Defender (8 page)

SEVEN

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

Jimmy swung open the door to an exercise room full of blue mats and no people. If the threat around here was real, did he truly expect Chloe to fight her way free with a crash course in kickboxing a guy in the stones?

Two seconds into disproving her mace theory, he realized this was a bad idea. He’d never been attracted to someone who irritated him before, and the feeling chapped his hide.

Damn it, excuses were for the weak.

Get this lesson over, and move on.

He powered deeper into the musky room, echoes from an intramural volleyball match thundering on the other side of the partition. The universal feel of the space wrapped around him with a comforting familiarity, and he couldn’t resist a vertical leap to touch the basketball rim.

Chloe’s laughter rocketed around the metal rafters at the slam dunk pantomime.

He cat-footed his landing and shrugged. “Sorry—habit, I guess.”

“That’s like me trying to conduct the music on my iPod.”

“Pretty much.” He jockeyed forward with a boxer’s bounce.

She stood waiting on the mat, her khakis and flowing white shirt casual enough for her to move around. “Ready whenever you are, Sugar Ray.”

Eyes off the exposed line of her jaw. Her jaw, for crying out loud. A curve with creamy soft skin he could still feel imprinted on his wrist.

He shook off the distraction. “If you’re serious about learning self-defense—and I think all women should be—when you get back to Atlanta, consider taking a course in Krav Maga for women. You have to know Atlanta isn’t exactly the safest city in the world.”

“Krav Maga?” She gathered her curls in her fist and looped the length into some kind of loose knot behind her neck.

“Krav Maga is the official self-defense of the Israeli forces.” He settled into explanation, into the zone, more comfortable in this instructor role. “It’s a take no quarter, practical style.”

“I thought you were into defense with the least damage to the attacker.”

“In my case, the enemy has valuable information, and I want to keep them alive. If you’re in a fight, I doubt the person downing you holds top secret info about enemy forces.” How much would it have taken to bring Chuck down? At what point would he crack? The thin layer of camaraderie he’d felt with Chloe evaporated. “But learning that takes intense training. For now, we’re going to cover some quick and easy techniques.”

“Self-defense 101 for dummies.”

He ignored the quip. “First tip, use anything around you for a weapon: a rock, a pencil, an umbrella. Smash hard things on bone and pointy things into softer areas.”

“The old ‘hold keys between the fingers’ principle. Right. I’m not a total dunce when it comes to being safe. I read all those safety tips forwarded over the Internet.”

“The Internet, huh?” How naïve could she be? “Then I guess we’re done here.”

“Watch it, pal, or I’ll come after you with my conductor’s baton.” The glint in her eyes mixed impish fun and wicked revenge.

He was wading into deep waters here. Back to the instructor role. “And if you do decide to use that conductor’s stick, the most vulnerable strike points are the eyes, nose, throat, groin, and knees.”

“I thought all guys were on alert for the old knee to the groin defense.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot, eying him with an intensity that suggested she wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to have him singing soprano.

“That’s why you have to be certain of success if you try it. Another option: squeeze the guy’s testicles until he passes out or pukes.” Even the thought made him queasy. Images of overrevved soldiers launching on the stage toward a pale-faced Chloe made him sicker. “If you’re fighting a woman, pinch the inside of her thigh as tightly as you can. It works on a man, too.”

“Pinching?” She tapped her index finger and thumb together, already eying his thigh as if assessing whether she should give it a try right now. “That seems too easy.”

“Hurts like hell.” Even trained in martial arts, he’d used the old pinchers during an escape attempt in Afghanistan. He’d downed the guard until the sadistic bastard hurled, then commandeered his gun and made it out the window to a crappy ass side street before being caught.

In retribution, his captors had strapped him to a metal table and hooked him up to a car battery.

He shoved aside the nightmare and the remembered burn it brought. Sensory recall sucked. “Sure, there are other moves that could be more debilitating, but they’re also more complicated. When that adrenaline’s flooding your system, it can be difficult to remember intricate moves unless you’ve been highly trained.”

