Warrior Mine: A Base Branch novel Page 2

  Vail moved his right hand toward the ballpoint, but shoved the thing off with his big elbow along with a few errant sheets of paper. If they’d just move to computer filing, his life would be infinitely simpler. But they wouldn’t. Ever. Too many critical details lay in the depths of the Base Branch’s vault. And even the thickest firewalls wouldn’t protect it as assuredly as the security system installed in this building. With a bit of a groan, as much of one as he could muster for the minuscule inconvenience, he leaned to retrieve the fallen objects from the floor.

  Metal scraped metal, light and tinny. Not that of a racking chamber. Not from the wheels of his chair. But enough that every muscle in his body sang with a burst of energy. Abandoning the writing tool for a more useful one, he shot to his feet and turned in time to see two black boots hit the ground beneath the opening where the vent grating had been unfastened. Hand on the grip of his gun, he began to draw.

  “The building is rigged to explode.” A melodic voice poured through a balaclava. The only part of the woman not covered in black was the oval cut-out around her eyes. Even the pistol in her hip holster and the detonator in her gloved hand gleamed onyx in the severe office lighting.

  In little less than a second Vail had a decision to make. Option one, continue the draw, shoot her in the head, and hope he could grab the detonator before she depressed it. Option two, leave his gun where it hung, attack with bare hands, get the detonator before she depressed it, and then find out who the hell she was and why she’d broken into his office. Deciding on option two, he released the gun and coiled slightly to strike. But a closer look brought that train to a grinding halt.

  A long lever compressed between a slender metal box and her palm. That, combined with the distance she put between them, railroaded a surprise attack.

  “Listen carefully,” she demanded in an even tone. “I do not wish to harm any of you nor steal your secrets. But, if you push me, I will lay waste to us all and have completed my task all the same. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” He held his body loose, waiting for any opening, while he catalogued the intruder.

  Five-eight, maybe five-nine. Slender frame. Full breasts.

  Not important at the moment, Tucker.

  Still, he couldn’t help but notice how the thin cotton fitted the pretty mounds and dipped at the sway of her waist.

  He moved on. Belt with extra magazines. Knife strapped to thigh. Bulge at ankle, probably a small cannon. Dark, sad eyes. Light caramel skin. Smooth. Long lashes.

  Again, not important.

  Heedless of the warning, his body stirred.

  “Open your left desk drawer.”

  Tracking his options, he did as she asked, knowing what came next.

  “Remove your gun with two fingers, place it in the drawer without putting your hand inside, then close it.”

  Her gaze didn't rove like his had, but speared him in the solar plexus. A nice trick to watch the surrounding area and your target at the same time.

  “What is it you hope to accomplish with this misadventure?”

  “Secure your sidearm. Then we’ll talk.”

  “I don't expect talking ranks high on your to-do list,” he said, dropping his weapon into the shallow drawer and pushing it closed.

  “It is my list.”

  “Really?” For a reason completely concealed from understanding, the words, ‘I think we’d fare better with action,’ tickled his tongue. He swallowed them, but his brow and smirk refused to fall in line.

  She surged forward one brimming step. The gloved hand not holding the key to their possible doom snapped to her hip. Her gaze rose and lanced his own.

  “Yes,” her sweet voice lashed like the end of a whip.

  Vail remained still and watchful, a ready predator to his unsuspecting prey. She calmed in stages, as if summoning all her strength to rein a simmering rage. Again he inspected her eyes. There was no more accurate tell about a person’s mental state than the eyes. They were windows all right—he just didn’t think soul described what they revealed. Intent. Sanity or the lack. Direction. Fear. Malice. Truth and lies. If only they’d differentiate the lies from the truth.

  The hue of her big rounds matched his coffee—devoid of cream or sugar—and the eyes that stared back in the mirror every morning. Only where his gave nothing away but the chill of earth’s poles, hers revealed everything. Passion. Fear. Determination. Stability.

  “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

  “For you?” he asked.

