Текст книги "Hard Beat"
Автор книги: K. Bromberg
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The sounds of the late-afternoon traffic on the streets travel up to my hotel room as I prepare for the meet. I know it’s early, but I plan to get to the meeting location ahead of time and scope out the surrounding area to make sure no surprises await. My hands have a tremor with the adrenaline coursing through me as I open the bottom drawer of the hotel dresser and shuffle clothes around until my hand connects with cold metal. With caution, I lift the Glock 19 that Pauly has kept safe for me from its hiding place.
Taking a moment, I look over the gun again like I did yesterday when he returned it. I push the magazine into the grip and pull the slide to make sure the chamber is empty before tucking it in the back of my jeans. The weight offers a false sense of comfort but one that I find necessary nonetheless.
I pull on a baggy, button-up shirt that I can leave untucked to hide the weapon in my waistband before picking up my San Diego Padres baseball cap. I should be focused on the task at hand, but the defiant look on Beaux’s face keeps flickering in my mind as I tug my hat down and tuck my sunglasses in the neck of my shirt.
I start to walk out of the room but stop to take my wallet out of my pocket and empty it of everything but my reporter’s credentials, two hundred dollars, and my driver’s license. The cash is merely bribing money in case I should fall into trouble, which is quite possible, and everything else is to identify my body should something go awry.
Wouldn’t Rafe be proud? All of that new training they gave me, and I remembered to empty my wallet. Go team!
And I don’t know why all of a sudden I’m in a foul mood. I’m getting my first taste of action again; I should be ecstatic, but I’m not because I know that even against my own common sense, I’m not going to leave this hotel without Beaux.
It’s a bittersweet sense of resignation. Having her with me means I have another set of eyes watching for danger, but it also means that I have someone to look out for besides myself.
And it’s pretty obvious by what happened to Stella that I can’t protect anyone from shit, so I’m not real thrilled with the prospect.
As I begin to walk out of my room, for some random reason I’m compelled to turn back and pick up a pad of paper. In a moment of indecision, I toy with the edge of the paper, thankful for the first time ever that our living accommodations are without housekeeping services, because that means no one will ever see this unless something happens to me. Moment of indecision over, I go with my gut and jot down where I’m going and whom I’m meeting with. It’s something I have never done before in all of my years in the danger zone, but after Stella’s death, I feel a whole lot less invincible than I used to.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
Maybe it’s not.
All I know for sure is that it had better not interfere with getting the job done or I’m in for a whole fucking world of hurt.
Once I leave the room, my feet prove they have a mind of their own. Each step I take up the stairwell, I become more agitated with my obvious lack of follow-through on the promises in coming back here: first and foremost, to look out for myself and myself only. Knocking on Beaux’s door proves I can’t even do that.
How I guessed correctly that she’s in her room, I have no clue, but when she opens the door, a visual sucker punch hits me square in the gut. An obviously just-awoken Beaux stands before me, eyes heavy, lips swollen, that curtain of hair covering her bare shoulders like a caress, and body warm like something I want to curl into. She has on a tank top and the tiniest pair of shorts that show off her toned legs.
If I thought coming up here was a mistake before, I know it for certain now. Every cell in my testosterone-driven body screams for me to back her up against the wall and see if her lips are as warm and inviting as they look.
And a distraction is exactly the kind of thing I don’t need as I prepare to walk out of the hotel and into a possible lion’s den.
So I shake the sparks of desire from my mind as I barrel past her into her room without being invited.
“Please, make yourself at home,” she mutters under her breath as I take in her room. Same layout as mine, just reversed, but where my table and nightstand are covered with maps and notebooks, hers are lined with camera bags, equipment, and what looks like three laptops that I assume are needed for storage and backups.
I hate myself for what I’m about to do, but it’s a hell of a lot more productive than sliding between her thighs again.
I don’t like her.
At least I didn’t want to.
I use my warring thoughts as a catalyst to purge the confession. “I’m meeting with a source.”
The jolt of her body doesn’t hide the surprise that her eyes try to play down. “About what?”
She gets minor brownie points for not saying I knew it like a gloating child. Very minor at that, but it’s a step in the right direction.
“Need-to-know basis,” I say, crossing my arms across my chest and leaning my ass against the dresser behind me.
