Heart Strike (25 page)

Melissa. No, this wasn't Melissa Moore from Canada. Nor Melissa The Cat, Delta Force operator.

This was his Ilsa, watching him through sparkling blue eyes, her sunshine hair spread across the dark pillow. It was where she belonged, in this impossible nest of pure luxury.

He tried to speak, but his throat had gone dry.

It was barely an autonomic motion as he closed the cockpit door and began undressing. He knelt on the bed and looked down at her.

How had he ever ended up with someone so beautiful?

“Are you planning to touch me anytime soon?”

She shifted beneath the thin sheet which offered him new shapes and terrain to admire.

* * *

Richie reached out so slowly to touch her that she thought she'd scream before he closed the gap. He didn't reach for crotch or breast, but instead rested his hand on her waist at the first rise of her hip, exactly where it had been minutes ago as she'd kissed him beside the parked
Tin Goose
.

Then he leaned down and, nudging the medallion aside, rested his ear between her breasts.

The intimacy of the simple gesture through the thin sheet was incredible—the only contact, his hand on her waist and his ear over pounding heart.

That's what he was doing, listening to her heart. She'd wager that he was memorizing the sound of every valve opening and closing and how the blood rushed through and probably the oxygen content as it did so and—it was leaving her breathless.

She brushed a hand through his hair as he lay there and listened. This wasn't about sex, not any longer. If he had come in and jumped her as she'd been hoping, it would have been…might have been. But he lay there and listened to her heart until she too could feel it changing and shifting.

And it was doing it in ways she wasn't ready for.

With the least twist beneath the covers, she shifted his mouth to her breast and his hand from her hip to between her legs.

Then more than her heart shifted.

Richie also shifted, right out of the gentle nerd.

In moments he had her pinned beneath the sheets. His hand and mouth suddenly hard against her. Not brutal or painful—oh god no—they felt way too good for that. He was suddenly so intense that it overwhelmed her senses.

He used the slickness of the sheet to stoke and entice. Had she been a frozen glacier at the heart of the Antarctic ice shield, she'd still have melted. She didn't go from frozen to thawed. She went from impatient to ecstatic.

But the warrior didn't merely take as he had in the shower. The nameless warrior coaxed her reactions forth. She had never been so controlled yet had no desire to escape. Her body's least reaction was noticed, enhanced until she was shivering with the power of it.

Richie's gentlest caresses demanded response. His focus so complete that she could probably drop a flashbang down his shorts and he wouldn't notice—if he'd been wearing shorts.

Judging perfectly when she was on the edge of madness, he slid the sheet off her. Then instead of finally taking her and giving them both the release she so desperately wanted, he rocked back on his heels and studied her once again.

“I'm not some sculpture to be admired.”

He nodded once, but still didn't move.

She almost called his name, but something made her hesitate. If she did, would the warrior remain, or would Richie reappear? She really needed the warrior right now. She needed to feel this man needing her as desperately as she needed him.

As if reading her mind, he slid on some protection and spread her legs with the lightest brush of fingertips on thigh. A growl sounded deep in his throat and echoed about the inside of the DC-3's finely finished interior.

Then he was on her. In the shower he'd taken her with a desperate need; now he revealed a desperate need to please—no—to satisfy her.

The warrior didn't have to prove he was the best lover; he simply was. He took her on an upward flight that including barrel rolls, Immelmann turns, and soaring climbs without a single stall in between. She'd heard about people who couldn't remember a traumatic accident or even the weeks leading up to it. If she forgot a single second of this ride, she was going to take her psyche out and shoot it.

At first she was able to give back as good as she got. But Richie ultimately overwhelmed her until all she could do was hang on and go for the ride. Her cry and his groan roared into the cabin space, and she didn't care if everyone in the whole airfield could hear it through the plane's hull.

When she thought she had no more to give, that's when Richie slid into her and expanded her horizons exponentially. When their peaks slammed through her, there was silence in the cabin. Too big for words, it was also too for any sound. Nothing to distract from the pure pleasure.

When he finally had eased them both back to a soft landing, Richie rolled them over so that she lay on the beautiful, perfect chest of his.

With a happy sigh he held her tightly against him and knew that he'd been right; this
was
the best place she'd ever been as well.

“So, Richard,” she put on her best Ingrid Bergman voice. “Instead of Bogey's line, ‘We'll always have Paris,' we'll be able to say, ‘Well, sweetheart, we'll always have the cockpit of that smashed DC-3 in the drug-runner's camp in a hole in the Venezuelan jungle.'”

