was racing into the busy crowds of tourists in the nation’s capital.
Chapter Two
Agent Riordan Deliverance tossed the janitor disguise into the nearest dumpster eighteen blocks from his most recent job. Taking a guitar case from the trunk of a non-descript 2002 Cadillac Seville, he slipped his smaller rifle case inside. He pulled the worn Red Sox hat over his blond locks and disappeared into DC’s busy metro station. The sniper job had been a distraction. He was rarely sent on missions in order to shoot to kill. That was Michael’s job as a fed. Riordan was a strategist. His team had to find a way to place surveillance equipment inside four offices in the Chinese consulate. What better way to do that than fake an assassination attempt on the Chinese Consul General? The building would be in chaos during shutdown provisions, and no one would notice a few extra security guards checking on the safety of the office’s administration. He was sure this went against some UN regulation, but if the rest of the world played fair there wouldn’t be any use for intelligence agencies, and he would be somewhere winning chess tournaments for fun.
As Riordan settled back in his seat on the Metro he stretched his long legs out in front of him and pretended to sleep with his head down. His image of a ne’er-do-well musician was complete down to the worn Vans sneakers and the tight black tee. When a twenty-something blonde in a waitress uniform slid three seats down to sit directly across from him he raised the brim of his hat an inch or two. She dropped her backpack close to his guitar case and grazed her hand over her cleavage, bringing his attention to the waitress uniform that was unbuttoned rather low. She leaned over slowly in order to showcase her goods to their best advantage. He smirked at her endearing efforts to be seductive and gave her a wink and a hint of a dimpled smile before lowering his hat brim again. She was attractive in that barfly type of way but his tastes had recently begun leaning toward soft curves, intelligent eyes, and rich, dark skin.
Historically, he had never met a woman that he didn’t like or at least appreciated for whatever special gifts God had given her. He could always find the silver lining in every woman, be it her talent, her wit, her soft skin, or her figure. And women ultimately fell under his spell.
Until Jordan Anderson. She couldn’t stand the sight of him. He might as well be mud on her shoe, oil on her pizza, the foam she blows off her beer. Didn’t she know his mother told him he was a catch! He just didn’t get it. He’d never done anything to her! And maybe that was her problem. Ms. America didn’t have anyone to shake up her life. Someone who could pull sighs of pleasure from those fully pouty lips or spread those luscious thighs every morning. If she could sheath that venomous tongue for more than a minute, he would be happy to show her more pleasurable ways to use it.
At every function Michael had invited him to, he’d seen her with a different companion, all attractive and seemingly successful. He’d just never seen her with anyone consistently. Consistently enough to be taken to her bed, that is. At least he hoped she wasn’t taking those jokers to bed. The idea she would give herself so freely made him want to do a constant surveillance of her bedroom or, better yet, safe house her in his Vermont cabin till she agreed to behave.
As his stop approached he smoothly swung the guitar case over his shoulder and made his way toward the sliding doors. The waitress raised her head and smiled, crossing her legs slowly, giving him a complete view of her pale, thin thighs. When she placed her hand inside her backpack pocket, pulled out a phone and mouthed call me , he chuckled. He placed his hand in his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill.
“Thanks for the show, sweetheart. Here’s a tip and some advice. Don’t tease strange men in subways. Not everyone’s as
Chapter Two
Agent Riordan Deliverance tossed the janitor disguise into the nearest dumpster eighteen blocks from his most recent job. Taking a guitar case from the trunk of a non-descript 2002 Cadillac Seville, he slipped his smaller rifle case inside. He pulled the worn Red Sox hat over his blond locks and disappeared into DC’s busy metro station. The sniper job had been a distraction. He was rarely sent on missions in order to shoot to kill. That was Michael’s job as a fed. Riordan was a strategist. His team had to find a way to place surveillance equipment inside four offices in the Chinese consulate. What better way to do that than fake an assassination attempt on the Chinese Consul General? The building would be in chaos during shutdown provisions, and no one would notice a few extra security guards checking on the safety of the office’s administration. He was sure this went against some UN regulation, but if the rest of the world played fair there wouldn’t be any use for intelligence agencies, and he would be somewhere winning chess tournaments for fun.
As Riordan settled back in his seat on the Metro he stretched his long legs out in front of him and pretended to sleep with his head down. His image of a ne’er-do-well musician was complete down to the worn Vans sneakers and the tight black tee. When a twenty-something blonde in a waitress uniform slid three seats down to sit directly across from him he raised the brim of his hat an inch or two. She dropped her backpack close to his guitar case and grazed her hand over her cleavage, bringing his attention to the waitress uniform that was unbuttoned rather low. She leaned over slowly in order to showcase her goods to their best advantage. He smirked at her endearing efforts to be seductive and gave her a wink and a hint of a dimpled smile before lowering his hat brim again. She was attractive in that barfly type of way but his tastes had recently begun leaning toward soft curves, intelligent eyes, and rich, dark skin.
Historically, he had never met a woman that he didn’t like or at least appreciated for whatever special gifts God had given her. He could always find the silver lining in every woman, be it her talent, her wit, her soft skin, or her figure. And women ultimately fell under his spell.
Until Jordan Anderson. She couldn’t stand the sight of him. He might as well be mud on her shoe, oil on her pizza, the foam she blows off her beer. Didn’t she know his mother told him he was a catch! He just didn’t get it. He’d never done anything to her! And maybe that was her problem. Ms. America didn’t have anyone to shake up her life. Someone who could pull sighs of pleasure from those fully pouty lips or spread those luscious thighs every morning. If she could sheath that venomous tongue for more than a minute, he would be happy to show her more pleasurable ways to use it.
At every function Michael had invited him to, he’d seen her with a different companion, all attractive and seemingly successful. He’d just never seen her with anyone consistently. Consistently enough to be taken to her bed, that is. At least he hoped she wasn’t taking those jokers to bed. The idea she would give herself so freely made him want to do a constant surveillance of her bedroom or, better yet, safe house her in his Vermont cabin till she agreed to behave.
As his stop approached he smoothly swung the guitar case over his shoulder and made his way toward the sliding doors. The waitress raised her head and smiled, crossing her legs slowly, giving him a complete view of her pale, thin thighs. When she placed her hand inside her backpack pocket, pulled out a phone and mouthed call me , he chuckled. He placed his hand in his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill.
“Thanks for the show, sweetheart. Here’s a tip and some advice. Don’t tease strange men in subways. Not everyone’s as
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