, she’d take a razorblade to her wrists.

Goddamn it, she’d endured this mission through two years of hell. She was in so deep, sometimes she didn’t even recognize her own reflection. But now the end was close enough to taste.

As long as no one cocked it up—especially the Americans. And that goddamned frigate lurking at the edge of the yacht’s radar could turn everything to ice. In a heartbeat. She’d had to take a chance and message headquarters to ensure the Yanks didn’t try anything cavalier.

Tomorrow, Fahd al-Umari, ISIS’s leader and the world’s most heinous terrorist, would board this very yacht and have a tidy little meeting with Jamal Abdullah Khalil. Yeah, Khalil was a major ass. And it had taken endless hours of painstaking undercover work until Olivia wormed her way into the clandestine world of arms dealing and through the back door of the evilest terrorist organization in history.

She stood at the cabin door—the cabin she shared with Khalil, the bastard. Her stomach turned over. After two years posing as his woman, she ought to be accustomed to it by now, but walking into his stateroom still gave her a chill. Shaking her head, she looked to the ceiling. She deserved an Oscar for her performance. Where else could someone prostitute themselves for queen and country other than MI6?

As she reached for the door handle, movement flickered in the corner of her eye.

If it weren’t for the hairs prickling the back of Olivia’s neck, she’d think nothing of it and head back to bed. She probably should do that now, but the prickles continuing down her spine made her flick off the safety switch on the side of her tablet, turning it into a dart gun. The poison wasn’t overly powerful, but it would do in a pinch to disable an intruder, especially if her intuition was right.

Placing each footstep carefully, she thanked God she hadn’t put shoes on her feet. When she pushed out onto the deck, she led with the tablet cradled in her right hand, her finger on the trigger that doubled as the volume control.

Once clear, she stepped outside, moving in the direction of the flicker. She could see it in her mind’s eye. Something black. Something that didn’t belong. Olivia had honed her senses for too long to brush aside a gut reaction. Her intuition was almost always spot on.

“Hello, Sister, what are you doing up at this hour?” asked the night watchman. Standing on the deck above, he spoke English as did most of Khalil’s men.

She snapped around like a startled cat, but calmed the jump of her nerves with her next exhale. “Can’t sleep so I thought I’d take a stroll around the deck.” Jamal would be asking for an explanation in the morning. She couldn’t even go to the loo without it being reported to the chief schmuck.

The watchman grinned, his white teeth picking up the moonlight. “It’s a good night for it.”

“Indeed.”

“Have a pleasant evening.”

“You as well,” she replied, watching him retreat—black pants, white shirt and shoes that tapped the deck as he walked.

Definitely not my target.

Could she have been wrong about the perp’s direction? She doubted it, but still turned to glance toward the bow.

Her heart nearly stopped when a hand slid over her mouth and another disarmed her. “I’m Commander Rodgers from the USS Washington, and you’re coming with me now,” an American growled in her ear. From the girth pressing against her back, he was solid—but Olivia could take him.

Grinding her teeth, she threw an elbow to his sternum. He blocked—so like a hotshot. Few people were fast enough to react to one of her strikes. But she’d nail him with her second try. Whipping around, she aimed a kick at his groin, but he blocked that, too. At least six-two and faster than an asp, Rodgers stopped her next kick by catching her ankle and giving it a twist—a warning.

“Enough. Come.” Jesus Christ, his eyes were the color of a teal lagoon and they drilled into her like daggers.

She shook her head. God, she wasn’t about to go anywhere with dagger-eyes. Not without a fight.

Suited up in scuba gear, his facemask cocked atop his head, the man had to be daft. “What the fuck, Aquaman?” she whisper-shouted. “If anyone sees you, we’ll both be shot before the first question’s asked.”

His eyebrows slanted downward over those damned eyes. “Yeah?” he whisper-shouted back. “Everyone on this boat will be dead in fifteen. If you want to live, you’ll do as I say.”

Olivia’s mouth went dry. She blinked, shaking her head. He had to be mistaken. One more day and al-Umari’s ass would be hers. “Are you off your fucking trolley? I’ve put too much into this project to have it blown to smithereens. Call off your dogs before you cock-up the entire op. Now.”

“No can do,” he said like her hard-earned cover wasn’t about to become the greatest wipeout in MI6 history. “Sorry to ruin your party, but there’s a bomb attached to the hull. Can’t be killed, can’t be dislodged, and if you stand here arguing with me for one more second, you’ll explode into so many pieces, you won’t make a meal for a goddamned minnow.”

Those are my choices?

“Christ!” She jammed her finger under his nose. “When this is over, your ass is mine.”

Chapter Two

In her shoes, Logan would probably be pissed, too, but he wasn’t about to leave without the woman. Even if the duchess was as feisty as a wolverine. Blonde hair, eyes like the Montana sky and a pouty mouth that spewed bile. He knew the type.

Stunning and difficult.

But women like her had a way of making Logan’s blood boil. This was his mission, his “cock-up” as she’d so ungraciously put it in her stuck-up English accent. But the spy could say anything she wanted as long as he got her ass off the boat and to the beanstalk before the yacht blew.

He was finished with talk. His jaw twitched, but Logan resisted the urge to bend back the finger she shook under his nose and snap the appendage from her fine-boned hand. Instead, he grabbed her wrist and slung her over his shoulder, then headed across starboard deck at a run.

“Put me down!” she demanded in the same heated whisper.

“Glad to.” In two steps, he leapt over the rail, his fingers sinking into her butt—a well-formed, solid butt at that. What did he expect? She’d nearly emasculated him with a vicious side kick.

They smacked the water hard.

The duchess fought to swim to the surface but, as the bubbles rushed in his ears, Logan didn’t mistake the sharp churning sound of bullets hitting the surface. Damn, he couldn’t release her just yet. He tugged her legs down until his arm clamped around her waist, then he took an inhale from his SEAL-issue regulator before he pressed it over her mouth.

She fought him, her tight ass wriggling against his crotch until she realized what he’d done. The air hissed through the breathing tube as she relaxed. He moved to her side and encouraged her onward while keeping a light grasp around her waist. Thank God she started swimming with him rather than against. In fact, she was a stronger swimmer than he’d expected. Fast, too. And with the oxygen tank on his back, she had no choice but to stay with him.

Visibility was just as bad now as it had been fifteen minutes ago. He stopped for a moment to borrow his regulator, which also allowed him use of his voice. The duchess slipped her hands around his waist, working in tandem with him as if she knew exactly what he was doing. Though she was also careful not to cling too tightly. Any man on earth had to be dead if he wasn’t keenly aware when a hot blonde wearing a skimpy negligee was an inch away from pressing her breasts flush against his wetsuit. Logan ignored the spike of heat shooting to his groin and inhaled deeply. “Red Riding Hood and the duchess underway,” he said into the hydrophone.

“Sounds like she gave you some sass,” the captain responded immediately.

“Expected that.”

“Beanstalk has acquired your signal and is honing in.”

“Roger and out.”

Taking her hand, he again slipped the regulator to her mouth, listening for bullets. Though he heard nothing, he wasn’t ready to take a chance and break the surface. With the way this mission had gone, Logan wouldn’t put it past Khalil to employ a sniper on his yacht. They swam like hell. Using the compass on his watch, he steered “her grace” in the direction of the Washington while he relied on the crew in the recon boat to detect the microchip in his watch. When he was confident they were out of range and would be undetectable in the Mediterranean’s swells, he arched his back, pulling her for the surface. As his head broke through, an orange ring splashed in front of his face right on cue.

He grabbed the duchess by the back of her skimpy dress and moved the ring against her ribs so she’d latch on.

She jerked away from his grasp. “Would you stop manhandling me, you ape?”

Nothing like a drop-dead gorgeous woman to make him want to kill something. Logan gritted his teeth and carried on with the mission, making sure the crew safely hauled the woman into the inflatable. As soon as she was in, he launched himself over the side. “Go, go, go!”

The motor revved to the sound of distant machine gun fire.

The duchess ducked.

“We’re out of range, princess,” Logan said, giving her thigh a slap.

“My name is Olivia, and I am well aware of that, cowboy.”

He slid against the rubber wall and smirked, catching the eye roll of one of his teammates. Logan never minded being called a cowboy. He’d grown up in Montana—Big Sky country. What soured his stomach was this MI6 debutante made wranglers sound distasteful. If only he could take just one of the European princesses he’d worked with to the ranch he’d inherited from his parents, they’d change their minds—unless they were too citified. He looked at his watch. “Detonation in eleven, ten, nine…” everyone watched as he counted to zero.

Nothing happened.

“God damn—,” just as the curse spewed from Olivia’s lips, the charge blew. Blinding white light flashed through the sky followed by an earsplitting boom while waves rocked the inflatable and pushed it further on its path toward the ship.

Logan turned his head away from the others and let a long breath slip through his lips. No one on earth would have been able to save his ass if he’d blown an MI6 mission because of a dud.

***

Watching Khalil’s yacht blow sky high was bittersweet. Where on the other hand, Olivia felt like a prisoner of war who had been freed after two years of hell behind enemy lines. She’d have to deal with her demons later because, right now, she was livid. In her book, being gutted trumped PTSD. In one blinding explosion, everything was gone. It wasn’t like writing a five-hundred-page book and losing all the words. This mission had sucked her under, chewed her up and had just spat her out. Worse, she’d lost her fucking self. She’d compromised every single one of her values for this job. Why? Because she thought she could do something to put an end to terrorism.

The commander sitting beside her like he was on a pleasure cruise just added new meaning to the words “poof you’re gone”. Fortunately, it took about twenty minutes for the craft to reach the ship, giving Olivia time to ratchet up her ire. She would have her say.

Once aboard ship, she cuffed the cowboy on the shoulder. “Commander Rodgers, did you say?”

He’d taken off his black hood, making his dark hair spike. Those intense teal-blue eyes slanted her way. Then his tongue slipped to the corner of his mouth while his gaze snapped down and back up to her face. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Take me to the captain.”

He gestured aft with an exaggerated bow, blocking his eyes with one hand as if shading them from a bright light. “This way, milady.”

She snorted. The light was dim at best.

A sailor handed her a towel. “For you, ma’am.”

Olivia glanced downward and nearly died. She’d been so irate she hadn’t even realized she was freezing—and wearing a negligee. No wonder Rodgers was trying to pretend he hadn’t noticed. Her nipples jutted through the white silk like a pair of homing beacons. She tugged the towel around her shoulders and raised her chin. “There wouldn’t be a spare jacket?”

Logan pointed. “Give her your shirt, sailor.”

“Sir?”

Rodgers glanced to his wetsuit, spreading his palms. “You heard me. I’ll see it’s returned.”

“Aye, sir.”

This time, the commander looked her straight in the eye without a flinch. “I’ll ensure you get a change of clothes ASAP, ma’am.” Jesus, those eyes could be disarming.

“Thanks.” Once Olivia had the oversized, blue-digital camo buttoned, she tied the towel around her waist. “Lead on.” Disarming eyes or not, the officer was about to hear exactly what she thought of his misshapen rescue.

By the time they arrived at the navigation room on the bridge, she was ready to explode. Pushing past Rodgers, she glared at the captain—the man with the gold leafs on his collars. “I’ll have you know I spent two years infiltrating the Jamal Abdullah Khalil operation, and you just lost our only chance to nail Fahd al-Umari.”

The man looked up from the illuminated navigation table, all color draining from his face. Even in the darkened CIC, lit by red overhead lights and computer monitors, he looked paler than a seasick landlubber. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. Fahd al-Umari. At oh-nine-hundred tomorrow, the evilest terrorist in the world would have climbed aboard the yacht you just blew to hell.” Olivia leaned in and met the captain’s indignant stare. “What, pray tell, is your ship doing out here?”

“This was my mission.” Commander Rodgers moved beside her and crossed his arms over his wetsuit. “Our intelligence gave us the directive to strike.”

“Oh yeah? Who in God’s name was that? I’m going to do everything in my power to see that moron never makes another misinformed, dickhead decision in his life.” She pointed to the captain’s sternum. “I want your ass, the commander’s ass, and every American ass responsible for this debacle. Go back to Hawaii and cruise the goddamned Pacific.”

She turned full circle, making eye contact with every stunned face in the CIC. They all knew they’d screwed up and screwed up big.

The captain looked confused as if he didn’t realize she had just handed him his balls on a platter. “But Khalil is…was on our ten most wanted list.”

She jammed her fists into her hips. “Khalil was our best conduit to ISIS.”

“We lost Fahd al-Umari? Christ.” Rodgers closed his eyes and shoved the heel of his hand into his forehead. Maybe the cowboy actually understood how much hot water they were in.

“Yes, you did.” Olivia threw up her hands. “Someone get MI6 on the line. I need to break the news.”

Chapter Three

Two months later

After the debacle in the Gulf of Oman, Logan and his team were sent stateside for retraining. So much for following orders. Repetitive and constant training was part of a SEAL’s MO, but the reason for the transfer to San Diego bit like Olivia’s ass-whipping.

Today, he’d been summoned to the admiral’s office with no explanation as to why. He suspected it was for another debriefing. That about summed up his life these days, running a gazillion drills he’d already mastered ten-or-so years ago, or sitting in a conference room being asked questions by suits from Washington until his head was ready to explode.

After checking in with the admiral’s secretary, Logan was directed to the east conference room—the same place most of the debriefings had been once he’d reached stateside. He chose a seat placing him at the center of the table with his back to the wall, facing the door. Yeah, he was a little predictable that way, but the Navy had taught Logan always to seek the best ground advantage.

He didn’t wait long until the door opened. He sprang to his feet and saluted.

“At ease,” said the admiral, moving to the head of the table with a folder tucked under his arm.

A suit with gray hair and broad shoulders followed and sat directly across from Logan. He didn’t recognize the man. No surprise there. Suits came and went all the time.

The admiral rubbed his palms together. His eyes shifted sideways. “Well, there’s nothing to do but to get straight to the point.”

Logan’s gut squeezed. Yeah, he knew. A gut squeeze had never been a good sign. He looked between the two men, wondering why the admiral hadn’t introduced the suit.

The admiral scratched his head. “Honestly, this whole thing has me baffled, but there’re times when even an admiral is given no choice but to follow orders.”

“Sir?” The sickly feeling in Logan’s gut fanned out across his skin.

“I have bad news…” The admiral looked to the other man and twisted his mouth. “And I suspect Mr. Lindgren here has good news, but I guess I’m not important enough to be in the know.”

Logan first shot a wary look to Lindgren, then regarded the senior officer with a pinch to his brow. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

The admiral pushed the folder across the table. “This here’s your honorable discharge from the Navy.”

Perspiration sprang across Logan’s forehead and dampened his pits. His skin went clammy. His head spun like he’d been hit with a hammer. He must have heard wrong.

“Excuse me?” he asked, reaching for the folder and trying not to shake.

“You heard me, Commander.”

“Is this because of the Khalil incident?” Logan’s gut squeezed until his throat practically closed.

The admiral stood. “I’ll leave that to Mr. Lindgren to explain.” He opened the door, then turned. “And Rodgers…don’t try to kill the man before you’ve heard what he has to say. That’s what the President told me, anyway.”

The President?

Logan needed a damned drink of water—no, he needed something stronger, like an entire gallon of tequila. Christ. He’d just lost his job? Whatever happened to loyalty? He’d bled for his country. Daily, he’d put his life on the line for goddamned Uncle Sam and, with one botched mission, he was history? What the hell was he going to do? He flipped open the file and stared at a page of numbers, but his head was spinning too fast to make sense of anything.

The man across the table cleared his throat. “Sorry to hit you between the eyes like that. I told the admiral I’d introduce myself.”

Logan stared at the bastard like the man had two heads. Was he even speaking English? Though he understood him, this man had some kind of heavy, Nordic accent.

“I’m Anders Lindgren and I report directly to Oliver Stoltenberg.”

“Stoltenberg?” Logan did a quick file search through his mind. “You mean the Secretary General of NATO?”

“Ja, one and the same.” Lindgren adjusted his tie. “We’ve been watching you.”

“NATO’s watching me? What? Are you offering me a job?” He smirked. “’Cause I’m suddenly in need of one.”

“Ja, that’s why I’m here.” The man’s expression was as stoic as a robot.

Logan slapped his palm on top of his discharge papers. “Soooo…does this have anything to do with getting me fired?”

Lindgren’s bullet-gray eyes didn’t blink. “I have a great many things to tell you, Commander, but first I need your commitment to the job.”

It didn’t slip Logan’s notice that Lindgren had addressed him with his former rank. “Whoa. This is a bit like putting the cart before the horse, don’t you think? How can I commit to something I know nothing about?”

The man’s craggy face continued to be devoid of emotion—unreadable. “Can you pledge your life to stopping international terrorists?” He rolled his Rs, too.

Logan stared back with his own sober frown. “I’ve already done that.”

“Can you leave your family behind and go for long periods without communicating with them?”

He had no family, and something told Logan that Mr. Lindgren already knew it—and a host of other deeply personal details, including his past litany of defunct girlfriends. “Yes.” At the moment, he didn’t even have a girlfriend since the last one decided she couldn’t handle his long stints at sea.

“I need a specialist in military tactics for the most covert operation in the world.”

That piqued his interest. “Which one?”

Lindgren stared. “You’ve never heard of it.”

“Try me.”

“Not without your commitment.” The NATO exec pointed to the folder. “There’s an envelope in the back. Take it out and read.”

Logan swallowed the lump in his throat, removed the envelope and ran his thumb under the seal. He pulled out a letter signed by the President. Jesus...

Dear Commander Rodgers,

Please forgive me for my brash tactics, but your country no longer needs you. At least not as much as the world does. I encourage you to listen to Mr. Lindgren. This is a new path that only a select few will follow. This assignment will come with a substantial financial gain. In addition to a sizeable salary from NATO, after the completion of a successful first year, a sum of $100,000 will be deposited into your bank account tax free. Thereafter, your bonuses will be based on the success of your missions. Should you deny, I regret to inform you that you are out of a job.

Never forget the SEAL motto: The only easy day was yesterday.

I trust you’ll make the right decision.

At the bottom was the scrawling signature of the President of the United States of America

Taking his time, Logan reread the letter, his skin hot like he had a second-degree burn. Of course they weren’t making it easy. He had to perform to get a bonus. And if he didn’t dive in with the sharks, his life savings would last about three months.

Shit.

His hands were tied.

He looked Lindgren in the eye. “You have my attention, sir. I’m ready to commit. You said you need a specialist?”

One corner of the man’s mouth cracked the hint of a smile. “Of military tactics, ja.”

“And the name of this organization?”

Lindgren crossed his arms. “ICE, International Clandestine Enterprise.”

“ICE? I thought that was the acronym for Immigration and Customs Enforcement.”

“Perhaps in the United States. But not to us.”

Logan’s mind clicked with so many questions, he spat out the first one that came to his lips. “So, where is headquarters?”

“Iceland.” Lindgren still wasn’t letting much out of the bag.

“You’re serious? Why Iceland?” Jeez, he’d need a parka.

“It’s out of the way. Close to Europe. Has a small population...” The man shrugged. “Easy access to Russia if things start heating up there.”

“I assume this job will entail field work?”

“Ja.” Anders Lindgren actually smiled. “You will maintain the rank of commander, and will report to Garth Moore—retired Marine colonel, turned spy a decade ago. He’ll oversee your training with another of our new recruits, our espionage specialist.”

Logan rocked back in his chair. “And who might that be?”

“Olivia Hamilton—I believe you’ve met her.”

Chapter Four

Olivia sat in the flight simulator, perfecting lesson one. Landing. If she couldn’t land a plane, she had no business flying.

She’d been an ICE operative for a week. And a week was plenty. Any time spent in Iceland was time not spent ridding the world of bad guys.

After the cock-up in the Gulf of Oman, she’d returned to London, taken a few weeks off, then went straight back to MI6. That’s when her handler told her she needed a change of pace.

Olivia disagreed. She’d amassed so much intel, she’d wanted right back in the fight.

But when she was given a letter of ultimatum from the Prime Minister with the promise she’d still be hunting terrorists, Olivia had no recourse but to take the leap. She rather liked the new boundaries with no political rubbish to wade through.

Now, all she had to do was to convince her new CO to cut with the training codswallop and send her back to the Gulf. The flight simulator might be fun, but she was wasting valuable time.

The onboard computer interrupted her thoughts. “Touchdown in five, four, three, two, one…” The simulator jolted as Olivia used a whole-foot push to engage the wheel brakes, then she engaged the speed brakes on the wings and the thrust reversers. Everything was realistic, right down to the sensation of a plane slowing before it jerked to a halt.

Garth Moore, the CO, an American ex-Marine popped his head inside. “Don’t you respond to your texts, Hamilton?”

She glanced at the ICE issue computer on her wrist. There were five unread messages. “Sorry.”

He offered her his hand. “We got him.”

She let him pull her out onto the platform. “Who?”

“Logan Rodgers.”

Olivia’s stomach somersaulted while energy zipped up her spine. Averting her gaze, she started down the steps to cover the sudden surge of heat flooding to her cheeks. At the bottom, she gave her head a shake. She’d convinced herself she didn’t care if Rodgers came aboard or not. A spy couldn’t allow herself to care. “When?” she asked.

“He’s on a flight now. Will be here in the morning.”

“Brilliant. I’m sure he’ll make a great addition to ICE. You said you needed a military guy—a Ranger or a SEAL. I’m sure Rodgers will be suitable.”

“He will. I want to fast track him—and you.”

Olivia stopped and moved her hands to her hips. “Wait a moment. I’m already trained. You can put me in the field to-freaking-day.”

“Not yet, Commander. You haven’t been through my training.” Garth had gray hair and a moustache, and Olivia figured he was late fifties, early sixties.

“Old school?” She snorted—older guys always thought they were superior.

“ICE School, and don’t forget it. I’ll bet you didn’t get flight training at MI6.”

She hadn’t. But Garth probably knew that as well as the fact that she’d been a spy since graduating from Cambridge with a bachelor’s in Social Science seven years ago. “How fast is your fast track?”

“That depends on you.” He gave her shoulder a thwack. “You’ll be hunting bad guys before you know it.”

Olivia’s back stiffened as she tightened her fists at her sides. Since the Khalil op, she’d had a fight response every time a man touched her—a new mind-fuck complication she was certain would pass. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to tell anyone about it. She’d made the mistake of telling a shrink about her night terrors when she was sixteen, and that had been a major blunder. Every time she had a psych evaluation, the first thing out of the shrink’s mouth was to ask her about how she was overcoming the tragedy of her parents’ death.

Did anyone ever recover from having their life blown to pieces before their eyes?

She dug her fingernails into her palms to stop her shudder.

Coping, moving forward one day at a time, and fighting to nail anyone remotely responsible had always been Olivia’s answer. And it worked for her.

She’d learned to play the shrinks’ games. “You mean the dreams I used to have when I was a teenager?” she’d ask while batting her hand through the air. “They were merely the result of a traumatic childhood.” Who didn’t go through a traumatic childhood these days? Besides, she didn’t have nightmares often—mostly after the end of a mission, like the string that had happened in London right after she’d returned from the Gulf. The ones no one knew about.

She stopped outside the training center, keeping plenty of distance to avoid another shoulder thwack. “As you are aware, sir, my life’s mission is to rid the world of terrorists.”

“Understood. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

He started off, but stopped and turned. “Apply yourself well and take this time of retraining seriously. Dr. R just gave me your psych evaluation. He recommends that you spend some time away from the field.”

“He did?” Olivia clenched her fists behind her back. “What else did he say?”

“You tell me. I got his summary—the same one he added to your employee portal. You can read it yourself.”

She crossed her arms and hugged them tight against her ribcage. “I’ll swear right now I’m an ace. I’m ready to go in deep. I’m always at the top of my game in the field. And you can count on me every single day.”

“That’s what I understand. My goal is to turn you and Rodgers out ASAP. The other five greenhorns…well, they’ll be here awhile.”

“Thank you, sir.” Olivia turned and headed straight for her suite. Dr. R’s psych eval had better be nothing less than pristine. It sounded like he’d already done enough damage, though. She needed time away from the field? Not likely.

No one knew she’d unloaded on the guy in the bar in London. That had been her only real slip since Khalil, and she’d only grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it a little. Okay, she’d twisted it enough to lay him flat, but he was steaming drunk. And he’d tried to grab her boob.

What bothered Olivia was her reaction after. She couldn’t control her shaking. Had he tried anything else, she might have rearranged his face. Hell, anyone who’d spent two years undercover playing the girlfriend of a pig ought to be entitled a rancorous kneejerk reaction or two.

***

Anders Lindgren left Logan on a frozen airstrip thirty miles from the nearest road. During the eleven-hour flight, the big boss had explained that he lived in Belgium and had offices at NATO. He’d also filled Logan with enough rules and regulations to rival the US Navy.

A woman wrapped in white snow gear stood beside a pickup that had four triangular tracks in place of its wheels. She looked like a modern Eskimo with rosy cheeks, horn-rimmed glasses and what looked like blonde eyebrows. She held out her gloved hand. “I’m Asa Geirsdóttir, one of the few Icelanders on the team. Welcome to ICE.”

The International Clandestine Enterprise. Lord save me.

Shaking her hand, Logan looked side to side. They were surrounded by white and the wind had to be blowing at fifty knots, making the temp feel sub-zero. “Literally.” Only wearing a light jacket, he shivered.

“Not used to the cold are you?”

“No, ma’am.”

She pointed to the truck. “It’s warm in the raptorTRAX.”

“Is that what you use to get around?”

“Ja, TRAX and snowmobiles up this high.”

“How far to HDQ?” Logan asked, climbing into the heated cab.

“You mean ICE?” Putting the truck in gear, she drove off, following tracks she must have just made, tracks leading to nowhere.

He glanced at the compass on his watch—southwest. “Is that what everyone calls it?”

“Ja, uh huh.” She sounded Nordic like Lindgren. “So, where’re you from?”

“The States.”

“Ja, I know that.”

“Montana.” He wouldn’t mind being there now, riding a horse behind a herd of fat steers. He’d be there full-time one day. Once he had enough cash in the bank and conquered his fanatical need to clear the world of vermin.

“Then you ought to be accustomed to our balmy spring weather.”

Logan smirked. “April and freezing? Not quite. I just shipped out of San Diego.” The truck bobbed and weaved over drifts like a ship in a heavy squall. “What do you do for…ah…ICE?” he asked, wondering if the letter he’d read from the President had been a forgery.

“I’m a techie.”

“A gadget girl?”

“Big time.”

“You must be pretty smart?”

“I suppose.” She shrugged. “Earned my PhD in physics at Oxford.”

Logan’s eyebrows shot up. “PhD? Then why were you the one to pick me up?”

“I had the time.” She gripped the steering wheel, driving like a pro as the truck slid sideways down a hill. “And we all take up the slack now and again. You’ll hear it from Tawney. We work with a flat hierarchy and that keeps us stealthy.”

“Tawney?”

“Director of Administration. She handles everything from supplies to HR to logistics, and Lord knows what else.”

Logan nodded, trying to get his bearings. The truck was heading straight between two peaks. “How much further?”

“Just over the hill.”

“Why so far away from the airstrip?”

“If anyone’s watching, the strip can be seen from a satellite, especially when it’s cleared like today.”

Asa drove the truck into a natural cavern and Logan leaned forward as she flipped on the lights. “Is this an ice cave?”

“Ja. We’re at twelve hundred feet—between mountains—very remote.” After stopping on a smooth surface that looked like ice, she tapped a code onto a device mounted on the cab roof. “It’s also a converted Cold War bunker.”

Logan snorted. “I didn’t know Iceland cared about the Cold War.”

“They didn’t, aside from providing a meeting place for Regan and Gorbachev in Reykjavik.” She gave him a wink. “This facility was built by NATO, then abandoned for forty years before it was transformed into ICE.”

With a shuddering rumble like a ship getting underway, the truck began to lower. In minutes, they were in a gunmetal-gray parking garage filled with snowmobiles and trucks with tracks like the raptor.

Asa grinned. “Welcome to ICE, home sweet home.”

“Right.” Logan stepped out of the cab as the frozen ceiling boomed closed above them. “This looks like something out of a Batman movie.”

“But a lot more high-tech.” She used a retina scanner to open a pair of steel sliding doors.

He slung his duffle over his shoulder and followed her into a brightly lit, sterile hallway. “Any chance I could get a tour?” he asked, looking for any sign of humanity. He’d half-expected Olivia Hamilton to be standing there with her arms crossed, laughing at him for being a dupe.

Asa stepped into a side room and removed her snow gear. Coats and snow pants hung in a neat line with matching boots beneath. “Got to take care of some technicalities first, then introduce you to the brass.” She stretched out her hand. “Give me your duffle. I’ll see it’s delivered to your quarters.”

“Ah.” Logan hesitated for a moment, but then handed it over. Might as well dive in head first. “Thanks.”

She walked on, pointing to a door that read “Hospital”. “This is your stop. Dr. R will take it from here.”

Little did Logan know the technicalities would take hours and provide new meaning to the phrase “strip search” conducted by Dr. Robinson, Dr. R for short, an African American from Virginia. He stood about five-feet-four and introduced himself as an MD and psychiatrist. “I’m responsible for the mental and physical health of every ICE employee.”

“Sounds like you wear a lot of hats, just like everyone else around here.”

“I do.” The physician was efficient and, after asking a gazillion questions, told Logan he was one of the more emotionally stable members in the operation as well as one of the fittest thirty-year-olds he’d ever seen.

“That’s good…I think,” Logan replied, wondering if he was joining a team of nutcases. Hamilton probably ranked up there with the unstable. Good Lord, she’d shacked up with Jamal Abdullah Khalil for two years. That woman had to be a mess.

But no matter what his reservations might be, Logan had received his marching orders. He had to make this work, at least for the next year when he’d receive his first bonus. Hell, after tours in Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria, he could endure anything for a year.

Once he’d been retina scanned, finger printed, x-rayed and bled, Dr. R issued him three uniforms, which were comprised of a pair of cross-trainers, a white t-shirt and a navy-blue jumpsuit. The jumpsuit was stretchy and more form-fitting than a set of navy coveralls, more comfortable, too. He rubbed the collar against his cheek. It felt soft like Egyptian cotton or something expensive, though Logan wasn’t about to ask.

Dr. R led Logan deeper into headquarters. His senses honed, he noted everything. The place was speck-free, bright and oddly warm. People of all shapes, sizes and ethnicities hastened past giving friendly nods. Some carried folders or laptops and they all wore the standard issue jumpsuits.

“The entire operation runs on geothermal energy,” Dr. R said, as if he could hear Logan’s thoughts. Maybe he could. After all, the man was a shrink.

Along the next corridor, there was a great deal of smoky glass. And at the far end, a waterfall filled the hall with a rush of gently tumbling water. “Where to next, Doc?” he asked, seeing no sign of Asa or Olivia among the passersby.

“ICE Command Center, Command for short.” He pointed to the scanner next to a pair of steel doors near the waterfall. “Your turn. Scan your eye.”

Logan gave it a whirl and the doors opened to a state-of-the-art hub of activity, not unlike a shipboard CIC. Flat computer screens, manned by a host of techs, scrolled with information. Illuminated maps lined the walls and, at one side, enormous screens displayed live images of assorted scenes—desert, urban, derelict—the mountainous one was Afghanistan. There wasn’t time for Logan to analyze everything he saw as Dr. R directed him to an enclosed room in the center, looking like it might be made of one-way glass.

“This is the Situation Room.” Opening the door with another retina scan followed by a sequence of numbers, the doc gestured inside. “Commander Rodgers, reporting for duty.”

Logan stepped inside as the door closed behind him. With two shifts of his eyes, his heart rate spiked. Yes, his mind registered the woman at the head of the table flanked by a man who looked as military as General Patton, but Logan’s gaze immediately shifted to the frozen blue stare of Olivia Hamilton. Logan had all but hoped she wasn’t as attractive as he’d remembered. But, if anything, she was prettier.

Too bad gorgeous women had a propensity for hearts of ice. No way would he succumb to his damned male response. He hadn’t on the Washington, and he wasn’t about to during his tenure with ICE, however long that would be.

The woman at the head of the table stood. “Rodgers, I’ve heard a lot about you. Welcome to the team.” She wore the same plain navy jumpsuit, just like everyone else he’d seen. Brown hair, fortyish, she was attractive and spoke with a British accent. “I’m Tawney Weber, Director of Administration. Allow me to introduce Garth Moore, Head of Field Operations, and I understand you’ve met our espionage specialist—”

“Olivia Hamilton,” Logan said, holding out his hand. “Pleased to see you again, ma’am.”

She gave his palm a firm shake, her face cool and impassive, framed by lustrous blonde hair. “Commander.”

Logan’s hand tingled and he wiped his palm on his hip to stop the blasted sensation.

“I’m in charge of every asset employed by ICE.” Garth offered his hand as well. “You and Commander Hamilton both report to me. I oversee training and run all ops from Command.”

“You’ll find every individual at ICE is highly specialized and among the best in their field,” said Tawney.

Logan arched an eyebrow at Olivia. He wasn’t convinced. Yet. But if nothing else, he respected the duchess for her competence. “That so?”

She raised her own eyebrow with a quick nod, then turned her attention to the Director of Administration.

Tawney gave a brief overview of the administrative side of ICE, including the background, the support and more stuff than Logan probably needed to know. She explained that Anders Lindgren had a beeline to Stoltenberg at NATO headquarters in Belgium. Anything Anders wanted, he got. He used unconventional tactics to recruit the best and Tawney said that’s why Logan and Olivia were on the team. Operatives were assigned to missions based on their skillsets. Tawney gestured to Garth. “When it comes to the details of running ops, I’ll pass the baton to your CO.”

Garth spoke with a hint of a southern drawl. He sounded like a drill sergeant on crack, and Logan doubted the man slept. “My goal is to have you in the field as fast as possible. But while you’re here, I want the pair of you to cross-train with each other. Hamilton is a like a ghost when it comes to espionage and Rodgers has earned the Navy Cross. Christ, if you want to go in with guns blazing, kill the bad guys and go home without any casualties, I’d put my money on this sucker right here every time.”

Frowning against his urge to grin, Logan glanced to Olivia. She didn’t look back, just sat there as if she were an obedient soldier, which he knew she was not.

“I’ll see you both at 0700 tomorrow morning. Give you a chance to see the rest of the facility and acclimatize yourself to your new digs.”

Logan hopped to his feet. “Thank you, sir.”

Garth gave a nod. “Commander Hamilton will take over from here.”

She stood and walked past Logan, her expression aloof. “Did Asa show you the training center?”

“No, ma’am. She dropped me off with Dr. R and I haven’t seen her since.”

“All right. We’ll start there.” She led the way out to the corridor.

He followed, trying not to look down. When she’d passed him in the sit room he’d made that mistake. The jumpsuits might be as comfy as Egyptian cotton, but they should have been hewn from canvas. A woman as shapely as Olivia Hamilton should wear hers three sizes too big, then she mightn’t be so distracting. It had only taken one downward glance. The fabric hugged her well-formed butt like a glove.

He quickly shifted his gaze to her eyes when she stopped and faced him, grasping the knob of a door with a sign that read “Training Center”. “Of all the fab equipment, I like the flight simulator best.” Up close, she wore her jumpsuit unbuttoned a little too far, showing more cleavage than Logan thought she ought—especially if any other male operatives would come within fifty feet of the woman.

He took a step back to put more space between them. Maybe if he wasn’t standing quite so close the cleavage wouldn’t be as obvious. “Does everyone learn to fly?” Nope. Still obvious.

Opening the door, she gestured for him to enter. “The basics. The goal is to hire assets who are as well rounded as possible. When you go on a mission, you never know what you’ll be faced with. If you have a general knowledge of everything, you’re more likely to survive.”

“Have you ever flown a plane?” Logan asked, moving inside a training facility that could rival NASA. The needle on his internal impression meter moved up a notch.

“No.” She crossed her arms, making her jumpsuit spread open a bit further. “How many languages do you speak?”

Logan poked his head into the cabin of the flight simulator, making himself look at anything but boobs. “Spanish and some French. You?”

“Arabic, Farsi, French, German, Italian.”

“No Spanish?”

“I could probably get by in Spain, but there aren’t many terrorists in Madrid. You’ll need to learn some Arabic while you’re in training.”

“I know a few phrases.”

“Phrases only work for short ops.”

“Will we see any long-term assignments?”

“We’ll be assigned with whatever needs doing.”

“Things that can’t be handled by mainstream spies?”

“Mainstream spies?” She leaned her hip against the flight simulator. “Where did you get that?”

“Just trying to figure it out. Lindgren said something about eliminating bureaucratic red tape. My guess is ICE operatives are sent in when it’s too hot for MI6 or the CIA.”

Her finely-chiseled chin rose with a hint of pride. “ICE is sent in when there’s no time. When governments disagree. We’re fast, we’re stealth, and no one knows about us.”

“Okay, I’ll buy that’s the plan. Heard the same from Lindgren on the plane, but you couldn’t have been here all that long. It’s only been a couple months since we killed Khalil.”

“I have a week on you, cowboy. But don’t forget, I’ve been a spy since I graduated from Cambridge.”

“Hmm.” He crossed his arms. “I’ve been a SEAL since I graduated from Annapolis.” He was also a year older, but she would know that. Yeah, he’d looked at her file—at least the stuff that wasn’t classified. And she’d looked at his, no doubt. That’s how these things rolled.

“And that’s why you’re here. ICE is building assets that will be unsurpassed by any country.”

“You’re talking about operatives and spies?” He knew the answer but still wanted confirmation. The duchess could stop with her elitist bullshit. From what he’d learned thus far, they’d both been brought onboard because they were talented individuals. They brought different skillsets to the table, and he wasn’t about to downplay his years of service.

“Yes,” she answered.

He turned in a circle, liking what he saw—a group was jogging around a track on a mezzanine. “So, what made you decide to become a spy?”

Something flashed through her eyes, hurt, hate, determination all rolled into a subtle glance. “You ask too many questions.”

“Isn’t that what makes a good sleuth?”

She turned and led onward. “Not when it’s personal.”

“Oh…I’m being personal,” Logan mumbled. “Sorry.” Prima donna and goddamned touchy.

Everything in the training center was cutting edge from the gym to the pool to the soundproof shooting range. The place was like an entire military base, but it was all underground. “Are there any exercises outside?”

“Skiing, search and rescue, that sort of thing, and only when satellites are out of range. We don’t want anyone spying on us. The more transparent we make ourselves, the more effective we are in the field.”

Logan nodded. “So where do you call home?”

“It’s best for us not to get too familiar, Commander.”

“Fine.” Add frigid to prima donna and goddamned touchy.

They continued to the lab where Asa was working, wearing a pair of safety goggles as she used a soldering iron. She looked up, the goggles making her eyes appear enormous. “Hey, how’s initiation going?”

“Great, but my head’s swimming. I have no idea if it’s day or night. My stomach is telling me it’s time for breakfast but my head says it’s time for bed.”

“Jet lag.” Asa checked her watch—the same minicomputer Logan had been issued with. “The evening meal is in a couple hours.”

“Dinner?” Logan asked. It was morning when he arrived. But he’d spent hours with Dr. R. Together with the meeting in the sit room, time must have slipped away.

“That’s life at ICE. Without the sun, one day rolls into the next.”

He didn’t like that one bit. Logan was from country with fresh air and jaw-dropping scenery. He preferred the out of doors and being at sea with nothing but surf and sky as far as the eye could see.

Olivia tapped his elbow as they returned to the corridor. “I’ll show you to your suite. You can take a bit of R and R before dinner when you’ll meet the rest of the team—at least those who are here. Tomorrow, Garth wants to go over our training and start specialized regimens for us.”

“Good.” He’d only been there a day and was ready to ship out.

She gave him a once over, her gaze stopping at the crown of his head. “And let your hair grow. That cut screams military.”

He liked his hair the way it was—crewcut on the sides and bit longer on the top. “Any other requests, your grace?”

“Smart ass.” God, the woman looked tempting when she grinned. Stopping outside a door, she pointed. “This one only opens with your retina, or Tawney’s retina and keycode.”

“My bunk?”

“Suite, this isn’t the Navy.”

“I’m painfully aware of that.” He leaned over to allow the reader to scan his eyeball. The door clicked but before he opened it all the way, Logan turned. “Why did you decide to come to ICE?”

“I guess the Prime Minister thought it would be a good move for me.”

“Why?”

Olivia shrugged. “Sometimes we all need a change.”

Logan bet there was far more to the reason than she’d let on. Her assignment with Khalil spoke volumes about her usefulness as an asset for Britain. There had to be something more. But Olivia had already proved she didn’t have much interest in sharing secrets. He squinted and met her gaze, battling his urge to reach out and brush his fingers across her cheek to see if her skin was as soft as it looked. “Are you glad to be here?”

Twisting her mouth, she crossed her arms as if she were erecting an invisible wall between them. “If it means nailing terrorists and shutting them down, then yes.”

Logan added tough to his litany of descriptors for the woman. “Good answer.”

She started to walk away, giving him far too much time to check out her backside.

He cleared his throat, his gaze meandering up to the swish of her blonde hair swaying gently below her shoulders. “I have one more question.”

Stopping, she regarded him over her shoulder. Blue eyes, sharp as the edge of a razor.

“Why did you pick me?”

“I didn’t.”

Chapter Five

Olivia hadn’t given Logan the complete truth. But a good spy never showed her hand. And she’d meant what she said about not getting too close.

She hastened down the corridor to her suite. In her opinion, her quarters weren’t far enough away from Logan’s, but neither one of them would be living at ICE much, at least not at the same time. She preferred the field and solitude, though she had to admit training was a part of a spy’s MO. Olivia was trained by the best in Britain and, though Logan may have been a SEAL, he knew bugger-all about being a spy.

Working undercover ate a person from the inside out, and it had cost Olivia more than she wanted to admit. Regardless, the pain involved in living with herself didn’t mean she’d give up. Not ever. She hated people asking her why she’d become a spy. She didn’t want anyone to know the truth. To know what really haunted her in the middle of the night.

All anyone needed to know was she’d dedicated her life to ridding the world of evil. Though her precious earned time off was usually spent in Africa doing missionary work, she maintained a townhouse in London. It had been her parents’. At one time a happy home for a family of old money. A family that spread their wealth helping others, which had led to their demise. Now Olivia’s only family was the team, whatever team she happened to be on, which often meant she played her role alone, like the last assignment…which Rodgers had blown to hell.

After the botched job, she’d wanted Rodgers’ ass on a platter, but the more she dug, the more she learned about the man. He’d earned top marks at the Naval Academy. He’d led an impressive resumé of sorties that resulted in the capture or death of terrorists. He’d saved lives and the only black mark against him was Mission Red Riding Hood, which had gone awry due to faulty equipment. The commander acted quickly and his action had saved her life.

If only he could have saved my soul.

Later, because of the complaints from her government, Rodgers was shipped stateside for retraining. And then her transfer hit her like a brick to the face. Though what she’d seen at ICE had been impressive. Garth Moore proved to be as badass as a drill sergeant; razor sharp, tough but fair.

Garth needed a military ops specialist—someone with nerves of steel who could stay calm in the midst of any kind of fire. Olivia had initially thought of Rodgers. Hell, she’d thought about him every day since Khalil. He’d handled himself like a pro. He handled his men like a pro, too.

That’s what she kept telling herself. He was a pro, and Oliva respected anyone who showed they were at the top of their game. And yes, Logan Rodgers had been at the top of the list she’d given to Garth with her recommendations before she’d even set foot in Iceland.

She knew Rodgers would win the job.

Why?

Because she’d never met anyone who measured up to the commander. Olivia had no doubt Rodgers had earned his Navy Cross. In addition to his professionalism, he took responsibility for the botched operation, though the MI6 investigation proved the President of the United States had sanctioned the mission. The captain of the ship had issued the orders as well. Regardless, Commander Logan Rodgers had stood between Olivia and his captain, ready to take his poison. Ready to take a bullet for his country. And that’s what made him an ace.

She’d only spent a few days on the USS Washington but she’d seen enough. That almost made this situation too precarious, too raw. Rodgers could never know she’d liked what she saw. The only thing that mattered was the job. And the only reason they were both assigned to ICE was to fight evil in the world. Olivia couldn’t make a major misstep and let her guard down. Holy hell, she could never allow her emotions to bubble to the surface when she was on the job. No chance.

She used the retina scanner to unlock her door and slipped inside. ICE had spared no expense in designing suites for their operatives. Though compact, the suites were appointed with ultra-modern furnishings. Everyone had a separate bedroom and whirlpool bath, a lounge area with a flat screen TV. The office space was Olivia’s favorite. Wrap around glass desk, and the latest Microsoft Surface Pro and equipment.

The only problem was there were no windows. No chance to take a stroll outside. No corner pub filled with countrymen with whom she could watch the footie and pretend she was someone else.

Olivia slipped into her leather office chair and opened her e-mail, set up to appear as if she were accessing the internet from her London townhouse. Operatives were all allowed to maintain contact with the outside as if they were normal people. No, they couldn’t tell anyone what they really did for a living or where they worked, but they could pay their bills and hire people to fix things like the heating if needed.

With a click of her mouse, she deleted everything except an e-mail from The Children of Kenya Foundation. This one asked for a donation for clean water. Shaking her head, she transferred funds from her Swiss account—no one needed to know about that either. Having a soft heart in this business could get a girl killed.

A beep sounded on her wrist device. It looked like a fitness tracker, but could do so much more. Besides being water and bulletproof, it was a phone, a mapping device, a translator, a computer, and she was just learning how to use the rest.

“You’re late for your session, Commander Hamilton.” Dr R’s voice came through loud and clear.

“On my way.” She clicked off, heaving a sigh. At least she’d convinced the good doctor she was overcoming her detachment. Two years was a long time to live a lie. In her psych eval, Dr. R focused more on the effects of her last mission than her past, thank God. Most shrinks thought they could fix her, make her feel like a normal person again, but Olivia knew that would never happen. She hadn’t felt normal since the age of sixteen. The best medicine? For Garth to give her the toughest assignment imaginable.

***

Two weeks in, Logan found Command the most interesting part of his fast track regimen. There was always something going down from satellite analysis to reports from assets across the world. Watching Garth in action was an education. The man hopped from one mission to the next without missing a single detail, and he spent most of his time in front of a screen barking orders.

Most of Logan’s training took place alongside Olivia, which was frustrating as hell. She was like a sexy ice cube, nice to look at but too cold to touch. He’d get past his attraction soon…he hoped. Beautiful women always had a way of shutting down his misplaced lust. They usually pushed him back to reality by acting spiteful or disrespectful or by being insensitive to others who hadn’t inherited the gorgeous gene. Regardless, until Olivia gave him a healthy dose of the realism he needed, the old Johnson would have to suffer.

Today, he stood beside Olivia and Garth in Command while they watched ICE operative, Mike Rose, on one of the big screens. Mike, a Scot with a thick brogue, had been recruited from Britain’s SAS, and was conducting an interrogation.

The perp sat in a chair with his hands bound, looking ragged and on the edge of endurance.

“Where are they?” Logan asked.

“An old airstrip in Kazakhstan.” Garth pointed to a map on an adjoining screen. “Rose has been tracking a shipment of missing uranium.”

Olivia crossed her arms. “Where was it headed?”

“The U.K.”

Logan watched the prisoner. He’d done his share of military interrogation and knew when a man was on the edge. This guy didn’t have much left. “Who’s the perp?”

“A smuggler. Goes by the name of Bashir.”

Mike pulled the guy’s head up by the hair. “I’m going to ask one last time…”

Oliva gasped. “Wait a moment. I know that chap—but his name isn’t Bashir, it’s Fallaha.”

All eyes shifted her way. “What else?” asked Garth.

“He is a smuggler, though. Was one of Khalil’s best suppliers.”

“That fits the MO. Is he ISIS?” asked Logan.

Olivia shook her head. “Taliban, but he works with them all. He’s bad news.”

Garth gestured toward the screen. “Got that right, and he’s been tough to crack.”

Logan studied the gruesome face. Fallaha’s eyes were unfocused and his mouth slack. “How long has he been under the light?”

“Going on thirty-six hours.”

The man was sleep deprived and starved. If he didn’t spill it now, they might not get what they wanted even if Mike was an ace. Logan raised his chin. “Tell him the man who exterminated Khalil is on his way to pay a visit to his family…in…”

“In Kabul,” Olivia finished.

Garth turned on his mic. On the screen, Rose released his grip on the perp’s hair and gave a nod to the camera. Bending down, he whispered into Fallaha’s ear. The man’s head snapped up as he started to yell, pleading and shaking his head.

“Where’s the damned shipment?” demanded Rose sounding like a Highlander.

“In a truck.”

“Where’s it headed?”

“Iran.”

“al-Umari?”

“Yeah.”

Logan’s gut twisted. The asshole was two steps away from delivering uranium to ISIS. He clamped his fingers into the back of a chair. “Ship me out now, dammit! I want in on this.”

Garth sliced his hand through the air. “We have the border covered. We just needed confirmation the shipment was headed to Iran and not North Korea.” The old Marine grinned. “Good work you two. Fallaha, huh? The bastard.”

Olivia shifted her gaze to Logan. “What are you planning to do with him now?”

“Hand him over to Interpol—with the right name.”

The duchess shook her head in disgust. “He’ll just be replaced by the next viper.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right.” Garth pointed to Logan’s sternum with a sly grin. “But Hamilton just gave me an ass-whipping idea. Give me some time and I’m going to turn Rodgers here into an arms dealer.”

Logan thrust his finger toward the screen. “Why not start with this load of uranium?”

“Yes, sir.” Garth smirked. “Word’s going to spread you took it off Fallaha’s hands and sold it to the North Koreans.”

Now he’s talking. “What’s my alias?”

“Leave that to me.”

***

Logan had clocked seven miles for his evening run around the mezzanine when he heard the gym door slam closed. Running to the other side of the track, the operative came into view. He should have known it was Olivia. Truth be told, that woman would make a good SEAL—tough, disciplined. She pushed herself to her limits, just like Logan did to himself.

He stopped and stood in the shadows, watching her execute a martial arts form while he used the towel around his neck to wipe the sweat off his face.

Wearing a tank top and bike shorts, she moved like a cheetah—fast, precise and deadly. Fairly tall for a woman, Olivia was built like an Amazon, a fact that didn’t elude him every goddamned time she managed to be in his line of sight. Logan couldn’t help but stare, watching the definition in her lithe muscles flex with her movement.

Damn, his mouth went dry while his heart sped—and not because he’d just run seven miles.

Olivia’s hands blurred as she executed punches and jabs that could kill her target. Her kicks were lightning fast as well. Her roundhouse could break a man’s jaw, but she wasn’t all show. Kicks snapping like whips, she aimed for imaginary knees, groins and kidneys, all while making it part of a mesmerizing dance.

Once his body cooled and he wasn’t sweating like dog’s drool, Logan silently made his way down from the mezzanine and grabbed a bottle of water and another towel. He was still annoyed that she hadn’t recommended him for this new assignment. Nothing like being forced to join an international spy ring for no reason. True, there had been the letter from the President, but Logan could name a few other SEALs who would have made good candidates. He’d been wracking his brain, and all he’d come up with was the suits who’d interviewed him at Miramar. Someone in the mix must have been associated with ICE.

Olivia finished her form with her back to him and bowed. “Hello, Commander. I’m surprised to see you here after the day you put in.”

He was about to say the same. Had she known he’d been watching all along? “The only way to stay in shape is to keep pushing.”

“My thoughts exactly.” She assumed a defensive stance. “Want to spar a round?”

Logan cracked the top of his water and guzzled half of it. “Best of three?”

“If you’d like.”

Recapping the bottle, he moved onto the mat and raised his fists. “No need to go easy on me.”

She stepped sideways while a bead of perspiration trickled between her breasts. “I must have been absent when they issued the go-easy lesson.”

“That so?” Foot over foot, Logan moved around her, waiting for her to make the first strike. He’d sparred with women before and knew the pitfalls. If he played too rough, he’d be called out. If he let her win, she might grow overconfident. His plan? Let her dictate the level of difficulty, and then exert enough force to ensure she didn’t win.

Taking a pivot step, she threw a backwards round kick at his head. “How’re you getting along?” she asked—odd time to start being cordial.

“Fine, but curious.” He ducked then threw a couple of air punches.

She lunged in with a strike to the face. “About what?”

Blocking, his toe stubbed on the mat and made him stumble. “Why I’m here.” Logan caught his balance just as she went on the attack with crafty chicken kick aimed at his kidney.

“Don’t you like it?” she asked.

He dropped and rolled away from the kick, impressed that she’d made the air hiss. “Haven’t decided.”

She pounced, going for a punch to the face. “I’d rather be out there hunting bad guys, too.”

A quarter inch from his eye, he stopped her fist, then used her momentum to flip her on her back while he sprang over her, landing on his knees and pinning her wrists to the mat. “Do you always talk this much when you’re sparring?”

“Not usually.”

He grinned. “First set to me?”

Her eyes flashed with a wicked glint. “No chance.”

With Logan’s next blink, she arched up and flung her arms in a circle, making him fall forward. If he hadn’t been fast, she would have slipped away and sprung to her feet, but he caught her leg. Giving it a twist, she fell to her hip. This time he showed no mercy, issuing a straight-fingered slice at the carotid. “First set to me, then.” He wasn’t about to accept her rebuff this time.

“Bloody hell.” She didn’t like it. “I nearly had you.”

“You did.”

“Not many can take me.”

“I believe it. You’re fast and strong.”

“Thanks.” She sprang to her feet. “You know what my goal is?”

“Aside from your lifelong commitment to ridding the world of terrorists?”

“Yeah.”

He circled with his fists ready, nodding for her to continue.

She snapped a front kick so quick, Logan barely had time to block it. “To take you.”

His stomach leapt. Though he knew what she meant, his body interpreted her words in a totally different light. Taking Olivia had crossed his mind more than once—in fact, every time their gazes met.

