Elite Metal-ARE-epub (46 page)

John took a long drink of his coffee and laughed again, the sentiment wry, but the sound like crushed glass. "So, I guess it's my fault you're not getting laid. Sorry to clam jam, but there it is."

"Okay, now I'm depressed. The percentage of men willing to stand up to you and survive the experience is pitifully low." The corners of her mouth turned up. "Unless I find you a chick. Oh. I could find you a woman. You still like women right? I can totally go for finding you a guy, even test drive him if you like? Cause, seriously, I need to get laid. The fucking guy at the gas station is starting to look good."

He raised a brow. "Never thought about it. Maybe I wouldn't break another man, but I doubt it. And I can't get past the kissing. I could suck a dick though. Life'd be a helluva lot easier if I could just suck my own. Then I'd be too busy to cock block your action."

She laughed. "If you boys could suck your dicks, we wouldn't have any wars to fight."

"You got that right. In fact, I think half the world would come to a complete stop." He snickered. "See what I did there. Come." He nudged her.

Smirking, she shook her head. "Not a total stop. You'd come then work on coming again. Because first step, suck your dick. Second step, multiple orgasms. When you master that, well, you’d own the world."

"Suck a dick, save the world." He nodded. "Tried that line on my high school girlfriend. Didn't go so well."

This time she let the laughter out. The feeling dislodged the plug stuck in her soul. “I need to go run,” she told him. “No idea when the next mission is coming, but since Chrome and Steele are too busy fucking their brides to bother me, I’m going to get out of here.

“Meet me later at Bone Daddy’s.” The invitation slash order was totally him. It was also a good sign. He wasn’t heading back to the street. Since she didn’t think he talked to anyone but her, she was game to put on her pretty face for him.

“Gonna buy me a drink?”

“Maybe.”

“Not going to scare off any potential dicks I might get to suck?”

“No promises.”

“Asshole.”

He smirked. Stretching, she stood and then crossed over to the sink and rinsed out her mug. He followed suit and they put the chairs back. The house was so clean and neat, it was hard to tell who lived there. Then again, what did she need with personal items?

She had exactly five, and they were always with her—except for Brad’s shirt. When she’d been kidnapped, it had been her only regret. It showed up in her place waiting for her. Someone had found the hole in the wall she’d been living in and brought it, nothing else.

The dog tags under her shirt seemed to burn. One of hers and one of Merc’s. He wore both, too. Against regs, but it was their one rebellion—well, her second. She had been sleeping with Brad—if only it had been
just
sex.

Oh. For fuck’s sake, stop dwelling.
She needed to weld the memory door shut. Merc was already out when she grabbed her phone. They were supposed to carry them everywhere, always be reachable.

It rang as she put her hand on the front door. Chrome’s number flashed on the screen followed by a text.

You have a mission. My office. Ten minutes.

Well, so much for the run. Merc was outside, phone in hand. His expression had gone neutral. Hopefully the mission involved killing the bastards who’d killed their team. She’d sleep with a goat if that was what it took.

Behind Merc at ten yards, one of the ghosts stood staring right at them. She shook her head.

Creepy mother fuckers.

Chrome waited for her in his office, and he wasn’t alone. Cobalt and Plat played hold up the wall, arms folded. An electronic board featured three unfamiliar faces and one—“Jackson Jennings, age 43, CFO for Transcom International.” And dead as a doornail.

“Good memory.”

“It is what is, sir.” Standing ceremony didn’t bother her. Chrome was her C.O. He got to hear sir from her mouth. Jennings had been a target, and she’d executed him. Not a whole lot needed to remember facts. “No identification on the other three.”

“No problem.” He tossed her a thumb drive. “Everything you need to know is on there. I need you wheels up in an hour. Cobalt will ride shotgun with you, and Plat’s going to play your eye in the sky.”

“Yes, sir.” When he was ready to tell her exactly what he needed, he would. The thumb drive was warm in her palm. “We have information on these three. All had appointments with Jackson Jennings scheduled the day he died. New information suggests Jennings was only a mule—a set up—for Red Wolf. They sacrificed him to get their intel off our radar.”