  “For me. For you, Mr. Tucker. For your agents and organization. For your secretary.”

  She’d done her homework because she knew just how to tweak him to get the desired results. His people and the security of his organization trumped it all, even his own wellbeing. Most of his people were currently on mission, but the lives of the few who remained were in his hands. Plus the lives of those on the thirty-one floors above them. Yeah it was late, but more and more people put in grueling hours, striving for that next corporate rung or avoiding home life. He couldn’t make a move without endangering their lives. So he’d ride this wave a bit further and look for a safe break for land.

  “How can I do that? What’s your name?”

  The mask moved around her mouth, but she didn’t speak. A smile, maybe, or a frown. He hated not being able to see her face. The tiny gestures lost behind the knit also gave vital clues to a person’s intentions.

  “Pick up your phone, hit only the top left button for your secretary, tell her you need a boost and this coffee isn’t doing the trick. You need her to go get you a triple shot espresso.”

  “Would you like anything?”

  “I’d like for you to quit being a smart ass.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He put the receiver to his ear and Rhonda to task. Sure the request was odd, but she’d been trained to do as he asked—no questions—from covert work to coffee runs. It also meant one less person in the building.

  “Good. Now, lift both pant legs to mid calf with your thumbs and forefingers only.”

  Sorry for him and unlike her, he didn’t have an artillery launcher strapped to his ankle. Once again he complied, concealing slight irritation at the prolonged situation. He’d expected her to move in close for a pat down or to talk. Yet, she maintained enough distance between them to limit his options.

  “Pat your pockets,” she ordered.

  He slapped his hips and upper thighs, since he rarely carried anything in the front of his pants save for the occasional hard-on. Wouldn’t you know, the beat of his hands on his lap provoked his burgeoning erection. Like this was even on the same continent as an appropriate time.

  “Hands in the air. I want a slow 360.”

  When his back faced her he tried to wither his cock into submission with a scowl, but then he met her gaze again. What little progress he’d made reining himself in died under her gaze.

  “The first two buttons on your shirt, open them.”

  Vail swallowed, and licked his lips before setting to work on the buttons. “If you’re trying to check me out, there are easier ways. Knock on my front door and tell me to strip. Better yet, knock on my front door naked, and—”

  “I’m sure you’re quite used to that reaction from women, Commander. But you are not my type.”

  “Exactly what type am I?” he asked with a grin, pulling the separated fabric of his shirt wide.

  “The kind to shoot me in the heart the moment I take my eyes off you.” She maintained a level gaze, refusing to look at his bare chest.

  He’d sweated through his undershirt in the first session with Ruez today. “And now what would you like me to do?” A satisfied smirk quirked his lips.

  “Bring me to Carlos Ruez.”

  His smile fell, and he began refastening his shirt.

  “I’ll detonate this place myself before I let you take him out of here.” He hadn’t thought it possible to spring the man from this place, but up until ten minu
tes ago, he hadn’t thought it possible for someone to breach their security and drop through the rafters.

  “He doesn’t deserve an easy death. I prefer he slowly rot behind these cold walls.”

  “Then why risk your life to break into this place, if not to rescue him. To kill him?”

  “I told you already. To talk. Though killing him isn’t outside the realm of possibility.” The masked woman tossed the detonator above her head. She snatched it from the air with her other hand with the speed of a striking snake before Vail could even think about closing the gap between them and the end of all their lives. “Are you really willing to give your life to protect his?”

  3

  “His? No. Others? Yes.” The man’s sturdy jaw flexed.

  That she could handle. Just barely. But her cheeks still heated from his words combined with the slabs of muscle and taut skin. Thank goodness for the balaclava. No way could she allow this lethal man an ounce of leverage in his favor.

  “Just think of those other people, then, while you take me to Carlos.”

  He turned and walked to the door, pulling it open and proffering her ahead with a hand.

  “Put down the door stop, and go first.”