No one needed to remind him that he’d been attracted to plenty of women like the duchess before, and he’d learned the first time to keep his distance. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. Snarling, she attacked with a series of showy kicks that ended with Logan straddling her and pinning her to the mat again. She squirmed beneath him, her breasts heaving with her every breath. He clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the instant spike of heat in his groin. When she arched, using the same move to break his hold as before, he countered by pulling her into a cradle grip. She was toast. The problem? Her ass rested flush against his erection.

She grinned. “Not wearing a cup?”

“Didn’t think I’d need one when I set out for a run.” He squeezed her a bit tighter. “Second round to me.”

“Undecided.”

He chuckled, catching a spark in her eyes. “Hmm. You didn’t answer my question a while back.”

“Which one was that?” her voice strained while she struggled in his unbreakable grip.

“What made you decide to become a spy?”

“Dammit.” Her lips disappeared into a thin line as if she wanted to keep everything bottled up inside, but then she said, “A terrorist bombing in Pakistan.”

“Pakistan?” Logan gulped. Was she opening up? Finally? “Was someone you knew killed?”

“Yes.” She wiggled her shoulders, testing for any weakness in his hold.

There wasn’t any.

Logan took his time studying her profile and, as he did, her expression grew more impassive. Before he could stop himself, his tongue moistened his lips. The possibility of stealing a kiss made his heartbeat speed, but he knew better. This woman was off limits. Romance with anyone at ICE was off limits. Christ, now he knew why they all got two months off a year. It would be their only chance to hook up and release the sexual tension that built with each passing day. He forced himself to glance away.

“Do you ever let anyone in?” he whispered in her ear.

“Never.” Her butt rocked against his cock.

“Sounds like a challenge.”

“One you’d lose.”

“Second round to me?”

She nodded. Logan released his hold and watched her saunter into the women’s locker room without a backward glance.

Groaning, he dropped to his back and stared at the ceiling.

Sounds like a challenge?

God, I’m an idiot.

Chapter Six

Thank God Olivia’s self-control was totally back in check. She’d handled Rodgers touching her in the sparring gym without an iota of panic. So they kept it up—went three rounds on the mat every night, which made her even more sexually frustrated. And now a month had passed since Rodgers joined the team. Olivia was about to lose her mind. How she had thought getting up close and sweaty with Mr. Sexy was a good idea, was beyond her. It didn’t matter that she’d wanted proof that she was ready to roll. She hated that he was better—a fact she’d never confess to a soul. Just as she would think she was getting the upper hand, he’d lay her on her ass. There she’d be, staring into the most delicious pair of teal-blue eyes she’d ever seen in her life. Blast his eyes and blast his he-man strength. Olivia always tried to learn from people more skilled, always tried to challenge herself, to push harder, but when it came to Commander Rodgers, she needed to cut ties and walk away.

It didn’t help matters that she’d caught his interested glances as well. As much as she wanted to believe he was an unfeeling sailor, she didn’t buy her own ruse. No, she never missed a single nuance—the way his tongue slipped over his full bottom lip, the way she’d catch him watching. She had to laugh at the way he’d quickly shift his gaze as if he didn’t want her to know he’d been checking her out. She chuckled. The man was too adorable. The worst part? The way his stubble grew in by four o’clock every afternoon, making him look tastier than a Bakewell tart.

She’d eat a hundred tarts if she could push the SEAL from her mind.

But no. Logan’s presence was everywhere, day in and day out. In the sit room for the briefings in the morning. In Command when a mission was going down. He was an ace. Sharp and deadly, he’d be a good asset in the field—just not with her.

He’s too distracting.

Damn, he was there at meals and at movie times. And it didn’t take a soothsayer to tell her Mr. Sexy was every bit as attracted to her as she was to him. They both needed an assignment away from ICE to cool their jets. Maybe Olivia could finagle a quick jaunt to the Caribbean for a holiday. She hadn’t had a decent toss in the hay in… Dear God, more than two years.

Olivia was pretty discrete about her flings, but who could go for years on end without seeing a little action? No wonder tensions were flaring, especially hers.

And the next time Dr. R asked her to describe episodes triggering horrific moments of vivid recall, she would strangle him. She never should have hinted at her goddamned demons—though he had access to her MI6 record. They had tried to fix her, too. But that didn’t stop them from using her to get inside and deliver critical intel. What went on in her mind was nobody’s business. Anyone who had been to hell and back had night terrors. And she’d been visited by Satan more times than she could count. Olivia didn’t need a shrink to tell her why her mind was so messed up. Her latest stunt, living with a rotting terrorist and enduring him slobbering all over her was enough to send anyone to the looney bin. She needed to prove to herself that she could actually enjoy having sex again. And how the hell was she supposed to do that isolated in a Cold War bunker in Iceland?

Fortunately, ICE didn’t have any regs against imbibing in a stonking piss-up. They practically encouraged it, stocking a bar in the employee lounge where everyone congregated after work when there was nothing else to do but sip gin and tonics and talk about the day’s training so no one had to talk about themselves.

And tonight, she sat on a stool while Stephan made her another gin and tonic. Stephan was a German recruit, buff with blond hair—nowhere near as sexy as Rodgers.

“What has the CO thrown your way these days?” he asked.

She squeezed her lime over her cocktail. “More of the same.” Operatives never talked about their missions unless they were in the sit room. Stephan needed to learn to keep his mouth shut.

The glass doors swung open and in walked Logan. “You mixing the drinks tonight, dude?”

Stephan gave a cheeky wink. “Caught me just before I went off shift.”

“Great.” Logan glanced at Olivia and snorted. “Give me one of those Icelandic Stouts.”

“Beer?” she asked. “Don’t you ever drink anything with more kick?”

“Not when I’m at sea.”

Stephan levered the cap off a bottle. “Why did you say at sea?”

Logan shrugged, reaching for the beer. “Being stuck underground is just like being on a ship running maneuvers in the Pacific for months on end.”

Resting her elbows on the bar, Olivia arched her eyebrows. “From what I saw of the USS Washington, ICE is a lot posher than a Navy ship.”

Logan took a long pull, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Doesn’t matter. The isolation is still the same. Days consist of rigorous training, eating and more training. There’s a bit of light R & R like the bar here. But as time wears on, so do the sailors. And after a couple of months, they’re itching to step ashore so bad, they’d sell their eye teeth.”

“Sounds about right.” Olivia sipped her drink.

“So, have you got any idea when we’ll be deploying?” Stephan rephrased his question to Logan.

“Not sure.” The commander pulled up a stool, looking like he planned to stay for a few rounds. “Garth told me Anders Lindgren is paying a visit next week.”

“He told you?” Olivia balked. “What am I? Not trustworthy enough?”

Logan cringed. “Sorry. In the men’s locker room—he’ll probably inform the team in the morning.”

“Right.” She shot him a look.

Stephan stepped out from behind the bar holding a cold one. “I’m done for the night. See you pair tomorrow.”

Logan raised his bottle. “Good night, dude.”

“It’s early yet.” Olivia waved the German back. “You sure you don’t want to hang out for another round?”

“Nein—else I won’t make it through Rodgers’ ball-buster workout.” Stephan flicked his wrist and headed for the doors.

Hoping there was someone else in the bar, Olivia glanced over her shoulder. Nope. They were alone. She fixated on the back wall and took a long sip of her gin and tonic.

Beside her, Logan tapped his fingers against his beer before he drank it down. His hair had grown a bit. Black and mussed and too damned sexy. She never should have told him to grow it.

“Want another?” she asked, her voice sounding huskier than usual.

“I’ll get it.”

She hopped to her feet. “I think you need something stronger than beer. How about I make you one of my favorites?”

He arched a single eyebrow. “What would that be?”

“Hot sex between the sheets.” She’d asked for the drink in countless bars in London and never once had her cheeks burned. Why now?

“Don’t Brits say bed linens?” Thank God Rodgers didn’t seem to notice.

“Not always, and sheets sounds naughtier.” There. She wasn’t about to let him make her feel self-conscious.

Her little jibe must have done the trick, because Logan’s face blushed while his mouth opened and closed. Shifting his gaze away, he swiped a hand over his lips. “I’ll bet it’s full of sugar.”

“You afraid of a little sweetness?”

“Not really.” He frowned as if trying to think up an excuse not to try the concoction. “What’s in it?”

She filled a mug with hot water and grabbed a brandy snifter. “A shot of vodka, Kahlua, Baileys, Grand Marnier, layered in a snifter and heated over a cup of boiling water.”

“Sounds like froo froo.”

“It’s to die for.” She poured in the Kahlua, then used a spoon to layer the Baileys.

“I’ll bet.” He leaned on the bar and watched her work. “You’ve made that often?”

“Mm hmm.”

“It’s amazing you don’t weigh five hundred pounds.”

She chuckled and, after floating the shot of vodka, she tossed the spoon into the sink. “I would if I didn’t work out all the time.” Slowly, she turned the snifter over the cup of hot water careful not to shake it too much. “So, where’re you from, cowboy?” she asked like they’d just met. Though she tried to keep from getting to know her teammates too well, a little small talk couldn’t hurt. And she was curious.

“I grew up on a ranch in Montana.”

“Truly?” She handed him the snifter. “So you are a real-life cowboy?”

He picked up a swizzle stick and stirred it, destroying the layers she’d so painstakingly made. “In the flesh.”

She bit the corner of her mouth and watched his bicep flex through the sleeve of his off-duty t-shirt as he took a sip.

“Mm. That’s too good to be alcohol.”

Olivia waggled her eyebrows. Now that she knew she could make him blush, she might toy with him a bit. “That’s why it’s called hot sex between the sheets. After a couple of those, the sex is hot no matter who you’re with.”

He gave her a look lacking a damned blush, one of those looks that could make any woman melt like butter in the sun. Then he burst out with a laugh. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”

She made an X on her chest. “Honest.”

Nodding, he took another drink then slid the snifter across the bar. “You going to help me with this?”

Olivia raised her gin and tonic. “This is number four.”

“Come on,” he urged. “You obviously have a sweet tooth.”

Her mouth watered when she looked down and inhaled, catching the tempting aroma. “Maybe just a sip.” The sugariness spread across her tongue like silk. “Mm. It’s sinful.”

“That’s why I stick with beer.”

Taste buds bursting, she couldn’t stop herself from another sample. Damn the gin and tonic. “So, what’s Montana like?”

“Lots of mountains, warm in summer, cold in winter. Tons to do.”

“Such as?”

“Fishing, hiking, bronc riding.”

“Horses?”

“Quarter horses.” He swilled their drink. Obviously, he suffered from a sweet tooth as well.

“Do you train them?” she asked.

“When I’m home. I run a couple hundred head of cattle and a few brood mares. I like to break the yearlings, but keeping them fed, trained and groomed is pricey.”

“Who takes care of the place when you’re gone?” She pulled the cork on the Kahlua to make another hot sex between the sheets.

“My best friend—he was wounded in Iraq. He’s got a bum leg, but that doesn’t prevent him from doing much.”

“You trust him, then?”

“With my life.”

Olivia placed the new drink in front of him. It would be nice to have a friend like that. “You got any family?”

“Nope.”

“Parents gone?”

“Yep.”

“Mine, too.”

Licking his lips, he gently swirled the snifter. “Ooo, you do have a past.”

“Everyone has a past. I just don’t like talking about mine, is all. Don’t like thinking about it, either.” Her skin grew hot. She didn’t talk about her past ever, not even when she was well on the road to complete inebriation. “So, since you have such a great place, why are you here?”

He drank, tipping his head back, clearly savoring the taste before his Adam’s apple bobbed with his swallow. “Up until a month ago, I was content to be a Navy career man. I guess it’s in my blood. As soon as some jihadi asshole decides to start terrorizing innocent people, I can’t help but charge in with guns blazing.”

She smiled, her head swimming a bit, making her lean on the bar. “My tactics might be a tad subtler, but I’m not really happy unless I’m chasing a scumbag.”

“Ah, so that’s how to get through to you, set you loose on a mob of heartless guerrillas.”

“Exactly.” She leaned a bit further over the bar, reaching out and brushing her fingers along his jawline. “That’s amazing.”

His eyebrows slanted over those mesmerizing eyes—way too intense. “My beard or the fact I really ought to shave twice a day?”

“Both.” She wasn’t about to admit how the prickles against the pads of her fingers shot straight down past her midsection. Damn, she needed a one night stand, and not with the sexy man grinning at her from the other side of the bar. It was late, she was drunk, and making googly eyes at her co-worker. “I need to call it a night while I can still walk back to my suite.”

Logan drained the dregs of the snifter. “Me, too. I think you should change the name of this cocktail to ‘sleeping potion number two’.”

“Why two?”

“Because after two of those, you’re toast. Might as well give up and head for your bunk, ’cause you’d be useless for anything else.” His gaze dipped with his next blink as if he’d checked out her boobs and tried to look discrete about it. Or else he was checking out her boobs and trying to talk himself out of hot sex with or without the sheets.

Damn.

Olivia couldn’t stay there another moment, thinking about the hot sex she definitely would not be enjoying with her fellow spy. “Goodnight.” She started for the door.

“Wait up.” Logan pushed away from the bar and followed. “I’ll see you home, my lady.”

“I’m fully capable of walking myself to my own door in this highly secure, clandestine facility.”

“I know.” He opened the door for her and gestured with a bow. “But your suite is only four down from mine.”

“You noticed?”

He grinned, his white teeth contrasting with dark, masculine stubble. “Who wouldn’t?”

Things suddenly went quiet, amplifying their shoes squeaking on the tiled floor. Olivia rubbed the outside of her arms, awkwardly aware as if she were a schoolgirl being walked home from her first date. Regardless of the alcohol swimming in her head, she felt like she should be wearing heels and holding hands. But that was plain wrong.

They were both wearing t-shirts, workout pants and tennis shoes—the off-duty, casual dress. There wasn’t anything sexy about t-shirts, except perhaps the way Logan’s stretched across his pecs. Lord save her, the man could make a sack look hot.

Nearing her door, she slowed her pace and turned. “Thanks. It’s not often a real cowboy sees me home.”

“Ma’am.” He tipped his fingers to his forehead. “Unfortunately, I left my hat and spurs at the ranch.”

A new rush of heat shot between her legs. “Spurs?” She leaned against the wall for balance.

“Yes, ma’am.” He rested his hand beside her head, one hip shifting to take his weight.

“Chaps, too?” God, she shouldn’t have asked. The mere thought of Logan Rodgers wearing nothing but a cowboy hat, chaps and a pair of snakeskin boots with spurs set her knickers on fire.

“Mm hmm,” he growled with a hint of a drawl. He picked up a lock of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “This your natural color?”

“That’s nothing to ask a lady,” she said, willing herself to conquer her damned lust.

“It’s pretty.”

“Oh…,” was all she managed to say as Logan’s gaze shifted to her lips with a flutter of long, black eyelashes. Before Olivia could object, soft lips met hers together with a brush of the rugged stubble she’d been admiring since he stepped into the lounge.

Everything melted. Her body responded with a surge of desire she’d been bottling up for months. Not months. Two years. Overwhelmed with a flood of passion, she slid her hands to his waist and pulled his body flush with hers.

Hard maleness pressed against her. Logan’s cock was rigid and straight up and like a steel rod rubbing right above the place where she needed him. The one place on her body she might have trouble controlling after a few gin and tonics and a hot sex between the sheets. Worse, she wanted him. Thick and fast and deep. Holy hell, fast and freaking deep. Now! If only she didn’t need to bend down for the retina scan, she’d open the door, yank down her pants and fuck him before they made it to the bedroom.

Pinning her to the wall, Logan kissed like he’d been starved for a good romp as long as she. A deep rumbling moan rolled through her mouth while she rubbed against him harder. Frantic. Good God, she wanted to come, to give in to her own desires for once. She needed a real man. For chrissake, the last man she’d made love to was a terrorist.

A noxious beast.

Fuck!

In a nanosecond, Olivia froze.

A chill shot across her skin.

Her eyes flew open with her gasp as she regarded the American while ice replaced the fire that had been pulsing through her veins. “I can’t.”

“What?” his voice ratcheted up. “Is there a rule—?”

“You know as well as I, work and play don’t mix.” She hastily used the scanner, her hands shaking.

“Yeah, but…” his voice trailed off.

“Night.” She slipped inside without looking at his face.

“Olivia?” he growled through the door. “What’s wrong?”

Ignoring him, she ran for the bathroom.

By the time she flipped on the light, tears streamed from her eyes, making black mascara bleed down her cheeks. Her eyes stung as she clenched her teeth, trying to regain control. To push the demons to the locked recesses of her mind.

Dammit, who was the woman staring back in the mirror?

Olivia Hamilton was passionate and vibrant and a seizer of opportunity. A confident twenty-nine-year-old woman who saw what she wanted and went after it. She wasn’t a victim. All her life she’d taken charge, regardless of the circumstances. All her life she’d been at the top of her game, calculating, risk taking, spying and winning.

But she’d just freaked out. One goddamned memory flash and she’d turned into an ice sculpture.

All along on the last mission, she’d sworn she’d lost her soul, living a lie in Kahlil’s clutches. But it was over. He’d been blown to hell and it was time to bury the past in a lead box where it no longer haunted her. She couldn’t lose it like that. Not ever.

This fucking cannot happen.

Without a goddamned shrink, she’d taught herself to compartmentalize the nightmares. Bomb blasts no longer shut her down. She could overcome this, too. Kahlil was dead, and she had to take charge and regain control. To-freaking-day!

Worse, Olivia liked Rodgers. The man was cracking hot. Beyond that, she respected him. Maybe she even admired him. For the first time in eons, she actually liked someone who was her equal—even better than her equal, someone who could handle her and her domineering quirks.

She gaped at herself in the mirror and thrust up a finger. “No, no, no!”

Christ, she couldn’t deal with working with a man she liked. Her life was a cocked-up mess. Rodgers could be nothing more than a colleague.

No more kissing, and no more knock-out cocktails.

She ran hot water into the basin and doused a facecloth. Rubbing off the smudges, she ground her teeth with renewed resolve. Her entire life centered around the job. Being a spy defined her, gave her purpose. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

***

After the door shut in his face and Logan listened to Olivia’s footsteps hasten away, the realization of the magnitude of his mistake sank in. He dropped his hands to his sides and leaned his forehead against the wall. What the hell was he doing? He’d gone to the lounge for one beer, dammit. He never should have allowed Olivia to make that godawful drink. The last thing he needed was for the duchess to rail against him before their first mission.

He glanced to his crotch. He’d been hard for weeks, and things weren’t getting any easier with Miss Universe shooting him pouty looks every chance she got. They all needed to get out of ICE and around some normal people. Logan had seen Stephan and another recruit talking a few days ago and, come to think of it, they were standing pretty darned close.

If he didn’t watch out, the place would turn into a soap opera. The US Navy had a gazillion regs forbidding coworkers from dating, yet it still happened. Humans still behaved like humans regardless of the rules.

Heading for his suite, he decided he’d have a word with Garth in the morning. Olivia needed a turn at a psych farm and there had to be some scumbags out there Logan could nail. Mike Rose was still in the field chasing the load of uranium—that’s what the sit room updates were about every morning. Maybe the Scot needed help. Maybe they needed someone like Logan to establish some priorities.

With luck, he might even get to blow up some shit.

Chapter Seven

“Commander Rodgers, report to the sit room at once!” Garth’s voice echoed through Logan’s bedroom.

Not certain if he’d been dreaming, he opened one eye and regarded the speaker on the ceiling above his king-sized bed. “Sir?” he croaked, shifting his gaze to the clock: 0530.

“You heard me.”

“Yes, sir.” Rubbing his eyes, Logan hopped out of bed, ran a damp cloth over his face and under his pits and shoved a toothbrush in his mouth. He needed a shave, but “at once” meant one thing—now. And with luck, Mike Rose needed help securing that uranium shipment. Today.

In five minutes, Logan pushed through the sit room doors.

Asa put a cup of coffee in his hand. “Good morning.”

“Mornin’.” He half-saluted with the cup. “Thanks.”

Olivia arrived on his heels and received her cuppa joe. “You’re a lifesaver,” she said, closing her eyes, inhaling and then sipping like the coffee was manna from heaven. Even without makeup, the woman could make the slightest gesture sexy. In fact, she looked better without the makeup.

“Take a seat people,” said Garth, motioning to the head of the table where Anders Lindgren sat.

Electricity fired across Logan’s arms. Something just hit the fan.

“What’s up?” Olivia whispered, sliding into the seat beside him—a surprise after her knee-jerk rejection from the night before.

“No clue.”

Garth tapped a laser pointer in his palm. “I’m sure you’re all curious as to why I called you so early.”

“I need a team in Lyon straight away,” Anders interrupted.

With no more information than that, Logan and Olivia raised their hands, exchanging head-shaking, disparaging looks.

“I need to get out of here more than you, cowboy.”

“I doubt that.”

“I’ve been here longer.”

“Ahem.” Anders cleared his throat. “You’re both going.”

“Whether you like it or not,” added Garth.

Logan gave her a smug look. The idea of heading out on assignment with Olivia wasn’t entirely unpalatable, though he had concerns about her psychological wherewithal. Before she’d disappeared into her suite last night, he’d caught the look of terror in her eyes. One kiss and she’d totally freaked out. It didn’t take Dr. R to tell him the woman had PTSD. Commander Hamilton needed R & R and a turn at Bellevue. Sooner or later she’d crash, and that couldn’t happen in the middle of a mission. He crossed his arms, ready to throw in an objection.

Anders picked up a remote and gave it a click, bringing up a blurry picture of a dark-haired man leading a teenaged girl by the arm. “One of our informants in Lyon took this picture yesterday.”

“Who’s the guy?” asked Olivia.

“Suspected jihadist, Taaha Kahn. Someone we’ve been watching.”

“al Qaeda?” asked Logan.

“We’re not sure,” said Garth. “Since the US nailed bin Laden they’ve dispersed—have loyal supporters everywhere.”

“But they no longer control septs of population, right?” asked Logan.

“It’s worse,” said Olivia. “They have the backing of the population in more Arab states than anyone realizes. And they’ve been flocking to ISIS. Europe’s becoming a hub for recruiting jihadists, and they’re all joining forces. It doesn’t matter if you’re Taliban, al Qaeda, ISIS or whatever’s the flavor of the month.”

The room fell silent for a moment while Anders’ expression turned grim.

“They’ll rise again.” Olivia looked around the room. “And when they do, it will be an apocalypse.”

“That’s why ICE was formed,” Anders agreed, cutting her off. “We aim to stop them.”

Logan sensed they’d gone off topic. He leaned forward on his elbow. “So, what’s the deal with the girl and the suspect?”

“I ran her picture through the database. Her name’s Mathilde Petit.” Asa took a seat across the table. “Turns out she went missing a week ago, walking home from school. The picture doesn’t show it, but from the angle of her arms, my guess is her wrists are bound.”

Logan didn’t like where this was heading. “Isn’t kidnapping something the local police should handle?”

“Ja, I notified them as soon as Asa ID’d the girl, but that’s not why I want assets in Lyon. We need to look at the situation from another angle.” Anders took Garth’s laser pointer and steadied it on the perp. “Why would a jihadist risk bringing attention to himself by being seen in public with a pretty white girl whose face has been all over the news?”

Logan peered closer. “Looks like he was escorting her into the van in the background. My bet’s he wasn’t in public for long.”

“Probably not,” Garth agreed.

“Have there been any more kidnappings of girls in Lyon?” asked Olivia.

“We’re not sure if it’s a kidnapping. Asa’s only guessing that Mathilde’s wrists are bound.” Anders chopped his hand through the air. “What I’m interested in is finding out what’s going on between this girl and jihadists and determining if it is something we need to spend ICE resources on. I want to know what they’re up to. I want you to spend some time blending in with the locals—put your ear to the ground.”

“I can set up a search macro and throw it at the wall,” said Asa. “See if Mathilde Petit has been seen with other suspected terrorists. Delve deeper in to Kahn’s activities, as well.”

“Good.”

Garth placed his palms on the table. “Both of you have told me you’re going stir crazy. This is a good place to get your feet wet.”

“I assure you, I am not in need of a beginner course on fieldwork,” said Olivia.

Garth gave her a sober stare. “Didn’t say you were, but neither of you have worked together before.”

Biting his lip, Logan shot a dubious glance to his new partner. “So, how will this go down?”

“As you’re aware, I’ve been filling the pipeline with chatter about your dossier as an arms dealer under the alias of David Mason,” Garth said. “It’s time we make use of it.”

Anders looked between them. “Go in as a couple. Hamilton speaks the lingo. She’ll pose as a Muslim, and Rodgers will act as her converted British husband—a thug.”

“Why not American?” Logan asked, wondering how the hell Olivia was going to pull off the spouse part without trying to murder him.

“It’s more believable if you’re from England, and you’d better be able to affect the accent.”

“Cheerio, mate.”

Beside him, his new work-wife snorted and rolled her eyes.

“We’re putting you in the midst of the Muslim population. Blend with the locals,” said Garth. “Get them to trust you.”

Olivia turned her coffee cup upside down. Finding it empty, she snatched Logan’s. “Bloody hell, that could take months.”

“We don’t have months.” Logan stopped the cup midair and pulled it back, then grinned when she gave him an evil eye.

“We’re making arrangements for you to pose as the new lessors of a small convenience store that caters to Islamic tastes,” Anders continued. “It’s your front for arms deals and is only a block away from where this picture was taken.”

“So, we’re supposed to be running a shop while we’re trailing bad guys and selling them guns?” asked Logan.

“Got to be seen as trustworthy before you start peddling,” said Garth. “Muhammed will run the shop. He’s legit. Works for NATO.”

“Not ICE?” Logan asked.

The corners of Ander’s mouth twisted. “Never forget that ICE does not exist outside these walls. Muhammed doesn’t have the right clearance.”

“That’s code for he’s not a kick-ass operative or a PhD,” said Asa.

“Thank you for your succinct but crude commentary.” Anders pointed his thumb at the map of the world illuminated on a screen behind him. “NATO has informant assets all over the globe who provide support when needed. Muhammed is trusted and vetted, and that’s all you need to know. And as far as he’s concerned, you’re a pair of NATO operatives on a fact-finding mission.”

Garth took charge of the remote. “So, ladies and gentlemen, you’ll be reporting directly to me…”

For the rest of the morning Logan and Olivia went over the plan. The flat where they’d live, their aliases, how long they’d been married, how they’d met, why they’d leased the shop, and where they were from. Once the plane touched down in Lyon they would assume the roles of David and Oma Mason, underground arms smugglers.

Chapter Eight

At the airport in Lyon, Muhammed Burke greeted Olivia and Logan by their aliases. The NATO operative was tall and slender and looked like he might be in his mid-thirties. He led them to an old Mini, of all things, and spoke English to brief them on the latest while driving like a lead-foot through the maze of Lyon. “The police stormed Taaha Khan’s apartment last night. The place was empty.”

Olivia couldn’t believe it. Had they come all this way for nothing? She leaned forward from the cramped backseat. “Any sign of him or Mathilde?”

“They came up with nothing.” Muhammed regarded her in the rearview mirror. He wore a pair of dark sunglasses, looking the part of convenience shop attendant from his mussed black hair to white t-shirt to his canvas tennis shoes.

“You’re kidding.”

At passenger pickup, Logan had offered Olivia the front seat but was swiftly corrected by Muhammed. The SEAL might be an ace in combat, but he knew bugger-all about moving around Islamic society and Olivia had only been able to divulge so much before they touched down in Lyon. She wore a niqab complete with a veil across her mouth and brown contact lenses. There was no way on earth she would have taken the front seat. Such a mistake would have raised suspicion before their mission began, even if Logan’s role was that of a British national.

“Can you take us there?” she asked.

“Don’t you want to drop off your gear first?” asked the NATO operative.

Logan glanced back and gave her a thumb’s up. “Not while the trail’s hot.”

“I think it started growing cold when Khan escorted Mathilde to the van two days ago,” said Muhammed, turning on the blinker.

“What else can you tell us about him?” asked Logan.

The black steering wheel spun right. “Syrian, entered France illegally.”

“Why do you think he kidnapped Mathilde?” Olivia regarded the bridge spanning the River Rhône ahead, memorizing every landmark.

“Other than her being pretty?” Darting around vehicles in heavy traffic, Muhammed grinned. “I have no idea. Usually guys like Khan try to keep a low profile. Could be he’s just a freak.”

“What else do you have on him?” asked Logan.

“He became a suspect jihadist after the car bombing outside the Basilica Notre Dame, Lyon. He was one of the onlookers—that’s when we put a tail on him. Found out he was keeping company with a faction suspected to have al Qaeda and ISIS ties.”

“Suspected?” asked Logan. “Don’t we know?”

“It’s a tough group to crack. They keep to themselves. We also can’t forget that no one’s seen Kahn since that picture was taken with Mathilde Petit.”

“Hmm. A lot to delve in to.” Olivia tapped her lips through the suffocating cloth. “Maybe this isn’t a lost cause.”

“I hope not,” said Muhammed. “After all the strings NATO pulled to take ownership of the shop.”

Logan reached across the console and rapped the man’s arm. “That’s setting your priorities, dude.”

Turning the corner, Muhammed tilted his head to the right. “We’re coming up to the alleyway now.”

“Don’t drive down,” Olivia cautioned and pointed to a café. “It’s time for supper—we can eat a meal, digest the lay of the land and slip out the back after.”

“Makes sense to me,” Logan agreed.

They reverted to speaking French in the café. Logan was more fluent than Olivia had imagined. Who knew a Yank SEAL could inflect such a romantic tongue? Especially with a voice so deep. If he kept it up, the man would have all the French birds in the café swooning.

As with all meals in France, fast food wasn’t in the vocabulary. The good thing? By the time they exited into the alleyway, it was dark.

Olivia walked behind Muhammed, sandwiched with Logan pulling up the rear. She kept her head lowered, but took in everything out of the corners of her eyes. Half a block up, Muhammed used his NATO issued bump key to open the door. “This way.” He led them up one flight of stairs and to the rear apartment.

Logan watched for action while Muhammed worked his magic. The hallway was oddly silent as if the tenants knew the police had been there and they were all laying low.

The place was stripped bare, but littered with grime. Olivia ran her foot forward, making a track through the filth on the carpet. “It looks like they won’t be receiving their cleaning deposit back.”

Moving into the kitchen, Logan checked under the sink. “Too bad they didn’t leave their trash.”

“The police could have taken it.” Olivia proceeded down the hallway, peering into empty bedrooms along the way, though she was heading for the WC. It was just as grimy as everything else. “Do you have any plastic bags?”

“No,” said Muhammed, following.

She pulled back the moldy shower curtain. Black hairs caught her eye first but once she focused, something lighter drew her attention to the tiled floor in front of the toilet. She dug in her bag.

“What are you looking for?” asked the NATO operative.

Pulling out the clear plastic bag with her toiletries, she held it up. “This.” She dumped the contents into her purse. Then using a pen, she scraped up the hairs from the floor, and a few more from the shower and deposited them in the bag.

Logan leaned on the door jamb. “Good thing they haven’t sterilized the joint, huh?”

She ran her fingers across the zip. “I don’t know if it will lead to anything, but we’ll send these in for analysis.”

“I can take care of that,” said Muhammed.

Olivia slipped the bag into her purse. “I’ll handle it, thanks.” She didn’t want this evidence going anywhere but to Asa.

***

Their apartment was only a few blocks away from Khan’s abandoned flat and the convenience store that posed as their front was another block down. It was late and Logan had felt more than a little out of his element, though he wouldn’t be admitting anything to Olivia. This spy thing posed a whole new world for him. As a SEAL, he’d been trained to go into hostile situations with guns blazing after the fieldwork had been done. Since Kahn’s apartment had been cleared out, he didn’t think to look for hairs in the perp’s bathroom and send them in for DNA analysis. The down side? DNA analysis wasn’t fast. Even with the equipment at ICE, Asa had told him it still took a couple of weeks, and that was pushing it.

Safely behind locked doors, Olivia took off her niqab and scrubbed her fingers through her hair. “Christ, that thing’s suffocating.”

Muhammed stared. “Blonde? Why didn’t you wear a wig?”

“Didn’t need one, did I?” She held up her finger. “What I need is a sleeping baby and a pram. Can you have one here first thing in the morning?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He looked to Logan while Olivia wandered to the back room. “There are two Glock 38s in the top drawer in the kitchen. Is there anything else you need?”

Logan pulled open the drawer and took inventory. “Plenty of ammo. I guess that’ll do us.”

“See you in the morning then?” Muhammed dropped a ring with four keys into Logan’s palm. “Two are for the apartment and two for the front door of the shop.”

“Thanks.”

Once Muhammed showed himself out, Olivia wandered out of the back room and leaned against the door jamb. “There’s only one bedroom.” She pointed to her right with her thumb. “And one wash closet. It looks like NATO took the husband-wife thing literally.”

“What? You mean no one got the memo that we’re not actually married?” Logan turned full circle. The place was a box made to look trendy. An open kitchen had a marble-top breakfast bar separating it from the living room that had a television, a cozy chair and a couch. On the far side of the kitchen a desk and chair was squeezed into the corner by the bathroom door.

He tossed his duffle on the floor. “I’ll take the couch.” After moving to the kitchen, he opened the fridge. “A bottle of chardonnay and a loaf of bread. Compliments of NATO.”

Olivia reached around him and grabbed the wine. “What did you expect? We’re in France. Besides, we own a convenience store.” She opened four cupboards before she found the glasses. “Want some?”

“Sure.”

She pulled a bottle opener out of the first drawer she opened and set it on the counter. “You do the honors. I have to change out of this abaya before I melt.”

“I’m sorry you have to wear that thing.” He twisted in the corkscrew.

“Goes with the territory. I’m just glad to be away from the mountains of Iceland. Reykjavik reported a high of fifty degrees…and it’s June. Brrr.” Wheeling her suitcase into the bedroom, she shut the door.

“Make sure the shutters are closed back there.”

“Duh,” her sassy reply rumbled through to the kitchen.

By the time she came out, Logan had poured both glasses and had set up his laptop on the desk.

“Have you contacted ICE?” she asked.

He regarded her over his shoulder then snapped his face back to the screen, swiping a hand across his eyes. Since it was fairly warm, he’d expect any normal partner to slip into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, but not Olivia. Miss Universe came out wearing a silky negligee, reminiscent of the Gulf of Oman. He shook his head and focused. “Setting up encryption now.” Once Logan was sure their internet connection was locked down, he fired off a message to Garth: Ready for business.

Almost immediately, a response came back. What took you so long?

Strolled around the neighborhood. Called on an old friend, but he’d moved.

Where did he go?

Olivia shouldered in, taking over keyboard. No clue. Sending gifts in the morning via pigeon. The drop off location for evidence was an iron milk box at the back of the shop.

You are too kind. I wish you well with your new venture.

After signing off, she pulled up the area map.

Logan gave her a nudge. “You’re awfully familiar with my laptop.”

“Yeah, it’s just like mine.” All business aside from smelling like a bouquet of exotic flowers, she pointed. “This is where we are. Rue Tronchete.”

“I know.” Logan had studied the map before they’d left Iceland. “What’s the deal with the stroller and the sleeping baby?”

“First of all, most people won’t get too close if the baby’s asleep, so they won’t know it’s a fake. Secondly, they won’t be suspicious of a mother hanging around a school.” She pointed. “Here’s Fénlelon-La Trinité where Mathilde was last seen, at least before the picture of her with Kahn. See? It’s right across from Parc aux Daims. I can push the pram around the park and talk to just about anyone without bringing suspicion.”

“Hmm. I think I like the idea of walking around a park better than my role.” Logan’s MO was to play the part of lazy shopkeeper, smoking an e-cigarette that doubled as a camera and recording device while he got to know the clientele and learned the local gossip. “I don’t even smoke.” The first obstacle was finding the sept with links to Taaha Khan. Forget the chitchat, Logan preferred to go straight for the guttural.

“Yeah, but if you do, you’ll look more authentic. The best way to infiltrate the locals is to sit in front of the shop and watch people stroll past. That’s an awesome cover—just don’t inhale.”

“I’d rather be setting explosives.”

“Something tells me you’ll get your chance.”

“On a trail this cold?”

She threw back her sassy shoulders. “It’s our job to turn up the heat.”

He stood, but before he fetched her glass of wine, he leaned toward her and took one more inhale—what was she wearing? Jasmine? Probably. Logan never could resist jasmine. Then he plucked the goblet from the counter and held it out. “Are you going to drink this?”

“Thanks.” She took a sip then closed her eyes, a pink tongue slipping across her lips. “Mm.” Mercy, did she have to make everything look erotic? It was a sip of French wine, not ambrosia from heaven.

Logan busied himself by pouring another glass for himself and taking a good long drink. There he was, stuck in a match-box sized apartment with a gorgeous woman who was a PTSD disaster. Though he’d been growing stir crazy at ICE, he should have rethought things before jumping into this mission with both feet. Christ, he knew a handful of Arabic phrases, his French was marginally better—good enough not to be pegged as a Yank. Worse, according to Olivia, his British accent made him sound like a wanker and he’d better stick to French.

“You want a top up?” she asked.

He turned. Olivia grinned like a Stepford wife holding a bottle. His gaze slid downward. Without a bra, her nipples strained against the pink silk giving him a wrapped invitation. His tongue went dry as he held out his half-full glass. “Why not?”

She stepped nearer. His skin tingled. In fact, her scent awakened more than his skin.

“What are you wearing?” he asked.

“My nightie, silly.”

“I mean your perfume. It’s distracting.”

She waggled her eyebrows. “I thought a spritz of Dior would suit. After all, we’re in France.” She set the bottle on the counter. “Cheers?”

Logan tapped his glass to hers. “Cheers.”

Their gazes locked as they drank. God, she was too pretty, even with brown contact lenses. Logan went to move past to the sink, but in the tight quarters, their bodies brushed ever so lightly. He stopped, his breath catching. Moist with chardonnay, her lips were so damned close, all he needed to do was dip his head and he’d taste her. He’d wrap his arms around that tight body and crush those nipples against his pounding chest.

Her gaze dipped to his lips as she swirled her pointer finger directly over his heart. “We can’t.”

His knees wobbled. “Absolutely not,” he croaked, slipping past and placing his glass in the sink.

She followed with her own glass but, when she stopped, her arm pressed against his. “I’ve done too many bad things. The job sucked the guts out of me until there was nothing left.”

He could only imagine what she’d been through. “It must have been hell infiltrating Khalil’s world.”

“It was.” She leaned into him more as if she needed the human contact, yet not the affection. “If only I could block it from my mind.”

Logan hesitated before he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll tell you one thing; that was a bad dream. We’re on a new mission and I’m here. Never forget I have your back.” He kissed her temple like he would a sister. “You got that?”

She nodded, tensing at first, but with her next exhale, her muscles eased. Regardless, from the expression on her long face, Logan wasn’t sure she was convinced.

Chapter Nine

Olivia’s eyes flew open when a blast of white light burst around her. Sweat streamed from her brow and seeped into her pillow as she panted. Fear cradled her in its hideous grip. Christ, the entire bed was wet.

Gaping at the ceiling, she willed the horrid nightmare away. Bad men. Bombs. Fighting for her life. It was always the same. Taking in consecutive calming breaths, she swiped her damp hair away from her face. As she relaxed and came fully awake, her deep breathing brought a new smell. A pleasant one for a change.

Coffee.

Feeling like she’d just run a marathon, she wanted to roll over and go back to sleep. But that wasn’t happening. She had to pee. Crossing her legs, she reached for her phone.

0730?

She tossed it down and closed her eyes.

Five more minutes.

But her bladder put on the pressure.

Shoving away the bedclothes, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed and sunk her toes into the plush carpet. The flat might be small, but it was modern with posh furnishings.

Still, her head was in a fog. Olivia hated mornings—especially mornings after a nightmare. She needed two cups of coffee before the cobwebs cleared enough to think.

Only one thing trumped coffee. She stumbled for the loo and opened the door.

Holy shit.

She should have known better.

A high-pitched squeak pealed from her throat. Closing the door might have been the right thing to do, but how could she turn away from perfection? Completely naked, Logan bent over the basin. Olivia cocked her head. Never before had she seen a bum sculpted with such tempting exactitude. And she’d seen a lot of bums. She adored masculine tushes. Logan’s, however, was nothing short of magnificent. It totally took the biscuit with deep dimples dipping into rounded glutes, a slim waist, powerful shoulders like Thor’s. Her fingers itched to give his ass a squeeze, though with her next blink, he whipped around.

“Olivia?” He snatched a towel from the rack, but not before she’d seen everything.

Dear God, her knees grew weak. The man had just rendered her speechless—a very difficult thing to do. Heaven help her, it had been a whole lot easier resisting Logan Rodgers when he’d kept his clothes on. But starkers? Mm, mm, how she loved black pubic hair with tight curls. Even better, the man’s equipment didn’t disappoint, and he wasn’t even hard.

With her next blink, a white towel blocked her view.

“I’m nearly done,” he mumbled with a toothbrush in his mouth.

She snapped her gaze to his face. Those same teal eyes brooded over dark stubble, looking as delicious as morning crepes with strawberries and cream. “Sorry.” She wasn’t. The word sorry may have been uttered by her lips, but that was the extent of her remorse.

He stood there for a moment then gestured with his palm. “I need to shave, then the bathroom’s all yours.”

Her bladder reminded her why she was standing there staring at a hot guy who was supposed to be her work-spouse. “Can I borrow the loo for a sec?” She glanced toward the commode. “It seems last night’s wine is rather anxious to make an exit.”

“Right.” The man blushed—no, he hadn’t flinched when she’d caught him naked, but as soon as she mentioned peeing, he turned as red as a schoolboy. He spat and rinsed. “Ah…maybe you could knock next time?”

“Why didn’t you lock the door?”

He skirted past her, holding that damned towel around his hips tight in his fist. “It’s broken.”

“Fancy that. A posh new flat with a broken lock.”

“It’s not posh.” He stepped out and closed the door, his voice carrying through. “It’s not like there is any place I could have been hiding in this shoebox.”

“Roger that,” she said loud enough for him to hear. “Next time I’ll drum out the secret password.”

“Thanks. You want coffee?” he asked.

“That’s next—where did you find it?”

“Picked some up on my run this morning.”

“Already?” She washed her hands. “How long have you been up?”

“A couple hours.”

After drying her fingers, Olivia regarded herself in the mirror. Mussed hair, no makeup, bags under her eyes. She looked about as sexy as a turnip. Stepping back, she regarded her figure. She was in great shape, but wouldn’t be if she didn’t start an exercise routine soon. She pushed her breasts together and gave herself a bit of cleavage. “Maybe I should buy a negligee with a built in underwire,” she mumbled to herself.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” She raised her voice while regarding her profile and wondering why Garth hadn’t sent her to Lyon to work this case alone. She worked better alone. And how was she supposed to wipe the image of Logan’s bum from her mind?

They had to put me on assignment with a guy who looks like a cover model for Men’s Health Magazine.

“Olivia?”

She opened the door, shifting her gaze to the kitchen. “Where’s that coffee?”

***

During the first weeks on assignment they’d taken a gazillion pictures and the intel was flowing. This evening, Logan and Olivia sat together on the couch reviewing the photos on screen with Garth and Asa dialed in.

“Just about everyone who’s come into the shop has been friendly,” Logan said.

“Expected that.” Olivia gave him an elbow nudge.

“Just a minute.” Asa leaned away from the camera for a moment. “The results from my facial recognition traces have come in.”

“Anything hot?” asked Logan.

A picture of a man flashed on screen. Logan didn’t recognize him, but he’d taken so many pictures, it could have been any number of patrons. Eyes too close, with thick black hair and a sparse black beard, the man looked like he could pass for a terrorist.

“The report says this is Kadir Hakim. He’s suspected of being involved with the militants who organized the Paris attack.”

“Why hasn’t he been arrested?” asked Olivia.

“His role was unproven—though he has been seen in the company of militants,” said Garth.

“Does he have any ties to Taaha Khan?” asked Logan.

The CO leaned closer to the camera. “That’s something you need to find out.”

“Roger that.” Logan pointed. “Any other pictures come back with dirt?”

“Not yet,” said Asa.

Garth shifted his attention to Olivia. “How are things at the park?”

“Nothing new.” She shook her head. “There are a few regulars I’ve started waving to. The school’s quiet so far.”

“It’s not enough.” Garth slammed his fist on the table. “Dig deeper. The trail’s getting colder and, meanwhile, no one has a clue why a suspected terrorist was seen with a girl who apparently has no ties with al Qaeda or ISIS. For all we know Mathilde Petit could be dead by now.”

Logan crossed his arms. “Or in Baghdad.”

“Any news on the DNA from the hair?” Olivia asked.

Asa shook her head. “Nope. It hasn’t quite been two weeks yet.”

“Two weeks is a frigging eternity,” Garth barked.

“All right,” Logan said. They weren’t getting anywhere and it was no use making the boss testier. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled for Kadir Hakim.”

Olivia nodded. “I’ll start up conversations with an elderly lady I’ve seen every day in the park. She probably sees everything.”

Garth leaned in. “Why have you waited?”

“You’re an American.” She shorted. “The fastest way to make one of the locals suspicious is to appear overly anxious to befriend them.”

“Yeah, and in the meantime the world’s greatest threat is plotting to kill us all.”

Logan shifted his hand to the touch pad and moved the pointer to the end-call button. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Sooner if you hear anything,” said Garth.

“Over and out.”

Beside him, Olivia sat back and heaved a sigh. “I’m starved.”

“Do we have anything to eat?”

She gave him a pointed look. “I don’t cook, remember?”

“You like Chinese?”

“Love it.”

He stood and stretched. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

***

Just as Logan was about to reach for the door to the restaurant, Kadir Hakim pushed past him carrying a bag of food.

Nothing like a shot of instant adrenaline.

Hunger forgotten, Logan followed, keeping to the shadows. The garlic wafting from the man’s Chinese was enough to turn him into a bloodhound.

Hakim didn’t even glance over his shoulder as he made his way down to the Rhône where river cruise ships were moored. Along the waterfront were park benches and workout bars like the beaches in California. Unfortunately, the place was lit up like a football field during the Super Bowl, adding an extra challenge to the need to remain stealth.

The suspected terrorist met up with a group of men who were sitting at a picnic table, beckoning him with boisterous shouts. Whatever they were up to, they didn’t seem to mind drawing attention to themselves.

Logan pulled his cellphone from his pocket and opened the sound recorder. Then he jogged past and set it in the shadows of a garbage can near Hakim. Once he was sure the device was recording, he ran straight for the workout area, snapped a few pictures with his e-cigarette and started doing pullups. While they dug in, the banter continued, but the tone grew serious. Logan was too far away to make out what they were saying, but at least was confident his phone was picking up everything. Continuing with his exercise, he moved to a pair of parallel bars. Too bad there wasn’t a set of weights, he could really waste some time.

He did sit ups, jogged down the wharf and back, more pullups, pushups. If the men didn’t head for home soon, he’d be too sore to move come morning.

But they finally left, leaving their garbage behind. After waiting a good five minutes, Logan retrieved his phone. He pushed the button and the damned thing was dead.

“Shit,” he whispered, shoving it in his pocket.

“Ne bougez pas,” a gravelly voice told him not to move while something hard pressed against Logan’s kidney—the muzzle of a gun.

Ready to make a countermove, he regarded his assailant out of the corner of his eye.

Hakim.

“As salaam alaykum,” peace be unto you, Logan flawlessly uttered the Islamic greeting.

“You speak Arabic?” Hakim asked in French, blatantly ignoring the expected reply.

“No, just a loyalist.” Logan transferred his weight to his front foot, bracing for a quick escape.

“Were you following me?”

“Why should I follow you?”

Hakim shoved the gun harder against Logan’s kidney. “I saw you when I was leaving the restaurant.”

“I was out for a run.”

“I don’t believe you. What did you put in your pocket?”

“My phone. I set it down to work the bars.”

“Take it out, nice and slow.”

“Lower your weapon first.”

Hakim jammed the muzzle of the pistol harder against Logan’s back. “Do it now or I’ll put a hole through your kidney!”

Logan did as instructed, holding the phone up in his palm where Hakim could see it from behind.

“Now turn it on.”

“I can’t. It’s dead.”

“You lie.”

Logan demonstrated, then looked over his shoulder as he covertly slid his other hand to his back where his fingers brushed cold steel, preparing for a counter move. “See? Nothing.”

The man twisted his mouth as if he were thinking. “Who the fuck are you?”

“David Mason.”

“I’m going to ask one more time. Why were you following me?”

Might as well go for broke. If the bastard got any friendlier with the gun, he’d be forced to break the shithead’s arm. “All right, I’ll come clean. You were recommended to me by a friend.”

“Recommended? By who?”

“Someone who knew you’d want what I’ve got.” He slipped the phone back in his pocket.

“What’s that?” Hakim growled in Logan’s ear.

The jihadi wanted to have a good old talk? Well, they could continue this conversation on friendlier terms. Snatching the gun’s muzzle, in a single move Logan whipped around as he disarmed the thug in a nanosecond. He stood nose to nose, looking down into the black eyes of his new best friend. “Sorry, mate, but I can talk a lot better when there’s not a gun in my back.”

The man’s panicked gaze slipped to his Beretta. “What the—?”

“If I wanted you dead, your blood would be washing the pavement.” Logan ejected the magazine and the bullet from the chamber. Once sure it was clean, he returned the weapon. “I’ll say this once. I’m new to Lyon, and I’m looking for buyers.”

“What are you selling?”

“Let’s just say I acquired some of the clients from Jamal Abdullah Khalil.”

The chump’s eyes widened.

“I could make you a popular man, my friend.” Logan grinned. “Why don’t you come to my shop for a coffee tomorrow? No hard feelings?”

“Where are you from?”

“Moved here from England.”

“Why?”

“My wife wanted to get away from the rain, and…” Logan glanced over his opposite shoulder.

“And?”

“I wanted to be closer to the action in Europe. I’ve grown angry with westerners wielding their power like tyrants.”

“Hmm.” Hakim holstered his weapon inside his jacket. “I don’t trust the English.”

“Me, neither.” Grinning, Logan slipped him a card. “Check out my website. It’s encrypted. The password is Umari with a capital U.”

“All right.” The thug crossed his arms.

“You can find me at my shop.” Logan pointed. “Address is on the card.”

Hakim turned it over. “I still don’t trust you.”

Logan brushed past. “Didn’t think you would.” Splaying his fingers, he headed up the stairs to the street. He didn’t look back either. He knew Hakim was standing there watching, and if he hadn’t removed the magazine, Logan would probably have taken a bullet by now.

A rush of vim pulsed through his blood.

Finally.

This was what he’d been trained for, both as a SEAL and as a spy. He was about action, not surveillance. Leave the waiting and watching to the cops. Logan wanted to be fed intel so he could act. His country needed him? They needed him to take action, not to sit around like a dupe.

Once he entered his apartment building, Logan took two steps at a time before he unlocked the door, then headed straight for the phone charger.

“What took you so long?” Olivia asked from the bedroom.

“Kadir Hakim.”

“Beg your pardon?”

After plugging in, Logan powered on the phone. “He was leaving the restaurant just as I was going in. I followed. He met up with a bunch of guys down on the Rhône—they were speaking Arabic I think.”

“Did you get any dirt?”

“Recorded on this, but the damned thing ran out of juice.” Logan tapped the playback button and turned up the volume. The sound was scratchy at best. “What are they saying?”

“It’s hard to tell. Everyone’s talking at once.” She held up her palm. “What is that in the background? Traffic noise? Couldn’t you get any closer?”

“No.” He plugged the e-cigarette into the USB port on his laptop. “Snapped a few pictures, too.”

Olivia kneeled and inclined her ear toward the phone. “Damn, it cut out.”

“Got any idea what they were talking about?”

“It’s hard to make it out exactly, but something about virgins and rewards.”

“Not surprising for a mob of thugs.” Logan turned his laptop so Olivia could see. “You recognize any of these?”

“They’re too dark. I can barely make them out.”

Logan clicked the upload button to send them to ICE. “Maybe Asa can work her magic. Send the convo as well.”

“Roger that.” Olivia used her thumbs to send the recording from Logan’s phone. “Where’s the food? I’m starving.”

As if on cue, his stomach growled. “Shit.”

“You didn’t get it, did you?”

“I kinda got distracted. Sorry.”

She punched him in the arm. “At least you’re good for something. Coming up with a lead will buy you a pass this time.”

He nodded toward the fridge. “I brought home some brie and bread from the shop. Will that suffice?”

“Got any wine?”

“This is France. Of course we have wine.”

“Then serve it up.” Olivia leaned back and put her feet on the coffee table.

Now that the excitement was over, he gave her a good look. “That a new negligee?”

She fingered the lace. “You like it?”

“You didn’t answer me.”

“No, it’s not new.”

He gave her a look. “What do nice Islamic women wear to bed?”

Olivia threw up her hands. “You have one stonking meeting with a suspected bad guy and all of a sudden you want to start telling your work-spouse what she can wear. Put a sock in it. This is our safe house and I can wear anything I damn well please.”

“As long as no one’s peeping in the windows.” Logan got up and pulled the food out of the fridge. “This is also our front for infiltrating the terrorists responsible for Mathilde’s disappearance. You should be acting like a good wife at all times.”

“That means lots of sex and no wine.”

He held up the bottle. “If that’s what we need to do, then so be it.”

“I think I’d prefer to be a naughty wife.”

Hesitating for a moment, he looked at her and blinked. Too right she looked like a naughty anything reclining on the couch in a negligee. Christ, he’d thought a gazillion times that she could pass for a Miss Universe contestant. Though she was right that the apartment was considered a safe house of sorts, the longer they stayed in Lyon and the deeper they delved into society, the more they would be expected to behave like they belonged. Moreover, Logan didn’t know how much more he could take of Olivia draping herself across the furniture in sheer lace. And every time he entered the apartment, he was attacked by her perfume. How much was a man supposed to endure before he snapped?

