Lear Page 5

  “Company!” I shouted.

  He kept his focus on the road—at 130, one wrong twitch meant certain death, but I knew he heard me.

  I saw a black-and-white patrol car parked along the center median, and as we passed at high speed, red-and-blue lights turned on and they gave chase. I twisted to watch, and one of the Rovers peeled away and slowed down—an instant of starfire burst of muzzle flash, and the patrol car wobbled, swerved, and then twisted to roll dramatically, metal crunching and screaming.

  The Rover accelerated again, our pursuit neutralized. There would be helicopters soon, but they wouldn’t make a difference in this moment.

  Lear let his speed bleed off for a moment, and then banked a sharp right to veer toward an exit ramp, taking it at 90 mph; we hit the crest and went airborne, and the rear tire barked as we landed. Tires squealed and then the engine revved, and Lear’s boot kept us upright as we carved a sharp left the moment both wheels were on the pavement; the throttle opened immediately to propel us like a gunshot down the street, and we wove between a pair of low-rider Buicks with engines rumbling and bass thumping. I got a brief whiff of acrid pot smoke as we split between them, and then they were behind us and Lear was juking right down a side street, and then left, and then right again, seemingly at random, taking turns down residential neighborhood roads at fifty miles per hour and accelerating to over eighty down the straights.

  He slowed slightly, his head scanning the houses on the right—they were all darkened, some with porch lights on. Small ranches and bungalows with detached garages behind chain-link gates, the neighborhood here was older, worn down, and nondescript.

  Abruptly, Lear wrenched the bike in a razor-sharp right, boot scraping on the asphalt as he slowed us over the sidewalk, through an open gate, and down the driveway right into an open garage. Suddenly, we had stopped. Bringing his wrist up, he tapped the screen of a smartwatch, once, twice, scrolled, tapped again, and the garage door closed behind us.

  When the door bumped to a close there was sudden silence. The garage was a typical detached garage for the time period: dusty, musty, cobwebs in the windows and on the walls, random junk hanging from the rafters, a cluttered workbench with Mason jars full of screws and nails, the requisite handsaw on an angle, an aging push mower in the back corner, an oil-stained concrete pad underfoot.

  I threw myself off the bike, spun to face Lear, and grabbed the underside of his helmet, yanking the faceplate toward me. “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT ABOUT?” I screamed.

  Nonchalantly, he knocked my hand away and unfolded himself off the motorcycle—a Suzuki GSX-R. Tugging the helmet off of his head, he brushed a hand through his messy blond hair. He set the helmet on the gas tank, and only then did he turn his attention to me. “I’m afraid you seem to have inherited an enemy of mine.”

  I counted to ten, slowly, because exploding on Lear wouldn’t help me in this situation. Speaking with forced calm, I bit out one word: “Who?”

  “Cain.” He paused for effect. “Previously known as Ledion Dushku.”

  I went blank, but only for a moment. “You have got to be motherfucking kidding me right now, Lear.”

  “Wish I was.”

  “How?” I paced away. “How did I inherit Ledion Dushku as an enemy?”

  “You know who he is, then?”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Of course I know, dumbass. If you run in the circles you and I run in, you know who Ledion is.” I glanced at him. “You called him Cain?”

  A nod. “It’s his…villain name, or whatever you want to call it. What he’s calling himself, these days.”

  I frowned, thinking. “Cain. My unit crossed paths with a cell of terrorists-slash-arms runners who claimed to have been employed by someone named Cain. They were operating through a double-blind front, though, because none of them had the slightest clue who Cain was, or how to find him. The money, the arms shipments, the lieutenants, they all appeared and disappeared seemingly out thin air, according to the guys we interrogated.”

  He nodded again. “Sounds about right. Cain—meaning Ledion—is former Spetsnaz, worked closely with INTERPOL and other European law enforcement, hunting down drugs and arms dealers and all that other scum of the earth; he got greedy, started taking cash on the back end from drugs and arms deals, got caught, and went rogue. So he knows exactly how to set up independent cells, and is probably better than most because he helped take them down and would remember what led to their downfall, how to avoid anything that could tie the dirty work back to him.” Lear pulled his pistol from the shoulder holster, ejected the clip, pulled his backpack off one shoulder, dug in it and came up with a box of shells, replaced the rounds he’d spent, and replaced the clip and then the gun in its holster. “So, tying a cell to Cain is hard enough, but finding anyone who knows the first fucking thing about Cain is another. He’s a fucking ghost.”

