Midnight Alias: A Killer Instincts Novel (4 page)

Raw mortification slammed into him when he realized he was about two seconds away from coming. Holy shit. He hadn’t come in his pants since the ninth grade, when he and Lisa Hamilton had been dry humping on her parents’ couch. Well, no way. He wasn’t fourteen anymore. He was thirty frickin’ years old.

Knowing the only way he could derail this attraction was by making conversation, he said the first thing that popped into his head. “So, have you always wanted to be a stripper?”

She went off-rhythm, a startled look entering her eyes. Then she laughed, a short burst of sound laced with incredulity. “Yes, every little girl dreams of being a stripper,” she replied, shaking her head in amazement.

Luke felt his cheeks go hot. “Sorry. Dumb question.”

She continued to dance, raising her arms over her head and letting her long hair tumble down her shoulders. His cock jutted up again, so he blurted out another inane question. “What’d you want to be then?”

Her movements were disrupted once more. Irritation flashed across her face before she sighed. “A teacher. I love working with kids. But that never panned out. I’m at NYU now, majoring in poli-sci. Taking a lot of pre-law courses to prepare for law school.”

Luke hid his shock, but evidently not too well. “Not what you expected to hear from a stripper, huh?” she said knowingly.

“No,” he admitted. He studied her beautiful face. “Do you like it? Pre-law, I mean?”

“Yes. Now quit talking and enjoy the dance.”

She leaned forward and pressed her breasts to his face. A nipple darted past his mouth and he clamped his lips shut before he did something stupid—like lick it. His erection, depraved asshole that it was, continued to plead for attention.

“I like hearing you talk,” he said. “You’ve got a nice voice.”

You’ve got a nice voice?
Oh, brother.

She surprised him again. “So do you. Is that a hint of the South I hear?”

“New Orleans, born and raised,” he confirmed.

Her eyes twinkled. “A Cajun boy. Do you speak French?”

“Sure do.”

“So do I.”

All right, this woman just kept tossing out the curveballs. He’d been expecting a giggling airhead and he’d gotten a French-speaking pre-law student who liked kids.

Never judge a book by its cover, man
.

Her dancing had slowed into an awkward kind of grinding, a hint that he wasn’t the only one distracted by the conversation. “I went to New Orleans once when I was a kid,” she said, absently dragging her palms up and down his arms. “We stayed in the French Quarter. It was lovely.” She tilted her head. “Are you in Manhattan on vacation?”

“No, I just moved here actually,” he lied.

“How do you like it?”

“It’s a beautiful city.” His gaze strayed to the perfect pair of breasts he was at eye level with. “The people are really . . . nice.”

Her lips twitched. So did his cock.

“Yeah, some of them,” she said vaguely.

He decided it was time to do some of that delicate digging. “How do you like working here?”

Her expression went shuttered. “Good people, great pay” was all she said.

Luke furrowed his brows. It had been almost imperceptible, but he could’ve sworn he’d glimpsed a spark of fear in her eyes before her guard shot up. But why? What could she possibly be afraid of? All he’d asked was whether she liked her job.

Before he could dig any deeper, the music faded and a male voice crackled out of an intercom over their heads. “Time’s up. Take a bow, Livy.”

Luke saw relief flicker on her face as she climbed off him.

“Can I see you again?” he burst out before she could leave.

“Said the lap to the dancer.”

He shot her a quizzical look. “What?”

“Nothing.” She sighed. “It’s this thing I like to say when I— Forget it.” She stepped toward the door.

“I mean it. I want to see you again,” he told her retreating back. “Maybe take you out to dinner?”

She slowly swiveled around. And stared at him.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, of course she doesn’t want to see you again.
He realized she probably got asked that every other second, from every other pervert who came to ogle her tits.

“Dumb question,” he said again.

“Yes, it was,” she said quietly.

And then she was gone.

Taking a breath, Luke staggered to his feet. Damn. What had he been thinking? He’d been ordered to keep an eye on her, not ask her out to dinner.

But it wasn’t his dim-witted request that troubled him. Or her rejection. It was the fact that when the words had slipped out of his mouth, he’d completely forgotten about the mission. He hadn’t asked her out to gather information. He’d done it because—God help him—he’d actually wanted to see her again.

