Bounty (12 page)

I
t’s
hard to think with the adrenaline of arousal pumping through me. Par for the course with April Fitzpatrick–Bluebird–Sullivan whatever. What this woman does to me...

I touch my fingers to my bitten, swollen lip, and yeah, it stings. But it’s also insanely hot.

She’s insanely hot. And not just hot in a superficial way, though of course her body, lithe but still full, is fucking banging. She’s smart, quick on her feet, but thoughtful. Brave. I love everything about her, it’s fucking insane. I’ve never felt this impressed with someone.

And I need to end it soon. It’s killing me.

How is she still kissing me after what I did to her?

But it’s obvious, isn’t it? She just needed cover to tell me about her father. Even after all of this, she still does the decent thing, still puts herself at risk to give me more information, to make sure I don’t get in trouble with Devlin Sullivan.

She’s still looking out for me.

My stupid, traitorous heart beats faster. Maybe there’s still a chance…

No. Absolutely not. I need to buckle down and concentrate on the mission and leave poor April alone. We just need to get through this trip to Costa Rica (even if she doesn’t know, I know that’s where we’re going) without raising suspicion, so I can meet her father and take him out. If necessary.

I haven’t been authorized to use lethal force, but I have been authorized for a black-ops illegal extradition, if possible.

I need to let Vicente know, immediately, what’s happening and where we’re going so he can make sure I have resources. Legally, he can’t have a team there. Officially, he can’t send any agents to help me. The government of Costa Rica would be extremely pissed off to have American federal agents operating illegally in their country. They kind of have a terrible history in the region, and relationships are strained.

But he might be able to do
something
.

I send him a series of encoded texts to let him know we need to meet. There’s no safe way to impart this information without risking it getting intercepted or tapped.

We meet in a different spot in our usual park, and we break down the intel, I tell him everything.

Except for having sex with April. That, I keep private.

“Holy fucking shit, man,” Vicente’s hands are on his head. He’s blown away. “This is the craziest shit I seen on a mission. Hot damn, Copperhead!” He slaps my shoulder. “You’re closin’ in on this motherfucker!”

“Yeah,” I say. And I check my April-Tracking app one more time. Just to make sure.

“She hasn’t made another call to her father from her cell phone, but it was definitely in Costa Rica. I don’t know which city, just that it was on the Eastern coast.”

“Well, there’s only a few places of note there, anyway,” Vicente assures me. “He’s sure to be posted up with alliance suppliers. I’ll look into it.”

“So what kind of support can I expect on this?” I ask him point-blank.

He gives me a sarcastic, sad shrug.

“Sorry man. You know I can’t send anyone into the field for this.”

“You’re joking. This is the biggest deal you’re gonna see in your career and you can’t send anyone? Not even… I don’t know. Under the table? Another ‘free agent’ like me?”

“Let’s be honest, Copperhead. If you had to work with some scrub who just got trained in the last twenty-four hours on this mission, you know they’d fuck it up. You’re gonna run this better on your own.”

“Totally on my own?”

“I can run air support. That’s it. We can send in ass.”

‘Air support’ and ’Ass’ being the colloquial terms for logistical support from far away. They can listen in, pipe information to me, help me get money and resources.

“And this,” and he hands me a new phone. “Encryption on that baby is military-grade. You can finally text me anything you want.” He laughs. “Just makes sure you lock it if there’s even a chance someone else might get their hands on it.”

I nod and pocket the phone. “This is gonna be dangerous as fuck,” I say, half to myself and half to him.

“Yeah, but that’s what you signed up for,” Vicente says. “This is the game, and the prize is huge. Worth it.” He looks me up and down. “You got this.”

“Yeah. I’ll just take him into custody.” I’ve done it before, of course. Even a few times overseas, where we didn’t have jurisdiction. It’s kind of part of my job description.

But never someone as high profile, as well-armed and well-defended, or as dangerous as Devlin Sullivan.

“Yes, I want you to take him into custody,” Vicente confirms. “Remember, as soon as you bring him to a consulate or embassy and give us a ring, only then can we send people in. I can even station them in the city on the ready. But they can’t help you before that.”

“Alright. So I will have backup for the transportation portion. Just not the actual capture.” The bag itself. Dragging Boston’s biggest gangster to some podunk embassy in Costa Rica.

I’ll need guns. Lots of guns. And knives. Maybe even some explosives. And there’s no way I can fly on Devlin Sullivan’s private jet with those.

I explain this to Vicente. “Well that’s what the ass is for. We’ll set up a drop so you can get supplies. And if you can’t take him, at least get this on him,” and he places a sheet of tiny stickers in my palm. “Just rub your thumb against one of these, and then against his skin,” Vicente says. “If nothing else, we’ll have a tag on this bastard, and as soon as he shows his ugly mug stateside, we’ll have him.”

I don’t bother to ask how what looks like little hardened paint dabs can possibly be used to track a person. Who knows the kind of shit the FBI has now — I myself use little chips, wedged into places. Not surprising they have something even more sophisticated.

“Okay, they might not notice these, or a few zip ties, but I’ll definitely need the weapons once we get there…” and we spend the rest of the afternoon planning out materials, what I’ll need, how Vicente can get them to me even if I don’t have the cell phone, making a list and planning various routes depending on which of three possible cities I’ll wind up in. Setting up drop zones, planning where the backup will be in case of emergency.

I’ve got some semblance of a plan, now. With any luck, I’ll have April’s father in custody by tomorrow night. Hopefully nobody will get killed. Especially me.

Time to rest up before my flight in the morning.

I
meet
April at the chain-link fence surrounding the tiny airfield that I suppose belongs to her father. Or, at least, is controlled by him.

