Everything inside him ordered him to pull her out of that chair and crush those lips with his own. So it was a good thing Ozzie and Samantha had begun to make their way up the stairs.
* * *
“I don’t understand,” Ozzie said.
Emily watched him close the file. A deep frown pinched his brow.
“Don’t understand what?” Christian asked, sipping tea.
Ozzie, Christian, Emily, and Samantha were the only ones left awake inside the warehouse. They were seated around the conference table, and Ozzie and Samantha sported the rosy, disheveled look of the recently laid. Emily felt a pang of jealousy. It had been a really long time since she’d gotten herself a little afternoon delight.
Or morning delight or evening delight, for that matter.
“I mean, I just did a cursory read, so maybe I’m missing something.” Ozzie slid the folder to the center of the conference table. “But I don’t understand why these files were redacted. Everything in there seems pretty standard for two guys who did two tours. There’s some cryptic mention of an incident involving their unit and an Iraqi translator near a little town by Habbaniyah Lake, but—”
Emily must have made a noise, because Ozzie stopped abruptly, his sharp blue eyes cutting into her like the early April wind in Sox Park. “That little town wasn’t called Albu Bali, was it?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, it was.” Ozzie’s brow furrowed. “How the hell would you know that?”
She shook her head slightly, darting a quick look at Samantha. Obviously, it wasn’t quick enough, because Samantha caught it.
“What?” The reporter blinked, glancing around the table.
No one spoke for long moments. Then Ozzie finally piped up. “I told Samantha I used to be a SEAL.”
“You told her?” If dubiousness had a face, it would be Christian’s. “You, sir, are the reason the gene pool needs a lifeguard.”
“Hey,” Ozzie barked. “She knows how dangerous it would be if she ever put that information in print.” Ozzie dared Christian to naysay him. “So she won’t. End of story.”
Well, now that’s interesting, Emily mused. Writing a story about a true-blue, top secret military operator turned custom bike builder was just the thing to launch Samantha’s career to the next level, a human-interest story sure to be picked up by the Associated Press. That Samantha was willing to give up that opportunity was huge.
Very interesting.
“Emily.” When Ozzie said her name, she turned her attention from Samantha to him. “I trust her. I hope you will too.”
Trust was a tough one. Emily tended not to trust anyone or anything. But Ozzie wanted to pull the curtain back, just the teeniest bit. And who was she to say he couldn’t? “Okay.” She nodded. “So then…cone of silence?” She pinned Samantha with a look she’d developed in her blue-collar Bridgeport neighborhood and perfected while working for the Company. It was her patented Don’t you dare fuck with me, or I’ll rip your heart out look.
Samantha lifted her chin. “Cone of silence.”
Emily flicked her gaze back to Ozzie. His expression said, Trust but also tread lightly. She got that. Samantha being willing to forgo writing an article about former spec-ops guys turned motorcycle mechanics was one thing. Asking her to keep it to herself that those former spec-ops guys turned motorcycle mechanics were, in fact, the personal, private goon squad for the president was another thing entirely. Any reporter on the face of the planet would think the American people had the right to know that. Not to mention that it was Pulitzer Prize–winning material. A bigger story than the one the Boston Globe ran when it outed the Catholic Church for willfully keeping pedophile priests in parish churches.
So okay. Tread lightly. Not a problem. Emily had been treading lightly her entire career.
“All right,” she said. “Well, since it appears we’re doing a reveal, guess it’s only fair I open up my trench coat. Hi.” She waved at Samantha. “I’m Emily Scott. I used to be an office manager for the CIA.”
Samantha blinked. Emily could see the wheels turning, grinding to a stop, and then turning again. Finally, Samantha swung her attention to Christian. “And let me guess, you’re what? Retired MI6?”
“Pfft.” Christian waved a hand through the air. “Those pansies? Please. I was SAS. That’s—”
“British special forces,” Samantha cut in. “Yeah, I know.”
Peanut chose that moment to join them. He hopped onto one of the chairs, then foisted his rotund self onto the table. Stalking to the center, he circled once before flopping down and reclining back like a fat, furry sultan, surveying his domain through drowsy, yellow eyes.
“I guess that just leaves one question,” Samantha said. Emily could have cut the tension in the room with a knife. “How the hell did all you supersecret spy types find each other?”
Like a tire with a slow leak, the pressure gradually eased. Christian shrugged. “Ever hear the saying ‘It’s a small world’?” Samantha nodded. “Well, the world of special operations is absolutely minuscule.”
“Rrrright,” Samantha said skeptically. But she didn’t push it.
