The Betrayed Series: Ultimate Omnibus Collection With EXCLUSIVE Post-Shiva Short Story (61 page)

“Teach them. Teach them better than I,” Jesus begged as the world became nothing more than a white light, his earthly concerns given rest.

Soon Jesus would sit, as he had all those years ago, upon a riverbank with his friend Judas, and try, yet again, to understand God’s infinite wisdom.

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TARGETED

CHAPTER 1

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Rebecca’s gaze drifted over the elegant dining room. Every table set with the finest of linens and sparkling crystal held bubbling champagne. She almost wanted to pinch herself, except she didn’t want to wrinkle her silk dress.

Weird. Her in silk. She was far more comfortable in field-stained khakis. But the Hotel Oberoi Amarvilas restaurant was a five star dining experience. And given that they were in India, most of the other women were dressed in elegant saris, draped in deep blue and shiny gold.

And for a woman who spent most of her time in a gray sterile laboratory, the wall length aquarium brimming with exotic sea life and walls hand painted in scenes from India’s rich mythology was just a tad overwhelming.

She glanced across the table to Brandt. He too was dressed to impress. A tuxedo, even. But his jaw was as square as ever, and those dark eyes? No matter whether in a tux or battle camouflage, Rebecca remembered how Brandt’s eyes twinkled under the torchlight in that jungle clearing in Ecuador. Now they glistened in the candlelight. How far they had come.

Brandt smiled warmly, putting his hand over hers. She knew how he yearned to get back into the field, chasing down the baddest of the bad guys, but he hadn’t complained a peep since being assigned close-protection duty to her while the rest of his team tracked down and eliminated the remaining members of the organization that had nearly killed both of them, the Knot.

Granted, she and Brandt had explored the “close” part of his protection duties in great detail. Her cheeks flushed at just the thought of this morning’s “exercises.” Six months into their relationship, and he could still make her blush.

And now they were here to celebrate the news that Brandt’s team had taken down the last of the Knot. They could breathe easy again. Tomorrow, after a quick sightseeing trip to the Taj Mahal for her and Fort Agra for Brandt, they headed back to London. A part of her was thrilled to begin her research in earnest again. To have a fully equipped and staffed laboratory at her disposal? It was a DNA paleoanthropologist’s wet dream. But another part of her feared for what would happen to their relationship.

Brandt was scheduled to go back out into the field in just three days. Could their bond stand the test of days, weeks, and even months of being apart while he was on classified assignments? Would he meet another damsel in distress, far thinner and used to wearing silk dresses?

“Well? Romantic enough for Valentine’s Day?” Brandt asked as he nodded to the bay window.

Across the street lay the massive gates that led to the Taj Mahal. The red brick structure was lit against the night sky. In her mind’s eye, Rebecca could see beyond the walls to the treasure they protected. The long, narrow pool reflected one of the modern seven wonders of the world. The Taj Mahal’s huge white domes and minarets glowed brightly, reminding the world of Shah Jahan’s love for his wife. Of course she was his third wife, but the monument had become a symbol of everlasting love, nonetheless.

Many may argue that Paris was the most romantic spot on earth, but with all the reconstruction going on after their last visit there, the Taj Mahal was absolutely the most romantic for her and Brandt.

Rebecca squeezed his hand. “You had me at ‘Let’s go to India.’ “

Brandt leaned over and whispered. “You had me at ‘Are you a moron?’ “

Oh, God. He remembered the first words that she had ever spoken to him. In her defense she was tied to a stake in the rain forest with an anaconda wrapped around her chest. But still. Brandt was anything but a moron. How many times had he saved her life? In Ecuador, Paris, Budapest, Istanbul, and half a dozen other locales.

“Brandt, I am so sorry for—”

He leaned in and kissed her, interrupting her apology. His lips, tender yet firm against hers, asked her to stop talking and start kissing. Brandt’s fingers interlaced with hers as his thumb stroked her palm. Rebecca could swear that steam shot out of her ears. Her body lit up as brightly as the Taj Mahal. Luckily, Brandt pulled back before someone asked them to go up to their room. Although the way her legs quivered, that might not be such a bad idea.

