Midnight Games: A Killer Instincts Novel (8 page)

Lassiter’s dick went soft, while his shoulders stiffened. “What about the target?”

“Hard to say. Our team couldn’t check the house, damn thing was still in flames when they got there. He could have been killed during the strike or the blast, but the men found several sets of fresh tire tracks leading away from the property. Someone got away—that’s for sure.”

“So you have no fucking idea if he’s dead or not.”

Lassiter’s fingers curled over the phone so tightly his knuckles turned white. He’d assembled a crack team for the Tijuana job. How the fuck had they screwed it up?

“Eddie—”

He cut Lex off. “Find out for sure. I don’t care if you have to walk through a wall of flames, check all the bodies inside the compound.”

“It would help if we had a picture of the guy.”

“Well, we fucking don’t. He’s a slippery SOB. Dude’s changed his appearance so many times it’s impossible to know what he looks like now—that’s why our guys were ordered to eliminate every man on the compound. But you know the basics, height, build, skin color, so for Christ’s sake, check those bodies. I’m supposed to call with a report in an hour and he’ll want to know that the right man was eliminated.”

“I think he got away, Eddie.” Lex’s tone was apprehensive. “Those were skilled operatives in that facility. No amateurs.”

Lex had a point. The target escaping had always been a valid possibility.

“They were supposed to be caught off guard,” he muttered.

“Can you ever catch men like these off guard?”

Lex’s matter-of-fact answer made his blood boil. The asshole was actually talking back to him right now? After the team he’d been supposed to oversee had colossally fucked up?

“Get me something more concrete,” Lassiter snapped. “We need confirmation that he’s dead.”

He hung up without another word. His angry gaze drifted to the twins, who were tangled in a sixty-nine position on his bed.

“Get out.”

Both their faces turned in his direction.

“We stop, señor?”

He clenched his teeth. Fucking broken-English bitches. “Get. Out.”

His glare achieved the desired result. The girls flew off the bed and dashed around in search of their clothing.

Two minutes later, Lassiter escorted them to the front door. He slammed it after they left and went out to the back deck of the rickety beach house that overlooked the ocean. He didn’t give a shit that it wasn’t some beachfront mansion with marble floors and fancy-ass furnishings. If he wanted a mansion, he’d fucking buy one—God knew he could afford to.

But he loved this shitty little shack on the Mexican coast. Loved how rustic it was, how fresh the fucking air smelled, how the local bar was only five minutes away.

At the moment, however, he couldn’t appreciate any of that shit. He was Eddie Lassiter, a man who didn’t explain himself to anyone, who didn’t care what anybody thought of him, yet a tremor of fear rippled through him as he anticipated Meiro’s reaction to this screwup.

Taking an unsteady breath, Lassiter reached for the half-empty bottle of tequila he’d left on the deck. He gulped down a hearty amount, but the alcohol didn’t rid him of that growing dread.

Meiro would be very unhappy. Very unhappy, indeed.

Noelle showed up just before midnight—and she was just as unsettling as Trevor remembered. He’d met her for the first time a few months ago, when she’d come to the compound to see Abby, and he remembered being utterly startled by her angelic appearance. Her long hair was like spun gold, her blue eyes so vivid he’d caught his breath, and her features were downright exquisite. He’d never laid eyes on a more beautiful woman, and yet he didn’t feel an ounce of lust in her presence. Only agitation.

As expected, the blonde wasn’t at all concerned that Morgan might be in danger. If anything, she looked amused as hell.

“So you lost Jim,” she drawled. “Do you need my help putting up
MISSING
posters around the neighborhood?”

Trevor ignored the sarcasm. “We don’t
need
anything from you. But if you want to offer your assistance, it would be appreciated.”

“My assistance?”

She sauntered to the French doors that opened onto the interior courtyard, the ice cubes in her water glass clinking. She didn’t bother turning around to see if anyone was following her.

“That’s our cue to follow,” Isabel said wryly.

Trevor stifled an annoyed groan and stepped onto the huge patio, which featured a large oval table surrounded by wrought-iron chairs and clay pots laden with leafy green plants scattered about. The house’s overhanging eaves provided shade on a sunny day, but they didn’t need shade at the moment. The night was cool, the sky dark. A breeze traveled through the courtyard, ruffling Noelle’s long hair.

As Trevor joined her at the table, a hint of a smile flitted over her mouth. Oh yeah, this woman liked toying with men.

But he wasn’t the kind of man who played games. He preferred the more direct approach. Get right down to business and fuck the whole song-and-dance number.

“You were saying?” he said tersely.

“
You
were saying you want my assistance. I was about to turn you down. I have no intention of involving myself in whatever mess Jim has gotten himself into.”

“Are you serious?” Isabel came outside with Ethan at her heels. She looked incredibly unhappy with her boss. “What if he’s really in trouble?”

“Then he’s really in trouble,” Noelle replied with a shrug. “Either way, I don’t give a shit, and I won’t go out of my way to help that bastard.”

Trevor met those cold blue eyes. “He helped you when Abby was missing.”

“And I returned the favor on your Manhattan job.”

“Technically, Isabel was the one who did us a favor.”

