Shadow Hawk. Jill Shalvis
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the plane, out of her skirt, the one that had messed with his mind every time it clung to her thighs, which was only with every single movement she made. But her cargo pants and long-sleeved ATF button-down clung to her, too. Hell, she could wear a potato sack and do something to him.
Logan shifted. Probably trying not to freeze to the roof. Hawk did the same, but for different reasons entirely.
“Nearly there,” Thomas said into their earpieces. “Hearing noises from inside, a steady pinging.”
“Affirmative,” Watkins said. “The windows are blacked out, going in southwest door— Jesus. It’s full of ammo and workstations. Definitely bomb-making going on here, guys, but there’s no one in sight.” He let out a low whistle. “Seriously, there’s enough blow in here to make Las Vegas prime beach-front property.”
“Suspects?” Abby asked.
“None.”
“That can’t be,” she murmured.
Hawk had to agree with her. Something was off, and not just because they’d managed to get onto the premises and up here, past the alarm and a pack of hungry rottweilers without being detected. But now they’d found the proof, right beneath their noses? It was all too easy. He flicked off his mic and looked at Logan.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Logan asked.
“That we’re being set up, instead of the other way around?”
“Bingo.”
“I’m guessing we got too close, and he’s unhappy with us?”
“Let’s make him really unhappy and catch the SOB red-handed.”
“Watkins, search the interior,” Abby directed, the static now nearly overriding her voice. “Hawk, Logan, guard the exits from above.”
“But where is everyone?” This from Thomas. “It’s like a ghost town in here.”
“There’s got to be a building we haven’t cased yet. Or a basement. Something,” she insisted. “Find it. Find them.”
“There’s nothing,” Watkins said from inside. “No one.”
Logan cocked his head just as Hawk felt it, a slight vibration beneath them. It was hard to discern between the howling wind screeching in his ear and the sharp static on the radio, but he’d bet that they were no longer alone up here.
“What’s going on?” Abby asked.
Neither Logan or Hawk answered, not wanting to give away their position in the icy darkness, which was so complete that without the night vision goggles, they couldn’t have seen a hand in front of their faces. Unfortunately, the goggles couldn’t cut through the heavy dust kicked up by the wind as they silently moved toward the ladder they’d commandeered and left on the northeast side.
Which was now missing. Shit.
“Problem,” Logan said.
“What?” Abby repeated in that voice that could give a dead guy a wet dream. Hopefully Hawk wasn’t going to get dead, but without the ladder there was no way down without taking a flying leap. Just the thought made him break out into a cold, slippery sweat.
Logan jerked his head to the left, and Hawk nodded. Logan would go left, and he’d go right.
“Logan,” Abby said tightly. “Hawk. Check in.”
“We’ve got company,” Logan said, so calmly he sounded comatose. “We’re separating to locate.”
“Details,” she demanded.
“Someone took our ladder.”
There was silence for one disbelieving beat. “Watkins, Thomas,” she snapped. “Back them up. Now.”
She was sounding a little more drill sergeant and a little less sex kitten, thought Hawk. Which was good, except he must be one sick puppy because the sound of her kicking ass turned him on as much as when she’d sounded like she was kissing it.
“West side is clear,” Logan reported via radio, right on cue.
“Hawk?” This from Abby. “Check in.”
“Oh, I’m fine, thanks.” He eyed the slippery roof, the distance to the ground, and gave a shudder. At Abby’s growl of frustration, he let slip a grim smile as he looked left, right, behind him. Another gust blew through, wailing, railing, raising both holy hell and a thick cloud of dust as the icy air sliced right through him. He couldn’t see anything, any sign of Logan behind him, or anyone else.
Which could be good.
Or very, very bad.
“Where are you?” Abby asked.
In hell. Of that, Hawk had no doubt. “Logan?”
“Hawk, get down now,” Logan suddenly said, and then came a click, as if he’d been cut off.
“Logan?” Hawk tapped the earpiece. Nothing. The radio was dead, but he’d get off the roof because Logan’s instincts were as good as his own. He couldn’t see much, but he knew there was a tall oak nearby, with branches close enough to reach and subsequently shimmy down. All the way down. Christ.
A sound came from three o’clock, and Hawk whipped his head around. Logan or enemy? Going down.
To do so, he had to shove his night vision goggles to the top of his head so that he couldn’t see the ground rushing up to meet him, not that that helped much because he had a helluva imagination, and could picture it just fine.
The wind doubled its efforts to loosen his hold, blinding him with debris. All he could do was hold on and pray for mercy as he lowered himself, even though praying had never really worked for him.
When his feet finally touched ground, he inhaled a deep breath and nearly kissed the damn tree trunk. Instead, he drew his gun and backed to the wall of the barn. Just to his left was a window, boarded and taped, and yet he’d swear he saw a quick flash of light from within.
Someone was definitely inside.
Watkins?
Or his very secretive bomb maker?
The radio was still eerily silent, and foreboding crept up through his veins as he slipped the night-vision goggles back over his eyes and turned the corner of the barn. There his gaze landed on a door low to the ground—a cellar entrance. Before he could try the radio again, the door flipped open, catching the wind and hitting the barn wall like a bullet.
A man crawled out, silhouetted by stacks of ammo behind him, and piles of guns, rifles, awfully similar to the ones that had been stolen from beneath his nose. Apparently the Kiddie Bombers liked to be armed. With ATF-confiscated weapons. Hawk steadied his gun and waited for the rogue agent to reveal himself.
The man’s head lifted and all Hawk’s suspicions were immediately confirmed. Gaines.
He managed to get a shot off, then a white-hot blast knocked him flat on his ass.
2
THE BASTARD HAD shot him, point blank, and given that it felt like his lungs had collapsed, he assumed he’d taken the hit in his chest. God bless the bulletproof vest. Stunned, gasping for air, he tried to remain conscious, but his vision had already faded on the edges and was closing in as he lay on his back, staring up at the night sky as a whole new kind of hurt made itself at home in every corner of his body….
“Hawk? Check in,” Abby said in his ear.
Check in? He felt like he was checking out…. But the radio was back, good to know, and man, did she sound hot. Too bad he was floating…floating on agony, thank you very much, and utterly unable to move.
Or speak.
“Hawk.”
Ah, wasn’t