Elite Ops: Easy Target Part 28

He felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. To know and to be known by this woman would take a lifetime. He couldn't imagine needing anything else. "Yes, that's more than enough."

She nodded. Reaching up to touch his face, she stopped with her hand in mid-air. "Hey. What kind of nickname is that, anyway?"

He leaned forward to kiss her. "It's a long story and kinda boring. You don't want to hear it now."

Her dimples were back as her fingertips traced his cheek. "Sure I do. We've got lots of time. Come on . . . tell me. I dare ya."

Epilogue.

THE WOMAN WOKE slowly, to stare at a canvas tent ceiling. The muscle aches and chills that had racked her body for days had finally subsided. She hadn't vomited the last two times she'd been awake.

That was a very positive development. She knew because she'd heard the health care workers say so. They hadn't realized that she was conscious and could hear them talking about her. She'd learned to keep her eyes closed and her head down when she was unsure of her surroundings.

Opening her eyes, she lay still and listened to the voices around her. The beds on either side of hers were empty. Had those women recovered or died?

Two people dressed in hazmat suits were at the cot two s.p.a.ces down, dealing with another patient.

How long have I been out of it?

Days? Weeks? She'd lost track of time long before the devastation of the illness had overtaken her. Yet, remarkably, miraculously, she was alive.

People would think she was insane if she said Ebola was a blessing, but for her it had been a deliverance. When her fever had spiked and she'd been left behind, she'd thanked G.o.d. She'd known she was going to die, but even the ravages of Ebola were more merciful than what she'd been facing.

A worker in protective gear came toward her bed.

She couldn't see a face clearly through the mask, but she could hear excitement in the man's voice when he saw that she was awake.

"Doctor! Doctor!" The worker turned back to the others.

She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, an older man dressed in a blue hazmat suit was looking down at her. It was easier to see his face.

You're back," he said. "That's excellent. How do you feel?"

Like Lazarus.

Certainly better than the last time she was awake.

Her throat was so dry, she couldn't speak. So she nodded and tried to smile her answer instead of talking. Her lips were swollen and chapped from lack of moisture. They cracked at the movement. She tasted the faintest hint of copper on her tongue.

The doctor patted her arm and picked up a cup with a straw in it, holding it to her mouth. "We'll get something for your lips. Can you tell me your name?"

She took a deep breath, surprised at the tears stinging the corners of her eyes. Her throat was cotton dry, even after the sip of lukewarm water. Her mouth stung, but the pain reminded her that she was alive. She'd survived.

For months she'd longed for someone, anyone, to ask for her name. She coughed and cleared her throat, but her voice was still rasping when she finally spoke.

"Elizabeth."

Acknowledgments.

FIRST, THANK YOU to my readers for your excitement and enthusiasm about this series. I've loved hearing what you think of my Elite Ops heroes, and I appreciate your taking the time to write. Your messages have always seemed to arrive just when I've needed the encouragement. I'm grateful.

Writing Easy Target was an adventure I did not embark on alone. Having a mystery arc that stretched across three books was a challenge requiring a host of folks to keep me on track. Sa.s.sy and Hollywood's story wouldn't have been possible without the feedback and help I received from many generous people, several of whom have been working with me from the first ma.n.u.script. Many thanks to Ellen Henderson and Joyce Ann McLaughlin, who read and reread this story as we worked out the kinks. Thanks also to friend, author, and graphic artist Kathleen Baldwin, who continues to go above and beyond.

Many thanks to Mike Simonds, Don Ring, Tim McMa.n.u.s, and my brother, Tim l.u.s.ter-the men who helped with a mult.i.tude of technical details about things like body decomposition time lines and international firearms transportation. Any mistakes are mine and mine alone.

As always, thanks to my editor extraordinaire, Erika Tsang, who pushed me to make Sa.s.sy and Hollywood's story the best it could be, along with all the folks at HarperCollins who work so hard on my behalf including-the fabulous art department, Chelsey Emmelhainz, Heidi Richter, and Judith Gelman Myers. Thank you to my agent, Helen Breitwieser, for her continued support.

