Code of Honor (HORNET) Page 5

  Now what?

  Tiffany glanced at the filthy clothing on the floor. They couldn’t possibly mean for her to put those back on after she’d just washed off all the dirt…could they? She stepped out of the shower and over the pile, picking her way toward the door.

  Weasel reappeared there with a stack of clean clothing. He shoved them at her. “Put these on.”

  She clutched the clothes to her chest. “Why?” Not that she was complaining, but what was the point of all this? If they were going to kill her, why let her shower and give her a change of clothes?

  “Just do it.” He pulled the door shut.

  She was alone for the first time since weasel pulled her from her prison. Trembling, she dropped the clothes and spun in a circle, looking for…anything. A window. A skylight. Any means of escape.

  There was none. For as pretty as the bathroom was, it was just as enclosed as her prison had been.

  Deflated, she bent to grab the clothes again—and froze.

  They were hers. The denim capri pants, one of her favorite pairs. They had been in the wash the night she’d been taken—she distinctly remembered putting them in the machine before leaving for the lab. The Wonder Woman T-shirt was the same one she’d picked up at San Diego Comicon last year. She knew it was the same because she’d spilled coffee on it and had never been able to scrub the faint stain out of the fabric. The comfy sports bra, the underwear, the slide-on sneakers—all hers.

  Her clothes.

  Exactly the kind of outfit she’d wear while traveling.

  How was that possible?

  Her hands started to shake and she drew a long, slow breath. In and out. The only person who had access to these clothes was Paul. The only person who knew what she’d wear while traveling was Paul.

  It all circled back to…Paul. She’d texted him the night she’d been abducted. She’d told him Akeso worked on human cells, and then her attacker showed up with his phone.

  Oh my God.

  She didn’t have a chance to dwell on the betrayal. A thunk sounded on the other side of the door and she scrambled to dress before Weasel returned. Except when the door opened, it wasn’t Weasel. It was another man, fifty-ish, blond hair, angular jaw, and reddish beard. He was the man who had kidnapped her. She was sure of it, and the fact he didn’t see the need to cover his face now had bile surging into her throat.

  He had a hard look to him, like he’d lived through things she could only imagine.

  She swallowed hard, choking down the fear. “What do you want with me?”

  He smiled and rolled a suitcase—her suitcase—out to stand in the space between them. “You’re going to meet Dr. Oliver as planned, and you’re going to convince her to take you to her room, from where you’ll call us.”

  Claire. God, she had no idea the danger she was in.

  Tiffany shoved the suitcase away with her foot. “No.”

  “Need I remind you, we have your fiancé. Make one wrong move, alert Dr. Oliver in any way, and he’ll die.”

  Horror zinged through her, but it was only a quick gut-reaction that she squashed. Yes, they had Paul all right. He’d probably been in their pocket all along. If “Paul” was even his real name. She was really starting to doubt that. She’d known him for two years—he’d come into her life just as she and Claire were trying to get initial funding for Akeso. Now she had to wonder if she’d ever really known him at all.

  No wonder he kept pushing the wedding date back.

  She’d been such an idiot. A blind, lovesick idiot.

  Tears filled her eyes and she let them come. Anything to help her look more convincing because she was about to put on the act of her life. “Please, don’t hurt him.” She grabbed the suitcase’s handle. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Red Beard nodded. “That’s a good girl. Follow me.”

  Tiffany steeled herself before leaving the bathroom. She had to make this convincing. Because while she was positive she wasn’t getting out of this alive, she was going to make damn sure Claire would.

  Chapter Seven

  Thursday, July 23

  6:23 p.m.

  Trinity Sands Resort Lobby

  La Trinité, Martinique

  The training exercise in the jungles of Suriname had been the most exciting four days of Connor Warrick’s life. He was tired, achy, hungry, in desperate need of a shower, and covered in a couple zillion mosquito bites…but also weirdly happy about the entire thing. For a little while, he had been able to throw himself into a real-life Call of Duty game and forget that his mother no longer wanted him and his father didn’t have the first clue how to be a father.

