Play It Safe (The Safe House Series Book 2) Page 11
The Jeep turned over on the first try. She slammed it in gear and drove away, the cries of her captors lifting behind her, haunting the wild and unforgiving landscape.
***
Samson’s homeland had never been more beautiful. On the biggest rise of the dirt road connecting the surrounding villages, drenched in moonlight, a lone Jeep waited, two headlamps beckoning him. He didn’t allow himself to think or speculate or plan anything past the next breath; his singular focus was on the lone occupant sitting behind the wheel.
In silhouette, her crazy hair came to him first.
Unabashed tears came second.
His body liquefied. The Jeep swerved from his unsteady grip. Mike leaned over and gripped the steering wheel to keep them from rolling.
At their approach, she stood atop the driver’s seat, her arms supported by the Jeep’s roll bar. Her clothes were ripped and tattered and red and flapped in the breeze like an embattled flag of surrender.
A stab of regret shot through his heart. Was she hurt? How could he have left her alone?
He brought the vehicle to an abrupt, angled stop to keep the tires from losing purchase against the hill. Nearly before the vehicle had ceased its forward momentum, Samson was out of the driver’s seat, running.
“Sam-son!” Her cry was battered and fractured on her tongue, but his name had ever sounded so sweet.
Angela clamored free of Augustine’s Jeep, her bare feet carrying her at a clip that rivaled his. She launched into his arms, legs wrapped around his waist, and clung to him, damned near squeezing him so tightly there was no room for inhale. Her body was an earthquake of sobs.
He buried his face against the warmth of her neck and vowed to make her his, forever.
Epilogue
Angela stood on the green rise behind the gingerbread-white home that had once been a Samson’s safe house. Spring emerged in a virulent display of primroses and columbines that made everything about Mthatha and Pamuromo seem like a distant memory.
All but the people.
She held a letter from Nahyea, the culmination of a vigilant correspondence since leaving Africa that included much shared news, a bracelet from Fana inside each new envelope, and plenty of updated photos of Samson enjoying new pursuits. After the hell they had been through, Rockwell had granted Samson a much-deserved extended leave to enjoy his new family. Fana never failed to mention how handsome Samson looked, especially in the beach photos of Samson sporting the scar of an umkhululi, liberator, on his right shoulder.
The missiles never launched.
Rockwell, with his unparalleled connections, took Samson’s satellite call—relayed through Mike as they sped away from the train depot and out into the wilderness—and turned Samson’s intel into a multi-national response that halted all six phases of the attack and netted local and international agencies a network of radicalized terrorists that had been destabilizing the region for decades. Rockwell had also deployed a protection team to Fana’s house and arranged transport for her family to Cape Town to reunite with Samson and Angela before they were flown to Landstuhl, Germany for Samson’s surgery.
Mike assisted in the surgery, returning to the waiting room often to update her. She was nearly as elated at seeing her brother emerge from the surgical wing, healthy and healed and in crisp scrubs, than she was to hear Samson’s progress under anesthesia. Samson told her before surgery he wanted to marry her. He was nothing if not a man of his word.
Julian awaited extradition to France, where the persecution of fraud and conspiracy in his financial empire was the first of many legal tangles that would ultimately lead to international charges of conspiracy to commit murder and attempted murder too numerous to count. If anything good came from his agenda, it was that politicians could no longer hide behind the official account of his wife’s embassy massacre. As a result, security practices for diplomats serving in areas of political unrest improved.
As for Angela, Africa inspired her to start a biotech company, along with her brother, that aims to eradicate third-world diseases and inspire talented individuals like Nahyea to receive a world-class education and return to their birthplace to make a difference.
She watched Samson line up objects on the fallen log—bottles, cans, a rubber duck that had seen better days. The rules were the same as they had always been: clean shot, nothing left on the log, opponent chooses the target. The game had never been more spirited.
Manny selected his favorite slingshot. Samson, having once skipped rocks on a pond in boyhood and pitched for a baseball team in Cape Town, bragged that the hand was a far superior launcher. Manny had a tempestuous relationship with guns. At his request, Samson rid the house of firearms. Part of Manny’s healing was to learn who he was away from violence.
“What’s the wager?” interrupted Angela.
“I take his Spyder out tonight.” The musicality of Manny’s accent never failed to delight her. It was Samson’s accent with the heavier downbeat of their shared culture.
“You just got your license,” said Angela, with more mock-protest than sincerity.
Samson handed Angela a rock and gave her a peck on the lips. “The stakes have never been higher. You’d better take this one.”
