Servicing the Target Read online

  She eyed the dark clouds and sighed.

  * * * *

  That night, drenched to the skin and getting grumpier by the minute, Anne knocked on the fugitive’s door. Covert body armor when soaked? Really heavy.

  The gray-haired woman who opened the door saw Anne’s dark green polo shirt with “THE BROTHERS BAIL BONDS” logo and the weapons belt with the .38 S&W and Taser. Dismay filled her face.

  Pushing her wet hair out of her face, Anne spoke loudly to be heard over the rolling thunder and noise of the wind and rain. It was doubtful the fugitive would be out partying in this mess. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to report that your son missed his court date. Is he here?”

  “Ah. No. No, he isn’t.”

  The poor woman. Mrs. Wheeler was caught in an impossible situation. No matter how much a mother wanted to protect her offspring, some children made that almost impossible.

  The lady was also a really poor liar.

  Pity softened Anne’s voice even as her hand behind her back motioned for her team to get positioned. “Mrs. Wheeler, you put your house up as collateral for your son’s bail. I’m so sorry, but if I don’t take Edward in, you will lose this place.”

  The woman’s face paled. “I can’t afford to lose…”

  God, this was the saddest part of the job—seeing the trauma that a criminal inflicted on his own family. “You tried your best.” Anne upped the dominance in her tone, the one that had her slaves kneeling without a thought. “Let us in now, Ma’am.”

  The woman stepped back.

  Anne’s pulse increased. The skip had a history of violence, one reason she’d called in the team instead of picking him up herself.

  Mitchell had already disappeared around the back to watch the rear and south side of the house. Dude stationed himself to guard the front and north side. They sounded off in her walkie-talkie headset.

  Exits secured, Anne entered.

  Aaron, a retired cop from Texas, followed her in. A good man; a good teammate.

  A second later, her cousin, Robert, swaggered in, hand on his holstered firearm. The same weapon that a fugitive had kicked out of his hand last week.

  If Anne were given the choice, the idiot wouldn’t be issued anything deadlier than a squirt gun. He sure wouldn’t be on this team that she’d built. But her uncles—the owners of the bail company—had, as usual, caved in to his whining.

  The distinctive click and thud of someone playing pool came from a room to the left. At least one person was in there.

  Anne glanced right and noted what appeared to be a couple of bedrooms and a bathroom. “Robert, check the rooms to the right, please, and remain on guard here. Call if you find the skip. Aaron, let’s go left.”

  Robert puffed up, mouth turning mulish. “But, I want to—”

  “Do it now.” Anne’s cold stare reminded him that she was in charge.

  He stomped off, his “fucking bitch” quite audible.

  She exchanged exasperated glances with Aaron, then led the way across the faded carpet to where the dining room had been turned into a game room. That poor mother.

  A quick glance showed a man playing a solitary game of pool.

  Anne mentally checked his appearance against the arrest record photo she’d obtained during preparation. One hundred percent match.

  She walked into the room. “Mr. Edward Wheeler, I’m with The Brothers Bail Bonds and here to pick you up. There is a bench warrant out for your failure to appear at your court date.”

  “Hell with that.” Starting toward the kitchen door, he glanced out the window and spotted Mitchell in the middle of the backyard. Escape route blocked, Wheeler spun—and charged Anne.

  Fun. Smiling slightly, she stepped out of his way, caught his arm on the way past, and redirected him into the doorframe.

  He hit with a pleasant thud—but hey, she’d avoided sending him into the wall where the mother’s pictures might be damaged.

  Aaron tackled him.

  On his stomach, Wheeler kicked and cursed, but couldn’t get enough leverage to struggle effectively.

  What a jerk. Making his mother risk her house because he chose to sell meth to children.

  Anne pulled her cuffs off her belt and secured his left wrist as he swore at her, using the f-word as a verb, adjective, and adverb.

  “Young men today lack originality,” Aaron complained. Then again, he’d married a history professor who could curse for hours without using a four-letter word.

  “There he is!” Robert charged through the door, thumping into her as he tried to grab the perp’s free arm. “Give me your wrist, you asshole.”

