He was tall and muscular. His eyes were a little too close together, but he had a good head of hair and a cock that was as thick as a Coke bottle.
His real name was Mark Kessler. His code name was Hummer. A moniker he’d earned by driving a Humvee straight through a barricade in Mosul. Twice.
He’d been drunk both times. So when he’d signed on to work with her, she’d had two stipulations. One, he couldn’t imbibe on the job. And two, when she wanted a quick fuck, he had to give it up.
“Who knows?” She shrugged. “But she’s doing us a favor. We’re hell and gone from any CCTV cameras. We’ll snatch her with no one the wiser.”
“Yeah.” Hummer nodded. “And then we gotta hump it all the way back to the city.”
It’d been two days since he’d popped the top on his last beer. They hadn’t known when a mark from the big, hulking factory building would present herself, so they’d wasted time staking out the joint. Two days without a drop always put Hummer in a temper.
Not that his foul mood rubbed off on Vivian. Quite the opposite. She’d cash in on it later, after they had the woman locked down.
Hummer in a temper was one hell of a fuck. All anger and energy and drive.
“Let’s give her another mile or so,” she murmured. “GPS says we should be coming up on some woods. The trees will give us cover to stash her car.”
Hummer grunted and refocused on the road. The rest of her team shifted restlessly in the back of the van.
“Let’s just do this already,” came a nasally complaint.
“Shut your face hole, Kurt,” she snapped without turning because she’d recognize his voice even in a crowd. He refused to get his deviated septum fixed, and it always sounded like he was suffering the world’s worst head cold. “Unless…” She grinned. “You need Momma to get you a pillow? Maybe a soft blankie?”
Kurt was sensitive about his height—five-five if he stretched and stood on tiptoe. Nothing pissed him off more than being treated like a kid.
She couldn’t hear what he said in rebuttal, but doubted it held much wit since his mental stature matched his physical one.
They rounded a bend, and she spied the thick copse of trees she’d seen on the map.
“Almost time,” she told the boys in the back. “Stay loose.”
“Hard to stay loose when your spine’s been fused to cold steel for the last hour and a half,” Vance muttered, referring to the hard metal flooring in the cargo hold.
Vivian turned in her seat. She knew what Vance saw when his blue gaze met her gray one. Like slate or steel, her eyes had no warmth, only weight.
“What a bunch of whiny babies. Amazes me that I’ve ever considered fucking any of you. Although, in my defense, the thought only really crosses my mind when I’ve got a belly full of tequila.”
Silence. Then, a short chuckle from Deke. Code name: Diesel.
The man was nice enough to look at. Big, strapping, and still had most of his original teeth. But she’d read his rap sheet, which was enough to keep her away from him even after a pitcher of margaritas.
She turned back toward the windshield, watching the trees flash by in blurs of black and gray. As it often did when the hunt neared its climax, her mind slipped to the one who had hired her.
Code names were as common as coercion in her line of work. And her current employer went by Bishop.
Like the religious clergy or the chess piece?
She wasn’t sure. If she had to guess, though, she’d say he was named after the game of strategy and tactics. Bishop was wily. Deliberate. Careful.
They’d spoken only a handful of times. And he always masked his voice. But even still, something in his tone made her uneasy.
He was too calm. Too composed. Too… emotionless.
Not that she wasn’t used to dealing with cold, calculating sorts. Anyone who hired her wasn’t likely to be a wilting lily. But even those who needed her for wet work usually displayed some kind of reaction. Some excitement, some nervousness, some impatience.
Bishop?
Nada.