* * *

On the roof of the low-rise across the street from the Diamond Mine, Trevor lowered his binoculars and reached for the water bottle at his side. He took a quick sip, then ran a hand over his close-cropped hair and sighed. Although he wasn’t about to admit it to the others—the team leader had to lead by example, after all—this gig really was too tedious for his liking. Surveillance was boring as hell, especially after the last couple of missions the team had taken on. Rescuing the relief workers in Ethiopia, the kidnapped executive in Johannesburg. The thirteen little girls in Luis Blanco’s Colombian prison . . .

As usual, the memory of
that
particular assignment caused his thoughts to drift to Isabel, the undercover operative he’d teamed up with during the Colombia job. He’d been thinking about her a lot these past six months. Too much, probably. But hell, it was hard not to. He’d been a total shit for leaving things the way he had. The woman had saved his life, and instead of thanking her, he’d lashed out, blamed her for making him face his issues.

Funny, but the anger he’d been consumed with all those months ago had completely evaporated. Now when he thought of Isabel Roma, he was overcome with gratitude. He’d walked away from that mission with an important piece of knowledge—he
didn’t
want to die. Once, maybe, but not anymore. Isabel had helped him see that.

And he’d yelled at her like a toddler throwing a tantrum and left her in a hospital room to recover from a bullet wound she’d suffered while saving
his
life.

“You’re a real asshole, Callaghan,” he muttered to himself.

Yep, he sure was. He could still make amends, though. After this job was over, he was in line for the vacation time Morgan pushed on his men to prevent them from burning out, and Trevor was thinking of sticking around in New York. Isabel had mentioned she had an apartment here, so maybe he could finally work up the courage to contact her. Unless she was out in the field, carrying out whatever task Noelle, the queen of assassins, had charged her with. In that case, Noelle would probably know how to reach her . . .

He contemplated picking up the phone and calling Isabel’s boss, then shuddered. Maybe he’d ask Morgan to make the call. The boss didn’t seem to be frightened by Noelle.

He was jolted out of his thoughts when Sullivan’s voice crackled in his ear. “The kangaroo’s leaving the Outback. I repeat, kangaroo’s leaving the Outback.”

Trevor grinned. He’d rather shave his legs than say it aloud, but he really had missed that crazy Australian. Missions were always more fun when Sullivan was around.

Reaching for his field glasses, he focused on the strip club. Sullivan had positioned himself in the outdoor patio of the pub next door, directly in the line of sight of the club’s entrance. Sure enough, Luke had just exited through the double doors. Trevor zoomed in closer, noticing that the dark-haired man looked a bit dazed.

He frowned. The plan had been for Luke to remain in the club until closing time, but a glance at his watch showed that only a few hours had passed since Luke had gone in. Since they’d determined this was a low-risk job, the eyes on the outside had no radio contact with Luke, so they had no way of knowing the reason for his early departure until he told them.

On the street below, Luke stepped to the curb, zipping up his Windbreaker against the early October chill. He paused at the crosswalk, then bounded across the street, disappearing into the alley separating Trevor’s building from the adjacent one. He was coming up here, then. Something must have happened in the club.

The only telltale sign of Luke’s arrival was the faint creak of the fire escape. Then utter silence. Again, not something Trevor would say out loud, but those SEALs had definitely perfected the art of
stealth
. Luke didn’t make a single sound as he made his way up to the roof, and when he appeared out of nowhere like a damn ghost, Trevor almost jumped.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Luke shook his head, frazzled. “I got a lap dance.”

“Oh.” He arched a brow. “Okay.”

Without elaborating, Luke bent down and unzipped the backpack next to Trevor’s gear, rummaging in it until he found what he was looking for. Popping the earpiece in, he clicked it on and said, “Holden, you read me?”

Since they were all wired in, Trevor heard Holden McCall’s response. “Yeah. What’s up?”

“Call D to take your place. I want you to head back to the apartment and use your computer magic. Find out everything you can about one of the dancers. Livy Lovelace.”

“Is that the order, Trev?” Holden said briskly.

Trevor appreciated the other man’s deference to his authority on this job. “Yeah. Do it.”