  “It was worth a shot.” He shrugged, toeing the stopper with a black wingtip. The move accentuated the athletic globes of his butt.

  Carmen raised her scrutiny and followed the commander’s wide shoulders down the corridor. He slowed at the first door and peeked his head around the corner. The secretary must have gone on her errand because he powered on with sure, ground-eating strides. She didn’t have to work hard to keep up. He stood a good six or seven inches taller than her five-eight, but seemed well-proportioned, while her legs accounted for a larger percentage of her body. When she was young her brother’s friends had teased her mercilessly about her tarantula legs. Over the years, their taunting grew explicit with ugly details of what they’d like to do with her extra-long legs. Accustomed to ignoring their needling, she hadn’t let the hideousness of their words near her heart. But it only took one touch for the bravest among them to lose three of his teeth.

  They hadn’t talked about her legs again.

  At the main corridor—she assumed, because it was a good three feet wider than the other—he eased again, checking the space. His large hand raised in a fist. She stilled and held her breath, waiting for the all-clear signal, glad he didn’t want to run across any of his people any more than she. Talk about complicating matters. Then her gaze drifted over his thick forearm revealed by a rolled sleeve, dusted with generous black hair that crept and thinned at his hand.

  Strong. Powerful. Sexy. Dangerous. A warrior.

  Carmen took a silent step back, switched the detonator to her left hand, and firmed her grip. Five seconds more and his hand dropped. He moved quickly left around the corner and past two frosted-glass doors that looked like the main entrance. She finally exhaled. He hadn’t attacked. A small weight fell from her shoulders. She must have convinced him not to jeopardize the lives of his people over a simple conversation. If he planned to attack, it would have been the perfect opportunity. For the briefest of seconds she’d been preoccupied with the possible occupants of the hallway and stood far too close. Though practiced in hand-to-hand combat, he could take her. Years, experience, and at least eighty pounds weighted his favor.

  Ahead, two long walls of bare glass and two short cement walls centered a long wooden conference table surrounded by twenty or so high-backed chairs. Before they reached it the commander veered right down another slender corridor. Toward the end, four thick metal doors lined the left wall. Each hosted a small, square window scarcely low enough for her to see through and a silver metal keypad.

  He stopped at the farthest door. The fingers of his right hand hovered over the numbers. His gaze slanted, and then his head followed. “I won’t hesitate to kill you both, if I need to. Bomb or no bomb. Y’all go or we all go. It makes no difference to me.”

  “I understand, but I vote for none of us. Just stay out of my way and I won’t get in yours more than I already have. Ten minutes should get me what I need.”

  The commander, Vail Tucker, laughed. Not a, “That’s really funny,” chuckle, but a deep, rumbling, “You really are insane,” roar. Despite the offensive notion, the sound warmed her belly, and she found it suddenly impossible to remove her gaze from the bracket of his mouth and the swell of his full lips. He sobered and smoothed a hand over his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. The gesture struck her as very personal.

  Up until that moment he hadn’t wiggled his brows, scratched an itch, clenched his fists, nothing. He exuded cold composure. But that simple brush of hair gave a bit of personality to the stalwart man. And that she didn’t need one little bit.

  “When we get inside, stand in the corner I direct you to and don’t interfere. Open up,” she commanded. “And don’t block the code. You can change it when I leave. And don’t even think about sounding an alarm.” She pulled the compact Beretta from its holster and drew on him. “You’ll only create a body count.”

  He turned to the panel and ticked off a ten-digit sequence she catalogued immediately. “Once we’re in, close the door behind you. We don't want him to escape, now do we?” Then he opened the door and walked inside. “I’m back, Carlos. And I have a friend who wants to chat.”

  A man sat facing away from the entryway in a high-backed chair. Unlike the ones in the conference room down the hall, this one was formed of gleaming metal and was bolted to the concrete. Leather straps held the captive’s head to the unyielding frame, thwarting his efforts to see his visitor. Still he struggled.

  Fighting until the end, huh, Carlos?

