C.J. Miller - Delta Force Desire

“You’ve been hard to find.”

Her pride flooded through her. At least she hadn’t made it painfully easy for her enemies to locate her. Shade was a friend, but to keep herself safe, she’d had to hide from everyone, and that had meant creating a new online identity. “Yet here you are,” Kit said, wondering how he had located her. If he had found her, then her enemies could, as well.

“I went through a lot of trouble to locate you. Thousands in bribes, hours on stakeouts and hacking the United States’ civilian records,” he said.

The records the government kept to allow them to track almost anyone. Library cards, credit card bills and facial recognition from streaming video feeds made hiding next to impossible. Kit had believed knowing how the government could track her meant she could be untraceable. She had been mistaken.

“Coming for you in person allows us to protect you.”

“Us?” She looked around. She could spot a military man from fifty paces. This man had the look of someone with service experience, but no one else jumped out at her.

“I work with a team, but I am here alone.”

“You work for Shade?” she asked.

“With her,” he said.

He didn’t like to be submissive. Definitely military. “I’m fine here. My family is close, and if you haven’t noticed, my sister hired a dozen security guards for this party.”

The man arched a brow. “Your family and some guards for hire can’t protect you. You have dangerous enemies.”

“Maybe you’re one of them,” she said. She lifted her phone to snap his picture. He snatched it from her hands before she could capture his image and send it with an SOS to her safety net, a list of computer hackers who would take his picture to the authorities if anything happened to her.

“I’ve heard a computer in your hands is as dangerous as a weapon.”

A compliment. “You heard right. I’ll do what’s needed to protect myself and my family.”

“Like calling in an air strike?” he asked, sounding amused.

“That was a joke,” she said. When she had been on the project years ago, she had ordered an air strike against a general who had pissed her off. She’d known the military had safeguards to prevent friendly fire, but it had been a clear warning not to screw with her.

“Not everyone is amused by your sense of humor,” he said.

“I’ve been told it’s a little warped. Give me my phone.”

He handed it to her. “I need to take you somewhere safe.”

He could be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. If he had found her and knew about Shade, he could be masquerading as friendly but working with her enemies. “I can protect myself.” Or at least, she could run and disappear.

The music stopped dead, and the lanterns and bar lights on the rooftop flickered before going out completely. Kit glanced at her phone, confused to see the red warning icon that she had no cell service. Panic flared, and she sensed something bad was unfolding.

He said, “Not from—”

The rat-tat-tat of gunfire cut him off. The man grabbed Kit and held her against him, sheltering her with his body and forcing her to the ground.

Screaming and the sound of glass breaking filled the air. The gunfire meant that her life, and the lives of her family and people around her, were in danger. The strength and power of the stranger holding her against him was weirdly comforting. She felt a gun at his side. And another one. And a knife in a leather sheath.

“Please stop that,” he said.

She stilled her hands. “Are you wearing a vest?”

“Of course I am,” he said, reaching for one of his weapons and shoving her behind him. He pivoted on his heels while staying in a squat.

Lights from adjacent buildings, the moon and the city below were the only illumination.

A man with a large gun swung it in a wide circle around him, eliciting more squeals of fear and pleading. Two others were at his sides. They wore clear plastic masks, distorting their faces, and black clothes. Between their disguises and the darkness, Kit couldn’t tell anything about these men.

“We’re looking for a woman. If you stay calm, no one will be hurt. Kit Walker, come forward or we’ll kill every person on this roof.”

Kit tried to push the man off her. He didn’t budge.

“Stay down. I will get you out of this.”

“Not at the expense of everyone here.” Kit couldn’t see her mother’s, sister’s or brother’s face, but she guessed they were terrified and confused. She was the nobody in the family. They must have been wondering who would barge into a party, armed, and attempt to kidnap her.

He stood, jerking her to her feet, turning her to protect her with his body and bringing a gun to her temple. “If you want her, you’ll have to fight me for her.”

He had lied. He was here to hurt her.

Every person on the roof was looking at them. Her mother screamed. Marissa was pointing from her bodyguards to Kit, perhaps begging them to do something. Kit tried to pull free. Including the one holding her, four madmen were after her. How far would she get, especially in these shoes?

She had known her history would catch up with her. She had been warned that she couldn’t walk away from the Locker and start over as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn’t been key in creating a system that protected the United States and threatened other countries in subversive and catastrophic ways.

But darned if she hadn’t tried.

The liar dragged her through the crowd, gun poking her. “Shoot anyone and she dies,” the liar said to the man at the door.

Party guests were cowered on the ground. The shooting had stopped.

If she made it out of here, the liar would probably kill her when he realized she wouldn’t work as a traitor to the United States. She was worth more alive than dead, and that would buy her some time. She had refused to take part in the training about resisting advanced interrogation techniques, aka torture, but now she wished she was prepared. How stiff-lipped would she be when her loyalty to America was put to the test?

Kit had made bad choices in her professional career. Being involved with the Locker was the worst. One of the lead computer scientists on the project had suffered a stroke. The stress and the deadlines had gotten to him. The engineer who had masterminded the Locker had experienced a complete break with reality. He had behaved strangely for weeks, and then he had snapped. Both men had been removed from the project. It had been devastating for Kit personally, and the professional pressure on her had increased. She had worried that she would become ill, either physically or mentally, but she had held it together. Looking back, her naïveté had saved her. She hadn’t fully grasped the enemies she was making or the importance of her work.

“We can make an arrangement. We’ll pay double your fee,” the man with the assault rifle said. He had a mustache. She didn’t trust men with mustaches.

“Let’s take this downstairs.” That gravelly voice commanded respect. Kit wondered if she could get free of him. In movies and TV, spunky heroines broke away with a well-placed kick. But his grip on her was firm, and he was probably a very good shot. A man who owned a bulletproof vest wasn’t a novice with a weapon. How far could she get before being gunned down?

The liar dragged her into the stairwell, where there were fewer witnesses. Where were the police? Had they been called? The signal on her phone had gone out, but could someone else have contacted the authorities? Could they help her?

The probability of her dying was high, and Kit didn’t have much to lose. He could shoot her on the stairs and then throw her body down fifteen flights. She had a slim chance of surviving that. She would run the first chance she had.