“We’re partners.” Her forehead creases as she mimics my posture.
“No, we’re not.” She snorts in rebuke, but I don’t play into her game, and I’m definitely not ready to bestow that term on us yet. “Here are the ground rules, so I suggest you pay attention because you only get one shot with me. You fuck up, you’re gone – I don’t care what the hell Rafe says.”
We stare at each other for a moment in silence. For some reason I expect her posture to wilt from my authoritative tone, but she just stands her ground, shoulders square, and eyes wide, so I continue. “Bring a camera. A cheap one. Even though no one in their right mind would visit here on a vacation, we’ll look like tourists to the outsider. When we meet up, your mouth is to stay shut and your camera is to remain at your side. You don’t meet his eyes, and you make it known that I’m in charge. You don’t question me, ever, in front of the locals, let alone a source.”
“But, Tan —”
“Don’t argue or I’ll leave without you. Your choice, rook.” I shrug my shoulders to reinforce my words.
“Glad to know you enjoy your power trip enough, you live in it twenty-four/seven.”
She needs to take this more seriously. I take a step forward and close the short distance between us. “It’s not a power trip. It’s called trying to keep you alive. You got a problem with that?” Her comment grates on my nerves that are already frayed because she’s showing her naïveté. I’m on the farthest thing from a power trip when it comes to this.
“Nope. Just a little confused. I’m not supposed to have your back?” She angles her head to the side and stares at me, the thin cotton of her shorts giving absolutely everything away beneath, and fuck if she’s not doing it on purpose to distract me.
My eyes burn into hers – the darkest of emerald green – a slight nod of my head the only acknowledgment that she has a point.
“Get covered up,” I tell her. “The last thing we need is to draw attention to us because…” My voice trails off as I gesture at her attire, but I silently complete the thought: because you’re so goddamn gorgeous you could stop traffic.
She walks past me without a word toward the dresser and bends over as she rifles through the contents. And of course the movement affords me a very fine visual to add to the one I’ve already created where her hair is wrapped around my fist.
By the time I clear away the thought, Beaux is looking over her shoulder as she straightens up. “Do you mind?”
I’ve been caught looking but refuse to apologize. “It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”
She glares until I hold my hands up in surrender and walk toward the door to let her get dressed. Before I open it, I stop, facing the door with my head hung down, and give her a tiny little inch in that mile I’m holding over her head.
“My rules? They’re not a power trip. I’m making sure we fit in and follow their cultural beliefs,” I murmur in a tone completely devoid of any smugness. “Men must be in charge of their women here. If they see you lacking obedience, then they’ll think I have no control and will be less responsive to me. And I have to have the locals’ respect for them to think I’m honorable enough to give me information, risk their lives, and jeopardize their families’ safety.”
For some reason I have a feeling the obedience thing is going to be a problem.
Chapter 7
Sitting in the front seat of the beat-up Isuzu taxi on the way to the meet, with the smell of the dirt surrounding us, the motion of the car over the bumpy roads, the native music in my ears, I can’t believe I actually missed this place. Normally I’d have my Worldwide News–appointed translator driving me, but I have a feeling his absence is another means through which Rafe is trying to confine me to the hotel, at least until I’ve been here long enough to prove my stable state of mind.
The familiar sights and sounds of the foreign country make it easy to slip back into things even though I’ve been gone a good while. I glance back at Beaux in the seat behind the driver, the constant sound of her camera shutter clicking an accompaniment to the squeak of the car’s nonexistent struts. With her head scarf on, dark hair tucked beneath the fabric, and her caramel-colored complexion, she could easily fit in here in this society if it weren’t for the camera plastered to her left eye as she documents life beyond the car.
I have the driver pull over a few blocks shy of the meeting place. As we exit the car, I flash the equivalent of one hundred U.S. dollars to him as a promised bonus if he sits tight and waits. You never know when the next cab will come along in this place, so I learned a long time ago that it’s worth the money spent to ensure a return trip.
Beaux falls in step behind me, her head scarf draped over the lower part of her mouth, and her camera still resting against her cheek as she captures images of a destroyed city. We begin to walk, and I make sure that she stays slightly behind me and on the inside of the path.
