Midnight Games: A Killer Instincts Novel (12 page)

“Take the rear,” he told Ethan. “Juliet stays with me.”

He decided to forgo the M16 and carry his SIG instead. He doubted they’d be greeted by a dozen armed mercs; everything about this situation screamed
you’re too damn late
.

While Ethan darted off and vanished in the shadows, Trevor and Juliet approached the house through the trees. The scents of salt and seaweed grew stronger, the rhythmic pounding of the waves getting louder. Lassiter’s shack might be an eyesore, but hell, location, location, location, right? Having the ocean in your backyard probably boosted the place’s market value.

Juliet moved like a pro, communicating with him via hand gestures and gripping her black Beretta with confidence. They crept along the ramshackle exterior toward the front door, where Trevor signaled for her to fall back.

He held up three fingers in a silent count.

She nodded, waiting.

Three seconds later, Trevor kicked open the door. The thing flew right off its hinges and went crashing to the weathered wooden floor in the house’s tiny entryway. Another crash reverberated from the back of the house as Ethan let himself in under similar circumstances. No point in using stealth mode here; Trevor didn’t have high hopes as he moved through the shadows.

The coppery scent of blood reached his nostrils long before they found the body.

Yep, too damn late.

“He kinda looks like Mickey Rourke,” Juliet remarked. Her dark eyes swept over the dead man on the floor. “Yeah, he’s definitely Rourke-esque.”

Trevor did notice the resemblance. Eddie Lassiter was a big man—thick chest, bulky arms, muscular legs. His skin had the leathery look of a man who’d spent too much time in the sun, and his dirty blond hair was long and stringy.

As far as death masks went, Lassiter’s was actually kinda comical—the man looked entirely pissed off, as if he couldn’t believe someone would have the gall to murder
him
. Trevor recognized Lassiter from the grainy photo Noelle’s girl Paige had e-mailed them earlier, though the man in that photo hadn’t been quite so . . . dead.

He approached the body and studied the dime-size bullet hole in Lassiter’s forehead. A pool of brownish red blood, now beginning to dry, surrounded his head, and one red line trickled out of the wound and down his nose.

“Seeing as the back of his head is still intact,” Trevor said drily, “I’d wager he got popped by a small-caliber pistol.”

Ethan’s hazel eyes took in the scene from the doorway. “Not point-blank, either, considering the lack of powder residue. The shooter was standing a few meters away.”

The rookie’s gaze landed on the open suitcase on the bed, then the .45 pistol lying on the bedspread.

“He burst in while Lassiter was packing and caught him off guard. Lassiter didn’t have time to go for his weapon,” Ethan mused.

“Did you learn crime scene analysis watching
CSI
?” Juliet drawled. “That’s so adorable.”

Ethan narrowed his eyes at her. “You do realize I’m a marine, right?”

She looked amused. “So?”

“So I can kick your ass without batting a fucking eye.”

Uh-oh. Trevor knew the young soldier swore only when he was seriously pissed off.

Juliet, of course, fueled Ethan’s anger by laughing. “Go ahead, kiddo. Do it.” Challenge lit her eyes. “But we both know a sweet thing like yourself would never hurt a lady.”

“Yeah, keep calling yourself that, sweetheart. Maybe if you say it enough times, you’ll magically transform into one.”

Her delighted laughter echoed in the room. “Well, well, the kid’s got a backbone. Ain’t that sweet?”

“Enough,” Trevor barked. “You two search the house for anything that might be connected to Morgan or the compound. I’ll check the body.”

Ten minutes later, it became glaringly obvious that both Lassiter’s corpse and his shitty shack had been cleaned. Either that, or Lassiter didn’t keep anything of value here.

No documents, no cash, no hidden compartments as far as they could tell. His pockets were empty, his wallet containing nothing but an expired driver’s license and a folded-up birth certificate that revealed the tough guy’s middle name as Marion—Juliet got a kick out of that one.

By the time they reconvened on the rickety front steps, Trevor felt like this entire trek to Baja had been a total waste of time. No hint as to who might have hired Lassiter. No evidence pointing to who wanted Morgan and his men dead.

Waste of fucking time.

“Call Noelle,” he told Juliet. “Tell her we’ve got shit all.” He holstered his gun and released a pent-up breath. “Let’s hope the Reilly brothers have something better to offer.”

