Dance With Me (3 page)

Bimbo Barbie glanced at Rebecca over her shoulder and Rebecca tensed. The tramp gave a smug smile and turned back to rub her fake breasts against Dillan’s arm. Rebecca smiled maliciously at her back.
You’re welcome to him, slut.

Rebecca noticed Chris then, glancing back and forth several times between her and the tramp. Chris shook his head at Rebecca and she grinned and flipped him off. His eyes narrowed and he started her way, stalking toward her with a determined look on his face.

“I won’t kill them here, I promise.” Rebecca smiled up at him when he reached her side.

Chris sighed, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t start anything. You know I’d do something about it if I could. But he’s our comms guy. Even if he
is
a desk jockey, I had to invite him.”

His eyes opened again and Chris tried to stare her down. Rebecca stared right back. Chris was a teddy bear and she knew it. He didn’t scare her. “There’s nothing you could do anyway. Besides, I’m not here to see him. I’m here because it’s kind of hard to share a backyard with someone and not show up when they’re having a cookout.”

Chris smiled sheepishly at her, and Rebecca struggled to maintain her fake hostility. He made it difficult though, especially since she’d seen the way he brought Callie out of her shell. She loved him for that, even if he was a Uniform.

“I couldn’t exactly do it at my apartment. There’s not a yard there.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes at him. “Whatever. You could have done it on base.”

Chris grinned at her, a full-fledged, cheerful grin and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “But then you wouldn’t have come to light up the day.”

She pushed at him, trying not to laugh. “Yeah, rainbows and unicorns are just flying out of my ass.” She sipped her toxic drink slowly.

Chris gestured at her plastic cup of poison. “You want something a little stronger?”

Rebecca looked down at her cup and smiled mockingly. “If this gets any stronger, it’ll eat through the cup,” she responded in a dry voice.

Chris’s eyebrow quirked up and he said, “Hard stuff, huh? Whatcha got?” He leaned over and craned his neck to get a better view of the liquored-down Coke in her cup.

Rebecca gave a sneaky look around and pulled the flask from her back pocket. She handed it to him and watched as he unscrewed the cap and took a whiff.

“Rum?” At her nod Chris turned it up and took a swig. “Whew,” he said, shaking his head. “Good stuff.”

“Yup.” She took the flask from him and stuffed it back in her rear pocket.

He looked at her with a frown. “You don’t normally drink the hard stuff.”

“Seeing Dillan and White Trash Barbie is enough to drive
anyone
to drink.” She sipped her Coke—well, there was Coke
in
it—and looked around at the other guests.

Her backyard was overflowing with Uniforms and their families. No one was actually wearing the uniform, but that’s how Rebecca thought of them. She could spot a Uniform from a mile away, even in civilian clothes. They were all the same: arrogant, manipulative, prideful bastards that felt they answered to no one outside of the military.

She hated them, all of them. Well, she amended, Chris was okay. He was all of those things, but he was basically harmless. Besides, he’d sort of saved her life.

She and Callie had stayed too late shopping one day and were attacked on the way to their car. Rebecca had been shot and Callie had been beaten unconscious. Before she’d been beaten, Callie had been on the phone with Chris, who told her to put pressure on Rebecca’s gunshot. She’d lost her favorite Vera Bradley purse because of it, but Rebecca considered it a pretty fair trade for her life.

Rebecca’s wandering gaze stopped suddenly when she spotted someone vaguely out of place. It was nothing she could put her finger on, but he was just…different. He may have been a Uniform at one time, but he wasn’t anymore, that much was clear. His dark blond hair was buzzed, but still a little too long for the military. He was fashionably sloppy; his shirt untucked and his pants baggy. He stood vaguely outside the group; close enough to be part of it, but far enough away to be left alone. Rebecca nudged Chris in the side and said, “Who’s that? I don’t recognize him.”

Chris followed her gaze and frowned. “No idea. He looks familiar though. Party crasher, maybe?”

“I don’t know him,” she murmured, looking around for someone he could have come with.

“Motherfucker!” Chris cursed softly beside her, his body suddenly tense. Rebecca jerked her gaze up to him then back at the mystery man.

