Ice Cold

ICE COLD

Table of Contents

• Terrorist Force Logistical Assault Command
  
• T-FLAC Black Rose
  
• ONE
  
• TWO
  
• THREE
  
• FOUR
  
• FIVE
  
• SIX
  
• SEVEN
  
• EIGHT
  
• NINE
  
• TEN
  
• ELEVEN
  
• TWELVE
  
• THIRTEEN
  
• FOURTEEN
  
• FIFTEEN
  
• SIXTEEN
  
• SEVENTEEN
  
• EIGHTEEN
  
• NINETEEN
  
• TWENTY
  
• TWENTY-ONE
  
• TWENTY-TWO
  
• TWENTY-THREE
  
• TWENTY-FOUR
  
• TWENTY-FIVE
  
• TWENTY-SIX
  
• TWENTY-SEVEN
  
• TWENTY-EIGHT
  
• TWENTY-NINE
  
• THIRTY
  
• THIRTY-ONE
  
• THIRTY-TWO
  
• THIRTY-THREE
  
• THIRTY-FOUR
  
• THIRTY-FIVE
  
• THIRTY-SIX
  
• About Cherry Adair
  
• Reviews
  

Terrorist Force Logistical Assault Command

T-FLAC Black Rose

ONE

Montana

January

 H 
e came out of the darkness hard and fast. T-FLAC operative Honey Winston let out a hiss of surprise as the man shoved a hard shoulder into her belly, tackling her full force.

The Maglite flew one way, her SIG the other. The light winked out.

Darkness.

Pain.

Damn it to hell.

Staggering, she grabbed his shoulder for balance, twisting to counter the attack. Her stiletto-heeled boot slipped on the slick, bloody flagstone. Off balance, she hit the unyielding floor on her back with a teeth jolting
thump
. Quick as lightning, he straddled her, pinning her in place.

Honey shot out both hands, grabbed his muscled upper arms, and tried to wrestle him off her hips. Son of a bitch was immovable. She bucked, trying to wedge a leg between their bodies for leverage. No go.

She didn’t need the smell of death, just feet away, to remind her this guy meant business. She’d barely discovered Jack’s body before the killer returned. Why come back? To do to her what he’d done to her boss? A gruesome, violent stabbing that spoke volumes of vengeance, not to mention sloppy workmanship.

He was bigger and a hell of a lot stronger. To level the playing field she needed a weapon. If she shifted a few feet, she could maybe grab the KA-BAR sticking out of Jack’s chest. Thrusting her hips upward shifted his body to her chest. Hard to drag in a decent breath with him compressing her lungs. She considered biting whatever was right in front of her sharp teeth. Instead, the shift of his hips gave her the mobility to jackknife her legs up and over his back, then lock her ankles around his neck.

Slamming the back of her heel into his face elicited a low grunt, but she didn’t hear the crunch of bone she hoped for. He’d reared back just enough to keep his nose intact.

Damn.

Torqueing her body, using every bit of strength in her legs, Honey tried to roll him over so she could have the upper hand, if not the upper foot.

Bastard didn’t budge.

She tightened her ankles around his neck, using the strength of her thigh muscles to maintain the hold as she tried to pull him over backward. Her lethal heels were a few tantalizing inches from his throat but they were at the wrong angle to be effective, and she didn’t dare release her hold on his throat long enough to reposition and try to stab him with one of the five inch, sharp points. She’d been trained to kill an opponent this way. Unfortunately, he seemed to know all the same damned tricks.

His hand shot out, fingers closing around her windpipe. Pain exploded in her throat and silver stars swam in her vision.

Ignoring the pain and the inability to drag in a much-needed breath, Honey struck at his elbow, hitting his ulnar nerve, causing an involuntary flex of his hand. A few seconds to drag in a breath and center her body.

Almost immediately, he regained control, forcing her hands harmlessly away and bringing back the sparkling galaxy of stars to her vision.

He was strong, dangerously strong. Even with her ankles wrapped around his throat, he managed to stagger upright and lurch to his feet. Curling her torso, she swung—head down—between his spread legs. He blocked the punch to the groin with his wrist. Honey dropped and rolled before he could grab her again.