Angela laughed and laid out her terms. “Rubber duck.”
Manny beamed. In the half year since leaving Africa, his baby face had slimmed and took on the sculpted cheekbones of manhood. His chocolate eyes still held pain, but his megawatt smile and generous heart reminded her that life, and love, happened outside her comfort zone.
He aligned his shot, eye to target, and released the band.
The duck never stood a chance.
Manny celebrated his victory as if he had won the lottery. In many ways, he had. They all had. Samson’s handsome features distorted to pain as he fished the keys from his pocket and handed them over. Manny pulled Samson into an embrace. Affection did not come easy to a boy who had raised himself and endured brutality.
Samson’s eyes squeezed closed. His fist gripped Manny’s shirt. She knew, to prolong the moment.
Angela’s throat constricted.
Manny said his good-byes and brushed away Samson’s unyielding chorus of be-careful and no speeding pleas. When he had disappeared inside the house, Angela grabbed the belt loop of Samson’s jeans and tugged him closer.
“How about another wager to take your mind off of our son driving your hundred-thousand dollar car?”
“Hmmm…” The groan caught in his throat was purely sexual. When coupled with his irresistible smile, devastating. “Rules?”
“Opponent chooses. I win, you’re my slave for the night. You win, I’m your s—”
He abducted her words with a kiss. “You’re already mine.”
She handed him a rock.
Samson took one look at it and tossed it over his shoulder. “I missed. You win.”
Angela bit her lip in anticipation.
He gave her a playful smack on the ass and retreated back to the house. As he walked away, he said, “Oh, and Curie?”
“Yeah?”
“Best bring your inhaler.”
Completion of Play It Safe
Book Two of The Safe House Unit Series.
Book three, Safe and Sound, released on 29th April 2016. To be notified of pre-order, sign up to her mailing list!
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Shooting the SEAL (Saving the SEALs Series Book One) Excerpt!
Gage Jackelson decided he’d rather be in the middle of a fire fight on open water than standing in the front of a green screen in nothing more than his jeans, feeling like a hunk of meat on a slab.
What looked like a Gothic fairy—heavy on the black eye-liner and dyed hair and complete with what looked a pink tutu trimmed in more black—flitted about him, dusting powder on him and muttering about cheekbones.
This was ridiculous. He stood, arms folded, wondering how he could get out of this. But he couldn’t. He had to start thinking of this like a mission. So he let the fairy fuss.
The elevator pinged, and he hoped the photographer had finally arrived and he could wrap up this charade, get the intel they needed, and get his shirt back on. The things he’d do for a friend—even a dead one.
Hearing steps, he glanced over and watched a young woman walk into the studio—okay, warehouse was a better name for it. A loft with more ceiling space than floor space, white walls and photos hung on them. Dirt glazed the windows, but he had enough light on him that he kept breaking a light sweat.
The woman stepped in front of him, head cocked, and stared at him. He could feel his skin warm. He’d been on the other side of that kind of assessment—had been eyeing the girls just last week with Scotty making his usual crude remarks, and Spencer sipping his tequila. This woman would have rated a second look and one of Scotty’s terrible pick-up lines.
Eyes blue as the Mediterranean Sea fixed on him. Tight jeans encased long legs—he’d always been a leg man—and a white silk blouse said she had money enough to afford good clothes. Golden hair had been pulled back from a heart-shaped face. She didn’t wear much makeup that he could see, and he caught a flash of gold earrings. But those eyes kept pulling him back for another look. Who the hell was she? The photographer’s girlfriend?
Turning, she walked over to the camera—not a digital, but something big and old and also expensive-looking. She stared through the lens and then looked up at him. “Gage Jackelson,” she said the name as if she was thinking of something else. She propped a fist on one hip. “I keep wondering why’d a Navy SEAL agree to a cover shoot.” A guy could feel quite warm wrapped up in her sultry tone.
He lifted an eyebrow. “And you are?”
She stepped up and reached out to shake his hand. “Anna Middleton.”
Gage nodded. The photos on the walls all had Middleton signed to them. He was going to guess not the photographer’s wife—no ring on her finger. He fought the urge to hold her hand longer than he should, but he caught a flush of color in her cheeks. She tilted her head up to look at him and he could swear he caught a flash of surprise in those sea-blue eyes.
Pulling her hand back, he watched as she tucked it behind her back before turning to grab the camera off its stand.
“Did Linda explain how this works?”
Linda—the Gothic fairy—flashed a smile at him. She trailed a finger down his forearm. “You’ll do great. He’s set, Anna.” She ducked away.