Old habits die hard. Chivalry is definitely not dead in my book.
The closer we get to the old market¸ the more I scan my surroundings and notice little things that have changed in my absence. My eyes work the area, my mind and body completely alert and cautious of all movement around us, but the hustle and bustle of people heading home after work makes it that much more difficult.
We pass the market and circle back around it so I can check out the surrounding area, make sure everything looks okay. I grab Beaux’s hand at one point, act like we are a couple when we walk by a crowded restaurant, but then release it after we pass it. I don’t need the shit that happens to my body when we touch clouding my thoughts right now.
When my instinct tells me that everybody is going on with their everyday lives except to eye the out-of-place couple we make, we dart into a small alleyway that leads us to the rear of the market. With each step, my pulse beats faster and a sheen of sweat that has nothing to do with the heat causes my shirt to stick to my shoulders. A rush of nerves starts to rise up in my gut as I push past the memories I can’t deal with right now. And just as the narrow lane opens up to a larger opening, I turn to face Beaux.
“Cover your face up,” I instruct since her head scarf has fallen some and the last thing we need is to draw more attention to two Westerners in this part of town. She complies as my eyes dart over her shoulder to make sure that everything is still okay. Things change here at the drop of a hat, so I know to never let my guard down.
“Remember what I said?” I have to ask her again, have to make sure that she’s not going to pose any risk right now because I’ve got enough shit to worry about and I can’t have her be an added concern. She nods, eyes intense, and what I can see of her shrouded expression is serious.
“How do you know him? Have you met before? Is his information reliable? Can you —”
“You sure are full of questions for someone who is supposed to be keeping her mouth shut.”
“I just like to know what I’m walking into, that’s all.”
I sigh, knowing I’d be demanding answers to the same damn questions. So I can’t fault her for asking them. Just this once, I decide to break my own rules and tell her a bit of his background. “His name is Omid and —”
A familiar and unique-sounding whistle from across the common area interrupts what I’m saying. I whip my head up to see my source in the shadows across the way. I have sunglasses on, but he knows I see him because he motions for me to come across the space and toward him.
My stomach somersaults.
“You’re not in Kansas anymore, rookie,” I mutter under my breath, and notice her double take in my peripheral vision as I take the first step. I’m hyperaware of the sights and sounds surrounding us, including the unsteady pattern of Beaux’s breathing behind me. If I’m unsettled even though I’ve done this hundreds of times, her nervousness must be off the charts.
As we expose ourselves in the common area and close the distance, I’m conscious of everything around us, instinct giving way to education, and the weight of the gun tucked in my waistband offers a false sense of security that I know doesn’t mean shit.
The moment we step into the shadows where Omid stands, he comes forward to meet me halfway. His eyes dart over to where Beaux stands behind me; his hand extends to shake mine despite the leery look he directs at me. And I know he hates that I’ve brought her because anyone new is a potential risk to his identity being uncovered, but I just nod my head to him and use hand gestures to tell him she’s okay.
He stares at me and waits, and after a minute I realize that I forgot to remove my sunglasses, which has always been an unspoken rule between us so that we can read each other’s eyes.
Once I’ve removed the sunglasses, we greet each other in mumbled phrases and wild gesticulations – his English is broken at best and my Dari is archaic – to tell each other we’re glad to see each other again. We begin our awkward dance of communication, his eyes darting over my shoulder frequently to Beaux and then back to mine in an anxious cycle as we fall silent.
I wait out the quietness until he motions me to come closer, and I realize he doesn’t want Beaux to hear. I step into him.
“Meeting organizing. Soon… like weeks. Village elders help.” He interlaces Dari with his English, and it takes me a few seconds to catch up. “Your men… watching. Top secret. When happens, I get you close.”
His words cause my blood to pump and adrenaline to surge. To be the only one on this story when everyone else is chasing their tails would be a major I’m back to the other reporters and a huge In your face, I’ve still got it to my bosses.
“Who else knows?” I murmur, hoping he says no one.
He shakes his head and puts one finger up and then points it at me. Sweet. “When?” I ask, pointing to my watch. “Who?”