  Bolts, chains, and cuffs secured each limb independently to the floor. Amazingly, a bright orange suit, covering his petite frame, signaled him a prisoner more than the bonds. They could leave every door and window in the place open, but this chump wasn’t going anywhere. Regardless, she closed the door. The metallic clack echoed in the confines.

  Carmen surveyed the room. Concrete floors. Concrete walls. One window in the door. One door. In the corner opposite the door sat a metal cart on rollers with four small drawers and two large ones on bottom. Pliers and two bloody fingernails crowned the box of horrors.

  She wanted the commander as far away from the door as possible, but that would put him at her back, if she stood in front of Carlos. A place infinitely worse than having him where she could easily see to shoot. Using the barrel, she pointed to the corner opposite the cart, at the captive’s back, farthest from the door…except for the corner behind her.

  He sauntered to the wedge of the walls, folded his arms, and leaned his shoulder blades on the unyielding surface. The stout things took up nearly three feet. But much more important things than his breadth and intriguing eyes were at play here. One thing more important than even her own life.

  Keeping Vail Tucker in her periphery, Carmen walked boldly between the cart and the prisoner. For all the blood spattered on the floor she would have suspected his face to possess a tenderized quality. Save for rub-reddened skin about his forehead where the restraint held him, the light mocha skin lay smooth and unblemished across his cheeks. His upper lip still speckled with an attempt at growing a mustache, which required a bit more testosterone than the bastard had to offer. One cut split his lip and another, his nose, but nothing like she’d expected.

  “You think a bitch in a mask can scare it out of me, Tucker? Think again,” Carlos boasted. Spittle rained on his chin and lower lip. He looked directly into her eyes and then raked her head to toe with his sandy brown gaze. A sneer rippled his mouth. “You know what I do to bitches?”

  Neither Tucker nor Carmen responded.

  “I put them on their knees. Make them gag on my cock until I cum down their throat.” He smiled at his own crudeness. “Is that what you’re going to do, Tucker? Suck the information out of me?” A laugh, high and incensed, shrilled from the man’s nasal cavity.

/>   The sound sent a shiver of gooseflesh over her skin, which stoked the embers of her ever-present rage.

  “You can try,” Carlos laughed louder. “But it won’t work.”

  Carmen stripped the rubber band she’d hidden below the sleeve of her left wrist, worked it down her hand, and fixed it around the detonator. Both men’s gazes followed the movement as she leaned to her right and placed it on the concrete between herself and the cart.

  “What is that?” the captive asked.

  Again she didn’t speak, and, as ordered, neither did Tucker.

  Gun still in hand, she dropped to her knees between Carlos’s secured legs. Wisely, he eased his ass back in the chair, using as much slack as the chains allowed. It wasn’t much. Fresh sweat beaded on his forehead and his Adam’s apple bobbed as though in an ocean of water.

  He cleared what sounded like several layers of phlegm from his airway. “I like it when they start gentle,” he rasped. “Get me good and hard, then take me between—”

  With the safety on, she flipped her grip to the barrel, and hammered Carlos Ruez’s penis into a pancake.

  The chains tensed. A gurgle bubbled in Carlos’s throat. His wide eyes wrinkled and then pinched shut. The round of his developing paunch concaved. His face reddened as though slathered with paint. Soon the gurgle grew into shallow gasps. Over the column of his neck, muscles she’d never before noticed strained. Tendons and ligaments holding his head to his body protruded just beneath the skin.

  “You stupid bi—”

  Whack!

  The squish of his sex beneath the force of the blow churned Carmen’s stomach. She longed to drop the gun and wipe her hand on the leg of her pants, but she showed no reaction—not that either of them could see.

  Carlos sputtered and wheezed much like he had the first time. Tucker didn’t squirm in his corner like most men would, but his eyes alighted with newfound interest. When the chained man recovered enough to curse her she rewarded him with another driving blow. One more clobber and the foul language dried right up. She struck twice more in quick succession.