Gage glanced at Anna and her camera. “How hard is it to smile for the camera?” Gage drawled. His fingers stopped tingling since he touched her, and he was itching to do so again. Or possibly run his fingers through that soft cloud of hair.
“You’d be surprised.” Her wide mouth twitched at the corners. “We’ll start without props, but Linda will bring a few in later.”
“Props?” Gage lifted both eyebrows.
Anna took a couple of shots, the camera clicking. “We use a green screen so we can drop in any background, but it’s easier to use anything that you will be touching in the actual photos.” Stepping back to the tripod, Anna set the camera on it. She looked through the camera lens, paused and looked back up at him. “Um, you’re looking a little stiff.”
Linda gave a snort of amusement, tried to hide it with a cough. Gage smiled, and Anna gave Linda a dirty look before turning back to Gage. “Any chance you can relax? Loosen up? Look less like you’re standing in front of a camera?”
Gage forced a smile. He was going to kill Scotty and Spencer for talking him into being the one to come to Coran Williams Publishing. This is for Nick, he told himself again. And they had damn little to go on right now—an encrypted flash drive and one personal photo that had been of Nick and Natalie. They hadn’t even found Nick’s awards and honors for service. But the photo had led them here.
“Mr. Jackelson?”
Gage shook himself out of his mood—he’d been starting to frown. He had to watch that. They’d talked it over and all had agreed that busting in here with questions might not get them far. They needed intel, meaning they needed to get inside this place and poke around. Which was why he was here. With his shirt off.
“It’s Lieutenant.” The correction came out automatically but quiet. Not like he was in uniform so she’d know. “Lieutenant Jackelson or Gage.”
She nodded, but the smile looked forced now. “Lieutenant, it would be nice if you seemed a bit less—”
“Stiff?” Gage offered a smile.
“Uncomfortable. Why don’t you tell us a story or describe something in detail?”
“Like a first date?” He was enjoying watching her blush.
That wide mouth of hers tightened. “How about instructions for changing a tire? Or talk about SEAL training. The point is to stop thinking about what you’re doing.”
And how my shirt’s missing. Gage realized that she was right. He needed to get out of his head. He needed to stop thinking about why he was really there. He wasn’t going to search the place any time soon, but he had a great view to check security and access for later.
He already knew Nick’s Natalie was linked to the place.
Natalie hadn’t shown up for Nick’s funeral or his wake. They were still trying to track her down in the hopes that she might know more about why Nick was dead. A photo on the cover of a book had led them here—and Gage lost the toss of the draw for the initial recon.
As soon as he’d walked in the door, he’d been mistaken for a cover model—and that was too good an opportunity to turn down. He’d played it that he could use the extra cash, but now he wondered if he should have just broken in after hours.
“Lieutenant?” That husky, sexy voice snapped him out of his thoughts again. He looked at Anna and fo
und the blue eyes starting to sizzle with irritation. “If this is too much for you—”
Holding up his hand, Gage stopped her. “I got it. A story.” He stared at her.
Eyebrows lifting, she asked, “What’s it like being a SEAL?”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know what it’s like not being one.”
“You started young.”
“We all start young—it’s not a game for old guys.”
“A game?”
“When you’re out on a mission, you tend to look at it as something to be conquered. It’s win and lose, and losing is not an option. It’s also fun. You jump out of airplanes and helicopters, swim in some of the worst ocean currents, you’re freezing, you’re sweating, and you hike some incredibly dangerous terrain.”
“And when you have time off?”
He crooked the corner of his mouth. “Some of us have been known to go looking for trouble. Or trouble finds us.”
“Which brings you here.” She started snapping photos. “Keep going. You do this alone?”
“Hell, no. You’re a team. We’re a team.”
She looked up from her camera and asked, “And what are they like, your team? Go ahead and move as you talk, you don’t have to stand still.”
He nodded. And stayed where he was, arms crossed. “Well…my team leader…fancies himself a bit of a ladies’ man. He’s got more ex-whatevers spread across this beautiful country than I have teeth, but he’s damn good at his job. Our sniper.”
“Your what?” She straightened and frowned.
“You want to hear this?” he asked.
She nodded and dove behind the camera again. “Go on.”
“He’s…well, he’s like the typical red head. A hot head, except in action he is one cool dude.”
Anna grabbed the camera and circled around him. “Linda, bring in a hat.”
Gage lifted his eyebrows. A hat? Linda grinned at him and put a straw Stetson on his head. She gave him a wink.