He begins to speak at the same time I start to hear the click of the shutter. I’m so in my element, pumped with the promise of a killer story – one I know any military liaison would never let me embed on – that I don’t question it because Stella used to click away at the world behind me when I was on a meet, and I never had to worry. It’s almost as if for a moment in time, I forgot.
Concern washes across Omid’s face, and I can see his struggle over telling me anything additional. “It’s me, Omid. I’m not going to tell anyone else or get you in trouble.” In my primitive sign language, I make the lock-and-key motion over my lips.
His heavy sigh fills the silence, and I hate that since we’ve started this conversation, his eyes have mostly been on his fidgeting hands. It unnerves me, makes me wonder if I’m being set up now with his lack of contact. But if that’s the case, Omid deserves a damn Oscar because he looks just as nervous to be passing along this information as I am being here.
He finally begins to speak, stumbling over words that I can’t make sense of, when over my shoulder, clear as day, I hear a feminine voice speak in perfect Dari. Omid’s head whips up at the same time I turn around to see Beaux standing there, camera to her face, taking a picture of two little kids playing in another offshoot of the alley.
She lowers the camera, her head scarf falling off some, and looks straight at Omid, as if the fact that she speaks fluent Dari were nothing unusual. I swear I have to pick my jaw up off the ground, both surprise and disbelief fueling my unfounded anger.
Beaux is fluent in the native language and didn’t tell me? What the fuck? I’m partially thrilled because it means so many things will be easier with her here, and at the same time she didn’t tell me. I can’t give it much more thought, though, because of the riskiness of the situation. Things could go south at any moment.
I think Omid is just as caught off guard as me because when I tear my eyes from Beaux to look at him, I see the confusion and immediate wariness. He just stares at her, eyes flickering back and forth to me repeatedly. I put my hands up in an it’s okay gesture – palms facing him at my chest level – and just when I think he is starting to believe me, I hear the click of a shutter and see his eyes widen to epic proportions.
I turn around to see Beaux clicking the shutter, lens angled directly at Omid. Her disobedience of my rules causes rage to erupt inside me because I know how skittish this contact is and she’s now documented his face on record.
“What the fuck are you doing?” My voice is a quiet but harsh scold as the excitement over the information that was just promised me turns to disbelief. “Did you not hear a thing I said to you?” I don’t want to draw attention to us by yelling, but it’s pretty fucking hard not to when she just played every single one of her stupidity cards in a single hand.
Beaux’s eyes are wide and her face must look similar to the way mine did when I heard her fluency, but I can’t worry about her right now – I have to salvage Omid’s trust in me. The problem is when I turn around, Omid is gone.
My hands are fisted and my temper is raging. I’d love to turn around and throttle Beaux for her lack of judgment, for her disregard to the situation, for not following my set of rules.
And because she’s not Stella.
I take deep breaths, trying to calm the tumult inside me. It’s no use even trying to find Omid – the man is a ghost in the wind right now – so I do the only thing I can. I leave. Without saying a word to Beaux, I walk right past her and head toward the end of the alley, not wanting to be in this dangerous part of the city any longer than I need to be.
As we emerge from the alley, I slow my pace and cautiously survey my surroundings before I walk into the flow of foot traffic and back toward our cab. I know Beaux is behind me. Only a deaf and blind man would not be able to sense her presence… or maybe I’m just a lesser man who has fallen under her goddamn spell even though I swore that I wouldn’t.
Despite being completely irate with her, I can still smell her perfume over the stagnant scent of destitution that blankets things here and hear the shuffle of her shoes against the dirt-covered cobblestone sidewalks. Beaux tries to strike up a conversation by apologizing disjointedly while she follows me at a quickened pace through the crowded streets, but I refuse to acknowledge her.
I’m more pissed than I think she even realizes. I’m angry over so many things that it’s better if I don’t speak to her right now; otherwise I know I’ll say a lot of things I’ll regret regardless of how fucking truthful they are. With each step we take, my displeasure intensifies over the many reasons I have to be angry with her.
When we reach the cab that is surprisingly still waiting for us, I open the door for her to get in and say only one thing. “Get us home.”
She scoots in and looks up at me, a thousand things running through her eyes, and the minute she speaks, I just slam the door shut, not wanting to hear her explanations. By the time I take my seat in the front passenger side, she’s just finishing telling the driver where to go.
