Playing Dirty Read online

  DEDICATION

  To my agent, Laura Bradford,

  for coming up with the perfect pitch and

  then negotiating the deal while on vacation.

  I am lucky to have you on my team.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A QUICK BUT heartfelt thank you to Jill Shalvis and Allison Kent for reading an early draft of this one and letting me know I was on the right track.

  My deepest gratitude goes to May Chen for being the amazing, enthusiastic, and thoughtful editor she is (and everyone told me she would be). Your guidance on this book was invaluable. And to everyone on Team Avon and at Harper­Collins for making me feel appreciated and welcome—­thank you!

  This may be an odd thank-­you but . . . thanks to the television show Strike Back, which indirectly inspired my series by making me say, “I want to write something a little like that but with real romance and bigger heroes!”

  As always, much love to my husband and thanks to my fantastic readers who make it possible for me to do what I love for a living. I appreciate you all.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  FORD DECKER balanced on his elbows with his stomach dragging in the wet grass and wondered how he’d managed to pull this shit assignment. Adjusting his night goggles, he stared across the open field to the brick building sitting below him at the bottom of the slope.

  “Target approximately hundred meters at your center across the heath.” Harlan Ross’s Oxford-­educated British accent cut across the still night.

  As one of the supervisors of Alliance, Harlan waited and watched from 3,600 miles away in the Warehouse, the team’s high-­tech operations center outside Washington, D.C., but his voice echoed in the silver disk in Ford’s ear. One word grabbed Ford’s attention. “Heath?”

  Weston Brown—­West to anyone who knew him for more than two seconds and wanted to breathe for a third—­didn’t make a noise as he held still in the pile of leaves to Ford’s right. “Sounds made up.”

  “Fucking Brits.” Ford mumbled the comment.

  Harlan had landed at Alliance, the newly formed joint intelligence task force handpicked from members of the CIA and MI6, and independent of both agencies, from the Special Reconnaissance Regiment, a division of the British Army with roots in operations in Northern Ireland. He might sound smooth, but under all that properness lurked a nasty temper and crack shot.

  Ford wasn’t in the mood to test either. He turned to West, his number two on Bravo Team. “What exactly is a heath again?”

  “That will teach you to ignore the nonessential parts of a briefing.”

  “Gentlemen.” Harlan managed to load the word with sarcasm. “It’s the grassy open area of land in front of you.”

  Ford continued mumbling. “Then just say that.”

  “We have heat signatures on all three floors.” A low rumble of conversation and rhythmic clicking from what sounded like a keyboard played behind Harlan’s voice as the muted sounds of the Warehouse magnified tenfold in that cavernous room. “Limited movement.”

  “Because it’s two in the morning.” Prime surveillance hour, which made it the worst time to move, in Ford’s mind. Too obvious.

  West snorted. “You think terrorists work nine-­to-­five?”

  “I think we have bad intel.”

  “According to the chatter we’re picking up, the man renting that house is in the process of setting up an auction to place a deadly toxin on the open market.” Harlan could have been reading from the briefing notes. Since he possessed what he insisted be called an eidetic rather than photographic memory, the recall likely matched verbatim.

  Not that Ford needed a review of the intel. He stayed loose and kept the sarcasm turned to maximum, but he didn’t fool around when it came to strategy and completing an operation. He studied, memorized, did whatever he had to do to put the plan in his head.

  “A terrorist’s wet dream,” he mumbled as he shot West the side eye.

  Harlan droned on. “So, we have talk about a meeting in Yemen, and a deadly toxin missing from a U.S. government lab.”

  West let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of ways to get fucked.”

  Ford understood the pieces but they didn’t connect in his head. “You’re talking Yemen and I’m looking at a scene out of a Dickens’ novel.”

  “As if you’ve read Dickens,” West joked as he scanned the horizon.

  Fucking up what should have been an easy snatch-­and-­run was Ford’s real concern. Tree-­lined cobblestone streets and expensive houses. Not to mention the freaky sense of quiet. No way would this high-­end neighborhood tolerate strangers hanging around. This place with the ponds and walking paths had neighborhood-­watch-­protected written all over it. Or whatever the British version of that might be.

  The man coming up from their right, watching the same house while stomping through the high grass, did challenge that theory. The careful footing raised a flag, but it was the gun the guy carried that ruled out an innocent evening walk around the neighborhood.

  So much for Dickens.

  Ford motioned for West to drop. On command and without a word, the big man flattened, slithering on his stomach as the wind covered the small amount of noise his pants made sliding across the ground. He shifted out of sight within seconds.

  On his own, Ford hunkered down. Staying still until even his breathing slowed and the sounds of the neighborhood echoed in his ear, each one magnified and highlighted so he could separate the man from the surroundings.

