Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,18

time you’re home.”

Yeah, not going to happen. Not because Julio didn’t deserve the recognition, but because he already knew precisely who Hotrod was. But knowing Julio was finally safe back in America, and that he’d married Meg Duncan? That he’d saved that skinny little Dominic, whom Meg loved so hard? Best news ever.

Only now, Hotrod also knew Persia was a trained undercover specialist, and a damned good operator if she’d been inside Domingo Zapata’s lair. She was smart, no doubt smarter than Hotrod. For tonight, that was who he was, but come morning, she would’ve had time to think. She might’ve put two and two together by then, and come up with one escaped convict. A murderer.

Instead of talking or asking more questions, he filled his mouth with pancakes slathered in marmalade and murmured, “Mmmm.”

Yup. Definitely time to leave.

Chapter Six

She woke up with a start. Shivering when it wasn’t cold or chilly. Alone in her bed.

Wide-eyed, Persia lifted to her elbows. Her gaze shot straight to her nightstand where… Thank God! Her handgun was still where Hotrod had left it. Bless his heart. The Smith and Wesson Bodyguard, .380 auto, her favorite personal weapon. Not TEAM issue, true, but bikini bottoms weren’t stout enough gun belts for the man-sized SIG Sauer P226 she wore when on active duty. The Bodyguard was easier to hide—or sit on.

Jerking back the light woven bed cover she and Hotrod had slept beneath, the sweet musky scent of his male body lingered. On her sheets. On her fingertips.

Struggling against the silence, she cocked her head, hoping for the slightest indication he might be in the kitchen, maybe the shower. Anywhere within the confines of these four walls. Her nostrils tested the air for the slightest hint of Arabica beans or buttered toast or freshly squeezed juice. He’d make breakfast before he said goodbye, wouldn’t he?

Shaken to her core at how foolish she’d been, Persia slid out of bed and put her bare feet to the floor. Damn it. His gear bag was gone.

She grabbed her light, summer robe off the hook near her bedroom door and ran through her home-away-from-home, her heart stuck high in her chest. He wouldn’t just leave, would he? He couldn’t. Not after the way he’d made sweet, slow love to every inch of her body last night. He’d been so gentle. So tender.

And she’d been so damned stupid! There was no one in her bungalow or on the beach. Or in the kitchen. Or anywhere that she could see. Only sand. Hotrod had really left her.

The old-fashioned ringtone of a rotary phone from forever ago jangled from her cell. That tone was particular to Alex Stewart, her new boss. Him calling meant this two-week vacation between the end of her FBI career and her new life as a security specialist for The TEAM in Alexandra, Virginia, was over before it’d even started. He needed her. She’d have to go.

Persia let the damned thing ring. Hotrod couldn’t have just walked away, could he? Her heart refused to believe. He’d seemed so kind and sincere and—broken. They’d shared something last night. Hadn’t they? She’d thought so.

The rotary ringtone ceased, only to commence again. Ring. Ring. Ring.

She should answer. After all, she was the one who’d sought Stewart. That last undercover gig in Minas Gerais, Brazil, had proven too brutal for her. Then, as if all she’d been through there meant nothing, the Bureau wanted to loan her to the CIA again, for yet another undercover narc operation. One where she would have gone into Iran, the country of her ancestors, as an undercover spy. She would’ve had to cozy up to the latest ayatollah. Not only no, but hell no. That guy was a pedophile and a liar, not a prophet.

Didn’t the CIA have anyone else brave enough or dumb enough to waltz into Iran for them? Persia was beginning to feel expendable, as if dying was the least she could do for her country. She, on the other hand, thought she was a unique asset. Yes, her Middle Eastern looks gave her an inside advantage, but she’d seen enough beheadings in her short career to know that was not how she’d intended to serve.

Persia simply hadn’t the nerve or heart to go undercover again, not so soon after what she’d seen in Brazil. In the course of infiltrating Domingo Zapata’s lair, she’d done things that still haunted her. Plus, she’d done them alone.

Her mark, Domingo Zapata, the ruthless killer of men,