“Since I don’t have time to earn a black belt, I take it there won’t be any high-flying kicks.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, damn.” She hitched her hands on her hips, full breasts straining against her shirt. “I always wanted to be Kung Fu Barbie.”

Why couldn’t she grasp how serious the stakes were here? He was trying to help keep her safe. Couldn’t she understand how vulnerable she was? Even with the crash course, her odds sucked against a seriously trained opponent.

“I prefer Street-Smart Barbie.” Jimmy snapped his fingers repeatedly. “Now, let’s move along. Your attacker may have captured you from behind, immobilizing your hands. That leaves just your legs and feet free.”

Jimmy settled behind her and slid his arms around her waist. “Raise your foot as far as possible and boot your attacker in the knee. Once you’ve done that, let your foot slide downward to ram his instep.”

Her breasts grazed his hands. Her bottom nestled against him. Her scent, something flowery and intensely feminine, teased his nose.

Ah, hell.

He continued his instructions through gritted teeth and willed his body not to respond. He would just think about emergency procedures. As a flight tester, he had numerous planes to pick from. Today he would go with emergency procedures for the T-37, a trainer and appropriate choice, since he was in uncharted territory with this woman.

How to recover from a spin?

Throttles—idle.

Rudder and ailerons—neutral.

Stick—abruptly full aft and hold.

Rudder—

His buckling knee shouted a warning to his testosterone-fogged brain a second too late. Chloe’s foot nailed his instep. Pain shot up his thigh as he struggled to keep his balance. A roar from the crowd next door rivaled his mental yelp of pain.

He swallowed back a grunt and held tight, managing to keep them both on their feet. “You’re a fast learner.”

“The upside to being a prodigy.” She glanced back over her shoulder at him.

Her smile lit up the room like a blinding flash to night-vision goggles, and he resented the feeling. Big time. He tightened his hold and resolve. He swept his foot behind her knees and downed Chloe before that smile of hers could blast him out of the sky.

Jimmy followed her to the mat in a textbook-perfect pin, dancing right into danger with this woman against his better judgment. “It doesn’t pay to get too cocky, Baby Einstein.”

He couldn’t tell if he’d stunned her quiet or just knocked the wind out of her, but she just stared up at him with wide green eyes, her blond curls a riotous fan spread over the mat. Jimmy cupped the back of her neck, his hand moving instinctively, much like how he jumped for the rim without thinking . . . or how she conducted her iPod music.

Chloe didn’t pull away.

She inhaled gusty little breaths that puffed peppermint into the sparse space between them. “Why did you do that?”

“The tables can turn fast, and the stakes are too high around here.” He would be wise to remember his own advice. Like now. He should get off of her. And he would.

Just not yet.

Confusion flickered through her eyes, pretty much the same thing batting around inside him. His eyes settled on her lips, plump and moist and just begging to be—

The double doors clicked open.

Jimmy jumped off Chloe just as she sat up, an inch away from head-butting his chin.

“Whoops,” a male voice from the entrance broke the moment. “Sorry, sir.”

Jimmy pulled away in time to see a pair of young airmen backing out. Chloe flattened her palms to the mat for balance, her pupils wide.

Living in the moment was one thing. Outright recklessness was another altogether. His instincts told him he needed to get away from Chloe before his control snapped.

He rolled to his feet again. “I have to hit the bunk for a power nap. I’m flying later.”

Flying?
Chloe steadied herself with one hand, while her mind raced to catch up with what had just happened between them—or rather what hadn’t happened. “Are you leaving Incirlik?”

His face blanked. “No.”

“Why would you fly here, and at night? Is something wrong?” She stood up, her brain filled with all the dangers in the Middle East that he’d harped on so often. She wanted to believe his concerns were skewed because of his military experiences. They were in Turkey, after all, not Afghanistan or Iraq.

But still.

She swayed on her feet. His hand shot out to steady her, fingers landing right over her transplant scar. She jerked back instinctively.