  I hissed. “Well, no shit, that’s why he’s on the top of every most wanted list on the planet.” I stepped closer to him, and steeled myself against the all-too-fresh memory of what we’d done together mere minutes ago. “So, how the hell do you have Cain as an enemy, and why did he send his guys to assassinate me?”

  “It wouldn’t have been an assassination,” he corrected absently, “more of a threat elimination. There’s a difference.”

  “He wasn’t even on my radar. I’m not a threat to him.”

  Lear’s eyes were…apologetic. “You were seen with me—how, I’m still not sure, and that’s what has me worried. Regardless of how they tagged you, being seen with me makes you, in his eyes, a threat.”

  I frowned harder. “I mean, I am a threat—if I were sent after him, he’d be dead within days.” I shook my head. “But you and I—we had sex together, once, less than half an hour ago, and we barely know each other in a personal capacity. I mean, you’re clearly more than a computer security specialist, and you’ve obviously cottoned on to the fact that I’m not just your average personal security detail.”

  Lear sighed. “I don’t even know where to start, honestly.” His eyes flicked over me. “Well, we start by going into the house. You’re bleeding, missing clothing, and we need a plan.”

  I glared at him. “Scratches, fuck the clothes, a plan for what?”

  “Scratches can get infected, and if we’re going to get out of this alive I need you at full operating capacity. You’re not just missing your shirt; you’re missing bra, panties, and a shirt. Operating at full capacity means being geared for combat. And I may not be a chick, but I know enough to know a woman with tits like yours can’t move at max speed without a bra of some kind. You’ll knock yourself out.” A heated grin, which communicated all too clearly that he hadn’t forgotten what happened between us any more than I had. The grin faded more quickly than I’d like, though. “The guys he sent were the tip of the iceberg. Cain has a hard-on for me and the guys I work with: my boss was the one that found out Cain was working with the bad guys.”

  I sighed. “I think we’re going to have to get personal.” I moved for the door on the side of the garage.

  “Danielle?” His voice stopped me. “Why’d you run?”

  I remained facing the door, busied myself with switching the partially expended magazine in my HK for the fresh one from my back pocket. “Let’s stay on subject. Right now, the subject is Cain, why he’s your enemy, and why and how he’s suddenly my enemy when I only just met you.”

  He was silent for a few seconds. “Fine. I’ll table the personal for now. But don’t think I’ll forget. You owe me answers.”

  I whirled, blazing with fury. “I don’t owe you shit.”

  “You ran like a scared little girl, Danielle. You owe me some basic fucking answers.”

  “I didn’t run like anything, Lear. I left because I was done with you.”

  He dug in the backpack, producing my lacy red bra. “I googled this brand, FYI. This is expensive lingerie. I realize you probably make damn good money but, in my experience, women tend to place a prett
y high value on good underwear.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “You don’t know shit about me.”

  I was pissed for a lot of reasons, and in there somewhere was the fact that he’d hit on a truth: I could easily part with clothes and not care, but my good lingerie, like the set I’d left behind? They held more than just monetary value for me. Not only was that lingerie set expensive as hell, it was comfortable as hell, yet sexy. I felt sexy in it—supported yet flattered. I could buy another shirt, another pair of good jeans…shit, even the jacket—a $2500 leather biker jacket—I could easily replace. The lingerie? Not so much. It had taken me lots of looking and trying on and sizing to find that set, and it was the set I wore more than any other, when I wanted to feel sexy and feminine for going out. Even if I ended up spending the night alone, I wanted to feel sexy. Female. Alluring. Something other than a bloody-handed killer, something other than the black ops combat specialist.

  I reached for the bra he was dangling from a finger, but he snatched it out of reach.