First of all, there’s no way I’m attempting to communicate with the driver while she’s sitting back there laughing her ass off while I make a fool of myself. Secondly, who the fuck is this woman? She comes on to me, we sleep together, and now we’re in this predicament together and she just screwed me over with one of my biggest sources? I mean what kind of power play is she going for?
I’m all for dating smart women. Shit, intelligence is a major turn-on for me. But time and again I keep feeling like I’m being duped here even though her actions are not really one hundred percent her fault.
Or they are and she’s just smart enough to make me think they aren’t.
Fuck! This woman is driving me crazy. What the hell? I never doubt myself, always trust that gut instinct of mine, and yet right now she’s making me question so many damn things, it’s not even funny.
And then there’s her little show with Omid. First, shocking the shit out of both of us when she piped into the conversation in his native language so that even if he was trying to be quiet and only share information with me in the little bit of Dari that I know, she understood every single thing he said. Add to that she takes a fucking picture of him. A picture! My trust quotient with her just went down a whole helluva lot. She was freelance. Her stunt begs me to question if she still is, or maybe she’s trying to chase the story too and will break it first, steal it right out from under me, and get the notoriety herself.
The more I think about this scenario, the more each bump along the uneven pavement lodges the idea firmly into my psyche. Pauly said she was freelance for a few weeks before I got here. Was she freelance as just a photog or as a reporter too? Was she just biding time to find some sorry fucking sap she could mooch off and steal what she didn’t earn?
“Tanner.” Her voice calls softly from the seat behind me, my name an apology and a question all mixed into one.
“Don’t talk,” I growl, my head spinning a mile a minute. The man who never gets rattled is fucking rattled, and not because of a goddamn mortar strike or IED but rather because of this woman. The only thing she has going for her at the moment is that at least she listens and shuts up.
This time.
We make it to the hotel without incident. I pay the driver and am out of the car and striding into the hotel without giving her a second glance. I know she’s safe since we’re at the hotel but couldn’t care less what she does now. She thinks chivalry is dead… I’ll show her just how dead it is. Let her fend for herself in this godforsaken place.
Anger and theories fuel my every step as I stride into the alleyway at the rear of the hotel where I had the driver drop us off. We have to forgo a lobby entrance because making one would mean we’d have to pass by Pauly and the crew who would know something was up since we were out and about rather than locked in our rooms.
All I focus on is calming my temper, but the clipped sound of her steps behind me echoes off the walls around us.
“Tanner. Tanner.” More footsteps. “Wait. Please. Wait!”
I ignore her, don’t want to deal with her, but when she grabs my biceps, I’m primed for the fight and ready to unload on her. I whirl around and have her back up against the wall within a heartbeat.
“You want the fucking story, you work for it your goddamn self.” My hands are on the sides of her shoulders, and my face is mere inches from hers. “You think you can waltz into my meet and take the fuck over?”
In an attempt to control my fury that’s spiraling out of control, I release my grip and stalk away from her a few feet. I’m loyal to a fault, so to feel betrayed is something I don’t take lightly. When I turn back around, Beaux’s shoulders are pressed against the wall, her eyes are wide, and her mouth is slightly open – shock written all over her face – and the words I’m about to shout die on my lips.
She looks like a frightened child.
It takes me a second to see through the haze of my fury to realize I’m fucking losing it. I’m standing with fists clenched and more angry than I’ve been in some time, wanting to throw a punch like she’s some damn guy. But I know beyond a doubt she’s so far from that, it’s comical.
I roll my shoulders and try to rein my emotions in because the woman makes me a goddamn lunatic. Add to that I don’t know what to say or do besides shake the truth out of her, and that’s not a fucking option.
I’m not sure if it’s the look on her face or the memories dredged up in my mind, but I have a flash of clarity that causes me to take a step back. I’m out of control, my anger over what happened to Stella is being transferred to Beaux, and the certainty I had ten minutes ago that she was trying to steal my story now has more holes in it than a fishing net.
I begin to speak, but instead just shake my head, run my fingers through my hair, and blow out a breath as I turn on my heel and stalk into the hotel. All I can think about as I jog up the stairwell is how my always sure self is nonexistent these days and how fucking hard that is for a man used to being in control of everything – work, relationships, instinct.
