Savage Secrets (Titan #6) (6 page)

“What do you say?” Her fingers bent just enough to let her nails scratch the fabric of his cotton shirt, just enough so he could feel the tease on his skin. The slow scratch of her fingernails confirmed she knew torture. The move was fast enough to claim innocence and slow enough to make his entire body spring to life.

“
Por favor
?”

And there it was.

He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulder again. “Alrighty, let’s do this.”

CHAPTER SIX

Rocco had been married for five hours, and already he didn’t know if he could pull off this job unscathed. Bombs, he could do. Faking a cover? That wasn’t his scene. He checked the alarm clock on the night stand. Five hours and twelve minutes. Married life was going slowly, even if he was hitched to Caterina.

He’d been learning everything he could about Daniel Locke. The file and all of the lesser known details of his temporary life stared up at him. Not a ton of intel because no one knew a lot about Locke. Roc’s eyes wandered. He watched the dangerous beauty he now called his wife. If ever was there a reason to go undercover, she might be it. Still, his big hairy hesitation was his mindfuck. He tried to remember every trigger he’d ever experienced before a hallucination.

So far he’d come up with…nothing specific. What had happened directly before he tripped his balls off?

Watched some TV.

Drank a couple beers.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

His warning signs were clear: the tingles across his skin and the electrical zaps in his brain. Those were the only warning shots that a spell was upon him. Funny, he got almost the same feeling out in the field when the enemy was just out of sight, but attack was imminent.

Caterina had brushed his arm hopping in the taxi from her apartment to the hotel. He’d bumped against her in the hotel elevator. That had been intentional and all to make a pretty girl smile. It had worked, and
that
made him smile. But now, memorizing intel, his mind was numb.

Rocco glanced at the television, trying to relax. British humor wasn’t his thing. Maybe it went over his head. Give him some
Tosh.0
or
Duck Dynasty
any day. He laughed. Hell, if Si and Tosh ever got together, it might be one of the funniest things he’d ever see.

“What’s so funny?” Caterina scrutinized clothes in her closet like there’d be a test later. It all looked easy enough. Shirt, skirt, shoes, who cared? But with all that shuffling and studying, it was clear she wouldn’t agree.

“American stuff.” She didn’t seem the type of take his appreciation of
Pawn Stars
and
Dude, You’re Screwed
seriously. The hangers in the closet jangled as she slapped them back and forth, clearly having issues with the whole shirt-skirt-shoes debacle. “Where’d all that stuff come from?”

He hadn’t checked the clothes for him but assumed he could make fast work of it. Shirt-slacks-shoes. When was the last time he’d worn slacks? Maybe never. There was a lot of personal stuff for the Locke cover. Clothes, luggage. After agreeing to newlywed status, the pieces fell quickly into place. Fancy hotel, designer duds, a bathroom counter that was covered in all kinds of girl crap.

He sat at a small table in the suite’s bedroom. Caterina walked to the mini-fridge and pulled out a bottle of Diet Coke. “Can’t have an empty closet and…” she mouthed silently, “have it believable.”

“Right.” He slapped the folder on Daniel Locke shut. It was the only thing in the room that proved he wasn’t who he said he was. Rocco walked to the bathroom and pulled out a zippo. A flick of the flame, and the folder with its quick burning contents went up in a fiery poof. Smoky ashes and smoldering bits floated to the base of a massive tub.

One last look at the burnt evidence, and he started toward the door. A button down shirt and expensive-looking khaki pants hung on the wall. Not his typical wardrobe on a job, or ever. “This for me?”

“
Si
. Put it on.”

Right…

She waited expectantly. “Any day now.”

Roger that. Huh, he’d be unrecognizable in this garb. A minute later, that was confirmed. All clean cut, pressed, and ready for a dog and pony show with a terrorist mad man. If the guys could see him now, he’d catch a lot of hell.

