Accidental Commando (3 page)

But covering her with that sheet wasn’t proving to be much of a help. The image of her going after El Gato armed with nothing but an empty bottle had been burned into his brain. Her freckled skin, her long legs, and her cloud of wet hair flying around her face… Damn, she’d been magnificent. Like a Valkyrie from one of the stories his Grandpa Lindstrom used to tell. Were there redheaded Valkyries?

“El Gato’s spooked,” Duncan said. “Unlikely he’ll give us the chance to pick him out again in this crowd.”

“Odds are he scrubbed the hit,” Jack commented. “For today, anyway.”

“Or he could be setting up along the route,” Duncan said. “I’ll give Lang and Gonzo an update. Meet you at the car, Jack.”

“On my way now. What’s the status of the civilian, junior?” Jack asked. “She need medical attention?”

Tyler forced himself to consider the woman objectively. He’d had a good look at every inch of her, and she hadn’t appeared to have any injuries. He’d tried to cushion her as much as possible when he’d taken her to the floor. The redness that dotted the freckles above her breasts looked more like hives than rug burn. She hadn’t moved as if she were hurt. She had a surprising amount of strength in her slender form, though she hadn’t been able to wriggle free of his grip. Her attempts sure had made things interesting….

“Hey, Tyler?” Jack prodded. “You still there?”

He touched his fingertip to the red spot on the woman’s cheek. “This needs ice. Do you have any other injuries?”

She shook her head, then winced as if she were in pain.

“Ma’am? Do you have a headache? Jack, she could have a concussion.”

She freed one hand from the sheet and made an erasing motion. “It’s not a concussion. I’m fine. Who are you talking to? How big an operation is this?”

He surveyed the room. It was in shambles. He spotted an overturned ice bucket near a dented room-service cart. Only a few wafers of ice remained. The rest had melted into a puddle beside a heap of red lace. He glanced at the king-size bed. Champagne. Sexy underwear. A naked woman. Someone appeared to have had a good time here the night before.

He’d assumed she was alone, since there was only one suitcase, and there was no sign of a man’s clothes strewn around the room. He glanced at the open door to the bathroom. If whoever had shared the bed with her was still here, they wouldn’t have let her fend for herself. He couldn’t imagine a Valkyrie like her putting up with a coward. To be on the safe side, though, he went to check.

As he’d suspected, the bathroom was empty. It appeared only one of the towels had been used. If she’d had male company, he hadn’t stayed the night. He grabbed a washcloth, returned to the puddle of melting ice and picked up a few of the larger pieces. He wrapped the ice in the washcloth and held it to her cheek. “This should keep the bruise from swelling.”

She seemed startled by his action. But then she took the improvised ice pack from him and narrowed her eyes. “Who’s going to clean up this mess? Your department better pay for the damage.”

“We’ll see to it.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Someone from the hotel will repair your doors.”

“For all I know, the milkman shot up my suitcase. There could be bullet holes in my clothes. Are you going to pay for that, too?”

“Most of the shots hit the wall.”

The woman moved the ice pack to her forehead. “You’re ignoring my questions.”

She was right about that. He saw no reason to reply, since her demands were probably an attempt at bravado. It was a common coping mechanism, and far easier for him to deal with than hysterics would have been.

Yet her questions weren’t all he was trying to ignore. The sheet was gaping apart where she’d freed her arm, giving him a glimpse of shadowed skin. He didn’t know why he found the view so compelling. He’d seen it all mere minutes ago.

“The major reported the ETA for the envoy’s plane is fifty-five minutes,” Duncan said. The background noise had changed from chickens to the sound of a revving engine. “Jack, where are you?”

“Here,” Jack said. There was the sound of a car door slamming. “Junior, unless the civilian needs medical attention, you’d better wrap things up there and get over to the palace.”

Tyler stepped backward. His heel came down on something soft. He suspected it was the red underwear.

“Look, Mr. Matheson or detective or whatever you are, I’d like some answers.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” He turned toward the door.