Thank you to the "Bulletproof Babes" for their pa.s.sion and encouragement for my work. Your enthusiasm is contagious!

Thank you to the Writer Foxes-Lorraine, Addison, Suzanne, Alice, Sandy, Julie, Jo, Tracy, and Jane-for your unwavering supply of wisdom and wine. Cheers!

Finally, thanks to my family. This book took more time to finish than I'd planned, and you gave me the time and the s.p.a.ce to write during a decidedly busy season of life. My parents and daughter were particularly understanding about phone calls rolling to voice mail. My husband and son ate lots of meals without me. Thank you, Tom-for making me laugh, keeping me sane, and loving me, even when I'm grouchy (and hungry). You always make it fun to "come home from work."

Can't get enough of Kay Thomas's Elite Ops team?

Keep reading for an excerpt from Book One.

HARD TARGET.

Available now from Avon Impulse.

"COULD YOU HAND me my top, please?"

Leland bent down to retrieve Anna's s.h.i.+rt and turned away, staring at the floor in front of him to give her privacy. What the h.e.l.l was he doing? At least he'd given the room a cursory inspection to rule out cameras or bugs before he'd practically screwed her against the bedroom wall.

What he'd really wanted to tell her, before they'd gotten sidetracked with the birth control issue, was the same thing he'd wanted to tell her last night. She didn't have to do him to get Zach back. Whether or not they had s.e.x had no bearing on whether he'd help find her son.

Not that he didn't want her. He did. So much so that his teeth ached.

He hadn't known her long but what he knew fascinated him. To have dealt with everything she had in the past year and to still be so strong. That inner strength captivated him.

It was important she not think he expected s.e.x in exchange for his help. s.e.x wasn't some kind of payoff. He needed to clarify that right away.

Besides, neither of them was going to be able to sleep now. He sighed, zipped his cargo shorts and pulled on his t-s.h.i.+rt and shoulder holster with the Ruger. He shoved the larger Glock into his backpack. This was going to be a long evening.

The night breeze had s.h.i.+fted the shabby curtain to the side, leaving an un.o.bscured view into the room. He turned to face her, wondering if anyone on the street had just gotten an eyeful.

A red laser dot reflected off the wide shoulder strap of her tank top. Recognizing the threat, he dove for her, shouting, "Down. Get down!"

Leland tackled Anna around the waist and pulled her to the floor. A bullet hit the wall with a sphlift, right where she'd been standing a half second earlier.

He climbed on top of her, his heart rate skyrocketing, and covered her completely with his body. His boot was awkward. His knee came down between her legs, trapping her in the skirt. More shots slapped the stucco, but they were all hitting above his head.

The gunman must be using a silencer. A loud car engine revved in the street. Voices shouted and bullets flew through the window, no longer silenced.

How many shooters were there?

A flaming bottle whooshed through the window. Breaking on impact, the fire spread rapidly across the dry plywood floor. The pop of more bullets against the wall sounded deceptively benign.

"What's happening?" Anna's lips were at his ear.

Her warm breath would have felt seductive if not for the shots flying overhead and fire licking at his a.s.s. He was crus.h.i.+ng her with his body weight but it was the only way to protect her from the onslaught.

"Why are they shooting at us?" Her voice was thin, like she was having trouble breathing.

He raised up on his elbows to take his weight off of her chest but kept his head down next to hers. "They want the money."

"How do they know about the ransom?" she asked.

"Everyone within a hundred miles knows about it." He raised his head cautiously.

They were nose to nose, but he ignored the intimacy of the position. They had to get out of the smoke-filled room. In here, even with just half the money, they were sitting ducks.

He needed his bag. It held all his ammunition and the Glock 17. And they couldn't leave the cash, not now anyway. Having the money might be the only thing to keep them alive when they got out of here.