  He’d…well, he’d liked he whole experience. Really liked it. More than he’d liked anything in a long time.

  The way Dad had taken charge and made things happen had been kinda awesome. The men respected him. They listened to him like he was someone important and not just some cowboy redneck from Wyoming. It was completely kick-ass. Not that he’d admit that out loud to anyone, least of all his father.

  And now he got to spend the weekend here, in a crazy fancy hotel on a pristine Caribbean island. Yeah. Best week ever. Maybe there was something to this soldiering thing after all.

  Across the hotel foyer, he saw Lanie drag her bags through the front door. He wasn’t sure what to think about her. He liked her, he supposed, but he didn’t know how to feel about her with his dad. They were totally fucking. Or if not yet, they wanted to—even though they’d spent the last week pretending the other didn’t exist.

  Lanie got her room key and left by the revolving door in the wall of windows that fronted the lobby. She cast only the briefest of glances in Dad’s direction. He definitely saw her, but continued talking with the rest of the team, acting as if she hadn’t just stripped him with her eyes.

  What was this, middle school? Geez.

  Another woman entered as Lanie left and several men in the lobby took notice. He studied her, too. She had shoulder-length blond hair and eyes as blue as the ocean outside the panoramic windows. She walked like a woman on a mission and she was dressed in a businesswoman sort of way, all neat and proper. Not a stunner, so why all the attention?

  Curious, he glanced around at the men who’d taken notice. A couple of the older trainees, and Schumacher, the asshole. Which was just plain wrong since the woman looked to be at least ten years older than him.

  Jean-Luc Cavalier also noticed her and broke away from the group. He sidled up to her and turned on a megawatt smile that Connor was sure would work.

  The blonde gave him a critical up-down with her blue eyes and then scoffed. “I don’t think so.”

  As she walked away, Jean-Luc’s jaw dropped open. Closed again. Opened. Closed. He spun to face the group, a look of genuine puzzlement on his face. “What just happened?”

  “You, my man, were shot down.” Danny Giancarelli, the FBI agent who had spent the week training with HORNET, mimicked a gun with his hand. “Point. Blank.”

  “Non.” Jean-Luc scowled after the woman. “No way. I don’t get shot down, mon ami.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.” Marcus Deangelo clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the world of us mere mortal men. Stings, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s the cunja,” Jean-Luc muttered. “Merde. I didn’t get rid of it.”

  “Dude. Not this again.” If Marcus rolled his eyes any harder, he’d sprain them. “You’re not cursed.”

  “What curse?” Connor asked.

  Dad did a double take in his direction and his brows cranked down. “Nothing.”

  Yeah, sure. There was a story here and going on the last week he’d spent with these guys, he bet it was a funny one. “What curse?” he asked again, studiously ignoring his father’s glare.

  Marcus scrubbed a hand over his face. “Uh…”

  Danny G jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the registration desk. “I’ll, uh, get our room keys.” And he made tracks.

  “Hey,
you’re the one with a gaggle of kids,” Marcus called after him. “You should know how to field this.”

  Danny turned, still backing away, and held up his hands. “Not my circus, not my monkey. I still have at least five years before I have to give any of my monkeys The Talk. This is all on Jesse.”

  Connor rolled his eyes at them. These were grown-ass, kick-ass men, and they were scattering like a bunch of rabbits instead of just coming out and telling him they were talking about sex.

  Ugh. Adults. Sometimes he really hoped he never turned into one.

  “I know what The Talk is,” he informed them. “I’ve had Sex Ed.” And he’d even made it to second base with his girlfriend before he’d been forced to leave Las Vegas, but they didn’t need to know that.

  “Jesus Christ,” Jesse muttered.

  “What? Like you didn’t know what sex was at my age? I’m almost sixteen, Dad.”

  “I don’t…” He shook his head and pointed across the room to where the recruits had gathered. “Go find Jeremiah Wolfe. You’ll be rooming with him this weekend.”

  Aaand dismissed.