Richie's grunt of amusement told her that the warrior was still in place. Or perhaps it was Melissa The Cat's immense sexual prowess.

She liked that idea, soldier to soldier.

Well, perhaps it was time she took on this operator lying prone beneath her.

She started with nuzzling his neck and worked her way down to explore that wonderful chest. By the time her breasts were over his hips, Richie groaned with returning need.

His recovery time was spectacular, though his speech centers still lagged far behind.

Conquering the warrior was almost as much fun as being conquered by him. Each time he tried to touch her, she brushed aside his hands. Ilsa was the one in control here—as powerful as Bergman should have been if she'd truly wanted her Rick—she orchestrated every sensation. Melissa tasted and teased and stroked until the mighty warrior had his hands fisted hard in the sheets and his body writhed at her merest action.

When she finally took him in, finished him off, and pinned him with her body until he was completely spent, he could do no more than shudder and moan.

Melissa remained straddled over Richie's hips and watched him. He reached up to brush a hand over her cheek, down to press the doubloon lightly against her breastbone for a moment, then he slipped toward sleep.

“No longer a welcher,” she whispered softly so as not to disturb. He had just delivered on his promise times ten.

He slid into an even deeper sleep, every last bit of him finally relaxing.

She, in turn, had never felt more awake in her life.

“I've seen that look in the mirror before.” Carla's greeting when Melissa slipped out of the DC-3's rear door would have made her jump if she didn't feel so kindly toward the world at large. “That's a good look.”

“I—” she opened her mouth and then had no idea what she was going to say. She was spared further foolishness by the Gulfstream jet on the far side of the runway whining to life. She hoped it didn't wake Richie. Actually, at the moment, she doubted that anything—other than a call to arms—had any chance of disturbing him.

It taxied down the center of the runway until it reached the far end. Then with a sleek roar of engines, it bolted down the runway, keeping its nose down longer than she expected; then with a quick motion, the plane shot skyward.

She could see the moment it disappeared through the jungle's canopy, still invisible in the night. One moment she was looking at the hot exhaust of the twin jet engines, and the next it blinked out as the plane moved out of the narrow view afforded by the hole in the jungle's canopy.

“Richie will be sorry he missed seeing that.”

“He'll have his chance. This is a busy place.” Carla slipped an arm through Melissa's and they set out walking together like two friends strolling down a city sidewalk. “Perhaps you missed the other two departures and three arrivals while you were occupied.”

“Hmm.” She had, but could only offer a happy hum of satisfaction.

“So talk.”

Melissa laughed.

“Care to let me in on the joke?”

“I don't even know where to begin.” She waved a hand at the line of shattered aircraft that lined this section of the field. Most of them looked like the battered toys of a particularly rough three-year-old. “This place, you, Richie, me.”

“Well, that's specific,” Carla teased.

“See, there. That's part of it. Here I am walking arm in arm with Carla Effing Anderson. As recently as a week ago I'd have laid down a month's pay that would never ever happen under any circumstances.”

“Ouch! Is my reputation that bad?” She didn't sound the least contrite.

“No, it's that good.”

“Just imagine the poor woman who has to follow both of our acts.”

Melissa had to laugh again at that. Carla had a point.

A bright buzzing noise was building. They'd reached the end of the jungle runway closest to the VASI glide path lights. The lights blinked on and moments later not one or two, but three small planes zipped in through the jungle canopy. This was a busy location.

“Useful load?” Carla asked, shifting to Unit operator with as little sign as changing a topic—all one integrated whole for her. For Melissa it felt as if she was still split a dozen ways: soldier, lover, pilot, friend to Carla, placater of Chad…

The newly arrived Cessnas were planes Melissa knew, far better than the
Tin Goose
. “They're all Cessna 182s. They're the slightly bigger twin brother of the planes I earned my license in. A pilot plus fuel leaves them about eight hundred pounds useful load. Three planes together can move over a ton.” She watched how they each hit the runway and wallowed toward the parking side of the runway. “And I'd say these were all coming in heavy.”

“Interesting.” Carla began leading her down the line toward the new arrivals, though she still kept their pace nonchalant. “So, other than despising my merest existence, what is the rest of the joke?” Carla asked as she slid effortlessly back across topics.