When I shove the door of my room open, it slams into the wall behind it. I push it closed with my shoulder, but I’m so distracted that all I can think about is hitting the gym to try and work this all out of my system before taking a scalding hot shower to wash away the day and the doubt that feels like a damn constant since I’ve been back here.
I forgo unbuttoning my shirt, grab hold of the back of my collar, and pull it over my head, tossing it to the bed behind me without glancing back. In a practiced habit, I pull the Glock from my waistband.
“You had a gun?” Beaux’s quiet but surprised voice cuts through the tension pulling me so damn tight, a fucking breeze might cause me to snap.
I grunt in response but look toward her standing in my door anyway. Her head scarf is off, hair pulled back like that first night we met with little curls falling softly on those defined cheekbones of hers, and sincerity is reflected in her eyes that keep darting to my weapon on the tabletop beside me.
“Ever heard of knocking?”
“It was open.” I hear the startled inhale of someone not used to dealing with guns when I release the magazine from the butt and set it on the dresser in front of me.
“Lots of places are open in this city that I wouldn’t go inviting myself into, FYI.” I slide an impatient glance her way as I double-check to make sure that the weapon is empty and safe.
“I – I just didn’t realize that you could carry a weapon here.”
“You can’t. Next topic or get the fuck out because frankly you’ve used up about all of my patience, and it’s probably best if you’re not around me right now.” I swear my anger must roll off me and slam into her, because she just stares with her mouth agape. “That’s what I thought. Thanks for the chat. Now if you’ll see yourself out…,” I say as I turn to the barely there closet where my suitcase is stowed to get some gym shorts, dismissing her and her surprised eyes.
“I’m sorry. I made a mistake.” My step falters at the contrition in her voice, causing me to turn to stare and wait for her to continue. The silence between us stretches, and I can tell that my gun sitting out in the open unnerves her by the way her eyes keep flickering to it. Does she agree with the brass? Think I’m losing it too? “Tanner…”
“You didn’t tell me you were fluent in Dari.” Screw waiting for her and her placating tone. I’m a man of action, and we need to get to the bottom of this right here, right now.
“You’ve been so busy holding a grudge against me, you didn’t care to ask.” She sets her camera down on the nightstand, and with her shield now gone, her posture changes and becomes more defensive.
“Don’t you think that’s something that was important for me to know?” I lean my hip against the edge of the dresser, but my eyes never leave hers. I’m trying to gauge her body language by her responses.
“Why didn’t you —”
“I’m the one asking the questions here. Not you.” I cut her off. I want answers, and I intend to get them. “Who are you working for?”
Her eyes widen slightly, and her brow narrows in confusion. “Worldwide News?” She answers hesitantly, drawing the words out as if asking me if it’s the correct answer.
“No. That’s who you’re pretending to work for. When you steal my story, who are you going to report for and take the glory for yourself?”
Surprise flickers across her face instantaneously at the same time as she starts shaking her head back and forth. “You’re a crazy asshole – you know that?” she says, voice rising as she steps toward me. “A neurotic, controlling one at that!”
“Get used to it, sweetheart!” I step into her space, welcoming the fight I see flashing in her eyes. “No one takes what I’ve busted my ass for, for themselves.”
“Certifiable!” she mutters with a roll of her eyes, and the simple action sets me off. Who the hell is she to question me when she’s the one trying to play me for the fool? “I screw up, and you think I’m trying to steal your story from a source I’ve never even met before?”
“Let’s add it all up, because one and one sure as fuck isn’t equaling two here.” I need to pace, work through the anger eating me from the inside out. The space in my room is small, but I manage to find a path. “You hit on me in the bar, we sleep together, but the next morning you swear that you didn’t know you were going to be assigned to me. Bullshit!” I cough the word out and hold up my hand to cut her off when she tries to argue. “You were freelance for how long before within the blink of an eye, my partner? Let me ask you… As a freelancer, were you a reporter, a photographer, or were you both? Why be just one when you can have it all, right?”
“Fuck you,” she spits out, and it takes everything I have not to be an even greater asshole than I’m already being and tell her, No, thanks. Been there, done that.