“Stop with the long face,” she said. “When the time comes, I’ll sleep in the damned niqab if need be.”

He sliced the cheese, forcing the knife through the brie with ten times more force than necessary. “What about lounging around the apartment in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt? It would be far less distracting.”

“You’re not the one who has to run around in a niqab all day.” She guffawed and gestured downward. “This reminds me that I’m a girl.”

What goddess needs to be reminded of her femininity? “Yeah, too much so.” Grabbing the box of crackers, he threw a handful onto a plate.

“Aw, does Davie want his wifey covered up all the time?” Jeez, she’d never used his alias outside the apartment.

He pursed his lips and gave her a heated stare. “I’m just saying sexy nightwear and holding down the fort in a spy operation don’t mix.”

She stood and sauntered forward, taking a seat at the breakfast bar. “You’re no fun.”

He poured her a glass of wine. “You have no idea.”

Chapter Ten

Following her routine before leaving the flat, Olivia put the life-sized sleeping baby in the pram, then wheeled it to the park for the afternoon.

Though Garth insisted their role was to infiltrate the terrorist ring suspected as being responsible for the disappearance of Mathilde Petit, Olivia wanted to do everything in her power to ensure no other innocent young girls went missing. She hated that ICE wanted to leave the protection of the locals to the Lyon police. She hadn’t signed up to be a passive spectator. She’d signed up to make a difference in this world. To stop terrorists. To do her part to end fanaticism and protect the innocent. If anyone asked Olivia, Mathilde had been kidnapped by Khan. If she could save one girl from the horror of being abducted and subjected to some nutcase’s idea that she was in some way unclean, and therefore he could do anything he pleased with her, she’d do it. She wouldn’t hesitate.

Today was balmy with plenty of sun, and Oliva wore her sunglasses along with her suffocating niqab. After a couple of laps around the pathway, she sat on the same bench she’d been using for the past fortnight and pretended to dote on her baby.

An older woman she’d seen before sat beside her. With deeply etched lines on her face, gran looked to be at least seventy and wore a hijab veil covering her head, but leaving her face exposed.

Olivia smiled pleasantly even though her mouth was hidden—smiling could be seen in the eyes as well. “Bon après-midi.”

“Good afternoon,” the woman replied in Arabic. “It is a pleasant day for a stroll.”

“Indeed.”

“You are new here.”

“Yes, my husband and I recently moved from London.”

“London? If only I could be so lucky to live there.”

“You do not like Lyon?”

“It is nice.”

“But you’d prefer England?” Olivia asked.

“I believe my sons would be more prosperous there.”

“Well, then I hope they one day have an opportunity to visit. Especially if they like the rain.”

The woman chuckled. “And you, do you prefer Lyon?”

“Mostly…” Olivia purposely made her voice trail off while she cast a forlorn glance to the pram.

The woman leaned in. “You do not sound convincing.”

Olivia’s heart fluttered for a mere second. Had she found an opportunity to delve deeper? “Right before my husband and I took possession of the shop, a kidnapping happened here in this very block.” She wrung her hands. “I worry about my daughter’s future here. She will not be a babe in arms forever.”

The old woman patted her hand, a wise expression filling her dark eyes. “You have nothing to fear, my dear. You are a daughter of Islam.”

Ooo.

Could she eke out more? “What are you saying?” she asked innocently.

“You must know you are of the pure faith. Only the infidel’s children are taken.”

Olivia’s stomach jumped, but she was too much of a pro to let any sign of shock show in her expression. She sighed for added effect. “I wish your words were true.”

“Oh, but they are.”

Before she wrapped her twitching fingers around gran’s neck, she had to push further. This old lady could be Taaha Khan’s grandmother. “Do you know about the disappearance of Mathilde Petit?” Olivia pointed. “She was a student right there.”

The woman slapped her hand through the air with a chuckle. “You ask too many questions. You must remember to respect your elders.”

“Forgive me. I meant no disrespect. I only have concern for my daughter.” Olivia ran her palm over her belly. “And my unborn.”

“Of course you do.” The woman patted Olivia’s hand, then shifted her gaze to the pram. “Your baby is always so quiet.”

Moving her fingers to the handle, Olivia prepared to push if necessary. “The babe falls asleep in the pram—otherwise she cries all afternoon.”

The woman leaned forward to peer beneath the sunshade. “Are you breastfeeding?”

“I am.” Olivia stood and nudged the pram away from the crone’s prying eyes. “If you will forgive me, I must return home. I have a leg of lamb to prepare.”

The woman waved with a nod.

It was all Olivia could do not to run to the flat and ring Asa. The old woman had practically admitted she knew about the kidnapping. And the audacity to say that Olivia had nothing to worry about was an admission she knew something about what happened to Mathilde. If only she could have pushed for more, but doing so definitely would have jeopardized the op.

Anxious to contact ICE in the privacy of the flat, Olivia pushed the pram about five blocks when a local man fell in step beside her. He stank of stale beer and made her hackles stand on end. “Your kind have no business here. You should go back to the Middle East and leave us alone.”

Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she lowered her head and sped her pace, trying to look authentic. Besides, such misogyny didn’t deserve a reply.

Unfortunately, the jerk followed. “Did you hear me?”

“Oui,” she replied.

“I ought to take you and your infant and chain the pair of you to a barge heading for the Mediterranean.”

She slowed, gripping the pram’s handlebar with white knuckles while a maelstrom brewed inside her chest. “What would you accomplish with such a mindless act of barbarism?” Olivia knew she was on the precipice of taking things too far, but she couldn’t abide prejudice or bullying in anyone no matter their nationality.

“I ought to—”

She stopped the pram and looked him in the eye. “What?”

He smirked. Moseying too close, he used his bulk to back her into an alleyway.

An abandoned alleyway.

“Please, sir.” She tried to fill her voice with fear, though all she heard was contempt. “I beg you to leave me alone.”

Olivia maintained complete control until he grabbed her shoulders and shoved her behind a dumpster.

In the blink of an eye, hot, searing ire shot up her spine.

Sweat broke out across her skin.

She inhaled so sharply, Olivia couldn’t release her breath. Her arms and hands tensed as her instincts readied her body for a fight.

This yahoo needs to be taught a lesson.

The lout reached for her niqab and tugged it away from her mouth. “Why are you hiding your face? I’ll wager you’ve been beaten before—I’ll bet a whore like you likes being roughed up.”

Her lightning strike of anger flared into rage.

Hot. Burning. Uncontrollable rage!

Olivia reacted with the speed of a viper. Reflexes honed by years of disciplined training kicked into overdrive. She snatched his wrist, applying pressure in exactly the right spot to cause excruciating pain. “You motherfucker, I asked you to leave me alone,” she hissed in English through her teeth.

Fear flashed through the man’s eyes as she drove him to his knees. “Bitch!”

A thread of sanity tickled the back of her mind. “If I release you, will you be on your way?”

“Fuck you!” Cringing, the man reached to his back pocket.

He has a weapon!

She twisted his wrist, adding more pressure, forcing him lower, watching his free arm, anticipating a strike.

The bastard resisted. He snarled like a caged devil. In one move, he swung at her face with a switchblade.

Olivia arched away as the knife hissed a fraction of an inch from her face. But not fast enough. As the blade nicked her shoulder, she caught his hand. Using his downward motion, she took charge of the handle and tore the switchblade from his grip.

He stumbled. Olivia took advantage, throwing an elbow to the man’s temple. The jerk dropped to his knees, but he hadn’t suffered enough. A grunt ripped from her throat as she issued a chop to the back of his neck, sending him face-first to the pavement.

She shoved her heel into the middle of his back. “I’d stay down if I were you, ’cause I’m just warming up.” She pocketed the switchblade. “Unless you want to be pussy-whipped by a badass woman in a niqab.”

***

Logan tried not to laugh when Olivia filled him in on her afternoon’s intel, especially the pussy-whipped part. But this was serious. She’d come too close to blowing her cover with the Frenchman. Though they both doubted the jerk would report he’d had the shit kicked out of him by a woman wearing an Islamic veil. Regardless, they decided it might be best if she changed her routine.

“I wanted to hurt him bad.” She pulled the niqab off her head. “I hate racists. I could have ripped his face off.”

Logan’s humor took a dive. “Did he touch you first?”

Her lips thinned.

“Did he?”

She nodded. “He tried to pull off my veil.”

“And then you snapped.” he said with a sternness he used when disciplining sailors.

“Shut up. That goddamned niqab is driving me mad.”

He pointed his finger at her sternum. “I don’t think it’s the veil.”

“You would have done the same if it had been you.” She slapped his hand down. “Except there would have been blood and a lot of it.”

She was probably right. But still, the twist of Logan’s gut told him Olivia hadn’t overcome her demons. She could still lose it at the wrong time. In fact, she could have blown the operation. “You going to be okay?”

Olivia snorted like his question was ridiculous. “I’m always okay, cowboy.” She coughed out an unconvincing laugh. “The old woman knew about Mathilde’s kidnapping. It’s like there’s an urban war on both sides here. The French are afraid of the Muslims and it instills hate in the hearts of everyone.”

“Just a minute.” Logan held up a finger. “Don’t forget Muhammed is a Muslim, and he represents the majority. There’s only a handful of fanatics who are giving the good guys a bad name.”

“And we need to nail them before I kill somebody.” Olivia unfastened the snap at her collar. “This thing is smothering me.” She yanked the abaya over her head and dropped it on the couch.

Logan took in a sharp breath. The woman wore a tight-fitting tank top and a pair of bike shorts. Olivia filled out a tank top like an Amazon. And, damn it, she posed a fine picture—smooth skin, wispy hair, looking as tempting sex on a platter. Until he saw the laceration on her shoulder.

“Jesus, you’re cut.” Thank God he had something other than boobs and beauty to focus on.

Olivia hissed. “I didn’t feel it until you said something.”

“I’m going to touch your elbow.”

She looked at him like he’d lost it, not her. “You think I can’t handle it if you grab my goddamned arm? Hello? You’ve touched me plenty.”

“I’m taking you into the bathroom to tend your wound.” Grumbling under his breath, he took her elbow gently and led her to the sink. “Got a first aid kit in the drawer.”

“You’re such a Boy Scout.”

“I am.” Before he thought, his fingers sunk into her slender waist as he picked her up and sat her on the counter. Their gazes met with a heart-stopping crackle of electricity, and she didn’t even flinch. Her tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth while they both stared, connected by the intensity of the unspoken passion ricocheting between them.

Logan forced himself to look away. Maybe he was wrong about her reaction to the French dude.

He busied himself by holding a cloth under the faucet. “I can’t believe the guy came at you with a switchblade.”

“After I dropped him with a pinch to his ulnar nerve.”

Logan wiped away the blood, only to make the cut start the bleeding again. “Paralyzed him with a Spock move, did you?” Grabbing a gauze bandage, he pressed it against the wound. “Hold this.”

She complied. “Do you think it needs stitches?”

“I’ve got some superglue. That’ll fix you up.” He had Olivia hold the gauze just beneath the wound as he applied antiseptic followed by a line of glue. Then he pinched the skin together, but not without getting his fingers soaked with blood. “You sure know how to make a mess.”

A low chuckle rumbled from her throat. “Sorry.”

He gave her a look then blew on the glue. “Once this sets, you’ll be good as new.”

“Like a shiny penny, my dad used to say.”

After testing to ensure the skin would hold together, Logan used another bit of sterile gauze to clean the blood away. “What happened to your parents?”

She blinked, her lips forming a white line, erecting a wall of instant awkwardness between them.

“Not to worry, you don’t need to tell me.” He applied more antiseptic, then taped a bandage in place. “The past is painful. My mother ran away with another man when I was still in diapers and my dad died of lung cancer two years ago.”

“And you inherited the ranch in Montana?”

“Yeah.” Logan busied himself with cleaning up. “It reminds me of the old man every time I visit home.”

Olivia sighed, her long breath filled with sad emotion. “I know what that’s like.” The woman held in too much, but he figured she’d open up about her past in her own good time, if she ever did.

He gave her thigh a pat, but his hand stayed put, unable to resist her warm skin, soft as velvet. “That ought to heal in a few days. Let me know if the glue tears and I’ll apply another coat.”

“Yes, Doc.” Logan started to pull his hand away, but she caught him by the wrist. “Thanks.”

A spike of heat shot through the tip of his cock. Jeez, he’d let his hand rest on her silky-smooth thigh one second too long. Olivia’s gaze dropped to his lips, telling him what she wanted. God knew he wanted it, too. There they were, posing as a married couple and abstaining. The past weeks had nearly killed him. Christ, living with a woman as sexy as Olivia Hamilton would kill just about any red-blooded sailor.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him between her legs. “I want you,” she whispered.

He tapped his forehead to hers, his cock standing at attention. “Me, too,” he managed to croak.

“But we’re working together.”

“Then Garth should have thought about that before he put us in a one-bedroom shoebox.” How much was a man supposed to bear before he cracked? He was already living a lie, smoking e-cigarettes and playing the lazy shopkeeper. Sooner or later he’d forget who he was. A SEAL, a decorated commander, and a goddamned, red-blooded American male. He didn’t need to think. His balls were on fire and a gorgeous blonde was staring at him with the most beautiful blue eyes on the planet. His heart raced like a jackhammer as he crushed his lips against hers and gave in to the wicked desire that had been torturing him since he’d rescued her from the yacht.

“Mm.” Olivia’s deep moan sent his mind into a maelstrom of desire as she pulled his hips flush with hers and met his kiss with a passion as fierce as his own.

She tasted like spring rain and smelled like heaven and hell wrapped in one irresistible package. He slid a hand up her waist until a soft breast filled his palm. With a deep groan of his own, he rubbed his thumb over her nipple—a hard, suckable pebble that stood proud only for him.

Trailing kisses down her neck, she sighed like a purring kitten. Oh, yeah, he kneaded her breasts, pushed them together, giving him a good eyeful of creamy flesh. He circled his tongue over the skin right above the tank top’s neckline.

Olivia threw her head back, thrusting her crotch flush against his aching cock. “Yes!”

He grabbed the hem of the shirt while both their phones buzzed and the ping from ICE on the computer blasted through the apartment.

They froze. Wide eyes met with alarm.

She dropped her head to his chest. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit.”

Hopping off the counter, she tugged his hand. “Come on. It sounds urgent.”

Chapter Eleven

“What the hell took you so long?” Garth barked from the screen.

Olivia rolled her eyes at Logan. It had taken them what? Five seconds to move from the bathroom to the living room.

Logan pointed his thumb her way. “Had a minor patch-up job.”

Garth leaned in closer, making his nose appear gargantuan. “Jesus Christ, by the size of the bandage, it looks like you were cleaved by a pickaxe. How in God’s name did you get that?”

“Seems the locals are taking out their fears on innocent Muslims,” Olivia said.

The CO scowled. “The world is full of morons.”

“I can’t disagree with you there, sir,” said Logan. “Sounded like you have something urgent?”

Thankfully, someone changed the subject. Olivia nodded. “Yeah. What’s up?”

The screen shifted to Asa. “The DNA results for the hairs are in.”

“You did nice work there,” said Garth, always getting a word in.

Asa smiled. “Interestingly, in addition to Mathilde, there were strands from two other girls.”

“Anything on who they are?” asked Logan.

The CO shook his finger. “We’re just getting to that.”

“They’re both French,” Asa continued in her clinical manner. “One’s from Mâcon and the other from Bourg-en-Bresse.”

Olivia spread her palms. “Why are we just finding out about this now?”

“No one tied these two disappearances with a terrorist so the news wasn’t sent up the wire.”

“It would have been nice to know,” said Olivia. “Are there suspected terrorists living in those two cities?”

Garth leaned too close to the camera again. “No organized septs in our intel, but there are unknown recruits everywhere. Christ, there could be a dozen recruits sitting dormant in Reykjavik.”

Clicking sounds came from Asa’s computer as her eyes swept back and forth. “There’s more. News just came in. There was a kidnapping in Munich, Germany. This says the suspect caught on the school’s security cam could have ties to ISIS.”

A full-body picture of a girl walking beside the suspect came on the screen. He had his arm around her shoulder and, if anything, they seemed rather chummy.

“She doesn’t look like she’s been kidnapped,” said Logan.

“The report says police are treating it as a kidnapping,” Asa explained. “Says the girl’s parents had never met the guy—didn’t even know he existed.”

“Shit.” Olivia pushed the heels of her hands into her temples and sat forward. “We need an army.” She went on to tell them about her conversation with the old woman in the park, careful not to expand on the altercation with the Frenchman. “Maybe I should hop a flight to Munich while the trail is hot?”

“Keep to the plan,” said Garth. “You’re just starting to chip the ice there and my hunch is you’re on to something with Hakim. Rodgers, report—what’s the latest?”

“I put the ball in his court. Gave him my David Mason card. Invited him to visit me at the shop, but he was a no-show this morning.”

“Find a way to weasel your way into his operation ASAP. Tell him whatever he wants to hear.”

Oliva thwacked Logan’s arm. “The fastest way is guns. I have first-hand experience with that.”

He arched his brow her way. “I already gave him the website. Told him I’d taken over where Khalil left off.”

“I know, but a guy like Hakim needs a carrot. Tell him you have a shipment of a hundred M4s with ammo you need to offload because the buyer didn’t come through. Give him a good price. You could even pour it on by telling him the reason you moved from the UK was because things were getting too hot for you there.”

“I need intel, Asa.” Logan drummed his fingers. “Where does this Hakim live? Exactly how far do his talons reach? Is he the thug I should be targeting? Where the hell is Taaha Kahn holding Mathilde Petit?”

“On it,” she said clicking away. “But you know Kahn’s dropped off the face of the earth.”

The screen shifted to Garth. “Focus on Hakim—we already know he’s an al-Umari loyalist. That means he’s trying to weasel his way to the top of the ISIS chain of command.”

Logan shifted his gaze to the CO. “Can we make good on our promises—look authentic and get our hands on the guns? Like now?”

“I can get you anything you need. Fast track inside. I’ll pull the necessary strings from here.”

A big grin spread across Logan’s lips. “I think I’m gonna like this.”

Olivia snorted, rolling her eyes. “The cowboy returns.”

***

By the following morning, Asa had sent Hakim’s address. Logan waited outside the suspect’s apartment building with two cups of coffee. When he appeared, the man didn’t recognize Logan at first, or else he tried to ignore him as he turned west and headed off at a fast walk.

Logan fell in step, holding out the paper cup. “You said you’d come by my shop.”

“Huh?” Hakim gave him a sideways glance. “You’re the idiot with the dead phone.”

When they came to a bus stop, Logan again offered the coffee. “Take it. It’s good.”

The man snorted his indifference but, this time, he accepted the offering. “Why are you following me?”

“After our chat on the wharf, I thought you might be the best person to handle my offer.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Logan turned his lips to the perp’s ear and lowered his voice. “Guns. Lots of American guns.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Oh?” Logan looked down the traffic-jammed street. The bus was stopped at a light two blocks away. “I have one hundred American M4s to offload. My sale fell through. If I’m not wrong, such an inventory would be of interest to you.”

Hakim grabbed a fistful of Logan’s shirt. “You don’t talk about shit like that on the street. What are you? A cop?”

“You didn’t look me up, did you?” Logan batted the man’s hand away and turned full circle. “There’s plenty of traffic noise. There’s no one close enough to hear me, and no one in Lyon has a clue who I am.”

“That includes me.”

“True, but I’m telling you about this deal first. Did you hear that? No one else in France has been given the gift I just placed at your feet.” A bus screeched to a stop in front of them. “Take it or leave it. I can find someone else—a friend of al-Umari.”

Hakim’s eyes grew so round they could have popped from their sockets. “Shut your mouth right now.”

“Look me up. Now that Khalil is gone, there isn’t a single dealer out there with access to the shit I can supply.” Logan stuffed another David Mason card in Hakim’s shirt pocket. “I’ll be at the shop until ten tonight. If you don’t come around, I’ll find another buyer.”

Game on.

Chapter Twelve

Logan didn’t expect Hakim to show before ten, which gave them a chance to prepare. He rigged a hidden camera in the shop’s back room. Olivia would be counting money out front by the till while she watched the meeting using an app on her phone.

Muhammed continued to work as the store attendant like everything was normal but, after five, Logan sent him home. The NATO operative might be a Muslim, but he was a local. Any number of jihadi supporters might know him—not as a NATO operative, but as a respectable and upstanding French citizen who wanted nothing to do with radical terrorists.

Logan tried to keep himself busy by using a clipboard to take inventory while Olivia sat in her niqab, counting and recounting the money in the till. Neither said a word. They both knew how important it was to the mission to hook Hakim. Without him, they had nothing but an old woman. And it was pretty damned evident there would be more kidnappings.

The idea made Logan sick. What they were doing with the girls, he didn’t want to know. His imagination was horrific enough.

He’d spent plenty of time working as a SEAL to witness the destruction caused by al Qaeda and ISIS both. A white Christian girl ought to wish for death before falling into their hands. He shuddered, blocking the horrific images of carnage from his mind. Olivia was right. They needed to move fast. At least fast enough to earn Hakim’s trust. If Logan blew this arms deal, he might as well go back to Iceland because no terrorist in Europe would trust him.

Ten o’clock came and went. At five past, Logan moved to the door to turn over the fermé sign just as Hakim pushed through with three thugs in his wake.

The man reminded Logan of a gang member in East LA—hands in pockets, carrying his chin high and wearing sunglasses at night. “My friend here tells me you have Muhammed Burke working for you.”

“I do.”

“He’s a friend of the infidel.”

Logan expected this question. “Don’t you think I know that? How would it look if I hired a true patriot to man the till? I’d have the DGSE breathing down my neck from day one.”

Hakim nodded to one of his thugs who opened his jacket, displaying a holstered Beretta. “You better not be fucking with me.”

Logan locked the door and pulled down the shade. “Come, we can talk in the back room.”

Olivia glanced up from her counting as the men passed.

“Who’s the woman?” one of the thugs asked.

Playing a jerk, Logan didn’t make formal introductions. “My wife, Oma. She converted me to Islam.”

“Can we trust her?” asked Hakim after the door closed.

“She’s in this as deep as me.”

“Good. True patriots remain loyal when they have blood on their hands.”

“Agreed.” Logan gestured to a round table with wooden chairs, making sure he was the last to take a seat. “Have you given my offer some thought?”

“Where are the goods?”

“Safe.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred a unit. A fraction of what they cost anywhere else.”

“Are they hot?”

“Do you care?”

Removing his shades, Hakim shifted in his seat. “If we do this, we’ll need to sample the wares.”

“That can be arranged.”

“All right.” Hakim leaned back and folded his arms. “Before then I’ll need your passport.”

“What? Isn’t your operation sophisticated enough to run a trace?” Logan leaned forward on his elbows. “Look, call my supplier. He’s an American. Lives in Cuba.”

“We’ll do that.”

Logan scratched a number on a piece of paper—a direct line to Garth who would pose as the supplier using a Cuban number at ICE. “Name’s Cobra.” He bit his tongue before he asked who Hakim worked for. Olivia had warned urgency and caution walked a fine line, and appearing too anxious to get chummy with the terrorist would expose him as a spy.

Hakim slid the paper into his pocket, then held out his hand. “Passport.”

Logan groaned as he moved to an old lockbox where he’d put the passport and some cash for show that afternoon. After retrieving it and giving the guys a good look at the stack of bills, he relocked the safe. He tossed his British passport on the table—the one with his picture and the name David Mason. “You lose that and I’ll never do business with you again.”

“You keep much money on site?” asked one of the thugs.

“You crazy?” Sliding back into his seat, Logan snorted. “We hold enough here to make change and that’s it. This place isn’t exactly a gold mine.”

Hakim slipped the passport into his jacket. “But it’s a good front for a gun runner.”

Logan grinned. Maybe he was getting somewhere.

Awkward silence filled the air as Logan watched Hakim’s eyes shift.

His gut clenched, but now wasn’t the time to upend the table and start a fight. Nonetheless, his instincts gave a warning.

The jihadist motioned to his goons. As soon as their hands began to move, Logan hopped to his feet. Three black Berettas trained on his heart. Raising his hands, he started backing to the door, with each step, his mind rifled through a dozen ways not to die. “Just a minute here. My guns are clean—serial numbers filed off—not traceable.”

Two of the men flanked him, their pistols held sideways like a couple of untrained thugs.

Planting his feet, Logan watched while Hakim and the third goon—a hulk about six-five and three-hundred-fifty pounds sauntered toward him. “Now hold on.”

Big fella seized Logan’s arm and wrenched him into a headlock while shoving his arm up his back.

“There’s no need to rough me up, mates,” Logan said while wrapping his fingers around his attacker’s wrist just in case things went too far. “If you’re not interested in my offer, walk away.”

Hakim sauntered forward with a smirk. “Listen well, my friend. If you cross me, I will sever your balls and stuff them down your throat. Then right before I slit her throat, I’ll fuck your wife while you watch. By the time I’m finished, you’ll be begging me to kill you. And if I’m feeling merciful, I’ll send you to hell with a bullet.”

Staring Hakim in the eye, Logan made his choice. He wasn’t a sack of shit, and any arms dealer wouldn’t roll over and allow himself to be bullied like a dog. Garth needed him to move in fast, but Logan also needed to earn respect. It was time to turn the heat up a notch. The only way to make Hakim realize he was serious was to take charge—put the fear of the devil in their hearts so they’d think twice about crossing him.

“Tell your men to back down. Now,” he seethed through clenched teeth.

Hakim’s face distorted with incredulity. “You dare make demands? I fucking hold your balls in my hands.”

“You are wrong.” Logan bent his knees, clamping his grip around the man’s wrist. It took a fraction of a second to unwind from the headlock and throw a kick into the big bastard’s groin. Spinning, he disarmed the two goons with upward strikes. Using the recoil, he slammed the butts of the pistols across each man’s cheek, dropping the thugs like a pair of rag dolls.

Hakim pulled a Beretta, shaking it at Logan’s chest.

“Do you really want to shoot?” Logan trained the pair of Berettas on each of the bastard’s eyeballs, his hands steady and assured. “’Cause I’m deadly at close range with or without these pieces of shit, and you can be damned sure you’ll die first.”

“Who are you, man?”

“An arms dealer who’s smart enough to know how to take down four men with guns. I offered you a sweet deal. I did not invite you to sever my balls and serve them on a platter. If you even think about making another move on me, I’ll kill you before you kill me. You can meet me in Les Marias—the vacant lot on Chemin du Rizan tomorrow at noon, or I can find another buyer. It’s up to you.”

Hakim beckoned his men. “Get up you pieces of shit, we’re finished here.” Then he gave Logan a heated stare. “If your passport doesn’t check out, you’re a dead man.”

“Oma!” Logan hollered. “Come in here and clean up this mess. Our guests are leaving.”

***

They stopped for food on the way back to the flat and once they were behind closed doors, Olivia allowed herself to laugh. She discarded her guise and tossed the garments on the couch, wearing a tank top and bike shorts like she always did. “You were cracking brilliant.”

Logan set the handled bag on the kitchen counter. “So I didn’t cock it up this time?”

“Nope.” She pulled a bottle of chardonnay out of the fridge, chuckling at the way his American accent made British slang sound quirky. “At least not yet.”

“You don’t think I overdid it?”

“No. In the two years I was on the Khalil case, anyone who didn’t assert himself was suspect. But still, tonight, it nearly killed me to sit at the till and listen to Hakim’s tripe, especially after that bit about severing your balls.”

Logan had the garlic chicken and baked camembert unwrapped and he pulled a pair of plates from the cupboard. “I have to say it was hard not to laugh. Hakim would be a convincing drill sergeant.”

“He’s a wanker of the highest order.”

Logan broke off a piece of chicken and held it to her lips. “You’re funny.”

Their gazes met as she bit down, the perfectly cooked meat melting in her mouth. “Mm.”

He glanced away and busied himself tearing pieces off the chicken while a blush spread across the back of his neck. “It’s good.” He ripped a big bite of leg meat with his teeth, making his lips shine with juice.

She watched him chew. Jeez, the man could make brushing his teeth look suggestive, but chewing and drinking wine? If only they were on holiday in the Galapagos, or anywhere other than on a mission. Shoving her thoughts from her mind, Olivia moved to a stool to put the breakfast bar between them.

Logan’s eyebrows pinched together and a furrow creased his forehead. “Do you think they’ll take the bait?”

She sipped her wine, savoring the crispness as it cleansed her palette. “I think they’ll follow through with the meeting. Whether Hakim will take it to the next level is a crap shoot.”

“I’d rather not worry about the gun sales and find out what they’re doing with the girls they’re kidnapping.”

“Me, too. But we have to take one thing at a time and going for the kill out of the starting gates would be a royal cock-up. You need patience.”

“Which I don’t have.”

“No time like the present to develop some. You ready to go in deeper?”

He meandered around the bar and sat in the stool next to hers. “If it means putting an end to the kidnappings, I’d sell my soul.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” she said into her glass before taking a long drink of wine.

Logan sipped his, too, then swirled the remainder. “It helps take the edge off, doesn’t it?”

She reached for the bottle and topped up their glasses. “As long as it doesn’t become a crutch.”

“It hasn’t?” he asked.

Under most circumstances, Olivia would take offense at such a probing question, but Logan’s affable inflection kept her ire at bay. “I rarely have more than two—four at most.”

“It would be a sacrilege to be in France among such good wine and not enjoy it.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

He flipped on his laptop and clicked the Pandora icon. “I think we need to relax a bit.”

“Music?” she asked.

“And more wine.” He held up his glass.

Olivia responded in kind. “Cheers.” She half-expected hard rock to blast from the speakers, but when a familiar tune by a British artist started, she leaned over and read the album cover. The Best of Rod Stewart. “You have some taste.”

“I thought you’d enjoy Rod the Mod.”

She chuckled. “And you’re educated.”

“Nah.” Logan shrugged. “Just a music buff.”

“All sorts or just British superstars?”

Logan leaned back on his stool and laced his fingers behind his head. Sexy as a kick-ass cowboy. “It’s easier to say what I don’t like—screaming. Any music where the vocalist continually screams at the top of his lungs shuts me down.”

“Okay, no Janice Joplin then?”

“I could agree with that.”

“You’re like an onion.” Her tongue slipped out the corner of her mouth while she examined him. Dark hair that couldn’t be tamed, ruggedly attractive. Eyes like an eagle.

He gave her a quizzical look. “Why’s that?”

“Because just when I think I can manage not to like you, you throw a spanner into the works and reveal something new—something unexpected.”

“What do you mean manage not to like me?” Logan shook his head while he reached over the counter and tore off another bite of chicken. “What’s not to like?”

If only Olivia could figure that out, her damned heart might stop leaping every time their eyes met. Instead of answering, she smoothed camembert over a baguette.

“What was it like?” She could feel his eyes on her, studying intently like he did everything. Logan was pragmatic. He examined and thought, and then he acted—not exactly what she expected from a hotshot who thought he didn’t have any patience.

“Hmm?” she asked, but she knew what he meant.

“Being undercover for so long.”

“I’m still trying to figure that out.” She clipped a bite with her teeth. “You dive in deep and it’s hard to find yourself when it’s over. Sometimes you start believing the lies. When you’re that close to someone, it’s hard not to be affected by their human side—until they do something so incredibly horrible you realize they have complete and utter disregard for any life except their own. That’s when it becomes hell on earth and it’s all you can do not to run.”

“It had to be hard.”

“It was fucked up beyond imagination.” She cradled her forehead in her hands. “The bad part is it screwed with my mind and, sometimes, I don’t know if I can ever be normal again.”

Logan moved behind her, his strong fingers sinking into the tight bands of muscle in her shoulders. “Know what I think?”

“Mm.” She rolled her head with his delicious massage. “What do you think, cowboy?”

“I think you’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever met,” he whispered in her ear. “And I know your beauty goes far deeper than skin. You care, and this is a tough world in which to give a damn. Know what’s more?”

“No.” His hands felt so good, yet Olivia couldn’t let go of the tension in her gut. She didn’t know herself anymore. It scared her not to be in the middle of an op, because she might have to take a good look at herself. What if she didn’t like what she saw?

“You’re in there. The little girl, the woman, the student, the spy. Everything you’ve ever been is in your heart, but it’s up to you to decide how much you’ll let people see.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to feel. “It’s easy to get hurt.”

“Too easy.” He used languid strokes to massage deep into the tissue. “But you know what’s harder?”

“What?”

“Pretending nothing fazes you eats away at your soul more than having out with it. I’ve seen it before. SEALs who pushed the bad stuff to the back of their minds and didn’t face their demons always had it worse—worse nightmares and worse crashes.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes things are best left in the dust.”

“As long as you’re honest with yourself.” A jazzy piano played the intro for The Way You Look Tonight. Logan pulled out Olivia’s stool and took her hand. “Want to dance?”

Her palm perspired as she chuckled. “We shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” He tugged.

Giving no answer, she followed, her head swimming just enough.

While he twirled her into his arms, Logan’s deep bass hummed the lazy music. But he didn’t grab her bum and sway side-to-side as she expected. The man knew his moves, slowly guiding her over the carpet in an easy swing dance.

“Again you surprise me.”

“What? Didn’t you think a crusty SEAL commander could dance?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, not all American sailors are full of vinegar.”

Olivia followed his lead as he spun her into his chest and back out again. “It’s funny the way we stereotype people.”

“Mm hmm.” The singing stopped and the music slowed. Logan lunged and she allowed him to tip her backward into a dip. “You’re a good dancer.”

She pointed her toe, extending her leg vertically. “I’m a girl. I’m supposed to be.”

“Ah.” He pulled her to standing. “The proverbial ‘girl’ stereotype.”

Her gaze shifted from his tempting eyes to his kissable lips as Have I Told You Lately started to play. She thought about turning off the music to mute the electric current flowing between them but, as he lowered his chin, the idea slipped her mind. And while he drew her into his arms, all she could think about was tasting him.

Their lips met with a flood of warmth. His tongue slid into her mouth like cream on a hot bun. The man could make her melt with a look, and now in his clutches, she was helpless to resist. Olivia slipped her hands around his waist and drew him flush against her breasts, her nipples crying for friction. Gradually, the gentle kiss grew urgent—impassioned beyond belief. Her heartbeat raced. His tongue plunged into her mouth with toe-curling, mind-numbing determination. Heaven help her, she’d been holed up with this man for weeks. She’d tried to turn off every feminine urge and focus on the job but, dammit, if ICE was worried about operatives having sex, then they should have made sure the flat had separate bedrooms with locking doors…outfitted with electric shock deterrent to boot.

She was a goddamned woman, not a robot. And the sizzling desire pulsing through her veins told her the man in her arms was as red-blooded as a male could get. Logan Rodgers was as hot for her as she was for him.

Hands groped everywhere while their lips remained fused with insatiable hunger. Olivia unbuttoned his shirt, then pulled away far enough to shove it from his shoulders. She smoothed her palms over his sculpted stomach. “Your abs are like steel.”

“Keep talking like that and we won’t make it to the bed.” He whipped her tank top over her head and snapped open her bra. Clothes flew off in a fervor.

Finally naked, Olivia crushed her body against his. His skin was warm to the touch and inviting, molding to her like a matched pair. Kissing again, she couldn’t get close enough as she rubbed her hips from side to side. “I need you in me.”

The rumble from his chuckle made shivers fire across her skin. “You want it hard and fast?”

“Yes!”

“Good, ’cause every day since you gave me the tour of ICE you’ve driven me to the ragged edge.” He lifted her into his arms as Olivia wrapped her legs around his back. The movement made his shaft slick and she rocked against him.

Her breathing came in sharp gasps. “Hurry!” With her next breath, her back hit the mattress. She scooted toward the headboard while Logan crawled over her looking like a panther tracking his prey.

He looked dangerous and powerful and…

Oh shit. Not again!

With Olivia’s next blink, horrors from the past two years came flooding back like a punch to the gut. Damn, damn, damn.

As she gasped, violent panic stopped her cold. Disgust gripped her mind. Jamal on top. Jamal riding her like a whore. Jamal’s sweat dripping on her face.

She threw out her palm and stopped the man from pushing between her legs. “I can’t.”

***

On his hands and knees, his cock ready to explode, Logan froze. His mouth gaped in disbelief. He looked into the most beautiful and tormented eyes he’d ever seen in his life. “You want to stop? Now?”

She scooted aside and drew her arms around her knees as if she were a child trying to hide. “It all comes back. As soon as you started moving over me, I felt like a victim.”

Logan rolled to his side and stared at her in disbelief. Jesus Christ. In a heartbeat, the woman had just gone from hotter than wheels on a racetrack to frigid as dry ice. She was FUBAR and on a goddamned mission.

She shot him a glance. Not the aloof, condescending look she often used, but her gaze was filled with fear. That single look changed everything. Helped him understand.

Sighing, he pulled a coverlet from the foot of the bed and draped it over her. “I’m glad I blew that bastard away. I hate what he did to you.”

She nodded.

After sitting against the headboard, he brushed Olivia’s hair away from her shoulder. The silk caressed his fingers so lightly it made his heart want to burst. Dammit, she might be trained to fight like a killer, but Olivia Hamilton was a woman, a beautiful and delicate woman. “Come here.” He patted the bed between his legs.

She shook her head. “No. I’m no good. I can’t pretend anymore.”

“You have my word I won’t try anything.” When she slumped forward, he pulled her into the space between his legs, working his fingers into the same knots he’d released earlier. They’d all come back with a vengeance. “Tell you what,” he whispered into her nape. “You call the shots from here out.”

She hid her face in her palms.

Rather than push for an answer, Logan worked from her shoulders, down her arms and out the tip of her fingers. He worked in silence while her muscles gradually relaxed—while the aura of tension radiating off her began to ebb. “May I do the rest of your back?” he asked.

“No.”

He lowered his hands, his heart sinking. They’d been right all along to keep things professional, or as professional as possible considering they were stuck in a one-bedroom apartment and he was sleeping on a couch with his feet dangling over the edge. A week on the couch had been enough. Hell, things were better on the Washington. He liked being in charge of his team leading missions—after the groundwork had been done. His forte was going in fast and getting out faster.

Things on this op were just too damned unpredictable.

With luck, this mission would crash and burn so he could go back to ICE. Maybe Garth would assign him to another team. Maybe he’d never work with Olivia again. Maybe he should walk away now. This entire setup had disaster written all over it, and there he sat, buck naked, massaging a woman’s back. A woman who was posing as his wife. A woman who couldn’t find it within herself to return his affection.

Chapter Thirteen

While Logan went to meet with Kadir Hakim carrying two sample M4s in the boot of a hire car, Olivia sat at the desk in the flat and stared at her Surface Pro, reviewing a plethora of data with Asa. Olivia wasn’t one to spend hours in front of a computer analyzing information. She preferred to observe and act.

“I’ve been monitoring internet chatter and I think I’ve found a pattern,” Asa explained from the box in the open window at the top right of the screen.

Olivia practically went cross-eyed while Asa scrolled through her report. “What are your key words?”

“I’ve translated the descriptors in Arabic, French, German and English: girls, infidel, virgins, rewards. For kicks I also added the names of the seven Islamic heavens.”

“Mm hmm,” Olivia replied, cogitating. “Many people shorten all seven to Jannah.” Her head throbbed as she puzzled at the lines of jumble on her screen. They appeared to make no sense whatsoever. Until… “Wait.” She looked up. “Logan’s recording of Hakim on the riverfront mentioned something about virgins and rewards.”

“Ja, that’s why I included those words in the mix. Good thing I did, because it helped me narrow down the intel. And it seems the chatter increases two days before a girl goes missing…I think.”

“You think?”

“It’s not an exact science.”

“Right. It sounds like you have bugger all.” Rubbing her temples, Olivia returned her attention to the data, noticing a spike in the consistency of chatter on June 19th—yesterday. “Stop scrolling.”

The data on the screen stilled with the words rewards and virgins intermixed in a jumble. Had Asa drawn the same conclusion? “When do you think they’ll strike again?”

“Soon.”

“Did you notice the increase yesterday?”

“Ja, but it could be a blip.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’m waiting on today’s results.”

That didn’t make sense. Once Asa put today’s activity through her meatgrinder it might be too late. That was the bloody problem with sitting in a room with a jumble of data rather than being out on the street. “Based on yesterday’s intel, can you make an educated guess as to where the next kidnapping will happen?”

“Ah…not sure, but…” The sound of clicking came across the wire.

“Just out with it.” Olivia groaned. “Tell me where in the world the data is most likely pointing.”

Asa cringed with a hiss. “It could be distorted because of the Music Festival.”

“At La Sucrière?”

“Uh huh, ja.” More clicking while Asa’s eyes focused. “There’s a concert for teens at two o’clock.”

Olivia glanced to her ICE watch while her adrenaline kicked in. She had an hour and she didn’t expect Logan back for at least three. There wasn’t enough time to hire another car. She moved her finger to the touch pad. “It looks like I’m heading for a teenybopper do. Ta, ta. I’ve got to run.”

A half-hour later, with her blonde hair in a high ponytail, wearing a pair of skinny jeans, a pink, scoop-necked top and a pair of three-inch heeled sandals, Olivia hid her face behind a scarf to ensure no one would see her as she exited the apartment complex and dashed into the passenger side of Muhammed’s Mini. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”

“You owe me. My kids were looking forward to a day at the pool.” It was Sunday and the shop was closed.

“Sorry, unfortunately bad guys work all hours.”

He put the car in gear. “Yeah, that’s why I’m here.”

Driving through Lyon took forever. They had to wait for three changes of a single light just to cross the Rhône. Worse, traffic was a disaster outside the ultra-modern La Sucrière performance center that had been converted from an old warehouse on the riverfront.

Olivia pointed. “Pull over there.”

“Can’t. See the police up ahead? They’ll ticket us before we get out of the car.”

“Dammit.” She panned her gaze across the snarl of cars that hadn’t moved in five minutes. “I’m getting out. I’ll see more if I pretend like I’m texting on the corner.”

“What should I do?”

“I’ll call you if I see anything. Park as close as you can.” She tossed the bag containing her Glock over her shoulder and wove her way to a lamppost where she had a good line of sight to the doors. But the square was a sea of teens, all boisterously converging inside the center. And as cars pulled to the curb, more kids swarmed inside.

Pretending to be waiting for friends, Olivia leaned against the post and pulled out her phone. She worked her thumbs in pretend texting while she searched for anyone who looked like he might be a jihadi stalker—not too difficult, given the average attendee age was about seventeen.

At least Olivia hoped it wouldn’t be too difficult. Every other male seemed to have dark hair and olive skin. She eyed a group of guys that were standing in a circle, joking around. They seemed a bit older, glancing over their shoulders, checking out every female who walked past. She kept an eye on them while scanning the crowd. They boys didn’t quite fit the MO, especially with the way they were drawing attention to themselves.

A group of girls moved past, all chattering like typical teens. One bumped into Olivia and dropped a cell phone. She was blonde, willowy and attractive and could pass for a teenaged model with pouty lips. Odd. The girl kept going as if nothing had happened. The cell she’d dropped looked like a track phone. Olivia picked it up, chasing after the teen and tapping her on the arm. “Hey—you dropped this.”

Blondie glanced over her shoulder, looking annoyed. Before taking it, she hesitated as if she wasn’t sure she wanted anyone to know she had a cheap phone. “Thanks,” she said, sounding none too grateful.

Within a half-hour, most of the crowd had filed inside, including the group of rowdy boys. Olivia abandoned her lamppost and clutched her bag to her shoulder and scanned up and down the street, pretending like she was searching for a friend. If there were any terrorists stalking about, they weren’t making themselves obvious.

She called Muhammed. “Where are you?”

“At the top of the parking garage.”

“Why the bloody top?”

“No other spots available.”

“Well, you might as well head down, this looks like a bust.”

“You mean I dashed my daughter’s day for nothing?”

“That’s life when you’re playing with the big boys.”

Just as she pushed the off button, the blonde girl who’d dropped her phone exited the building. She pulled a red scarf from the stairs’ handrail and continued to walk toward the curb.

Olivia turned her back, pretending to send a text. Obviously, the girl had been looking for a reason to leave her friends and go outside. A BMW raced around the corner and screeched to a halt at the curb. Miss Forgetful hopped into the passenger seat with an enormous grin spread across her face.

Olivia speed dialed Muhammed while she got a good look at the driver. Dark glasses, styled black hair, olive skin—looked like one of the thugs who had been with Hakim at the shop.

“Bonjour,” Muhammed’s voice came over the speaker.

Olivia broke into a run. “Game on dude! Drive like an ace. Meet you at the exit.”

She didn’t wait for a reply as the carpark echoed with the screech of rubber. At least Muhammed wasn’t afraid of driving balls-out.

Behind, the BMW headed south along the River Saône, which meant they had to be heading for the Hrant Dink Tunnel.

Muhammed skidded to a stop at the gate, tossing a €5 note at the attendant. “Vite!”

Olivia jumped into the passenger side as the boom raised. “Turn left and step on it. If we don’t catch them in the tunnel, where they’re headed will be a crapshoot.”

He threw the car in gear and peeled around the corner. “Hasn’t the concert started?”

“Yeah, but the girl came outside after the crowd cleared and hopped in the car as if she were meeting her boyfriend.”

Muhammed flew along Quai Rambaud like he was on the motorway. “How do you know she wasn’t?”

“Intuition.”

“What?”

She flicked her hand toward the road. “Just drive.”

Olivia could be wrong, but something was amiss…and there was the chatter. As she put together the pieces, too many things aligned. The girl, her reluctance to take the phone, then leaving the scarf. Not to mention the driver looked like one of Hakim’s thugs…and again, the chatter.

Ahead, a light changed to red. Muhammed slammed on the brakes.

“Are you insane? Run the goddamned light!” She tore off her sunglasses as the Mini sped on and entered the tunnel. “There they are!”

“Which one?”

Olivia couldn’t miss the LEDs. “The BMW. Right lane.”

Muhammed flicked on the blinker, the Mini jerking as he cut off a car to move over.

“Do you see them?” she asked. “They’re two cars ahead.”

“Oui,” he said. “They’re taking the turn to Pont Pasteur.”

“Don’t drive up alongside them. Stay a car or two behind.”

“You sure are bossy.”

“You got that right. If my intuition is spot on, the man driving that Beamer is one of Kadir Hakim’s cronies and if he realizes we’re following, his car has the muscle to leave this tin box in the dust.”

Muhammed patted the dash. “This old girl hasn’t failed me yet.” He drove like a fiend, weaving through traffic, speeding up to avoid red lights, all the while keeping the BMW in sight. It had to figure, the damned suspect car made each bloody light by a fraction of a second. Muhammed punched the gas to shoot through. A car turning left across the traffic slammed on its brakes and blasted their horn while flipping the bird.

Olivia returned the gesture in kind. “Sod off, you wanker!”

“They’re taking the onramp to the A43.”

“Keep after them. Maybe we’ll shake off this traffic. For the love of God, it’s Sunday. Aren’t people supposed to be home with their families?”

“It’s always busy in Lyon. Tourist season.” Muhammed clutched the wheel like a racecar driver pushing the gutless Mini to its limits.

Once they merged onto the motorway, the traffic eased as they approached the outskirts of town. After driving past the airport, the BMW signaled for the next exit. Muhammed followed at a distance until the perp turned into a block of flats.

“There.” Olivia pointed.

“I see it.” Muhammed signaled. “Have you got a plan?”

She slipped her hand into her bag and wrapped her fingers around the Glock then stuffed a pair of zip cuffs into her back pocket. “You grab the girl. I’m going after the perp.”

“I don’t think—”

She shot him a look. “Nab the goddamned girl, I said.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The BMW pulled into a space under cover of a carport.

“Stop here,” said Olivia, opening the door. Before the Mini completely stopped, she hopped out. Running forward, she reached the driver’s side of the BMW just as the perp stood. She trained her gun on his heart while she switched to French. “Get down on your face. Now!”

The suspect raised his hands, his lips curling at the corners, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. “What’s this about?”

“You tell me.” She snatched zip cuffs from her pocket while Muhammed dealt with the hysterical teenager on the other side of the Beamer. Olivia didn’t allow her gaze to flicker. The NATO operative could handle blondie—the girl was an accessory at best, but the man in front of her was of great interest, and most likely dangerous.

The perp backed up, shaking his hands. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“You should have thought about that before you picked up an underage girl,” Olivia said, hedging as she crept forward. Besides, her accusation made her look more like a cop.

She sensed the perp shift his eyes behind his shades. After taking two more steps back, he started to run.

Anticipating the flight, Olivia was faster. She launched herself forward, tackling him to the pavement. The man bucked up. Holding on, she straddled him and pressed the Glock to the base of his skull. “Don’t even twitch or I’ll pull the trigger.” She slipped a cuff around one wrist, yanking it tight. The man bucked again, trying to roll over. She jammed the muzzle of her gun harder. “Do that again and your blood will be oozing all over the pavement.”

He froze as Muhammed came around to give backup.

“Where’s the girl?” she asked in English while wrenching the perp’s other arm behind his back and securing it.

“Cuffed to the neck rest in the back of the car.”

“Good. Let’s get out of here before anyone sees us.”

“Are you police?” asked the suspect as Olivia pushed him into the back seat of the Mini.

“Yes,” Olivia replied. He didn’t need to know who they were or where they were from, and lying would shut him up.

“Fuck,” the bastard cursed under his breath. Little did he know he’d just made a declaration of guilt.

Chapter Fourteen

In the old quarry on the outskirts of Lyon, Logan stood back while Hakim fired the M4 at a rusty barrel, flanked by two of his cronies. Everything in Logan’s false background must have checked out because Hakim had returned the David Mason passport and started calling him “my friend”. Logan had memorized his cover backward and forward. He’d initially entered the world of ISIS as a minor supplier to Jamal Abdullah Khalil—proved himself as a loyalist. As a British subject, he was invaluable to the jihadi cause, but as he grew bolder, MI5 started watching him. After selling Jamal stinger missiles stolen from a US controlled warehouse in Jordan, the Brits turned up the heat. David Mason took his Muslim wife and moved to France—and he still had the missiles hidden in Pakistan.

When his phone vibrated, Logan pulled it out and ducked behind the rental car in an effort to muffle the repeating gun shots. The ID read Oma—Olivia’s alias. “Speak loud,” he said.

“We caught one of the kidnappers.”

“You what?” He’d left her at the apartment to enjoy a day of relaxation, or so he’d thought.

“Long story. We have the perp secured. A construction site on the corner of Rue Bichat and Rue Denuziere. Walk along the chain link fence to the back, then knock on the first door.”

Logan made a mental note of the address. “You got any dirt?”

The gunfire stopped.

“Not yet. You’re doing the interrogation.”

Logan gave a thumbs-up to Hakim who was changing magazines. “Great.”

“Is there a problem?” the Iraqi asked, pulling back the retractor.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” Logan turned and lowered his voice. “I’ll meet you there.”

Hakim proceeded to fire another round into the barrel. What he lacked in finesse, he made up for in zealousness as he held his finger on the trigger, drilling bullets until the barrel collapsed. He turned with an ugly grin. “If only that was a bastard American.”

Logan didn’t flinch, though a knot balled in his stomach. Not so long ago he’d been on the other end of an M4 carbine rifle, facing shitheads like Kadir Hakim. If only he could ask the bastard what they were doing with the girls they’d been kidnapping. But that would show his hand and buy him a ticket home. He’d be out of a job and on his ass. Besides, Olivia might have just cracked that problem wide open.

But if being a SEAL had taught him anything, it was to stay the course. And the phone call had been timed perfectly. Logan held up his phone. “That was another buyer.”

“Who?”

“Russians.”

Hakim looked over the top of his sunglasses. “I don’t do business with—”

“I’m in the business of selling guns,” Logan cut him off. “Like I said before, you’re my preferred buyer.”

“Then why are you meeting them? I heard what you said.”

“That’s only insurance. Look, I want on the inside track. I have some weapons of interest—was moving them through Khalil, but that deal got blown to shit. If you can get me in with your handler, I’ll cut ten grand off your price.”

“It’s not that easy, my friend.”

“It never is.”

“I don’t give a shit what you did for Khalil. If you want in through me, you’ll have to prove to me you’re willing to get blood on your hands.”

“What kind of blood?”

“One thing at a time, my friend. We’ll take your M4s in two shipments.” Hakim handed him a slip of paper. “We need delivery in three days.”

Logan looked at the address and swiped his fingers down his chin. “Three days is a stretch.”

“Where are you keeping them?”

“One thing at a time, my friend.” Logan waggled his brows. Two could play at Hakim’s game.

The Iraqi set the rifle on the table and wiped his hands. “If you can’t deliver, we’re not interested.”

“All right. Midnight on June 22nd.” Logan flicked the paper. “At this address? A warehouse?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be there to take the shipment?”

“My contacts in Syria will.”

“Who?”

“You ask too many questions. Midnight. Someone will meet your driver.” Hakim’s phone rang. “Once the shipment is made, we’ll talk again.”

Logan busied himself returning the guns to his trunk while Hakim answered. “What do you mean the car’s there? Where is he?”

Logan’s eye twitched at the agitation in Hakim’s voice. Then he waved to the goons and slid into his rental car. Yes, indeed. Logan had no doubt Olivia had caught herself a bad guy.

Let’s see if we can turn up the heat.

***

The blonde French girl’s name was Abella and Olivia kept her cuffed in the back of the Mini, parked in the alleyway behind the construction site. Thus far, the seventeen-year-old girl had been self-righteous, and all she’d divulged was her boyfriend’s name was Louis. A blatant alias. The man’s driver’s license read Maulama Uddin, which was more probable.

“How did you meet this guy?” Olivia asked.

Abella rolled her eyes. “Where everyone else does.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Find out for yourself.”

