think what might happen to Gina without him to protect her.
He had to find the traitor before he found them.
Both their lives depended on it.
“SO, I’ll see you later tonight, Detective McPhee?”
“Looking forward to it, SAC Montana.”
Sarah watched the disturbingly sexy FBI agent walk purposefully to his car and climb in. It was a late-model BMW. Dark blue, of course, God forbid he break the FBI dress code even in his choice of vehicle color. Though it was a convertible. A peek of rebellion . . . or vanity?
Okay, that was weird.
Not the car. The dinner invitation.
The whole setup had Sarah’s internal red flags whipping back and forth, doing tricks worthy of her niece’s high school color guard.
Still. The guy was totally gorgeous. Who was she to turn down a date with the most attractive man she’d met in years just because there were probably more strings attached than in her grandpa’s tackle box? This wasn’t a date, it was a fishing expedition. That much was pretty obvious.
She started up her ancient Chevy with a grin. Yeah, well, two could play at that particular game. She couldn’t wait to see how far he’d actually go to get what he wanted from her.
Whatever the hell that was.
For the past half hour they’d sat in her car eating the Angry Whoppers he’d brought, sipping Cokes, and making small talk . . . while he’d danced around the real topic of his interest—the dead woman in the alley. He’d asked what Sarah knew about her, nodding politely when she’d told him she knew pretty much diddly.
“Why are you so interested in this victim?” she’d asked.
“Sorry, can’t tell you,” he’d cited with that smug FBI twinkle in his honest blue eyes. “Ongoing investigation.”
God, she hated that. She’d really wished she had something she could hold out on him with. Unfortunately, she really did know diddly.
So they’d moved on to other subjects, including the murdered guy in the lily pond, about whom she knew even less since they hadn’t run his prints yet. That’s when Montana had surprised her with the dinner invitation. Good grief. You couldn’t get much more blatant than that. Which was why it shocked the hell out of both of them when she’d accepted.
His blue eyes had fought not to grow speculative, but slowly he’d smiled. She’d smiled back. With the confidence of a woman having years of experience dealing with this sort of Neanderthal chauvinism. She could work these guys in her sleep, with one hand tied. Hell, sometimes with both hands tied.
Wade Montana was nuts if he thought he could manipulate information out of her by using sex. She’d tell him what she wanted, when she wanted, if she wanted. And if he didn’t like it, well, he could just go twinkle those sexy blue eyes at someone else.
ALEX Zane stared pensively across the water as he steered the Stormy Lady , the cabin cruiser that STORM had provided for him and Rebel, out of Norfolk harbor and onto the Chesapeake Bay.
God damn it.
He couldn’t believe Dez Johnson was dead. Murdered in cold blood, his throat slit from behind while defending Gina Cappozi from an assassination attempt—Gina, who had once again been kidnapped. This time not by the terrorists themselves, but by the traitor who worked for them. The man they were now all hunting—Zero Unit operator-gone-rogue Gregg van Halen.
For the first time in months, van Halen had actually been spotted, his identity confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt. From what STORM had been able to piece together from the clutch of frightened-out-of-their-wits witnesses, after Gina and Dez had managed to neutralize three of the would-be assassins, van Halen had killed Dez, swooped down and knocked out Gina, then made off with her unconscious body—in a taxi , of all fucking absurdities.
God, what a fucking clusterfuck.
Alex had heard that Kick was in a lethal rage. Kick had been Dez’s partner this morning. While Gina was buying flowers, Kick had gone to
He had to find the traitor before he found them.
Both their lives depended on it.
“SO, I’ll see you later tonight, Detective McPhee?”
“Looking forward to it, SAC Montana.”
Sarah watched the disturbingly sexy FBI agent walk purposefully to his car and climb in. It was a late-model BMW. Dark blue, of course, God forbid he break the FBI dress code even in his choice of vehicle color. Though it was a convertible. A peek of rebellion . . . or vanity?
Okay, that was weird.
Not the car. The dinner invitation.
The whole setup had Sarah’s internal red flags whipping back and forth, doing tricks worthy of her niece’s high school color guard.
Still. The guy was totally gorgeous. Who was she to turn down a date with the most attractive man she’d met in years just because there were probably more strings attached than in her grandpa’s tackle box? This wasn’t a date, it was a fishing expedition. That much was pretty obvious.
She started up her ancient Chevy with a grin. Yeah, well, two could play at that particular game. She couldn’t wait to see how far he’d actually go to get what he wanted from her.
Whatever the hell that was.
For the past half hour they’d sat in her car eating the Angry Whoppers he’d brought, sipping Cokes, and making small talk . . . while he’d danced around the real topic of his interest—the dead woman in the alley. He’d asked what Sarah knew about her, nodding politely when she’d told him she knew pretty much diddly.
“Why are you so interested in this victim?” she’d asked.
“Sorry, can’t tell you,” he’d cited with that smug FBI twinkle in his honest blue eyes. “Ongoing investigation.”
God, she hated that. She’d really wished she had something she could hold out on him with. Unfortunately, she really did know diddly.
So they’d moved on to other subjects, including the murdered guy in the lily pond, about whom she knew even less since they hadn’t run his prints yet. That’s when Montana had surprised her with the dinner invitation. Good grief. You couldn’t get much more blatant than that. Which was why it shocked the hell out of both of them when she’d accepted.
His blue eyes had fought not to grow speculative, but slowly he’d smiled. She’d smiled back. With the confidence of a woman having years of experience dealing with this sort of Neanderthal chauvinism. She could work these guys in her sleep, with one hand tied. Hell, sometimes with both hands tied.
Wade Montana was nuts if he thought he could manipulate information out of her by using sex. She’d tell him what she wanted, when she wanted, if she wanted. And if he didn’t like it, well, he could just go twinkle those sexy blue eyes at someone else.
ALEX Zane stared pensively across the water as he steered the Stormy Lady , the cabin cruiser that STORM had provided for him and Rebel, out of Norfolk harbor and onto the Chesapeake Bay.
God damn it.
He couldn’t believe Dez Johnson was dead. Murdered in cold blood, his throat slit from behind while defending Gina Cappozi from an assassination attempt—Gina, who had once again been kidnapped. This time not by the terrorists themselves, but by the traitor who worked for them. The man they were now all hunting—Zero Unit operator-gone-rogue Gregg van Halen.
For the first time in months, van Halen had actually been spotted, his identity confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt. From what STORM had been able to piece together from the clutch of frightened-out-of-their-wits witnesses, after Gina and Dez had managed to neutralize three of the would-be assassins, van Halen had killed Dez, swooped down and knocked out Gina, then made off with her unconscious body—in a taxi , of all fucking absurdities.
God, what a fucking clusterfuck.
Alex had heard that Kick was in a lethal rage. Kick had been Dez’s partner this morning. While Gina was buying flowers, Kick had gone to
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