Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
“Why do you think they don’t like you?”
I squint at my ceiling fan, thinking back over the last two meetings with Deke’s buddies. One case of clam-jam, one of flirtus interruptus. “They seem to have a problem with me.”
“It’s not you they have a problem with.” Deke clears his throat. “We’re not supposed to mix with civilians, that’s all.”
“Why not? You’re not even in the military any more, right?”
“We’re still in a dangerous business. We go out on missions a lot. Dating isn’t really allowed.”
“How about casual hook-ups?” I blurt.
Deke coughs, like I just made him choke.
I twitch my inner thighs together, trying to alleviate the needy pulse between my legs.
“You know. If you wanted to collect that favor.”
Silence.
Deke’s quiet so long I wonder if he’s still there. “Deke?”
“Sadie, it's not a good idea.” His voice is rough, and I realize he sounds sad.
“Because you have a record?” I ask as gently as I can.
Another pause. “How did you find out about that?”
“I have my ways.” I want to joke about being a badass super spy, but it sticks in my throat.
“Yeah. I’m dangerous.”
“You were special ops. Of course, you’re dangerous. Kinda the job description.” I try to sound playful, but he’s getting more distant. I’m losing him. I barely know him, and it already hurts.
I swallow, and it feels like there are knives lining my throat. “Can I at least call you?” I ask.
“Yeah, Sadie. You can call me.”
Chapter 5
Swiss Alps, Four Days Later
Deke
The wind whips over the rocks and cleaves a path through our camp. The frozen breeze slices through my thin jacket. If I were human, I’d be shivering, but my shifter blood keeps me warm. Snow crunches under my boots as I make my way to Sierra One, the highest sniper position in our mission. Lance is already there on his belly, peering through his rifle scope down at the fancy ass chalet. We’re deep in the Swiss Alps, high above our target.
My radio crackles, and Rafe’s voice says, “Sierra One, this is TOC. You got eyes on Tango?”
“TOC, this is Sierra One,” I respond. “No movement yet.” Several hundred yards below our stakeout perch, the mansion is lit up like a candle, each window emanating a soft warm glow. Nestled in the side of the mountain, surrounded by snow-dusted pines, the castle looks like it’s part of a Christmas village set. One of those kitschy toy ones grandmas put out around the holidays, with mounds of cotton balls to make fake snow. Except this place is real. Twenty-five thousand square feet of luxury housing, inhabited by the most successful black market arms dealer in the world. Gabriel Dieter, a guy who makes a living being pure evil.
“Should we move in closer?” Lance asks me softly, his eyes still trained on the target.
“We’d better not.” The mission is surveillance only. Getting close could cause us to engage when we’re just here to watch.
Of course, my wolf hates that. Just being on a mission brings on blust lust. My wolf wants to tear down the mountains, howling, take on the mansion security—guards, dogs, lasers—find Dieter and rip the Tango’s head off. Mission accomplished. Which is why my alpha’s concerned I’m not stable and sane.
“Movement, front left. Near the pool,” Lance reports.
I lift the radio to my mouth. “TOC, we have movement. Eyes on Tango.” I report the subject’s movements. Gabriel Dieter is set to meet with a contingent from an unknown terrorist force. We're here to spy on the meeting, record Gabriel’s movements and get any evidence we can of his illegal arms deals.
But first it looks like the man's going to use his fancy schmancy outdoor pool. Dieter walks out of the glass conservatory. He’s a tall man, fit. A head full of dark hair with no sign of going grey or his body going to seed. Of course, anyone would be fit and toned if they had enough money to hire an army of cosmetic surgeons. Evil pays.
“Deke,” Lance calls, and I realize my chest is rumbling with a growl. My wolf wants off the chain. I slide my hand into my pocket and touch my phone. It’s become a habit, and it all started with Sadie’s call a week ago.
She’s taken to texting me every other day. A smiley emoji, a joke. “Happy Monday,” she sent an hour ago, along with a picture of a cheerfully smiling sun. “Hope you have a great week.” I shake my head at her optimism.
Reading her texts helps focus me. Just swiping a thumb over the smooth phone screen is enough to instantly calm my wolf.
I gotta get a grip. What would Sadie think about the things my wolf has done? What he wants to do? That thought sobers me.
“Movement in the house. Far right wing. Base of the turret.”