It’s a struggle to keep cool, so much is riding on my performance. She can’t know I have more details about her dad than she likely does, or that I know where we’re going. She can’t know I’m planning anything.

And the last thing in the world she can know is how I truly feel about her.

Even if we have to pretend, for the sake of her father’s men who are watching, that we are on friendly, even intimate terms.

I text Vicente the location of the airfield and details about the planes and the workers, any information that might be helpful later if this ends up coming back stateside. Any evidence I can get him may prove to be useful in the future.

I can’t help the stab of guilt as I dispassionately text Vicente about April, right as she strides towards me, looking radiant and sexy as fuck in a sundress.

It’s yellow, and not quite fully opaque in the late-autumn morning sunlight. I can see the outline of the soft curve where her legs meet, just make out a panty-line.

A sundress in Boston…

We’re definitely headed south, and April must know that. Or maybe one of her father’s men just made wardrobe suggestions?

I want to reach for her hand as we stride side-by-side to the plane, but I resist. I clasp it into a fist and open it flat, over and over, keeping it busy and away from her.

The agents guarding the onramp staircase to the little jet search me thoroughly. I expected this, but I wasn’t quite prepared for how much they would take from me on the promise that I would get it all back when we returned to Boston. They take my phone, of course, and my second phone, and the case of what looks like small toiletries but includes zip-ties, a knife that looks like a toothbrush, and a little aerosol can of what is actually pepper spray, but looks like spray-on deodorant.

Plus, all my actual toiletries, which is a little annoying. Also my watch, and the ring that I wear on my right middle finger to commemorate my father. (And punch people with a jagged edge.)

April mouths “I’m sorry” at me while they continue to bag all of my possessions.

She has no idea.

They take my baseball cap, my shoes, and literally all of my clothes (aside from what’s on my back) and my belt.

As they take it from me, my mind flashes back to the moment of cinching it around April’s wrists.

Guilt and arousal wash over me. I don’t know what I was thinking. I lost control, is all. And I think a part of me wanted her, not just bound and trussed up for my pleasure – although it was fucking hot, but also I wanted her to feel powerlessness, again, but for it to feel pleasurable. I wanted her to enjoy it. I wanted that feeling of not being in control to be associated with something good so that it wouldn’t haunt or scar her forever.

We’re never completely in control. But fearing that loss of control, becoming terrified of it — that’s a recipe for disaster. The first step in becoming an obsessive, repressed control freak.

I don’t know if all of that was running through my mind at the time or is just some post-hoc rationalization. Maybe I was just a horny, selfish monster who wanted to tie her down and do what I pleased with her. Do to her what she pleased, too.

I have no doubt that she enjoyed it, even if it wasn’t… good. Morally good, that is.

She screamed when she came. She begged me for it. At least I have that to hold onto, even through the guilt.

I glance at her as they bag the belt, and we lock eyes.

My heart rate skyrockets.

Fuck.

I take a few deep breaths to calm it. I don’t want to look suspicious. They finish patting me down, and decide, after flipping through it, that I can keep my spiral notebook. With the tracker stickers in them.

Thank god.

When they’re done I try to laugh it off.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding,” I say to April. She gives me an apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” she says, out loud this time, but tries to keep her voice as light as mine was. With only the briefest, flickering glance at the men flanking us, she takes my hand. Her palm feels clammy and dead in mine, her fingers stiff and unsure.

Just for show, then.

Of course.

Again, she mouths “Sorry.”

She needs to stop apologizing.

It’s torture sitting on the plane next to her. Her dress looks fantastic with the bright sun steaming through the abnormally large jet windows. I want to caress her skin, it looks so soft, but I’m resolved not to touch her beyond what is strictly necessary to trick her father. To keep up the pretense. She doesn’t deserve to be taken advantage of any more than I already have, any more than I absolutely have to.

But April never does do what I want or expect. When the plane begins its ramp up to takeoff, she grasps my hand on the armrest, pressing her head back into the seat and closing her eyes.

I freeze and hold perfectly still. I let her keep my hand until we’re near cruising altitude.

Eventually she lets go, and lets out a nervous breath and small giggle. “I don’t know why I still get a little nervous,” she says. “It’s stupid. I fly a lot.”

“You like to be in control,” I say, “it’s understandable.” And I file away that precious detail, keep it safe in my collection of gorgeous/adorable/amazing things about April Fitzpatrick.

Embarrassed, she stands to visit the restroom, maneuvering past me to the aisle without giving me a chance to stand up. I’m treated to a perfect view of the tops of her thighs as she wedges past, a view of the soft curve of her sex, nearly in my lap, outlined through the sunlit dress. She’s perfect.

I’m frustrated. I want to press a palm to her, under her skin, and kiss her neck until she’s grinding into my hand, begging for it with her hips.

Nope. That’s fucked up, Liam. I pinch my eyes shut to snap out of it, and reach for a fucking crossword. I hate crosswords.

This sucks, but I gotta keep my eye on the prize, and that’s not April’s pussy. The prize is the best bag of my career. And then I’ll remove my presence from her life for good.

She takes a while in the restroom. What’s she doing back there? Maybe tending to her cuts? They’re not super visible, even with the minimal clothing. Maybe she’s putting makeup on them so her dad won’t see?

Eventually, enough water, tea, and free champagne makes me need to pee, too. Hopefully there are two restrooms back there.

I make my way down the aisle, suddenly struck by the plane devoid of other people. I’ve never been on a plane on my own like this. Her father’s agents are in the aft section, the two attendants are hovering by the cockpit, shaded from us by a curtain. It’s been just the two of us back here.