  The grass crunched and the thud of footsteps grew closer. Ford heard a click, as if the guy tapped his finger against the side of his gun. If he kept it off the trigger, Ford would have an extra second or two. Not that he’d need it. He had surprise on his side . . . and West. They could take on ten men and come out on top. One guy wandering around as if he’d lost his dog hardly amounted to a real problem.

  Ford waited until the last second, until the guy’s shoe came into his line of vision, then jumped to his feet in a crouch. Another step and Ford stood, lifting his elbow and nailing the guy under the chin in one swift move. The gun dropped and the man’s head snapped back on a sharp intake of breath. Before he could recover, Ford slammed a heel into his stomach and sent him flying. He landed on his ass and sat there, doubled over and coughing.

  Ford knew that was too easy. He leaned in and the guy came alive. Rage showed in every line of his body and in the flat line of his mouth. His guttural roar had Ford shaking his head as the guy launched himself. The man’s full weight barreled into Ford’s midsection.

  The breeze kicked up around them and a dog barked in the distance. Ford heard shouting in his ear over the com and ignored it all to concent
rate on staying on his feet as the guy backed him up and attempted a spine-­cracking throw-­down.

  Ford would shoot without blinking. Truth was, gun beat wrestling every single time, but he didn’t want to draw attention. Not that the guy seemed to realize that. He grunted and tried to shove Ford off balance, knocking him from one side to the other but not standing up and planting his feet like he should have.

  Fucking amateur.

  Ford tired of messing with him. When the guy got lucky and landed a shot to Ford’s chest, Ford declared playtime over. He kneed the guy in the jaw and heard a crack. The vise grip around Ford’s waist eased a second later. He took advantage of the break with a quick stranglehold around the guy’s neck. A few defensive kicks and grabs at Ford’s arm then the man passed out.

  Dropping the dead weight, Ford stepped back and surveyed his supposed attacker. The guy could have used more bodyguard training. The whole scene lasted a few seconds. It only went on that long because Ford didn’t immediately end it. Next time he would cut it short and get back to surveillance faster.

  Bent over with his hands on his knees, Ford stared at the lifeless form at his feet. Then he checked pockets for ID, not expecting to find any and not disappointed when he didn’t.

  A movement off to his side had him glancing up. West stood there wearing a stupid grin. That was annoying as shit. “You’d think a supposed terrorist could afford better talent,” Ford said.

  “Hey, he did get one shot in against you.”

  Ford gave his teammate the finger.

  West laughed. “Just reporting what I saw.”

  The chaos on the com finally pulled Ford into responding. “Stop yelling,”

  “We’re fine.” West touched a hand to his earpiece and answered as he scanned the area before his gaze landed on Ford again. “What were you saying about Dickens?”

  Not a topic Ford wanted to discuss right now. “You run out and get a sandwich or did you get confused about the concept of backup?”

  West shrugged. “You were doing fine.”

  Not convinced the unconscious guy didn’t have a friend hovering nearby, Ford motioned for West to duck down. After a quick visual sweep of the area, Ford glanced at one of the upstairs windows, on the tick of movement he sensed rather than saw.

  Screwing with West gave Ford a second to think about the best way to scale the wall. “For the record, your sister likes when I read Dickens to her before sex.”

  “Does this imaginary sister think you’re a dick?”

  Ford had to laugh at that. “That’s just you.”

  “No, it’s not,” Harlan said, breaking through the by-­play he despised and repeatedly insisted should have no role in an undercover operation, boring shit that he was. “Are we clear to move?”

  Ford spared the downed man one more glance. “I was ready twenty minutes ago.”

  “Right.” Harlan exhaled. “We need eyes and ears in that building. It’s the only way to know if Ford’s instincts are misfiring.”

  Ford shot West a let’s-­kick-­ass grin. “While I’m playing with tech toys, you stand guard and shoot anyone who gets near me.” Which Ford viewed as the more interesting part of the operation.

  Sneaking in, planting devices, all while ducking gunfire and nosy neighbors, required someone with the patience to sit and not move for hours, if needed. Not Ford’s usual thing, but even less so for West. His specialty was killing, so Ford got stuck with the boring role this time around.

  “Negative on the shooting.” Harlan’s accent sounded sharper now. A little less refined university and more like the MI6 asshole willing to do anything to finish the job and sacrifice anyone in the process.

  Looked to Ford like Harlan continued to forget the usual MI6 and CIA rules didn’t bind Alliance. They operated off the grid and without any of the usual restrictions of the intelligence agencies.

  “Boss man has no sense of humor.” West made the comment, which made it even funnier since the guy ran low on the amusement gene.

  “Fucking Brits.” Ford calculated he’d made that comment at least ten times a day since throwing in with Alliance. Almost hourly when dealing with Harlan.