Using the momentum, she shot to her feet and rammed her elbow into his jaw. His mouth snapped shut. He countered by grabbing and twisting her arm over her head, his fingers manacling her wrist as he jerked her body against him. It was like slamming into a rock wall.

Honey kneed him in the balls. Well, almost in the balls. Her knee slammed into his upper thigh.

“
Coño!”
In a dizzying move, hegrabbed her knee, flipping her back to the floor.

She was good, damn good. The fact he was marginally better pissed her off. She dismissed the bone-jarring, silver-star-inducing slam to the unyielding floor and fought gravity once again to regain her footing. Tricky in high heels. With him crouched over her, restricting her movement, she was like a damned turtle on her back.

Something hard pressed into her left butt cheek. Could it be…? Ah, a much, much better version of the fabled
Princess and the Pea
; she’d landed on her gun. With some contortion, she curled her fingers around the custom polymer grip.
Now we’re talking!

Standing over her, he struck like a snake, grabbing and twisting her right arm until she sucked a breath of pain through clenched teeth. Then, crouching beside her, he jammed a weapon against her throat. “Up. Slow and easy.” His voice came velvety soft and lethal in the darkness.

It occurred to Honey that the Garbage detail would arrive any minute in response to her earlier call. Unless she got the upper hand
right
now,
there might be
two
bodies to clean up by the time they arrived. She never asked or waited for help. Tonight was no exception.

“No more fun and games.” Strong fingers manacled her upper arm, as he hauled her to her feet like a bag of horse feed.
“Up.”

Honey’s cheeks burned with anger. She was a trained operative, for God’s sake, yet he’d managed to get the drop on her. Several times.

“Don’t hurt me,” she pleaded, pitching her voice higher and thinner so she sounded frail and girlie. His hesitation was slight. Most men didn’t like hurting a woman. It was yet another tool in her skill set.

He underestimated her, and she used his hesitation to her advantage. By the time she was vertical, Honey had her weapon digging into the underside of
his
chin.

Standoff.

“Wanna see who can pull their trigger faster?” she asked coolly, not flinching as the muzzle of his weapon dug into the flesh beneath her ear. He shifted, and like Siamese twins, they moved together, neither letting up on the pressure of muzzle to carotid. He had the advantage of height and weight, but she was extremely motivated to stay alive.

“Why don’t we see what we’re dealing with here?” The strong grip of his fingers on her arm suddenly withdrew, but before she could react, the overhead chandelier blazed to brilliant life.

About to deliver a swift chop to his throat, Honey blinked up at him and dropped her hand.
Shit
.

They’d never met, but she knew immediately who he was. An electric shiver of pending disaster skittered over her nerve ending at the intense magnetism he exuded without even trying. The hair on her nape rose as those obsidian, long-lashed eyes held hers.

Trouble with a capital T. In red, flashing neon.

The Spanish Stallion. “Navarro
.”

Double shit. She schooled her features into a mask of polite inquiry. He was supposed to be waiting for her boss at the airport. What was he doing here, suspiciously moments after Jack was killed?

Rafael Navarro was striking, shockingly so. He wasn’t conventionally handsome; his face was too hard, too battered. The faint scar, slashing from the corner of his left eye and down his cheek, didn’t distract from his rugged features. It just intensified the impression of how damned dangerous he was, how wild. How reckless.

Honey bet the scar only enhanced his sex appeal to women. He looked, she thought, annoyed, like he owned the whole damned planet as he glanced from her face to Jack’s corpse, and back again. Awareness shimmied through her body in response to that appraising look.

No
. She was a sensible, pragmatic, by-the-numbers woman. She made damned sure her expression didn’t change, because practical or not, her heart thudded, there was a flutter in her belly, and her skin prickled with awareness. Her physical response to his external appearance doubly annoyed her. She was better than a cheap thrill looking at a good looking man. Even a man as attractive as Navarro. She suspected he was a legend in his own mind, and she was damned if she’d pander to that crap.

By sheer will, she hadn’t blushed in years, but her cheeks felt hot now. From the unexpected exertion,
not
because looking at him conjured images of cool sheets and sweaty skin.