Olivia rubbed her fingers together, forcing herself to remain calm which did nothing to ease the knot forming between her shoulder blades. It was a whole lot easier to interrogate people she could slap. “Look, your boyfriend’s name is not Louis. Do you know how I found out?”

Abella shook her head, her eyes reflecting a hint of fear.

“His driver’s license says he’s Maulama Uddin, and know what he does for a living?”

“He works at the Banque de France. He told me. It’s on my Facebook Messenger.”

Now Olivia couldn’t help but roll her eyes. French teens were the most dedicated Facebook users in the world. “I’m going to say this once and, unless you want to be arrested, you’ll start cooperating.”

The girl shrank while her eyes shifted wildly. “You’re not the police. This is a Mini.”

“I’m far worse than the police—that I can admit with the utmost honesty. But I have no qualms with handing you over to the chief and telling him you are an accessory to international terrorism.”

“What?” Abella looked like she was ready to pee her pants. “I didn’t do anything bad. I just snuck away from a concert to go on a date so my parents wouldn’t find out.”

“Right. You were off on a date with Maulama Uddin, a known terrorist. He lied to you about his name, and I imagine he lied to you about far more than that.”

“He’s really a terrorist?”

“You’re catching on.” Olivia patted the gun she’d now holstered under her left arm. “Look, if you want to get out of this and back to your life, you’ll need to answer my questions.”

“Will you tell my parents?”

Ah, yes. The typical teen’s fear of parental intervention. Olivia would use it and anything else she could latch on to. “That depends on you. Cooperate and you might just make it out of here without bringing your parents in to save your ass.”

Abella gave a nod.

“How did Maulama approach you? Was it just on Facebook?”

“He friended me a couple months ago. Then he liked some of my posts, so I went to his page and thought he was pretty cool, so I commented on some of his posts.”

“Did he start messaging you right away?” That made Olivia’s skin crawl. Jihadi kidnappers were taking on the role of cyber predators. But what the hell were they doing with innocent girls and why weren’t they blowing up buildings? ISIS liked making big statements. Kidnapping European girls wasn’t their style…until now.

“He only messaged me when he asked for a date—made me think he was legitimate.”

“How many times have you seen him?”

“This was our first date.”

“Why didn’t he want to go to the concert?”

“He said he’s older…didn’t want to hang out with a bunch of immature teenagers.”

“Did you tell your parents about him?”

“Of course not. They would die if they knew I was seeing a twenty-six year old.”

“He’s thirty.”

“Huh?”

“That’s what it says on his driver’s license.” Olivia drummed her fingers. “Is that why you left the concert? You had to make an excuse that you forgot something?”

“Yes.”

“What would your friends do when you didn’t come back?”

“I told Marci I had a date. She knew.”

“Did you tell her his name is Louis?”

“Yes.”

“And he was taking you where?”

“We were supposed to go to the park for a picnic, but he said he forgot his blanket. He was taking me to his apartment to pick it up. That’s all!”

Olivia shook her head and looked out the window…taking her to his apartment to tie her up and God knew what else. “Well, this is your lucky day, Abella. I’m going to drive you home.”

A wave of relief washed over the teenager’s face. “Oh, God, thank you.”

“But let me make one thing perfectly clear: If you breathe one word of this to anyone, including Marci, the police will come down on you so fast, your head will spin. If you tell a single soul about our conversation, I will inform your parents and your teachers. Everyone in your neighborhood will know you are an accessory to international terrorism.”

Abella gulped. “No! You can’t do that. I didn’t do anything wrong. I swear I didn’t.”

By the time Olivia dropped Abella at her parent’s home, she was positive the girl wouldn’t dream of posing a threat to their investigation.

***

When Logan arrived at the construction site, the sun had dropped below the Basilique Notre-Dame de Fourvière, presiding atop the hill that overlooked Lyon’s rivers. In front of him, the construction site’s building had been partially demolished and was surrounded by a chain link fence. It appeared abandoned, as if the owner had run out of funds to complete the job.

Logan followed directions and slipped to the back of the site where an open lock swung from a chain on a gate. He pushed through and walked to a steel door and gave a firm knock.

Olivia opened, flashing a grin. “Hey, ace.”

“Looks like you’ve had quite a day.”

“I live for this stuff.” She pulled him into an empty room, her demeanor far peppier than it had been since they’d arrived in France.

Logan saw nothing but derelict walls spray painted with graffiti. “Where’s the perp?”

“Down the hall. Muhammed is with him.” She filled Logan in on the day’s events, making his deal with Hakim pale in comparison. “I’ve got the webcam set up along with a defibrillator.” It wasn’t a normal defib machine. Engineered by ICE, it was an interrogation nightmare, at least for the suspect.

Logan nodded. “Has Uddin told you anything yet?”

“No. He thinks he’s going to be rewarded for being a patriot.”

“All right. Let’s start out by the book.”

Olivia ran a hand down her ponytail. “It would be faster if we just zapped him.”

“Yeah, but regs are regs, no matter what government you work for.”

“We don’t work for a government.”

“That’s why we have Jon’s defib.” No western government would sanction its use. Logan checked his watch. “How long has he been restrained?”

“Just over an hour.”

“All right. Be ready to play rapid fire.”

“Roger that.”

Olivia led him to the interrogation room. With paint chipping off the wall and a layer of dust on the floor, it looked like the place hadn’t been used or cleaned in years. The perp sat duct taped to a chair facing a wall with his back to the boarded-up windows. Logan moved into Uddin’s line of sight and crossed his arms. Towering over the thug would automatically put Logan in a position of power.

Uddin looked up, his eyes flashing with recognition. “Bloody Mason?” He twisted his neck around and regarded Olivia. “What the hell is this?”

“I ask the questions,” Logan said. “You answer.”

“I’m not telling you shit.”

“No? Do you know what can happen to you here?”

“You can’t hurt me. Your government won’t allow it. You have to follow regulations.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. You see, I have no country.”

The man squirmed.

“Who are you working for?” Logan asked.

“You know who.”

“Hakim?”

“Yeah.”

“Who else?”

“Just Hakim.” The jerk snarled like a tough guy. “Who the fuck are you working for?”

Logan viciously slapped the arrogance off Uddin’s face, leaving a welt across his cheekbone. “Like I said, I’m asking the questions. Why are you kidnapping girls?”

“Fuck you.”

“Know what I think?”

Uddin pursed his lips like he didn’t plan on speaking again.

Logan slapped again, this one quick, debasing and hard. “I think you’re into kinky sex.”

The man didn’t say a word while blood trailed from the corner of his mouth.

After walking behind Uddin, Logan lowered his lips to the jihadist’s ear. “I think there’s a mob of you who like underage girls. You get your rocks off with child pornography.”

The back of Uddin’s neck turned red. “You don’t understand what we’re doing. Your kind are all the same. I told Hakim not to trust you.”

Logan signaled to Olivia. “Where are you holding the girls?”

“I—”

“Who else has access to them?” she snapped.

“No—”

Logan fired again, “What are you doing with their corpses after you murder them?”

“I’m not—”

“How many other girls have you met on Facebook and then kidnapped?” Olivia sniped.

“Abella is the only—”

“Where are the girls now?”

“Not in France.”

Logan looked at Olivia with the corner of his mouth twitching. At least they’d cracked the ice and he hadn’t even zapped him…yet. “All right. They’re not in France. Tell me where they are.”

“I don’t know.”

“Where do you think they are?” Logan asked.

“In paradise.”

“What was that?” asked Olivia. “Are they still alive?”

Uddin shrugged like he didn’t care.

Logan motioned to Muhammed to wheel over the defibrillator. “I don’t have all day, mate. I need to know where these girls are, who’s behind Hakim, and why the hell you’re kidnapping them.”

A flicker of fear flashed through Uddin’s eyes as he caught sight of the machine. “What is that?”

“Thought we’d add a spark to our conversation.” Logan rubbed the paddles together before cranking up the voltage. “I call this a time saver, but we can go around in circles for days if that’s what you want.” He gestured to Muhammed. “Open his shirt.”

Piss seeped through the crotch of Uddin’s pants. “No.” His voice filled with panic. “You can’t do this to me!”

“Wrong answer.” Logan zapped either side of Uddin’s chest with the paddles, holding them steady for the count of three. It wasn’t the amperage that usually killed, it was the length of exposure time. The terrorist shrieked as his eyes rolled to the back of his head, his body convulsing.

“What are you doing with the girls?” Logan asked before he pulled the paddles away.

“Fuck you.”

“How many have you taken?”

“None.”

Logan brandished the paddles. “How many?”

Uddin shook his head violently. “I told you! Abella was my first.”

“How many girls has Hakim been responsible for kidnapping?” asked Olivia.

Logan raised the paddles.

“Fuck!” Uddin flinched. “I don’t know.”

Grinding his teeth, Logan gave him a zap twice as long as the first, the bastard jerking wildly in his chair.

“Stoooop!” Uddin’s voice climbed through the octaves until he squealed.

Logan pulled the paddles away. “Tell me what I want to hear.”

Uddin’s head dropped forward as he panted. “I d-don’t know shit.”

“I don’t believe you.” Logan motioned to Muhammed with an upward thumb. Time to crank up the voltage. He jammed the paddles onto Uddin’s chest and let him fry.

The man’s legs kicked, his head jerking erratically.

“Where are they?” he shouted before he let up.

“I don’t know. I-I-I swear!”

Olivia bent down, inclining her lips to Uddin’s ear. “What do you know?” she screamed so loudly even Logan’s ears rang.

Uddin grimaced. “Al-Umari is building a harem of fair-haired virgins.”

Olivia straightened. Moving behind the thug, she covered her mouth with her hand, looking like she could deal a lethal blow to the base of the bastard’s skull.

Logan gave her a slow shake of his head, telling her to back off. But the bile churned in his gut. He knew nothing good could come of the kidnappings, but this? Sex slaves? To a mob of deranged radicals? The girls would be better off dead. “Where is this harem?”

“No one knows, not even Hakim. I swear it. Shit, I swear on my mother’s life.”

“How many girls?”

“I don’t know. I don’t. I don’t.”

Logan held up the paddles. “How many have been kidnapped in Lyon?”

Filled with terror, Uddin’s eyes shifted from Olivia to Logan. “I know of two, damn you!”

“Where is Taaha Khan?” she asked.

“He’s gone.”

Pushing a button, Logan made of show of rubbing the paddles together, a new trick that emitted a lot of sparks. “Where?”

“Left weeks ago. Haven’t heard from him since.”

“Is this al-Umari’s fantasy?” asked Olivia.

“Everything is for al-Umari.”

“Why is he building a harem of blondes?” Logan asked.

Uddin exhaled loudly as if resigned to spilling what he knew. “To reward his disciples for good deeds. Our leader is creating heaven on earth for the bravest soldiers.”

Revulsion crept down the outsides of Logan’s arms. He could barely gulp back a swallow. Every sailor who’d ever set foot in the war-torn Middle East knew what those animals did with western women. Barbaric didn’t come close to describing the savage torture those girls would endure.

Olivia’s face turned into a blank canvas, her blue eyes staring at Uddin with the same hatred Logan felt. “How do they know if the girls are virgins?”

The bastard actually laughed. “If there’s no blood on the sheets, they’re stoned…” He grinned, red blood in the cracks between his teeth. “…to death.”

Before Logan stopped her, Olivia spun, her leg hissing through the air as she landed a bone-crunching roundhouse across Uddin’s face.

Chapter Fifteen

Olivia burst through the door of the flat with Logan on her heels. “He’s building a goddamned harem.”

“I don’t even want to think about what al-Umari is doing with the girls after they’ve served their purpose.”

Olivia shuddered. The criminal gloated about broadcasting beheadings on the internet. He was capable of anything. “We need to get inside. To-freaking-day!”

As if on cue, both their phones vibrated—Garth of course.

“I’ll log in.” Logan typed his password on his laptop keyboard.

In no time, the CO regarded them with a hawkish gaze from beneath his thick eyebrows. “Holy hell.” He’d been watching from the webcam.

Olivia shouldered in beside Logan. “I have to be their next victim.”

“What?” Logan looked at her like she’d grown two heads. “You’re too old.” His eyes dropped to her crotch. “And you’re not—”

She thwacked his shoulder. “I can look like a teenager, especially if Dr. R can give me a filler here and there.”

Logan didn’t let up. “You’ve got to be out of your mind.”

“It makes sense,” said Garth.

Logan threw up his hands. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for Commander Hamilton to infiltrate a harem so soon after the Khalil op.”

Olivia could have decked him. “What the f—?”

Logan clicked the mute icon and pulled her away from the computer’s camera lens. “Dammit, I’ve kept my mouth shut about your PTSD because teammates don’t rat on each other, but you’re not offering to join a freaking pleasure cruise on the Mediterranean this time.”

“Don’t you think I know that? Those girls have to be scared shitless—if they’re alive.”

“You said it. Those girls are being used like whores by a mob of homicidal maniacs that make serial killers look like saints.”

She landed a punch in his shoulder. “That. Is. Exactly. Why I have to go in!” She stomped to the computer and turned the sound back on. “Sorry, sir.”

Garth’s eyes grew wide. “Is there something I need to know about, Commander?”

Logan shook his finger at the screen. “I think Olivia’s being too hasty h—”

Olivia stamped her foot. “No, sir! I’m ready. I’ve bloody well been waiting for my chance to go in deep, and the Boy Scout here is afraid I might get hurt.”

Logan gave her a heated stare. Olivia matched his fire. If he dared utter one word to Garth about her slip ups, she’d lay him flat. She never caved when she was deep inside an op. She only broke down when she was not in the midst of DEFCON 1.

“It’s not going to be easy. Hakim will be suspicious after the disappearance of Maulama Uddin.” Muhammed had made arrangements for Interpol to pick him up. Uddin would spend the next several years behind bars.

“Can you deliver his guns on time?” asked Logan.

“The shipment’s already on the way.” Garth pointed. “Rodgers, you need to stay close to Hakim. Keep your finger on the pulse.”

“Then I’ll have to pose as the next kidnapper. If Olivia is going in, I damned well better have her back.”

“Do you think you can make Hakim trust you enough to let you in that deep?”

Logan’s jaw tensed. “I’ll make sure he does.”

On the screen, Garth gave a pointed stare. “Without compromising the mission?”

“I won’t,” Logan said. “Once the gun delivery goes off, I’ll ask for more. He’s already told me I might have to get my hands dirty to earn his trust.”

Garth nodded. “We have two days to formulate an iron-clad plan. I want you both back at ICE in the morning. Over and out.”

Logan clicked off, then gave her a dead-eyed stare while they stood and scowled at each other. “Let’s just assume Dr. R can make you look seventeen and turn you back into a virgin. Before you say another word, please explain exactly how you’re planning to go into al-Umari’s harem and not freak out the first time someone lays a hand on you.”

“Back up, asshole. For your information, there is such a thing as hymen restoration, and if I put my hair up, I can practically pass for a teenager.”

“You’re too pretty to be seventeen.”

“I beg your pardon? Most models are still in their teens.”

“They’re not as pretty as you.”

She threw up her hands. “You just don’t think I can handle it.”

“That’s right I don’t. And you didn’t answer my question. How the hell are you going to control yourself from snapping and laying someone flat?”

“It’s different when I’m on an op.”

“How so?”

“I can detach.”

“And you couldn’t in the alleyway?”

“I can control that, too.”

“Too? And what about what happened with me? It’s a fucking harem. You’ll be going in as a sex toy.”

Olivia stood her ground, clenching her fists. “I said I can detach.”

“Just not with me.”

“Right.”

Logan slammed his fist into the couch. “Fuck!”

“That’s why I told you the first day it wasn’t wise for us to get too close.”

“Why?” Growing red in the face, his eyes bulged. “Because you can’t detach when you’re with me? You are one messed up filly.” He punched the couch again. “What do you think you’ll accomplish by going in? You’ll probably get yourself killed—or worse, they’ll torture you beyond all horrific imagination and they won’t let you die. They’ll keep you alive for their thrills.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She shoved him in the shoulder. “Don’t you see? There are young girls being held in some godforsaken place and they’re scared out of their minds. They’ve been taken from their homes and deposited into the worst hell on earth…all because they made friends with some jerk on Facebook.”

He grabbed her by the arms and held firm. “You’d better be damned sure what you’re doing.”

“I work best alone and undercover.”

“Yeah? Well I’ve spent enough time in the Middle East to know you won’t get out of this one without a crap-ton of help. You’ll be guarded by al-Umari’s goons twenty-four-seven and, this time, you won’t be sailing on a luxury yacht.”

Olivia gave a single nod while her throat burned. She hated the feelings swelling in her chest. What the hell was that about? Logan couldn’t mean more to her than anyone else in ICE. She couldn’t let him make her feel.

Until he crushed his lips to hers.

Olivia’s knees turned to butter as she shoved her fists between them.

But those big arms surrounded her. “I’m going to make you realize that someone cares for you so deeply, he’d take a bullet for you.”

Melting a little more, she slipped her hands to his waist. “You do?”

“Damn straight I do. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want you going in. It tears me apart to think of another man touching you, and you’d better believe it; if anyone hurts you I’ll hunt them down and make them wish they’d never been born.”

Her heart swelled as she watched him speak with conviction in his voice, determination written across his rugged features. Awestruck, she drew up a hand and cupped his cheek. Emotion spilled through her soul as he lowered his lips and kissed her again. Not a gentle peck, but an intense claiming of her mouth, so fervent, his lips rendered Olivia powerless to pull away.

Chapter Sixteen

Unbelievable. As soon as Logan had Olivia stripped down to her bra, Garth texted with instructions to meet a private jet in an hour. Then the only R & R they got was on the plane. After landing on the ICE airstrip, they proceeded directly to the sit room where Garth was waiting for a briefing.

Regardless of whether or not Logan liked using Olivia as a way to uncover the location of the harem, he’d do everything in his power to insure the success of the mission. It didn’t matter if he was angry. Or if he thought she was being reckless. Dammit, he’d come to like her…a little too much. The “too much” didn’t matter either. He’d have to block that part from his mind. And he’d have his partner’s back no matter what.

For hours, the team hashed through the details to pull a plan together, providing Logan could find a way to volunteer to be the next ISIS kidnapper. But he had a few ideas up his sleeve and after working well into the night, planning and moving assets around the black-lit map on the conference table, things were ready to roll.

Except Logan was going on thirty-six hours without sleep. To him, the best thing about being back at ICE was a bed where he could stretch out his legs. When the meeting broke, Logan headed for his bunk, stripped down to his boxers and dropped to the mattress flat on his back. If he never had to spend another night on the couch in Lyon, he’d be a happy man.

He closed his eyes and let his exhaustion seep in.

Not more than five minutes later, a soft knock came at the door. At least, it sounded like it could be a knock. Logan opened one eye and decided it was a better idea to pretend he hadn’t heard anything.

Then his watch buzzed with a text from Olivia:

You can’t possibly be asleep yet. Open the damned door.

Nothing like a love note from his work-spouse. Voice to text was too easy. Groaning, he rolled off the bed and cracked open the door.

Olivia’s lips parted and her tongue tapped the corner of her mouth while her gaze raked down his body.

“Miss my abs did you?” he asked with a cocky grin.

“Hmm.” Her gaze slipped back up and met his eyes while she raised a six pack of bottles. “Your favorite.” Fancy that, she wasn’t wearing a negligee. But the tank top and bike shorts hugging her curves gave him the same ball-buster reaction.

He stood back and ushered her in. “Since when did you start thinking about what I like?” As soon as the words slipped through his lips, he regretted them. She hadn’t been appointed to be his partner to make him happy.

“I think about what you like all the time.” She stopped in the middle of the room, her gaze again drifting down to his abs and then his boxers. With a quick inhale her lips parted as if she liked what she saw.

Logan combed his fingers through his hair. Being work-married had its issues. “Sorry. I’m tired.” He led her to the couch, casting aside his thoughts of slipping into a comatose and dreamless sleep.

Twisting off the tops, she opened two beers and handed one to him. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

He took the bottle. “Thanks. So, after ten minutes you missed me?”

“It was more like twenty.” He gave her a look and she shrugged. “I had to heist a six pack from the pub.”

Chuckling, he put his feet up on the coffee table and leaned back. He took a long drink. “Mm. That goes down good.”

She cozied up beside him like they’d been married for years. “Icelanders know how to brew.”

God, she looked like a million bucks. Clearing his throat, he tried for serious ground, “Are you ready for tomorrow’s surgery?”

“It’s nothing major. Dr. R said I’d only need a little local anesthetic.”

“And then back to Lyon?”

“As soon as he’s done.”

He wanted to shake her and insist she change her mind, but that would only cause more tension between them. “I still think you’re nuts.”

“Sorry.”

“What can I do to talk you out of it?”

“Nothing.” Her gaze trailed aside. “Those girls…”

“Yeah, and you’ve got to save the world.”

“Who else will?” She sat a bit taller. “It’s what I’ve trained to do all my life.”

Trying to forget, he lowered his feet and chugged his beer.

“Um…” She set her bottle on the table and stood, taking his hand. “There’s one thing I want to do before I…you know.”

He shifted his gaze to her face. Her pupils were so dilated, her eyes were almost black. Then her tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth. A surge of molten fire shot through his cock. God save him, she was sexy.

His eyebrow arched. “What’s on your mind?” He didn’t want to assume anything—not with Olivia.

A tempting pink tongue slipped across her bottom lip as she pulled him to his feet. He’d seen that look on her face before and he couldn’t resist it, no matter the consequences. Raw passion oozed from her pores as she tightened her grip and backed him into the bedroom.

Logan wanted to make love to her more than he’d wanted to do anything in his life, but what if she freaked out? It could destroy her confidence. Hanging on to a shred of sanity, he stopped moving his feet. “Ah… Commander, isn’t there a reg against this? Especially at ICE?”

“Probably. But I’ve never been one to completely follow the rules.”

On the other hand, it might give her a boatload of confidence if…

The back of his knees hit the mattress. With his next blink, she yanked down his boxers, then shoved him to his ass. He looked up, dying to put his hands on her, but ever so aware that anything he did might make her snap.

She glanced to his erection, but only for a second before she pointed. “On your stomach, Commander. I’m going to give you a massage.”

He spread his palms. “It’s really not—”

“Roll over!” she demanded indignantly with another sharp point of her fine-boned finger.

“Yes, ma’am.” He climbed up the bed and crunched a pillow under his chest.

Behind him, clothing rustled. He took a glimpse out of the corner of his eye. Off came the bike shorts, the lace panties, the tank and bra.

Perfection.

God, he was toast.

He’d been without a woman for so long, all she had to do was take a longer look at his cock and he’d explode. Come to think of it, right now all he needed was a couple of hip thrusts into the mattress and he’d come. He’d been on the brink of coming ever since they’d shacked up in Lyon. Now it was pure torture to have her completely naked and straddling his back.

Logan’s tension let up a smidge as soon as Olivia sank her lithe fingers into his shoulders. “Lordy, that feels like heaven,” he sighed in a low, satisfied growl. Logan’s eyes rolled to the back of his head while she took her time working out every kink. It was torture and ecstasy at the same time. Skillfully, with a great deal of strength in her fingers, she worked her way down to the tight bands of muscle over his kidneys.

Had he died and gone to heaven? “You could lull a grizzly with those fingers.”

“I’ve never heard that one before, cowboy,” she purred, sounding like sin.

Logan’s eyes opened wide when the heels of her hands kneaded into his glutes, making his erection stretch like a steel rod. He was so hard, it hurt. Should he stop her? Would she be able to go through with it? And what about the regs? He glanced over his shoulder. “Maybe you shouldn’t…you know.”

She narrowed her blue-eyed stare, grazing her teeth over her bottom lip. “I call the shots.”

His heartbeat sped. Screw the regs.

“Ah…yeah. That’s what I said, you’re in charge.” Did he have a chance? Christ, she was already straddling him. If he rolled over, all she’d have to do was raise up a smidge and he could slip inside.

He nearly lost it when she moved her fingers between his legs and tickled his balls. “Me on top?” she whispered.

“That would work,” he said hoarsely. Jesus, if she kept that up, he’d detonate.

But just like Olivia, she tortured him with those delicate fingers. “I need to be in control with you—because it’s not…ah…it’s not an act.”

Logan’s heart could have stopped beating and he wouldn’t have noticed. His mouth went completely dry. He couldn’t allow himself to think about the future, about what might happen tomorrow. He couldn’t allow himself to think about anything but having the sexiest blonde in his bed and sinking inside her, joining with her, soaring to the stars with her.

Now.

Her lips parted as she tugged on his shoulder and encouraged him to roll to his back. Then his entire body shuddered as she took him in her hands and stroked. “You’re so hot,” she said, her voice low and barely audible.

His gaze meandered to her breasts, to her sculpted waist, then fine pubic hair and the slender legs straddling him just below his cock. He swirled his hips and arched his back, giving her an eyeful of his hard-on. “Hot doesn’t come close,” he growled. Careful to be gentle, he ran his hands up and down her arms. “Do you want me?”

She nodded.

His breathing grew a little faster as he watched her eyes and slowly slid his finger inside her and stroked. “God, you’re wet.”

Gasping, she threw her head back and moved with the rhythm of his hand, the motion of her hips mesmerizing. He found her clit and used her slick moisture to take her higher. Take her to the place of no return. To give her what she wanted, what she needed. She was gorgeous, her breasts full and round, her hair clinging to a soft sheen of perspiration, her lips red and parted, her eyes dark and filled with desire. He watched, completely enchanted until she stilled his hand with a sharp inhale.

Saying nothing, the seductive expression on her face made it near impossible to lie still while she grasped his hips and rocked her wet core along his shaft. Their gazes connected and held as if their souls had bonded. Yet, he didn’t push. He let her take charge, afraid to do anything that might trigger another panic attack. All the while, he watched her grow more and more impassioned while she had her way with him in the most erotic experience of his life.

Rising to her knees, she shifted his cock to her entrance. A blast of warm heat made him groan. A grin curled on her lips as he watched her slowly slide down his length, taking him inside her. Awash with hot, slick, ribbed, mind-blowing woman, Logan forced himself to obey the command of her tempo.

She didn’t utter a word as she rocked her hips, watching his eyes and gripping his shoulders for dear life. He wanted it to be perfect for her, wanted the woman to rediscover how awesome making love could be. Logan watched and waited until her body shuddered and a cry caught in the back of her throat. Pushed to the limit of his endurance, he sank his fingers into her hips and thrust deep, burying himself inside her, fucking her, pumping his cock until stars flashed across his vision and a bellow ripped from his throat with his climax.

Only God knew how long it took each of them to catch their breath. And with his release, Logan swore he’d protect Olivia with his life. He’d endure torture for her, go anywhere for her, do anything for her.

She chuckled as she dropped forward and gazed into his eyes. “You don’t do anything half-assed, do you?”

“Who me?” He curled up and kissed her. “What fun would there be in that?”

***

Olivia closed her eyes and snuggled into Logan’s warmth. Yes, she’d allowed herself to feel, but only for tonight. They’d connected on a level she’d never before experienced. It was exhilarating. And terrifying. It was almost as if she needed him—or craved his affection. And she liked Logan a lot. She admired him. Liked looking at him. She’d grown comfortable having him close by every night. And now, she’d learned she particularly liked being in bed with him.

No surprises there. She’d spent long enough ogling his body in Lyon. It wasn’t as if she planned on heading for his suite and jumping his bones. But after she retired to her suite, knowing full well that tomorrow her hymen would be surgically repaired, well, that’s when the idea had sparked.

She just had to keep telling herself this could only be a one-night stand. And now that she’d overcome her lust, she could focus on the job.

Logan rubbed his hand along the outside of her arm and kissed her temple. She curled into him and rested her head on his chest, the steady beat of his heart against her ear. He kissed her again, his lips warm, leaving an imprint that lingered on her skin. Sighing, she swirled her fingers through his downy-soft chest hair. If only this moment could last for days. If only they could be a real couple. Never before had she felt so warm. So content.

With her next breath, Olivia’s hand immediately stilled while her heart rate sped.

I cannot allow myself to be content.

Logan must have noticed her tense up, because his fingers tightened around her shoulder. “Is everything all right?”

She drew her hand to her forehead. This was no time to become involved with anyone. She couldn’t lose her edge. And as her partner, he needed to understand her more than anyone did. It was time to come clean. “You wanted to know about my past.”

“Uh.” He stiffened a bit. “I did.”

Talking about it always brought back the pain. She rose to her elbow. “My parents were missionaries. My father was of old wealth, and used his money to support Christian ministry in Pakistan. Mum and Dad were both a bit eccentric, but they had good hearts.”

“Pakistan isn’t the best place for Christian outreach.”

“No, and that’s probably what attracted them to it most. Dad thought he could make a difference.”

Logan rubbed her arm, his touch soothing.

But she didn’t want to be soothed. “I was sixteen and we were at the market in Karachi.” She squeezed her eyes shut as the memories came flooding back. “Mum called to me, but I didn’t listen. I walked across the street to look at the merchant’s scarves. And then I didn’t notice the van pull up.”

Logan’s fingers stopped and gripped her elbow. “You don’t have to say any more.”

“But I do.” She met his gaze, blinking back tears. “I’ll never forget the blinding light when the bomb exploded.”

“Christ.”

“And I’ll never forget seeing my parents blown to bits. My mother’s arm landed in the street only a couple of meters from where I lay, thrown backward by the blast. When the dust cleared that was the first thing I saw.” Olivia sat up and hid her face in her palms, her insides shredding. But she had to keep it together. “I couldn’t even recognize their faces.”

He pulled her into his arms. “God, Olivia, I’m sorry.”

She shoved against his chest, holding in her instinct to throw a punch. “I don’t need your pity.”

“I know.” Dammit, he kept ahold of her and gently rocked.

“Don’t you see?” Her internal struggle wormed through her mind, the familiar feeling of despair clawing at her flesh. She didn’t deserve to be succored. She didn’t deserve compassion, love or solace. “I can’t stop until I’ve avenged them. I cannot allow myself to feel until that man is in his grave.”

“Al-Umari?”

“The fucking bastard.” Rage shot up her spine as Olivia broke from Logan’s arms and stood. Panting, she shook her fists. “Hate is an ugly cancer, but it controls me.” She stared at Logan with determination. “Do not think sex changes anything between us. I wanted to sleep with you, yes, but I have a life’s mission to accomplish and you will not stand in my way.”

A furrow creased his brow. “I know that.” He scooted to the edge of the bed and reached for her fist. “We’re not so different, you and me. We’re both predators.”

Her eyes flashed wide. Why the devil did Logan have to be so damned understanding? Did he always know the right thing to say? Olivia moved to the end of the bed and pulled on her knickers. “I just wanted you to know the reason why whatever it is between us cannot possibly become a thing.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His face was unreadable as he watched her dress. Even more unnerving, he didn’t speak again as she composed herself and headed back to her quarters.

Chapter Seventeen

Logan sat in Tawney’s office trying to look innocent. She’d asked him to pay a visit and now that he was there, she folded her hands on top of her desk, reminding him of his seventh grade history teacher. “I’m working on a plan to improve the initiation process.” She slid a piece of paper toward him. “These are instructions for filling out a questionnaire on the server. Would you mind participating?”

“Sure.”

“And how have you settled in? Do you think you’ll like working with ICE?”

Jeez, she’s speaking like I’m a CPA in an accounting firm, not a spy risking my neck every time I set foot outside. But Logan couldn’t think of a decent reason not to humor her. “Things are finer than frog’s hair, ma’am.”

“I take it that’s a good thing?”

“As long as I don’t have to spend too much time underground, I’m happy. It doesn’t take much.”

“You don’t like our facility?”

“I didn’t say that. It’s just I prefer open spaces, the sky, a good wind in my face…that kind of thing.”

“I suppose it differs quite a bit from the military.”

“Some,” he agreed. “But how…?” He stopped himself from asking. Damn, Olivia had messed with his mind last night.

“How?” Tawney pressed.

Logan batted his hand through the air. “It’s nothing.”

“No, what you have to say is important. We are striving to make ICE a place where our assets want to stay.”

Breathing out, he looked to the ceiling. How could he word it so he didn’t admit guilt? “In the Navy there are regulations about everything, like harassment and fraternization. Claims are dealt with strictly. There can be investigations. There’s JAG…ah…what happens here?”

Her expression filled with concern. “Is there something untoward going on between you and Commander Hamilton?”

“No, ma’am.”

“In that case, if there are issues, they should be brought to my attention straight away. Then Anders Lindgren and I will decide upon a course of action.”

Logan chewed the inside of his cheek. “Have there ever been married spies—or spies who are couples?”

She narrowed her gaze—she suspected something for sure. He should have kept his fat mouth shut.

“Of course, Commander, we frown on fraternization, but this isn’t the Navy,” she said, looking clinical. “At times, married couples make excellent teams in the field. Though we didn’t have a married couple to put in Lyon, I hope you were able to make the situation work with Olivia.”

“It has worked well for the most part. Not that it hasn’t been a challenge. Were you aware NATO gave us an apartment with one bedroom?”

Tawney’s eyes filled with alarm. “I was not.” Her voice sounded pretty darned alarmed, too. If Logan didn’t clear things up fast, she’d totally misunderstand.

He downplayed her misgivings with a shrug. “I took the couch.”

“That must have been uncomfortable for a man of your height.”

“I’ll say.”

“Yes, well, you should have said something as soon as you arrived.”

“I don’t make a habit of complaining, ma’am.” Besides, she’d called him into her office and then started asking questions, otherwise he mightn’t have ever mentioned it. He tapped the paper. “I’ll fill this out before I go back to Lyon.”

“Thank you.”

“But while I’m here, I have one more question.”

“Yes?”

“Who recommended me for this job?”

“Hmm.” Her gaze trailed sideways. “Anders goes through a rigorous screening process with Garth and me before a candidate is considered.” She picked up a pen and rolled it between her fingers. “But I think what tipped the scales in your favor was Commander Hamilton. She gave Garth a short list and your name was at the top.”

***

Logan didn’t know why Olivia had lied to him when they’d first met at ICE. Rather than being embarrassed that she’d recommended him, he figured her reason was probably because of what she’d shared last night. The woman’s driving motivation for revenge, including her guilt for her parents’ deaths, had obviously guided her every decision, or close enough. Her excess baggage had probably kept her from falling in love, too. Regardless of her intent, she hadn’t wanted him to know she liked him. But he didn’t dwell on the conundrum for too long. Given the same circumstances, he probably would have played it cool as well. Besides, after the disaster in the Gulf, they hadn’t exactly parted on friendly terms.

Logan wasn’t alone again with Olivia until they boarded the private jet to take them back to Lyon. He turned on her overhead light and lightly took her chin between his fingers and examined the damages.

“Is there any bruising?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why are you looking at me like that? Is something swollen? Did Dr. R use too much collagen?” She leaned back, making her chin slip from his grasp.

He shook his head. “You look too perfect.”

She blinked with a scoff. “I do not.”

Wearing her hair down, golden wisps framed her face. Forget teenager, she could have passed for an angel, and simply looking at her made Logan’s heart squeeze. There wasn’t a single crinkle at the corners of her eyes, her skin completely flawless. Even her eyebrows looked perfectly symmetrical. “I thought you were going to wear your hair in a ponytail,” he said, making sure she didn’t assume he was thinking about last night, or the 35,000 feet club. Jeez, she might even be sore from the bit of surgery she’d just had down below.

“I will. When the time comes.” She gave him a shove. “Stop looking at me like I’m some sort of monstrosity.”

“Sorry. You look stunning.”

“Right-o? I say it doesn’t count now you’ve ogled me to death.”

He batted his hand through the air. She’d pass for seventeen. She would have even without the extra collagen. The woman was hot and most seventeen year olds would promise their first born for a body as lithe and sexy as Olivia’s. Nope, no one needed to tell her she was beautiful. She was one of those women who knew she looked like dynamite. Regardless of her past, she’d probably opened a lot of doors by being stunning.

“Are you sore?” he asked.

She gingerly tapped the back of her head. “A little. What’s bothering me most is the chip just under the hairline.”

In the sit room they’d decided to insert a microchip homing device at the back of Olivia’s head just under the skin. When and if ISIS took her to their harem, there was no chance they’d allow her to carry any personal effects. The chip might end up being the only way to track her.

“The incision is a tad uncomfortable,” she said.

“At least we’ll know where you are.” Logan dropped back to his seat. “How long do you have to wait before you can…” He looked at her lap.

“Have sex?”

“Yeah.”

“The stitches will fade on their own. Dr. R said I should wait a couple of weeks to have sex, but it’s going to hurt just like the first time.”

“Jesus.” He clenched his fists. The whole virgin sacrifice thing was wrong on so many levels. “Hey, and no one said anything to me about waiting two weeks to approach Hakim.”

“We’re not waiting.”

Pursing his lips, he pushed his seat back and closed his eyes. But he was too tense. For the most part, he’d been able to detach from the rage roiling in his gut until they boarded the plane for Lyon. Now things were getting too real. Thinking about Olivia being a renewed virgin and having anyone other than him put his hands on her was eating him alive.

But he needed to get a grip. He should be thinking about how he was going to approach Hakim to volunteer to become the next kidnapper. If he seemed too anxious, the jihadi thug would see straight through him. But the slower he moved, the more likely another teen would be duped into friending some stalker on Facebook.

The thing that bothered Logan most?

Olivia’s involvement. If she was afraid, she hadn’t let on. She should be afraid. She should be terrified.

The mere thought of her going in so deep was disturbing. Yes, she could fight better than any woman he knew, but no one could stand up to a bullet or hundreds of more painful and torturous ways to die. And that wasn’t what had him on edge the most. The idea that some radical terrorist’s reward would be taking her virtue—rewarded for some heinous act like the car bombing that had killed her parents. The whole setup was too goddamned twisted.

If anyone laid a finger on Olivia, he’d blow them to hell.

Groaning, Logan ran a hand down his face. There wasn’t a thing to do in the Gulfstream except sleep, read and watch a movie, and not a one of those activities would help to allay the pent-up frustration roiling beneath his skin. He slammed his fist into the back of the seat in front of him.

“You all right there, cowboy?”

He stood and started pacing. “I’d be a hell of a lot better off if I were riding behind a herd of cattle. I’d take being a cowboy over this frustration any day.”

Olivia put her feet up. “No, you wouldn’t.”

He dropped and started doing pushups in the aisle.

She leaned over and watched. “You said it yourself. You’re a predator, just like me. You’re not going to rest until the girls are found, until those hostages are back with their families.”

“If they’re still alive.”

“You can’t think like that. You have to save the world, and if that means one kidnapped child at a time, that’s what you have to do.”

“Don’t you think I know?”

“The job comes before everything.”

Clenching his teeth, he pumped his arms faster. Damn it, the job didn’t come before her.

***

Olivia hardly believed the plane stayed aloft given the weight of the tension in the air. And it only grew worse when they landed in Lyon. She’d changed into the niqab on the flight, then followed Logan to pick up a hire car. He brooded and didn’t say a word as he drove back to the flat.

She never should have slept with him. Guys were too damned emotional, especially a nice guy like Logan. Olivia knew why he was angry and it had nothing to do with the tiny bit of collagen Dr. R had injected. It wasn’t that her hymen had been reinstated either.

He liked her too damned much.

She knew better than to get too close. The difference between them? Olivia knew how to block her emotions so it didn’t hurt too badly to jump off the deep end into another op. Logan had known the score all along. It wasn’t as though they were engaged to be married, so he could bloody well stop pouting.

As soon as he opened the door to the flat, Olivia’s hackles stood on end. Something was different. The smell was even different. She flipped on the light. “What the hell is that?”

“A new couch.” Logan pulled up the seat pad and grinned. “It’s a hide-a-bed. Tawney doesn’t dawdle around.”

“You met with Tawney?” A burning sensation spread through Olivia’s chest. The Director of Administration might be attractive, but she was at least ten years older than Logan.

He shrugged. “Actually, she asked to see me—wanted me to fill out a questionnaire about my initiation into ICE.”

Olivia tapped her foot. “And so she had a couch delivered?”

“Well, yeah. It’s taken an hour of yoga every morning just to straighten out the kinks.”

She chewed her bottom lip. “You should have told me you were uncomfortable.”

He gave her one of those looks that said he knew she was well aware that he’d been bloody miserable. But rather than whinge about it, he sat just as his phone rang—he had the Mission Impossible theme as his ringtone. Yeah, he was a cowboy through to the bone.

Logan looked at the caller ID. “It’s Hakim.”

“Right on cue.”

He answered, setting the phone to speaker. “Hello, my friend. Are your people satisfied with the delivery?”

Olivia slid onto the couch beside him.

“My people are content.”

“Do you have instructions for the next shipment?”

“Not so fast, my friend.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Remember what I said about proving your loyalty?”

“I do.”

“Meet me under the Pont de l’Université at nine tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll be there.” Logan punched the end-call button and shifted his gaze to Olivia. He didn’t smile, those teal-blue eyes drilling into her like judge and jury. “Ready for phase two?”

Chapter Eighteen

Kadir Hakim hung up the phone and lit a cigarette.

Across the table, his grandmother waved her hand in front of her face. “You shouldn’t smoke around an old woman.”

“You’ve lived this long and it hasn’t bothered you yet.”

She laughed while she reached across and patted his hand. “You’re just like your father.”

Hakim took another drag. He didn’t have many memories of his father who’d died a hero in Iraq fighting for Saddam.

“What are you planning to do now that Maulama has gone missing?” the sly old woman asked.

Smoke billowed from his nostrils while tension made his jaw twitch. “For all I know, the idiot disappeared with his Facebook girlfriend—wanted her for himself.”

“Do you think the DGSE is closing in?” Grandmother sat back and folded her hands. “I met a young mother in the park who was very worried about her daughter’s safety. Perhaps al-Umari should look elsewhere to fill his harem.”

“That isn’t up to us.” Kadir leaned forward and pushed the heels of his hands into his temples. “I’ve promised them another girl and if I don’t deliver, I’ll be punished.”

“I don’t think they’ll do more than threaten, especially if you give them a timeline for the next delivery. Are you running out of pigeons?”

“I’ve met one who will do. He’s not even from the old country.”

“Oh?”

“He’s dirty, though. Just sold a load of submachine guns to our brothers in Syria.” And Kadir had laughed for hours about his little deception. Everyone thought the guns had come straight from him. He’d given his handler a story about how he could find anything al-Umari wanted. He’d totally left Mason’s name out of it.

Grandmother grinned. “You do know how to find them, puppet.”

Kadir took another long draw on his cigarette. He’d already laid the groundwork for David Mason to eat out of the palm of his hand. The man had a dossier of illegal dealings that could bury him for life. Kadir doubted Mason was the dupe’s real name, but he didn’t care. He didn’t trust the Anglo and never would. But he could use him and his sources.

The man wanted to be recruited?

No problem.

He’d let Mason take the fall for the next kidnapping. And when that happened, Kadir would move in and take over his business. For years, he’d been looking for a way to earn recognition from al-Umari and the old country. And now he’d finally found his chance.

***

At nine a.m. sharp, Logan sat across the picnic table from Kadir Hakim. He didn’t care much for meeting in broad daylight and swept his gaze in a wide angle. Above, a man wearing a pair of sunglasses stood looking out over the Rhône. The guy looked like he was out for a casual morning stroll. But something seemed off, giving Logan a good ole twist to the gut.

Hakim didn’t seem perturbed at all—kinda odd behavior for the schmuck. In fact, the jihadi was rubbing his hands together. “Before we can take the next shipment, I need you to prove your loyalty.”

The corners of Logan’s mouth twitched. “If it will lead to bigger sales, I’m in. As long as I can keep a low profile. What do you need?”

“Make friends with a local blonde girl.”

“Huh?” Logan’s ’ol gut was doing handstands, but he pinched his brows, making an angry face. “I sell guns, mate.”

“Friend a girl on Facebook and set up a date. I’ll handle it from there.”

“That sounds kinky.”

“Find a teenager—someone who’s inexperienced, who’ll trust you.”

“On Facebook? Hell, that’s as public as it gets.”

“You know how to set up an account that can’t be traced?”

Logan smirked and batted a hand through the air. “I fly under the radar, mate. But I’m not putting my mug up there. No freaking way.”

“Do what you want—I just need a pretty blonde. I sense you’ve made contacts through social media before.”

“A time or two.” Logan narrowed his eyes. He wouldn’t be believable if he didn’t question. “What are we going to do with her once we’ve made friends? If you need a girlfriend so badly, I suggest—”

“Just find me a fucking teenager!” Hakim hissed. “I’ll give you two weeks. I need a blonde teenager in two weeks. And make sure she’s pretty.”

“So, what’s this about?” Logan pressed.

“It’s better if you didn’t know.”

“Wait a minute. I’m not a kidnapper. Why are you messing around with girls? That’s only going to bring on the heat.”

“That’s not your concern.”

He pushed back a little harder for added effect. “I don’t like it.”

Hakim’s eyes bugged. “What? Do you have a limp dick? I thought you wanted to sell guns to al-Umari.”

“I do.”

“Well, if you want to have any chance of selling one more of your stolen guns, you’ll find me a blonde. And make sure she has blue eyes.”

Logan drummed his fingers to buy time. Every fiber in his body told him to blow the mission. “You sure you don’t want that second delivery?” he hedged. “The goods are ready.”

“We’ll talk about that after you deliver the girl.”

He threw up his hands. “Have it your way, but I’ll build a smokescreen so rock solid, there’ll be no chance the trail will lead to me.”

“Just don’t implicate me, otherwise you’ll find yourself with your feet planted in a pot of cement at the bottom of the Rhône.”

Logan’s Adam’s apple bobbed with his pronounced gulp. “Once I’ve made a date, what next?”

“Instructions will be delivered to your shop.”

Sitting for a moment, Logan considered his options. He wouldn’t be convincing if he didn’t try another tact. “I have an opportunity to get my hands on stinger missiles.”

“Yeah?” Hakim’s gaze shifted. “Who’s your supplier? The guy in Cuba?”

Logan squinted—there was something sinister brewing and he didn’t like it. In fact, if he was a real arms dealer, he would have walked the first time Hakim had mentioned a teenager. “That, my friend, is not something I’m willing to disclose.”

“Then get me a girl.”

He left Hakim sitting on the picnic bench and headed back to the apartment. But he’d only walked a few blocks when the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Logan changed directions. Crossing the street enabled him to look back toward the bridge without appearing paranoid. Then his gut twisted.

The guy with the shades was following. He could be anyone. But by the way he carried his shoulders, Logan guessed he’d had military training. And he could think of a hundred reasons why guys wearing shades might be suspicious, especially with the dirt about David Mason circulating on the internet.

Instead of stopping at the apartment, Logan went to the shop.

“Hey, dude. Where have you been?” Muhammed asked from his station at the cash register.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Logan chuckled as he strode down the aisle. He stepped behind the counter. “I’m being followed. The problem is I don’t know by who. Could be a good guy or bad.”

The bell jingled when the door opened and the man stepped inside, taking off his shades.

Muhammed looked up. “I see what you mean,” he whispered.

The perp sauntered forward. Brown hair, caucasian, average height—looked to be in shape. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and flashed a badge. “Is there a place we can talk?”

Logan looked closer. DGSE Agent Roux. He threw his thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a table in the back room.”

“You’re keeping some pretty curious company.”

Logan shrugged. “My wife’s Islam.”

“That so?”

“Yes,” Logan said. “It hasn’t been easy for me to assimilate into the community.”

“For some reason, I think you’re having no problems whatsoever.” Roux took out his smartphone and brought up a photograph of their target practice outside of town. “One of my men took this picture. Do you have a Category One license to possess a semiautomatic?”

“I do.”

“May I see it?”

Logan pulled his gun permit out of his wallet and tossed it on the table. “What’s this about?”

“I think you know.” The man examined the license.

“Enlighten me.”

“Intel suggests you might not be a shop owner.”

Logan spread his palms. “Clearly the intel is mistaken.”

“You recently moved from London.”

“What has that got to do with anything?”

“Why France?”

“My wife has family in Lyon.”

“Hm.” The agent drummed his fingers on the table. “I wouldn’t continue to keep company with Kadir Hakim unless you want to be watched. It’s possible he has ties to ISIS.”

Logan drew a hand over his heart. “You must be mistaken. Kadir is a devout follower of Islam.”

“Right. And I’m Jesus.” Roux pushed back his chair and stood. “If you want to stay in France, I suggest you stick to your shop and keep your nose clean.”

“I always do.”

Now Logan had two tidbits of information to share with the team. He was being watched by French intelligence and terrorists expected him to deliver a blonde-haired, blue-eyed virgin in two weeks.

Chapter Nineteen

Over the following fortnight, Olivia got a sense of what it must be like to be in a bad marriage. When Logan wasn’t grilling her on hand-to-hand combat, he was either at the shop or asleep on his hide-a-bed. And if they weren’t talking about how to take down an attacker, he didn’t speak. He didn’t drink wine or beer—at least as far as she knew. He’d come home to sleep and that was about it.

Home. Olivia glanced around the closed-in walls. She could think of nothing worse than deciding to go in deep and then be kept waiting. This place is no home to me.

Last night, he’d shown her a typewritten note with no signature. As Hakim had promised, it had been delivered to the shop:

On July 8, drive to Nice. Make the trip a surprise for the girl. Book a reservation at Le Safari for 20:00. After the main course, excuse yourself and go to the men’s room.

There you will receive further instructions.

Olivia doubted that Taaha Khan was given such a runaround when he’d kidnapped Mathilde Petit. Hakim was being slippery with this one. Perhaps it was because Maulama Uddin had gone missing with the last attempt. Perhaps the jihadi thug didn’t trust Logan. It was probably a bit of both. Most likely, Hakim’s other men were friends and family he’d known most of his life…and David Mason had merely delivered on one arms shipment…and he was a British national. Two strikes against him.

Olivia only hoped there wasn’t anything more sinister in the mix.

It gave her a start when Logan walked in the door at six p.m.; early for his recent routine. He held up a paper bag with a handle. “Thought you might appreciate a good meal before tomorrow.”

“Like my last supper?”

“If that’s what you want to call it.” He grimaced, his eyes sad.

But whatever was in the bag smelled good. She peeked inside while smells of garlic and rich seasonings wafted around her. “What did you bring me?”

“Your favorite.”

Her mouth instantly watered. After spending so much time together, he would remember her favorite—almost like they were a real couple.

Logan pulled out two takeaway boxes. “Filet mignon with herbed garlic potatoes and asparagus.”

“Mm.”

Then he held up a white cardboard box that looked like it was from a bakery. “And if you can finish that, there’s marionberry pie.”

“Pie?” She arched her eyebrows. “Delicious, but I don’t recall saying tarts were my favorite.”

“That’s because it’s mine. Though you wouldn’t know that, would you?” His last remark was uttered with an edge to his voice. Worse, he was right. She didn’t know his favorite anything.

But this wasn’t a real relationship.

Ignoring him, she busied herself with putting two place settings on the breakfast bar. Why did she feel like a lout? They were about to move to the next phase of their mission. She should be electrified. “Would you like a glass of cabernet?”

“Why not?”

She put the bottle and the opener on the counter for him and smiled. Maybe she should try harder to show her appreciation. “I feel like I should light a candle.”

“Definite bad idea.” Logan popped the cork. “Our work-spouse relationship is about to end. We don’t want to risk turning the romance on again.”

Something in Olivia’s heart squeezed. Since returning to Lyon, she hadn’t thought about anything beyond the job. She’d trained herself not to look forward to anything, to focus on the here and now. But faced with the reality of heading into the lion’s den, the idea that she and Logan mightn’t be teamed up again made a lump swell in her throat.

What could she say? It was nice knowing you? I’ll see you on the other side…if I survive?

“Are you nervous?” he asked as they took their seats. He poured for her first.

“I wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, but I am a little.” Olivia transferred the food onto proper plates.

Together, they sat down to their last supper in private before they headed for Nice. She held up her glass. “Thank you for thinking of this.”

He tapped his glass to hers. “I needed to eat, too.”

The food was delicious, and they both ate in silence while silverware tapped stoneware. Once she’d finished her steak, she sipped her wine and studied the man sitting beside her. Olivia couldn’t just let herself be kidnapped tomorrow without making amends. Suddenly there was so much she wanted to say. “I wish we could…”

He held up his palm. “Don’t say it.”

She lowered her glass. “I really like you.”

He regarded her, his eyes intense and he wasn’t smiling. “Oh, yeah? But the job comes before everything though, doesn’t it?”

Her blasted heart squeezed even tighter. “I’ve told you why it must.”

“Don’t you think your parents would want you to be happy? When are you going to start living your life? Christ, one day you’ll wake up with bum knees and gray hair. You’ll be seventy years old and there’ll be no job.”

“Shut up.” Her hand shook as she plucked her wine glass from the counter. “I didn’t ask for us to be thrown together.”

“No, you didn’t.” He pursed his lips like he was holding something back.

She leaned forward with a challenge. “Might as well have out with it. I can tell you have something more to say.”

“You know I can’t bear the thought of anyone else touching you.”

She pounded her fist, making the plates jostle. “Damn your jealousy. Can’t you see what needs to be done?”

Glaring, he thrust his angry face into hers. “Is that what turns you on, Olivia? Screwing the enemy? You practically begged to be shipped into the Islamic State to act as their whore.”

Her eyes bugged wide with the rage steaming out the top of her head. Before she thought, she lashed out with a slap.

Logan caught her wrist midair.

Their gazes locked in battle of heated glares.

“You’re a bastard,” she sniped.

He shoved back his chair and stood. “I’ll cut the damned pie.”

She pushed past him, heading for the bedroom. “I don’t want any.”

After slamming the door, she threw herself onto the mattress.

The damned bastard! How dare he judge me?

Her heart raced, her skin burned as the world felt like it was crashing down around her. She didn’t have time in her life for emotions.

Damn, damn, damn!

