Dance With Me (2 page)

Paulson dropped him in shock. The major didn’t fall, but landed on his feet and wobbled for only a moment before gaining his balance.

It was tempting to laugh at the expression on Paulson’s face, but years of training and undercover missions had wiped almost all emotion from him. So he waited in silence for Paulson to get over his bumbling surprise and reach the inevitable conclusion.

“Black Ops? You’re Black Ops?” The major watched, unmoved, as Paulson seethed in anger. “You spent nine fucking months watching them torture me, chaining me up yourself every fucking night, and did
nothing?
You watched them rape Harris and did
nothing?
”

“Wrong,” the major interrupted, his tone curt with an annoyance that was usually foreign to him. Technically he’d only been there four months while Paulson was held. But that was neither here nor there. He took a breath to tamp down the irritation. “I maintained my cover. And got enough intel that I am closer than anyone has ever been to bringing down the largest terrorist organization in Europe.” He didn’t have to defend himself, and in any other situation he wouldn’t. But he’d had come to hold a great respect for Chris Paulson, and wanted him to understand. So he explained, just a little. He said softly, “You took an oath. So did Harris, and so did I. If two or three lives are lost protecting millions…well, it’s a small price to pay. No civilians were in danger. I felt no need to intercede.” He was cut off by Paulson’s meaty fist connecting with his gut. “
Oomph,”
the major grunted as he doubled over.

“A small fucking price?” Paulson kneed him in the groin before the major could stop him.

Fuck!
He’d forgotten that Navy SEALs were nearly as well trained as he was. No one had gotten a punch in on him in…well, years. The major blocked the next few blows easily, willing to let Paulson get out his anger and aggression. After several minutes with no sign of Paulson stopping, the major got sick of it and put a stop to it himself. In a move that would be blurred to anyone watching, he got Paulson’s arms behind his head and secured. The major pushed him to the ground and placed his knee in Paulson’s back. Jerking the other man’s restrained hands down as far as he could without breaking his arms, he settled his knee in Paulson’s palms.

His voice quiet, the major asked, “Are you done now?” He hated doing this…Paulson had suffered enough, and he didn’t want to add to the damage that had already been done. But he wasn’t going to just stand there and let someone kick his ass.

Paulson huffed beneath him and struggled. The major pressed his knee tighter against Paulson’s hands, putting pressure on his back and windpipe.

“You might as well calm down, LT, and you’ll realize I’m here for a reason.”

At that, Paulson froze, his face resting in the wet grass, rivulets of rain running down the side of his face. The man was obviously not used to losing.

“Done now?”

A muffled, “Mmm hmm,” was answer enough and the major removed his knee and jerked Paulson to his feet.

“Now, if you’ll invite me in out of this downpour, we can talk like civilized human beings.” It was cold, and he was wet. The major didn’t mind; he actually liked rain. What he didn’t like was discussing sensitive subjects with a nosy neighbor watching.

Paulson yanked his arm away and ground out, “If you think for an instant I’ll invite you in anywhere my wife is, you’re out of your fucking mind.”

The major clucked his tongue. “Now, Lt. Paulson, she’s not your wife yet, is she?” He swiped his hand over his head, sending water flying as he moved under the awning in an attempt to get out of the deluge. It didn’t work. “In fact, unless I’m mistaken, you haven’t even set a date.”

Paulson growled at him and took a step closer. The major held a finger up to stop him and said, “Slow down. I just need you to answer a few questions for me and I’ll be on my way. If you’d rather do it in the rain with your neighbor watching, that’s fine with me.”
Not really, but whatever. It’ll work.

Paulson jerked his head in the direction of the storm-watcher’s side of the duplex and muttered, “Fucking nosy redhead.”

The major spun his head toward the other side of the duplex and murmured, “A ginger, huh?” He’d always had a thing for redheads. Temperamental, passionate, and outspoken, they’d appealed to the part of him that still longed for home. The major turned his head back to Paulson. That was why he steered clear of women, gingers in particular. They were dangerous and distracting and he didn’t have the time for that.