“Isabel works for me. She follows my orders.”

Isabel’s snort confirmed that she definitely hadn’t been doing Noelle’s bidding when she’d helped out in New York.

Before Trevor could voice another argument, D’s gravelly voice sounded from the doorway.

“You know it appeals to you, having him in your debt.”

Noelle shifted her gaze. She didn’t even blink when she spotted D, nor did she seem at all bothered by his presence. Other women might’ve recoiled at the sight of him; bare-chested, he was even more menacing than usual, and all those tattoos only added to the deadly air that surrounded him.

“It does sound appealing,” Noelle conceded. “But . . .” Another dainty shrug.

D walked up to the table, drawing Trevor’s attention to the tattoo on the man’s back. An eagle spanning from shoulder to shoulder, done only in black ink but with painstaking detail. Underneath the majestic creature were what looked like tally marks, separated into groups of five. D’s skin boasted eight full sets, followed by three individual ticks. Forty-three total.

The question was—forty-three what?

Trevor had no desire to find out.

D looked better, though. His color was returning and his dark eyes looked sharper now. He dug a pack of Camels from his cargo pants and lit up a cigarette, blowing a big cloud in Noelle’s direction.

The smoke in the face didn’t get a reaction out of her either.

“You’re seriously not going to help us?” Isabel asked.

“Us?” Noelle chuckled. “You work for me, honey. If I’m not sticking around, neither are you.”

Isabel’s eyes flashed. “Like hell I’m not. You weren’t there, okay? Those mercenaries had kill orders. Holden’s wife is dead, Lloyd is—”

“Why should I give a fuck about people I don’t know?”

“Fine, don’t help. But if you order me not to, then I’m afraid I’m no longer in your employment.”

Trevor blinked in surprise. “We can handle this on our own, Iz. Don’t risk your job over it. And you”—he glanced at Noelle—“if you have any way of reaching Morgan, I’d appreciate it if you tried.”

“That I can do,” Noelle said magnanimously. “But I can’t promise I’ll get a response.”

“Also, if we could use this safe house for at least another twenty-four hours, that’d be nice. We’re still trying to track down the man who dispatched that hit squad. We’ve put feelers out in the merc community.”

“Name?”

“Eddie Lassiter.”

“I’ve heard of him. Real dirty fuck, but one of the best middlemen out there.” Noelle’s tone became grudging. “I’ll call around, see if I might make it easier for you.”

“Thank you,” Trevor said with a nod.

She strolled to the door, ignoring everyone but Isabel. “Come find me when you’re done here, honey.”

After Noelle was gone, Isabel turned to Trevor with a dark expression. “Can we talk in private, please?”

A minute later, they were behind the closed door of the guest room he was crashing in. Isabel didn’t say a word, but her body language spoke volumes. Rigid shoulders, tight jaw, cloudy blue eyes.

“You suddenly don’t want my help?” she demanded.

“There’s not much you can do at the moment.” He shrugged. “Lassiter’s the only lead we’ve got. Once we find him, we’ll figure out our next move.”

“I can be an asset.”

“I have no doubt. But this isn’t an undercover op. Your skill set isn’t needed.”

“Right
now
,” she argued. “But you might need me later on.”

“And if we do, I’ll call you, okay?”

Disbelief swam in her eyes. “I don’t get it. All of a sudden you don’t want me around. Why?”

A strangled breath flew out of his mouth. “Because you tie me up in knots, damn it.”

Her jaw fell open.

“At the moment, my primary focus is finding Morgan,” Trevor muttered. “It’s all I can
afford
to focus on. You distract me, all right? Not only that, but I’m kinda pissed off at you.”

Now her eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You ditched me in New York five months ago, and we still haven’t had an honest conversation about it. All you’ve done is feed me excuses and lines of bullshit about how your feelings
changed
.”

“We haven’t been able to talk because the compound was ambushed,” she said evenly. “And then we were interrupted again at the clinic.”

“And then you were too tired. And then after we woke up and had some dinner, you chose to sit around with Ethan. And then you had to check on D.” He shook his head in annoyance. “Excuses, Isabel. All I ever get from you is excuses.”

She was quiet for several seconds, a wounded look in her eyes.

Shit, he hated hurting her. He didn’t even know why he was being such a dick right now. All he knew was that he was tired of talking in circles. Tired of trying to make sense of the confusing emotions swirling inside him. Tired of this aggravating
one step forward, two steps back
dance he and Isabel were constantly engaged in.

“I’m sorry.”

Her soft voice brought an ache to his heart.

“I know I can be . . . difficult.” Her voice wavered. “I just want to help, but if you don’t need me, then fine. I won’t get in the way.”

She slid out the door so fast he barely had time to process what she’d said.

Staring at the empty doorway, Trevor suppressed a curse and dragged both hands through his hair.

Fuck. She’d retreated again, only this time he’d been the one to send her running.

And this time he didn’t go chasing after her.

•   •   •

“I’m disappointed in you.”

Noelle looked up to find Isabel in the doorway. Out of all her girls, Isabel was the most skilled at hiding her emotions, so the unmistakable unhappiness clouding her eyes was unexpected.

