“Are you done harassing my teammate’s sister?” Fast Lane growled, bristling like a bear. His dark eyes narrowed dangerously, so intense it made the guy step back a few more steps, his face going pale. What a wanker weasel.
“Let me remind you that you’re confined to this base, and any attempts at leaving or circumventing my authority will be met with force.”
Fast Lane stepped into his space, getting into the guy’s face. It didn’t help that he was holding onto his M4, his index finger along the trigger, giving armed and dangerous a whole new name. He didn’t say a word, but the tension in the air was as thick as the humidity.
The guy actually blanched this time and said, “Just so we’re clear.”
“Oh, we’re clear,” Fast Lane said, and if he could have gotten away with it, and maybe even if he couldn’t, he might have punched the pencil neck in the face, jeopardizing his bars. His LT might be an officer, but there was something wild and deadly in his boss. Every man on this team knew Fast Lane would go to hell and back for them. His loyalty, leadership, and dedication to protecting every man on his team was without question.
The pencil neck ran like a startled gazelle back toward the building.
“You scared the bejeesus out of him,” 2-Stroke drawled, enjoying the scene of the scared rabbit disappearing into the structure.
“I have bigger balls than he does,” Anna said.
The three of them laughed sharply. It had been a long time since a woman had amused him as much as Anna did. He wished they could be friends, but there was no way that was even in his lexicon with the way he reacted to her.
“Fucking wanker,” Dodger said, the humor in his voice clear. “I swear to God, if Max—”
“Dies?” Anna turned those ghostly gray eyes on him.
“I’m going to squeeze that pencil neck until it breaks,” Fast Lane said. “Find a deep hole, fill it with lime, and bury his ass in it.”
“Yeah, plant fodder,” 2-Stroke said.
She touched Fast Lane’s arm. “We don’t have much time. The Paraguayans are releasing your HVT. They’re going to expel you from the country and have no intention of rescuing Max. In fact, they’re giving Al’Irada free rein to go after him and use him as a bargaining chip for their second in command, Azmaray Khan Isa Khel. They call him the Tiger of Waziristan, and he’s currently in Gitmo.”
“He has other names,” Dodger said. Butcher, merciless, and zealot to name a few, but Anna didn’t have to know that. It was obvious she’d been sent here to warn them.
“Who sent you?” Fast Lane asked.
“They didn’t really identify themselves. They just showed up at my shoot and pulled me aside, said I needed to get a message to you before the shit hits the fan. They alluded to the higher-ups that wanted your HVT in a deep, dark hole, namely Gitmo. I think. I can’t be sure.”
“The CIA used you to get a message to us?”
“Yes, I believe so. Any other route would have been suspicious.”
“Fuck the Paraguayans and their lying tongues,” Fast Lane said low through clenched teeth. “They tell you what they want us to do?”
“Yes. Your orders are to pretend to leave the country, then rendezvous at the Hotel Rosa. It’s this hole in the wall where they’ll meet you and get you outfitted.”
“For what?” Fast Lane asked.
She took a hard breath. “We’re going to split up and you, Pitbull, Dragon, and Hemingway are going after the HVT.”
“We?” Dodger asked, his gut clenching with a vengeance.
“Yes,” she said. “You, me, 2-Stroke, and Saint will go after Max.”
Max was sure he had a fever. He was losing his grasp on reality and slipping in and out of consciousness, feeling lightheaded, cold sweats making him shiver like it was twenty below instead of a hundred in the shade. Headache, muscle aches, weak as a kitten. He tried to move, tried to get his eyes to focus. Dr. Beautiful was out there on her own.
Jugs had gone with her, his ears pricked, his attention on the men. He pushed the folds of the sleeping bag away from him. Feeling sick, the pain stabbing like hot pokers into his side, he sat up, pulling his sidearm. His M4 was somewhere in the jungle, lost when he’d flown to the ground…fallen, he corrected himself. He was pretty sure he couldn’t fly.
He brushed the sweat out of his eyes, his body shaking as he peered through the underbrush. He wasn’t letting that woman run off into danger without overwatch. She was as fearless as Jugs.
And beautiful.
Her dark hair was in a tight French braid that ran down her back or curled over her shoulder. Part of it had touched his face when she’d leaned over him to help him sit up, the strands soft and silky against his skin. She had expressive almond-shaped eyes in an oval face, the irises rich, dark espresso brown. The spitting image of Disney’s Esmeralda.
He was burning up from just the sight of her.
Every move she made seemed like a slow, deliberate tease. He had felt her reaction to touching him, and at times, he was sure it wasn’t as professional as she had been trying to convince him it was.
He appreciated maturity—intellectually and physically, like Mak, Pitbull’s wife. Renata possessed both brains and a body that was soft, lush, and womanly. He needed a solid woman as he was a big guy, all over—from his wide shoulders to his large hands and long fingers to his taller than average frame loaded with hard-packed muscle.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t anything like the easy, forgettable women he met at the All In Sports Bar and Grille. A woman he could enjoy for a few weeks until he had his fill, then leave her behind. No, this beautiful, sexy woman was packed with too many complications, and he had to keep his focus on getting himself well and getting back to the team. There was no doubt they would be looking for him.
Damn, she was a freaking vision, like an angel of mercy sent to help him. He wasn’t one to give into defeatist thoughts, but he was in some big trouble back there.
He couldn’t hear what she was saying or see what was going on. It irked him that he wasn’t his usual badass self, the one putting his life on the line. The guy with the gun and the know-how to get out of almost any predicament.
When he twisted the wrong way, he muffled his cry and fell back onto the litter, pain radiating in agonizing waves from his left side until he could barely breathe.
He heard the brush rustling and forced his eyes open. She was standing there…he blinked several times…with a horse-faced woman in a straw sombrero with bright festive flowers around the brim.
“Who is this?” he mumbled.
“Luna,” she said with a smile.
He clutched his side as another wave of pain swamped him, and he groaned as his synapses shorted out. “We don’t need another woman to drag me around the jungle.”
Renata’s eyes turned from triumphant to worried, her smile fading. “Max? Are you all right?” She knelt down, touched his forehead, and as the wave crested, he worked at dealing with the excruciating pain. He let it wash over him, trying to think of it as a swell of warm ocean water. He loved the ocean, the clear blue, the salt, the buoyancy. He felt as if he were floating now.
“Max?” Renata said. Her voice had gotten frantic. “This isn’t a woman. It’s an ass.”