There was a crackling sound, then radio silence. “What’s going on?” Trevor asked, shooting Luke a puzzled look.

“I don’t think Dane’s in that club, man. If he is, then he’s hiding away upstairs or somewhere in the employee area.”

Luke reached into his jacket pocket for his Marlboros. He lit one up, the orange tip glowing as he sucked hard, then exhaled a cloud of smoke into the night air.

Huh. The guy was definitely on edge.

“I can go back in,” he added. “Try to get past those mammoth bouncers and snoop around, but I’m thinking we go about this another way.”

“The dancer.”

“Yeah.” A crease dug into Luke’s forehead. He took another drag. “Something about her triggered an alarm. I asked her how she liked her job, and she just shut down. I swear, she even looked scared.”

“That’s rather flimsy.”

“Look, I can’t explain it, but my gut is telling me Morgan’s informant was right. This dancer knows something.”

“About the missing agent?”

Luke made a frustrated noise. “I don’t know. Maybe. But she warrants a closer look.”

Trevor snorted. “Another lap dance perhaps?”

“No. Fuck, not that kind of look. But I think we need to find out more about her.”

Trevor wasn’t entirely convinced, but he’d learned to trust the instincts of the other men on the team. A soldier’s gut feeling was often the most valuable weapon in your arsenal. “Fine. We’ll find out more.” He cocked his head. “You’ll go back in tomorrow night, then?”

Luke sighed. “That might be a problem.”

* * *

Olivia had just buttoned up her jeans and was reaching for her red wool peacoat when Tony, one of Vince’s personal guards, appeared in the doorway. “Boss wants to see you upstairs,” he informed her.

With a submissive nod, she followed the tall man out of the dressing room. Truth be told, Vince’s bodyguards terrified her. Tony, Mikey, and Sal. All three were Italian, tight-lipped and scowl-faced. And they were always armed, no matter what. Before the attack, she hadn’t understood why the owner of a strip club needed his own protection squad, but Vince had insisted it was simply a precaution. He was a wealthy man and wealthy men needed to watch their backs, he’d told her.

She knew better now. Vince Angelo was much more than the owner of a strip joint. In the last six months, she’d seen several men being carried out of the upstairs offices, bruised, beaten, usually bleeding. And the men who came by to meet with Vince a few times a week, with their olive coloring and slick business suits . . . they weren’t door-to-door salesmen, that was for sure.

Mafia
.

She quickly forced the thought away. The less she knew about what Vince was really up to, the safer she’d be. She’d realized months ago that she couldn’t count on anyone else to get her out of this mess. The cops couldn’t be trusted—they were frequent visitors to the VIP lounge, not to mention Vince’s office, which led her to deduce that he had more than one officer in his pocket. She had no friends she could turn to. Her mother—well, Olivia refused to involve her in any of this.

So really, she didn’t need—or want—to know the details of Vince’s business activities. She simply had to bide her time. Make him believe he had her undying gratitude for taking care of that dead body, make him believe she desired him the way he did her. In a few more months, she’d have her degree and enough money to leave town with her mom, and then she could put all this bullshit behind her.

She followed Tony up the spiral staircase, exhaling a breath of relief when the bodyguard took up his post at the top of the stairs, leaving her to walk the rest of the way alone.

The management quarters occupied half of the second floor, but she’d only been inside Vince’s office and the one belonging to Melinda, the club manager. At the end of the corridor was a sinister metal door that led to the rear offices, but she had no clue what really lay beyond it. Supposedly storage and administrative space, though she didn’t quite buy that.

Vince’s office was a massive room with glass windows that overlooked the club below. When she walked in, he was sitting in the plush leather chair behind his huge mahogany monstrosity of a desk.

“I heard you caught the eye of a VIP tonight,” he said without preamble. His brown eyes narrowed with displeasure.

“Yes, a man requested a private dance,” she replied carefully.

Vince crooked a finger at her. “I want you to see something.”

Swallowing, Olivia rounded the desk and tried not to cringe when Vince pulled her into his lap. He angled the computer monitor so she could see it, then typed a command on the keyboard. To her dismay, the security footage from the VIP room she’d danced in earlier popped up on the screen. He fast-forwarded her entrance and the beginning of her dance, then pressed
PAUSE
.