Justice (Bad Boys of X-Ops #2)
JUSTICE
BAD BOYS OF X-OPS II
RIE WARREN
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Justice
Copyright © 2016 by Rie Warren
Excerpt from Storm © 2016 by Rie Warren
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations.
https://www.riewarren.com
Warren, Rie.
Justice / Rie Warren – 1st ed
1.Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Alpha Male—Fiction. 3. Black Ops—Fiction. 4. Erotica—Fiction. 5. Action—Fiction. 6. Thriller—Fiction. 7. Military—Fiction I. Title
ASIN: B01DMBXE42
Cover Design
By Judi Perkins of Concierge Literary Designs
http://www.clpromotionsky.net
Editing
By Gilly Wright http://www.gillywright.com
Table of Contents
JUSTICE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Keep reading for the first chapter of
Books By Rie Warren
Connect with Rie
Acknowledgments
About Rie
Author’s Note
Second verse, same as the first. You know that song, right? I messed up the lyrics—good thing, too, because otherwise I’d have to get permission from the Violent Femmes.
In other words, here’s an abridged version of the note from Walker’s book: real places, fictional work.
Ready to rock it out with Justice?
XOXO, Rie~
Chapter One
Foggy Bottom
STORM, WALKER, BANE, AND I had been ordered to show our faces at Operations three fucking months after the final shit went down in Beirut.
The room was hidden several levels underground in the heart of DC. Smack dab in the hub of the US government, even though T-Zone wasn’t officially recognized by the POTUS, Congress, the Senate, and definitely not by Homeland Security or their international counterpart, the OSCE.
To enter the facility we had to scan our thumbprints—no one but Feebs carried official ID badges these days—go through the TSA-style X-RAY, and log in our weapons on the terminal under a number assigned to each of us.
Everything was computer activated. No muss. No fuss. The kind of shit that gave me wet dreams.
What?
Before T-Zone recruited me, I’d always wanted to be a hacktivist.
Gears and guns got Storm off.
Walker? Explosives. Obviously.
Bane liked to plug people full of holes, when he wasn’t patching folks up. The dude had issues.
As for me, I was into cyberspace and the way the worldwide web influenced the world of politics. Take Majedah Chehab’s case. I’d dropped the audio of her charming husband’s confession into the inboxes of a few influential underground groups in a handful of strategic countries, and the rest was remade history.
Majedah exonerated.
Qasim Hassan implicated.
Peoples’ fortunes and fates could change with just one press of a button, one leaked lie spun as the truth, or a stupid one-hundred-and-forty-character tweet about a celeb faux pas.
In this day and age, that kind of power in the wrong hands was goddamn dangerous.
I arrived first at the T-Zone location. I found my favorite seat around the long oval table and tapped another thumb scanner to bring a screen up in front of me. Op T-Zone’s logo blazed out from the monitor. I punched in my code to load my case files and swiped through them.
Tripoli, Islamabad, Jordan, Beirut . . .
Walker strolled into the room, the door closing automatically with a silent whoosh of air. He looked loose-boned and happy as hell. As happy as Walker ever got, anyway. A nasty plastics expert with a dry sense of humor, he’d been a grim motherfucker when I’d met him more than a year ago. By reputation, Walker was not a fan of new people, so I’d had my work cut out for me after his former partner, Hunter, had cut bait and cut loose from T-Zone.
I stood, and we clasped hands.
“Hey. So guess who I saw in Mt. Pleasant?” Walker asked.
“No idea. Santa freakin’ Claus?”
“Don’t be a schmuck, Major Douchewad.” He lifted his hand to crack me on the side of the skull, but I twisted his arm behind his back.
“Wasn’t a Major. I was Gunnery Sergeant.” I grunted when Walker struggled against my hold.
He wrestled free with a slick twist of his limbs. “Ran into Bo Maverick.”
“No shit? Captain Maverick? How’s he doing?”
“Seeing a shrink and hating every single second of it.”
I chuckled. “Sounds about right. Think he’ll make it?”
“About as well as any of us do.”
“Yeah. I guess you could say my reentry into civilian life was a failure.” Shaking my head, I sat back down.
“Bo’s trying though. Trying Hunter’s patience.” Walker laughed. “But someone’s gotta take over that job now that I’m all adjusted and shit.”
I looked Walker up and down. “I have to admit, un-marriage looks good on you, man.”
The long braid down his back was black as the baddest sin when he edged a hip to the table. “You should try it, Jus. Any more international conquests and I swear to fuck there will be no more prison breaks for you.”
“Did someone say prison break?” Storm strode inside, raking his hands through the dark hair sweeping his shoulders.
He twitched an eyebrow, highlighting the deep scar bisecting it.
“Prison Break.” Bane shouldered through the door. “Good show.”
And with that one sentence the man who preferred taking action to using his words had already almost completed his speaking quota for the day.