And unwelcome.

Bringing a cigarette to her lips, Noelle lit up and approached the open window. “Sorry to hear that,” she said coolly.

“You truly don’t care about anyone but yourself, do you, Noelle?”

“Not really, no.” She raised her eyebrows. “And since when do
you
care so much about Jim Morgan? You hardly know the bastard.”

Just saying the son of a bitch’s name out loud brought bile to Noelle’s throat. She should’ve killed him a long time ago, but something had always held her back. Now, the mighty Jim Morgan was missing, maybe even dead, and although the notion brought a streak of triumph, it was accompanied by a strange rush of dissatisfaction.

That ruthless, self-serving heartless bastard might be dead—but
she
hadn’t been the one to kill him.

Isabel still hadn’t responded. She shifted awkwardly before entering the bedroom and shutting the door behind her. “You’re right. I don’t know Morgan very well, but that doesn’t mean I’m not worried about him.”

Noelle blew a puff of smoke out the window. “Honey, you’ve been surprisingly transparent lately.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that this is about Callaghan again. You don’t want to help Jim. You want to help Callaghan.” Another deep drag, another slow exhalation. “If you want my help, at least have the sense not to lie to me.”

“Fine.” Isabel sighed. “Right again, Noelle. I want to help Trevor. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Not particularly, no. What I want to hear is that you don’t give a shit about the man. That your work for me means more than a handsome face and a fuckable body. What I
don’t
want to hear is how one of my best operatives has turned pathetic and weak-kneed over a man.”

Silence hung over the room.

Noelle turned away so she wouldn’t have to see that stricken look on Isabel’s face, but she didn’t give a shit if she’d upset the other woman. She’d seen this train wreck coming more than a year ago, right after she’d loaned Isabel to Jim’s team so they could save a dozen underage girls from being sold into the sex trade. When the job ended, Isabel’s nonchalant inquiries about Callaghan’s well-being had been the first red flag. The next warning signs had come when Isabel chose to spend her vacation doing undercover work for Jim.

And now . . . now the woman was yet again diving headfirst into another Jim Morgan adventure. For Callaghan.

Love made women so damn weak. Destroyed them like a slow-moving cancer, eating away at healthy cells, attacking organs, taking what was once an intelligent, independent human being and turning her into a pitiful, sickly shell of a woman no longer capable of surviving on her own.

Once upon a time, Noelle had almost been destroyed by love too. But she’d managed to save herself, emerging on the other side stronger and more powerful than ever.

She just hoped Isabel was smart enough to do the same.

“Did you know Abby and Kane got married?” Isabel’s change of subject was more than a little abrupt.

“I did.” Noelle watched as the other woman began to pace the reddish brown rug in the center of the bedroom. “Big fucking mistake, in my humble opinion.”

Isabel laughed without much humor. “There is nothing humble about you. And I think you’re wrong. I think Abby made the right decision. Kane loves her.”

“For now.”

“Forever.”

“Oh, honey, don’t tell me you believe in fairy tales.”

Isabel quit pacing and sank down on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know what I believe in anymore.”

The note of sorrow in her voice evoked a twinge of discomfort. This wasn’t the kind of shit Noelle talked to her girls about. They didn’t discuss feelings or do one another’s hair or have fucking pillow fights. They talked business. She gave them an assignment, they went out and accomplished their task, then came back to brief her. End of story.

Noelle put out her cigarette in the ceramic ashtray on the window ledge. “I’m already going above and beyond for Jim by tapping my sources to locate Lassiter. Anything more than that—I’m sorry, but I have no interest in wasting my time trying to find that bastard.”

“You hate him.” Isabel suddenly looked perplexed.

Noelle didn’t answer.

“I mean, you really hate him.
Loathe
him even.” The blonde’s tone grew more and more troubled. “I assumed it was some sort of rivalry, that maybe you’d crossed paths in the past and rubbed each other the wrong way. But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be, Isabel. Now, I need to make a few calls.”

“Is that your subtle way of ordering me to leave?”

“I’m not trying to be subtle.” Her jaw hardened. “Leave, Isabel.”

Her operative’s lips tightened. “You’re a real bitch—you know that?”

You don’t know the half of it
.

Noelle waited until Isabel was gone, then headed for the walk-in closet. She hadn’t had a chance to change since she’d arrived at the ranch, having been ushered into the living room by Isabel as if the damn sky was falling. For fuck’s sake. Jim Morgan was off the grid—hardly a national emergency.

She unzipped her knee-length leather boots, extracting two knives and a small derringer pistol from the custom sheaths sewn into the footwear. Her fitted black jacket was next, a garment that was nearly as dangerous as she was; it, too, housed a multitude of weapons.

Her tight pants and tank top, she kept on, but she didn’t bother removing the various surprises underneath.

It was always prudent to be prepared around the man she was about to see.

She moved soundlessly. She’d been trained by the best, after all. Trained to be invisible, trained to be deadly, trained to protect herself at all costs. As the memories rose to the surface, they brought forth a surge of fury. These days she didn’t get hung up on the sorrow or the grief associated with her loss.