  “We need an in and out. No footprints,” Harlan said, ignoring the open talk about him.

  “This whole op is going sideways on us.” Ford thought he should point that out, if only to be able to say “I told you so” later, when the time came, and it would. He’d bet the nineteen hundred dollars in his cover ID’s bank account on that.

  “No firepower,” Harlan said at the same time.

  Fuck that. “Screw you, Ross. If someone shoots at me, I’m shooting back.”

  Several voices filled the line but Harlan talked over all of them. “Nullify targets as final solution only.”

  Ford nodded. “Dad has spoken. Move in.”

  Crouched and jogging as they fanned out, Ford increased his distance from West as they moved in on the target. The noises of the night fell around them. The whisper of the wind through the long grass and the scurry of animals provided background noise, but Ford focused on the house at the bottom of the small hill. A Georgian-­style brick residence you’d find wherever rich ­people live. Windows in the back and only a few lights on upstairs.

  It was totally wrong as a potential terrorist’s hideaway. Too out in the open. Not secure or easily guarded.

  The shadow he’d been concentrating on moved, and Ford raised his fist. West, a perfectly trained Marine killing machine, stopped in mid-­step, and Ford didn’t hesitate to confirm. “We’ve got a body at the back door.”

  “Copy.” Harlan’s voice stayed steady. Cool and unruffled, as if this amounted to nothing more than a practice exercise. “Hold.”

  “Easy for him to say.” West stepped closer as he and Ford eased down, balancing on the balls of their feet.

  “That’s a negative on heat signatures,” Harlan said.

  Ford saw West mouth What the fuck and silently agreed. “Then your equipment is malfunctioning because I’m looking right at the guy. What are you seeing on your end?”

  Shuffling and orders to the tech team came first, then, “We’ve lost contact with your cam. Switching to CCTV as backup.”

  Britain’s notorious closed-­circuit television surveillance. Reports set the number of cameras across the country at more than four million. Relying on the system rather than Alliance’s internal intel kicked the ticking at the back of Ford’s neck up to a constant banging.

  “What the fuck?” West didn’t bother to mouth it that time.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling.” An understatement, but since they were basically pinned down in the middle of a field without cover and no eyes up above, Ford decided downplaying was the answer. He’d launch into yelling and hitting later. “We’re a go on this end,” he said. Sitting there made him antsy. “We’ve got one hostile at the door and a shadow on the second floor, far right window.”

  Harlan exhaled then started again. “We’re not seeing any of it.”

  “Then your satellite is aimed at the wrong town.” This is why Ford didn’t believe in relying on all the tech shit. Equipment went bad and malfunctioned. Sometimes the humans working it failed or fell down. The only truly reliable intel came from what he could see and what he heard from ­people he trusted, and there were very few of those.

  “Hold,” Harlan shot back.

  Enough of this shit. “We’re circling to the side for a better look.”

  Ford didn’t wait for the go signal or approval. He took off and motioned for West to follow.

  At sixty meters they dropped lower and cut off communication. Voices would carry in the open space. One breeze blowing in the right direction and the guy outside could pick up the wrong sound and the dark sky would light up with gunfire.

  Not the plan.

  Just as they swung out wide to the rig
ht side of the house, the guy guarding the back door shifted. After a telltale touch to his ear, he left his position. Two steps and he abandoned the steps and stood under the window. And he kept going.

  Ford knew from the schematics and photos that a parking lot and three-­stall garage sat in that direction. It meant cars and a possible getaway, and he was not in the mood for a chase across the countryside. “Hostile heading left from our current position.”

  “Stand down.” Harlan didn’t leave a lot of room for improvisation with that response.

  Right or wrong, the waiting ticked Ford off. “Damn it.”

  West’s response was more measured, as he kept his assault rifle aimed on the guy. “Follow?”

  “Negative.” Anger edged into Harlan’s voice. “Position? We’re still not seeing what you’re seeing.”

  “Closed in to twenty and—­”

  Ford’s breath jammed in his throat as the night turned deathly still. A wall of heat slammed into his chest a second later and his ears popped. A series of concussive booms thundered around him as an invisible wave pushed his body up and back, kicking him off his feet.

  Noises, unidentifiable at first, roared to life around him. His gun dropped from his hand before he could tighten his grip, and his body shot up then careened toward the grass, ass first. His bones rattled as gravity won out and he came to a sudden stop with his head slamming against the wet ground. For a second, light blinked out. Thoughts, fragments, spun through his mind but he couldn’t grab onto anything.

  He couldn’t tell if the strange blankness lasted ten seconds or ten minutes before his brain rebooted. When he opened his eyes again it took several attempts before he could focus. The automatic off switch on the goggles prevented flash blindness, but the burning smell choked him as much as the dark smoke rolling through the once clean air.