Paulson was glaring down at him. The major was every inch of six feet tall, but he still had to look up to Paulson. It was damned irritating. On top of that, the man was packed with muscle. The major worked out, carefully built himself up to a firm, muscular form that wasn’t bulky enough to stand out much. But Chris Paulson could whip his ass if he had the right moves. The fact of the matter was though, there were very few people on the face of the earth that could take down the major and he knew it.

“So ask already,” Paulson grumbled.

The major quirked an eyebrow. Apparently, they were going to do this in the rain. He gave a mental shrug and crossed his arms.

“I’m looking for someone. It’ll be someone in your unit or close to it. They may have some sort of European Muslim background. They won’t necessarily advertise that, but it would have showed up on a background check. Could be male or female. Probably quiet, someone you wouldn’t look at twice.”

Paulson stiffened. “Now listen here, fuckface…”

“I’m not saying the leak is your fault,” he interrupted. “I’m saying it’s there. More than one, actually, but the leak from your team is causing the most damage. And I’m saying you can help me find it, or I can go over your head.”

Paulson stewed for nearly a full minute before grinding out, “No one on my team meets that kind of criteria. They’re all homegrown Americans.”

Yeah, so was the Unabomber.
“It could be a family member. Sibling, spouse, stepparent. Just someone that might get bits and pieces of information. It might seem like harmless information. But it’s enough.” The major studied Paulson’s face, wondering how far he’d go to protect his team. “Remember, LT, homegrown Americans can be terrorists too. I’ve been tracing these leaks for three years. And it’s led me here. Look closely at your team. The field team, logistics, comms, everyone
and
their dog. Invite them over for a barbecue, meet the family. I’ll scout from a distance. Make it next weekend, and make sure everyone comes. Because I am absolutely certain that our rat is in your nest.” He eyed Paulson for long, silent moments before threatening softly, “If you don’t help me on this, I’ll have you court martialed before you can even blink.” He wouldn’t if he could help it, but the major never made a threat he wasn’t prepared to follow through on. Paulson was a damn fine SEAL, even if he was confined to a desk now.

Satisfied with the sunned look on Paulson’s face, the major turned and walked away. The rain continued, pelting down on his shoulders and head as lightning flashed in the distance. As he closed the car door a bright bolt of lightning lit the sky and he caught a glimpse of a wide-eyed, white-faced woman in the window next door.

The redhead.

The major watched for a few moments before starting the car and backing out of the driveway. He didn’t have time for a ginger.

Chapter 2

Paulson moved quickly, and the impromptu get-together was set up for the following weekend just as the major had specified. Only one original SEAL member had declined invitation, and he’d already been cleared. His name was Michael Davis, and he’d lost a leg due to the leak. The major had ruled him out already, and even gotten a tiny bit of intel from Chief Davis while he was in the psychiatric ward at Bethesda. But it could make things complicated if Chief Davis actually showed up because of their brief interview. The chances of being recognized were slim, since his appearance changed as often as the weather when he wasn’t maintaining a cover. Still…these were SEALs. It didn’t hurt to be careful.

The major eyed himself in the mirror of his hotel bathroom. It wasn’t often he actually looked at his face and saw the man he once was. He rolled his eyes. Hell, it wasn’t often he saw his own face at all. The major had so many different faces that his own was almost foreign to him.

He liked to examine the face that was a stranger to him once in a while though. Sometimes he just needed to remind himself that he was the same man that had joined Army Intelligence straight out of college; the soldier that had hugged his mother before he left for Basic; the brother that had bloodied his knuckles on some asshole’s face when he came home on leave to find his sister pregnant. That man was in there somewhere, and every now and then the major needed to remember that.

A stranger’s face stared back at him from the mirror. His current hair color was mostly black—courtesy of more than eighteen months posing as a Pakistani native—though some lighter brown and gray roots were beginning to show again. The angles of his face were too sharp, too severe, and it lent him a villainous look. In his younger years, women had called him “rugged,” but the major wasn’t sure that applied any more. Chocolate-brown eyes so dark they were almost black stared back at him blankly. The blank look was so much a part of who the major was that it was difficult to remember what he looked like with a smile. He tried to smile, just out of curiosity, and then winced. That had quite possibly been the worst smile on the face of the earth. His gaze wandered to the stubble on his chin, then lower to his shoulders. He jerked his eyes back up quickly before he could see any lower. He couldn’t look at his own body anymore. He’d once had a physique worthy of being spread across billboards, but years of this life had made the major look more like something out of a horror movie: scars, bullet holes, knife slices, and burns covered him from his shoulders nearly to his ankles. The major didn’t look. He couldn’t stand it anymore. His face remained unscarred only because the US Government was willing to pay for plastic surgery as long as it suited their needs. He’d let them hide the scars, but his angular face was too easy to disguise temporarily to warrant changing it with surgery.