The four of us had been on paid leave of absence while the whole Majedah Chehab mission had been picked over by every single analyst in T-Z. Total waste of energy and nothing short of bikeshedding in my opinion. But hey, if the Talking Heads—what I liked to call the stuffed suits who rode desks in some other part of the building we had no access to—wanted to go over every morsel of intel we’d uncovered while the rest of us got the real shit done, more power to them.
We all hoped the reason we’d been called in today was to get put back in the field. Not another wrist-slap from the nameless, faceless higher-ups. It was late June, and we’d been sitting on our asses so long I bet I wasn’t the only one close to committing hari-kari just to release the pent-up energy.
; This whole up-close-and-personal thing was entirely new since Blaize had taken charge of our team. Unlike our last commander who simply called himself Mr. X—really—Mizz Blaize Carmichael was all hands-on.
Bet Storm wanted her to be hands on with him. The smooth bayou bad boy almost choked on his tongue every time she walked into the war room.
He had no problem working that tongue right now in an effort to get the scuttlebutt on my latest jail time. He slid into a chair across from me, fingers steepled to press against his dimple-dented chin.
“What wassat about you and prison again?” Storm’s words slid out in his lazy Louisiana accent like a freakin’ pirogue rolling along the bayou.
I blamed the behind-bars bullshit in Singapore on Blaize and our probation. Bored and restless, I’d flown overseas, hooked up with a sexy model-type, and ended up in the slammer while my come was still warm inside the condom.
How the hell was I supposed to know the woman was married to the Deputy Commissioner of the Singapore Police Force? I had really bad fucking luck with the ladies, an even worse reputation for getting my cock off at inappropriate times. I’d probably end up screwing Putin’s mistress next.
The chick had been hot in the sack, though. And she’d momentarily relieved the itch, the loneliness, the nothingness that swallowed all possibility of restful sleep at night.
The itch had multiplied while I’d rotted in a jail cell—probably got a case of fucking lice waiting for Walker to save my ass.
He and Jade had showed . . . three dull days later.
Assholes.
Walker’s guise that time had been that of a shit-hot lawyer, Jade’s a fancy diplomat working on my behalf.
When fast-talking or the threat of fake litigation hadn’t worked, Walker had simply blown a hole in the exterior wall.
Big surprise.
I scratched my chin, looking around at Storm, Bane, and Walker. “Had a little problem in Singapore. Jade and Walker helped me out.”
“Helped you out?” Walker planted his boots on the table, popping his knuckles.
“Broke me out.” I pulled my phone from my pocket, thumbing through pictures. “But can you fucking blame me?”
I showed the dudes the woman’s latest selfie on Instagram. Not that I stalked my conquests or ever contacted them again after the one night easy-lay layover in any given country. But I was a fuckin’ guy, after all.
“You did her?” Walker asked.
“Three times. One night.” I didn’t brag much, either.
“Unreal tits.” Storm squinted at the screen.
“Unreal is right. Implants. Season Six, Nip/Tuck.” Bane folded his arms across his chest. “Stopped watching after that shit.”
Walker sat, chuckling at his phone as it dinged with a message. “I told Jade you’re boasting. She’s not impressed, and she says she’s not gonna have your back again.”
After all the crap we’d gone through with Jade in Beirut, Hell’s Kitchen, Beirut again, and then Singapore, I’d started to like the woman who worked for the British Special War Ministry.
“Huh.” Leaning my elbows on the table, I asked Walker, “Did she get my thank you gift?”
I’d sent her a battle-ready, katana clay-tempered samurai sword sheathed in a custom-made, glossy green saya. All the rage for ladies, or at least one of Jade Huntington’s hardcore caliber.
“She did.” He smirked. “Wasn’t as good as Madge’s.”
“The fuck you say.” Consider my curiosity sparked. “Majedah sent you guys something?”
“Oh yeah.” Walker sat back with a secret smile.
“What?” Storm pressed for the info.
Flipping up a photo on his phone, Walker proudly displayed a mud-splattered, formerly fancy-looking sedan that was allll the hell beat up.
“That hunk of metal?” The corner of Bane’s lip curled up.
“2015 Bentley Continental GT V88. Looked a damn sight better before Jade and I took it drag racing all over the ranch.” Walker’s wistful smile broadened into a grin. “And other things.”
“Jade, you say?” Storm squinted his blue eyes. “Can’t believe you’re really still putting it to her.”
Walker glared. “You better fucking watch what you say about her, man, before I rearrange your brains inside that thick skull of yours.”
Storm’s squint turned frosty and a muscle clenched in his jaw.
“Sleeping with the Enemy.” Bane was seriously talkative tonight, and asking for trouble if Walker was serious with the threats.
“She’s not the enemy anymore,” uttering through clenched teeth, Walker rose to his full height, planting his hands on the table in front of him. “Never really was.”
