Killing Time

reaction, any reaction. “Or should I call you Primetime? That’s what your team called you, right?”

He worked hard to convince her with a bland look that the use of his nickname and reference to his team hadn’t sliced him to the quick. She didn’t buy it. The man had once had a conscience. He’d been one of America’s best of the best, and he had to be feeling a little raw right now despite the lingering hold of the Ketamine.

She’d dosed him with just enough of the drug to possibly give him a hallucination or two—it wasn’t called Special-K for nothing—and make him malleable, to get him where she wanted him. Defenseless. Vulnerable. At her mercy. Nice of him to drown himself in booze to help the process along.

“Primetime and the One-Eyed Jacks.” She tossed out the name of his old unit like a gauntlet—or a piece of bait.

He bit, dropping any pretense of indifference. His eyes hardened as he watched her stand and walk closer to the foot of the bed.

And yes, she got it. Got why he had a rep for women falling all over him. She’d had no trouble picking him out in the bar. Despite the fact that he looked a little frayed around the edges with his too-long hair and several days’ growth of beard, he was the perfect male package: tall, dark, and broad-shouldered—dangerous. Add a face with ridiculously intriguing angles and planes, a touch of some ancestral Spanish blood, and thick brown hair, and he definitely lived up to his lady-killer billing.

Even in his current state, Brown was Hollywood gorgeous—primetime TV gorgeous. The quintessential all- American male. Born and raised in Colorado ranching country, star high school and college athlete, Naval Academy standout… blah, blah, blah. But his wild-card rep—supported by the diamond stud in his left ear—pegged him as a renegade and a troublemaker. So did the flirty smile, laser blue eyes, and an alpha male swagger that was too natural to be staged.

But according to the OSD file, beneath that spectacular exterior beat the heart of a screwup and a coward.

Well, she needed his help, and he was going to give it to her, one way or the other. She had no intention of dying for the justice she would see done—and by God, she would see it done. And she would get out of this alive.

She pulled her thoughts back together. She was on a mission and determined to make him squirm. “Let’s back up a few years. To Annapolis and the Naval Academy. You graduated with honors. Impressive.”

“We do aim to please.”

“Started out your military career as an E-2 pilot,” she continued, impervious to his smart-ass smirk. “Except flying the carrier-based turboprops and conducting electronic surveillance over the Gulf ended up being a little too boring for you, didn’t it? A little too routine.”

Though his face gave nothing away, he appeared to have stopped breathing. He didn’t like it that she knew so much about him. Too bad. Psych ops 101: Make ’em sweat to make ’em talk.

“So you decided to change to the C-12 King Air and then, even though it made no sense to your CO, you asked to switch to helos and ended up transporting covert-ops teams—Task Force Mercy originally—in and out of hot zones because you wanted to get closer to the action.”

He jerked hard on the plastic cuffs, then swore when all he got for his effort was pain. No doubt about it. He’d begun to unravel nicely. And she’d just gotten started.

She so had his number. Then as now, Brown was a loose cannon. Only now he was also a struggling, recovering alcoholic and though her research said he’d quit smoking years ago, when she’d spotted him in the cantina, an unlit cigarette was tucked above his right ear—a crutch for a weak man.

From the moment she’d committed herself to seeing this thing through, she’d made it her business to know everything about him. He was a lean, mean six foot three, one hundred ninety-five pounds, and he was her one and only living, breathing connection to Operation Slam Dunk. The file had detailed his wounds from the disastrous Afghanistan op. He’d taken some shrapnel in his leg, dislocated his left shoulder, and sustained some nasty third- degree burns on his right thigh. A small price, considering so many others had paid with their lives that night.

He made her sick. He’d once been one of the Navy’s best and brightest, but for the past eight years, since Afghanistan, he’d been hiding out in South America running a semi-legit, mostly bogus air-cargo business.

Now he was no longer anyone’s best and brightest. And like it or not, right now he was hers; he knew it, and he wasn’t having a lot of luck hiding his anger over that fact.

“All that action brought you to the invincible unit, right?” she pressed on, letting him know he had no place to hide, not from her. “An elite team, hand-picked by Spec Ops command.”

He strained against his cuffs, then swore again when the plastic strip didn’t budge from the metal head rail. “Who the hell are you?”

She ignored his question. “The One-Eyed Jacks, a multibranch military task force formed in 2002 and disbanded in 2005,” she stated from memory. She’d read his jacket so many times she knew every line of it by heart. The One-Eyed Jacks had been loosely patterned after Task Force Mercy, a highly classified covert unit that had operated all over the Middle East and Africa right before the Bush administration took the reins.

“Got your nickname because of the uniqueness of your experimental unit, your tight camaraderie, and your reckless reputation. Oh, yeah, and you all loved to spend your down time playing cards. Poker. Spades. Blackjack. You name it. You played it.”

“Let me guess,” he interrupted. “With your winning personality, Old Maid is your game, right?”

A wiseass to the end.

But when she held up the jack of hearts she’d lifted from his pocket, all that bravado folded. The worn playing card was tattered around the edges and faded with age. A 9mm round punctured it dead center.

“You all made a pact. You all carried a one-eyed jack—either a jack of hearts or a jack of spades. The cards were a sign of unity, and your lucky charms.” She paused a beat, then flipped the card toward him. It landed on the chest that heaved rapidly beneath his black T-shirt, making it clear he wasn’t nearly as calm as he wanted her to think he was.

“Only your luck ran out eight years ago, didn’t it, Brown?” She moved to the side of the bed and leaned in close. “Ran out big-time during Operation Slam Dunk, when you screwed up and got most of your unit and dozens of innocent civilians killed.” His eyes went hard as stone.

“I need to know why. I need to know who paid you to sell out your team.”

• • •

Fire burned in Mike’s gut like a bonfire. From the cheap booze. From the drug. From the anger at himself for getting caught like a fucking stooge.

But most of all from the mention of Operation Slam Dunk. The memory of that night still ate at him like a cancer.

Sell out his team? He’d rather die a thousand times over than ever sell out the One-Eyed Jacks. But he’d burn in hell before he’d defend himself to her.

She stood over him, cold, hard, demanding, and with the upper hand. He couldn’t help but hate her for that—but not nearly as much as he hated himself. Something had gone terribly wrong that night and all he’d gotten was an impossible choice—life imprisonment, or a deal that had ended up costing him his soul.

He’d never gotten answers, not one, and he sure as hell didn’t have any to give her.

“… you screwed up and got most of your unit and dozens of innocent civilians killed.”

Even though the accusation sucked what little fight he had left out of him, he had no intention of rising to her bait.

“That’s it?” She finally straightened, leaning away from him. “No defense?”

Her goading tone pissed him off even more. “You’ve already tried and convicted me. What’s the point in defending myself? And speaking of points, what’s yours? Either shoot me, screw me, or set me the hell loose.”

That threw her. She’d expected answers, not demands. And not a crude indictment of her staged seduction. Judging from her sudden stillness and an unmistakable hint of disappointment in her eyes, she might even have wanted him to deny her charges.

Now that was interesting.

Or not. God, he was tired of this crap. He’d drunk himself stupid tonight so he could forget about Afghanistan, only to have this woman throw it in his face like a gallon of acid.