Melissa looked up at the jungle canopy. There was little stray light here on the ground, so it would be wholly invisible from above. It was an elegant piece of design work.

“Five years ago I was designing museum exhibits, I had a brother, and our hobby was rock and ice climbing. I always thought I'd find another climber or artist someday. I'd get a houseboat near my parents in West Bay. Kids, job at the museum, everything so normal.”

“And now you're a Unit operator in a jungle fortress that is the heart of a major drug-running operation and you're in love with a soldier named Richie Goldman.”

“Right.”

Carla paused and looked at her. The woman on the fueling ATV drove by, her headlights casting enough light for Melissa to see Carla's expression clearly.

“What? What did I miss?”

Carla still simply waited, forcing Melissa to review what had just been said. Then she found it.

“In love with…” Melissa listened to how her own voice said it. No hint of surprise. Nor alarm. “Huh.”

“As I said, I know that look.”

“I thought you meant the sex.”

Carla shook her head. “That's what I wanted to think it was as well when it happened to me. Guess what. It's not.”

“I'm seeing that.” And it wasn't freaking her out, which was almost as interesting as the thought itself.

“You seem much cooler about this than I was.”

“What did you put Kyle through?”

Carla grimaced and started walking again.

Melissa had thought it was avoidance until they were approaching the Cessnas at the same moment as a small team of workers and a forklift.

“I'll just say that I come by the Wild Woman moniker honestly. Kyle and I had pretty spectacular fight over that one, almost shattered the team on our first week in the field.”

“Whereas Melissa The Cat sneaks up on love, or rather has it sneak up on her.”

“Apparently.” Carla guided them past the trio of parked Cessnas. Then stopped and turned as if to pay more attention to Melissa. But Melissa knew her attention was really on assessing whatever was going on behind them.

Which was just as well; Melissa couldn't assess squat at the moment.

She was in love with Richie Goldman.

Even as a flat statement inside her head, it was no surprise; it was simple truth. “How did I trade in some gentle artist on a soldier turned drug runner?”

“Just lucky I guess.” Carla's comment did make her feel lucky. How many men were there like Richie on the planet? Easy answer. One.

“You two, lend a hand,” a team foreman called them over. Since a closer look was exactly what they wanted, Melissa was glad to lend a hand, though she and Carla were both smart enough to show what would be a typical reluctance, until the moment the foreman rested a hand on his sidearm.

The plane's interior had been stripped inside with only the pilot's seat remaining. Plastic garbage bags had been piled on the deck. The first one she picked up was heavy, about the same as a training rucksack, so forty to fifty pounds. She was careful to show more effort than it actually took a trained Delta operator.

Through the plastic she could feel the lumpy balls that had to be cocaine paste. If paste was flying in and purified cocaine was flying out, that meant that this was more than a shipping center; it was also a purification processing plant.

That would explain both the efforts to keep it hidden and the casual elegance that had been applied to such objects as the broken DC-3. This single shipment alone would be worth over ten million once processed, twice that if delivered directly to America or Europe. This operation would be awash in cash. If they had a shipment this size just once a week, a half billion dollars would flow through this site. She'd wager they had a lot more frequent deliveries than that.

In a matter of minutes, the three planes were empty, refueled, and back in the air.

She and Carla were left standing alone not far from the
Tin Goose.

“Interesting.”

Melissa kept an eye on where the loaded forklift went. It crossed the field, circled behind the pile of wrecked planes, and past some tents before disappearing under the jungle canopy.

They continued down the row of parked aircraft, finally arriving at the last plane, parked at the very start of the runway. It was the sleek BAe 146 that belonged to Niklas Pederson. The high-wing, four-engine jet looked ready to leap for the skies at a moment's notice.

It also was circled by five heavily armed men—at least those were the only ones she could see.

“Apparently,” Melissa observed, “Mr. Pederson likes his privacy.”

One of the men cocked his head in the way that someone did when listening to a radio earpiece. Then he started walking toward them.

“They're observant.”

The guard kept his M16 pointed at the dirt, but he was carrying the weapon rather than merely having it slung. Faster reaction time which implied better training.

“Mr. Pederson invites you to join him.” The man nodded toward the folded-down stairs at the nose of the plane without looking away from them. Good training.

She'd rather not be inside Pederson's protective perimeter without the rest of the team, but it looked as if that choice had already been taken away from them—the guard's polite request hadn't sounded particularly optional.