  Steaming with annoyance, Connor walked toward the recruits, but as soon as his dad and the others turned their backs, he about-faced and circled around to the other side of the room’s giant waterfall centerpiece. Out of sight, but not out of hearing distance.

  So call him nosy.

  Over the rush of falling water, he could just hear his dad ask, “Curse? What the hell are you two goin’ on about?”

  “Oh, Cajun thinks a voodoo priestess cursed him on Mardi Gras,” Marcus said and thumped Jean-Luc solidly on the back. “He hit on her and wouldn’t give up when she told him to get lost, so now he’s cursed.”

  Jesse snorted.

  “Hey, voodoo isn’t a laughing matter,” Jean-Luc said. “I am cursed, f’sure.” He pronounced it fuh shore. “And she was powerful,” he muttered and pulled a small leather pouch on a well-worn cord from his pocket. He stared at it with a frown. “Even my gris-gris didn’t protect me.”

  Marcus eyed the pouch. “Dude, you ask me, the curse is a good thing. Seems like your cock drags you into trouble more often than not. About time someone put a muzzle on it.”

  Jean-Luc gave him the finger. “Beck moi tchew.”

  Connor mentally flipped through the little bit of Cajun French Jean-Luc had taught him earlier in the week and came up with what he thought was the right translation: bite my ass.

  Marcus grinned. “Sorry, pal. Already ate.”

  Jean-Luc muttered something else in another language. The guy knew fifteen—and counting—different languages. How did he have that much room in his brain?

  A flash of color to his left caught Connor’s attention, and he turned toward it. Schumacher ducked into the alcove by the lobby bathrooms, but not without first glancing toward Dad and the other men by the registration desk. Like he didn’t want them to see him go in.

  Why not?

  Connor waited several beats, then walked over to the men’s room door and leaned an ear against it. He didn’t hear anything inside. The door was solid, gleaming wood, too thick to allow noise to pass through. So he’d have to open it. He flattened his hands out on the wood and very gently, very slowly pushed it until a crack appeared between the jambs.

  Schumacher’s voice floated out. “…and she’s here.” A pause. He must have been on the phone because no other voice responded to him. “No, you’re not listening, Briggs. I wouldn’t risk calling if it wasn’t a fucking problem. We’re not prepared to go to war yet—especially not here. You need to pull out and plan B this shit or it’s not going to end well for—”

  The door creaked under Connor’s hands. Schumacher broke off and footsteps echoed on the bathroom tile, coming closer.

  Shit. Shit. Shitty shit shit.

  He considered his options and came up with nothing good. So he went with his gut and shoved the door open, nearly banging into Schumacher on the other side.

  Schumacher’s lip curled. “What are you doing here, you little fucktard? Were you listening?”

  “To what? You take a dump?” He was surprised at how even his voice was, considering his heart was threatening to bungee out of his chest. “Nasty.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Since when do I need your permission to take a piss?”

  “Maybe not mine, but sure you don’t want to ask Daddy? He might want to hold your hand. He does everything else for you.”

  “Fuck off.” He felt Schumacher’s eyes drilling into his back as he crossed to the urinal and started to unzip. The guy wasn’t moving, wasn’t leaving, and he really didn’t have to pee. Now what?

  He glared over his shoulder. “You gonna watch, you perv? I’m underage. All I gotta do is go tell a cop you touched me in the bad place…” He let his voice trail off.

  Schumacher snarled, and it was almost feral. “You’re gonna get yours, Daddy’s Boy. Just wait.”

  A second later the door creaked again as it opened. It didn’t slam. It was on some kind of soft-close system, which took some of the umph out of Schumacher’s exit.

  Oh man.

  Connor slumped forward in relief, bracing his arm against the wall over the urinal and pressing his forehead to his forearm.

  That was close.

  He straightened and zipped up, then checked the stalls to make sure Schumacher really had been alone. All empty. So definitely a phone call, but who had been on the other end?

  And what war were they talking about?

  Chapter Eight

  Well, he hadn’t killed anyone this week. Jesse supposed that counted as a win. All of the recruits, all of his men, and his son had made it through a tough week in the jungle and to their island vacay in one piece. There were blisters and bruises, but nobody had shed even one drop of blood.