“Know him, after all, huh?”

“Yeah. Excuse me.” He stalked off toward the stranger, his fists clenched by his sides.

Rebecca watched in confusion for a moment, and then she shrugged and went to find Callie.

* * * *

“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve showing up here.” Chris struggled to keep himself from bashing the guy’s face in. He hadn’t recognized him at first, the change in appearance dramatic but so understated that it was almost miraculous. The dickhead frowned at him and looked around, scared.

“I…I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought it would be okay. I just wanted to introduce myself.”

“You introduced yourself well enough last week. Now get the fuck out.” Chris seethed and gritted his teeth against the flashbacks this man’s presence brought forth.

“Uh…” The guy looked around like he was lost. “I just moved in three days ago.” He turned and pointed to the duplex across the street. “Right there.” The jackass stuck his hand out and had the nerve to say, “Rick Jones. I’m your new neighbor.”

Chris lost it, his temper snapping like a toothpick beneath a bulldozer. “The fuck you are,” he ground out, picking the weasel up by the front of his shirt and throwing him to the ground.

Before he could throw the first punch, he was lifted off the man and his arms were dragged roughly behind his back.

“Calm down, LT!” voices shouted around him, and he saw through a red haze as someone pulled the Black Ops guy to his feet.

The handcuffs closed around his wrists, the raw, stinging ache growing worse as they clicked…

Chris struggled against the arms holding him, trying to dispel the memory. This fucking bastard brought it back, made it fresh again, and he needed his team to help him, not hold him.

Chris fought to break free and probably would have succeeded if any other group of men had been restraining him. Their voices rang out as they shouted in an attempt to calm him, but he was helpless to stop it.

Suddenly Chris heard another voice, this one achingly familiar and so precious to him that he stilled immediately. His breath sawed in and out of his lungs and his eyes closed when Callie’s cool fingers touched his shoulder.

Callie brushed the hands away that held him and the instant he was free, Chris crushed her to him and clenched his hands in the fabric of her shirt.

She grounded him, made him whole again. After a few minutes Chris became aware of Callie’s hands stroking the back of his neck. She whispered softly in his ear, telling him she loved him over and over until he was able to relax his grip.

Chris opened his eyes and looked up to see his team around him, watching the interaction in disbelief and surprise.

“Sir? Are you all right?” Lt. Martinez asked hesitantly.

Chris closed his eyes again for a moment, then pulled away from Callie and practically ran inside.

Chapter 3

Rick peeled the silicon nose and chin from his face and carefully placed them in the tiny case. He pulled the contacts out of his eyes and blinked in relief as his eyes adjusted. He’d have to put it all back on if anyone knocked at the door, but it was after midnight and he wasn’t likely to have any visitors. He shed Rick Jones like a cheap jacket and assumed his own identity—if it could be called that—once more.

The fucking barbecue had been a T-total disaster. Paulson had recognized him almost immediately and hadn’t been fooled by his persona. Everyone else had believed it, though, and that would only make it worse for Paulson. They’d think he was paranoid and he’d feel isolated, which wasn’t very conducive to the major’s investigation.

The major washed his face and moved into the bedroom of the duplex he’d rented. It had been sheer luck that the one across the street had been available. It had cost nearly three grand to rent it and move in so quickly, but the price was negligible; his expenses were covered in full. Off the books of course.

Since the previous tenants had left blinds in the back bedroom, he’d made that his work station and sleeping area. A single laptop was all that was required for him to work, and he’d purchased an air mattress to sleep on. That was all he needed, after all. Rick wouldn’t need to be here long, and the major could move on.

He sat on the floor and pulled the computer onto his lap. He hijacked a neighbor’s Wi-Fi connection and logged into a
Star
Trek
chat room as “Borg.” The irony was not lost on the major.

He hung around, chatting with some of the technogeeks and waiting for his contact. After about a half hour, “Riker” logged on and sent him a private message.

Riker: Hey, how’s the family?

Borg: Good, dude. Yours?

Riker: Excellent. New baby boy.

Borg: Congratulations!

Riker: Thanks. Hey, did you ever find your dad’s dog?

Borg: Not yet. Still looking though.