This was exactly why Olivia preferred to work alone. How could she have been so irresponsible back at ICE? She’d resisted Logan Rodgers for months. And then in a moment of weakness, she allowed herself feelings. Her path did not provide for feelings. And damn him for questioning her. Her life did not concern him. There were at least four European girls who had been kidnapped and forced into human bondage by the evilest man on the planet. By God, if Olivia could save one of them she would risk everything.

She slammed her fist into the pillow with sharp, repeating jabs. What did Logan think he would accomplish with his peace offering? Did he think she’d change her mind? Did he think he could win her so he could control her?

All men are a-bloody-like.

***

Fire raged in his chest while Logan stood in the kitchen, knife in hand and ready to cut the pie. Muffled punches came from the bedroom. If there was one thing he’d learned about Olivia in the past two months in Lyon, it was that she was impossibly self-centered.

All beautiful women can’t help but be.

For the love of God, he’d told himself not to get involved with her from the moment he set eyes on her in the Gulf. And now his gut was twisted into a hundred knots and his heart felt like lead.

If only he could swap places with her. He’d relish the chance to go undercover in al-Umari’s camp and rain down havoc. But he wasn’t even a blonde, let alone a prima donna.

He’d planned on having a nice evening with Olivia. Sure, they were going to eat dinner in some fancy restaurant in Nice, but they’d be on the job. They’d be being watched. And after that, who knew when she’d see another steak, or even walk free.

She was willing to put her life on the line to take down an operation run by radicalized freaks. They couldn’t bomb the hell out the place because there most likely were hostages inside. They knew of five, but there could be more, if they were still alive. Moreover, no one knew where in the Middle East the harem was located. Sending Olivia in as a victim was the best chance they had to quickly take the operation down.

He still didn’t like it. The whole thing stank.

As an officer in the Navy, Logan had been trained to fight for his country, to fight for women and children and families. Yes, he’d worked with women before, but had never been pseudo-married to one. Maybe Olivia had him wound so tight around her pinky that he was no longer capable of rational thought.

For some stupid reason, he thought the woman might return his affection, especially now that he knew she’d recommended him to ICE. He was such a bull-brained idiot. Why couldn’t he recognize that she’d merely seen him as a good SEAL? A man who could run an op and think on the fly.

Olivia was right. Al-Umari needed to be taken down. The kidnappings must stop. If any of the girls were still alive, they needed to be rescued.

And if any spy in the world could worm her way inside, it was Olivia Hamilton. She could pass for a teen. She could pass for any damned thing she set her mind to.

The lead in his heart sank to his toes.

Logan set the knife on the counter and shifted his gaze to the bedroom door. She was in there fighting her demons. And he’d acted like an alpha asshole, bringing her an offering of good food and then letting his emotions boil to the surface.

Footsteps stomped from the bedroom.

She flung open the door and glared at him, her face red. “Why the hell aren’t you married?”

“Ah…” That wasn’t remotely close to what he expected to come out of her mouth.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean. Guys like you get married.”

“Like me?”

She marched forward and jammed her finger into his sternum. “Yes. Like you—guys who are thoughtful, who remember things like a girl’s favorite meal. Guys who are fit and cracking hot, and own ranches in Montana. Guys who look like a million quid in a uniform.”

Logan gulped back a grin. Maybe she did like him. “I guess I’ve never been home long enough to find the right girl.”

“Oh, please, don’t feed me a line of tripe. Navy men get married all the time.”

Logan nodded. He had plenty of friends who were married.

“Hasn’t there been anyone special in your life?” She shook her finger under his nose. “And don’t you dare lie to me.”

There was no reason to lie. “I’ve had my share of girlfriends. Just never met anyone who I thought would make me happy for the rest of my life.” He spread his palms. “Besides, it’s not easy for a girl to wait for nine months while her boyfriend is on maneuvers halfway around the globe.”

“Ah ha! You have been in love.”

His eyebrows drew together. “What’s this about?”

“I’m bloody trying to figure you out.” She flung her arms in a circle, casting her gaze from wall to wall. “This. Is. Not. Real.”

Logan took a step toward her. “You’re right.”

“That’s the problem with our line of work. Assets are thrown into situations where they’re forced to live a lie.”

Her words cut, but he nodded. She’d sure proved an ace at the living a lie part of the job. “It’s hard not to go in too deep. Not to get caught up,” he said.

“It is.”

“But you and I. We’re on the same team.”

She gave a nod, though her eyes filled with pain.

“Didn’t you feel anything?” he asked, not sure if he wanted to hear her answer. “When we…”

“God.” With a tsk of her tongue, she crossed her arms over her ribcage and averted her gaze. “Of bloody course I felt something. Isn’t that why we’ve been at odds?”

Heavy weight lifted from his shoulders as he closed the distance and pulled her into his arms. “Do you know what the SEAL motto is?”

She shook her head.

“The only easy day was yesterday.” Squeezing his eyes shut, he buried his nose in her hair. “And I live by that creed.”

Her sharp inhale made his skin tingle. “I-I suppose I do as well.”

He cupped her face between his palms. “This whole mess is tearing me apart. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to try to stop you. We both know it’s an ugly job that must be done. And we’re the ones to do it because we are the sheep dogs.”

She chuckled. “Dogs?”

“That’s right. When everyone else is running away…when the herd is running from the wolves, we face them down, charging into battle, and we fight. Our job is to keep the flock safe at all costs.”

She regarded him while her tongue slipped over the bottom of her lip. Her eyebrow arched up as if thinking. “But what you said about being a whore…”

“Words of a jealous man, spoken in malice.” He brushed a lock of her hair away from her face. “Please forgive me. If I could take them back I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Finally, Olivia slid her hands around his waist. “You’re a good man.”

“I try to be.”

“You’re too good for me.”

“Sh.” His heart ripping from his chest, he clung to her as if it were life and death.

She strengthened her grip as well. “Will you promise me something?”

“If I can.”

“If those bastards chop off my head, promise you’ll blow them all away.”

“You got it. And I won’t stop until al-Umari is six feet under.” He cupped her cheek with his palm, too many emotions firing under his skin. “But I’m not going to let them hurt you.”

Her lashes fluttered as she watched his lips lowering to meet hers. And then the warm pressure of her mouth imparted more emotion than she’d ever uttered. The woman was full of passion, yet she refused to give in to her heart, and he adored her for her strength. No matter if it killed him, he adored her. Languid, sweet and possessive, their kiss lingered while they imparted feelings neither could own to.

Chapter Twenty

Their table at Le Safari overlooked the French Riviera. Picture perfect with lingering daylight, Logan might have enjoyed the evening if they weren’t on a mission. But they ordered and made small talk while tension swelled in the air between them. He didn’t like going into a mission without a plan. Sure, he could run an op in complete darkness, but he always had a plan. This time, the bad guys were calling the shots and Logan aimed to rectify that ASAP.

Tonight, he packed his Glock in a holster under his arm and wore a Kevlar vest. If Olivia was going in deep, he was her best chance at coming out the other side alive.

Across the table, she played her part like a pro. The woman was made for undercover work. She wore her hair down and straight, framing her face with blonde wisps. She alternated between pushing her food around the plate and texting with her phone, giggling often. She smiled at him as if she weren’t about to step over the threshold of international terrorism. Next, she twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “I can’t believe you drove me all the way down here just for dinner,” she said in French.

“You’re a beautiful girl, and beautiful women deserve nice things.”

“Thank you.” She giggled.

He sipped a cappuccino. No wine tonight, and coffee would ensure he kept his edge later when it counted.

They stared at each other across the table, a candle flickering and making her face surreal. They’d already made their peace, and anything endearing they might say in this public place would only put the op in jeopardy.

He glanced down at his empty plate. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

She gave an eager nod, picking up her phone like she was going to change her status on Facebook from “single” to “in a relationship”.

Logan pushed open the door to the men’s room and swept his gaze across the space before stepping inside. One man was using a urinal while a pair of legs with black shoes showed below a metal stall.

He moved to the mirror and ran a comb through his hair while the man from the urinal zipped, washed his hands and left. Needing to relive himself, Logan moved to the urinal while keeping an eye on the stall in the mirror.

A man of Middle Eastern descent opened the door. Without a single glance toward Logan, he pulled an envelope out of the breast pocket of his suit and set it on the counter, then he left. Logan quickly washed his hands then read the instructions:

Prote de Villefranche-sur-Mer

Third pier.

Last boat.

2200

Failure will result in death.

Stuffing the note in his pants’ pocket, he let out a long breath. No matter how much he wanted to change places with Olivia, his hands were tied. Though she was difficult and hard as nails, he cared for her more deeply than he wanted to admit. If only there were something he could do to take down al-Umari’s harem without sending in an asset, he’d gladly pay a visit with a truckload of C4.

But the only easy day was yesterday.

When he pushed through the door, Olivia looked up from her phone. She smiled like there was cotton candy between her ears. Yeah, she was born for this type of op. But Logan? He was born to be stealthy, slip in, set a bomb and kaboom.

He threw some euros on the table and beckoned her with a nod of his head. “Let’s take a drive to the marina. I hear the submarines are putting on quite a show.”

The man who’d left the note was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t mean they weren’t being watched. In fact, Logan could put money on it.

It wasn’t until he revved the engine of his rental car that he shared the contents of the note.

“Let’s roll, then.” Olivia was a diamond—strong and gorgeous. She dialed Garth on her ICE phone, scrambled and untraceable. “Delivery’s at Prote de Villefranche-sur-Mer.”

Logan raised his voice to be heard. “Can you get me on a craft?”

“Working on it now. All eyes on you.”

Logan looked at the night sky. Lightning illuminated clouds rolling in from the west. He’d have better luck if he could stay on the ISIS boat or if he could get his hands on something non-threatening like a fishing trawler.

Funny, he would have enjoyed the drive though Nice if it weren’t for the op about to go down.

***

Olivia ran through a mental checklist. Name: Olivia White. From London. The team at ICE had decided it was better for her to play the part of an English girl on holiday in France. As far as they knew, there hadn’t been any English girls kidnapped, and if Olivia went in with a French alias, one of the victims might figure out that she wasn’t from Lyon. Given that they didn’t know what she’d be walking into, they’d all agreed on the English alias together with a complete dossier and fake ID.

Logan sped through the winding backstreets. He focused on the road with tension in his jaw.

A splatter of rain hit the windscreen while a gust of wind made the car shimmy. Leaning forward, Olivia peered at the sky. “Looks like a squall.”

“Maybe we should abort.”

She gave him a look. “Are you off your trolley? We’re too damned close and if we blow it now, we mightn’t have another chance.”

The wheels peeled as he took a corner too fast.

She glanced at the time on her track phone. “Slow down. We have a half-hour.”

He glanced up, looking at the sky. “By the time we reach the marina, satellite tracking will be toast.”

“That’s why I have a microchip at the back of my skull.”

“I’m going to try to stay with you.”

“That would be nice, love, but don’t push it. You could get us both shot. I don’t have to tell you al-Umari’s men are trigger happy.”

“I’ve seen plenty of their handiwork.” The car sped up again. “And that’s why I don’t want you going inside. It was one thing to be on the fringe with Khalil, but now you’re going to be in the center of the heat.”

“As far as we know.”

“They don’t care about human life.”

A shot of fear pumped through her veins. Blinking, Olivia quickly dispelled it. “I know.”

The car started down a zigzag hill, the Mediterranean spreading in front of them like a black abyss. Logan turned on the wipers as the clouds opened with a deluge.

They proceeded slowly along the waterfront until Logan pulled into a car park near the marina entrance. He cut the engine. “I know I don’t need to say this, but don’t try to put on any heroics. As soon as we know your location, we’ll be on them like flies on shit.”

“You sound like you’re talking to a mob of Navy SEALs.”

“Yes, ma’am. It worked for me for ten years and now’s no time to change.”

She reached across the console and grasped his arm. “For what it’s worth, I like knowing you have my back.” If only she could kiss him—show him how much he meant to her. But that would be a grave mistake.

“You ready to roll?” he asked.

“Right-o. You’re showing me your yacht and I’m having a smashing time. Love the rain. After all, I’m a Londoner.”

“Roger that.” Logan looked at his watch. “Might as well head to the end of the pier.” When Olivia opened the door, he stopped her. “See you on the other side after we’ve taken them down.”

“You’ve got it, cowboy.”

Arm in arm, they hastened through the marina. Not a soul was out—good for the bad guys. They turned up the third pier. The rain made the footing slippery, but they laughed like a pair of lovebirds pretending not to notice.

As they approached, Olivia got a good look at the boat. She’d known it wouldn’t be a yacht like Khalil’s had been. But this thing could hardly be seaworthy. It was a rickety trawler that looked like it might have been in use since the 70s. A light flickered behind the glass of the wheelhouse while shadows passed across the pane. The low rumble of the motor cut through the patter of the rain.

They both grew silent.

A streak of lightning lit up the craft.

“That heap of plywood hardly looks like its fit to sail,” Logan grumbled under his breath.

“And you’re not supposed to care,” she whispered.

As they approached, the hairs on the back of Olivia’s neck stood on end. She didn’t know where the perps were hiding, but they were being watched for certain.

Beside her, Logan tensed, too.

“Which boat’s yours?” Olivia asked, trying to sound younger.

“Up ahead,” Logan said brusquely.

Before they reached the trawler, metal clicked.

They both knew the sound of a bullet entering a gun’s chamber.

Logan pulled her behind him.

“What are you doing?” Olivia shouted, playing her part.

Four gunmen stepped from the shadows. “Stop right there,” said a fifth, coming from behind.

Olivia screamed and grasped Logan’s arm.

“Why all the guns?” Logan asked, spreading his palms. “We could have climbed aboard without an armed escort.”

“You know these men?” Olivia shrieked, filling her voice with fear though ready to kick the AK47 from the nearest thug’s hands.

Logan took her hand and pulled her forward. “I don’t want her hurt.”

One of the men stepped in and grabbed Olivia by the hair.

Her hands flew to her crown. “Help!”

Another goon snatched the purse from her shoulder.

“David!”

“Shut up,” said the gunman from behind while another bound her wrists with zip cuffs.

“David, help me!” she shrieked while they hustled her aboard by the hair.

“There’s no need to be barbaric,” Logan bellowed.

A gunman jabbed him in the stomach with the butt of his rifle. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

Olivia escaped from the man pulling her hair, giving her a second to turn and lean over the boat’s rail. “David! Don’t leave me here!”

Clutching his gut, Logan shuffled toward the trawler. “Let me come aboard, mate. I can help.”

“We don’t want a damned thing from you.” The goon aimed his AK47 at Logan’s skull. “And you’re no longer needed.”

The gun clicked as the man pulled on the charging handle.

Logan’s eyes flashed.

“No!” Olivia shrieked.

Short blasts of gunfire emitted blinding flashes as Logan disappeared into the water behind the neighboring boat.

She leaned further over the rail frantically searching for any sign of him, but the water was inky black. “David!”

The sky opened with a downpour as a thug smacked her in the back with his gun. “Move it.”

Instantly drenched, Olivia’s teeth chattered with the cold. Dammit, why did Logan try to board? That wasn’t part of the plan. Shit! Before they led her down the steps, she scanned the inky surf for any sign of Logan…and any sign of blood.

Chapter Twenty-One

Logan’s brain registered a flash from the gun’s muzzle. But his instincts had already kicked into hyper drive. As he dove into the sea, a bullet grazed the outside of his arm. Hopped up on adrenaline, he barely noticed the sting. No way he’d let a flesh wound slow him down. Not while those murderers marshaled Olivia up the gangway of a trawler that looked like it would sink in a healthy squall.

Water rushed in his ears while he swam under the hull of the nearest boat and slipped to the other side where they couldn’t see him, though he’d lose sight of Olivia and the trawler. If only there was a way aboard that rickety craft.

When Logan came up for air, footsteps on the pier clomped to his right. The shadow of the gunman’s muzzle inched around the bow. Careful not to make a splash, Logan took a deep breath and ducked beneath the boat, running his hands along the bottom of hull as he guided himself aft. The greatest thing in his favor was his agility in the water. As comfortable swimming as running, he could elude them better in the tempestuous sea, and moving under the craft made him invisible to the shooter.

Reaching the stern, Logan gradually surfaced. Rain pelted the top of his head as he rose up enough to breathe only through his nose.

A stream of bullets pelted the water along the boat’s starboard side. Sharp splatters spewed within two feet of his head. Clinging to the motor’s exhaust housing, he didn’t move a muscle.

“Where are you, asshole?” shouted the gunman.

“Leave him,” another said while outboard motors rumbled to life.

Still unable to see the trawler, Logan silently pulled himself portside. After he passed the second outboard, the boat’s hull came into view. A half-dozen shooters leaned over the rail, training their weapons across the water. Damn, he was too close to see anything on the trawler’s deck. To make things worse, he could hear nothing over the pelting rain in concert with the buzz and grind of poorly maintained dual outboard engines.

The gunman walked up the gangway then gave the order to cast off.

Not but eight feet ahead of him, a fish jumped. AK-47s opened fire. Bullets pummeled the surf and splattered saltwater into Logan’s eyes. He held his position. If he tried to move any closer, he’d be shot. No question.

The boat reversed.

Diving deep, Logan swam toward the shore. He came up for air in the shadows of a sailboat. Through the blur of rain, the back of the trawler’s deck propelled low in the water—sailing southeast while gunmen patrolled the stern. And Olivia was nowhere in sight.

It wasn’t pretty. And he’d had no opportunity to smuggle aboard. Though it hadn’t been part of the plan, Logan hated seeing Olivia disappear in the clutches of those vultures.

Once the grinding of the trawler’s motor became a distant hum, he pushed the button on his ICE watch and watched it illuminate. “This is Batman. Project Cat House underway.”

“Roger that,” Garth’s voice came loud and clear, and a damned mite perkier than Logan felt.

A streak of lightning fingered overhead. He needed to get out of the water before he was lit up. Thunder boomed. “Where’s my backup?” he asked.

“Patrol boat dispatched. Will arrive at 02:30.”

“Four hours?”

“Had a hiccup. Hold tight.”

Logan swiped the rain out of his eyes. What else would go wrong? “Do you have eyes on the craft, sir?”

“Eyes in the sky are blind. Tracking on. Target traveling southeast at twenty knots. I reckon they’ll cruise for a good long time.”

Logan didn’t like it. Even if the patrol boat could max out at thirty-five knots, the bastards would have a four-hour head start. If anything malfunctioned with Olivia’s chip, she’d be lost. Worse, he had nothing to do but stay out of sight for a hell-of-a long time. After signing off, he climbed up the sailboat’s ladder and scurried across the boat toward the pier. He hopped to the timbers, stooping into the shadows. He pulled the Glock from the holster under his arm. Looking toward the shore, an overhead lamp cast an eerie glow through the rain, but there wasn’t a soul in sight, at least as far as he could see.

Wasting no time, he made his way toward the car.

But two parking spaces before he reached the rental, his gut gave a twist.

Logan froze in a crouch, searching for movement. He hadn’t seen a living thing, but he knew better than to discount his gut. As he ducked behind an SUV, he listened for footsteps. He heard nothing but the rush of the rain making it impossible to discern any other sounds. The only certainty was Logan needed to keep moving.

Glock cocked and ready to shoot, he dashed to the driver’s side door. His mind on full alert, Logan kneeled and illuminated his watch, moving it under the car like a flashlight. A silvery flicker caught his eye. Something too clean. Something that didn’t belong.

Dropping to his shoulder, he moved his arm closer for a better look.

His heart jolted.

An IED was wired to the starter.

Rocking back on his heels, he looked left then right. The rain had lessened to mist and, with it, a fog was rolling in. Probably a good thing. Someone wanted him dead. And right now, his ass was exposed. The perp might be nearby—waiting and watching especially since this looked like an ISIS hit.

Logan eased his way to the rear of the car and peered toward the parking lot entrance. A white van idled at the street corner.

He pulled out his smartphone and selected Jon’s heat seeking app. The screen homed in on the engine first. At 220 degrees, it had been idling for a while. He panned the phone back. Two warm bodies sat in the cab—a driver and a passenger. And panning toward the rear of the vehicle revealed no other life.

Logan pocketed his phone while his blood boiled. He should have known ISIS radicals would stab him in the back. It wasn’t enough that he’d supplied them with a victim and guns. The bastards were insane.

Damn. He was a seasoned SEAL and there he stood in the rain playing the patsy. They’d planned this all along, rubbing their hands and waiting for their IED to blow him to hell.

Not tonight assholes.

Moving like a cat, He ducked around the front of the car, darted to the edge of the lot, and climbed down to the beach. The sand came clear up to the five-foot cement embankment, giving Logan both cover and the ability to move in silence. He ran further than necessary to ensure he’d traveled well beyond the van. Logan’s heart thundered in his ears as he inched up and peered toward the street. Fifty feet ahead, the vehicle hadn’t moved. No surprises there.

Behind a hedge, he climbed to the street. Damp clothes hindered his flexibility, but he rolled to his feet and readied his weapon.

Approaching from the rear, Logan crept to the driver’s side door.

He took two deep breaths before rising high enough to see inside the cab. A spike of fury shot through his chest. Yeah, betrayal served up bitter bile.

Hakim.

The jihadi terrorist sat in the passenger seat like he was waiting for the latest blockbuster to burst in live action before him. But the only thing about to be busted was the jerk’s traitorous skull.

The men’s heads were turned away, watching Logan’s rental car. The storm outside may have ebbed to a mist, but the storm inside Logan’s chest exploded into a raging tempest. He ripped open the door and slammed the butt of his gun against the driver’s temple. The force behind the strike was meant to be immediate and lethal and Logan’s years of training didn’t disappoint. A grunt was the last sound the man made as he slumped sideways.

Hakim whipped his head around but Logan had already launched himself over the dead man. He jammed the muzzle of his Glock in the terrorist’s temple. “What the fuck asshole? If they didn’t murder me on the pier, you had a backup plan? You think I’m that easy to kill?” he snarled in American-accented English.

Hakim’s eyes grew wide. “You’re not—?”

Logan swung with his left.

Hakim blocked, raising a Beretta with his far hand.

Logan caught the man’s wrist, pinning it to the door, applying savage pressure to the bastard’s ulnar nerve. “Did you think you could ice me and take my business?”

Cringing in pain, Hakim clamped ahold of Logan’s arm. “Traitor!”

Logan continued to squeeze until the Beretta clattered to the floor. Hakim shrieked with the pain, but struggled like a frantic cage fighter. The man’s will to live was strong. His grip was like iron as they locked in a battle of wills. But Logan didn’t intend on losing this fight. Not with Olivia sailing off in the hands of heinous barbarians.

“You’re not only a traitor to your country, you’re a cancer on the ass of the human race.” Baring his teeth, Logan attacked with a head-butt. Hakim’s grip eased. Logan swung back, broke free and smashed the butt of the Glock into the terrorist’s skull. Bone crunched. Blood splattered, then Hakim’s head lolled forward.

No shots fired. No loud noise made. Logan’s gaze shot up and down the street and then checked the mirrors. The rain had resumed and not a soul was in sight.

Quickly, he dragged the corpses into the back of the van. Hopping into the driver’s seat, he revved the engine. Once he pulled out onto the road, he contacted ICE.

“Speak,” Garth’s voice came through like a fog horn.

“IED waiting under my rental car. Caught the perps—Kadir Hakim and one of his goons. They lost. Heading northeast on M6098. Need a new location to pick up my ride.”

“Head to Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferat. End of first pier.”

“Roger that.” Logan punched the new location into his GPS. “Send a bomb unit to Villefranche-sur-Mer.”

“On it.”

“Over and out.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Locked in the hold of the trawler, Olivia sat in a corner, her wrists bound. It stank like rotten fish. Worse, her ribs ached like a son-of-a-bitch. She’d heard the order commanding the men not to mar her face though, after her hands had been tied, the bastards didn’t have any qualms about throwing a few jabs to the ribs. It hurt to take a deep breath, but she hadn’t felt any pops. With luck, she was just bruised.

The light was so dim, she couldn’t see the discoloration even if she tried to look. Without her watch or phone, she had no idea how long she’d been there, but she’d slept a little. The sliver of light shining from under the door had grown brighter, so it was probably daylight. The hold was empty aside from a pee bucket.

Nice of them to be so accommodating.

The door opened and Olivia held up her hands to block the blinding light.

“You’re British?” demanded the dark figure in English as if she were the scourge of the earth.

As expected, they’d taken her bag with her fake passport and tossed her track phone overboard. She’d left her ICE phone with Logan. “Yes.”

The man swore in Arabic, moving inside. He was a hulk with a big gut.

“Yes, that’s right,” Olivia sniped. “And the British government will be breathing down your necks so fast, you’ll wish you’d never seen my face.”

“I doubt that.” He sauntered inside and tossed a plate in front of her—a slice of white bread and something that looked like Spam. “No one knows where you are.”

“I told my friends I was going to Nice for dinner.”

“You’re a liar. That’s what I would expect from filthy infidels. You didn’t know you were going to Nice until the Englishman got on the motorway.” The man snorted. “Your friends still think you’re in Lyon. And to ensure you’re untraceable, we’ve rubbed out the scumbag who betrayed you.”

Another jabbing pain stabbed Olivia’s ribs. Her head swam. She’d heard the shots. Logan had taken a dive off the pier. Had he been hit? But what about all the shots fired after they’d marshalled her onto the boat?

They killed him?

God no. He had to be okay.

Or had ISIS set a trap?

Shit.

Olivia forced herself to breathe. No matter how much this animal’s words stung, she couldn’t allow him to think she cared. “You mean David Mason? Good riddance. He’s the asshole who got me into this mess—said he was taking me to his yacht.” She sniffed. “But this piece of rubbish looks like it’s ready for the scrap heap.”

The man drew back his foot. Olivia tightened her elbows around her ribs to bock the blow.

“Yakov,” a deep voice said from the passageway, speaking Arabic in a northern dialect. “Leave her alone. We get more money if we deliver them healthy.”

“Unclean infidel, unfit to drink my piss.” But Yakov stopped himself, pulled a water bottle from his back pocket and tossed it at her feet. “Where you’re going, you’ll need your strength.”

She reached for the water. “Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

She held up her wrists. “Can you at least take these off? They’re rubbing my skin raw.”

“Then stop fighting them.” Yakov turned and slammed the door.

She lurched forward and pounded her fists on the timbers. “I am a British Subject and you will not get away with this, you filthy pirates!” Yes, yelling was futile, but she needed to make them think she was scared. To be honest, she was riled. And there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it wallowing in the bowels of a rickety old fishing boat chugging through the middle of the Mediterranean.

After sliding her back down the wall, Olivia cracked open the cap of the bottle with her teeth and guzzled the water. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pictured the scene at the pier in her mind. The man with the deep voice had fired at Logan as he dove into the water. After that, she couldn’t see anything. Even if it hadn’t been raining, there was another boat blocking her view. She replayed the scene again. Yes. Logan started moving before the gun fired.

But had he survived all the bullets after she’d been taken below decks? Surely, he hadn’t tried to board—not with all the crew’s firepower.

But that still didn’t mean he hadn’t been hit. Someone had shouted “leave him”. Did that mean leave the corpse, leave him be, or leave him for someone else to kill?

She bashed her fist against the wall.

He’s not dead.

No. Freaking. Way.

***

The trawler’s motors growled in low gear as the boat rocked from side to side. Olivia had heard a similar sound on Kadir’s yacht many times before. They were docking, and it was about time. She’d been in the hold for two days at least. Her legs were cramped, she had a migraine and she was starving. Sure, they’d given her bread and Spam, but the portions were hardly enough to keep a Chihuahua alive.

The door opened and Yakov threw in a bundle of black cloth. “Put this on.”

She shook it out and a piece dropped to the floor. “It’s too bloody dark. I can’t even tell front from back.”

“I’ll wait.” He moved so a ray of light streamed in from the corridor.

Standing, she regarded the garments. An abaya and a burka. “Are we going somewhere?”

“You are.” He held up a knife.

She shrank away with a gasp.

He snorted. “To cut your cuffs.”

She let him slice the plastic, then rubbed her wrists. “Where?”

“Up north. Past Aleppo.”

Her stomach squeezed. They were taking her deep into ISIS controlled territory. “What’s there?”

Yakov’s expression turned angry. “Shut up and put those on. You’re not fit for a dog’s eyes in that dress. The van’s waiting.”

She pulled the abaya over her head, covering her filthy sundress. “You’re not making me ride a camel?”

“You think you’re smart, don’t you?”

“If I were smart, I wouldn’t be in this situation.” She held up the mesh veil of the burka. “Any chance I can get something to eat before I’m smothered by this?”

“No.” Yakov pointed his AK47 at her chest. His finger wasn’t anywhere near the trigger. “Don’t make me use this.”

For a split second, Olivia contemplated how easy it would be to disarm the bastard. Even his body language was relaxed. Now that her hands were free, with a step to the side, she could take charge of the gun’s muzzle, upend it and slam the butt into his jaw. With luck, his teeth would shatter, he’d swallow his tongue, and he’d be dead in about twenty seconds without a shot fired. But then she’d have the rest of the crew to battle, and that wouldn’t help her locate the hostages. Swallowing her pride, she pulled the burka over her head and peered through the mesh.

It was no surprise they were taking her into the heart of ISIS controlled territory. Still, satellite images and assets on the ground hadn’t brought back any intel on the location of the harem. It could have been anywhere, though the Middle East was a sure bet. Syria was likely but so had been Iraq. Regardless, the further inland they took her, the tougher the rescue op would be. Losses were more likely, too.

At least her kidnappers had been smart enough to dress her for the journey. If she showed up remotely close to Aleppo with blonde hair and wearing a sundress, she’d be dead within an hour—and that’s only because the apes would take their time torturing her.

“Hands,” Yakov commanded.

Olivia obediently held out her wrists while he attached a new set of zip cuffs. “Where are we now?”

“Shut up.”

“You say that too much. Your English could use some polish.”

With an unpleasant growl, he grabbed her elbow and yanked her into the corridor. “The problem with the infidel’s women is they are disrespectful.”

Olivia started down the narrow hall and headed for the stairs, but the jerk tightened his grip, tugged her into his chest and pressed his lips near her ear. “If it were up to me, I’d slit your throat and laugh while the life drains from your body.”

A spike of hot ire shot up her spine. Snapping her elbow from his grasp, she faced him, the burka hiding the hatred in her eyes. “I’ll remember you said that.”

“See? You think you’re superior, but you are weak compared to me.”

“Perhaps one day soon you’ll discover how weak I am.” Before he could place another finger on her, she marched through the corridor.

“You’re not as afraid as the others.”

She stopped. “Others? How many others?”

“Shut it.” He pushed her in the shoulder. “Keep going.”

Up top, a half-dozen thugs waited for her, their shadowy faces looking like they’d like nothing better than to put a bullet in her skull. It was nightfall again, and the trawler was lit only by a single lantern.

Yakov grabbed her arm. “If you proceed to the van nice and easy I just might let you live.” He started for the gangway. “And if you utter a sound, I’ll hit you so hard you won’t be able to breathe.”

Charming.

No matter how much she seethed inside, she exercised control by focusing on her heart, her steady breathing, and her own internal strength. Years of training had taught her to block her fear. That’s right, after Kahlil she hadn’t lost her knack. She just needed to be thrown into the midst of extreme danger. This was where she was sharpest. This was where she belonged. When her life hung on a precipice, she could face evil in the eye and take on the world.

She’d been there before, though not with her wrists bound. Yakov led the way to the pier. Olivia obediently followed, noting the knife at his hip and the AK47 swinging from his shoulder harness and hanging across his chest. Two thugs similarly armed followed behind. Ahead, a uniformed guard outfitted with an M16A4 assault rifle suspended from a shoulder sling waited with his hand resting on the gun’s handle. The insignia on his uniform indicated he was a customs agent. It took about two minutes to bribe him. Then Yakov directed Olivia into the back of a van. At least she had a seat—the most comfort she’d experienced since her abduction.

As they drove through the war-torn streets of Latakia, past burnt out cars and crumbling buildings that used to be people’s homes, the clock on the dash read 10 p.m. Not far out of town, the city lights faded, and the van’s headlights were all that illuminated the road ahead. At 11:48 p.m., they turned onto a dirt road. Ten minutes later, they stopped at a check point guarded by men armed with AK47s and had their faces covered. They spoke Arabic, the driver telling the men he was bringing in another virgin. All eyes shifted to Olivia while she stared at them through the shroud of her burka.

Your biggest nightmare has arrived.

One of the guards made a call. “Another’s coming your way.”

After they drove around a hill, an encampment came into sight, dimly lit by a pair of opposing streetlights. From her seat in the back of the van, from the mishmash of corrugated iron and plaster it looked like they were approaching a derelict compound. But after the van continued through a narrow tunnel, an oasis appeared as they rolled to a stop in an enormous courtyard, complete with a fountain in the center. It sure looked like an al-Umari smoke screen—derelict facade, hiding great wealth inside. Olivia had no doubt the roofs of the buildings were covered with anti-aircraft material to camouflage the compound from spy satellites and planes, otherwise this place wouldn’t have been missed.

But the thugs didn’t take her in through the front door of the mansion looming in the shadows at the rear of the compound. Two armed guards and a woman with a withered face cloaked by a black chador met them at a side gate and glared hatefully while Yakov nudged Olivia ahead with the point of his AK47.

Olivia glanced at him over her shoulder. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked in English.

He just laughed.

The woman pointed her rifle down a poorly lit path covered by anti-aircraft netting. Obviously, they assumed Olivia couldn’t speak the language, which was how she wanted it for now. The less they knew about her the better—and all they had to go on were the fake documents they’d already confiscated.

Led along a fence topped with razor wire, she said nothing and followed until the guards stopped outside the door of a two-story building clad with metal siding. It reminded her of an auto repair garage or a neglected factory—peeling paint, cracked glass in the window.

Inside the door, they were met by two armed women. No one said a word. The withered-faced woman number one, appearing to be the bitch in charge, used the point of her AK47 to force Olivia into a shower room with no stalls or curtains, just broken shower heads. She pointed to a bench and said, “take off your clothes” into a phone. An app translated the Arabic into English.

That’s when Olivia noticed the pressure washer hooked up to a faucet on the wall. This could get ugly fast.

“Hey, I’m good with having a shower.” Olivia held up her hands. “No problem.” After two days in the smelly hold of the fishing trawler, she’d gladly lather up, even with female terror-rabs from hell watching. She removed the burka, and the boss-woman shouted, waving the gun, telling her to stop.

Olivia again raised her hands, holding up the burka.

Squinting, the boss-woman moved in and pinched Olivia’s chin, then turned her face from side to side none too gently.

A weight in Olivia’s stomach dropped to her toes. Did she look too old? Logan had thought Dr. R’s injections had made her look like a mannequin.

Shit!

“You’re the prettiest one yet,” the woman said.

Olivia pretended not to understand, and shifted her gaze between the two guard-women who stood on opposite walls, their rifles at the ready as if a seventeen-year-old girl was capable of anarchy…which she was, though twelve years older.

Shoving Olivia backward, the woman indicated for her to continue to disrobe.

“What is your name?” Olivia asked, removing the abaya.

When the woman didn’t respond, Olivia asked the question in French.

“Jadaa,” she replied that her name was grandmother.

Olivia snorted. “I sincerely doubt that.”

The woman made an angry face, gesturing to Olivia’s sundress. “Take everything off!” she shouted into the translation app.

Olivia pulled off the dress, finding a fist-sized bruise over her ribcage. But she kept her mouth shut and, once she’d stripped, the woman grasped her by the shoulders and backed her into the stall.

One of the guards flipped the switch on the pressure washer.

Jadaa picked up the nozzle.

“How high do you have that thing turned up?” Olivia’s stomach squeezed into a hard lump.

The stream hit her like a continuous blast of a paintball gun. Paintball hurt, but it was bam and done. This jet was a cleansing off a layer of skin with freezing cold water. Jadaa moved the wand like a fire hose, side to side, up and down. Olivia’s tender ribs hurt while she crossed her arms, spinning away from the sting.

“Stop!” she shouted, moving her hands up to protect her eyes.

But Jadaa just walked closer.

Her skin raw, Olivia dropped to her knees and curled into a ball. “I’m clean. Stop. Please!” She squeezed her eyes shut, the world spinning. Rage shot through her limbs. If only she could grab the nozzle, she’d rip it from the woman’s hands and use Jadaa as a human shield while she turned the jet onto the guards. Her hands shaking from the desperate need to take charge, Olivia forced her mind to one thing.

Revenge.

She was too close to al-Umari to expose her cover.

At last she was inside the murderer’s operation and she had to stay alive. A little skin abrasion she could endure if it meant success at long last.

Her mind controlled her pain.

She would brave this humiliation and torture to invoke her own justice. Her time was nigh.

After Jadaa turned off the pressure washer, she tossed Olivia a towel. The woman’s eyes were filled with hate.

“She isn’t crying,” said one of the guards.

“No.” Jadaa crossed her arms and regarded Olivia intently. “There is something different about this one. She’s a fighter.”

Olivia was given an abaya and hijab to wear. Nothing for her feet, no knickers, no bra. Once she was dressed, Jadaa and the female guards took her further into the building and climbed a flight of stairs. Everything was dim. Paint chipped from plaster walls. Jadaa used a key to unlock a door and gestured for Olivia to enter.

Though it was dark and difficult to see to the back wall, the long room was filled with countless bedrolls, each containing a sleeping girl.

Holy Moses, the rescue mission just exploded into an exodus.

Chapter Twenty-Three

For the past forty-eight hours, all ICE had to rely on was the microchip in Olivia’s head. Logan had been picked up by a French patrol boat that refused to enter Syrian waters on the basis that they didn’t have permission from the Assad regime.

Logan was about to explode. This was freaking war, and the goddamned French were waiting for permission? Every attempt he’d made to persuade the captain otherwise had fallen on deaf ears.

Logan fumed in the small office he’d been given below decks. At least there, he could accomplish something. He established a makeshift command center and, five minutes ago, Asa had connected him with a satellite feed. He used a wireless earbud and microphone as he examined the terrain on the screen in front of him. “Get me ashore in Syria, ASAP!”

“I’m on it,” said Garth through the speaker. “The captain will receive orders to tie up alongside a NATO vessel before this meeting ends. It operates under the guise of a lobster boat.”

“As long as it has access to the port, I don’t give a damn what the boat’s used for.”

“You should. They’ll be carrying ID that’ll ensure you get your boots on the ground.”

“That’s good enough for me.” Logan used the touchscreen to zoom in on the blue dot indicating Olivia’s location. “Christ, she’s deep in ISIS territory.”

“Did you think it would be any different?” asked Garth.

Logan continued to study the satellite image, pinpointing the Islamic State roadblocks. “The only chance we have of making it past al-Umari’s front line is if we go in undercover. We’ll never get ground forces inside—not without a shit-ton of casualties.”

“I don’t disagree.”

“I led a similar infiltration into Afghanistan during the bin Laden campaign.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Bottled water. It’s hard to move. Send in a truck with a paneled van trailer, driven by a local who’s one of us. The team hides in the nose of the trailer, pallets of bottled water fill up the back.”

“Then what?” asked Garth. “There could be a thousand troops down there. You wouldn’t have a chance.”

“That depends on how many girls we’ll need to extract.” Logan calculated the distance from the compound to the shore to be about a hundred miles. “And our best bet is helos.”

“Right.” The CO frowned from the box at the top right of the screen. “I’m hoping Hamilton sends a message soon.”

Logan didn’t hold out much hope for that—not with all the gun-slinging guards on the deck of the fishing trawler. Olivia would be locked up and guarded twenty-four-seven. “Yeah, if only ICE would have added a microphone to that chip, the job would be a hell of a lot easier.”

“The techies are working on the next gen,” said Garth.

“Not fast enough.” Logan shifted his attention back to the map on the screen. “Like I said, we’re gonna need air support—Apaches, Chinooks.”

“Roger that.”

Logan tapped his finger. “Allied forces need to be on full alert.”

Garth’s eyes bugged wide. “I thought I was the CO here.”

“Sorry, sir. I am responsible for this op, and…”

“And?”

His jaw twitched. “Ah…I’m concerned for Commander Hamilton’s safety, sir. I wanted to be on the boat with her.”

“That wouldn’t have worked,” Garth scoffed. “You would have ended up dead.”

“She’s my work-spouse. I feel like my actions got her into this mess.”

“You are misguided and incorrect, Commander. My decision got her inside enemy territory and don’t you forget it. Hamilton is one of ICE’s best assets, and if anyone can handle herself inside, she’s our girl.”

“Yes, sir.” Logan moved his finger over the screen and tapped until he zoomed in on the encampment. There was camo everywhere, but if he looked close enough, he could make out the general diagram. There was even a dirt airstrip at the back. “Before we go in, I need to know which of those buildings is housing the girls. I want numbers. Send in a drone and get me off this damned patrol boat…sir.”

“Working on it.”

Logan zoomed out, a plan forming in his head. The first thing he needed to do was wheedle himself into hostile territory without drawing suspicion—do a little reconnaissance of his own. He wasn’t about to order a missile strike without getting Olivia out and rescuing those girls she went in to save.

***

Garth’s idea of giving Logan a team was reassigning Mike Rose to Latakia with the promise that things were in motion. The CO’s excuse? Allied forces couldn’t be moved in one day. It reminded Logan too much of the bloody Navy. No one wanted to make a decision until the opportunity to strike had passed. It happened on every mission. Opportunities were constantly missed because no one could pull the pin. The elimination of red tape had been the one thing that intrigued him about ICE from the beginning. And now that Garth was trying to bring in firepower external to ICE, all the bureaucracy was rearing its ugly head.

Logan didn’t operate like that. He made decisions on the fly to save lives. He used the intel available and decided on a course of action. If it was the wrong choice, he’d live with it, but acting was always far better than sitting around and picking his proverbial nose.

He blew out a sigh. At least things were moving forward and Garth had proven he wasn’t one to sit on his laurels.

The car picked him up outside the McDonalds. Unbelievable. The port city of Latakia had been decimated by civil war and the American chain hadn’t been touched. What did that say about jihad’s perceived evil of westernization?

“Rodgers.” Speaking with a Scottish burr, Rose reached over to shake his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, mate.”

Logan gave Mike’s hand a firm grip. “The same.”

“Garth told me about your water bottle idea. Bloody brilliant.”

“Have you got a truck lined up?”

“Aye, lorry, drivers, water, bribes.”

For the first time since they embarked on Project Cat House, Logan felt like he was gaining. He grinned. “I’m liking you better already, mate.” Mike had a mop of thick red hair, blue eyes and a rusty complexion. He gave the asset a once over. “How do you manage to move around these parts with hair like that?”

Mike flexed his guns. Jeez, the man looked like a fitness fanatic who pumped iron five hours a day. “I have my sources. Otherwise, I lay low or wear a turban.”

Logan filled him in on the details until Mike turned on the blinker to indicate a turn into an alleyway behind a bombed-out building.

“What’s here?”

“Our ride…and the water you ordered, a few toys I had stashed away, that sort of thing.”

After driving through the alley, they arrived at a loading dock where Mike pulled in beside a truck with a van trailer. “Come with me,” Mike said. He led him up a ramp. “Meet our drivers Alif and Malik.”

Logan shook their hands. “Have you done this before?”

“Yes, sir.” They both looked to be early twenties, black hair, olive skin, thick accents.

“Are you Syrian natives?”

“I was born in Lebanon, but I have a Syrian passport,” said Alif.

Malik pointed to his chest with his thumb. “I’ve lived in Latakia all my life.”

“They’re part of the NATO allied forces.” Mike took him into the warehouse. “They risk their necks just by breathing.”

“Have you used them before?”

“Och aye, many times.”

“Good.”

Mike pulled a paper map from his back pocket.

“No tablet?” asked Logan.

“Electronics are too easy to trace.”

“Even with Jon’s encryption?”

The Scot shrugged. “I’m old school. Never light up the damned things when I’m in enemy territory. Works for me.” He pointed to a red X east of Aleppo. “This is where our wee lassie is. Any intel on the numbers we need to extract?”

“Not yet. We need drone surveillance.”

“How many do you reckon?”

“We know of five.”

“Bet you could double that.” Mike returned his attention to the map. “While you’ve been cruising the Mediterranean, we’ve secured a house here. Five miles west of our target.”

“Good. Any drones?”

“We have an old unit in our go kit. Flash bangs, M4s, grenades, that sort of thing.” Mike ushered him to a military crate and opened it, gesturing inside.

Logan reached for a gun sling and attached an M4. “Do you think we’ll get this gear through the check point?”

“Around here, one never knows.”

“You got bribes?”

“Four cartons of Marlboros.”

“Cash?”

“I prefer guns over cash, but if that’s what it takes, there’s two hundred US dollars in an envelope in the glove box.”

“Are we ready to roll then?”

“The lorry has been waiting for you, mate.”

Together, they watched while Alif used a forklift to load the military crate into the nose of the trailer. Logan and Mike sat atop it with enough room for their feet while Alif used a forklift to fill the remaining space with shrink-wrapped water bottles on pallets. Fortunately, the roof of the trailer was made from milky-colored plastic to allow natural light. The smartest thing was the stacks of water bottles on either side. If the inspectors tried to shine flashlight down the walls, it would look like the truck was completely full. The other positive was weight. No sane person would want to offload a ton of water to conduct an inspection.

Once underway, the ride was about as comfortable as driving through a pothole-infested dirt road in the mountains of Montana while sitting on a block of cement. Worse, once they approached the noon hour, the temperature in the trailer climbed until it was almost unbearable. The two men drank water nonstop.

“How’d you get involved with ICE?” Logan asked, wiping the sweat away from his eyes.

“Was in the SAS, then got a visit from Lindgren.”

“Were you given an ultimatum?”

“More or less.” Mike took the cap off another bottle. “It was time for a change. The pay’s better and I like running my own ops the way I want.”

“But you’re working with me?”

“A favor to Garth. If there’s anything worse than ISIS conducting public executions, it’s ISIS kidnapping innocent kids and forcing them into human bondage. I canna abide it.”

“Agreed.” Logan tapped Mike’s bottle with his own. “Thanks.”

A thud sounded while the truck slowed to a stop.

Both men froze while the engine idled. Logan had been through this type of drill before and there was no doubt they’d just reached the edge of ISIS controlled territory.

Right now, their lives rested in the hands of Malik and Alif. If those men didn’t put on a command performance, the two ICE operatives in the back of the van might as well take cyanide because they’d make too tempting a propaganda display while ISIS savages carried out public beheadings and posted them on the internet. Logan’s heartbeat roared in his ears while he kept his breathing shallow.

Footsteps crunched and voices shouted. Logan understood some of it. Questions about the cargo and the truck’s destination. Typically, tempers flared.

The truck door opened and closed. Though surrounded by bottles, Logan moved his line of sight with the sound of footsteps moving to the rear. A ray of light streamed to the back as the trailer’s roller door opened. As expected, flashlights flickered through the bottles of water.

More shouting erupted. This time they were accusing Alif and Malik of supporting the Shi’ite militia.

The two Syrians emphatically denied alliance with any faction—they were pious businessmen delivering water to al-Umari’s troops. They must have said something convincing because the shouting ebbed.

Sweat ran into Logan’s eyes and tickled his lips, but he didn’t dare move.

“Is this all you’ve got?” asked the one who’d been yelling the loudest.

“Give ’em the fucking cash, mate,” Mike growled under his breath.

A fully automatic rifle released a burst of fire, hitting something metallic.

Logan grasped his M4 as his gaze met Mike’s.

One corner of the redhead’s mouth twisted up.

Then the place erupted in a cacophony of rapid fire. Bullets pummeled Mike’s side of the trailer.

Ducking, Logan snapped off the safety on his rifle.

When the shooting stopped, he didn’t breathe, watching water as it washed under his boots.

“I have US dollars!” shouted one of their men.

“Bollocks,” Mike mumbled.

Logan let out his breath and sat erect, his eyes wide, his weapon ready for a fight.

But tempers cooled at the mention of cash.

In five minutes, the truck was back underway.

Using his thumb to reengage the safety on his M4, Mike gave Logan a look. “I told the bastards to use the money straight away if the cigarettes didna work.”

Logan snorted. “It’s a good thing we loaded water on the sides, otherwise you’d be dead.”

Mike grinned. “Aye, cheated death again, mate. That’s my middle name.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Who in God’s name decided to call this a harem? The only word to describe the compound was prison.

Olivia hadn’t expected to be housed in luxury, but the word “harem” denoted an inherent modicum of comfort. Inside, the building was institutional and rundown in such a dilapidated state, it needed to be condemned.

There were no lavish furnishings adorned with satin pillows. There were no rich damask trimmings or Persian carpets. No water fountains surrounded by statuary and exotic plants. No whiffs of heady perfume, no happy girls dancing to the reedy strings of the qanun and tambourine.

The windows were barred, the walls bare. They slept atop mats on the hard floor. Olivia had a crick in her neck and a migraine exacerbated by the female guards blowing whistles at dawn.

She sat up and pushed her hair from her face. The hostages were moving fast, making up their bedrolls. Across the room, a guard gave Olivia a nasty glare. Obviously, she should hop to as well.

Next came the queue outside the WC. Olivia followed, taking up the rear while the guards looked on. Though she’d seen male guards outside, all the guards inside were women.

She’d caught a couple of curious glances from the girls around her, but no one said a word. Their shoulders drooped. No one smiled. Their expressions were blank, hopeless.

There were no doors on the toilet stalls and after Olivia had taken care of business, two girls cornered her. One pointed to a camera and inclined her head to a corner. “Did you come in last night?” she whispered in French, but her accent was German-sounding.

“Yes,” Olivia said, introducing herself.

“Gabby,” said the one who’d pointed to the camera. She was a natural beauty, had friendly green eyes and looked like she wanted to smile.

“Mina,” said the other. Mina was pretty, too. In fact all the girls were attractive.

“German?” Olivia asked.

Gabby shook he head. “Dutch.”

Olivia arched her eyebrows. “Are there any others? Dutch, I mean.”

“Just us,” Mina said. “The rest are French or German.”

A pregnant pause filled the air. “I’m English.”

“You’re the only one.” Gabby shook her finger. “You need to know the rules, else you’ll feel the wrath’s of Jadaa’s cane before breakfast is over.”

Mina nodded. “I think they enjoy caning newcomers on the first day.”

From the hallway, a guard hollered to hurry up.

Gabby glanced over her shoulder. “There’s no talking.”

“Ever,” said Mina.

“And prisoners are encouraged to report violators.”

Taller than her two new friends, Olivia looked over their heads and regarded the stragglers. “Are we in danger now?”

Gabby shrugged with a look of disgust. “Only when Camile and her chums are in here.”

“They have the most points,” said Mina.

“Points?”

“You earn points if you report violators.”

“And you buy sweets with your points.”

“Camile eats dessert at every meal.”

“Is she getting fat?” Olivia asked.

Gabby clapped a hand over her mouth and muffled a snicker.

“Don’t laugh,” Mina warned. “These people are sadistic pigs.”

The guard stepped inside and brandished her rifle. “Alssamt!” she yelled, demanding silence.

Biting her lip, Olivia followed Gabby and Mina to the mess hall where a sea of blonde heads filled the room. She stood there for a time taking it all in. Four guards, one cook spooning slop into bowls. The tension in the air alone was caustic.

When there was no one left in line, Olivia picked up a bowl and held it out while the cook ladled in soupy porridge. She then spotted the Dutch girls and made her way to the last table to eat with them. Eyes slanted her way as she walked through the aisle of tables while sounds of metal spoons hitting ceramic bowls muffled the hiss of whispers.

The guards patrolled the room, appearing to each have a section that they paced.

Neither Mina nor Gabby glanced at Olivia as she took a seat where she’d be able to look out over the girls—she counted fifty-two, ten times more than ICE knew about, and five times more than they’d thought they would need to rescue.

When the guard moved away from them, Gabby glanced over with a sad smile.

“Why are they imprisoning us here?” Olivia asked, in the quietest whisper she could manage.

Both girls stopped eating, but Mina looked up. “You don’t want to know.”

Gabby tapped her friend with her elbow. “She needs to know.”

“Sex slaves,” Mina said so softly her voice was barely audible.

Olivia clapped a hand over her mouth and pretended to be mortified. “Have you?”

“Once,” said Gabby, her lovely eyes filling with tears.

“Not yet,” said Mina. “Now keep quiet or else.”

Olivia nodded.

The guard walked past and gave Olivia a thump in the back with the butt of her gun—not too painful, but the jab was a warning. Olivia’s bowl clattered with the jolt of her hands.

Gabby gasped, fear filling her eyes.

Olivia looked to her bowl to bring on a moment of meditation so she wouldn’t do anything rash. Then she gave a nod to the girls, indicating she wasn’t hurt and waited for the guard to move along. Without a serviette, she dabbed her lips with her fingers. “Tell you what. It looks like were outnumbered here. I’ll watch your back if you watch mine.”

The two exchanged glances. Mina shook her head. “Just keep your mouth shut. If you say anything bad about Jadaa or anyone else, they’ll hear about it. If you talk about escape or home or your boyfriend, or anything, you’ll be punished.”

“Sh,” warned Gabby.

A girl who’d been sitting at one of the front tables stood. It seemed she commanded a leadership role, because a number of others followed suit, all looking at her expectantly. She was pretty and, as she moved toward Olivia’s table, this girl carried herself as if she thought she were queen bee.

Gabby glanced over her shoulder, then turned with a grimace. “That’s Camile,” she said behind her hand.

But Olivia had shifted her attention to another of the girls in the entourage. Mathilde Petit looked just like her pictures, even without makeup. Her eyes were wide and scared. Obviously, she and the others were terrified.

“Fresh meat,” Camile whispered in French as she walked past and ran her finger across Olivia’s shoulders.