“Lassiter’s dead.”

Isabel’s head jerked up in surprise as her boss walked into the den. “Since when?” she asked Noelle.

“Callaghan’s guessing he was popped five or six hours ago.”

“He was shot?”

Nodding, Noelle sat down in a big leather easy chair. The den was as cozy as the rest of the house, with a pair of overstuffed couches, an electric fireplace, and the antique desk Isabel was sitting behind.

“The person who hired him was clearly tying up loose ends,” Noelle said. “Or, if that person is anything like me, he was punishing the imbecile for his royal fuckup. The men Lassiter recruited were clearly incompetent.”

Isabel pictured Lloyd’s lifeless body sprawled on the bloody kitchen floor.

And she couldn’t even begin to imagine the scene Trevor had found in Holden McCall’s bedroom.

“They weren’t totally incompetent,” she murmured.

“They left the majority of their targets alive,” Noelle retorted. “In my book, that’s amateur hour.”

“Did they find anything useful at Lassiter’s place, at least?”

“It was clean. If Lassiter kept any records, he stashed them off-site. Call Sean and tell him to look into it, find out if Lassiter’s got a safe-deposit box or storage locker, or hell, a lawyer.”

“Got it. Oh, and Sean wanted me to pass along a message.”

“Oh, really?”

“He said, and I quote, ‘Tell your boss to fuck right off.’” Isabel grinned. “What’d you do to him?”

“He was trying to find Bailey, and Bailey didn’t want to be found, so I may have fed him some false intel that sent him on a wild-goose chase.”

A sigh slipped out. “Well, I wish you hadn’t done that because now he’s being all sulky about it and charging us double for this latest intel.”

Then again, the Reilly brothers employed an arbitrary fee schedule that didn’t make much sense to begin with. A pair of former mercenaries who may or may not have been tangled up with the IRA at one point, Oliver and Sean fancied themselves the best information dealers currently operating on the globe—and they probably were. Isabel had yet to meet anyone with a bigger network of contacts than the Reilly brothers. Those Irishmen possessed the ability to produce information out of thin air.

Oliver had helped her and Trevor in New York on that last job, and in all honesty, Isabel wished she was dealing with Ollie again; he was the nicer of the two, playful and down-to-earth, while Sean was the rogue, a cocky flirt who didn’t quit once he had you in his sexual sights.

“Wait. Why is he looking for Bailey?” Isabel asked, wrinkling her forehead.

Of all her colleagues, Bailey was the most mysterious, ten times the chameleon Isabel herself was, and a stone-cold killer when she needed to be. Since Bailey was customarily assigned deep cover jobs for prolonged periods of time, Isabel rarely ever saw the woman.

“They crossed paths a while back,” Noelle said vaguely. “Sean took a liking to her.”

“And let me guess: Bailey didn’t return the sentiment.”

The boss laughed. “Nope.”

“Okay, well, now he’s annoyed with us, and we can’t afford to be on his bad side when we need his help.”

“Has he found anything yet?”

“It’s only been a few hours since I contacted him. He said to give him at least twenty-four hours.”

Noelle rose from the chair. “Find me when he gets in touch. I need to return Abby’s call.”

“She and Kane made it to Costa Rica okay?”

“Yes, and I’ve been informed that Dubois, Port, and Macgregor are on call should we need their assistance. Once we learn who Lassiter was dealing with, I’ll consider bringing them in to track Morgan.” Noelle’s tone grew sarcastic. “See how cooperative and charitable I’m being? And all to find a man who can rot in hell for all I care.”

“Why are you doing it, then?”

“Why do you think? The idea of that bastard being indebted to me is quite a lure.”

“I see. And the flirting with Trevor part . . . what’s your reasoning for
that
, Noelle?”

She was rewarded with a genuine-sounding laugh rather than the mocking one the boss usually doled out. “Oh, honey, if you haven’t figured it out for yourself yet, then I’m damn well not going to tell you.”

Still chuckling to herself, Noelle left the den.

•   •   •

Everyone was still awake when the trio returned to the ranch. Trevor found Isabel reading a book in the living room, and Noelle and D chain-smoking in the courtyard. The pair sat at opposite ends of the glass table, each one gazing elsewhere, neither one saying a word, yet the sight gave him a funny feeling. A sneaking suspicion that something was going on with them.