“And forget all the ‘ma’ams.’ I’m not in the best mood this morning. I’m not feeling exactly charitable toward men in general, either. You can’t just burst into someone’s room and then treat them like they don’t exist.” She dropped the ice pack, gathered the trailing edge of the sheet and followed him. “I’m thinking I shouldn’t take your word that you’ll pay for all this damage. Let me have your badge number.”

“Ma’am, you’ll have to trust me.”

“Trust you? Right, sure. Like I’m going to trust anyone with a Y chromosome. Especially where money’s concerned.”

“Sounds as if she doesn’t like you much, junior,” Jack said.

“Maybe he needs reinforcements,” Duncan said.

“Maybe he’s flirting.”

“Then he does need help. Anyone give him the birds and bees talk?”

“Nah. I thought we should wait until the boy hits puberty.”

No one could mistake Tyler for a boy. He had just turned thirty, and at six foot four and two hundred and fifteen pounds, he was the largest man in Eagle Squadron. But he was also the newest, so he’d been subjected to this kind of razzing for nearly a year. It was hard to overcome his status as a rookie with a team this tight. “Give it a rest,” he muttered.

The woman’s face went red. “Me? Give it a rest? I—”

“No, not you,” Tyler said. He turned his head and pointed to the receiver in his ear. “Party line.”

“Okay, then let me speak to your supervisor.”

He reached for the doorknob. “Sorry. No time.”

“Right, just like a man.” She grasped his arm. “You’ve got enough time to screw up my life but then you waltz out without footing the bill. Not this time, buster. I want to see a badge right now or I’m phoning the Rocaman police.”

This was more than bravado. There was genuine anger here. She hadn’t known him long enough to dislike him this much, so she must be thinking of someone else. He looked at her hand. She wore no jewelry, yet there was a band of pale skin at the base of her ring finger. Was it from a wedding band? Had she come to Rocama to celebrate her divorce? Or to cheat on her husband? Whatever her story, her touch on his skin felt good. Almost as good as when her breast had rubbed over that spot…

Yet again, he jerked his attention back to business. He sorted through what she’d said. “You called him the milkman.”

“What?”

“The man I was chasing.”

“So what if I did?”

“Why?”

“He reminded me of someone.”

Tyler let go of the doorknob and put his hand over hers. “Then you got a good look at him?”

“He was hard to ignore.” She moved her jaw from side to side. “I got a good, close-up look at his fist, too.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

She nodded. “I never forget a face.”

“Hold it, junior,” Jack said. “If she can identify El Gato…”

Tyler had already turned and was leading her back across the room. “I’m way ahead of you, Doc.”

Halfway there, she yanked free. “Look, cowboy, it’s bad enough that you’re carrying on a conversation with people who aren’t here instead of answering my questions. If you need me to testify or something, that’s fine, as long as it doesn’t cut into my vacation. But that doesn’t mean you can haul me around like a sack of last year’s potatoes.”

“Sorry, ma’am. I’m in a hurry.” He picked up her suitcase and emptied it on the bed.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Finding you some clothes.” He pushed aside a pile of silk and lace. Hadn’t she packed anything besides underwear? From the looks of her wardrobe, she’d been planning to spend most of her stay in Rocama in her hotel room.

But he couldn’t allow himself to be curious about her any more than he could acknowledge the warmth he still felt on his arm from her touch. He spotted what looked like a dress, or at least something with more fabric than the rest of her garments. Unfortunately, it had a neat, round, thirty-caliber hole in the bottom. He tossed it to her anyway. “This is a matter of national security, ma’am. You’re going to have to come with me.”

Chapter 2

T
yler Matheson wasn’t a cop. He was a soldier. Emily decided to believe that much of his story, since the man who claimed to be his commanding officer was wearing what had to be a genuine army uniform. An impressive array of ribbons and medals decorated Major Mitchell Redinger’s chest, and the shine on his shoes would put a mirror to shame.

Yet even if the major had been in blue jeans and a golf shirt like Sergeant Matheson, he couldn’t have been mistaken for anything else. His dark hair was cut military-short, he kept his back and shoulders military-straight and he radiated the quiet confidence of a natural leader. In fact, with his granite jaw and the distinguished touch of silver at his temples, he was so army that he could have posed for a recruiting poster.