  Anne scowled, easily pinned the skip’s tattooed arm, and finished cuffing him. “Get back to your post, Ro—”

  A roar came from the doorway.

  Anne caught movement from the corner of her eye and flung herself sideways. The boot aimed for her head slammed into her hip. Pain blasted into her. The kick knocked her into the pool table, and her head hit with a nasty crack.

  Ears ringing, she shook her head, trying to clear her vision. Son of a bitch. Apparently Wheeler had a buddy.

  Footsteps thudded as he stomped toward her.

  Move! She rolled, kicked, and nailed his knee. The asshole buddy went down like a felled bull.

  Head still spinning, she pushed to her feet, tested that her leg would hold her weight—her hip screamed a protest—and delivered a carefully placed kick into his testicles that would eliminate further attacks until after they’d left.

  Holding his head, Aaron staggered to his feet. Apparently the bull had got him on the way to her.

  Robert stood beside the fugitive. Doing nothing.

  She eyed him. “Way to back up your teammates, Robert.”

  He flushed. “I secured the perp.”

  “Anne had already cuffed him,” Aaron pointed out.

  Anne glanced at the downed bull and saw the remnants of shaving lotion on his cheeks and jaw. Hair wet. Shirtless. “You didn’t check the bathroom, did you, Robert? And if you’d stayed on guard as ordered, he wouldn’t have gotten through.”

  Robert’s lips twisted in a sneer. “You gonna cry because you got hurt?”

  Oh, honestly. The station where she’d once been assigned as a cop had been famous for its misogynistic attitudes. And now she had to deal with it here.

  Insecure men who were threatened by competent women were a pain in the ass.

  But the stupid bullshit they spouted no longer made her furious. Now, the feeble yapping of men like her cousin was merely irritating, similar to the buzzing of a persistent fly.

  “Actually, Robert, I’ll simply note in the report that you disobeyed orders and were out of position which resulted in unnecessary violence and injury during a pickup. I’ll also add that you sat on your ass while your teammates were fighting.” She motioned to the fugitive. “Grab him, please, Aaron. I’ll call Dude and Mitchell in.”

  Robert glared, muttered, “Cunt,” and stalked out of the room.

  She shook her head, frustration simmering in her gut. His insolence could be ignored, but his incompetence and inability to work as part of the team put everyone at risk.

  As Aaron led Wheeler out to the van, Anne called in Mitchell and Dude, receiving “Good going, boss,” from Mitchell, and “Rock on,” from Dude.

  “Miss, please.” On the porch steps, the mother intercepted Anne. “My house? Since Eddie fought back, does that mean my house will be lost?”

  Anne took her hands and spoke gently. “No, Mrs. Wheeler. As soon as the jail takes custody of him, the collateral papers are no longer in force.” She squeezed the trembling fingers. “Your home is safe.”

  As she walked out into the downpour and wind, she glanced at her watch. Still fairly early. She might as well dispatch Mitchell to deliver the fugitive to the jail and fill out the Statement of Surrender form. The rest of them would see if any other skips had decided to stay home in the storm.

  * * * *

  The wall scon
ces in Z’s lanai cast enough light that Ben could see the rain pouring down. Drops slammed against the sidewalk violently enough to bounce. Pools of water were streaming through the tropical landscaping.

  His buddies stopped behind him in the open screen door.

  Lightning seared his eyes followed by an ear-splitting clap. As the cool air turned hot and arid, filled with the grit of a sandstorm, Ben froze. All around the team, flashes from artillery shells lit the night with cracks like thunder.

  No.

  Slowly inhale. In. Out. He was in Florida. It was raining. He growled, half under his breath, “Damned thunderstorms.”

  “No shit,” Digger’s eyes met his in complete understanding. “Sounds too fucking much like an aerial bombardment.”

  Z walked up behind them and set his hand on Ben’s shoulder. Warmth and reassurance flowed from the strong grip. After a second, he asked, “Can you stay a moment?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You are, indeed.” Z squeezed his shoulder before releasing him. “This is another matter.”