After a moment, he dismissed the thought, realizing just how insane it was.

Isabel glanced up at his entrance. “You’re back.”

He smiled. “I’m back.”

She was on her feet in a heartbeat, moving toward him as if she wanted to embrace him, but at the last second she halted and kept a couple of feet between them.

“So Lassiter was a dead end,” she said wryly.

“Literally.”

“Noelle says you didn’t find any evidence to indicate who may have hired him.”

“We didn’t, but hopefully Irish and Irish-er have better luck.”

She grinned. “Did you come up with that nickname all by yourself?”

“Yep.”

“It’s not particularly creative.”

“Well, I did fail both ninth-grade art and tenth-grade writing, so clearly creativity isn’t my strong suit.”

Isabel let out a laugh. Then she furrowed her brow as if something had just occurred to her. “You know, I can’t picture you in high school. I mean, I want to say you were a jock, but you’ve also got this serious side that makes me think you might’ve been a bit of a nerd.”

He gave a mock gasp. “A nerd? How dare you?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Actually, no. You’ll be surprised to know that I was the first-ever jock-nerd in existence. I think I even started a trend.”

That got him another round of melodic laughter, and damned if he didn’t feel a spark of male pride. He liked making her laugh. He liked bringing that twinkle to her eyes and seeing her let down her guard.

“What sports did you play?” she asked curiously.

“Keep me company while I change my dressings and I’ll tell you.”

Her hesitation lasted only a few seconds. Much shorter than usual, he noted in satisfaction. She followed him to the guest room, where he flopped down on the bed and unlaced his boots.

All traces of humor drained from Isabel’s eyes when she saw the blood on his socks.

“What the hell?” she demanded. “What happened?”

He waved off her concern. “This? It’s nothing. I was barefoot when the shit hit the fan back at the compound.”

Anger colored her cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me when I cleaned you up at the clinic?”

“Holden had just taken off, and then I had to deal with D not listening to Sofia, so, yeah . . . I forgot.” He peeled off his socks and rested his ankle on his thigh so he could study the sole of his foot. “Ah, it’s just this one nick that reopened. Everything else is starting to scab over.”

Isabel wasn’t listening to him. She’d marched into the bathroom, and he could hear her rummaging around in the cabinets beneath the sink. When she returned, she held a wet washcloth and a first-aid kit.

“Why do men always insist that every injury is no big deal?” she grumbled.

“’Cause we’re stubborn?”

“And foolish,” she said darkly.

“And foolish,” he echoed with a grin.

Although his feet really weren’t as bad as Isabel seemed to think, Trevor decided to humor her. He sat patiently and without a single complaint while she cleaned the sole of his foot and taped a fresh piece of gauze to that one obstinate cut that refused to heal.

Once she was done, Trevor stood up and peeled off his shirt.

Isabel huffed out a breath. “Why are you constantly undressing around me?”

“Are you complaining?”

“Are you implying that I
shouldn’t
be complaining because your body is so dreamy and therefore I’m lucky to be around it?”

A laugh rumbled from deep in his chest. This was the Isabel he liked—the confident, funny Isabel whose compassion drove her to tend to his injured feet and whose candid nature never failed to inspire him. The other Isabel, the one who hid behind her various disguises, was
too
confident. Too easygoing, too composed, too perfect.

He didn’t want that version of Isabel. He
wanted
a woman with flaws, a woman who wasn’t scared to be vulnerable around him.

It was a damn shame she couldn’t grasp that.

“My body is just a body,” he answered with a shrug. “Flesh, blood, bones, muscle.” He couldn’t resist teasing her. “I’m happy to know you find it dreamy, though.”

When he unzipped his pants, she grumbled again. “Seriously, will you stop getting naked all the time?”

“I’m not naked. I’m in my boxers.” He tossed his discarded clothes on the chair next to the bed before heading to the bathroom. “Give me a sec.”

A few minutes later, after he’d used the john and washed up, he returned to the bedroom and was pleased to find that Isabel hadn’t budged from her perch at the foot of the bed. He’d half expected her to sneak off while he was in the other room.