His eyes shuttered. “We’re flying a demo of the new aircraft for the local military, showing off night moves. What are your plans for tomorrow?”

The abrupt subject change let her know loud and clear her questions were unwelcome. “Security cleared us for sightseeing around the base and into that city close by . . . uh . . .”

“Adana?” He sounded irritated again. “You’re leaving the security of the base to pick up a few souvenirs? Have you forgotten someone may have tried to blow you up back on that boat?”

“Apparently the security people here feel they have that well in hand. We can go to Adana as long as we have a security escort.” She stared back at him.

“Have you not listened to anything I’ve said? Good God, woman, I feel like I’m beating my head against a wall.”

“I hear that happens quite often to hardheaded people.”

His jaw flexed. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you have got a serious chip on your shoulder.” He raised his hands in surrender, backing a step. “Forget it. Lesson over. I’m out of here.”

“Wait,” she gripped his arm, “I don’t get this, get you. Security tells me it’s fine to leave the base. I do what they advise, and you rip my head off. How am I in the wrong here?”

“I have a more conservative approach when it comes to things like risking your life.”

Yeah, she knew she was prickly after a lifetime spent being fearful of risks and danger. “Why bother with things like self-defense if I’m going to spend my life in a bubble?”

“Do whatever you want. You’re an adult, and I can’t stop you. Good luck, and I sincerely hope you’ll enjoy an uneventful day of shopping for little ivory camels.”

She watched him plow through the door, his fist hammering the metal bar. Her body swirled with a mishmash of feelings: anger, attraction, frustration. Not surprising. But she hadn’t expected the flash of sympathy. What a dark way to live, always searching for threats around every corner, always expecting the worst, a mind-set she’d worked so hard to overcome.

Because she knew firsthand the dangers of sinking too far into darker emotions.

Some people feared the dark. Chuck Tanaka embraced those increasingly rare opaque moments when no one touched him.

He rolled from his back to his side on concrete as cold and unforgiving as his captors. The chain on his ankle shackle rattled in time with the muted music thrumming above him. A groan slipped between his cracked lips and echoed in the damp cement cell that reeked of cigar smoke wafting from the guard outside his door.

Which battered part of his body summoned the sound? Who the hell knew? He’d gone past pain two days into captivity.

Now he focused on one thing: keeping his brain locked away from the sadistic bastards who’d been working him over.

And the she-demon. She worried him more than those two goons. She utilized mind games with a skill that scared the crap out of him. Early in his stay, he’d heard screams from the next room. The only screams lately had been his own.

He didn’t expect to live. Even if somehow, beyond the odds, he was rescued, he could feel himself bleeding out inside. Still, he fought the Grim Reaper to give the tracking chip a chance to work, to lead someone here to break up this twisted woman’s operation.

The device would continue to transmit, even if he died, but the reading would show he wasn’t alive, rendering their search less urgent. Someone else could be taken. If by chance he could hang on long enough to tell them what he’d seen . . .

His focus faded. He grazed his fingers over the back of his shoulder where the flight surgeon had embedded the tracking device. How much abuse could the microchip withstand? What a way to field-test the thing. The bitch’s clowns had put it through every pace with their fists.

He couldn’t keep on with his nonanswer policy. He needed something else to help him hang on.

Try to think. Work up plausible misinformation in advance. Pray the chip keeps working.

He heard the tap, tap, tap of high heels advancing in the hall. Bile burned his raw throat. Light flooded his cell.

Chuck pushed against the cement floor and forced his body into an upright position, keeping his eyes off the battery they’d placed in the corner yesterday as taunting evidence of how far they were willing to go. He sagged back against the wall, but by God, he was sitting.

The door creaked wider to reveal the nameless woman. His devil sure as shit did wear Prada.

She wore a bloodred dress with leopard shoes like this was some fucking fashion show. She flicked her blond hair over her shoulders and advanced into the room, stopping short of his bare feet that ached with at least three broken toes.

She raised her hand, her ruby ring glinting along with a small ring of keys dangling from her fist. “Time to go for a ride.”