Fine. Good. Emily could accept that they were American soldiers, but the rest was more difficult to absorb. If it wasn’t for the bruise on her jaw and the persistent hangover that throbbed at the base of her skull, she might be tempted to suspect she was still back in her hotel in a champagne-induced coma. This kind of thing just didn’t happen to people from Packenham Junction.

They were meeting the major in the family wing of the governor’s palace. According to her travel brochure, the three-story structure was centuries old and a showpiece of Spanish Colonial architecture. There were guided tours of the public areas like the grand ballroom and the reception hall, but this area was off-limits to tourists. Not that she’d had the chance to sightsee as Tyler had rushed her through a side door and down a portrait gallery. Still, this room he’d brought her to was breathtaking enough. It was all dark wood beams, pale peach-tinted plaster and floors of glazed terra-cotta tile. Lush bouquets of tropical flowers rested on delicate, gilded tables. A long couch and several chairs upholstered in ivory brocade were grouped in the center of the floor.

But the major hadn’t asked her to sit. He obviously hadn’t expected this interview to last long. Tyler hadn’t gotten comfortable, either. He had taken up a post beside the potted ferns that flanked the doors, his feet braced apart and his hands clasped behind his back. Though he wasn’t looking at her, Emily had the feeling he was fully aware of everything she did.

On the other hand, just because she was conscious of everything
he
did didn’t mean the interest was mutual. Not that she was interested. The sooner she could be rid of him, the better. She’d never had much tolerance for take-charge men, no matter how sexy they happened to be.

She slid the strap of her sundress back on her shoulder and crossed her arms. “El Gato?”

“It’s what the assassin is known as,” the major replied.

“And you really don’t know what he looks like?”

“We have only general descriptions.”

“How is that possible? With the number of surveillance cameras around nowadays, I would have thought he’d have been photographed by now.”

“Not at a crime scene.”

“What about his passport?”

“He would have several passports in different names, and in all probability, he’s been filmed by airport security innumerable times, but that doesn’t allow us to track him. Surveillance footage of crowds is useless unless Intelligence knows what he looks like in the first place.”

“There must have been someone else who could identify him.”

“Miss Wright, the main reason no one can identify this criminal is because it’s his practice to leave no witnesses. The body of a young construction worker was found three blocks from the plaza an hour ago. He had been stripped and strangled.”

She remembered the casual way El Gato had struck her. And the bullet holes in her hotel room wall at the height of her head. If it hadn’t been for Tyler…

She hugged her arms more tightly across her chest. “So he’s dangerous. But since when does the United States Army concern itself with catching criminals? We’re not even on American soil. What about Interpol? Or the Rocaman Police? From what the cowboy told me—” she lifted one hand to gesture toward Tyler “—this sounds like a job for cops, not soldiers.”

“We aren’t concerned with apprehending El Gato,” the major said. “We want only to stop him.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question.”

“El Gato’s target is an American citizen, specifically our envoy to Rocama. Our mission is to protect the envoy.”

“You’re acting as bodyguards? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“All right, then why don’t you just stick the envoy in a bulletproof Humvee and put a bunch of sharpshooters in helicopters? Why all this secrecy? Don’t you trust the Rocamans?”

A faint buzzer sounded before Major Redinger could reply. He took a cell phone from his pocket, listened briefly, then snapped it shut. “Miss Wright, the envoy is due to arrive at the palace within the hour. Can we count on your cooperation?”

“I already told Sergeant Matheson I’d be willing to testify if there’s a trial. I know how that works. Or do you want me to talk with a sketch artist or something, so you know who you’re looking for?”

“While I appreciate the offer, I’m afraid time is of the essence. We need a more hands-on approach.” He nodded to Tyler, who immediately turned from the window and came forward. “We’d like you to accompany Sergeant Matheson as he continues his surveillance of the plaza.”

“What? You’re kidding.”

“This is not a laughing matter, Miss Wright. We want you to point out El Gato if you see him.”

“Now, wait a minute,” she said, backing up. “I only agreed to meet with you because I wanted some guarantee that the damage to my room and my belongings will be covered. That’s all. I’ve got plans for today.”