“You got this.” He glared at the mirror, giving it his best I’m-gonna-kill-you glare just prove the whole GQ look didn’t take away his edge. Maybe he’d strap a knife to his ankle and add a nice Glock to his waist. Any good arms dealer would be armed.
Right
?

Adequately reassured, he turned back toward the sitting area. A silky robe hung on the back of the bathroom door, begging him to do a double take. “Holy smokes.” He unsuccessfully tried to ignore it. She wasn’t putting out, and he couldn’t make a move. The lingerie was part of their cover and had nothing to do with what would actually take place while playing the Mr. and Mrs. act.

“Almost ready?” she called from the living room as if she hadn’t been staring into her closet for hours.

He partially opened the door, and in the thirty seconds it took him to don his new wardrobe, she’d done the same thing. Bonus points to her for not preening in the bathroom for hours. Another round of bonus points because she was hovering over several handguns, inspecting her options.

One last glance at her, and he turned back toward the mirror, shaking his head at the contradictions that were Caterina Cruz. Candles rested on the tub’s ledge waiting to be burned. He picked up a small glass bottle and sniffed it. This was the least Titan moment of his life. Ah hell, but the bottle smelled like Cat.
Freakin’ pansyass
.

He put the bottle down before she caught him. The whole hotel suite smelled like that perfume, very… Caterina-esque. Rocco scrubbed a hand over his face and into his hair. What was his problem?
Get a grip
.

She knocked open the open door. “Hey.”

He jumped, not wanting to get busted ogling bottles of girly crap. Thank fuck he’d just put that bottle down.

“Ready?”

She was stunning, and he’d never described anything with that word in his life. Her glossy lips and made up eyes were more than he could take. Gone were the jeans and tank top. All American was replaced by All Star. The clothes were probably designer, fitting for an international arms dealer’s new wife. His brain scrambled because the whole expensive and extravagant thing worked on her just as well the jeans and t-shirt and her skintight black outfit from the MI6 location. Everything worked on her. “Yup. Ready.”

She smoothed the side of a light pink dress the color of cotton candy. It softened her. The woman standing there wasn’t a trained killer; she was…Mrs. Locke, and damn if he wasn’t stoked to be the Mister.

“Everything disposed of?” She eyed the trash can.

“You checking on me, Kitten?” He had a thing about trust and respect. It drove him to join the Army, pushed him to become part of Titan and strive for leadership. Trust and respect defined his world. He needed it from the team, needed it from Boss Man, but had more or less expected it from Caterina.

She waggled her eyebrows. “Maybe.”

“We’re all good.”

“Good.” She nodded and walked toward the front of their big-ass suite. The woman who had pressed her hands to his chest and purred a request to work together had been replaced by an operative forced to wear a pink dress. She was all business and as focused as he’d ever seen her. It was hot as hell.

His neck burned. His chest tightened. Rocco squeezed his eyes shut, praying that this was an over the top reaction to the skyscraper legs parading in front of him. He followed her, his feet feeling that they’d been cemented to the floor. Each step seemed heavier than the last. Piss poor timing if this was what he thought it might be…

Caterina turned around. The fabric of her dress hugged her tight, making him memorize her every move. A blur of haze blocked his view for a hot second. He focused in again on the pink and lost his sharp line of sight again.

Zip. Zip
. His ears burned with electricity. Goddamn it.

Zip. Zap. Zip
.

Panic swelled, colliding with the reaction that had already started. The one that he dreaded. His palms went clammy. This couldn’t be happening right now. Seriously. He’d will the insane episode away. Rocco sawed his teeth and ordered his lungs to breathe steadily.

Zip
. His sight went fuzzy, and his lungs revolted, doing their spastic best to throw him in Lake Crazy. The glow from the lamps became shining orbs. The pink dress spun itself into a cotton candy frenzy.
Fuck
. He couldn’t stop it and had to bolt. At least he was always a man with a plan and had booked a just-in-case hotel room a few floors down.

He could escape. Trip his ass off. Recover and rebound. It was the only plan he had, but he hadn’t planned to use it this soon.