  He wished the thought relaxed him, but he was still a bundle of nerves. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension. With how tightly strung he felt, you’d think he was sitting in the middle of an active war zone rather than hanging out poolside around a blazing fire as a salted breeze rolled off the ocean and the moon hung in a lazy crescent overhead. After such a successful mission, Gabe and Quinn were going to be looking hard at him to take up the mantle of XO.

  “You scared?”

  Jesse jolted as the conversation around him penetrated, and he stared over at Jean-Luc in the seat next to him. The Cajun couldn’t possibly know what he was thinking. Or how fucking scared he was that he’d fail them all.

  But then he realized Jean-Luc hadn’t been talking to him.

  Seth, seated across the fire pit, grinned in response. Orange light danced across his face, casting shadows over his scars, making them more prominent. “Nah. Not at all.”

  “F’true?” Disbelief colored Jean-Luc’s question. “Mais, you’re a brave, brave man. Getting hitched is my second biggest fear.”

  “Only your second?” Danny asked. The FBI agent had joined them for the exercise for reasons unknown to Jesse. To hear him tell it, his wife had expressly forbidden him from taking the job Gabe had offered a few years back. Maybe he’d wanted to prove he still had his man card and could hold his own with HORNET—and he had done so better than some of the recruits, despite not having any formal training. He would’ve been a great asset had he joined them.

  Right now, Danny certainly looked like he belonged with the rough and tumble group, his dark hair windblown, his jaw covered with a week’s worth of beard. He sprawled in the chair beside his best friend, Marcus.

  Danny took a long drink from his beer. “So, Cajun, if monogamy is your second worst fear, what’s your first?”

  “Clowns.” Jean-Luc shuddered and tried to catch the straw of his frilly coconut drink between his lips. “Ech. Scary motherfuckers.”

  “It’s a wonder you’re able to shave in the morning,” Quinn said, deadpan. He was seated at Jesse’s other side, watching the group over the fire with a small quirk to his lips. “I mean, c
onsidering the clown you see in the mirror.”

  Jean-Luc pressed a hand to his chest. “Quinn. Did you just make a joke?”

  Quinn gave him the finger.

  Jean-Luc sighed dramatically. “And here I thought your sense of humor was showing.”

  Everyone laughed. Except for Lanie. She sat directly across the fire from Jesse and she’d been unusually quiet since they’d arrived in Martinique.

  Jesse was doing his best to not pay any attention to her, but it was damn near impossible when she wore a red bikini and a gauzy white cover-up that covered-up little. Even with her braids starting to frizz and shadows under her eyes, she was gorgeous. And she never even tried to be. He found it disconcerting. Annoying. Hell, infuriating because his cock had a mind of its own around her. He knew she wasn’t trying to seduce him by wearing that swimsuit, but every time he looked at her, his body reacted as if she’d crooked a finger and invited him into her bed.

  As if sensing his stare, Lanie’s gaze lifted from the depths of her barely touched beer bottle. The firelight played up her angled cheekbones, and highlighted the fullness of her lips.

  “Well,” Quinn said and slapped the arms of his chair before pushing up out of it. “I’m gonna hit the sack.”

  Read: check on Gabe. They’d all been silently worrying about the big guy ever since arriving at the hotel. He’d excused himself to his room and hadn’t been seen since. And while he’d never been the most social creature before he was shot, he’d always been the kind of commander who took the time to bond with his men post-mission, so this was unusual.

  Jesse suspected the training mission had taken more out of him than he wanted anyone to know. He’d be getting a house call first thing in the morning. Jesse figured he’d at least give Gabe the evening to relax before the medical poking and prodding started.

  He refocused on Quinn. “You’re flyin’ out tomorrow, right?”

  Quinn nodded. “The doc told Mara to stay close to home for the third trimester. She was bummed to miss this”—he swept out an arm, encompassing the resort—“so I promised I’d fly back early and we’d come down together sometime after the baby’s born. Phoebe and Audrey arrive tomorrow.”