  What would that be? “Yes, sir.”

  Z turned his attention to the others. “Gentlemen, I’ll see you next month.”

  “Later, Dr. Grayson. Later, Haugen,” Digger said, starting a chorus of good-byes.

  Ben lifted his hand as the men headed out.

  Guided by the rain-dimmed solar lights, they dashed for the fence gate and the Shadowlands parking lot.

  A long zigzag of lightning lit the night as Ben returned to the screened and covered lanai. Z had resumed his seat on the dark-red cushioned, oak-and-iron chair.

  “What’s up?” Ben asked, sidestepping a hanging planter. A chill breeze rustled the trailing blooms and carried the scent of ocean and tropical flowers.

  “Can you sit for a minute, please?”

  Hell, that didn’t sound good. Ben hadn’t had any problems recently—nothing he couldn’t handle, so he doubted Dr. Zachary Grayson, psychologist, had called him back to assess his PTSD. More likely, he was dealing with Z, the owner of the Shadowlands, who was one of the most protective motherfuckers Ben had ever met.

  And stubborn as hell. Refusal was futile.

  Ben scowled. “If you’re planning to grill me for more than five minutes, I want a beer.” Since two of the veterans were recovering alcoholics, the psychologist didn’t serve anything stronger than sodas during the sessions.

  Z gave him a relaxed grin. “Fair enough.”

  Against the wall, the fridge was filled with junk food, healthy snacks, juices—and alcohol of all kinds. As in the Shadowlands, Z made a point of stocking people’s favorite drinks. Ben looked for a green label and found a Brooklyn Lager. Thinking of the strain in Z’s face, he also splashed a shot of Glenlivet into a glass.

  He handed Z the glass of scotch, then dropped into a facing chair and set his feet up on the heavy oak coffee table. He had to appreciate a décor designed for living as well as style. “What’s on your mind, boss? Problems?”

  “Not exactly problems.” Z eyed his drink and took a sip. “Although I see you for group sessions and serve as your employer, I also consider you a friend.”

  Well, damn. Didn’t that give him a fucking fine glow? Unable to come up with a suitable response—he didn’t have Z’s diplomatic vocabulary—he muttered, “Same here.” He tipped the bottle back and drank down a good third to get his balance back.

  Heartwarming words or not, he had a feeling he should’ve escaped with the others. “Sounds as if you’re leading up to something.”

  “That’s a very good guess.” Z swirled his scotch and pinned Ben with a gray gaze. “By relieving you for an hour last Saturday, I essentially gave Mistress Anne permission to play with you. Did I make a mistake?”

  Yep, his guess had been spot on. Unfortunately, he didn’t have an easy yes or no answer since anything he said could cause problems for Anne. Ben selected his words with the exact brevity and care he’d give to an interrogator. “No mistake. I liked the scene.”

  Amusement showed in Z’s expression before he set the glass down.

  Oh shit.

  Zachary studied the man sitting across from him. Muscles slightly tensed, eyes level but wary, face blanked of expression. Protective posture. Protective thoughts. For Anne.

  Of course.

  Benjamin had grown up on New York streets, caring for his mother and sisters. He’d joined the U.S. Army to protect his country and moved into the Rangers to do an even better job. Anne might be the Dominant, but this soldier operated under his own priorities.

  Zachary did the same.

  “Should I sign you up for membership in the club?” he asked in a flanking maneuver.

  “Shit.” Benjamin choked on his beer and coughed. “Ah, no. That’d be like pulling the trigger before aiming.”

  “I see.” What he could also see was that Benjamin had, indeed, enjoyed the session and wanted more.

  As the Domme, Anne had the next move. She’d apparently not made one.

  These weren’t two people he’d have predicted to be a good match, but their scene on Saturday had held tremendous energy and chemistry. They’d been caught up in each other.

  Normally a good thing. But…

  Z regarded his glass, seeing the reflection of the lightning in the amber liquid. Although the scene in the Shadowlands had shown that Benjamin was sexually submissive, he didn’t possess a slave’s mentality, and it was doubtful the man could adapt to that lifestyle.