With a deep sigh he picked up his hair trimmer and trimmed his hair to a tall buzz. He brushed the stray hairs away and reached for the hair coloring kit he’d purchased and proceeded to dye his hair and eyebrows. While it was setting, he carefully pushed moistened cotton balls into his cheeks to give them a fullness he didn’t normally have, and glued on the flesh colored silicon nose and chin that would complete the transformation. They were tiny pieces of silicon, meant to change the shape instead of covering his nose and chin completely. It never failed to amaze the major how different someone could look simply because of two one-inch pieces of plastic.

He plugged contacts in his eyes to turn them hazel and blinked against the burn. He hated the damn things, but sometimes a change in eye color was necessary.

After several more minutes, the major checked a strand of his hair to make certain the bleach had worked and turned to take a shower before leaving. The smell of hair bleach was a scent that clung, and he had to wash it off before he showed this new identity to anyone. This was a short-term persona, and didn’t take much work. He was creating it just to find the leak. Hopefully he could do it at the barbecue and be done with this mission. If the leak showed up, the major would spot them. He just had to ensure he wasn’t spotted himself.

The major didn’t like to be recognized by anyone, and it chapped his ass that Paulson might very well see through him. Hell, if any of the other SEALs had ever seen his face, his disguises and transformations would probably be useless. SEALs were great to call in when you needed something done and done right. But they were a pain in the ass when you actually had to deal with them face-to-face. They were observant and intelligent fuckers, and the major avoided them whenever possible.

He showered quickly, never one to sacrifice efficiency for enjoyment or comfort. He checked the dye job in the mirror. The bleach had worked for the most part. His hair was a dark shade of blond, but had a few darker streaks that hadn’t bleached out completely. His eyebrows had lightened to a medium shade of brown that made it somewhat obvious his hair was dyed. That was fine. It fit the character.

The major dressed in the button-up shirt, khaki slacks, and sandals he’d bought specifically for this identity and returned to the mirror. Staring back at him now was an All-American, beach-loving, barbecue-crashing, next-door neighbor named Rick Jones.

Rick Jones was recently divorced, paid his bills on time, and worked construction. He liked to go deep-sea fishing, had surfed when he was younger, and had a real problem with authority. But he was a good guy, a friendly guy, and even thought of himself as a ladies’ man.

Abandoning the mirror, he unzipped the only bag he ever took anywhere. It was a small black shaving bag and had the perfect spots for hiding the few necessities that weren’t easily purchased. He gently cut the threads away from the lining and pulled out a small stack of ID cards. He sifted through them until he found the right one. Then Rick replaced the cards, pulled the sewing kit out of the main compartment, and carefully sewed the lining closed once more.

* * * *

Rebecca added a healthy dash of rum to the plastic cup of Coke she was carrying, considered it, and then added a little more. Dillan was here, with the blonde tramp trailing along behind him. Once upon a time Rebecca had been swept away by Dillan’s charm and masculinity and had pushed aside her dislike for men in a uniform long enough to marry him. It had lasted less than a year.

Rebecca glared at the cheating bastard and his slut. She took a gulp of her drink and grimaced.
Shit, that’s strong.
She took a smaller sip and tried to set the blonde bimbo on fire with her eyes. It didn’t work, which was a damn shame.

Rebecca watched as Dillan loaded his plate down with ribs, a hamburger, two hotdogs, and chicken. Bimbo Barbie got half a chicken breast and a tomato slice. Rebecca rolled her eyes.
Skinny tramp.
Rebecca didn’t carry a torch for Dillan. Far from it, actually. But he’d lied to her, deceived her, and betrayed her. That put him and his bimbo at the very top of her shit list. Rebecca very seldom admitted to herself that the fact Dillan had stayed with the home-wrecker longer than they’d been married hurt more than her divorce had.