“Rebecca,” Brandt breathed out.

“Dessert?” their waiter asked.

Brandt snapped back into his chair as she folded her hands on her lap. It was so easy to forget that they were in a crowded restaurant. For a moment it had seemed like only the two of them existed.

“Sorry, I’m going to need the menu again,” she murmured. Anything that happened before that kiss, long forgotten.

As the waiter moved off to fulfill her request, Brandt whisked the napkin from his lap and rose. “I will take this opportunity to use the restroom.”

Rebecca’s eyebrow shot up. “Everything okay?”

“Absolutely,” he reassured her, but his eyes didn’t register reassuring.

This was the third time to the restroom for Brandt since they arrived at the restaurant. For a guy who didn’t allow for a single potty break on a five-hour hike out of the rain forest, he sure was liberal with the latrine visits tonight.

She was about to rise and follow him, but then caught sight of his rear tightly outlined by his black pants as he walked away. Maybe, on second thought, she’d just sit here and enjoy the view.

* * *

Brandt kept his pace steady passing the elaborate saltwater tank filled with coral, sea urchins, and clown fish until he turned down the hallway. Then, he broke into a trot. He hit the bathroom door at a run. Bursting in, he found only the attendant. Brandt wasn’t quite sure what these guys in swanky hotel bathrooms were supposed to do for you exactly, unzip your fly maybe, but he needed him gone.

Pulling out an American five-dollar bill, Brandt offered it to the guy with a nod to the door, but the attendant only frowned. Fine. Brandt pulled out a twenty. The man accepted it and left. If Brandt didn’t button it up these bathroom excursions were going to cost over a hundred bucks.

Brandt stared at his reflection in the mirror. “Damn it, Brandt, pull it together.”

But as he brought a small, red velvet box from the inside pocket of his tux, he couldn’t pull it together if he tried. Slowly Brandt opened it. A diamond ring stared back at him. Was it too small? Would Rebecca be insulted by a ring less than three carats? What could he do, though? He was on a military man’s budget, and he wanted to still save up for a house. Those things were more important than the bling, right?

What if she said “no?” How could he leave for a mission not knowing if she was waiting for him?

God, it was sappy and stupid, and his men teased him endlessly about it, but his stomach lurched at the thought of not having her arms to wrap around him at night. Well, and her legs too, but that was a different kind of yearning. The ache he was talking about went far deeper than his groin.

Brandt snapped the box closed. This was ridiculous. He’d step in front of the president to take a bullet, hell, even the secretary of education, easier than he could ask Rebecca to marry him. A narco-drug lord? He’d simply throw an elbow to his nose. But this… this churned his stomach like none other.

How many times had already tried to ask her? He was going to do it after they sat down at the table. Then he was going to slip the ring into her glass of champagne. Then after the salads came. Then forget about it after the chicken satay.

And now, dessert? He was running out of meal to make this happen.

No. It had to be now. This mission was time sensitive. He was not going to let this window slip by. Rebecca may not have the largest ring to brag about, but by God, he was going to give her an engagement to remember.

* * *

Rebecca waved the waiter off. He was determined to keep their champagne glasses full. And he wasn’t even their waiter. Five-star restaurants, man. They did service with a capital “S.”

She sipped the nearly overflowing glass of champagne as she glanced around the room. Was this what her life could have been like if she had applied her skills to the commercial sector? Being able to splice DNA fifteen different ways was an extremely well-paid career in the pharmaceutical world.

Could she dine like this every night? Forget what Top Ramen tasted like and learn when lobster was best in season?

Rebecca chuckled. That was so not her. Sure, tonight was grand, but tomorrow, she and Brandt would pick up some street food off a camel-drawn cart and be all the happier for it. Opulence was great, but a well-worn pair of jeans was much more her style.