Caterina turned back to him. Her mouth was moving. The words? What was she saying? Something…was he okay? Did he need something? Her arm stretched, and he had to go. Run. Get the hell away from her. Lord only knew what he looked like morphing into crazy-man.

His numb lips moved side to side, feeling the pins and needles. “Change of plans.” Did he sound as breathless as he felt? “Gotta run out for a little bit. Just a couple hours.”

Not giving her a chance to respond, not that he’d have a clue what she said, Rocco brushed past her. Her intoxicating scent wrapped around him, holding him, telling him it would be okay.
Stop it. Smells don’t talk
. But on this acid trip they did. He busted out the door, knowing he could make it to his hotel room and ride this trip out. The door slammed behind him, echoing like a round of applause. The ornate carpet swirled around his feet. The brightly colored patterns crept up, sliding over his fancy-dancy shoes, stroking his calves. Their touch tickled. The walls began to melt, rushing into a beige river and threatening to drown him in the hallway.

This is all a dream. All a trip. Make it to your room. Make it to your safe zone
.

He’d memorized the room number. 521. Rigged the door to stay unlocked without leaving it ajar. All he had to do was make it there.

Five.

Twenty.

One.

So close, just a few floors. He ignored the elevator and hit the stairs. No way could he get into a metal box right now. He’d go insane, claw his way out as the walls caved in. Where was his room?

Say it out loud. You won’t forget
.

“Five. Twenty. One.” With the effort required for a Tough Mudder with a hangover, he did it again. “Five. Twenty. One.”

You are stronger than this. Survive this mind melt
.

Do it
.

Now
.

And then his angel was at his side, same as last time. It was about the only saving grace he had, knowing that his hallucinations gave him a protector. With his psychedelic angel guiding him through the warping stairwell and again with the carpet that grew over him like ivy, Rocco relaxed into her care and let her save him more one time.

***

Yassine rubbed his hands together in the cold rain. Big Ben stood as a cultural icon. Historical. Recognizable. An attack would be respectable. He’d walked the area several times. It’d been harder to see inside the old clock tower. The pain of safety precautions coupled with the fact only native UK residents were allowed to tour had created a research stumbling block. But it was nothing the internet hadn’t fixed. Podcasts and videos were posted all over the web. After watching hours of them, he’d felt like he’d walked the three-hundred thirty-four steps himself a thousand times.

Not forgetting the botched bombing a few weeks prior, he knew this was the time to go big. Authorities were scrambling. Newscasts were drooling over themselves, using the name El Mateperros every chance they could on air. Nothing like a panic to up their ratings. And Yassine had plans to up the ratings. For them. For him. For the ACG.

All he needed was for this Daniel Locke to come through with the required supplies. Using a new dealer wasn’t ideal, but he’d cut ties with his usual supplier. It’d been messy. There’d been blood. Perhaps too much because his usual backups didn’t step forward to fill his order.

But Daniel Locke had. The newcomer. The man who, like himself, seemed to thrive under a veil on anonymity. No confirmed reports on where Locke came from or called home. No photographs. But superior references. Those who had worked with Locke operated as if under some kind of code. They were elite members of a secret club. He wanted in that club the way he soon wanted people to recognize his face. Very badly.

Genius, really. Locke was smart.

Yassine was smart. The two could be good partners.

If Locke was the key to Yassine’s successful attack on Big Ben, then they could have many happy years to come. But, if they couldn’t strike a deal, or if Locke wasn’t what he said he was, couldn’t do what the rumor mill promised he could do, then the ACG would move on. Yassine was still working on his old distributors, convincing them future mistakes wouldn’t be made and that he was a trustworthy partner. The ACG had a time-sensitive attack looming. He needed a supplier
and
a backup. Wiping a few raindrops off his cheeks, he embraced the cold rain and savored the feeling of it on his skin. Just a few more weeks before the ACG became a commonplace threat, and El Mateperros was a celebrated terrorist.