  He doubted if Anne would even allow Ben to try.

  “Spit it out, Z.”

  Z looked up. “Mistress Anne is one of the finest Dominants I’ve ever met. She is also exceptionally reserved. Her slaves don’t live with her. Her control when she is with them is absolute. She picks her ‘boys’ carefully and they worship the ground she walks on. I’m not sure—”

  “I’m not her type. I knew that.” Ben’s jaw was firm. “And you delivered your warning.”

  “I’m not finished. If a submissive isn’t her slave, she might play with him in the club. Once or twice.”

  “Right.”

  “She’s also a sadist.”

  “I do know that”—Ben held up his hand—“and I know she went lightly on me last week.”

  As thunder boomed, the wind picked up, sending cold, moist air across the lanai. The scones on the wall flickered.

  Uneasy, Zachary glanced at the steps leading to the third floor, the private quarters. He’d left Jessica on the couch, Galahad on her lap, both contentedly watching an old Die Hard movie. He checked his cell phone. No, she hadn’t messaged.

  “Is Jessica all right?” Benjamin rose. “I’ll get out of your way so you can check on her.”

  “Nice try, Benjamin, but I’m doing that now. Remotely.” Zachary half-smiled. “She gets grumpy if she thinks I’m ‘babysitting’ her.” So he texted, “I’ll be up in a few minutes. Can I bring you something?”

  “Shhh. This is the best part of the movie!”

  Damn, he loved his woman. “She’s fine.” He sat back and continued with the topic. “If Mistress Anne doesn’t call you, will you be comfortable with that? With seeing her pick up a new slave?”

  He got a frown. “Z, we shared a scene, not a marriage.” Unfortunately, the words weren’t echoed by Benjamin’s emotions, which were primarily regret and disappointment.

  “D/s sessions can unsettle submissives, especially new ones. When you trust someone to care for you—and they do well for you—then a bond develops. It’s easy to confuse that tie with other feelings.”

  “Good to know.” Benjamin finished off his beer. “My friend and counselor,” he said in a lightly ironic tone, “what happens between me and the women in my life—whether the woman is Dominant or vanilla—stays with me. All respect to you, Z, but butt out.”

  There were reasons he’d always respected the big Ranger. “Sergeant, you know I won’t do that.”

  “You’re fucking stubborn.”

  “Indeed. Sinc
e you enjoyed the scene, should I match you up with other Dommes?”

  “No.” Benjamin stood. “Time for me to be going.” He touched his forefinger to his forehead in a half-salute and turned toward the door.

  Zachary saw the determined jaw, the set of his shoulders. The sergeant had listened…and now would go his own way. Fair enough.

  Lightning struck so close that he could almost hear the sizzle.

  The power went out.

  In the sudden darkness, Zachary rose and paused to orient himself. “I need to get to Jessica.” The club floors had low-level battery-operated emergency lights as required, but he’d never extended them to his private quarters. He usually appreciated the lull a power outage created in his busy life.

  He’d never thought about having a pregnant wife and no power.

  A chair creaked and Benjamin said, “I’ll hang out down here for a bit in case you need help with anything.”

  “Thank you.” Using his cell for light, Zachary ran up the stairs to the third floor entry. A kitchen drawer yielded two flashlights. “Jessica, where are you?”

  “Living room.”

  She was still on the couch, the cat on her lap, and a delightful pout on her face. “The power cut out right when McClane was having a shootout. That’s so not fair.”

  Damn, she delighted him. He crouched in front of her, running his palms over her round belly. His child was growing in there, surrounded by the woman he loved. “I’ll have a word with the storm and register your complaint. How are you doing?”

  “My back hurts. And I have to pee again, but Galahad says he doesn’t want to move.”

  She had a soft spot for the battle-scarred cat. Ruthlessly, Zachary picked the feline up and set him on the floor, winning an impertinent flick of the tail.

  He put his hands under Jessica’s arms and stood, lifting her to her feet. So tiny to hold. Such a resilient, sturdy personality. She awed him at times. He kissed the top of her head. “Let’s go, little one.”