"Come on." He rolled to the side and tugged Anna's hand to pull her along with him. "But don't raise your head."

Another bullet hit the wall where she had been moments earlier. G.o.d, how many men were there? Knowing that could make a difference in getting out of this alive.

Keep reading for an excerpt from Book Two.

PERSONAL TARGET.

Available now from Avon Impulse.

THE WOMAN AT the vanity turned, and his breath caught in his throat. Nick had known it would be Jenny, and despite what he'd thought about downstairs when he'd seen her on the tablet screen, he hadn't prepared himself for seeing her like this. Seated at the table with candles all around, she was wearing a sheer robe over a gray thong and a bustier kind of thing, or that's what he thought the full-length bra was called.

He spotted the small unicorn tat peeping out from the edge of whatever the lingerie piece was and his brain quit processing details as all the blood in his head rushed south. He'd been primed to come in and tell Jenny exactly how they were getting out of the house and away from these people and now . . . this. His mouth went dry at the sight of her. She looked like every fantasy he'd ever had about her rolled into one.

He continued to stare as recognition flared in her eyes.

"Oh my G.o.d," she said. "It's . . ."

She clapped her mouth closed, and her eyes widened. That struck him as odd. The relief on her face was obvious, but instead of looking at him, she took an audible breath and studied the walls of the room. When she finally did glance at him again, her eyes had changed.

"So you're who they've sent me for my first time?" Her voice sounded bored, not the tone he remembered. "What do you want me to do?"

What a question. He raised an eyebrow, but she shook her head. In warning?

Nothing here was as he'd antic.i.p.ated. He continued staring at her, hoping the l.u.s.t would quit fogging his brain long enough for him to figure out what was going on.

"I've been told to show you a good time." Her voice was cold, downright chilly. Without another word she stood and crossed the floor, slipping into his arms with her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressing into his chest. "It's you." She murmured the words in the barest of whispers.

Nick's mind froze, but his body didn't. On autopilot his hands automatically went to her waist as she kissed his neck, working her way up to his ear. This was not at all what he'd planned.

"I can't believe you're here." She breathed the words into his ear.

Me either, he thought, but kept the news to himself as he pulled her closer. His senses flooded with all that smooth skin pressing against him. His body tightened, and his right hand moved to cup her a.s.s. Her cheek's bare skin was silky soft, like he remembered. G.o.d, he'd missed her. She melted into him as his body switched into overdrive.

"What do you want?" She spoke louder. The artic tone was back. He was confused and knew he was just too stupid with wanting her to figure out what the h.e.l.l was going on. There was no way the woman could mistake the effect she was having.

She moved her lips closer to his ear and nipped his earlobe before she spoke in a hushed tone. "Cameras are everywhere. I'm not sure about microphones."

And just like that, cold reality slapped him in the face. He should have been expecting it, but he'd been so focused on getting her out and making sure she was all right. She might be glad to see him because he was there to save her, but throwing her body at him was an act.

Jesus. He had to get them both out of here without tipping his hand to the cameras and those watching what he was doing. He was crazy not to have considered it once he saw those tablets downstairs, but it had never occurred to him that he would have to play this encounter through as if he was really a client.

He slipped her arms from around his neck and moved to the table to pour himself some wine, willing his hands not to shake. "I want you."

About the Author.

KAY THOMAS didn't grow up burning to be a writer. She wasn't even much of a reader until fourth grade. That's when her sister read The Black Stallion aloud to her. For hours Kay was enthralled-s.h.i.+pwrecked and riding an untamed horse across desert sand. Then tragedy struck. Her sister lost her voice. But Kay couldn't wait to hear what happened in the story-so she picked up that book, finished reading it herself, and went in search of more adventures at the local library.

Today Kay lives in Dallas with her husband, two children, and a shockingly spoiled Boston terrier. Her award-winning novels have been published internationally. For more information on Kay, please sign up for her newsletter at www.eepurl.com/TBUI or visit her website: www.kaythomas.net.

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