No softening the blow. Someone baited a hook to get them off mission. They’d taken it.
She
had taken it.

“Gather all the intel on each of them. Meet them.
Do
what you do. Narrow the list—pinpoint the guy, extract him, and bring him in for questioning.”

“Time table?”

“Wrap it in a week. I want to know which of these assholes played a game with us.”

“I’m going with.” Merc said, the only three words he’d spoken since he’d entered the room. Chrome spared him a look.

“Can you handle it?”

Can he handle it?
Copper blinked and met Chrome’s gaze as he flicked a look from her to Merc then back again. Chrome never questioned their ability to back each other, unless he thought… “We’re not fucking.” Then, because she’d interrupted, she tacked on, “Sir.” Even if they had been fucking—no, one didn’t fuck a brother—she could’ve still done her damn job. She had when she and Brad were together, yet Chrome never questioned her then.

Merc said nothing, but ‘fuck you’ radiated off him in quiet waves.

“Fine. This will be close quarters work. You will have to give Copper space.” Space meant backup wouldn’t be immediate. She’d be on her own and a few minutes could be the difference between living and dying. Not a problem. If she really needed them to drag her ass out of the fire, it would have gone too far to shit. “Bring this fucker back.”

This fucker who’d screwed them. Cost them the team. Cost them Brad.
“Yes, sir.”

Their first stop was Los Angeles. It was barely lunchtime when she and Cobalt were wheels down. Plat and Merc traveled separately. They would blend into the shadows, so she’d only see their faces if shit went south. During the flight, Cobalt entertained himself with some vicious rounds of solitaire while she read up on her targets. All three were in the same area—relatively speaking—former government employees. One for the Department of Defense, one for the Joint Chiefs of Special Intelligence and one an analyst for the CIA.

Spooks. She fucking hated spooks. They breezed in and out of military units and usually created a shit storm with their James Bond tactics. Then they breezed back out again for their martini shaken, not stirred. A businessman, a budding politician, and a college professor—the dossiers read like cosmic jokes. She could use the same routine on the first two, but the third taught international diplomacy and used to work for the CIA.

A shell game.

Who held the information they needed?

Brendan Coyle

Former Assistant D.O.D. Office of Special Operations

Current: Logistics Director, Cooper-Townsend International

Coyle was a busy man, too busy to take any appointments and far too busy to accept any calls. Patient, Copper waited to see where he would go for dinner. At a little after seven in the evening, he left his office in a Bugatti—way above his pay grade—and drove straight to a club in North Hollywood. A roped off door and a well-dressed thug, sporting two side arms, discouraged the average person from seeking entry.

A Google search told her the place was a local hotspot and the hours didn’t begin until after sundown. Why was Mr. Coyle hanging out in a hip nightspot? Leaving Cobalt to keep watch, she went shopping. It took her thirty minutes to find the items she needed.

“What’s the plan?” Cobalt asked once she slid back into the van.

Toeing off her shoes, she stripped down to her bra and panties, then turned to give him her back. “Wire me. We’ll get clones of his devices.”

It took only ten minutes to get the equipment in place. One upside of their new operation—bottomless funds and all the latest toys, like the patch he overlaid against her spine. The electronics inside of it would work as a wireless amplifier. All she had to do was get close, then they could download and clone what they needed.

Once Cobalt finished, she slid on a dress and tucked her feet into four-inch heels. Application of cosmetics gave her smokier eyes and fuller lips. A judiciously applied comb tucked her hair into an exotic twist but left her neck bare and vulnerable. The plunging neckline on the dress gave the barest peek of her bra and, because men loved the idea, she slid the panties off and stuffed them into the stack with her clothes. Since they didn’t go with the outfit, she slid off her dog tags and eased them into the pocket of her jeans.

“I’d do you,” Cobalt said, by way of approval.

“You couldn’t handle me.” She relaxed her smirk. Playing the dilettante, she was only at the club to get laid. Not a hard role to occupy.

“They’re lining up to get inside. Got a plan to get past the doorman?” No doubt echoed in his question, only genuine curiosity.