  “I don’t know shit about you,” he agreed. “But I can tell I’ve hit a nerve.”

  “Give it, Lear.”

  He stuffed it back into his backpack. “What, you’re going to put it on right here in the garage?”

  “No, I just want your dirty paws off my shit.”

  He chuckled. “You seemed to like my dirty paws on your shit plenty not too long ago.”

  I felt my expression icing over. “I don’t need this horseshit.” I slapped the charging handle and tucked the stock against my shoulder, heading for the door. “Goodbye, Lear.”

  I heard him let out a raspy sigh. “Fine, fine. Sorry, Danielle. Just wait.”

  I pushed out the door anyway, going into a crouch and sweeping the yard in a quick scan with the barrel of my HK. The street seemed empty and quiet, but you never knew. I checked rooflines in every direction, and then headed down the driveway for the street.

  I heard Lear trot to catch up. He stopped in front of me. “We can table the sex talk for now, okay? Just…come inside with me. This situation is deadly serious.”

  “No shit it’s serious!” I hissed in a whisper-shout. “Those fuckers had a SAW, goddammit! They weren’t wannabe militia dicks playing dress up, they were the real fucking deal, and they were after me! I keep my shit locked down tight, Lear. You do not find me. My personal life is mine, and my privacy and security are fucking sacred to me. Those fuckers had my number, and were I not the consummate professional I am, I’d be dead right now. So yes, it’s fucking serious. If anyone owes anyone explanations, it’s you who owes me. This is not the time for rehashing our sexual tryst.”

  He winced. “I know. Sorry. I tend to joke when things get serious. It’s a defense mechanism.”

  “Why shouldn’t I take my chances on my own? I have my own resources, you know.”

  “You won’t survive long enough to call in your crew. I don’t say this to denigrate your skills. I say it from experience—he sent those guys to test the waters. See how we play. The real assault is yet to come. And each wave is going to get worse. This is highly personal, and you’re caught up in it.”

  I frowned. “This makes no sense.”

  He moved for the tiny white bungalow with peeling vinyl siding and a sagging front porch. The side door was up a step, with a deadbolt lock, which Lear unlocked with a key from a thick key ring he produced from his backpack. I followed him in, and I was instantly transported back to my childhood, visiting my grandmother. The side door opened onto a small landing—go forward and you head down to the basement, go left and you’re in the living room, go right and you’re in the kitchen. Laminate floor, Formica counters, warped and unstained oak cabinets, a fridge older than me, a stainless steel sink, a cross-stitched sign above the window over the sink which read “God Bless This Home,” and a very out of place high-end coffee maker.

  Lear entered the kitchen, set his backpack on the counter, and started making coffee.

  I snorted as I set the HK on the counter. “Coffee? Now? I thought we were in immediate danger and time was of the essence.”

  “There’s always time for coffee,” he quipped. “I’ve been up for forty-eight hours already and don’t see sleep happening any time soon, so I need a little pick me up.”

  “Forty-eight hours?”

  A nod as he poured coffee beans from a Ziploc bag into a grinder. “I was coding a piece of software for my boss. I get pretty keyed up while I’m coding, and the only way to release that excess energy is either through a workout, doing something dangerous, or sex.”

  “What do you call doing something dangerous?”

  A shrug. “I’m an adrenaline junkie.” He waved a hand at the garage. “I race motorcycles, skydive, fly wingsuits, cliff dive, base jump, shit like that. I’ve spent forty-eight or seventy hours coding, slamming caffeine nonstop, and then I can’t relax enough to fall asleep because I’ve had thousands of milligrams of caffeine. Getting an adrenaline rush brings me up even higher, and then I crash.” He ground the beans, dumped them in the basket, poured water into the reservoir, started the machine, and then turned to me with a smirk. “The only other ways I can bring myself down enough to sleep is a brutal workout, or some really acrobatic sex.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t call what we did acrobatic.”

  He laughed. “No, me either. That was something I’ve never experienced before, and I’m still sort of wigged out by it.” He raked a hand through his hair. “But I promised we’d shelve that conversation. So.” He traced a finger along my left shoulder, and his finger came away bloody. “Got to see to these injuries.”