Brandt came around the corner, straightening his jacket. He looked so sophisticated. But was that water dripping off his nose? Rebecca frowned. Was he sick? He had been acting a little odd all night. She had just assumed that his tuxedo’s cummerbund was too tight. Lord knew that the silk dress had gotten itchy after the first five minutes. And the static from the garment? Rebecca feared she’d look in a mirror and find her hair standing on end.

He sat down rather abruptly, placing the napkin back on his lap like a little boy might at his first cotillion. She waited as he stared down at the white tablecloth. Finally his jaw bunched and he looked up, reaching for her hand.

“Your dessert menu,” the waiter announced in a clipped British accent.

“Not now,” Brandt rumbled.

The poor man’s eyes dilated as he awkwardly placed the menu on the table, then scurried off.

“Sorry,” Brandt said as he gripped her hand. “But if I don’t say this now…”

Rebecca kept a cheerful smile even though her heart sank. They hadn’t really discussed life post-Knot. Had Brandt realized he wasn’t up for not just a long-distance relationship but a transcontinental one? Had he brought her to the shadow of the Taj Mahal to soften the blow of a breakup?

“Rebecca,” he said nearly pained. She hated seeing the crow’s feet at the edge of his eyes pinched in worry. She hated it even more when it spelled the bad news that was about to come her way.

“I, I…” Brandt stammered.

You what? She wanted to scream but also didn’t want to hear the words that followed.

“Rebecca, will—” Brandt stopped, dropping her hand. “Crap. I almost forgot…

Seriously this was going to go down as the worst break up speech ever.

But then Brandt pulled something out from his pocket. A box. A red velvet box. A box just the right size for a ring. Breath caught in Rebecca’s throat. Brandt wasn’t breaking up with her. Not at all.

Was he really going to propose?

As Brandt fumbled with the box, he asked, “Rebecca Sasha Monroe will you—”

Yeah, that’s about when the first explosion sounded.

* * *

Brandt slammed the box closed shoving it into his pocket while his other hand found Rebecca’s and pulled her down, using his elbow to knock the table on end so when the car right outside their window blew, the wood took most of the damage.

Glass shattered, screams sounded, and chaos reigned.

The restaurant was plunged into quasi-darkness as the lights were replaced by yellow emergency lighting.

Everyone here was well aware of the Mumbai attacks. This current assault had all the earmarks for it. Car bombs to start then gunfire in the distance. The terrorists were known for hitting tourist spots, especially where Americans gathered. And the Taj Mahal on Valentine’s Day? This restaurant was an all you can eat jihadist’s buffet. The fundamentalists were getting more fundamental by the day. Even grabbing and beating native Muslims who expressed their affection too outwardly in public.

He held Rebecca close as the other patrons scrambled to flee. But he pulled in one breath after another, making certain that there wasn’t a second car bomb waiting to go off. Once past five breaths, he tugged Rebecca behind him entering the stream of panicked diners who fled in all directions, falling, slipping, trampling one another.

Brandt grabbed a young girl who had tripped, lifting her into her mother’s arms. Once free of the girl, he angled them across the restaurant, away from the bulk of the crowd. Unfettered, they broke into a full run. Brandt didn’t know whether to be proud of Rebecca or feel a little sorry for her. She was so used to being under attack that she didn’t complain. The woman knew when to run and when to ask questions later.

They found the stairwell and pushed through the throng trying to get down from the hotel’s upper floors. Not Brandt.

Rebecca’s heels clanged on the metal steps as they rushed upward. Making the turn from the second-floor landing to the third floor, Rebecca balked as an older man and woman burst through the stairwell door and hurried past them down the stairs.

“Our room is right here,” she said trying to urge him into the second-floor hallway.

Yes, their room, booked under an assumed name with the best forged passports that the CIA could come up with, was right there. The nearest room to the emergency exit and on a floor they could make a jump from the window and hope to live. But that wasn’t the room he was heading for.