As fast as a cobra, Olivia grabbed the queen bee’s hand and squeezed as she rose to her feet. She didn’t utter a word, just stared the girl in the eye and applied enough pressure to prove she wasn’t about to become an easy mark. Camile tried to pull away. Olivia held fast.

Everyone stared.

“What’s going on over there?” a guard shouted in Arabic, moving toward them.

Camile grimaced in pain.

Olivia gave the French girl a wink then lowered her lips toward her ear. “Nice to meet you, too.”

***

By the next day, Olivia had learned the routine. There were four female guards on duty at all times. The girls were divided into four groups and spent their days cleaning or gardening. An hour after dinner each evening was dedicated to prayer, though there was no religious leader. There were no books, no magazines, no music and no television. And with no talking permitted, it was like being in solitary confinement even though there were more than fifty girls in the compound.

The only talking they did was in hushed whispers when out of earshot of the guards. Most of the prisoners were tense, their features drawn as if afraid to do anything to draw attention to themselves.

Olivia didn’t understand why there were so many hostages. What was al-Umari planning to do with them? Would they be used as rewards all at once or doled out one at a time? She knew Gabby had endured horrors and used to reward a soldier, but had others gone before her? Had any girls been murdered?

Regardless, her intuition told her something had to be afoot. Her intuition also told her that though a girl might be used here and there, the majority of the victims would be used to reward militants after something big—some vital win. ISIS wasn’t the type of organization that would pay to feed fifty girls for long.

A chill spread down her arms as she raked the courtyard with her group of workers which included Gabby, Mina and Camile and her cronies. Olivia’s mind raced with the horrors of savagery that riddled the internet. Islamic State militants saw infidels as objects, not human beings. They hated western women as much as they hated the men, and Olivia had no illusions the harem was experiencing the calm before the storm.

What kind of storm? Where? When?

After their guard received a call on her walkie-talkie, the woman left her post and went inside. Olivia swept her gaze across the courtyard. The male guards always kept their distance and, presently, two stood shoulder-to-shoulder under an awning of what looked to be barracks. The men were smoking and talking, not paying much attention to the group of girls.

Olivia dragged her rake over the hard desert earth, moving closer to Gabby.

The Dutch girl looked up nervously.

“How long have you been in this place?” Olivia asked.

Gabby glanced over to the guards and then to the door where the lady guard had disappeared. “Forty-eight miserable days.”

“Do you know their plans for us?”

“I told you before, sex slaves.”

“I’m just wondering why there are so many of us here.”

“You’re better off not asking.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes girls are taken and they don’t come back.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Twice since I’ve been here.”

Olivia gulped. So there had been more.

“That’s right,” said Camile proudly as she sauntered up to them, her chin held high. “If you don’t please your date, he will kill you. If they find out you’re not a virgin, you’ll be stoned…”

“And if you refuse to submit, you go before the firing squad,” said Mathilde, though she sounded nowhere near as self-assured as her friend.

Camile nodded with a haughty smirk. “And talking is forbidden.”

“Why are you talking to me now?” asked Olivia, meeting the French leader’s gaze.

“I’ll allow it this once. Everyone needs to know what to expect.” Camile’s proud façade cracked a bit. “And I don’t want to see anyone die—not even you.”

Olivia glanced at the male guards. One looked up, and she quickly busied herself with raking, but stayed nearby the others. She still had questions. “Has Jadaa told you why there are so many of us here?”

“Do you have a death wish?” whispered Gabby. “You don’t ask questions like that.”

Camile pushed her rake forward and stopped Olivia’s. “The Dutch girl is right.”

Olivia shifted her rake aside. “Don’t you want to go home?”

“Never say that again! I could have you sent to the pit for such abomination.” Camile stepped nearer and craned her neck so she was nose-to-nose with Olivia. “There are many rules around here, but the only two you need to remember are to keep your mouth shut and honor your superiors.”

“Is that so?” Olivia asked, trying not to sound flabbergasted. “Don’t you mean my captors?”

“I mean me.” Camile tossed her head like a snot. “I’m reserved for al-Umari himself. And that puts me at the top of the pecking order.”

Olivia drew her hand over her eyes so the girls wouldn’t see them rolling. No one on the planet should be proud about being favored by al-Umari, especially a blonde teenager who, in that sadistic pig’s eyes, was an object to satisfy his lust before he murdered her…quickly if she was lucky.

“Jadaa listens to everything she says,” said Mathilde. “If you speak out against Camile, you will be punished.”

“Severely,” said another.

Olivia made her eyes pop with surprise as she shifted her gaze between the girls. “W-what kind of punishment?”

“The pit…in the hot sun.”

“Without water.”

“What else?” Olivia asked.

Camile smirked. “There are points. You have nil.”

One of the guards under the awning turned his attention to them while he tossed his cigarette butt down and ground it into the dirt with the toe of his boot. Narrowing his gaze, he started toward them, but his mate caught his arm, starting up another conversation.

Olivia raked. “How do you earn points?”

Camile didn’t budge. The girl must have a modicum of immunity because she wasn’t half as afraid as the others. “If you tell me when someone has misbehaved you receive one point, but if you lie, you lose two. If Jadaa sends you to a hero’s arms, you receive five points if he is pleased. If he is not pleased, you spend two days in the pit.”

“If he doesn’t kill you first,” mumbled Gabby.

Camile leaned on her rake and stood akimbo like she was queen of the dunghill. “Make sure he’s pleased because two days in the pit will kill you.”

Olivia curled her fingers into a fist. Dear God, how she’d like to bury her knuckles in the French girl’s arrogant face. “Have you been in the pit?”

“Not me. Like I said, I’m al-Umari’s favorite.”

“Have you met him?”

Camile’s eyes grew dark. “Enough questions.”

Right. Eyes never lied. Camile had never seen her admirer, or else she’d be scared shitless like the rest of them.

“Silence!” Jadaa hollered as the door opened. “Olivia, come.”

“What?” Camile jammed a fist to her hip. “She only just arrived.”

Camile was met with a vicious glare. Evidently, the dunghill queen wasn’t considered to be quite as high and mighty by her jailers.

Jadaa beckoned with an impatient wave of her hand.

Gabby gave Olivia a light shove. “You’d better go or else there’ll be hell to pay.”

Steeling her nerves, Olivia handed the rake to her friend and followed the older woman into the same office she’d been in for her initiation.

Once inside, Jadaa hastily straightened Olivia’s veil. “You look disgraceful,” she said in Arabic.

Olivia pretended not to understand. “When are you going to let me go home?”

The woman dealt a quick slap to the side of Olivia’s head, above the ear where it wouldn’t show a bruise. “Sh.”

Did Jadaa have some understanding of what she was saying? Was it the word home? “Do you understand me?”

Another slap followed by another “sh”.

Maybe she didn’t.

Olivia rubbed her head and closed her eyes against her instinct to hit back. Again, she reminded herself of her mission. Those poor girls needed a hero and if Olivia had to swallow her pride a hundred times before her opportunity came, by God she’d do it.

Jadaa grasped Olivia by the shoulders and urged her to stand straight.

Then the side door opened and in walked a man in a black ISIS commander’s uniform with a matching turban. Over his shoulder, he carried an AK47. He was ready for battle with a holstered sidearm and black ammunition vest.

Olivia’s gut squeezed. Were they going to force her already? Perspiration stung her pits.

Jadaa grinned, showing a missing tooth—right front. “See what I mean? She’s the prettiest yet.”

The uniform stepped forward with a squint. Then he yanked off Olivia’s veil. He cocked his head and, using his pointer finger, he pushed her chin from side to side.

Though she knew why he was scrutinizing, Olivia didn’t want to appear too willing. “I beg your pardon?”

“English?” the man asked.

Jadaa nodded rapidly. “Yes.”

His lips curled up as he stepped back and checked out her boobs. “He will like the idea of fucking the English even more than the French.”

Olivia stole a downward glance at her attire. As far as she was concerned, she looked about as sexy as a bear. And her experience in the two years she spent undercover with Khalil proved jihadists were as red-blooded as any other men when it came to women’s sexiness.

“Camile has grown too insolent.” Jadaa stepped in, folding her arms with a critical eye. “And I think this one will please the caliph more.”

Olivia kept her face impassive while her stomach lurched. The caliph? Would she finally have her chance to meet al-Umari face-to-face?

The commander stroked his fingers down his beard. “And you do not think this one will be difficult? She has fire in her eyes.”

“But the caliph likes a challenge. I say her fire is maturity.”

“I don’t see the fear.”

Olivia clasped her hands under her chin. “Could someone please tell me what’s going on? If the pair of you have any questions, I am more than willing to explain, especially if it will buy me a ticket home.” She pointed to the cell phone on the desk. “Translation app?”

Jadaa boxed Olivia’s ear. “Sh.”

Shuffling back, Olivia held her fists tighter.

Then the commander stepped in and squeezed her chin, flipping up her top lip and looking at her teeth like she was a bloody mule.

Olivia couldn’t mask the shot of anger making her eyes twitch.

He patted her cheek and laughed. “You have learned self-control. I like that in a woman, even if you are the spawn of the infidel.” He turned to Jadaa. “This one will be difficult, but I will show her photograph to the caliph. He may change his mind about the other.”

“He will like this one. Mark me.” Jadaa shouldered in and arranged Olivia’s veil, then pinched her cheeks. “Smile,” she said in Arabic, grinning and pointing to her mouth.

The man held up a camera. Olivia complied, wishing she would have had a decent night’s sleep and a bit of makeup. She’d put on a swimming suit and strut down the catwalk if it meant she’d have a chance at al-Umari.

The flash nearly blinded her.

“Ensure that she understands her place,” the officer said as he strode to the door.

“She will be ready.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

In the WC, Olivia washed her hands at the communal basin, taking note of the cameras placed in every corner. They had cameras everywhere, but in the loo? What did she expect after the humiliation of Jadaa’s pressure washer? Her skin was still raw, though her bruised ribs had started to heal.

All but one girl had finished brushing their hair and their teeth and going through female pre-bedtime rituals. Olivia pretended to dawdle.

Behind her, a toilet flushed and Mathilde Petit came out of the stall. At the basin, the girl whose face had graced the monitors in the ICE sit room lathered her hands, using the foot pump to make the water spray.

“I remember you. I saw you on the news.” Olivia lowered her brush, looking at the girl in the mirror. “They said you were kidnapped by Taaha Khan.”

Mathilde glanced up, wildly shaking the water from her fingers. Her eyes grew round with fear. “I was on the news?”

“Oui. I was in Lyon at the time…ah…doing work study.” Olivia looked over her shoulder to double check that they were alone. “Where is Taaha now?”

Anguish filled her eyes as her lips trembled. “T-they killed him.”

“What?”

“Right before my eyes.” A tear dribbled down Mathilde’s cheek and she swiped it away. “We can’t talk about it. The cameras!”

“Sh,” Olivia cooed. Pulling the teen into an embrace, she whispered in her ear, “They can’t hear what we’re saying if we keep our voices down. You need to get it out, sweetheart… Where did they kill him? In France?”

Mathilde’s entire body trembled and her breathing sped. “Non. Right after we arrived. It was a-aw-fuuul.”

“Did you come here willingly?”

“At first. Taaha told me he wanted me to meet his family. Said we would only be gone for a few days, so I slipped away without telling anyone. I-I thought he loved me.”

“But he brought you here instead?”

“He betrayed me.” She nodded, clinging to Olivia, practically hyperventilating. “B-but they still shot him as soon as he stepped out of the car. A-and other men have been killed, too. I-I wasn’t the only one.”

Olivia ran her hand over the girl’s hair while she kept it together. They’d tried to kill Logan. Surely they hadn’t been successful. Had they? Was the microchip in her head working? Did ICE know her location? Did the compound have some sort of radio frequency scrambling in place?

God, this op was going to kill her. Somehow, she had to find a way to contact ICE. And where the hell were they? She’d been there for three days. Didn’t they know they needed to move fast? The longer they waited, the greater the chances that something really, really bad would happen.

Shit…and the numbers. They have no idea there are fifty-two hostages here.

She cupped Mathilde’s cheek with her palm, searching for something consoling to say. “We have to stay strong. Too many girls have gone missing not to draw suspicion. Someone has to be looking for us.”

“You know this is ISIS,” Mathilde hissed. “We’re somewhere deep in Syria. No one can get to us. They’re going to kill us all!”

“Be strong and do what you have to do to stay alive.” If only Olivia could tell the girl a rescue mission was underway. “We all need to stand together to ensure they don’t—”

“What are you doing?” Camile stepped inside. “You’re not allowed to talk about ISIS. I’m going to report you both. Two points to me.”

How long had the dunghill queen been listening in?

Mathilde cowered, grasping Olivia’s arm. “Non!”

“Excuse me?” Olivia threw back her shoulders. “Why would you do that?”

The bitch sauntered forward. “I’m the favorite. If you’re not on my side, then you’re expendable.”

“Who told you that?”

“Jadaa.” Camile’s chin twitched up.

“Do you speak Arabic?” Olivia asked while Mathilde continued to cower.

The queen rolled her eyes. “She has a translation app.”

“All right. I get that you’re the golden girl around here. But still, why would you want to rat us out? This isn’t paradise. We’re all being forced against our will.”

“But if we obey the rules, we will be rewarded. I’ll receive two points if I tell Jadaa you were talking about ISIS.”

“And what will those points get you in the end? A bowl of sweetened dates?”

“A ticket out of here.”

“You’re sure of that?”

Camile turned on her heel. “You talk too much, and you will end up in the pit.”

Mathilde followed the queen, pleading for mercy, obviously buying into the queen’s line of tripe.

Olivia drew in a few deep breaths before she followed. She’d forgotten how shallow teenagers could be…and how gullible.

With a resolute sigh, she returned to the bunk room. But once inside, rage pulsed through her veins.

Gabby was lying on her side, with her arms wrapped around her knees. Hushed sobs sniffled through her nose as she rocked.

Mina sat on the edge of the bed, tears shining on her cheeks.

“What happened?” Olivia asked in a whisper.

Camile dashed through the maze of bedrolls. “You are not to speak!” she whisper-shouted while the other French girls gathered behind her.

A German bird thrust her finger at the cameras. “Zum schweigen bringen.” The teenagers behind her all looked on with wide eyes, moving their fingers to their lips indicating silence.

Cowards, the lot of them.

Olivia frowned and held up her palm. “Don’t you care about Gabby?” she said in the most pointed whisper she could manage. “She’s one of us, for chrissake. Stop this nonsense, go back to bed and pretend like nothing has happened.”

Olivia glanced to the guards. They were watchful, but hadn’t done anything to intervene, most likely because Olivia hadn’t let Camile ride roughshod. As the tension in the air dissipated and the hostages returned to their mats, Olivia moved in beside Mina to get a better look at Gabby. Christ, the side of her face was turning purple. Blood had seeped onto the mat under the girl’s hips. “Point to where you’re hurt.”

Gabby closed her eyes and shook her head.

Olivia reached for the hem of Gabby’s abaya. “I’m going to have a look.”

Mina grasped her arm. “No.”

“Don’t stop me!” Olivia hissed.

Peering beneath the cloth, Olivia pursed her lips against her revulsion—against her urge to take immediate retaliatory action. Gabby not only had been beaten, she’d been savagely raped. Blood trickled from her anus and there was a stream coming from her vagina as well. Bruises peppered her legs.

“He wasn’t happy with me,” Gabby whispered through suppressed sobs. “Jadaa will throw me in the pit for certain.”

Jesus Christ. The girl needed medical attention and she was worried about the pit? Olivia lowered the hem and gently smoothed it down. Her first priority was to care for this poor lass. “Do you think anything might be broken?”

She shook her head. “I can walk.”

Olivia crawled toward Gabby’s head and kneeled. “Let me have a look at your eyes.”

The girl’s pupils were dilated. She probably had a concussion, and God knew what other internal damage there might be. Yes, Olivia knew this sort of thing would happen and worse, but that didn’t make the horror of it any easier to bear.

Making a snap decision, Olivia dashed for the WC.

One of the guards brandished her AK47 and blocked the door.

Olivia pointed toward Gabby. “I need a cloth, ice and antiseptic. Can you get that for me?”

The guard shoved her in the gut with the gun. “Back inside,” she said in Arabic, clearly not understanding anything Olivia had requested.

Olivia moved the butt of the gun aside, careful not to use too much force. Grabbing her stomach with one hand, she doubled over and pointed to the loo. “I will, but I need to use the toilet.”

After a hesitant glare, the guard gave a single nod.

Once inside the WC, Olivia grabbed a towel and doused it, then wrung it out. She tightly wrapped a dry towel around the outside and stuffed it under her abaya. Regarding her profile in the mirror, she held her arms across her midsection making the bundle appear as small as possible. Then she didn’t look at the guard as she hastened back to the bunk room.

But this time, Olivia went straight to her bedroll and lay down…until they cut the lights. Only then did she slide over to Gabby’s side. “I tried to get some ice and antiseptic, but those savages understand nothing.”

Gabby drew in a stuttered breath.

Silently, Olivia cleansed the weeping girl’s wounds with the damp cloth, then folded the dry one and applied it between Gabby’s legs. She then rolled the wet cloth, keeping the clean side out, and applied it to her head.

“Rest now.” She placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder “I wish I could do more.”

When Olivia slid back to her bedroll, she swore she would act, and soon. Camile didn’t need to tell her she was on thin ice, and no one needed to tell her she wouldn’t be any use to anyone if she ended up in the pit. That’s why she didn’t take out the guard in the hall. That’s why she didn’t get in Camile’s face.

Soon, ladies. Soon this nightmare will be over for us all.

***

The quarters outside Manbij were rough at best. Typical of an area wracked by civil war. No running water, sleeping on a threadbare Persian rug that looked like it was made in the nineteenth century. Logan didn’t complain. Neither did Mike. They had a job to do. They were professionals.

The rundown, old house was a good cover, though. It used to be the home of a goat herder before the war, and was surrounded by a cinderblock wall.

Satellite communication had been spotty. The little bit of equipment they’d brought along was even spottier. Logan thought the charges the Navy had supplied for the Kahlil op were crap. What he wouldn’t give for that kind of technology now.

ICE was promising a drop of equipment, but Logan was in enemy territory. The place was rife with anti-aircraft guns and radar. Getting anything inside without drawing attention was going to take a miracle. The good news was that assets, including aircraft carriers and Logan’s old USS Washington, were cruising for the Mediterranean. But things weren’t happening fast enough. And they still didn’t know what they were dealing with inside the compound.

For the past day, Logan had been working under the awning at the back of the house, trying to get an old drone to work. He’d found it in pieces in Mike’s crate of tricks—a casualty of another op. The batteries were finally charged and Logan had dug up a USB cable to connect the CPU. Once that was done, he downloaded the operating system onto his laptop.

The motor was shot and had to be rewound. He superglued a broken propeller and, now with a spit shine, it was ready for a trial run. “What kind of range does this thing have?” he asked.

Mike scratched his head. “A mile tops.”

“What about night vision?”

“Och, you’d best put in an order with R & D. They’re working on a beetle drone with thermal imaging, have you seen it?”

“Yeah, the problem is it’s not here—and when I was at ICE a few weeks ago, the prototype wasn’t ready.” Logan flipped the switch while all four props whirred to life. “Well, here goes.” Once he had the drone airborne, he used the screen to maneuver.

“You should have been a flight engineer.” Mike stepped out from under the awning. “Can you take it higher?”

The thing was only about eight feet off the ground.

“I’ll give it a shot.” Logan pushed up on the controller stick and the drone began to ascend. A gust of wind came up and blew it westward. Logan countered with the right rocker.

“She’s not spinning fast enough.”

He brought it down and, after a few more tweaks, the second trial was a reasonable success. At least they’d be able to have a look at the compound without drawing attention, aside from the fact they’d have to do the flyby during daylight hours. Logan had wasted enough time. After he and Mike agreed on a plan, Alif drove them to the backside of a hill that overlooked the compound from a western vantage point. Logan checked his ICE watch. Olivia’s signal was the strongest it had been since leaving France. She was down there. Now, he needed to figure out where.

As a precaution, both Logan and Mike wore jihadi turbans as they climbed the distance toward the summit. Before they crested the hill, they dropped and leopard-crawled until the compound came into view.

“Looks oddly peaceful from here,” said Mike.

Logan pulled his binoculars out of his pack. “But it’s not. Check out the guards at ten and six.”

“And two—there’s a human leg showing beneath the canopy.”

Surrounded by razor wire, the compound was huge. A dirt airstrip ran along the north boundary, extending behind an enormous mansion that hadn’t looked like much from the satellite image.

“The buildings must be covered with anti-aircraft netting,” said Logan.

Mike held his set of binoculars to his eyes. “Aye, they’re trying to keep the place hidden for certain.”

The nearest building was in the worst shape, looking like a rundown warehouse. Logan pointed. “My guess is the girls are in there.”

“Is that a canopy of netting, or a rooftop?” asked Mike.

“Can’t tell from here.” Logan lowered his binoculars and backed down the hill until his head was clear. “Let’s just hope the thing stays aloft long enough for us to acquire intel. Are you ready?”

Mike patted his M4. “Let her rip.”

Logan flipped on the camera before the quad propellers spun, slowly taking the drone aloft. Once he had the drone high enough so the noise from the props couldn’t be heard, he pushed the joystick forward until it hovered on the edge of the compound and came into view.

“Picture looks good.” Mike watched the screen while Logan maneuvered the drone.

Against the breeze to allay the electronic whirr, he steered it between the guards at six and ten.

“Damn,” Mike swore.

Logan glanced toward the screen. “What do you see?”

“Bugger all. The place is in the shadows. Can you move her south?”

“Roger that.” Logan shifted the joystick while trying to get a bit more height. “Do you see anyone?”

“Just two of the guards.”

Logan leaned in and took a glance at the screen. “The only way we’ll pick anything up is if someone moves below the mesh.”

“Take her higher. With a few good pictures we ought to be able get a better feel for the layout.”

“I’ll see if she’s got anything left.” While Logan watched the drone, something flashed. “Shit.” Lead dropped to the pit of his stomach.

“What?”

“She’s blown her engine. Dive bombing for a crash landing.”

Mike folded up the laptop and shoved it in the backpack. “Time to disappear, mate.”

A bullet hissed over Logan’s turban before he heard the shot. “Incoming!”

Together, they slid down the slope until it was safe enough to hop to their feet. Running to the truck, Logan rolled his finger through the air, signaling Alif to fire up the engine.

Logan took the middle then Mike jumped in on the passenger side. Alif gunned the motor, driving off as fast as the old truck could go, topping out at forty miles per hour.

It wasn’t long before al-Umari’s guards made chase. At the sound of approaching vehicles, Logan leaned forward to look out Alif’s side mirror. Through the dust, two motorcycles were closing in, shooters on the back.

“They’re gaining fast,” said Mike.

Logan drew his Glock and flipped off the safety.

“I can’t out run them!” Alif shouted.

Logan pointed to an intersection—dirt, but all the roads within miles were dirt. “Turn up there.”

Alif gaped. “What?”

“Do it!” Logan shouted, waving his pistol toward the road.

The truck rocked over on its right wheels as Alif bore down on the steering wheel. Logan and Mike countered, shifting their weight left, crushing the NATO operative against the driver’s side door. The truck thudded down on all four wheels, then fishtailed in the dirt as Alif gunned it.

Logan checked the mirror. “Perps following.”

Mike smacked the magazine of his M4 with the heel of his hand and shifted it to his shoulder. “Coming up on my right.”

The sound of machine gun fire cracked at the back of the truck on the passenger side. Bullets pummeled and hissed. Mike shoved his rifle out the window and held down the trigger, using his mirror. Once he’d created a diversion, he twisted around and fired off two clean shots. “Motorbike one down.”

Logan watched the second approach in Alif’s side mirror. The shooter aimed as they grew nearer, but he didn’t offload his magazine into the van of the truck like the first guy had. The motorcycle’s engine rumbled louder as the driver pushed the throttle.

“Lean back.” Logan squared his shoulders, shoving Alif against the seat. He raised his pistol. The biker’s head of black hair came into view. He fired. Before he blinked, he shifted his hands slightly left, and took a second shot. Two bullets hit their marks in less than a second. The driver and shooter were dead before they hit the ground. “Bike two down.”

“Any survivors?” asked Mike.

“Nope.”

“You pair ought to be in the movies.” Alif grinned as he tapped the brakes and slowed the truck. “But I think we might have been hit. She’s not running too good.”

“How far to the nearest paved road?” Logan asked. The motor had acquired a low whir, but it wasn’t knocking…at least not yet.

“Maybe four miles to the north.”

“Carry on, then.”

Alif gaped. “But that’ll take us three hours out of our way.”

“I dunna care if it takes us all night,” said Mike. “If we make can make it to a paved road, anyone who finds those goons willna have a chance in hell of tracking us.”

Logan sheathed his weapon and leaned back. Unfortunately, ISIS now knew someone had found their hideaway, though there had been no hostages outside—if any were still alive. Logan erased that thought, hanging on to the hope that al-Umari had more enemies in the Middle East than anywhere. With luck, ISIS would blame the Syrian Opposition forces who occupied the northwest.

After two hours, the truck’s engine started knocking, but later managed to roll into their base camp sputtering and hissing. Finally, the motor died in the yard and the men had to push the truck under the lean-to.

“How long to fix?” Logan asked.

Alif shrugged. “Depends on what’s wrong.”

Great. They were stranded in ISIS territory without wheels and the NATO reinforcements were at least four days out. Logan turned to Mike. “Did you get any footage we can use?”

“Nothing we don’t already know, mate.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The sound of the drone’s dying motor howled through the compound as it came crashing to the ground. Immediately, the yelling started. Across the courtyard, the male guards sprang to action, running for the contraption with their weapons drawn.

Olivia and her team had been scrubbing the tiles under the awning. She stood and looked on, hoping the drone would explode with a spray of steel darts, but as the men surrounded it, nothing happened.

The woman guarding Olivia’s group brandished her AK47 like it was a policeman’s traffic baton as she herded the girls into the mess where the others had been mustered as well. The girls all sat at the tables, as a low hum of murmurs swarmed through the air. Olivia didn’t follow suit. She moved to the window where she could see out and leaned against the sill, looking nonplused. She picked under her fingernails for added effect.

Once the hostages were assembled, Jadaa took the female guards to the courtyard and met with the officer who had taken Olivia’s picture. She panned her gaze across the room until she stopped at the door. For once, every single guard was outside. The noise in the room rose to a cacophony of animated chatter as if the girls realized it, too.

She moved to the doorway and stood there for a moment. No one seemed to notice. Even Camile was engaged in conversation.

Olivia slipped out into the hall. Seeing no one, she ran on the balls of her feet, dashed straight into Jadaa’s office, and closed the door. Her palms perspired as she slid behind the computer. She didn’t sit. The screen was black. With a quick move of the mouse, a password dialogue box appeared.

Shit.

She typed the first thing that came to mind: al-Umari.

A rainbow circle indicated the computer was thinking.

Olivia’s finger twitched on the mouse.

In the next millisecond, Jadaa’s emails appeared on the screen.

Olivia’s heart skipped a beat as she covered her mouth—at the top was an unopened e-mail from “The Caliph”. That could only be one man. Damn, she needed to send word to ICE, but this was too bloody tempting.

She clicked it open and read. The memo was addressed, Dear Mother and went on to complain about being tired. The bloody bastard was out there murdering innocent Christians and Kurds, and he was effing tired?

Hesitating, Olivia reread the salutation. Dear Mother? Holy shit, Jadaa gave birth to the evilest despot since Hitler? She thought back to al-Umari’s profile. His mother was Syrian, which made sense. No wonder she’d adopted the Arabic name, grandmother. It would be suicide if anyone knew the truth.

Reading on, he complained about his wives’ fighting and how he wished they’d get along. Toward the end of the e-mail he finally got down to business and said his army would soon be victorious in cleansing the lands of the Euphrates from defilement by the infidel.

Olivia scrolled down, looking for a battle location she could report to Logan, but the bastard just signed off: Your loving son.

Shit.

In the distance a door closed.

Olivia hastily opened a new e-mail typed in a cryptic address that would be rerouted to Logan and Garth:

Still alive.

Need exfil for 53 including me.

O

She clicked send.

The computer dinged.

You are presently not connected to the internet.

She stared in disbelief.

WTF?

She clicked send again.

Same message.

Footsteps approached.

Her fingers shook as she deleted the e-mail.

The footsteps stopped outside the door.

Jadaa’s voice reverberated from the hallway. “That drone is a piece of crap. It has to be the Syrian Opposition. They’re the only idiots stupid enough to try something like that.”

“We’ll find them,” said a man.

“The English girl is missing!” yelled a voice.

“Who was watching them?” Jadaa shouted.

Two sets of footsteps clattered away.

Olivia let out a breath, listening for movement on the other side of the door before she opened it. Hearing nothing, she slipped out and dashed for the mess hall on the balls of her feet, not making a sound.

“Where have you been?” Jadaa demanded into her cell phone translation app as Olivia approached.

She spread her palms. “The loo.”

Letting out a frustrated groan, Jadaa grabbed Olivia by the hair and dragged her down the corridor into the shower room—the place where they pressure-washed newcomers. The hag threw a bucket and a scrub brush against the wall, then spoke into the app again. “You will clean the shower from top to bottom and I will lock you inside until it’s done.”

Jadaa’s black garments billowed as she turned and left, the lock clicking.

Olivia looked to the bucket and ran her hand down her mouth. She’d taken a risk and had cut it too damned close. If only her e-mail had been sent successfully, the risk mightn’t have been for naught.

***

Jadaa had released Olivia from the shower room in time for supper. Then another day passed without an indication that ICE had any idea about her location—aside from a piece of shit drone that was probably from the Syrian Opposition. If something didn’t happen soon, she’d have no choice but to take matters into her own hands.

On her hands and knees, Olivia scrubbed the tiles alongside Gabby and Mina. They hadn’t given Gabby a moment of respite. And in the few days Olivia had been there, all they’d done was clean under the watchful eye of armed guards. Today, they were in the hall outside Jadaa’s office, forced to scrub the floors with brushes not much bigger than a kitchen sponge.

Gabby dropped her brush and grabbed her wrist with a grimace.

Olivia scooted in beside her. “Let me see,” she whispered.

Gabby shook her head, but Olivia grasped the girl’s arm and pushed up her sleeve. Her wrist was swollen twice its normal size, and her knuckles were grazed.

“Can you use your left?” Olivia asked.

Gabby pulled back her sleeve far enough to reveal a crusty puncture wound looking as if she’d been stabbed with an icepick.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Back to work,” said the guard, pointing her AK47.

Obediently, Olivia reached for her brush but the fire burning in her chest forced her hand to still. Meeting the guard’s gaze, she rose to her feet. “Gabby is injured. She needs medical attention…a tabib.”

The guard pointed the gun at Olivia’s chest. “Work!”

Gabby picked up her scrub brush and dropped it, gasping in pain. She clutched her wrist against her body, her expression filled with anguish and fear.

“Work, you lazy child!” the guard screamed, her eyes wild with rage. She flicked off the safety and yanked back the charging handle. A bullet clinked in the rifle’s star chamber. “I’m sick of watching the infidel’s slothful daughters act as if they cannot labor through pain. Pain is life!” She jammed the muzzle of the gun against Gabby’s temple, moving her finger over the trigger.

Olivia shoved the girl aside and faced the barrel of the AK47. “If you’re going to murder someone, murder me!” she roared in Arabic. She’d gone long enough feigning ignorance. By God, if it would save a life, she’d confess to espionage.

The guard hesitated, blinking.

Olivia reached back, ensuring Gabby was safely behind her. “This girl’s right wrist has been dislocated at best, and she’s been stabbed in the left. She needs to see a doctor. Now!”

The guard shifted her gaze to the hostages, huddled together, looking at Olivia like she’d just announced her own funeral.

Thank God the woman released her finger from the trigger. “You speak the language?”

“Clearly.” Olivia moved closer, nearly close enough to reach the AK47’s muzzle.

“Who are you?”

“Olivia White.” She took another step.

“Where are you from?”

“England, but you already know that, don’t you?”

“I knew you were trouble the day you arrived. I told Jadaa the same.”

“Why? Because I’m not afraid of you?”

“You’re arrogant. You think you’re better. And come to find out you’ve deceived us all! Are-are you a spy?”

“Of course not. I’m a hostage just like everyone else.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“How could I be a spy?” Olivia looked the woman directly in the eye. “There aren’t even any other Englishwomen here. The British have no skin in this game.”

The guard shifted her finger back to the trigger.

Olivia lunged to the side, shoving the muzzle upward.

A line of bullets peppered the ceiling.

Screams of terror echoed through the corridor.

Shouting for backup, the guard fought to twist the gun’s barrel away from Olivia’s grasp, but the woman obviously had no real training. Sweat beaded the jihadist’s forehead. Olivia slid one hand down the barrel and thrust hard, making the butt of the AK47 ram the guard’s solar plexus. With a grunt, she recoiled. Olivia wrenched the gun from the woman’s grasp and ejected the magazine, sending it clattering to the floor. “You idiots don’t need rifles to guard a few teenagers.”

After ensuring the chamber was empty, she dropped the weapon, sending it clattering to the floor. If she tried to escape, she might save herself, but even Olivia’s odds of survival were unlikely. Shaking, she regarded poor Gabby. The girl cowered against the wall with the others as they wept.

More guards clambered into the hallway, their guns raised to their shoulders.

Olivia again moved in front of Gabby and raised her hands. “It was a misunderstanding. My fault!”

Jadaa followed while three rifle barrels pointed at Olivia’s head. She heaved in a calming breath and looked al-Umari’s mother in the eye. “Gabby needs a doctor.”

Frowning, Jadaa glanced from the unarmed guard to the girls to the discarded AK47. “What did you say?”

“My parents were missionaries. I speak Arabic.” Keeping her hands raised, Olivia nodded toward the Dutch girl. “Please…have someone look at Gabby. She can’t keep working with a broken wrist.”

But her request wasn’t even acknowledged. Jadaa crossed her arms. “Why didn’t you tell me you could speak the language?”

Olivia slowly lowered her arms. “I-I was afraid.”

The woman sauntered forward, her eyes narrowing. “What else have you lied about?”

Olivia hadn’t exactly lied, she just hadn’t volunteered. “I’m a victim here, a hostage.” She gestured toward the cowering group of teens. “Just like they are.”

Jadaa paced and looked to the discarded rifle and magazine. “Is this your handiwork?”

“She took my gun and disarmed it,” said the guard.

“Is that so?”

Olivia thought fast. “I did it so no one would end up shot. That woman pointed her gun at us and moved her finger to the trigger.”

“The commander warned you were a courageous one. But you’re a deceitful firecracker. I must take extra precautions with you.” Jadaa jabbed her finger into Olivia’s sternum. “You must be punished. Take her to the pit. See if that readjusts your attitude. If you ever act out again, you will lose your head!”

One of the guards poked her shoulder with the point of a rifle. “Move it.”

Though Olivia wanted to fight, to send al-Umari’s mother to her grave, every retaliatory response had the potential for disaster, not only for her, but for Gabby and the others. And her mission wasn’t accomplished by half. Growling under her breath, she put on an act of defeat while they pushed her into the pit and locked a steel grate in place above her head.

“Jadaa,” she yelled at the top of her lungs, her fingers wrapping around the grillwork. “You can’t do this to me. I am innocent!”

The guard who’d held the gun to Gabby’s head kicked dirt into Olivia’s face. “You are filth. The infidel’s spawn. You will die a painful death and I will laugh as I watch.”

Then Jadaa’s face came into view. “Tell me the truth. Why didn’t you admit that you speak the language?”

“I-I was terrified. I was kidnapped. Then you blasted me with a pressure washer that took off a layer of skin. You gave me no reason to trust you.”

“Trust? What do you know about trust? Your kind have done nothing but try to tell us how to live our lives. Well, no more. You are my slave. The sooner you accept it, the better.”

Olivia gripped her fingers tighter. “I am a free subject of England.”

“No longer. You are the property of al-Umari. A holy battle will soon be won and the soldiers of Islam shall be rewarded…and that prideful smirk will be wiped off your face forever.”

Olivia’s stomach flipped. Jesus Christ, she was trapped in a pit and hell was about to be unleashed? Her mind raced. How could she ask without revealing her hand? “A battle against the infidel?”

“That is none of your concern.”

Damn it.

She had to keep the woman talking. “Please…you’re not going to hurt the girls—”

“Shut up! You are forbidden to speak.” Jadaa kicked again, more dirt showered into Olivia’s face as the evil witch strode out of sight.

Sliding down the dirt wall, she ground her molars. How could she get a message to the allies? Where the hell had the drone come from and who had been flying it? Where in God’s name was Logan? Had ICE lost her signal?

Her shoulders sagged as she shook her head. Just when things started to heat up, she had to be a bloody hero and end up locked in the pit. She slammed her fist against the wall.

What if a rescue never comes?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

After hiking five miles to the compound, Logan waited with Mike until after midnight. In order to run this op, he needed eyes inside. Disappointing, but no surprise there hadn’t been any contact from Olivia, hostages were always locked up and guarded around the clock. And if he knew the duchess, she wouldn’t do anything to put the girls in danger or expose the op.

Logan put on a pair of night vision goggles and grabbed his backpack. He was going in. At the top of the hill, Mike would wait with a sniper rifle, just in case things didn’t go as planned.

“You need anything else?” asked the Scot.

“You got any whisky?”

“Those words will get you killed around here, mate.”

“It’s not what you think. I call it a SEAL insurance policy.”

“Aye? Then I think I can help.” Mike hopped into the cab and opened the glove box. “Here it is. Insurance.”

Logan took the fifth of Jack. “A Scot with some taste.”

“That stuff is rubbish. The best whisky on the planet is made on Islay. It’s peaty.”

“You don’t say? You’ll have to introduce me after we get out of here.” Logan stashed the bottle in his pack.

“I’d be happy to.” Mike slapped his shoulder. “You certain you don’t want me to come?”

“Reconnaissance is better done alone.”

“Right-o, mate. I’ll see you back here then.”

“Hooyah.”

Logan headed eastward on foot while Mike climbed the hill with his rifle.

The one useful thing the drone video had revealed was a hole in the chain link fence on the western side of the gate, not far from one of the outbuildings. It looked as if an animal had tried to burrow under—or a prisoner. Nonetheless, it was a breach that already existed. The last thing Logan wanted to do was to further amp up any suspicion that someone was trying to rescue the girls. The drone disaster could have been caused by curious kids, especially since the thing was in such bad shape. However, a fresh breach in the fence would only serve to confirm the fact that the compound’s security had been compromised.

He quickly skittered down the hill and, once Logan made it to the breach, he lay flat on his belly and waited until the spotlight swept past, then he scrambled through the gap. He pushed up his sleeve to look at his watch, but approaching footsteps stopped him. Dashing beside an air-conditioning unit connected to the old building, Logan hid in the shadows, pressing his back against the wall.

A guard stopped while another set of footsteps approached. Together they each lit a cigarette and continued to have a nice, long conversation, none of which Logan understood.

He crouched, frozen in place, envisioning all the ways to fight his way out if they spotted him. But fighting bore the risk of alerting the compound to his presence. Not a good option when trying to slip in and out unnoticed.

The pair didn’t just light up and have a few puffs either. They sucked their cigarettes right down to the butts. Just when Logan’s thighs started cramping, the first man flipped his to the dirt, said goodbye, then headed back the way he came.

Guard number two leaned against the wall and took in another long drag.

Yeah, suck all you can out of that cancer stick.

Logan’s knees burned, too. But he clenched his teeth and bore it.

The guy pushed off from the wall.

Logan held his breath. Not even a finger twitched.

This guard did not return from whence he came. This bastard turned and walked directly past the air-conditioning unit.

Keep going.

The guy stopped. He stood still for a moment and looked out toward the fence—up the hill where Mike lay in wait.

Logan’s heart thundered in his ears as he let out a silent breath, then drew another equally as quiet.

But the man didn’t continue on his path. The bastard turned toward the AC unit.

Logan sprang.

His knees snapped straight. Before the guard finished turning, Logan sliced a karate chop to the base of the man’s skull. With a grunt, the guard buckled and dropped to the dirt face first.

Gritting his teeth, he rolled the perp to his back then grabbed him under the pits and dragged the hulk into a sitting position against the wall.

Quickly, he pulled the fifth of Jack from his backpack and poured it over the guy’s clothes. With the dregs, Logan sluiced a dollop in his palm and a smeared it over the guard’s face. Then he planted the empty fifth in the man’s hand and rested it in his lap.

Standing back, he regarded his handiwork. The guy looked guiltier than sin. Logan left everything else as is—the AK47 remained secured in its harness, bullets in place, everything. The man would be out for hours and if anyone found him, the soldier would be flayed before he got a chance to defend himself. If he awoke first, he’d never be able to explain how he ended up smelling like whisky with a throbbing headache that would last a good week.

Logan gave the bottom of man’s boot a kick. “You had to stop, didn’t you?”

He illuminated his watch and brought up Olivia’s signal. Odd. Though the satellite map only showed the compound without the building definition, the red light flashed thirty feet in the same direction the whisky-guzzling guard had been headed. And there wasn’t a building in that direction.

And once Logan stepped around the corner, he understood why. He’d seen pit cells before and there was no mistaking the four grates secured in the ground. He tapped his watch and narrowed the scope. Olivia was on the far end—or at least her microchip was.

He gulped as he made his way over there. Who knew what he’d find. People didn’t last long sitting in the sun in the arid desert. After crawling to the grate on his stomach, he grabbed a pin light and stuck his hand down between the bars before he turned it on.

Blonde hair.

His heart skipped a beat.

“Olivia?” he whispered.

With a jolt, she sprang to her feet. “Logan?”

Heavy weight lifted from his shoulders. “How’d you end up in a pit?”

She shook her head with a snort. “Playing the Good Samaritan.”

“You?”

“Hush.” She leaned against the wall and pushed her mop of messy hair away from her eyes. Jeez, he’d never seen her so disheveled. “See what happens when I try to do something nice?”

He chuckled under his breath, then examined the lock—he could pick it in about a minute. “Let me get you out of here.”

“No,” she hissed.

He hesitated. “Why not?”

“If I escape, they’ll know something’s up. They are already jumpy because of your faulty drone prank—that was you, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, I had no choice. Getting equipment into northern Syria is harder than breaking into Fort Knox. This place is black to satellites, and you haven’t sent any love notes, sweetheart.”

Olivia sighed. “Not for want of trying. And that’s why I have this damned chip in my head.”

“I know. So, what are we up against. How many girls? How many guards?”

“There are four female guards around the clock—they rotate—three shifts per day. I don’t know how many soldiers are posted in the barracks along the eastern fence, but the place is locked down. I think some of them come and go—and word is a whole lot more are coming.”

“More? When?”

“Soon. something’s going down. Al-Umari’s mother told—”

“Wait—the freak has a mother?”

“She’s the head bitch—let me tell you, like mother like son. She likes to drag us around by the hair.”

“Unbelievable.” Reaching in, Logan smoothed his hand over her hair. “What’s going down?”

“A battle. I don’t know where. Someplace close and near the Euphrates. They’re expecting a victory and valiant soldiers will be rewarded.”

“With fair-haired virgins?”

“Yes, sir.” She cringed as if feeling sick. “And if al-Umari’s men are not happy, the girls will be shot…if they’re lucky.”

“Christ.” His stomach muscles clenched. “Do you know when?”

“If I did it would have been the first thing out of my mouth.” Olivia grasped Logan’s hand. Lord, it felt so good to touch her. “You’ve got to get the hostages out of here. And it’s not going to be easy, because there are fifty-three of them if you count me.”

“What?”

“Fifty-three.”

Logan looked skyward. “Jesus, we’re gonna need more copters. And if what you say is true about the soldiers, we’ll need more firepower.”

Olivia squeezed his fingers. She looked like shit—still pretty, but frazzled. “Why is Garth taking so long?”

“Brining in military ops takes time—same as it did when I was a SEAL. All the higher-ups need to give their blessing first.”

“Tell them the murder of fifty-three European girls will be on their hands. That’ll ratchet up their ire—nationalities are French, German and Dutch.”

“Dutch?”

“Yeah, and one of the Dutch girls is why I’m in this pit. She was savagely raped and beaten, and I was trying to request medical assistance for her.”

Logan grimaced. “This is messed up.”

Her eyes grew wider, resolute. “Promise me you’ll tell Garth NATO forces have to strike now.”

“He’ll be the first to know. How much time do you think we have?”

“A day or two.”

“Shit.” He scanned the grounds. “Where are they holding the girls?”

“The long building on the west side. The bunks and head are on the second floor. First floor is the mess hall. We’re assigned to cleaning every day. Groups of ten. Inside and out. We’re locked in the bunk room after dinner—I’d guess around seven every night, then we’re up at first light.”

“Great intel.” He gulped, knowing things hadn’t been a picnic. “How are you hanging in there?”

“Aside from wanting to kick some ass?” She shrugged. “Hungry, thirsty. Alive.”

Logan released her hand, pulled the two bottles of water from his pack and handed them down.

“You’re a life saver.” She cracked the cap of one and guzzled.

He rubbed fingers over his pocket and located what he was looking for. “Got a power bar, too.”

She snatched it from his fingertips and ripped off the wrapper. In two blinks, she’d devoured the chocolate.

“How long do you think they’ll keep you locked up?” he asked.

“One of the girls told me no more than two days.” She passed up the wrapper and the empty bottle. “If they find this on me, they’ll probably cut off my head.”

Logan looked to the lock. If only he could pull her out of there right now. “Don’t joke about that.”

“I’m not. They’ve already threatened.”

“Jesus.” He pointed. “What are you planning to do with the second bottle?”

“Guess I’ll have to toss it out when it’s empty.”

“You should bury it.” He passed down a pocket knife and a leather thong. “Know what to do with this?”

“Hey, you’re talking to one of Britain’s best.”

“Good girl.”

She took the knife. “Tell Garth we can’t wait any longer than two days. I’ve got a bad, bad feeling and my intuition is hardly ever wrong.”

Logan nodded. “Two, three tops.”

She shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t think we have three.”

“I’ll ensure ICE understands.” Logan’s gut twisted and he reached down and cupped her cheek. “Hey, when this goes down, I don’t want you to be a hero.”

A determined look filled her eyes. “Sorry, cowboy, but I don’t know how to tuck my tail and walk away. I’m not leaving until every one of those girls is safe and accounted for.”

“Thought you’d say that.” He reached down and again grasped Olivia’s hand. Drawing it through the grill, he kissed her knuckles while a tempest stirred in his chest. “I mean it. Look after yourself. I’m coming with an army and if anyone lays a finger on you, I’ll blast them to hell.”

She puckered her lips and blew him a kiss. “It’s nice to have a boyfriend who’ll kill the bad guys for me.”

He grinned while his chest swelled. “Boyfriend?” He liked the sound of that.

“Teammate. Bloody hell, you know what I meant.”

“Yes, indeed, your grace.”

“You’d better get out of here before someone catches you.”

“See you in a couple days.”

“Count on it.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The next day, Olivia rationed the bottle of water, but when the sun hit its high point, there was no relief. She curled into a ball at the bottom of the pit, the earth providing a modicum of cool against the torturous sun. Her legs cramped and her lips chapped.

When the sun finally moved far enough west to provide a sliver of shade, Olivia sat and pressed her back against the cool wall, wrapping her arms around her knees to make herself as small as possible. Resting her head back, she closed her eyes and swallowed the sticky saliva in her mouth.

Seeing Logan gave her the strength to keep going. She hadn’t been abandoned. The hostages were not forsaken. Help was on its way.

Misery was not new to her, though her body wasn’t used to going without food and water. Worse, the desert sucked the fluids from her like a sieve. Even with the two bottles of water from Logan, it had been a day since she last peed. She’d be lucky to last one more day.

To stay sane, she worked through long stints of meditation, focusing on life, on her heartbeat, on the freedom of birds. She believed in her purpose. She would bring this operation down. This was why she’d joined ICE—to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. To be strong for naïve young women whose only err was to trust in social media and look for love in the wrong place.

When all she could think about was water, she drained the dregs from the bottle, then dug a hole in the packed earth with the knife Logan had given her. She smashed it flat and buried it in a shallow grave. While she still had the strength, she used the thong to fasten the sheath to her inner thigh.

By the next morning, she was in bad shape, rabid thirst trumping every other misery. When finally the grill screeched open, Olivia shaded her eyes with a trembling hand.

“Out,” hollered Jadaa as someone slid a ladder down the wall.

Blinking back the cobwebs, Olivia tried to swallow, but her throat felt lined with sand. It took every ounce of strength she could muster to pull herself to her feet. Legs cramped by two days in a pit thirty inches in diameter nearly gave way under her weight.

“Water,” she said, grasping a rung and starting her assent.

The woman produced a cup. “Come.”

The promise of a drink infused Olivia with enough strength to climb out. Steadying herself on the ladder, she reached for the cup. It wasn’t water, but tasted like raspberry cordial. Olivia didn’t care. It was wet and sweet, and streams of liquid drained from the corners of her mouth as she guzzled.

Two guards grabbed her under the arms and dragged her in Jadaa’s wake. The old woman didn’t lead them back to the harem barracks, but veered off to the enormous house in the northeast corner of the compound. Olivia’s head swam, lucid enough to realize she was suffering from heat stress. A bit of rest, a meal, a ton of hydration and she’d be fighting fit again.

But they were hauling her off in the wrong direction. The people she was sent to protect were housed on the other side of the compound. “Where are you taking me?”

“You must regain your strength.” Jadaa held the door to a blast of cool air.

Olivia nearly melted. Perhaps a few hours recuperating in air conditioning was what she needed. After walking through a corridor, Jadaa unlocked a door and gestured inside. “Rest. Eat.”

The guards released her arms but before she blindly went inside, she took a long look. If she wasn’t in the middle of hell she might have thought it to be a cheap hotel room. A bed, food on a table. There was even a television. But her eye homed in on the pitcher of ice water.

As soon as Olivia stepped inside, the door closed, leaving her alone. She staggered to the table and guzzled the ice water without bothering to pour it into a glass. Catching her breath, she wiped her mouth with the back of her arm. Before sitting, she moved to the window and pulled the drape aside.

Barred windows. She should have guessed.

Exhausted from her jaunt across the compound, she fell into the chair and regarded the food. Hummus, pita, thin-sliced lamb shawarma—a feast compared to what she’d been eating of late. Olivia ripped off a piece of pita and slathered it with hummus. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head while her taste buds exploded.

With a rush of ravenous cravings, she ate and drank like she’d been starved for a month. Food dribbled down her chin and she didn’t stop to wipe it off, she just shoveled more into her mouth. She ate so fast the food was gone before her stomach felt full. And when she finished, she stared at the empty plate, wishing for a slice of plum tart or a piece of chocolate. Five minutes later, she could barely move for the bloating. Her eyelids grew heavy and it only took a few steps to make it to the bed and drop face first where she promptly fell into a comatose sleep.

***

The ICE team of twenty highly trained operatives had parachuted into Logan’s camp in the dead of night. Logan recognized several with Stephan from Germany in the lead. He needed all the help he could get and it was good to see reinforcements arrive. Garth still couldn’t believe there were fifty-three girls to rescue. And with the news of the forthcoming battle confirmed by the US infantry, NATO assets were spread even thinner. Fifty-three meant more maneuvering in the Mediterranean. More copters, more eyes in the air, more public scrutiny if anything went wrong.

And nothing could go wrong.

As Olivia had warned, fighting had broken out near Aleppo with a barrage from ISIS IEDs. Satellites were diverted, but Garth pulled strings to ensure one stayed on the compound. It was a good thing, because she’d also been right about troops moving in. ICE had reported three trucks entering the compound. Who knew if an entire convoy of terrorists would reach their target before his op went down?

To cover his ass, Logan had insisted on more Apache air support. Mission Cat House was coming to a head, and there was no way Rodgers would be defeated. Too many innocent lives were on the line, especially Olivia Hamilton’s.

Logan stood at the table he’d been using as a command post. The troops had all filed inside, ready for his briefing.

He pointed to the red dot on the miniature he’d constructed of the compound. “Mike’s team is tasked to neutralize all enemy forces in the compound—you’ll be assisted by Apache firepower, but your job is to keep those bastards away from the hostages. My team’s objective is to secure the harem—for want of a better word. There’s no quarter given here. Each of you must shoot any perp who bars us from getting the hostages out.” He looked up. “Anyone got a problem with that?”

“No, sir,” everyone replied in unison, but Logan still made eye contact with each asset.

Once assured they were all one hundred percent on board, he pointed to the block of wood that posed as the girl’s bunkhouse. “The girls are here. Their best chance of survival is if we go in stealth. At night.” He pointed to the guard shack at the front. “We’ll start here. They man the gate with two guards twenty-four-seven.”

“What about taking them out with a sniper rifle?” asked Stephan.

Logan looked to Mike. The Scot scratched his mop of red hair. “I’m all for it if there’s a line of sight to both guards, otherwise one of them will sound an alarm before we have boots in the compound.”

“Agreed,” Mike said. “Even in daylight the chances of taking them both out bam, bam is slim to none.”

Logan continued. “Chinooks will land in the center of the compound here—where it’s not far for the hostages to run, and we’ll be less likely to lose someone to enemy fire. If we get separated, deliver the girls to the pickup area. We don’t leave until every hostage is safely aboard a copter. That clear?”

“Yes, sir,” everyone said for the second time.

“Are we all flying out, sir?” asked an ex-Ranger. “Once word gets out we’re staging an attack this close to Aleppo, rabs will be on us like flies to honey—not just ISIS either.”

“We will. We have enough helos coming in to ferry everyone out. Malik and Alif will stay with the truck and head directly west for Antakya in Turkey. If anyone goes missing, that’s where we’ll be looking for you. Contact ICE once you reach the border. Garth will give you instructions from there.”

“Isn’t the Turkish border closed?” asked Stephan.

