Heated Pursuit (Alpha Security #1)(2)
Penny fought against the ice-cold tingle his rough whisper zipped down her spine. Her joints screamed in protest, but she edged closer to the only area susceptible to attack. The second fabric brushed against her palm, she curled her fingers and squeezed with everything she had.
“Fucking hell!” Blue Eyes wrenched her grip free of his balls and tossed her over his shoulder as if she were nothing more than a rag doll.
“Damn it! Let me go!” She elbowed the back of his head, and when that didn’t get a reaction, she plowed a fist into his left flank—and the damn man kept walking, not once losing his stride. “Put me down! Entiendes?”
Behind her, someone bound her kicking legs while another did the same with her wrists. When a gag came next, she snapped her teeth, nearly catching the hand that tied it into place. A sack over the head later and her world plummeted into darkness before they shuffled her into the waiting van.
Between the musty, stale air and being bracketed between her assailant’s rock-hard thighs, it didn’t matter that she couldn’t see her snug confines. Walls closed in around her, making each breath feel as if it would be the last. She made one last-ditch effort to squirm from her captor’s hold.
Blue Eyes’ grip locked her into place, her back plastered against his chest.
“Little viper,” he murmured—in Spanish—into her ear. “It’s a damn good thing I wasn’t thinking about having children anytime soon.”
“I’m just glad she didn’t grab my balls.” Another voice chuckled. “Unlike you *s, I’d like to expand my gene pool sometime down the line. But I am curious as to why she’s down here.”
“Me, too. And I’m sure as hell going to find out.” The familiar voice made Penny’s heartbeat stumble.
The tone was the same in Spanish as it was in English—abrupt and menacing even from its distance across the van. But why would Trey be in Honduras? And why the hell had he let his friend turn her into a pancake against the side of a Jeep?
*
If someone had told former Delta and current Alpha Security operative Rafael Ortega that he’d have someone tied up in the unit’s makeshift interrogation room, he’d have sworn it would’ve been the drug kingpin, Fuentes, or one of the cartel leader’s many henchmen.
Now, three hours after he and his team pulled the hood off the American woman in the privacy of their inner-city headquarters, Rafe still hadn’t entirely ruled out the redhead’s involvement. Something didn’t jibe, and when he couldn’t figure things out, it made him goddamned twitchy.
A body search he’d been a lucky enough bastard to perform revealed a single steel blade tucked into her boot and a burner cell phone that hadn’t sent or received any calls. No firearms. No identification. That was it, unless you counted breasts that would fit perfectly in the palms of his hands, and an ass that was made to be grabbed—or at the very least, ogled.
For the third time in as many hours, Rafe shifted himself in his pants and walked into the interrogation room. Instantly, he was bombarded with curses that would’ve had his fourth foster mother running to the nearest church.
“Ah. You missed me,” he goaded.
His comment earned him another round of expletives, each one more inventive than the last. He smiled, loving both the challenge and the murderous glint in her blazing green eyes.
Rafe met her glare for glare, not turning when the door opened to emit Trey Hanson, his best friend and former Delta brother. His own black mask still firmly in place, Trey took a position against the far back wall.
“Are you feeling any more talkative?” asked Rafe.
“Go. To. Hell.” The redhead tugged on her restraints with each word.
“I’ve been there. Too dry for my tastes.” Rafe let out a mental sigh. This was turning out to be more work than he’d anticipated. “Why are you in Honduras?”
She gave him an eat-shit-and-choke-on-it glare and he covered her hands with his, halting both the damage to her chafing wrists and assessing her sudden surge in heart rate. “I’m losing my patience, sweetheart. Let’s try this again. One. More. Time.”
Her gaze darted left, to where Trey stood like a six-foot wall ornament, flipping his KA-BAR knife in his hand like Rafe had seen him do countless times when bored. Something flashed in the redhead’s eyes, but when her gaze slid back to him, it hardened to green steel.
The slow, upward curl of her lips alerted him to the smart-mouthed remark about to be unleashed. “Maybe instead of asking me stupid questions you should put some ice on your boo-boo. Untreated swelling could cause permanent damage.”
He leaned to within an inch of her face. Fuck-and-him. Despite the layers of San Pedro Sula grime caked on her otherwise perfect porcelain skin, a vanilla scent clung to her body. It almost made him forget that her swift kick and good aim were the reason he actually did just get done icing his f*cking balls.
“We have ways of making little girls talk,” he warned. “And trust me, it’s no day at the spa.”
Her gaze flickered over his shoulder. “I’ve never been a spa kind of woman. Ask your mute friend there in the back. After all, we were practically raised as brother and sister.”
*
Once Penny got over the fact that her surrogate big brother was lounging on the sofa across the room, it was easier to shift her focus—at least temporarily—to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Blue-Eyed.