“Oh yeah, hombre? What about that time in Somalia?” Storm met his stance from across the table. “How many times did you say you were gonna kill her?”
“Moot fucking point, Storm. We’re in love.”
“So she’s staying with the SWM.” Storm went at it like a dog with a bone.
He probably just needed to get laid.
“Yeah. She is.”
“Nice. Mr. & Mrs. Smith much?” Bane grunted.
“Jade’s way hotter than Angelina Jolie,” I mentioned.
Then Walker turned his not-impressed stare on me.
“So anyway, the food in the Singapore Slinger tasted like four dicks of death.” I made nicey-nice, trying to cut the raw tension building to detonation point in the room.
We might be unarmed, but hand-to-hand combat was as familiar to us as breathing, and it probably wouldn’t be a savvy idea to be in the middle of a blood-soaked brawl when Blaize finally showed.
With a hand cranked to Walker’s shoulder, I towed him back to his seat.
Thankfully, he took the hint.
“Four dicks of death?” He relaxed with an arm flung over the back of his chair. “Sounds like an STD gone wild through mutation. Right, Storm? You’d know all about that.”
“Fuck you,” Storm gritted out. “Next time I drop you in the hot zone it’ll be another HAHO jump for you.”
Walker’s face blanched. “I hate heights.”
“I know.” Storm’s scarred eyebrow—the one that made him look all the more menacing—rose to an evil angle and matched his sinister laugh.
Chuckling to myself, I pulled a battered notebook from my backpack. I flicked the cap off a pen and started making notes.
“What you scribblin’ there?” Walker angled his head in my direction.
“I’m writing a book.” I crooked my forearm over the notebook containing my scrawling, slanted-off-the-side handwriting. “Selling you bastards out about our ops. Instant NYT Bestseller shit. It’s the way to go, didn’t you know?”
“You wanna get murdered in your sleep?” Storm asked.
“I don’t sleep.” I wrote another line. “Besides, this is my get-rich-quick scheme.”
“Why don’t you just hack into Wall Street and make some easy millions?” Walker tapped a finger on the table.
“Because that’s cheating the system.”
“And you’re such a fucking a Boy Scout?” Storm tag-teamed on me.
Bane snatched the leather-bound folio from my hands.
He scanned the page I’d been working on. “Bullshit. This is porn.”
Walker perked up. “Lemme have a look.”
Bane skidded the book across the table.
“Damn.” Whistling, Walker shook his head. “That’s some smut you got there.”
“Smut?” Storm scratched his stubbled jaw. “What’s that got to do with us and our missions?”
“Speak for yourself,” I muttered testily.
Storm reached for the notebook and scanned back several pages. “But where’s the plot?”
I frowned. “There’s plot in there.”
They stared at me.
“I need a fucking option-out of this gig, just in case.” Grabbing back the book, I slammed it closed.
Leaning forward, Walker pulled h
is black braid over his shoulder. “So, if you’re so into this romance shit, you ever read anything by Nicky Love?”
“It’s not romance. It’s a thriller. Suspense.”
“Based on our missions.” Storm still looked unconvinced.
“You know Nicky Love?” Bane peered at Walker, ignoring the rest of us.
“Yeah. Married into Retribution MC. Met him a couple times. And his wife.”
“Huh. Cool. That’s some good paranormal romance right there.” Bane nodded.
What in the fuck?
I could barely believe these dudes knew how to read weapons manuals full of illustrations and diagrams let alone full-length books.
“Should we talk about the real problem before Blaize turns up and busts our nads?” I changed the subject and closed the fucking book on my book.
Shuffling his chair forward, Walker stared around the table, suddenly deadly serious. “Yeah. Let’s do that.” He rapped his knuckles on the metal surface. “Anyone got any ideas about who leaked Jade’s and my locations over and over again?”
An air of suspicion hung in the air, thick as cloud cover.
“You suspect one of us?” Storm sneered.
“Actually, I don’t. If I did, the culprit would already be dead.” Walker’s lethal smile was just this side of serial killer.
What a pleasant bunch we were.
“What I can’t figure out”—he continued—“is how we got found out first in Mt. Pleasant, then Hell’s Kitchen, and the reservation if one of you didn’t talk.”
I filtered through all the intel from his off-the-rails mission and came up with nada. The other guys looked blank, too.
“There’s gotta be something we’re missing,” Walker insisted.
“Okay. Who did you contact while you were on the run?” I asked.
“No one but you fuckers. Jade only got in touch with her people once we made South Dakota.” He winced as if that was a painful memory. “Hunter those two times, but he’s as solid as they come, and we’ve already been over that.”
He rubbed a hand across his jaw. Then he sat up like a steel rod had been shoved up his ass.
“Blaize. I’d been avoiding talking to her because I didn’t want to listen to her bitching and moaning about the botched mission, but I got distracted. I answered one of her calls that second day in Hell’s Kitchen.”