“Not to us. They’re expecting the truck. They have a couple helos on standby to see to their safe passage as well.”

“What are we missing?” asked Mike.

Logan raked his fingers through his hair and looked at the miniature. Nothing ever went perfectly on a mission as complex as this, but there was one big unknown. “Olivia said that there’s not much hope for the hostages once al-Umari’s heroes arrive at the compound. Word came over the wire today that the fighting’s trickling off. We don’t have much time.” He eyed the twenty men who would be his backup. “Each and every one of you is trained to think fast. This is a rescue mission. We go in and we get out. Don’t try to be a hero. If a perp gets in your way, shoot him. If he runs and you don’t have a shot, do not pursue. The hostages are your first priority. Let’s take them home before they lose their lives to some radical jihadist thinking he’s going to be rewarded with heaven on earth.”

Mike shook his head. “Freaks.”

Logan looked at his watch, then held his wrist aloft. “Everyone have one of these?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We file into the back of the truck at sundown, 19:30.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Olivia awoke with a start after someone slapped the bottom of her foot. Two women dressed in niqabs faced her. She didn’t recognize them. “You will be bathed,” the nearest one said.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes, until the memory of the pressure washing made her cross her arms tightly. “I’m capable of bathing myself.”

Acting deaf, they ushered her down the corridor where the sunlight streamed through the windows. Though she wasn’t sure of the time, the sun had traversed to the western sky. They led her into a room with a walk-in bath—modern and elegant—completely different from the pressure-washing room. Inside, it was steaming and warm. The floors were tiled with mosaics and colorful silks hung from the ceiling, looking far more like a harem than the prison where the girls were being held.

When one of the women gestured toward the water, Olivia held back. Rubbing her thighs together, she turned in place as the knife’s sheath grazed over the inside of her leg. There it was, a tiny room with a toilet to give her some privacy. “Got to use the loo first.”

The women said nothing.

Once behind a closed door, Olivia removed the knife and hid it inside the toilet tank. She exited and moved to the basin to wash her hands and splash water on her face. Something was off with this pair and she needed to find out what.

“Bath,” one of the women said with impatience in her voice, thrusting her finger to the luxurious tub.

“Gladly. After experiencing the hospitality of your pit.”

One of the women had a prune face and the other had eyebrows so thick, she looked like a good candidate for electrolysis. Uni-brow poured some bath salts into the water. It smelled like jasmine and sizzled before it sank beneath the surface. If Olivia wasn’t suspicious of their motives, she’d enjoy a bit of pampering. Instead, she reluctantly disrobed and climbed down the steps until the warm water swirled around her shoulders. Regardless of her trepidation, it felt good, almost relaxing. She could stay in there all day, except she knew what was coming. Jadaa had even warned her.

The women—her jailors pampered her by gently pouring water over her head and then added more jasmine-scented bath salts. Another massaged in shampoo with soothing swirls of her fingers. Olivia rinsed out the suds and they applied conditioner. Yes, a harem like this, she could have tolerated.

But not now. Not after Gabby. Not after the pit. And especially not after what Jadaa had said about all the girls being pegged to be used as virginal rewards.

Olivia wasn’t a fool. She had no doubt they were priming her for a date with some mega schmuck, and maybe al-Umari himself. Would Logan liberate the compound before she was forced to submit to a monster?

Her hands trembled beneath the water. It wasn’t easy being the bait anymore, especially since she’d met the SEAL-turned-spy. The thought of any other man touching her made Olivia’s toes curl.

Uni-brow held up a towel and wrapped it around Olivia as she climbed out of the bath. “Why the royal treatment?” she asked.

“No talking,” the woman barked, sounding far more like an evil extremist.

Prune-face spread a towel over a massage table. “Lie on your back.”

Olivia hesitated.

“Do it or I’ll call in the guard,” Uni-brow threatened.

Olivia complied, keeping the towel wrapped around her body.

“Arms up.” Prune-face held out a pair of zip cuffs.

“That’s not necessary.”

Uni-brow pulled a Beretta from the holster she wore around her waist and cocked it, pointing the muzzle at Olivia’s temple. “Arms up.”

At gunpoint, they cuffed her wrists and tied them above her head. Olivia could take that, but when Prune-face spread her legs and tied her ankles, she had to clench her teeth to keep from screaming.

“You must be shaved.”

“I can shave my bloody self.”

“You are an infidel. You do not understand our customs.” Uni-brow sheathed her pistol and snatched the towel away from Olivia’s body.

“You’d be surprised what I understand.” She jerked and twisted against the bindings, only to make them cut deeper into her wrists.

Prune-face flicked open a razor—the old-fashioned type with a long, single blade. “We must shave everything below your neck.”

Olivia clenched her teeth and bucked in vain. Yes, she was aware Muslim custom was to keep one’s body hair trimmed as a measure of personal hygiene, but shave her pubes? Khalil had never asked her do so, though that man’s display of religion was only for show.

Her anger ratcheted higher with every stroke of the razorblade. She closed her eyes and held her breath. After the woman shaved the front of her pubes, she shifted the blade and maneuvered it between her legs.

If that bitch cuts me, she’ll be dead before we walk out of this room.

But Prune-face proved efficient and finished quickly.

Once the shaving nightmare stopped, Olivia inhaled deeply. “Who will I be meeting tonight?”

The two women exchanged knowing smiles, then Prune-face rubbed her hands in delight. “You will be honored.”

Honored to radicalized ISIS women could mean a myriad of bad things. “And this honorable man is to be rewarded as well?”

“Rewarded for jihad.”

“Where was the battle?”

Uni-brow stamped her foot. “It is not your place to ask questions.” She snatched a towel from a pile on the bench. “Quickly, we must continue.”

But they didn’t untie her.

By continue, the women dried Olivia’s hair—though in no particular style. Prune-face brushed it back while Uni-brow waved the dryer to and fro. Then came the makeup. Not just a light foundation and lip gloss. They caked it on thick, using dark blush and red lipstick and black kohl pencil.

When finally they released her, she rubbed her wrists as she stood and looked in the mirror. Good Lord. The worst of it was the Persian eyes. “I look like a goblin.”

“You are beautiful.”

“If this man wanted someone who looked like this, why aren’t one of you playing the part?”

Prune-face cuffed her on the side of the head. “You are disrespectful. If you wag your tongue like that when in the presence of the caliph, he will beat you.”

The caliph? Olivia’s stomach squelched. “Do you mean Fahd al-Umari?”

“You are not to utter that name.”

Would she come face to face with the man responsible for her parents’ death? For innumerous deaths in the thirteen years since? The man responsible for the kidnapping of all the European women held hostage in the compound? A shot of adrenaline burst through Olivia’s every nerve ending. She would finally get her chance to face the evilest creature who walked the earth. A man who sanctioned beheadings, and stonings, and the circumcision of young girls?

Olivia hid behind a blank expression. She couldn’t let anything out of the bag. Not now. She’d fooled everyone thus far. Tonight, she was to meet al-Umari—or, at the very least, one of his inner circle. And if Logan kept his promise, the NATO forces would attack as well.

Dear Lord, let it be so.

All her dreams could be realized this very night. The girls would be saved and, if they took down al-Umari, they’d deal a crushing blow to ISIS.

Prune-face held up a navy blue, silk burka. “You must put this on.”

Olivia could only shake her head in disbelief. They’d put more makeup on her than she’d worn in a year and now they wanted to cover her up?

She didn’t care.

Once dressed, she used the loo one more time to reaffix the knife Logan had given her.

But Prune-face followed—insisted that Olivia keep the door open. The woman watched with a smirk, making it impossible to retrieve the weapon. It was of little consequence. The devil would not get away this time.

***

Olivia heard the convoy long before the military vehicles reached the compound. And when the engines stopped, doors slammed and men laughed, discharging their weapons.

The hostages must be terrified.

Garth would have seen them coming from the satellite feed. Would he abort the operation? This surely threw a spanner in the works. Had ICE deployed enough men? Would there be air support?

What if Logan advanced and was outgunned?

Olivia’s early determination turned to dread. Her pits stung with perspiration. The women didn’t allow her to eat again as they stayed with her in the bedroom where she’d first been taken, waiting for something—waiting until the caliph decided he was ready for his reward.

When a knock came at the door, the two women made Olivia stand, then barked orders:

“Do not be nervous.”

“And do whatever the caliph asks.”

“Do not speak to him.”

“After he removes your burka, do not look him in the eye.”

Oh, I’ll look him in the eye all right.

They escorted her upstairs and into a room of opulence. Trimmed in royal blue and gold, the grandeur rivaled the throne room at Saint James’ Palace. It was a bedchamber of old, fit for a king. The four-poster bed was draped in silk and covered with pillows. There was a marble fireplace, a settee with matching chairs and the list went on.

Other than lavish wealth emanating from every corner, al-Umari hadn’t made an appearance as of yet, nor had any of the higher-ups in his cabinet.

But Prune-face and Uni-brow seemed to know what to do. After telling Olivia to sit in a padded chair with wooden armrests and legs, Uni-brow again held her Beretta to Olivia’s head while the other woman used more zip ties to bind Olivia’s wrists to the armrests.

She jolted when Prune-face bent down to secure her right ankle to the chair leg and kicked the woman to her ass.

“Stop!” Uni-brow jammed the pistol into Olivia’s temple.

Every muscle in her body tensed as she met Prune-face’s gaze. Olivia gripped the chair, breathing in a steady rhythm to calm the rage boiling under the surface of her skin. After the woman zip-tied the right ankle, Olivia fought to press her knees together, but the chair legs were too wide. Though wearing a full burka, she hated being exposed—pubes shaved, no knickers, and spread eagle.

After they left her alone in the dark, Olivia looked to the window, but the heavy drapes blocked the light. If there was any daylight left. She’d lost track of time. Olivia twisted her wrists against the plastic ties cutting into her skin. Her flesh seared with the burn. She made her hand as small as possible by moving her thumb to her pinky, then pulled harder but the bindings were too tight. Flexing her wrist, she tugged backward and felt a little give. Frantically, she wrenched her hand side to side, trying to make it even smaller while her skin grated.

Just a bit more.

She froze when the door opened and the light flicked on. Shrouded by the netting on her burka, her sight adjusted quickly as Olivia watched the man she hated to the core saunter inside.

Her skin buzzed with anticipation.

Finally, after years of waiting, the reclusive murderer of innocents stood not but paces away. He smelled of tobacco and dressed in the black robes of a caliph. But this man was an imposter. He was not holy. The air surrounding Olivia grew heavy with his evil presence, his sick sneer, his leering gaze.

He removed his turban and cast it to the sideboard before he faced her with a revolting chuckle. The man was uglier than a turkey vulture. Pock-marked cheeks above an unkempt, graying beard, an enormous hooked nose, and balding to boot. Not the kind of balding that’s neat and tidy, but he had a patch of thinning and mottled hair at the top of his scalp.

At long last Olivia was face-to-face with the man who had driven the van that had killed her parents. Heralded by his misguided followers as a hero, he’d come a long way since then, wreaking havoc at every opportunity. And his insanity had infected an entire population. What kind of fanatics celebrated the executions of civilians and missionaries?

He took off his pistol belt and released the collar of his robes. “They tell me you are the most beautiful of all my new brides.”

“Brides?” Her heartbeat rushed as she watched him from behind her shroud. The man was a freak. “All for you?”

“All for the glory of the chosen.”

“What do their wives think of your new harem?”

“Wives are told only what they need to know. Peace is served better that way.”

Olivia almost laughed out loud, amazed that the word peace was in al-Umari’s vocabulary.

He sauntered forward. “Jadaa says you’re English. Where did you learn to speak Arabic?”

“Pakistan.”

“You lived there?”

“For two years, yes.”

“Why?”

“A study exchange program,” she lied. Assholes only should to be told what they need to know.

“Did you like it there?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I’m not fond of watching my parents die. “Too much violence.”

He frowned. “Ah, but the world doesn’t take notice until a man is incited to radical action. Just like the killing of the Russian ambassador in Turkey. My disciple’s act of heroism instantly hit world news and social media. Puritanical Islamists rejoiced to the heavens.”

“Puritanical?” Olivia snorted. “Don’t you mean radical?”

He cocked his head and regarded her as if looking at a lump of clay on a potter’s wheel. “Same, same.”

The man was insane. And there Olivia sat, unable to lash out and make him pay for all the misery he’d inflicted on others. But she wanted to keep him talking, she wanted answers. Her heartbeat sped as the right zip tie gave a bit more. “Why create a harem of European blonde women who are mostly Christian?”

“What better way to reward my followers? Western women believe themselves superior, but when we break them, they realize they are no better than the cockroaches beneath our feet. Breaking western women makes my men grow more powerful, more confident.”

Olivia’s hand began to cramp with her relentless twisting. “Do you intend to break me?”

The man unsheathed a knife. “I will break you.”

“And that will make you feel more powerful?” She bore the cramp and tugged harder against the loosened binding. “With my hands and feet tied? You do not believe yourself to be strong enough to subdue me unless I am restrained?”

Rage filled his eyes as he lashed out with a brutal backhand. “You have been cursed with a wicked tongue. Jadaa told me taming you would be a challenge.” He threw his head back and laughed. “But I enjoy a spirited woman. They provide so much more sport.”

Stars darted through Olivia’s vision, but the pain served to shoot pulsing strength through her blood.

Raised voices came from outside the window. A rifle fired not once but twice. Al-Umari gave the noise a cursory glance before he returned his attention to her. Chuckling, he turned the knife between his fingers. “Do you realize I hold your life in my hands?”

She said nothing.

“Ah, fear has a way of making women silent.” Lunging in, he tore the burka from her head. Then he gasped. His pupils dilated as he raked his gaze down her body like a lecher.

Both of Olivia’s wrists strained against the zip ties. She thought she’d be able to take anything this bastard could dish out, but having him gloat while his eyes feasted upon her triggered an animalistic instinct to fight.

Her mind snapped as he cut away her abaya with a psychotic grin beneath his whiskers. Tugging away the silk, he exposed her body until she was prone and vulnerable. “Women are all the same. They think they are strong until they realize they are completely defenseless and utterly inferior to men.”

Olivia forced her knees inward, the zip ties biting further into her ankles. “You are not stronger than me,” she hissed.

“You think not?” The blade of his knife flickered as he lowered it to her cheek, then brushed her lips with the flat side of the cold steel weapon. “I like a woman with courage, no matter how misplaced her confidence.”

She drew in a stuttering breath as the razor-sharp blade trailed from her cheek down her neck and paused directly over her carotid.

Keep going you sick fuck.

And continue on al-Umari did. His pleasure manifested in the roundness of his eyes and the quickening of his breathing while he circled the blade around each of her areolas. Tremors fired across her skin. Perspiration beaded her forehead. Shaking and gritting her teeth, Olivia focused on maintaining control. She stared at a picture of an elephant on the wall, desperately seeking a meditative state.

Al-Umari hiked up his robe with his free hand while his knife wobbled in his hand.

Olivia’s skin pebbled with the possibility of being cut. The women told her not to look him in the eye, and she hated that she couldn’t bring herself to do so now—not when he wielded a blade that could take her life with one swift flick of his wrist.

He exposed his penis and stroked himself.

Dear God, if only she could seize the knife from his grasp and sever his flaccid manhood.

She jolted, making the chair buck as he pushed his blade between her legs. And she hissed with the sting of the grazing cut while a line of red spread across her inner thigh. A sadistic moan rolled from al-Umari’s throat as he continued to masturbate.

Olivia’s stomach roiled, willing the bastard to bend down so she could head butt his fat skull.

A crash sounded from outside with blasts of gunfire. Urgent voices rose. The whirr of helicopter blades drummed a distant cadence.

Olivia’s heart practically thumped out of her chest. Logan?

Dropping his hem, Al-Umari looked to the window.

Olivia turned her attention to her right arm. Giving a colossal tug, skin scraped as, finally, she freed her hand. Before the brute returned his gaze, she grabbed al-Umari’s knife hand and bent his wrist backward. As his fingers released, she slid her palm over the hilt and took charge of the blade. Slashing at him, she cut through his robes.

Al-Umari swung with his left. Ducking under his fist, she eyed her target and aimed for his neck, but he arched away, stumbling backward.

With three quick flicks, Olivia freed her limbs and launched herself out of the chair, landing in a crouch. Still moving away, al-Umari pulled a Beretta from inside his robe. Olivia didn’t allow him time to aim. She threw the knife, sinking the blade into his shoulder. The pistol fired and cracked the window. Attacking with a roundhouse, Olivia kicked the weapon from al-Umari’s hand as World War Three erupted outside.

The self-proclaimed caliph struck with his left fist.

Olivia spun away, then went on the offensive, attacking with a barrage of vicious kicks. Bone and sinew crunched as she viciously issued hissing strikes.

“Guards!” he shouted, bleeding from the nose as he lunged in and swung a backhand and nailed her across the jaw.

But Olivia didn’t flinch. She countered with a jumping round kick aimed at his head. He sidestepped away. Olivia’s ankle twisted as she landed but, with a stutter step, she raised her fists, ready for another bout.

The door swung open.

Al-Umari pointed. “Kill her!”

Olivia dove for cover behind the bed as the gunman shifted his AK47 in her direction and opened fire, spewing bullets that ripped through the wall.

Survival skills took over as she crawled under the bed, her fingers frantically searching the floor for al-Umari’s Beretta. As she moved, light caught the shiny black pistol, five feet from the edge of the bed.

Could she risk it?

“We’re under attack, sir,” the guard said. “You must leave now.”

Al-Umari’s robes rustled as he snatched the Beretta from the floor. “I’ll murder this bitch first.”

Footsteps started for the edge of the bed, hastening to where Olivia had ducked under. She rolled to the far side. The footsteps stopped.

The guard laughed. “She’s cowering under there.”

Rapid fire blasted in the passageway.

“Now sir!” the guard yelled.

The bed skirt rose. The pistol aimed. Olivia curled into a tight ball and clapped her hands over her head as the Beretta discharged. Her heart practically exploded.

Waiting to die, her every muscle clenched as, outside, gunfire boomed over the thundering whirr of helicopters.

Chapter Thirty

The night air turned quiet after Mike and his team secured the guard tower. When the big Scot gave the signal from the guardhouse, the game began. On foot, Logan led his team through the tunnel and into the compound.

Satellite surveillance had confirmed Olivia’s warning. Earlier, even more enemy trucks had arrived and the ICE team was tasked with facing an army rather than the skeleton contingent assigned to watch over a group of female hostages. Before they’d left base camp, plans had been hastily altered, bringing in four additional Israeli Apache copters. Thank God for Garth. He could move mountains with a phone call. At least when it counted.

They might be outmanned, but what they lacked in boots was made up for by air support. With the capacity to deliver 625 rounds per minute, the US-built Apache’s job was to take out the guard stations at the four quadrants of the compound as well as bomb the hell out of the barracks.

But Logan called the shots. His team was responsible for the evacuation of the women. Two Chinook dual-prop copters were hovering on standby to extract Logan’s team and the hostages.

Once inside, Logan ordered the strike. He spoke softly into his mic. “Green light to Mission Cat House. Entering the lion’s den.” He adjusted his night vision goggles and motioned to his team—every man dressed in black. Stealthily, they hastened through the exposed courtyard to the building that housed the girls.

“Waqf!” an ISIS guard shouted for them to halt.

Logan fired a single shot, muffled by the silencer affixed to the end of his M4 carbine rifle. The guard dropped. Without hesitating, Logan pushed inside and secured the entry. Two more enemy shots came from outside—then more. The recon team’s presence was no longer a secret.

“Butts to nuts,” Logan said. They’d take each room SWAT style, scooting forward like a single serpent, guns at their shoulders, locked and loaded, ready to fire at the first hostile.

Inside, gunfire flashed from the back of the corridor.

The ICE team responded, firing quick rounds. Logan moved into place, leading his team, making a diamond formation as they cleared the lower level…Until they arrived at the last door.

His gut twisted as the team took their places either side, ready for the next battle. But he wasn’t about to take any chances. He pulled the pin on a flash bang, then made a mental count: four, three, two, one. He nodded to Stephan. The German opened the door.

Logan threw in the stunner. Stephan closed the door. The men shaded their eyes.

A flash of light burst around the door with a cracking pop, blinding everyone inside.

Working as a tight unit, the ICE men filed inside to the shrieks of three women. No men.

“Get down on your face and spread ’em!” Logan yelled.

They dropped their weapons and held up their hands, obviously not comprehending the order he’d given. The women were older. Hard-looking. Wearing black hijabs, and definitely not a single blonde captive among them.

“Zip cuffs and gags. See to it these ladies stay put.”

“Ladies?” one of the men asked.

Logan ignored him and turned to his remaining teammates. “Upstairs. Everyone lock and load. Expect retaliation.”

Outside, the props of copters whirred low in the air. Machine gun fire came in short bursts and sounded like it surrounded them from all sides. Strobe lights from the helos blinked through the windows while a deafening whirr zipped through the air.

Logan charged up the stairs, keeping the wall flush on his left. At the bend he stopped, leading around the corner with his M4 ready to fire.

Crack. Crack. Crack!

Disembodied hands fired rifles from the top of the stairwell with bursts of flashing light.

A bullet whizzed past Logan’s hand. Planting his back against the wall, he pulled another flash bang from his vest and yanked out the pin with his teeth. After nodding in time to four seconds, he threw the grenade and shielded his eyes. As soon as it exploded, he charged across the landing and unloaded, sweeping his weapon from side to side as he raced upward.

Shrill screams came from above.

At the top of the stairs, three guards lay dead.

Grinding his teeth, Logan kicked in the first door.

Hysterical girls were lying face down on the floor, their hands above their heads. Except for one.

A wide-eyed guard held a sidearm to the neck of a frantic teen, begging for mercy in French. The guard shouted something in Arabic that Logan could only guess was a threat to stay back. Cocking his night vision goggles to the top of his head, he motioned to the others to stop in their tracks.

“Take it easy,” Logan said, making his voice sound gentle and unhurried. The last thing they needed was for a panicked guard to kill a hostage. “We just want the girls.” He made a show of putting his M4 on the floor, the movement giving him the opportunity to turn sideways, slip a Walther PPK 9mm from his holster and hide it behind his back. Not a super high-power pistol, but accurate and deadly. Especially at close range. Especially in a hostage situation.

The perp’s gun shook, but she looked as if she was more apt to shoot the terrified lass than to let her go.

“Release the girl,” he said, using the small amount of Arabic he knew.

The woman scuttled backward, tugging the French girl with her.

Logan pieced together one more phrase and hoped to God it was right. “If you release her, you will live.”

The girl shrieked while the guard shook her head, spewing a line of imperceptible curses, her eyes growing even wilder.

You asked for it.

Logan took a single step aside, aimed his pistol and fired.

The woman dropped.

The French girl shrank into a puddle of nerves, crying and ranting hysterically.

A deep, booming whirr from approaching Chinooks rattled the entire building. As planned, Logan and Stephan shouted commands alternatively in French and German while he desperately scanned the faces for Olivia.

Shit.

She was nowhere to be seen.

The room filled with deafening chatter, while the girls sprang to their feet and started running for the door. Trying to get a room full of terrified females to cooperate and proceed to the courtyard in an orderly fashion was going to be a challenge. He circled his hand over his head and whistled. “Two lines. Single file. Five groups. Stay with your leader!” Logan shouted in French. As he stooped to retrieve his M4, he nodded to Stephan. “Evacuate. I’m going to find Commander Hamilton.”

“Where is she?”

“It would have made things a hell of a lot easier if she was here.”

“Do we wait for you?”

“Hell, no. We cannot jeopardize the rescue.” That’s why they’d identified the rendezvous point. Number one, extricate the hostages, number two, find the woman who filled his every waking thought.

After readjusting his night vision goggles, Logan ran for the courtyard. The place had erupted into a battle zone. The Apache copters fended off a ground attack. Enemy fire came from the eastern side of the compound—from guns that hadn’t been on their recon. Mike’s team still had the southern perimeter secured, including the gate.

Keeping to the shadows, Logan ran to the pits. Only one girl was there, and it wasn’t the blonde for whom he was looking. The hostage shook the grille. “Get me out of here. Please!” she cried in French.

“How long have you been locked up?” he asked, praying she wasn’t too weak to walk.

“Since this afternoon.”

“Where is Olivia?”

“They took her.”

“Where?”

“To see the caliph.”

His muscles tensed. Logan knew exactly who the caliph was. Mission Cat House just ratcheted up to DEFCON 1.

He fired at the lock and hastily pulled the hostage out. “Run for the Chinooks as fast as you can.”

The girl took off.

Logan looked to the mansion at the back of the compound. Either Olivia was there or they’d absconded with her. He couldn’t allow himself to consider the latter. If she was in that house, she was in deep. His greatest fear? That she’d already snapped. She thought she could face death in the eyes and beat it down, but the woman was still human. She was strong and tough and smart, but she wasn’t bulletproof.

Leaving nothing to chance, he quickly checked for her microchip on the tracking app on his watch. Thank God. She was in that house, all right.

All around him, pockets of fighting erupted with bursts of gunfire. The Apache copters kept the dogs back while Stephan led the dash for the Chinooks. The girl from the pit made it safely.

Logan picked his way toward the house. An Apache ascended from the back and proceeded eastward in pursuit of enemy fighters.

But right now, ridding the world of terrorists wasn’t number one on Logan’s list of objectives. Removing all hostages topped the bill, and that included the duchess.

My duchess!

The front door of the house was open, creaking on its hinges as if beckoning him inside and warning him that danger lurked behind every crevice. Having depleted his supply of flash bangs, he stood at the side of the jamb and listened. After giving himself a silent count, he swung his M4 into the doorway.

As far as he could see, the place was empty.

The lights were out.

“Olivia?” he whispered.

No response came, but footsteps clattered on the floor above.

Logan crept through the corridor. He opened a door and found a ballroom—definitely not what he was looking for.

She’d be upstairs.

About to close the door, footsteps sounded down the hall. He quickly ducked inside, careful not to make a noise. Logan peered through a crack in the door while a team of four men armed with AK47s darted past.

Once the hall was clear, he headed back to the foyer and up the marble staircase. The place was enormous, but Logan followed his instincts. The brass would room at the most protected part of the compound. Still, along the way, he opened every door only to find each room abandoned.

Down the corridor, someone yelled for a guard.

Logan dove for cover beneath a marble hall table supported by gilded legs.

Shots fired.

Two men ran straight past him—so close, if he’d reached out, he could have brushed their knees.

Once they were out of sight, Logan rushed to the room, light streamed from the doorway. He led with his M4, his finger caressing the trigger.

He didn’t see movement at first, but he heard a gasp. Flipping up his night vision goggles, he zoned in on the source.

“Jesus Christ.” All he saw was blood and bare flesh. He lowered his weapon and closed the door, then ran to Olivia’s side. Dropping to his knees, he pulled her into his arms. “Where are you hit?”

“Logan?” She looked up, her eyes encircled by black and looking like a raccoon. “Quickly. He’s getting away!”

“Who?”

“Al-Umari.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Olivia tried to push Logan away, but he clamped down on her shoulder, making her stay put. All he saw was blood oozing from her shoulder. He flipped off his microphone. Screw ICE, he’d go silent and give her some privacy. “You’re not going anywhere until I slap a battle dressing on that. What happened?” He snatched a compression bandage out of his vest.

She pushed again. “I’m fine.”

He tore the packaging with his teeth. “This’ll only take a sec.” Designed to be applied with one hand, he flipped open the bandage with his thumb then examined her arm. “Looks like a jagged cut.”

“It’s just a graze. The bullet missed.” She shifted her legs. Blood was smeared between her thighs. “Come on, we’re wasting time!”

“Jesus Christ. Are you cut there, too?” He fastened the arm bandage tight to stop the bleeding.

“Just my thigh. It’s nothing.” She gave him a hard shove and stood.

Blinking, Logan swiped a hand across his mouth while fury churned in his gut. He’d seen a lot of heinous things in his life, but finding Olivia naked and curled into a ball with blood spread across her shoulder and arm and more blood between her thighs brought out the beast within from the depths of his soul.

Cold-blooded murder came to mind. Fuck! Give him an M60 machine gun and a couple thousand rounds of ammo and he’d cut down the entire ISIS army without an iota of remorse.

He didn’t have to guess that the pile of clothes by the chair belonged to Olivia. His mind went berserk as he clenched his fists and watched her stagger to them. Red blood contrasted with ghostly white skin. She looked like a train wreck.

“Al-Umari?” Logan asked. “Which way did he go?”

“Out there.” She pointed, pulling on the abaya. It had been sliced open all the way down. What had that freak done to her?

Logan’s gaze honed on the bullet holes across the wall. “What happened here?”

“Al-Umari tried to have a one-man party.” She tied the burka around her waist to keep the smock closed.

“Tried? It looks like he gave it a hell of an effort.”

“He did.” Olivia held out her hand. “I need your sidearm.”

Logan hesitated, staring at her with a gazillion damning questions on the tip of his tongue. Never in his life had he experienced the gamut of emotions now making his heart pound clear up to his temples. For the love of God, she’d put out for queen and country before, why wouldn’t she now? How far had al-Umari gotten before all hell broke loose?

She stamped her foot shaking her palm. “Hurry! He’s getting away.”

Logan unsheathed the weapon and handed it to her butt first. “Are you all right?” He shouldn’t need to ask, but she looked like she might fall on her face with her next step.

“I’ll be cracking hot once we nab that bastard.”

“Did he…?”

“He didn’t come close,” she growled, her voice filled with venom.

Thank God.

Logan readjusted his night vision goggles. Olivia lived for the hunt even more than he did. She could have been beaten within an inch of her life and, yet, she still wanted to nail the worst enemy to the human race—a man who rivaled Hitler.

After checking the magazine, she inclined her head toward the door as if she hadn’t crashed, as if he hadn’t just found her naked and curled in a ball.

“The guards are trying to get al-Umari out. This way.” Olivia took the lead.

Together, they ensured their passage was clear by using the crisscross pattern that switched point from one leader to the next. They’d practiced this move at ICE every morning and they moved in tandem like a pair of dolphins tracking a ship.

A terrorist stepped into the corridor. Olivia fired off one shot and took him out. She snatched up the dead man’s AK47 as they hastened past, then rushed ahead and out onto a terrace. The gunfire had ceased. The props of copters hummed above, the sound growing distant. To the north, the ignition blast from a jet engine boomed.

“There they are!” Olivia pointed toward the airstrip. A car was kicking up dust and heading for a plane.

Logan flicked on his mic. “Al-Umari is running for the Gulfstream on the strip. Attack!”

“WTF, Batman?” Mike shouted across the airwaves. “Apaches are halfway home and both Chinooks are loaded to the gills. We’re a hundred feet off the ground and rising.”

“Stick with the plan.” Logan continued to run beside Olivia. “Status of air support, Alfred?” Logan used Garth’s mission call sign.

“Ordering Apache unit to turn back. Will be on top of you in five.”

“We don’t have five.”

“I see them!” Mike’s deep bass boomed into Logan’s earpiece. “A black car just peeled out of the garage, turning left and heading for Gulfstream. Engine lights are hot.”

“Roger that. The duchess and I are running northward. Just cleared the gardens.”

“Don’t be a hero,” Garth ordered.

“Sorry, Alfred, I can’t vouch for the duchess.” After running down the steps, Logan headed through the shrubs to cut them off. Olivia didn’t miss a step, running every bit as fast.

A deafening roar came overhead. The spotlight from an Apache lit up the entire airstrip like it was midday. Heavy machine gun fire spewed down the tarmac.

The car veered north.

The Apache hovered.

“You’re not getting away this time!” Olivia barreled through the brush, blasting a burst of rapid fire at the vehicle.

It was all Logan could do to keep up with her while he signaled to the copter. “Friendlies on the ground. In pursuit of the black Mercedes!”

“Leave that to air support, Batman,” said Garth.

The Apache blinked its lights and changed course—heading for the Merc.

“You’re not getting away, you bastard!” Olivia ran for the rear gate, firing the AK47 until the magazine emptied.

Logan didn’t touch her. He followed, insuring she was safe. When the gun clicked, she dropped to her knees, a shriek of utter frustration echoed through the night air. His heart wrenched as he lowered his weapon and strode in behind her.

“I never should have let those women zip tie me to the chair. If I’d fought, I could have killed that monster as soon as he entered the room.”

“And you’d be dead.” Logan pointed toward the sound of copter. “The Apache pilot will get him.”

“No!” She shook her head vehemently. “You don’t understand. That man is a ghost.”

With a flash of light, an explosion boomed in the distance. “Looks like the ghost might be crossing over into hell about now.”

Olivia shook her head. “I’ll believe it when forensics identifies the body.”

Logan turned and surveyed the compound. A lone streetlamp managed to survive the battle, and it cast an eerie glow over the empty courtyard. “Hard to believe ten minutes ago the place was lit up by Apaches.”

Olivia slumped over, curling down into a ball. “Are all the girls out?”

“Out and headed for the USS Liberty.”

She didn’t respond as her head dropped forward and her shoulders shook.

Logan pulled her into his arms and started walking. “Alfred, this Batman,” he said into the microphone. “Mission Cat House objective achieved. Taking al-Umari’s Gulfstream for a stint of well-earned R and R.”

“You’re what?”

“It’s not a request, sir.”

“I beg your pardon? I need your ass at the Bat Cave immediately.”

“No can do, sir.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“No, sir.” Logan set Olivia down before climbing the stairs into the plane. He leveled his M4 at his shoulder and ascended the steps.

No one in the cabin.

Standing aside from the closed pilot’s door in case someone decided to be a hero, he aimed his weapon toward the cockpit. “Come out nice and slow.”

A barrage of bullets ripped through the door.

Logan ducked, pressing himself flat against the bulkhead. With a loud thud, the door swung open. It only took one bullet to drop the bastard. Logan let out a long breath. “You had to make me do that, didn’t you?”

Once he cleared the cockpit, he carried Olivia aboard and set her in one of the leather seats. “I’m taking you out of here.”

“No! We need to go after them.”

“Our backup is gone, sweetheart. If we don’t go now, we’ll be visiting the pearly gates come morn.”

A tear rolled down her cheek as she crossed her arms and looked out the window. “They didn’t get him, you know.”

“What do you mean? We both saw the flash.”

“I know he’s still alive. Think about it. By the time the Apache reached the car, he would have escaped.”

Logan’s gut made a sickening twist again. “Then that means it won’t be long before the pot boils over. I’m taking you out of here, princess—to a place no one will touch us.”

Fortunately, the minimal flight training Logan had received at ICE was in a Gulfstream simulator. He left Olivia buckled in and climbed into the cockpit. The fuel gauge indicated full and the takeoff was almost exactly the same as flying the sim.

Logan flipped on his mic. “Alfred, clear me for airspace.”

“Already did.”

“Thanks.”

“And Batman?”

“Yeah?”

“The Apache crew just reported the car was empty.” Garth didn’t sound happy. “Al-Umari is still at large.”

A hunk of lead sank to Logan’s toes. “Do me a favor, would you?”

“What’s that?”

“Let’s wait a while before we tell the duchess.” Even though she was convinced of al-Umari’s escape, he wouldn’t tell her just yet. She looked like hell, felt like hell, and would probably find a parachute and try to hunt him down herself if she received confirmation before he got her to Montana.

“Roger that.” A moment of silence hung in the air. “How’s she doing?”

“I think she needs to learn to ride a horse.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“See you back at ICE in thirty days.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Once she could breathe, Olivia wandered to the back of the plane and found the WC. It was gross and depressing—black towels, yellow pee on the rim of the toilet seat.

But the shower was clean.

The image in the mirror posed the most horrific sight. She looked like death. The thick, black eyeliner applied earlier in the day had drained down her cheeks with her damned tears. She hated crying. Worse, she hated to have anyone to see her break down. Yeah, she’d crashed and burned.

And Logan had seen her at her worst more than once.

This time something major inside her had snapped. Not all at once, but pieces at time starting with the twisted preparation for her meeting with the devil. When al-Umari had ripped off her clothes, then treated her like a sex toy, running his knife over her nipples and between her thighs her insides had shredded. How had she survived it? And she should feel fortunate to have made it without sustaining more serious injuries.

After taking her arm out of her sleeve, she pulled off the field dressing. The cut wasn’t too deep and the bleeding had ebbed. She lifted her hem and examined her leg. A scab was beginning to form over the cut on the inside of her thigh. Al-Umari had barely nicked her there. Lord only knew what he would have done with the knife if the guard hadn’t interrupted them.

Olivia closed her eyes while a wave of nausea passed.

Jamal Abdullah Khalil had been a prick, but he’d never attempted to use a knife on her—or any weapon for that matter. The arms dealer had been no more than an unfeeling brute. A girl could manage to disassociate herself for the greater good with someone like Khalil. At least that’s what she’d told herself a gazillion times.

The worst part? She’d let al-Umari touch her and then she let him slip through her grasp. She had her chance. If only she had instant replay, she’d do it over again. Picturing it in her mind’s eye, even if it had torn off her skin, she should have pried her arm away and freed herself before he entered. She could have pounced on him, especially if she’d known for sure Logan was coming with an army. But she hadn’t known when. She didn’t know how many men. She’d doubted, hedged, worried about self-preservation. And when push came to shove, she’d made the wrong decision. Tried to play along with it. Told herself she was hewn of steel. That she could take anything al-Umari and his sadistic mob of fanatics could dish out.

Olivia stared in the mirror while self-loathing stretched inside her chest like a fast-spreading cancer.

No one got second chances. Especially her.

She slapped her palm on the mirror and streaked her fingers downward.

“You’re nothing but a sorry loser.”

Disgusted, she turned on the water and peeled off the abaya. The same piece of rubbish silk al-Umari had torn off her only an hour ago. At her next opportunity, she’d burn the bloody rags and send them to hell—where that bastard should be right now.

The gash on her shoulder looked ugly. She’d have a scar for the rest of her life. A souvenir to serve as a perpetual reminder of how she’d had al-Umari in her clutches and lost him.

She stepped under the spray of hot water and stood with her face turned up, ignoring the sting of her raw flesh. No one could see her tears now as the water washed away the filth of Aleppo. Washed away the shame and the hurt and the guilt and the blood. She lathered a cloth and scrubbed off the sticky makeup until her skin burned. She scrubbed her arms, her breasts, her crotch—everywhere al-Umari’s knife had been. Using forceful and jilted strokes, she cleansed him from her flesh. But she’d never cleanse the memories away.

It wasn’t until the water turned cold that she rinsed away the suds and toweled off. But there was no way in hell she’d don the abaya again. In a cupboard, she found a new white robe still wrapped in plastic together with a pair of slippers. Enormous, but they’d do.

She combed her fingers through her hair and left. The galley was stocked with pita bread, hummus and bottles of water. She cracked a bottle and took one to Logan in the cockpit.

“You all right?” he asked, sounding too chipper.

“Well enough.”

“Had a shower, huh? You look refreshed.”

She shrugged.

“You want to sit up here for a while?”

“No.”

“All right.” He continued with the chipper routine. “Why don’t you try to get some rest?”

She’d do that. Sleep was about the only thing she had the energy for.

***

Olivia slept until the plane jolted her awake—not turbulence, but as her eyes flashed open, her heart flew to her throat. Her first thought was Logan had crashed. They hit hard, and now they were shimmying as if the Gulfstream were out of control. Catching her breath, she dug her fingers into the armrests and looked out the window.

Though the plane was bobbing and weaving, they were slowing down. Stranger still, she didn’t recognize a thing. Rugged mountains lined the eastern horizon and there were evergreens everywhere. But it looked nothing like Iceland.

The plane steadied and Olivia rubbed her forehead. Hadn’t Logan said something about R & R?

The Gulfstream came to a stop with a jolt that made her head smack against the headrest. Maybe the American cowboy needed to clock a few more hours in the sim.

The cockpit door swung open. Logan grinned. “Well, it wasn’t pretty, but we’re alive.”

“Where the hell are we?”

“Ferndale Airfield.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Just outside Bigfork, Montana, Big Sky country.”

She stared, a migraine starting. “What, are we picking up friends? Stopping over to refuel? What about going on holiday?”

“I thought you might like to see my ranch.”

Groaning, Olivia leaned her head against the headrest—softly this time. Why on earth would she assume he’d take her to a beach on a secluded island? Why did she think at all? A ranch? In the midst of the American wild west? Horses? All she knew about horses was they smelled. And he’d told her he had cattle as well. Olivia knew without a doubt those beasts stank to high heaven. “I don’t need to playact at being a wrangler. I need a hot bath and a month in the Seychelles. Perhaps Bali, or Saint Kilda. How on earth can anyone relax in Montana?”

The migraine throbbed across the base of her skull. She dropped her forehead to her palms and pressed against her temples.

“Tell you what,” Logan said. “You can rest all you want—don’t have to lift a finger.”

“Ugh.”

“We’re here now and I’d be crushed if you didn’t want to see my place.” He tugged her arm. “Please.”

Her gaze trailed up to those damned teal-blues. How could she resist? Even if she could, she didn’t have the energy. “When’s the next flight out of here?”

Logan’s mouth twisted as if he were conjuring up a smartass reply. “Not today. Probably not tomorrow, either.” He yanked her to her feet. “Come on. Jason’s waiting for us in the pickup. And there’s a NATO crew on its way to take possession of the plane.”

“Pickup?”

“A truck—a dually, a Dodge Ram.”

“Dear Lord, you are a cowboy.” She gave him nothing but dead weight while he pulled her to her feet. “I’ve died and gone to hell.”

“I’ll bet I can make you change your mind.”

Unfortunately, Olivia’s sense of humor had vanished. “A couple of days. And don’t expect me to play Annie Oakley.”

“A couple of days is a start.”

“Do you have running water?”

“I think that can be arranged.”

“Hot water?”

“Yes.” He opened the plane door to a rush of warm air.

“It’s warmer than Iceland.”

“It is in the summer.”

She followed him down the steps to a waiting truck. Dually. It had two wheels up front and four in the back. Splattered with dried mud and dust, it looked like it hadn’t seen a carwash…ever. She thought it might be white.

“Jason.” Logan waved, pulling her toward a stocky man with shoulders as wide as a recliner.

Still wearing the robe, Olivia followed reluctantly, looking for a hotel, or a taxi, or a terminal, for that matter. The place was practically as remote as the airfield in Iceland—aside from the lack of snow, and the trees, and a road, even another car.

Logan introduced her by name only and gave no further explanation.

“Welcome to Montana,” Jason held out his hand and gave a firm shake—one that said he was a man of his word.

She mumbled an unconvincing thank you while Logan opened the rear truck door. Was the word unostentatious in America’s vocabulary? She doubted it. The backseat could practically accommodate an entire netball team.

Olivia climbed in and sat like a lump. She didn’t pay much attention to Logan and Jason while they caught up on rancher stuff. Outside, the scenery passed in a blur. Yes, it was beautiful, but she didn’t want to admit it. Too many warring emotions coursed through her blood right now, just like they had when she’d returned to London after the Kahlil cock-up.

At least then, she could lock herself in her flat and not have to talk to anyone for a fortnight. Did Jason live in Logan’s house?

She stayed in the truck while the men drove into town and made two stops. One at Harvest Foods with a big car park and another on the main street. Even if she’d wanted to shop, she’d make a spectacle of herself wandering around in a white robe and oversized slippers. Besides, sitting in a hot truck with the windows rolled down gave Olivia time to nurse her headache. She spotted a chemist, but didn’t have any cash, no credit cards, no ID. Hell, if Logan didn’t return to the truck, she’d be snookered with no place to go. Perhaps the police would allow her a phone call if she reversed the charges to ICE.

But the men returned and, once again, headed for the unknown. After turning onto a dirt road, the truck ambled along, hitting every pothole within miles and giving all three of them whiplash.

“How long since you grated the drive?” asked Logan.

“Not since last year,” said Jason.

“Better move it up on the list.”

“Right. After repairing the north fence and drenching the steers.”

Drive? The dirt road was a drive? Olivia shook her head.

They headed through a big, metal gate to a weatherboard house—two stories, white with blue shutters. It could have been used for the set of Little House on the Prairie. Jason stayed in the truck.

“You’re not getting out?” she asked.

Logan opened the door for her and offered his hand. “Jason lives in the caretaker’s house just over the hill.”

She nodded. She could have asked any number of questions, but that would have been prying. It also would have made her migraine unbearable.

“Come, let’s get you settled.” He held up a plastic shopping bag. “I bought you some clothes.”

She glanced down to her bathrobe and slippers. At least one of them was thinking beyond the moment.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Logan opened the front door. He stepped inside and took a deep breath, glad he’d had the wherewithal to contact Jason right after the plane left enemy airspace. Jason’s wife, Sylvia, had gone through the house with a duster and freshened up the bathrooms. Logan kept the house tidy, but the inside got a bit stale during his long stints away.

As soon as crossed the threshold, tension melted from his shoulders like it always did. Hardwood floors, plenty of antiques. He gestured to the left. “That’s the living room.” Then pointed straight ahead. “Through the entryway is the kitchen. The bedrooms are up the stairs.”

Olivia turned in place, taking it in, but said nothing.

“I’ll just put the groceries in the kitchen.”

She gave a nod.

He hastily placed the four bags of food on the counter and jogged back with the bag of clothing in his hand. He reached out to grasp her hand, but hesitated. Her expression was startled, wary. Her mind was still on the op and, though he’d done the flying, she was wound tighter than a trip wire. He opted for an awkward grin and strode past her. “I’ll show you to your room.”

“Up there?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He continued up and turned left, first flicking on the bathroom light. “There are two bathrooms. This one’s yours.”

She glanced inside and gave a hesitant nod.

He didn’t expect her to jump for joy. He might be proud of the remodel job he’d done when on leave a couple years ago, but it was still just a bathroom in a hundred-year-old farm house. Soaking tub with clawed feet, a toilet, a vanity, an antique mirror—pretty posh for a Montana rancher. “There are spare toothbrushes in the top drawer and towels in the linen cupboard behind the door.”

He beckoned her to the bedroom he’d occupied when he was a kid. It was nearly as large as the master, originally built for a family with a lot of kids who shared. Now a guest room, it had a queen-sized bed and an overstuffed reading chair, a dresser with a mirror. It was comfortable.

Opening the curtains, he gestured to the view. “This room looks out over the corral and pastureland. The mountain view is out the back.”

Olivia stood in the doorway, her eyes appearing sad and a bit lost. The expression made his heart twist. If only he could make her forget, but Logan had been there before. He knew better than to push her, to try to force her to like his place.

He put the bag of clothes on the bed. “I didn’t know what size you wore, so the clerk suggested one-size stuff.” He pulled out black leggings and a striped t-shirt, a package of medium-sized bikini underwear, a sports bra and a pair of flipflops that looked about right. “We can get you things you like when you’re feeling up to it.”

He left one garment in the bag. She wasn’t in good humor and he honestly had no idea if she’d want to wear it or not.

After giving another nod, she shuffled aside and glanced down the hallway giving a signal that could only be interpreted as a request to leave her alone.

Logan shifted his feet and splayed his fingers. “I’ll let you settle in. If you need anything, I’ll be fixing dinner.”

She didn’t smile.

“I’ll call when it’s ready.”

She grabbed the door knob, her expression growing more pained. “Do you have anything for a mega headache?”

“Sure do. I’ll be right back.” He let out a long breath. At least she’d said something. When he’d set his course for Montana, he was sure she’d love the peace and tranquility. Now he wondered.

***

Once Logan had fetched her some aspirin and finally left her alone, Olivia moved to the window. A floorboard creaked underfoot. She hesitated for a moment, her nerves still on hyper alert from the mission. Shaking off her startle, she pulled aside the curtain. Outside looked like a painting. Off to the left, the leaves of a giant oak rustled while a rope-swing hanging from a branch swayed with the breeze. Beyond the yard was the corral Logan had mentioned. The iron fence rails looked sturdy and the ground inside was well-turned as if the yard got frequent use. The lush paddocks behind stretched further than she could see, almost as green as the English countryside. Horses dallied beneath a tree, swishing their tails. She counted seven. They were all reddish-brown and large.

Majestic.

A pair stood nose to hindquarters as if they didn’t care to chat, but preferred smelling. Olivia snorted when one of them bared his teeth and bit the other on the bum.

“I suppose that’s what happens when you try to get too familiar.”

She turned her attention to the bedroom, feeling less tense than she’d been two minutes ago. Still, she didn’t like that Logan had hauled her to Montana without asking. What was he thinking?

Did she need a holiday?

Yes.

In Montana?

No.

At least he hadn’t assumed she’d want to hop in the sack with him as soon as they rolled up. Right now, she’d sooner meet him in the sparring ring with a knife hidden up her sleeve. The presumptuous cowboy.

She crossed her arms tightly across her chest. Though it wasn’t cold, she couldn’t shake the feeling of vulnerability making her skin clammy. She wanted to crawl into a hole and die. It was always like this after a mission. The memories still raw, still burning. The worst of it? For the first time in thirteen years, she’d had the opportunity for revenge and she’d blown it. Mum and Dad were still not avenged. And there she stood, her head about to explode while she crashed in godforsaken Montana. It was like going through detox. Her thoughts leapt from one terrible scene to another, resolving nothing.

On top of that, she wanted to murder Logan Rodgers. He could have killed al-Umari, too. No one had to tell her the slippery eel wouldn’t have stayed with the car—not with an Apache bearing down on him. Together, she and Rodgers could have gone after him on foot. Instead, he’d focused all his attention on getting her out safely—and saving his own ass.

Too gutted to stir up her ire, she moseyed to the bed. A stack of books below the bedside table caught her eye. She read the spines, passed over a suspense novel, a self-help book, a teen wizard tale, and opted for a romance—a historical set in Scotland.

She moved to the cushy chair, sat with her legs over the armrest and opened the book. Though she might be mad at Logan for hauling her to his hidey hole, she would face him later. She opened the book and let the story take her back in time…but scumbags existed there, too.

Fifty pages in, her head snapped up when knock came at the door.

“Dinner will be ready in five,” Logan’s deep voice rumbled through the timbers.

“Not hungry,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

“No is not an option. You gotta eat, Commander.”

Groaning, she swung her feet to the floor. “Bloody hell.” Footsteps clomped away and tapped down the stairs while Olivia sifted through the clothes Logan had left on the bed—marginally better than the robe she was wearing. She opened the package of knickers, noticing something in the shopping bag that Logan hadn’t shown her. She dumped it out. Pink. Satin. Lace.

Now that’s more like it.

She held up the negligee. The size was near enough. A pair of pink knickers, a pink negligee and green flipflops would do. After dressing, she opened the door, proceeding down the hallway and past the stairs. She glanced inside two small bedrooms, one converted into an office. At the far end, the door was closed. Curious, she turned the knob and stepped inside.

Logan’s room was as big as hers. The furniture was sturdy, hewn from logs like something she’d expect in the backwoods of the west. His bedspread and pillow shams had images of moose. It was a man’s room, painted white with dark green overtones—carpet, curtains, with green and navy woven through the bedclothes. Only one picture hung on the wall—a stag. On the far side, another door led to an ensuite. It looked clean. Stark. One forest-green towel swung on the rack, damp from recent use.

She wandered down the stairs, studying the photos behind antique-looking frames. Logan had been an attractive boy, and nearly every photograph was of him. In the first he was quite young, maybe three, holding a fishing pole sporting a trout half his size dangling from the hook. There was Logan in a gridiron uniform, the helmet cocked to the side and nearly as wide as his shoulders. Logan as a teen wearing a suit—some important occasion. Logan, a bit older, on the back of a horse, looking in complete control and wearing chaps. Logan as a cadet, dressed in a crisp Navy uniform, standing beside an older man who looked much like him. Dear Lord, he cleaned up nicely. He was a handsome man in a pair of boxers and a t-shirt with mussed hair, but trimmed and ready for duty? Definitely delicious.

But Olivia didn’t want to admire anyone right now, especially Rodgers.

The floor creaked beyond. “There you are,” said the man himself.

Olivia turned. Still too angry for chitchat, she didn’t ask him about the pictures.

He gave a quirky smile. “I suppose I should replace those photos. Dad put them up.”

“I thought as much.”

His gaze meandered downward as his tongue slipped out and moistened his bottom lip. “You found the…ah…”

“Negligee.”

“Yeah.”

She sniffed and headed for the smell of garlic and onions. Logan could keep his opinions to himself.

He followed. “I made a couple of ribeye steaks. I hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen. The dining room hasn’t been used in years.”

“Fine.”

The kitchen looked like it had been remodeled, too. He hastened to the table in the bay window and pulled out a chair. Just to be snarky, Olivia took the opposite.

“You hungry?” he asked, sliding into the chair he’d pulled out.

“Mm hmm.” Smothered with fried garlic and onions, the steak was the size of her plate. She didn’t offer to switch. Besides, the steak in front of Logan was nearly the same size. She helped herself to the Caesar salad. The baked potato was already oozing with butter.

Olivia forced herself to keep her eyes from rolling to the back of her head with her first bite. She hadn’t had a decent meal since France. Logan knew how to grill a steak for certain. But she didn’t say so.

The man picked up a bottle of cabernet and poured for her and then himself. “There are a lot of things to do here.”

“Such as?”

“Horseback riding, fishing, hikes through the mountains, the blackberries out the back should be ripe.”

“Hmm.”

“Of course, there’s never a lack of farm work.”

“Of course.” She washed down her second mouthwatering bite with a sip of wine. “Do you abscond with British subjects often?”

“First time. Why?”

“Just wondering why you have a romance novel in your guest room.”

“It’s from Sylvia. She thought I needed an assortment.”

Olivia’s hands stilled while her lips thinned.

Logan seemed not to notice, shoving an enormous bite of meat in his mouth, the fat glistening on his lips.

They ate in awkward silence, nothing but silverware tapping plates and the hum of the refrigerator.

Logan’s phone rang. “Hi Sylvia.”