  I waved a hand. “They’re nothing. Not worth bothering with.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Humor me.”

  I growled in irritation. “Fuck, fine. Give me my bra, though.”

  He smirked. “Why? I’ve already sampled your goods, remember?”

  How could I forget? That was the issue, though. “Humor me,” I said, echoing his own words.

  He rolled his eyes, but fished my bra and underwear from his backpack. I snatched them out of his hands and headed for the hallway and the bathroom. I’d also left my socks behind, and if I needed any other article of clothing, it was my socks. Even a bra I could do without, just not comfortably—socks, however, I couldn’t.

  I changed into my underwear, replaced my jeans, shucked my jacket and put on my bra. I carried my boots and my jacket out, trying to channel the same confidence I’d felt the first time I took my clothes off in front of Lear.

  This was an odd situation for me—personal and professional at the same time. Cuddy was on the prowl, alert for danger, ready to fight…but Danielle was very much aware of Lear, of the memory of his hands and mouth and cock, of how he’d made her feel. Yet he was also part of the danger—he was clearly no stranger to taking lives, and was very good at it.

  A confusing mix, to say the least.

  Trying to navigate this situation was going to be tricky. I was in jeans and a bra, and this man had seen me naked, had made me scream, had put his mouth on my pussy and tasted me intimately. Yet I’d also put my life in his hands, riding on the back of his GSX at 130mph.

  I exhaled slowly through my nose, collecting my reserves of cool, calm, and professionalism before leaving the hallway. Get the scratches seen to, and get on with staying alive—and figuring out what the hell was going on.

  Lear was pouring coffee as I entered the kitchen—and it smelled amazing. I’d been up for quite some time, myself—our last op had taken us to Bolivia and back over the course of thirty-six hours, and I was jet-lagged, tired from the operation and from travel, I’d had mind-blowing sex, and then narrowly avoided death. So, yeah, coffee sounded amazing.

  I took the mug he proffered me; huge, white, ceramic, and had “NANA’S FAVORITE MUG” on the side. He held up a finger in a “wait here” gesture. He vanished down the hall and into the bathroom; when he returned, he was blinking hard from having jus
t put in contacts, holding his glasses in one hand and carrying in the other hand a red-and-tan tackle box labeled “FIRST AID” in black Sharpie. He set it on the counter next to me and opened it, he laid out an assortment of basic materials: isopropyl, Neosporin, bandages, medical tape.

  I took a tentative sip of coffee: it was thick, black, and strong, but smooth and rich. I sipped it gratefully and waited for Lear to douse my shoulder with alcohol.

  He pressed a wad of paper towel under the cut, and then eyed me. “Ready?”

  I snorted. “I’m a combat specialist, Lear. I’ve been shot, stabbed, tortured, tasered, and blown up, and those were just professional injuries. I think I can take a little alcohol on my boo-boo.”

  He bobbed his head to one side. “Point taken.” He carefully poured isopropyl over the cut, and I sipped through the sting.

  He dabbed at it until it was dry, smeared Neosporin on it, and looked at it closely. He then cradled my right elbow in one hand, dabbing at the seeping cut with the paper towel. He was being so gentle, so careful; as if I was just some random chick he liked who happened to get a couple cuts from a prickly bush or a stray cat. It was, in an odd sort of way, endearing.

  “This one is minor. Won’t even need a bandage.” He cleaned it again, smeared more ointment on it, and then put the supplies away.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He eyed me as he stuffed the tackle box under the sink, and picked up his own coffee mug, which was the twin to mine, except it said, “PAPA’S FAVORITE MUG.”

  “Are we in someone’s grandparent’s house?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yes.” A pause. “Mine.”

  I blinked at him. “Well, shit. I thought this was a safe house.”

  He drank the coffee easily, as if it wasn’t piping hot. “It is.”

  “How can your own grandparents’ house be your safe house? Isn’t that, like, an obvious connection pretty much anyone could look up?”

  He shook his head, and his eyes were cold, distant. “Nope.”

  “Nope?” I arched an eyebrow at him. “That’s it? Just…Nope?”