But when he stretched out on top of the duvet, she shot to her feet. “What are you doing?”

“I was planning on catching some shut-eye. It’s three in the morning in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“And yet you lured me into your room under the pretense that you were going to tell me about your high school years.”

He stacked two pillows behind his head and got comfortable. “It wasn’t a pretense. I still plan on talking your ear off. It’ll just be after we wake up.”

“We?”

Patting the empty space beside him, Trevor met her suddenly panicked eyes and loaded a whole lot of challenge into his voice. “What, you’re too scared to take a nap with me?”

She visibly swallowed.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “What’s the worst thing that could happen? You’ll fall asleep? Good, because the dark circles under your eyes tell me you’re exhausted.”

“I am,” she admitted.

“Come lie beside me.”

His pulse kicked up a notch as Isabel approached the bed again. She wore a loose blue shirt and black leggings, and she stopped to kick off her sneakers before gingerly getting on the bed beside him. She lay down, but maintained that same aggravating distance.

This time, he refused to give it to her.

Reaching out, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and tugged her against him. When she yelped, he simply chuckled and said, “This is happening, Iz. Deal with it.”

He expected another objection, but what he got was a soft laugh. Then, to his extreme surprise, her limbs relaxed and she rested her head on his bare chest.

Warmth spread through him. Isabel snuggled closer, her silky blond hair tickling the bottom of his chin. It felt nice. It felt damn nice.

Like an idiot, he’d forgotten to turn off the lights, but he didn’t want to get out of bed. He feared that if he moved, Isabel would change her mind and bolt like a frightened deer, and he didn’t want this opportunity slipping through his grasp.

He absently stroked her back, but the cotton fabric of her shirt served as an annoying barrier. Before he could stop himself, he yanked the shirt up a few inches and ran his palm over her bare skin.

Her quick intake of breath echoed in the bedroom.

“We’re just lying here, sweetheart. Nothing to freak out over.” He moved his fingertips over her warm, supple flesh.

“Okay,” she murmured.

He felt her relax again. Her arm came out and folded against his chest, her delicate hand resting on his right pec. When he covered her hand with his own and held it there, she didn’t jump or flinch. A quiet breath left her mouth and heated his skin.

As they lay there in silence, Trevor was overcome by a hot rush of emotion. His throat tightened, making it hard to draw a breath. His hand trembled over Isabel’s. He hadn’t cuddled with a woman in two years. He and Isabel had shared a bed in New York, but it hadn’t been like this. Back then, he’d allowed her the distance she’d craved.

Tonight was different. He was so achingly aware of her nearness. The flowery scent of her shampoo, the sweet fragrance of her skin, the rapid beating of her heart vibrating against his chest.

The last woman he’d been this close to was Gina. His feisty, beautiful Gina, whose face no longer haunted his nightmares. Nowadays, he didn’t dream of a curly-haired brunette. He dreamed of the blue-eyed blonde who’d managed to sneak past his defenses before he’d even seen it coming.

“Trevor?”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“This is nice.”

Serenity washed over him. “Yeah, it is.”

He held her until she fell asleep. Listened to her quiet breathing and the steady vibration of her heartbeat. For the first time in five months, he felt utterly at peace again, and that feeling of tranquillity followed him into the best sleep he’d had in a long, long time.

•   •   •

Tomas Meiro was a man who was used to making things happen. He didn’t sit around and wait for good fortune to come his way. No, he made his own luck.

Most of the VIPs staying here at the Crystal Palace shared that mind-set, but not all. Not the hungry faces currently gracing the wall of monitors on the security floor. Not the groups of tourists who streamed into the casino and told themselves they’d be leaving it as millionaires.

Those people were fools. You didn’t rely on games of chance to make you rich. You relied on your intelligence, your cleverness, your drive.

Sometimes, though, you had no choice but to enlist another man to do your bidding.

And sometimes, that man you placed your trust in was a total fucking idiot.

“You took care of the problem?” Meiro said into his cell phone as he absently studied the security screens.

“Lassiter is no longer in business,” Roussel assured him.

“Good. And our little friend?”

“There’s no way of confirming whether he died during the attack, but if he didn’t, our people will find him.” Roussel paused. “Perhaps we can use the woman to lure him out.”