Olivia’s back stiffened.

“Gosh, that’s so nice of you.”

Gosh? When did he become The Beaver?

He pulled the phone away from his mouth. “Sylvia wants to know what size you wear.”

“Who the hell is Sylvia?” she sniped.

“Jason’s wife.”

“Oh.” Olivia refused to feel like a dolt. At least not for more than a second. What did she care if Logan had a girlfriend, anyway? Things would be far easier if he did. She couldn’t continue to think of him romantically. They’d taken the whole work-spouse thing much too far as it was. “US sizes are different from UK.”

“We can Google it. Give me your UK dress and shoe size.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ten dress, size five shoe.”

After looking it up on the computer, he moved the phone back to his mouth. “Size eight dress, seven-and-a-half shoe.”

A woman’s voice buzzed from the receiver, but Olivia couldn’t make out the conversation.

“Thanks. See you tomorrow.” Logan hung up and sat a bit taller. “Sylvia is going to bring you some clothes.”

“So I’ll fit in with the locals?”

“More or less.”

Olivia could only imagine the fashion sense of a rancher’s wife. She closed her eyes and wiped her hand across her forehead as the effects of the wine started to kick in. “How long has this house been in your family?”

“It was built by my grandfather near the turn of the last century. The land’s been in my family fifty years longer than that. Jason and Sylvia live in the original house.”

“Is it much smaller?”

“It’s a log cabin. Originally it had one room, but we built on a couple of bedrooms as a wedding gift.”

“That’s nice.” Olivia covered her mouth.

“So…what do you want to do tomorrow?” he asked.

She met his gaze. “Go back to Iceland.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Olivia hid in her room the rest of the night and when she awoke, sunlight streamed through the window as if it were midday. Jetlag had a way of turning her clock upside down. She looked to the bedside table for her phone—except the one Tawney was sending from ICE hadn’t arrived yet. The room didn’t have a clock either.

The bedsprings creaked when she rolled to her back and looked at the ceiling. How old was this bed, anyway? For all she knew, Logan had been conceived on that bed—his father, too. The thought made her grunt in disgust.

Unusual sounds came through the opened window. Not many words were being spoken, but from the rolling bass, it had to be Logan. He wasn’t yelling, but his voice was firm—S sounds, followed by tongue clicks, and the odd whoa.

Vaguely awake, Olivia pattered to the window. Logan held a whip in one hand and a lead line in the other, except it wasn’t really a whip. The thing had a long stick like a whip, but had a longer piece of rope attached, and Logan moved it gently. First, he made the horse back up by shaking it in a wriggling pattern. He gradually neared the enormous beast. The horse jerked his head up a few times while Logan moved the line over his back, letting it slip off. He repeated the same motion over and over, until the horse dropped his head and stood there like the whip-thing didn’t bother him. That’s when Logan quickened the pace of his flicks. The horse again acted agitated and Logan kept going until the beast relaxed.

It was an amazing exercise in patience. With each acceptance from the horse, Logan moved in closer, his audible commands softer. He had a gentle and effective knack Olivia had never seen before. Well, she’d only seen horses at the racetrack or in a paddock when she’d driven by. She’d never paid the animals much attention. To her, horses were relics of eras gone by. Smelly, unpredictable animals.

On a sigh, she turned and headed for the loo, stumbling over a pile of clothes propped against the outside of her door. Olivia sifted through them—jeans, flannel shirt, cowboy boots, thick socks and a cotton sundress. It all looked so western. The shirt even had snaps.

Compliments of Sylvia?

After a long shower, she pulled the dress over her head and slipped her feet into the flipflops. In the kitchen, she found bread, butter and a toaster. The coffee was already made. When she took her cup and toast back upstairs, Logan was still at it. But now, he was rubbing the horse all over with his hands. Then the enormous animal just stood there while Logan actually climbed onto its back without a saddle.

Olivia expected to see some good old American bronc riding, but the horse started moving around the corral at a slow walk, his tail swishing like he hadn’t a care in the world. What else didn’t she know about the man? He was a SEAL turned spy, but before all that, his roots had grown deep in the American west.

Jesus, he even wore chaps.

***

Three days had passed and Olivia was still playing the hermit, nursing her misery. Logan didn’t buy it. He’d seen her watching him from her window. She was curious. What sane person wouldn’t love it there? Sure, it wasn’t a city, but cities were full of irritable bastards. Cities were for concerts and symphonies. The country was for living, for breathing, for refilling the tank.

And though she might not realize it, Olivia was hewn from the same cloth. She was a lone wolf, a predator, a hunter. Wolves might live in packs, but they kept to themselves. And everyone knew hunters were reclusive, solitary individuals.

Olivia often had insisted she preferred to work alone. Alone in the midst of the masses?

Logan didn’t think so. Yes, he’d seen her watching. Felt her watching, too. And that was all part of his plan. He’d even dusted off an old pair of chaps just for her.

Let the watching draw her in.

Like it or not, though, he was starting to waver on the soundness of his decision. Listening to her move around in the middle of the night had been the hardest. Every night, he lay in bed, forcing himself not to get up and check on her, willing her to come to him. But she hadn’t. Yet.

Moreover, the “royal duchess” routine was growing thin. The “holier than thou” eye rolls made his toes curl. It was as if she hated everything from America’s heartland. But she’d admitted she’d never been here before.

But today, Logan decided it was time to try something new. Olivia sat in one of the old wicker chairs reading on the porch instead of her room. Even a duchess couldn’t resist the sultry Montana summer air. He’d saddled an old gelding along with his horse, Casey. Leading the gelding, he rode out of the barn and up to the porch.

“Good morning.” He grinned, tipping back the brim of his hat.

Olivia looked up, her eyes wary. “Hiya.”

“Want to ride?”

“No.”

He leaned forward on the pommel. “I saddled a gentle old fella for you.”

“Jesus Christ, you sound like John Wayne.” She turned the page of her book. “I said no.”

Logan’s fingers clamped around the reins. “Suit yourself, princess.”

He rode off at an easy walk, sauntering back to the barn like he couldn’t care less. But all the while, a black hole spread in his chest. What had he done to make her so angry? She acted as if she hated him. Sure, she might be upset because he’d taken her to Montana, but a good tongue lashing would be a lot easier to take than the silent treatment she’d been dishing out.

After dismounting, he removed the saddles and threw them into the tack room. He managed to hold in his anger while he turned the horses out, then he marched back to the barn willing someone to get in his way so he could lay them flat.

But it was Sunday and Jason had the day off. He grabbed a pitchfork and started in on the stalls. The damned things needed cleaning anyway. He worked fast, loading the wheelbarrow and hauling it out to the compost heap. Hard labor was the best way he knew to burn off steam.

He dumped the barrow and shook it far harder than necessary.

What else could he do? Taking Olivia back to Iceland right now just didn’t seem like the right move. She was bottled up like a time bomb ticking away inside that pretty head of hers. Anyone in the same room with her could feel the tension. An explosion was inevitable.

He pushed the wheelbarrow back down on its supports.

How can I break through?

On his return trip to the barn, movement in the corral caught his eye. He should have known. Olivia might not be ready for home on the range, she needed something familiar. Wearing her leggings and the striped t-shirt, she went through the motions of a black belt form, moving stealthily on the smooth dirt surface he’d grated that morning.

He dropped the barrow handles, removed his gloves and walked to the rails.

She worked barefoot, her hands slicing through the air like hissing whips, her kicks lightning fast. The woman was long and lithe. Art in motion. Watching her stirred a fire in his blood as it stirred the smoldering embers deep in his groin.

Logan kicked off his boots and crept into the ring. He moved behind her and assumed a defensive stance. “Want to spar a round?”

She spun and faced him, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight and reflecting a look of defiance—a gorgeous expression he’d grown to love. “I figured there had to be a good use for an arena this size.” She mirrored his pose. “I won’t be so easy on you this time, cowboy.”

Logan chuckled. During their training, he’d learned her moves. But she’d learned his as well. “Give it your best shot.”

This time, her eyes didn’t betray her as she lunged for his legs. Logan had no chance. He crashed to the ground on his backside, but rolled away and swung a roundhouse from his butt. Olivia skittered back just enough to give him leeway to spring to his feet.

They circled, her breathing deeper than his, her eyes wild. She needed a win, but he couldn’t hand it to her. She needed to earn it. Needed to think she’d beat him. She threw a jumping round. He ducked, catching her leg and knocking her off balance. From her knees, her right jab went for the groin. Twisting, Logan moved enough to take the hit to his inner thigh. No question, the woman had improved…or else she was pissed enough to nail him.

By the time they were both sucking in air, she got him in a choke hold—not so tight that he’d pass out, but close enough.

“First round to me?” she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Yes, ma’am.” He took a deep breath when she released her arm. “But don’t get too cocky.”

She shook her legs and arms, preparing for another bout. “Best of three?”

Logan liked that. Why the hell hadn’t he thought of sparring before? It had been a sure-fire way to connect at ICE. He waggled his eyebrows. “Let’s put some skin in the game—if I win, you’ll help me finish cleaning the stalls and agree to going on a picnic with me tomorrow.”

Pursing her lips, she scowled. “A wager? In that case,” she spoke slowly, “If I win, you’ll take me back to ICE.”

He dropped his hands to his sides, the smolder from earlier turning to lead. “Holy hell. That’s a whole lot different than a picnic. Besides, Garth gave us a month’s leave.”

“All right.” Her chin ticked up indignantly. “I’ve seen your ranch. The least you can do is agree to see my townhouse in London.”

Better.

He looked her in the eye. She hadn’t given him a timeline—something he could manipulate after…If she won. “Agreed.”

Logan barely won the next round with a takedown and a hip lock.

Round three was a different game altogether. They were both winded, hurting and fighting like street gang members. Nothing was sacred. Olivia attacked with a series of kicks and Logan countered, throwing punches that would kill an untrained man, but she defended every one. His muscles burned as the sun grew hotter and his breath shorter.

Olivia spun, the sweat from her forehead splattering him in the face. His vision blurred. He fended off her strikes while blinking furiously to regain his sight. Acting fast, she took advantage of his temporary handicap, grabbed his arm and went for a hip throw. Logan bared his teeth and rolled with her momentum. Only through shreds of brute strength did he hold on and spin her into the same choke hold she’d used on him in the first round. “Third round to me,” he growled through clenched teeth.

“Fuck you,” she croaked.

“Not the right answer.” He tightened his grip, well aware she’d be unconscious in less than twenty seconds.

She coughed out a snort, her legs ineffectively kicking. “Yes, you goddamned ape.”

He released his grip and dropped to the dirt.

She collapsed beside him, coughing and breathing like she’d just run a marathon.

“You’ve improved,” he said.

“So have you.”

Catching his breath, he rolled to his side. “I wouldn’t want to meet you in a dark alley, that’s for sure.”

“I’m just glad we’re on the same team.”

Logan sat up grinning. Same team. “You can say that again.”

***

After a tall glass of ice water, Olivia followed Logan to the barn. He handed her a pitchfork, the lout. She gave it an aghast stare. “People still use these things?”

“Best way to muck out a stall.”

She cringed when they stepped into the aisleway. Though the pall wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be, there was a distinctive smell to the barn. And Logan looked so at home. He had a lazy swagger to his gait she hadn’t noticed before. Maybe it was the cowboy boots he’d put back on when they’d left the arena. Maybe it was the way his jeans hugged his bum. Maybe it was his shoulders—relaxed but sculpted by pure masculine muscle power.

He showed her the basics of stall cleaning and then worked alongside her, filling the wheelbarrow and hauling it out. Mucking was a workout in itself. Had she known that, she might have been a more willing participant in the first place. But then, she’d been madder than a magpie guarding her chicks. Olivia’s temper had a way of taking over when missions failed…well, at least they’d found the harem and got the girls out before al-Umari decided to execute them. Regardless, in her mind, she’d failed.

Indeed, she’d had to work through her anger first. Anger at her own failure. The anger she felt toward Logan for absconding with her had passed after the first day. She leaned against a stall when it was his turn to take out the barrow. A horse with a white blaze down its nose stuck its head out and gave her a nudge.

“I beg your pardon?”

The beast snorted. Loudly.

She gave him a sideways glance before raising her hand to give his neck a pat. She touched him gingerly at first, then smoothed her hand down his fur. The horse shook his head with another snort.

“Did you like that?” she asked.

He nodded as if he did.

She ran her fingers through his mane. “Your hair is courser than I would have thought.”

Logan wheeled the barrow back inside and came up beside her. “That’s Chicken. He’s buttering you up to give him a treat.”

“Chicken? Now that’s an oxymoron...and he eats treats? Like a dog?”

“What animal doesn’t like a treat?” He grinned, teal eyes, dark beard that hadn’t been shaved in a few days, looking as handsome as the devil. “Hold out your hand.” He dropped a brownish nugget in her palm.

“What is it?”

“An apple and oat treat—good for horses.” He pointed to Chicken. “Offer it to him with your fingers flat.”

“Why?”

“He wouldn’t intend to bite you but, nonetheless, those teeth can crunch your fingers if they get caught between the treat and his mouth.”

She swallowed. “I see.” She kept her hand flat and velvety lips snatched it up. But Chicken didn’t think the treat was anywhere near enough. The snorting grew louder, his head bobbing like he was demanding an entire bucket full of apple and oat treats.

Logan pushed on the big fella’s nose making an S sound.

The horse pulled his head back into the stall and stood obediently.

“He listens to you.”

Logan grinned. “He knows what’s good for him.”

“What was that stick and string you used the other day? It wasn’t a whip was it?”

“Nope. It’s called a carrot stick—used for training, kinda like a horse whisperer.”

“Had you ridden that horse before?”

“No. That was his first ride.”

“And no bucking?”

“That’s old-school training. Not very humane either.”

“I see.”

Logan handed her the pitchfork. “One more stall to go, your grace.”

She chuckled. “A duchess would never stoop so low.”

“I think you’re pretty good at mucking out stalls.”

“Well, don’t grow accustomed to it. We’ll be returning to Iceland before long.”

“Yeah, but I’m not thinking about going back just yet. I’ve got a picnic to plan.”

“You are a sadist.” Olivia didn’t want him thinking she’d suddenly turned a corner. Oh no, there was still a great deal of sass she needed to issue before she let on that she might be enjoying anything.

Chapter Thirty-Five

When Logan heard Olivia stir upstairs, he left a note by the coffee maker then hastened out the back door. He didn’t want to give her any opportunity to weasel out of their bargain, and needed to saddle the horses.

He’d be taking Casey, his favorite twelve-year-old gelding. Casey was born when Logan had been on summer break when he was attending Annapolis. He spent the entire month with the foal, rubbing him down for hours to ensure he didn’t fear humans. He was trying something new at the time and it had paid off. Whenever he was home, Casey followed Logan around the pasture and it never mattered how long Logan was away, the horse always greeted him with snorts and nickers.

Olivia’s horse was the same twenty-year-old sorrel gelding she’d met yesterday, Chicken. The name didn’t fit, because Chicken wasn’t skittish in the least. He ambled along, rarely ever broke into a jog, and it took a seasoned rider to convince him to step up to a lope. Yep, Chicken was the best beginner’s horse in the herd.

Logan took his time brushing the two, picking their hooves and saddling them. He wanted this day to be perfect. Olivia had given him her all when they were sparring. Though his flame for her had never flickered, it wasn’t until she was aiming deadly kicks at his head that he realized she still liked him. If he’d been a terrorist, she wouldn’t have missed. And if she’d been serious about returning to London, she wouldn’t have let him win. Well, she didn’t exactly let him win, but her defense to his choke hold had been a millisecond late. And that’s when his spirits rose.

When he rode out of the barn with Chicken in tow, Olivia was waiting on the porch, just as his note had instructed. She wore tight-fitting jeans, the flannel shirt untucked, one of Logan’s Navy ballcaps with her hair pulled back and, best of all, she looked like dynamite in the cowboy boots Sylvia had bought. Leggy, curves in the right places.

He pulled Casey to a stop in front of the hitching post. “You look like a mighty fine wrangler in that getup.”

She gave him a sober blink. “Is that so, cowboy?” No, given her accent, the whole wrangler fantasy fizzled, but still didn’t detract from her allure.

He casually slung his leg over Casey’s withers and slid to the ground. “Come on. I’ll give you a leg up and adjust your stirrups.”

She ambled down the stairs. “Chicken looks a lot bigger when he’s not in a stall.”

“He’s a pussy cat.” Logan took her hand and led her to the horse’s nose. “Let him smell your palm and give him a pat so he knows who’s riding him.”

“You don’t just jump on?”

“The horse likes it better if you introduce yourself first.”

“Who knew?” She let Chicken sniff, then smoothed her hand down his neck while a smile spread across her lips. “You’re a handsome fella, aren’t you?”

Logan gulped, wishing she was talking to him. A wisp of hair from her ponytail blew across his nose. He caught the knee-weakening scent of fresh rain and nearly groaned. God, he had it bad, and he was still in the doghouse. Ignoring his urge to pull her into an embrace, he showed her how to hold the reins and mount. Once she was securely in the saddle, he adjusted her stirrups and gave her thigh a pat. “You’re all set.”

“I know you’re laughing right down to your toes.”

“Laughing? Not at all. I’ve wanted to show you my spread since we arrived.”

“Is that what’s this is about? Showing me the backwoods of the wild west?”

He threw a leg over Casey’s back and took up his reins. “I wanted to share something I love with you.” The words came out low with an edge. No matter how much he tried, she just didn’t get it. She was just too citified. Olivia didn’t want to ride horses and she didn’t want to be in Montana. Dammit, he should stop trying to make her like it. Maybe she was right. They ought to head back to ICE and pick up where they left off—not the work-spouse thing, but the hunting terrorists thing.

He wasn’t the duchess’ type. She’d made that imminently clear a dozen times since they’d met.

A knot formed between his shoulder blades. She agreed to a goddamned picnic, and they were going to enjoy the hell out of the day if it killed him.

***

Olivia rode behind Logan, half-expecting him to point to every rock and tell a story, but he just rode in silence.

And she felt wretched.

He’d been keen to show her his place and she’d done nothing but act like a highbrow, wallowing in her own misery. There’d been great deal of emotion in his last words. Resignation and frustration were there for certain. But the worst was disappointment. She’d pushed him away, and pushed too far.

Her gut twisted.

It was just as well. Neither one of them could engage in a relationship.

No matter how much I’d like to.

She rode along, watching his back, worrying about him. What was he thinking? Had she deeply hurt his feelings? Was he angry? He’d been nothing but kind to her. The man had bent over backward to be accommodating. And she’d spat in his face every chance she got, blaming him for letting al-Umari slip through their fingers. Again.

But it wasn’t his fault.

Nothing was his fault, especially Olivia’s ever present self-loathing.

She liked Logan a lot. More than any guy she’d dated as of late. Damn. She had to admit it. She liked him more than any guy ever. And he’d always acted the gentleman. She took in a long breath. “I’m sorry if I was short with you.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Olivia blinked, a tad rebuffed. She didn’t much care for it when the roles reversed and he started playing the masochist.

But that was her fault, too.

She pointed to a peak that rose above the forest. “What mountain is that?”

“Broken Leg Mountain.”

“Are we heading up there?”

“Not your first time out. I thought we might go to Horseshoe Lake. It’s nearby and secluded.”

“Is that the big fishing lake you told me about?”

“No.” A bit of command returned to his voice. “People come from miles around to fish Flathead Lake. It’s world famous.”

She smoothed the reins through her fingers. “Does Chicken trot?”

“You think you’re ready to step it up?”

“He’s not going to rear or anything?”

“Not Chicken.” Logan tapped his heels and, as soon as Casey took up a trot, Chicken followed. Olivia didn’t even have to do anything. But she flopped in the saddle, her bum slapping the leather like a bag of grain.

Logan glanced back. “Press your heels down. Move with the horse. He’s got a smooth gait.”

Olivia did as told and the jostling stopped. “There’s a lot to this, isn’t there?”

He shrugged. “I suppose anything worth doing well takes practice. You didn’t earn your black belt overnight, did you?”

“No. I did not.”

“Me, neither. In fact, being a quick study isn’t my strong suit.”

“No? Then what is?” she asked.

“Being tenacious.”

He can say that again.

By the time they reached a grassy point jutting into Horseshoe Lake, Logan seemed more like his old self, and the fresh air had made Olivia’s head clear. She felt human for the first time in weeks.

He was so at home there in Montana. Not that Olivia hadn’t bivouacked in the hills of Cambodia or in the arid Middle East. On her visits to Kenya, she’d had it rough—didn’t have to ride a horse, but accommodations were piss-poor, sometimes without running water. Montana was beautiful—stunning. There were evergreens everywhere and the heady fragrance of pine and forest filled the air.

They dismounted and she watched him hobble the horses. “Do you like to go fishing?”

“Love it. I’m a fly fisherman from way back.”

“I’ve never been.”

He straightened. “Nothing clears the mind better than spending the day on a river. Just a man and his rod.”

She almost laughed out loud—the image she’d conjured of his rod was definitely not a fishing pole. “I’ll take your word for it.”

He gave a sad smile. “I guess it’s another acquired skill. I haven’t had much time for fishing since I became a SEAL.”

“I know what that’s like.” Olivia rubbed her hands. “So, what did you pack for lunch?”

“A taste of France—baguettes with brie, fruit. Hope you don’t mind, but I kept it simple.”

“Simple works.”

After she spread the blanket, he set out the food. It all looked so provincial. Logan sat with his knees up, his heels digging into the blanket, which didn’t look comfortable at all. Olivia figured she ought to try to be ladylike and rested her knees to the side. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on a picnic—probably didn’t want to, either.

She pointed to the thermos. “What’s in there?”

“Hot tea.”

“No wine?”

“I thought about wine but, since you’re British, I figured you might enjoy a nip of English Breakfast.” He pulled two tin cups out of his saddle bags, then untwisted the top of the thermos.

She held up a cup. “We need some scones or biscuits.”

He reached in the saddle bags again. “How about shortbread?”

“Delicious. Which should we eat first?”

“Your choice.”

She picked up a knife and sliced the brie. “Let’s have a free for all. Have you ever tried brie on shortbread?”

Finally, those penetrating teal eyes met her gaze. “I have not.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Nor have I, but it sounds good to me.” She slathered a biscuit with cheese and held it up to his lips. “Will you do the honors?”

He opened his mouth and let Olivia feed him. “Mm.” His eyes grew wider as he chewed. Good Lord, if any man could make chewing look sexy, Logan Rodgers pulled it off like he was born to seduce by eating. He watched her from beneath his long, black eyelashes, with a cocky grin playing on his lips.

Butterflies flitted through her stomach.

“It’s good,” he said, taking the knife from her hand while his fingers brushed hers with a flicker of energy.

After seducing her further with a wink, he slathered a biscuit with brie and raised it to her lips. When he slid the combo into her mouth, Olivia’s taste buds exploded. Brie and shortbread was fantastic. A new favorite. He watched her as she chewed, then brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckle. “I’m glad you came with me.”

“Believe it or not, so am I.” She twisted the corner of her mouth. “I suppose I needed a kick in the tush.”

“Nah.” He batted a hand through the air. “You needed to recharge.”

She sighed and looked to the tops of the pine trees. “So you recharge here, fishing and riding horses?”

“I do. And mustering cattle.”

“I haven’t seen your cattle.”

“They’re grazing in the pasture down by Jason’s place.”

She looked up to the trees—nature, birds singing. Montana was so peaceful. “Why do you do it?”

“What?”

“Travel halfway around the world to fight bad guys.”

He rocked back on his elbow, looking even sexier than before, more relaxed, as if he were a part of the nature surrounding them. “It’s in my blood. Much the same as it’s in yours, I guess. I love it here, but it gets old after a while, and every time I see the news about some moron hurting innocent people, I can’t sit idle. It’s like an internal firecracker blasting out a call to action.”

“My call never really goes away.”

“Mine, either, I suppose. Maybe one day.”

Her lips parted as she stared into his eyes. God help her, he looked too delicious not to kiss. Her breathing shuddered as she moved closer, wanting him, but not trusting herself at the same time. When she hesitated, Logan threaded his fingers through her hair and, rising up to meet her, he captured her mouth.

Olivia timidly kissed his lips.

Logan moaned, his tongue pushing inside.

Olivia froze as the memory of the blade of a knife skimming her lips hit her like a brick. Tensing, she gently urged him back down to the blanket. “I can’t.”

Logan sat up, swiping a hand across his mouth. “God damn, my heart isn’t like a faucet you can turn on and off.”

“Sorry.” She shook her head, feeling like a worthless lout. “I-I just don’t do well unless I’m on the job.”

He gave her an angry stare. “You know I get a rush from the job, too. But there’s more to life than fighting thugs. There’s a spark between us, you can’t deny—”

“I know, but I cannot—”

“You can!” He sat up with a grunt, putting his back to her. God, the gesture felt like he’d just slammed a door. “You just won’t. Not until you stop blaming yourself for your parents’ death.”

Ice water shot through Olivia’s blood. No one ever spoke about what happened in Pakistan. Never! And he had no right to bring it up now. “How dare you?”

He rolled to his knees and started shoving the food into his saddle bags. “I was a fool to think you might like it here. I was a fool to think you might like me. I’ve been around your kind plenty, and all you people think about is yourselves…how you feel, what you want, where you want to be. No one else matters because it’s all about you.” He looked up with the most hurt and hateful expression she’d ever seen cross his face. “Isn’t it?”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Olivia paced the hotel room in Bigfork with her cell phone to her ear. She’d waited on hold forever. Garth always picked up immediately when they were on a mission but, now, when she desperately needed to speak to him, the CO kept her waiting.

Well, she’d wait all freaking afternoon if she had to. After Logan’s tirade during their picnic, she couldn’t get back to civilization soon enough. The town of Bigfork was on the edge of Hicksville. Even the hotel was rustic with a quaint, western bent. It made her tense all the more. She’d known from the outset that R & R on a farm wouldn’t work for her. She’d nearly gone off her trolley until Logan made her clean stalls.

Unbelievable. I’m miserable until I’m wallowing in shit.

But her brief brush with a pitchfork didn’t mean being a ranch hand was for her. Though she couldn’t deny horses were more interesting than she’d imagined. They had far more personality than she’d believed possible. They were a challenge as well.

Regardless, horses or not, nothing mattered. She’d never seen Logan so irate. In fact, he’d never quite lost it like that before. The bloke was always in complete control—so like a military officer.

Olivia continued to pace while her stomach tied in knots. She’d pushed him too far. Dammit all, anyway. She couldn’t harbor feelings for him. It just wasn’t done. She was married to the job and always had been.

Logan didn’t understand her. How could he? He’d never been through the quagmire of her life. He could not possibly have any idea what it was like to see her parents die. Did she blame herself for the car bombing that took their lives and deprived her of a family?

Hell, yes!

She blamed herself every moment of every day. Olivia didn’t deserve a man as caring and giving and smart and as perfect as Logan Rodgers. And, by God, he deserved someone better than her.

Letting out a frustrated groan, she plopped into the chair, punched the speaker button on her phone and stared up at the ceiling. “Why can’t I just let him go?”

Walking away from relationships had been easier in the past. She’d turned her back on every beau she’d ever had. Yes, it hurt, but this time the pain was off the charts. Her heart ached as if someone reached inside her chest and ripped it out. Her stomach clamped into a ball. Christ, she even had a sheen of clammy sweat on her skin.

Maybe I’ve come down with something.

But it was time for Olivia to face reality. To face her feelings.

I could lose Logan forever.

She doubled over at the thought. What if she ended up seeing him with another woman? She clenched her fists.

No, please, no.

If only she could fly away and never see him again. Go to Kenya and work as a full-time missionary.

But then al-Umari would win. If Olivia walked away, it would be admitting defeat.

A tear streamed down her cheek.

She couldn’t bear not to see Logan again. Goddamn it, when she really thought about it, the cowboy understood her. True, he mightn’t have been in her shoes and lived her life, but she had to admit he knew what she was like deep down. Yes, he’d been through strife of his own. Maybe that’s why they clicked so well.

We’re both predators.

And his words rang true. Neither one of them could live without the job. When bombs went off, they ran toward danger. They thrived on it.

Turning her back on him was the hardest thing she’d ever done. It hurt more than any pain she’d ever felt.

More than losing Mum and Dad?

Yeah. As much, anyway.

She chewed on her nail.

He’s too good for me.

But he was right. My parents would have wanted me to be happy. They always did.

“What is it, Hamilton?” Garth barked from the phone.

Olivia snapped her gaze toward the sound. “Ah…um…checking in, sir.”

“You recovered yet?”

“Working on it.” Her teeth grazed her bottom lip. She couldn’t go through with it. Making a snap decision, she said, “Have they found anything in al-Umari’s plane?” NATO had taken possession of the Gulfstream right after she and Logan had landed in the US.

“It’s still being stripped.”

“I thought you’d have news by now. Please let me know when the report is in.”

“Will do. But I want you to focus on yourself and not think about ICE. When you return, I expect your mind to be on the job one hundred percent.”

“It always is, sir.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Talk soon.”

The line went dead. Olivia sprang to her feet, grabbed the hotel phone and rang the front desk. “Can you order a taxi, please?”

***

Lights off with the shades drawn, Logan sat in his father’s chair turning a glass of whisky between his fingertips. He never drank before five but today, he didn’t give a frig about the time. Hell, it was summer. The days were long and it might just be after five.

Women sucked.

Especially beautiful women.

The first time he’d laid eyes on Olivia, he’d known she was off limits. He knew women like her were put on the earth to torment men like him. God damn, he had warned himself, and yet he’d fallen for a gorgeous blonde again. Why the hell couldn’t he learn? He wasn’t Olivia’s type. He needed a Montana girl who grew up under the big sky, who liked to fish and barbeque.

True, he’d dated local girls. Some liked to fish. The problem was not a one understood his lifestyle. They all expected him to quit chasing bad guys and stay at home month in and month out. They all wanted to put a noose around his neck and tighten it until he couldn’t breathe.

Logan had never been the type to stay put. He lived to nail bad guys. Sure, he liked Montana. He loved Montana. But after a month at home, he was always ready for the next adventure. He was a warrior. Merely turning on the television made him crave to be back in the fight. He was a career military man whether he was working for ICE or working for the US Navy.

He’d made a pact with himself after he lost his father to make every day count. His mother had abandoned him and Dad had died young—just sixty. A man had only one life to live and if Logan didn’t grab it by the balls, there was no use living.

He took a sip of whisky and relished the burn as it slid down his throat. His mistake had been to care too much. Olivia, her beauty and all her excess baggage had sucked him in big time. He’d fallen head over heels. Christ, he’d even thought about putting a ring on her finger.

What a dupe.

Well, he had nothing to do now but to find a way to deal with the pain. His goddamned heart felt like it was ripped into a chasm as wide as the Grand Canyon. For the first time in years, he didn’t want to move. He looked at the bottle of Glenlivit on the table beside him. He’d sit there all night and drink until he passed out. Who cared about the hangover in the morning?

No one. That’s who.

At least Olivia was gone now and he could focus on blasting her memory from his mind. He’d forget those sexy negligees she wore, always giving him a hard on. The woman should be locked up just for looking like a beauty queen—for smelling like a hedge of jasmine—for driving red-blooded men throughout the world to complete and utter ruination.

Damn, it hurt.

He threw back the contents of the glass and slammed it on the table. He’d call Jason in the morning and get back to work. The calves needed to be drenched and what Logan needed was to spend the rest of his leave knee-deep in muck doing back-breaking work from dawn to dusk. That was the only surefire way to forget.

The worst thing? He had to go back to Iceland.

He’d see her again.

But not before he built a wall of bricks around his heart.

Outside, a vehicle crunched over the gravel and stopped.

Logan poured himself another glass. Jason could show himself in.

A door shut—a car door. It definitely didn’t sound like Jason’s truck. And the footsteps tapping the porch steps were too light to be Jason’s.

The car drove off.

Christ.

The doorbell rang. “Logan?” Yep. Olivia even sounded sexy. Why God couldn’t have blessed her with a shrill voice, he had no idea.

Shit.

Logan took a long sip.

She moved to the window, the outline of her slender silhouette played on the sheer curtains. “Logan?”

Groaning, he stood and moved to the door and opened it, making sure he didn’t look pleased to see her. “Did you forget something?”

“Yeeeeeeaaaaasss.” She sounded none too sure about it as she boldly pushed inside.

Logan let the door slam and faced her with his arms crossed. “Was that a taxi?”

“Uh huh.”

“Why isn’t it waiting?”

Her tongue slipped out the corner of her mouth. “Could we sit down?”

“No.”

“Very well then.” She stepped nearer and took his hand between her palms.

Refusing to look her in the eye, he tried to tug away, but she tightened her grip and something shattering inside his heart refused to permit him to pull harder.

Dammit, his gaze shifted to her face.

She looked at him with pleading eyes. Eyes so damned gorgeous, no puppy dog could compete with her. “It wasn’t until I got to the hotel that I realized exactly how badly I’ve behaved.”

His gut squeezed. “That’s an understatement.”

“I deserved that.” She opened his palm and pressed it against her heart.

Logan’s knees turned to mush. He shook his head. “I can’t—”

“Let me finish.”

Pursing his lips, he gave a nod. The sooner she had her say, the sooner he could take her back to Bigfork.

“I love you.”

“No,” he heard himself say as he shook his head vehemently. “Girls like you don’t fall in love. They are put on the earth to torture guys like me, and that’s how it is.”

“Maybe most guys like you, but definitely not you.” A sultry chuckle rumbled beneath his fingertips. “I realized you were right. About everything.”

“Huh?” If only his knees would work, he might run out the door and never stop. Beauty queens never admitted to being wrong.

Olivia’s tongue tapped her upper lip. “I did put myself first. I did put my need to avenge my parents’ death ahead of my own needs. I did push you away at every turn. And I was wrong. I’m a cocked-up mess.”

“You are.” Damn, he almost smiled.

“But you can help.”

“I don’t think—”

“You have helped me a great deal already.”

He squinted. “What are you saying?”

“I want you.”

“Uh…” Logan’s mind raced. Resisting the temptation to pull her into his arms and forgive everything, he took a deep breath. “Look. I cannot deny that I love you, but I love myself, too. You can’t turn it on and off with me. It’s either all in or all out.”

Her lips curved upward as she pulled his knuckles to her lips and kissed—not a peck, but a warm, lingering kiss that imparted more emotion than a million smiles. Her eyelashes slowly fluttered open and she met his gaze—gorgeous, soulful, blue eyes. Eyes he adored. “Then I’m all in, cowboy.”

The floodgates opened as Logan tugged her into his embrace. Hands went everywhere. Lips fused together as tears dribbled from his eyes and he didn’t care who saw. Bring the entire crew of the Washington to witness him well up. The only woman he’d ever connected with right down to his soul had just declared her love on a promise never to deny him.

She eagerly returned his kisses, lick for lick, swirl for swirl, her hands possessively clutching him against her body. His lips wandered across her cheekbone to her little ear, and she shuddered as he ran his tongue down her neck.

“Make love to me.” Her steamy whisper made his cock stand at attention.

“But what about being sewed back together? Won’t it hurt?”

“Maybe a little, but that’s the type of pain I’d endure every night just to be with you.”

“You on top?” he growled, not caring where they did it. The floor, the kitchen table. Hell, against the wall would do. There was no turning back now. He was all in and down for the count.

Her fingers kneaded his back. “No. I want you on top.”

Logan chuckled. “You don’t need to tell me twice.” His heart soared while he swept her into his arms and carried her up the creaking stairs.

Dizzy with desire, he pushed through his bedroom door and set her on her feet. Olivia’s hands trembled as she tore off his shirt, buttons popping everywhere. Shoes, pants, boxers, everything came off in a flurry. Naked and in each other’s arms, they crashed to the bed. Hot, wet and totally turned on, Logan rolled on top of her, kissing, rubbing, on fire.

He swallowed to catch his breath. “I—”

She rocked her hips against him, spreading her moisture along his length. “Now!”

With one thrust, he slipped inside, but not too far to hurt her. Stopping nearly made him come.

She gasped. “Oh, God!” Her fingers dug into his hips forcing him even deeper.

“Am I hurting--?”

“No, deeper!”

“I’m not going to last,” he said, trying to control his wild urge to rock his hips.

But Olivia demanded a faster tempo, demanded he slip all the way inside. Tight, wet, fantastic, he could no longer hold back.

Her gasps came quicker as she met him thrust for thrust. “Yes, yes, yes!”

Unbelievable pleasure swept through him as he swelled inside her.

Olivia’s eyes flashed open as a cry caught in the back of her mouth. The look on her face sent him over the edge while, together, shudders wracked their bodies with the most powerful climax he’d ever experienced.

Holding himself above her on his elbows, Logan caught his breath. “Sorry.”

“Pardon? That was amazing.”

Still erect inside her, he brushed his lips across hers. “I wanted to go slow, to make it last, to show you how high you can soar.”

He loved the sultry chuckle that rumbled in his ear. Then she whispered, “Next time, love.”

“You hurt?”

“Not much.”

“You ready for another round?”

“Mm hmm.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The following week passed in a blur. The sex was off the charts from slow, to fast, to oral, to everything in between.

Olivia finally wore the chaps Logan had brushed off for her. She even learned how to canter on Chicken or lope as Logan called it, explaining the differences between Western and English riding. Every morning before breakfast, they cleaned the stalls and in the afternoons they sparred. She was actually the happiest she’d ever been in her adult life.

Jason and Logan were working the cattle in the yard, giving inoculations. Sylvia stood beside Olivia at the fence with her booted foot on the lowest rung. The woman was pretty in a wholesome sort of way—early thirties and wore her light brown hair to her shoulders. “So where was it you and Logan met?”

Olivia’s cheeks burned. There was so much she couldn’t divulge. “The USS Washington rescued me in the Mediterranean after the private yacht I was a passenger on capsized.”

“Private yacht in the Mediterranean? My, that sounds romantic.”

Good Lord, it had been hell. Olivia just shrugged and changed the subject. “So, how did you meet Jason?”

“Nothing as exciting as a life and death rescue. We dated in high school and got back together at our five-year reunion after we’d both finished college.”

“Sounds like a fairy tale to me.”

“I’m getting hungry, Wife,” Jason called from the midst of the mob of dusty cattle. “Mind starting up Logan’s barbeque?”

“On it,” Sylvia replied, tugging Olivia’s wrist. “Come on. I’ve made potato salad and blackberry pie.”

Olivia followed her back toward the house. “Sounds delicious. But I should have made something, too.”

“Nah. Logan told me you’re not fond of cooking.”

“Oh? What else has Logan told you?”

Sylvia gave her a wink. “He didn’t need to say he’s head over heels in love with you. I can tell that just by looking at his face.”

Butterflies fluttered in Olivia’s stomach—for the gazillionth time. “You think?”

“Uh huh, honey. That man’s got it bad.”

Olivia laughed. She had it bad, too. And better? She had a boyfriend who loved her and could handle her quirks. He even understood her line of work. And since they both worked for ICE, there didn’t need to be any secrets between them.

Sylvia proved to be a pro at the barbeque. Olivia set the table and pulled the bottles of beer out of the cooler. By the time the men returned dusty, tired, and grinning from ear to ear, the feast was spread out on the picnic table in the backyard with the mountain view.

Logan sat across from her and took a long pull on his beer followed by a satisfied sigh. “That’s good.”

“Mighty good,” said Jason.

Olivia smiled. There she sat with a mob of Yanks in the middle of Montana, and she couldn’t be happier. She watched Sylvia tear into her barbeque ribs with her fingers even though they were slathered with sauce.

In Rome, do as the Romans do.

Olivia followed suit and a burst of flavor melted in her mouth. “Mm, this is to die for.”

“Have you had ribs before?” asked Logan.

“Nothing like these.” Olivia ripped off another bite with her teeth.

“Sylvia makes the best sauce,” said Jason. “It’s magical.”

Olivia licked her fingers. “Sure is.”

The meal continued with laughter and Jason proved to be quite the spinner of yarns. Olivia took it all in, watching Logan as the sun set. He was happy listening to his friend while he watched Olivia, their gazes connected by an invisible current, silently telling each other what they were planning upstairs later when again they’d be alone.

***

After Jason and Sylvia headed for home, Olivia volunteered to clean up while Logan went for a shower. Lord knew he needed one. Drenching cattle was hard work, made him work up a sweat, and he loved it.

Olivia hadn’t batted an eyelash when he and Jason came to the table with their jeans caked with dirt and dust. Maybe she wasn’t as citified as she thought. In fact, by the way she wore his flannel shirts and kicked around in cowboy boots, looking happier than he’d ever seen her, he was convinced he’d already turned her into a country girl.

Imagine that. He’d finally found a stunning and difficult blonde whom he could love and who loved him back.

When he turned off the water, Olivia walked into the bathroom and held up a towel. “Ready to go another round?”

He let her dry him off. “On the bed or in the ring?”

She waggled her eyebrows, wrapping the towel around his body and hugging him. “I think you’ve spent enough time in the corral today.”

“I like the sound of that.” Dipping his chin, he kissed her and his heart raced just like it had the first time their lips had met.

She backed him out of the bathroom and toward the bed while her fingers sank into his butt. “Do you think you can handle me tonight?”

“I can handle you any night, anytime, anywhere.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear, cowboy.” She tackled him to the mattress and tore away his towel. They made love like it was the first time and after their bout of mind-blowing sex, Olivia lay in his arms, combing her fingers through his chest hairs. “You know we’re going to have to go back to work.”

Logan sighed. “In two weeks and one day.”

“Got it figured out have you?”

“Yep. Are you looking forward to it?”

“Not since my epiphany, but I’ll be ready. Something will go down and we’ll be racing into battle.”

He chuckled. “I like my time off, but I’m always ready to take on the next mission as well.”

“Mm hmm.”

His phone rang and Logan snatched it from the bedside table, looking at the caller ID. “Speak of the devil, it’s Garth.”

Olivia rose on an elbow and inclined her ear toward the speaker.

Logan clicked the green phone icon. “Hello?”

“Hey, Rodgers. Believe it or not, al-Umari has resurfaced.”

“That’s not like him,” whispered Olivia.

“Really? Where is he now?”

“Intel says he’s enroute to Saint Petersburg to make an arms deal with the Russians. You ready for another mission?”

Logan glanced to Olivia who gave him a sober nod. “Ready for action, sir.”

“Good, I’ll send a plane to your airfield. Be there at 0700. We’ll brief you once you get to ICE.”

Epilogue

Less than twenty-four hours later, Logan and Olivia reported for duty in the sit room. Mike Rose was there as well. Garth sat at the head of the table and welcomed them back. “I hope you’re ready for another assignment, because you’re needed.”

“I’m always ready to rid the world of terrorists, sir,” said Olivia. “But I haven’t heard about Mission Cat House. Were all the hostages reunited with their families?”

“Yes, ma’am, without a single casualty, thanks to ICE.” Garth chuckled. “Though it’s the Israelis and their Apache copters who are taking all the credit.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” asked Mike. “You wouldna want anyone knowing we had anything to do with it.”

“You got that right.” Logan nodded. “We don’t officially exist.”

Olivia folded her hands in her lap. “Tell me Gabby got the medical attention she needed.”

“Who’s Gabby?” asked Garth.

“One of the two girls from the Netherlands. She was…ah…assaulted by those apes.”

“Right.” The CO frowned. “NATO did report one casualty with minor injuries.”

Olivia pursed her lips. “Only minor?”

“Jesus, Hamilton, minor means minor. The girl will be fine. All the hostages are back with their families. That was your job and you accomplished it. Leave the worrying to her parents.”

Olivia let out a sigh and glanced to her partner. She and Logan hadn’t told Garth about the details of her brush with al-Umari and his knife. There was no need—and doing so might start another inquisition by Dr. R. “We all would have been gutted if Commanders Rodgers and Rose hadn’t shown up when they did.”

Logan grasped her hand beneath the table and gave it a squeeze. “So, what’s up with Russia?”

Garth frowned. “Turns out our intel was a smoke screen to take our attention off their real plan—whatever it is. Fahd al-Umari has slipped underground again.”

Olivia sat a bit straighter. “Then it’s our job to ferret him out.”

“That’s right. We’ll nail that bastard sooner or later,” said Garth turning his attention to the redheaded Scot. “Rose, there’s a woman I want you to pick up in Miramar at the Regional Joint Correctional Facility.”

Rose sat a bit straighter. “I beg your pardon, sir? What does she have to do with al-Umari?”

“She’s a prisoner?” asked Olivia.

Garth sliced his hand through the air. “First of all, she’s been proven innocent and secondly, she’s a sniper.”

“Are you talking about Henri Anderson?” asked Logan.

Olivia knit her eyebrows. Anderson had been accused of killing an Iranian dignitary in Washington DC. “Henri’s a girl?”

Garth glanced her way. “It’s Henrietta, and she’s the next asset to join the team…we hope. Anders had a bit of trouble with his recruiting tactics.”

“If Commander Rose is going to fetch Anderson, what are our orders, sir?” asked Logan.

“After you spend a week in the sim relearning how to land a Gulfstream, I need the pair of you working out of Pakistan. Jesus Christ, you nearly crashed that plane.”

“Hardly.” Logan swatted his hand through the air.

The CO stared at him humorlessly. “Yeah, but it was close. NATO said the landing gear was nearly crushed—I think the phrase they used was it looked like you were trying to land an elephant.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Prickly bastards.”

Across the table Rose chuckled, but Olivia’s entire body tensed.

Garth brought a street scene up on the screen for everyone to see. Olivia smothered her gasp with her hand as she instantly recognized Karachi, the same place her parents had been killed. Garth didn’t seem to notice her reaction. “I need you to chase down a lead on the whereabouts of al-Umari’s inner circle.”

“Pakistan, sir?” Olivia asked while her palms started to perspire.

Logan held up his hand. “Are you sure you want O—”

“Goddamn it, Rodgers, I’m always sure of what I want.”

“Yes, sir.”

After the briefing, Logan took Olivia back to his suite. Standing face to face, he cupped her cheeks between his palms. “I know Garth shot me down in there, but I’ll fight him if you don’t think you can face Pakistan.”

“Are you kidding?” Olivia kissed him on the lips, her initial trepidation turning to excited anticipation. “We’re going to nail al-Umari this time. I can feel it right down to my bones.”

“What if this new girl kills him first?”

“Then I hope they pin a medal on her.”

“Honest?”

“Damn straight.”

Logan grinned—white teeth, teal-blue eyes that could hypnotize Olivia every time he looked into her eyes. “God, I love you.”

He kissed her, a marvelous and meaningful kiss filled with a commitment of everlasting passion. Logan wrapped his arms around her, making her feel part of something more powerful than she could ever be alone. Olivia wanted those protective arms surrounding her forever. She repaid the gesture with a squeeze of her own, kneading her fingers into the thick bands of muscle in Logan’s back. After fluttering more kisses along his neck, she let out a contented sigh and looked him in the eye. “Know what?”

“What?”

“I love you, too.”

Excerpt from BODY SHOT

Chapter One

Joint Regional Correctional Facility Southwest, Miramar

I’m free?

Henri’s gut whirred like a boomerang, though she showed no outward sign of triumph. If only she could jump on the table and start dancing. But freedom came with a backhand so vicious, her thoughts darted in a gazillion directions while volts of wariness shot up her spine.

Yes, she’d expected this day to come. Eventually. But she also expected the news to be delivered by a Delta Force commander, an elite member of the United States Army. They owed her that much. Presently, she trusted the suit sitting across the conference room table less than she trusted the lamebrained attorney responsible for landing her in the pen.

A sergeant in the elite Delta Force counter terrorism unit, war had taught Henri to suspect first, question later. And her internal suspicion radar was firing on red alert. Still, ten years of ingrained military discipline prevented her from telling the windbag he was full of shit. Besides, her throat had closed. Hell, even her hands perspired.

WTF?

She wiped her palms on her orange coveralls.

I’m free, dammit. This guy’s not my CO. I could tell him to go to hell right now.

She closed her eyes and inhaled a calming breath. “Do you need my answer now?” He’d just dropped a bombshell, offering her some international job that would make use of her “special talents”. And it paid more money than she’d ever dreamed of earning. The rub? The suit refused to tell her where she’d be going or the details of what she’d be doing until she committed. What if he wanted her to murder someone? The man just sat there, his intense eyes staring at her from across the table. He was pasty, sweaty and overweight. Worse, agreeing to his clandestine request was like blindly slicing her palm with a dagger and dripping blood on a signature line just because her commanding officer told her to do it.

“Ja, that would be preferable,” he said. The man had introduced himself as Anders Lindgren and spoke with an accent that sounded Scandinavian. The fact he was sitting in a conference room in a highly-restricted military operation denoted some credibility, but that did zilch to lower Henri’s wariness meter. His face gave away nothing. Lindgren could pass for a seedy politician—the type who wouldn’t think twice about sending her tiptoeing into a minefield filled with IEDs.

“After all,” he continued, “Until three minutes ago, you were still planning on being a guest here.”

Here, being military prison, a lifetime guest of Uncle Sam. Henri swallowed, forcing back bile bubbling up her esophagus. Two years rotting in a goddamned hellhole because of a setup by a terrorist who wanted revenge. A bastard who’d entered the US illegally for the sole purpose of murdering the Iranian Ambassador and pinning the kill on Henri. “Who figured out I was innocent?”

The corners of Lindgren’s mouth turned up. “We began to suspect you were framed when my expert came across certain…ah…internet chatter.”

“Where?”

“That’s classified.”

Pursing her lips and inhaling through her nose, Henri glanced at the folder he’d handed her. She’d wasted two lousy years of her life and now they admit to her innocence? Wasn’t she entitled to a few details? And why had the news been delivered by a foreigner? He wasn’t even military.

Lindgren inclined his head to the folder, still laying unopened on the table. “You’ve been given an honorable discharge. But your country and the world needs you now more than ever.”

With a groan, she opened the cover and glanced over the top memo. “They’re not bothering to offer a return to my squadron?”

“The major felt it was time to move on.” Something in Lindgren’s tone told her he wasn’t giving her the full story.

More lies.

Henri squared her shoulders. “What if I disagree?”

The man frowned. “He said you’d be difficult.”

“Oh, yeah?” Every muscle in her body clenched. Was the guy’s collar buttoned too tight? Difficult? She was madder than a honey badger fighting a cobra. If it weren’t for the cameras in the four corners of the conference room, she’d reach across the table and slap the smirk off the dude’s face. “Tell me, Mr. Lindgren, who wouldn’t be bitter after spending two years behind bars for a crime she didn’t commit?”

He shook his head with a pinch to his brow. “Your situation is a grave travesty, indeed. But now that the truth has been uncovered, we see great potential in you.”

After giving him an exaggerated roll of her eyes, Henri tuned the man out and read the damned papers, including the details of her discharge and a letter from the President, first apologizing, then explaining that he wanted her to follow the Scandinavian. The President? She examined the signature. How the hell was she supposed to know if it had been forged? She held it up. “Is this authentic?”

“It is.”

No.

No matter how sober the suit looked, Henri wasn’t about to trust him. At the rear of the folder was a paycheck with the notation “two years’ back pay”. Great. Practically half of it was taken out for taxes. She swiped a hand across her mouth. Still, with this much money she could go home and restart her life. The other alternative? Go to God knew where with this pompous stuffed-shirt? Because the commander-in-chief of a country that had stripped her of her rank, thrown her to the wolves and locked her in a cell suddenly said, “Oops, sorry, you can have your Medal of Honor back now”?

No fucking way.

She shoved the chair out from the table and stood. “Sorry, sir, but the letter says I’m a free woman. I’ve been discharged with two years’ back pay and the only place I want to go is home.”

Not waiting for his response, Henrietta Soaring-Eagle Anderson marched past Anders Lindgren and out the conference room door.

About the Author

Amy embarked on her writing journey shortly after she completed an MBA with Heriot-Watt University in Edinburgh, Scotland. Her first manuscripts were suspense novels, and were never published. She calls writing them baptism by fire—a lesson in learning to write fiction. These lessons, combined with several writing conferences and classes, led her to write her first published book, Boy Man Chief, which won the League of Utah Writers award for Best Manuscript, and the Spark Book Award.

A lot has happened since, with some of the highlights being Rise of a Legend winning the national RONE award for Best Time Travel; hitting the Amazon Top 100 Bestseller list; and a host of other accolades.

Amy enjoys the freedom of authorship and the opportunity to work creatively every day. She has lived in Australia, Bermuda and has spent extensive time in Scotland. Whenever possible, she visits the places she writes about to add vibrant realism to her stories.

She loves writing Scottish historical romance, and now she’s adding romantic suspense to the mix. Come along for the ride!

Visit Amy’s website.

JOIN AMY JARECKI’S NEWSLETTER!

Starting in August, Amy will give away a $25 gift card every month to one newsletter subscriber. Contests open on the first of the month and end on the last day. Winners will be announced in the following newsletter. To find out who won, you’ll need to open it!

CLICK TO JOIN NOW!

Other Books by Amy Jarecki

ICE Series

Hunt for Evil

Body Shot

Mach One (Coming January, 2018)

Highland Defender & Lords of the Highlands (Mass Market)

The Fearless Highlander

The Valiant Highlander

The Highland Duke

The Highland Commander

The Highland Guardian

The Highlander’s Iron Will (a novella September, 2017)

Guardian of Scotland Series (Time Travel):

Rise of a Legend

In the Kingdom’s Name

The Time Traveler’s Christmas

Highland Dynasty Series:

Knight in Highland Armor

A Highland Knight’s Desire

A Highland Knight to Remember

Highland Knight of Rapture

Highland Force Series:

Captured by the Pirate Laird

The Highland Henchman

Beauty and the Barbarian

Return of the Highland Laird

Pict/Roman Romances:

Rescued by the Celtic Warrior

Celtic Maid

Stand Alone Titles:

The Chihuahua Affair

Virtue

Boy Man Chief