“The way every other hot woman gets in—the perks of having boobs and vagina.” The corner of her mouth curved. She pressed a hand to Cobalt’s chest, then sighed. “Do you think you can play bodyguard? Act big, mean and stupid, so they can look and not touch?”

His snort reverberated with humor.

Trailing her nails down his sternum, she settled into her flirtatious role. “I’m going to tease and tease, but I don’t want to have to break my nails.”

“Got it.” He shook his head and slid his earbud into place. “We’re a go. Walking sex violation about to take flight.”

She didn’t roll her eyes or open the door to the van. Cobalt took care of all the heavy lifting.  From the van, they transferred to a black Lincoln. The expensive car would support her right to be there. Cobalt drove around the block, then arrived at the front of the club. He stepped out, handed the keys to the valet and opened her door. Strutting after him toward the main entrance, she utterly ignored the line. Every step sank her deeper into the role. The club was about to be blessed by her presence. At the door, the bouncer gave her a long look. Undeterred, she did a slow pirouette so he could assess everything she had to offer.

Cobalt loomed behind her like a wall of iron. His cool, summer blond looks blended right in with the California crowd. A guy at the front of the line took a step toward her, hand out stretched as though he planned to take her arm. Probably he wanted to pretend he was either with her or bitch her out for cutting, however she paid him no mind and he never touched her.

With judicious application of pressure, Cobalt had the guy down, arm wrenched behind his back. “Behave, pussy boy. She’s not for you.” Whatever else he said was lost in the roar of the crowd, but the would-be assailant paled.

Backing into the bouncer, she let out a breathless titter of laughter. Obediently, the man wrapped an arm around her, his hand sliding right over her hip and then up to her breasts. The subtle pat down proved invasive, but she let him get his feel.

“I’m Kiki,” she told him. “You have great hands.”

His gaze was on her boobs, and he smiled. “You go on inside, Kiki, and come back to see me. I’d be happy to let you in anytime.”

With that, she and Cobalt were in the club. Music pulsed and pounded in time with the lights. From the dance floor in the center where bodies writhed together to the various darkened tables where more than one woman seemed to be without her top—or anything else, for that matter—she got an eyeful of why the club was so hot and popular.

Sex could sell anything. Letting her body sway and roll with the music, she began to scout the club. Her target was there, but the challenge lay in finding him amongst the pleasure-seeking masses. Twenty minutes of wandering hands and dances later, she located Coyle at a corner table with a voluptuous redhead. Half-drunk, he was laughing and playing with the woman.

The best way to approach a target was organically. If that meant dancing and waiting, she would dance and wait. Cobalt paced her progress and, like other personal security present in the club, no one took any notice of him. In a black suit coat over a black t-shirt and jeans, the man defined hiding in plain sight.

When the voluptuous redhead went to the restroom, Copper followed. Touching up her lipstick, she let her gaze wander over the redhead. The girl grinned and laughed. By the time they walked out of the bathroom, they were arm in arm, giggling like two of the oldest friends. She let the redhead tug her over to Coyle’s table. When he gave her a suspicious look, the redhead suggested some fun and planted one on Copper.

Kissing a woman wasn’t the worst thing she’d ever done. Thirty minutes of making out with her later, and Copper sat in Coyle’s lap, her back to his chest. They all had a great time. A nod from Cobalt told her they’d gotten what they wanted. With Coyle’s card tucked between her breasts, she bid farewell to her would-be lovers and strolled out again.

Once she returned to the van, she stripped out of her gear and released her hair.

“Need any help?” Cobalt’s playful, leering offer amused her.

“I’ve got ten fingers. I’m good.”

His laughter grounded her. Copper had work to do. “Let’s head to Tahoe tonight, so we can check on Gerald Barrow.” The budding congressman would need a slightly different approach, but she could slide herself onto his schedule as an appointment with a phone call and some tech work from home base.

Obligingly, Cobalt drove while she changed. They stopped for food on the way. Somewhere in the darkness, Plat and Merc had their backs. She studied the cloned information from Coyle’s phone. She had access to his email, his phone contacts, call log, calendar and a couple of proprietary apps for accessing his company’s firewall.