A glance at Carla, a shared shrug, and Melissa indicated for the guard to lead the way. They had to meet with Pederson at some point; sooner was always better.

* * *

“You look pretty damn pleased with yourself.”

Richie opened one eye and spotted Chad's smiling face. He opened the other and spotted Duane's. Kyle was leaning on their shoulders from behind and grinning down at him.

“I think he looks entirely too comfortable, don't you agree, boys?”

“He does, Mister Kyle.”

Richie tried to make sense of the change. Just a moment ago, the most beautiful woman he'd ever been with had been naked and straddled over him in a luxurious hideaway. Her head thrown back in ecstasy as he'd emptied himself into her.

He hadn't closed his eyes for more than an instant or two, and now the tiny compartment was crowded with his three team members. And no sign of Melissa.

“What did you do with her?”

“She's long gone, buddy. Not
gone
gone,” Chad added at Richie's flinch. “Just been off with Carla for the last hour. You've got to get with the program.”

He pulled on his watch. They weren't kidding; several hours had passed. It was nearing midnight.

“I think he's been lying around too much.” Kyle grinned, then slapped Chad and Duane on the shoulders. “Roust him, boys.”

“No, wait!” But there was nothing Richie could do against the three of them. In seconds they had stripped the sheet clear, hauled him out of the bed, and dragged him through the DC-3's cabin before they dumped him out the rear cargo door and onto the dirt naked except for his watch.

“Goddamn it! At least give me my clothes.”

“No!” A woman's voice sounded from behind him. The ATV fueler had stopped her vehicle along the dirt path that separated the wrecked planes from the chow tent. “
Por favor no.”

“You heard the
bella dama
,” Chad shrugged pleasantly that he was helpless before such a request.

Richie dove back through the door and tackled Chad who just howled with laughter as the two of them landed on a couch.

“Oh, I knew you always wanted me, Richie. But the
señora
is much more what I want.”

Richie didn't give a damn about Chad, but he did manage to grab the clothes that Kyle was holding. By the time Richie was dressed, neither Chad nor the
señora
ATV driver were in sight.

“Fine.” He finished tying his boots. “Where's Melissa?”

“In Niklas Pederson's plane.”

“Shit!” Didn't they get how goddamn dangerous the man was? Richie wouldn't put it past him to try and lock them up in his aeronautical cave. Hadn't they seen the way he'd looked at Melissa and refused to let go of her hand even after Richie threatened to shoot off the man's balls? He shoved out the door and hustled diagonally across the field and toward the big jet. He could hear Duane and Kyle running to catch up with him.

The first guard who tried to stop him hit the ground with a heavy thud, and no weapons—Richie had relieved him of them. He heard Kyle and Duane behind him engage the other guards, didn't bother turning to see because he didn't need to. They were trusting his instincts and following his lead, because that's what a Delta team did.

Richie aimed the Ruger .44 Magnum Super Blackhawk revolver that he'd stripped off the first guard right between the eyes of the guard at the base of the stairs.

“Move,” was all he had to say and the guy bolted.

He was up the stairs into the forward end of the cabin with Duane and Kyle close behind him.

Then he stumbled to a stop.

With a quick scan he located:

Three individuals—two known friendlies, one unknown status.

Possible hides—couch arm, two chairs, closed cockpit door, closed door at rear of aircraft.

All hands—weapons free and visible.

Armament—visible, Carla's and Melissa's sidearms. Hidden, no discernible signs indicating anything such as abnormal hand positions or shifted cushions.

He made a back-and-forth slice with the rifle he'd grabbed without letting the Ruger's aim at Niklas Pederson shift by even a degree. The gesture sent Duane to the cockpit and Kyle to check out the back of the plane.

The main cabin made their accommodations aboard the retrofitted DC-3 look like a shantytown shack. Deep-pile blue carpet, now with a line of Kyle's dirt-red footprints down the center of the aisle.

The cabin was filled with exotic woods, rich leather, glass tables, and golden—check that—actual gold fixtures. He was standing amid a small cluster of luxurious armchairs. The next section of the cabin included a deep couch to either side, one with Melissa and Carla sitting at ease upon it and across the aisle another one with Pederson. Beyond that, close by the rear cabin door Kyle had entered was a dining table of black ebony wood with room for a dozen, narrowed enough to fit neatly in the ten-foot width of the cabin without looking cramped.

Duane slapped an All Clear against his shoulder.