Hot as Hell (Deep Six 0.5)(4)

At least, that’s what he’d been telling himself with every unanswered call.

Bran snorted. “Sure, okay. And I’m gonna file that under Bitch and Please. But, hey, I get it, paisano. You managed to break off a piece of something you like, and now you—”

“Bran,” LT warned, glancing surreptitiously at Michael over the top of his sunglasses, accurately reading his not-so-poker face, which, you know, was pretty much the expressional equivalent of a line of Do Not Cross tape. As well as the hot, fighting blood that was prized among the SEALs, the ability to out-quip or out-insult a teammate was held in the highest regard. Usually, Michael was able to mix it up with the best of them. But not when Harper was the subject at hand…

Fuckin’ A. You have got to get it together, Wainwright.

Yeah. That was solid advice. And he’d been trying unsuccessfully to take it ever since that goddamned party.

“Aw, hell. Sorry, Mad Dog,” Bran quickly relented after grabbing a clue that his jibes were hitting a little too close to home. Even though Bran was the joker in the deck, there wasn’t a malicious bone in the man’s body. Now, irritating bones? The guy had those in spades. “I didn’t realize it was such a touchy subject. And if it makes you feel any better, I figure the real reason she’s pulling that whole mum’s the word shtick is because she’s afraid to go another round with that python you pack in your pants.”

And just like that, Michael’s frown turned upside down. Leave it to Bran. But before he could respond to that ridiculous bit of alliterative nonsense—python he packed in his pants? Jesus—his cell phone came to life in his hand, vibrating and jangling out the tune to “Happy” by Pharrell Williams.

“Oh, for shit’s sake,” Bran cursed, falling immediately back into his role as good-hearted tormentor. “Is it possible for you to upload a ringtone that doesn’t make me want to take a bath with a toaster?”

Michael liked snappy pop songs. So sue him. Who—if they were being completely honest—didn’t? “Don’t act like you don’t love it,” he told Bran, grinning broadly. Of course, when he lifted the phone and saw who was calling, his expression instantly sobered as his heart drummed out a rhythm to match the melody’s tempo.

It’s about goddamned time!

“Or maybe I was wrong.” Bran smiled down at the phone until his teeth flashed white against his dark, scraggly beard. When operating in this part of the world, it behooved the SEALs to blend into the local population as best they could. Which meant facial hair came part and parcel with the job. All of Alpha platoon was sporting full-on scruff. And, no, in case you were wondering, it didn’t do a damn thing to mitigate the heat. “About her wanting another shot at your trouser snake,” Bran clarified. “Not about you being a spostata.” He socked Michael on the shoulder before ambling down the aircraft’s long loading ramp in the wake of the rest of their Team, whistling the tune to “Happy,” and leaving Michael to take the call in private.

Raking in a deep breath—For the love of Christ, I’ve got it bad. Worse than he’d ever had it before—he thumbed on the phone and lifted the device to his ear. Be cool. Just be cool. “Harper?”

His voice cracked up at the end like he was pubescent or something. Fuuuuck.

“Michael? Oh, thank God!”

She’d only spoken four words, but he immediately zeroed in on the sharp spike of panic in her tone. The hairs along the nape of his neck twanged upright, and he automatically—almost unconsciously—reached for the weapon secured in the nylon holster strapped to his thigh. “What is it, Harper? What happened?”

“They did it, Michael,” she husked, her Southern accent made stronger by her terror. “The TTP attacked the embassy. I’m on my way down to the safe r—”

She was cut off when a loud crash echoed through the phone’s receiver, followed immediately by angry voices shouting in a language he only had a passing familiarity with. But he was fluent enough to make out the words capture and kill.

Then the line went dead.

Which is when Michael “Mad Dog” Wainwright knew, for the first time in his life, what it was to be one hundred percent, no-holds-barred, shit-the-bed terrified…





CHAPTER 2


How much time has passed? Two days? Two weeks?

Harper sat huddled in the corner of the spacious, high-tech panic room—her butt having surely made a permanent imprint on the cool concrete floor—feeling like she’d been waiting an eternity for rescue. But in reality, it had only been…she ran a hand through her hair and turned over her cell phone, checking the digital clock for what seemed like the bazillionth time…three and a half hours. Three and a half everlasting hours. Three and a half god-awful, lonely, terrifying hours.

And even though she knew it was a useless endeavor, she hit Redial. Lifting the phone to her ear, she hoped beyond senseless hope that this time her cell signal would penetrate the walls of the safe room and link her to Michael. But after a couple of seconds, the loud beep, beep, beep of an unconnected call sounded through the tiny speaker. She powered down the device with a disgusted press of her thumb.

“What in God’s name is happenin’ out there? Why is it so quiet?” She posed the questions aloud just to hear her own voice. Just to assure herself she really had made it into the heavily reinforced chamber, slamming the thick metal door in the angry faces of the Taliban fighters who had been hot on her heels in her madcap dash down the stairs and across the basement.