Riker: Well did you ask the neighbors?

Borg: Yeah, they’re keeping an eye out for him.

Riker: Good. Remember a lost dog turns into a stray and then goes rabid. One rabid dog can hurt a lot of people.

Borg: I know. We’ll find him.

Riker: Can you trust the neighbors not to shoot the dog if they see him?

Borg: Guess we’ll have to. No other way.

Riker: Probably right. Do you want another loaf of the wife’s homemade bread?

Borg: Sure, the last loaf she sent is almost gone.

Riker: Will do. Well, good talking to you. See you later

Borg: You too. Bye.

The major snapped the laptop closed and set it to the side. New baby boy meant they had a new member of the team. Black Ops teams weren’t like SEAL teams though. He’d never laid eyes on most of his team members and probably never would. They provided support and intel when he needed it and sometimes even pulled their own fieldwork. The new guy would be “Baby Boy” for a while, but would eventually get his own personal Star Trek code name.

The major wasn’t a huge
Star
Trek
fan, but the tradition had been started long before he’d been assigned to the team. He wasn’t one to change it, especially since it gave them the freedom to flex nerd muscles without drawing undue attention. Everyone expected
Star
Trek
nerds to be tech savvy, and that gave them a little legroom with the hacking they needed to do sometimes.

As for the homemade bread, well, he was low on funds. The duplex and the beat-up car he’d bought had depleted the meager amount he’d traveled with. He’d have to check the online classified ads in the next day or two to find out where it was dropped. The usual amount was a hundred grand per drop, but the major didn’t think he’d need that much this time.

The major looked around the empty room. An air mattress, one pillow, a blanket, and a laptop made sad decor. He wasn’t overly concerned about interior design, but there was something depressing about his lifestyle lately.

He was burning out. It eventually happened to everyone who survived, and he’d been doing this for more than a decade. It was exhausting. The major scrubbed his hand down his face and sighed. He had to stop soon, or he’d get himself killed. Not that he minded dying for his country. No, he just felt there was more he could do alive than dead.

But if he died…well, it would be a small funeral. Legally, the major was already dead. His family had been notified, given his benefits, and even had a funeral for him. Closed casket, of course. He’d shucked his name and previous life and simply had become “the major” or whatever name he was currently using.

The major was an anomaly in the world of Black Ops. Most operatives—military or civilian—had no familial ties. It was easier that way. But he’d been too skilled to overlook, and as soon as word got out that there was a man already in Military Intelligence with ridiculously useful skills…well, they’d come sniffing around like flies to honey. The prospect of covert operations for the military had been tantalizing, hard to resist, and the major had caved in to temptation and abandoned his family.

Most of the time he tried not to think of the way they had suffered over him. Sometimes though, when it was quiet and the mission was slow and nearly danger-free, he wondered about them. He could check on them if he really wanted to with a simple Internet search. But if anyone was watching, that would leave a trail straight back to the people he loved most. So instead of finding out for certain, he just wondered.

Had Shelly married the piece of shit that had knocked her up? Did Aunt Elise beat the cancer? Were Mom and Dad still alive?

The questions gnawed at the major until he couldn’t stand it any longer and shoved them to the back of his mind so he could focus on his mission.

Paulson was going to hate that everyone believed Rick Jones was just a harmless neighbor. It was going to drive him up the wall and, considering the damage that had already been done to Paulson’s psyche, the major was actually a little worried about whether or not the man would hinder his mission.

Paulson could blow it all to hell. He was the weak link in the plan. Chief Davis could present a problem too, but he wasn’t part of the SEAL team anymore and spent most of his time with his newfound family. The major didn’t think Davis was going to be a problem, but Paulson already was.

The major sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. He closed his eyes and tried not the let the guilt eat away at him.

It had killed him to lock them up every night and watch the bastards rape that girl one after another. Part of him—a part he didn’t want to examine too closely—had shrugged it off as part of the job. But the other part was still human, and the man he’d once been had wept every time he’d seen Paulson and Harris bloodied and weakened. It wasn’t right. They were Americans, his own countrymen, and he hadn’t been able to do more than leave enough room in their handcuffs for them to escape if they broke their thumbs.