Bad Attitude

  The man still didn't crack any sort of emotion. "Good, then you're already acquainted with our methods. Saves me a lot of training time and you a lot of surprises."

  Steele shook his head. They were full of more shit than a cow pasture. "Look, don't jerk me off. I don't have time for this--"

  "Don't you?" the woman asked. "Seems to me time is the only thing you have a lot of."

  He glared at her. "Ha. Ha. Why don't you go find some other slob for this suicide adventure? I know the Army isn't going to just let me go."

  "And neither are we," the man said. "We never let our people just go."

  Why didn't that surprise him? Probably because they all wore the demeanor of...well, for lack of a better term, Satan. "What are you? Wolfram and Hart?"

  The Vietnamese-American woman laughed as she caught his reference to the Angel television show. "Oh, no, sweetie, they just take your soul for service. We intend to take even more than that."

  Now that was comforting.

  The man rubbed his right eye. "Here's the deal we're offering. You work our project to our complete satisfaction, and instead of spending the next twenty-five years peeling potatoes and doing embroidery for the Army, you work for us. In effect, we own you, night and day."

  Now that just sounded dandy...not. He wasn't about to trade one crap-ass situation for another one.

  "Slavery is against the Constitution."

  "Tell it to the warden," the Vietnamese-American woman said.

  Steele watched as she opened a manila folder and flipped through its contents.

  He didn't believe them for a minute about any of this, but his curiosity had got the better of him. He tilted his head back to try and see what she was looking at, but he couldn't tell.

  Instinctively though, he already knew this scenario.

  "So, who do you want me to kill?"

  The man was the one who answered. "No one said--"

  "Cut the bullshit," Steele snapped, interrupting him. He wanted the truth, and he wanted it in plain English. "I'm not stupid. I only have one skill in life. I'm a sniper. For you to be here, it means you have someone you want dead, pretty damn badly, and you can't find anyone else dumb enough to do it."

  "Not true." The standing woman spoke finally, in a voice that reminded him of Lauren Bacall. It was deep and lightly laced with a New England accent of some sort. "There are plenty of men dumb enough for it. Just none that are as talented as you are, Mr. Steele."

  He laughed bitterly at that. "I hate it whenever someone calls me Mr. Steele. It reminds me of my third-grade teacher, who'd gone to parochial schools as a kid. She'd use that right before she whacked my knuckles with a ruler or embarrassed me in front of the other students."

  She narrowed those green eyes on him as if she was torn between being ticked and amused. "Be that as it may, we do need you in particular to complete this assignment."

  He snorted at that. Assignment. What a great euphemism for what they wanted. "What is it with you government assholes that you just can't say anything in plain English? You always have to beat around the bush and use euphemisms or fucked-up acronyms for everything."

  "Fine." The green-eyed woman moved forward to glare at him. She stood just a few inches from the table. Close enough that he could tell she was wearing expensive perfume that seemed at odds with her tough stance. "We need you to kill an assassin before he executes his target. Either you eat the bear, or the bear eats you, Mr. Steele. Or, to humor you, in plain English--you find and kill the assassin, or we kill you. End of story."

  Steele scoffed. "If you're so gung-ho to kill someone, why don't you kill the assassin yourself?"

  She shrugged nonchalantly. "I would if I knew who he was. But unfortunately, I don't. Nor do I have the skills you possess."

  The other woman shut the folder and placed it on the table. "We know all about your training in the Shadow Corps, Mr. Steele. We even have one of your old comrades on our payroll, but he unfortunately cracked himself into a tree while extreme skiing and put a severe crimp in our plans. Since he's out of commission for a while, he recommended you as a replacement. It appears he was unaware of your current housing status."

  The man slid the folder toward him. "If you agree to work for us, we are in position to fully expunge your record. You will be given an honorable discharge from the Army, and this little jail stint will be erased from all but your nightmares."

  Now that was something he'd kill for...

  Maybe.

  Steele opened the folder that held the discharge papers, already signed, as well as an order from the Pentagon and the governor releasing him from custody.

  He was impressed. And when he looked at the paper underneath that outlined his new pay and benefits, he was even more impressed.

  But there were still a lot of unanswered questions. "Who are you people?"

  The man sat back. "You don't need to know that right now. After you accept our offer, then we'll talk more about the details."

  It sounded good. Too good, in fact, and he wasn't doe-eyed enough to think for one minute that they were being benevolent toward him. Nothing in life came without a price that was usually too steep to comprehend until it was too late. "There's one detail I want answered now."

  "And that is?"

  "After I do this job, what happens to me?"

  The man's blue eyes pierced him. "You will continue working for us. We in effect are your parole officers."

  "Only we carry guns," the green-eyed woman said. "Big guns. And we have no inhibitions against using them. You screw us, you betray us and we kill you. Clear-cut. Bye-bye, Mr. Steele. Is that plain enough for you?"

  He shook his head at her coldness. "I'll bet you sleep well at night."

  "You have no idea."

  Steele flipped through the pages in the folder as he thought about what they were offering him. How could he say no?

  How could he say yes?

  Most importantly, what the hell was he getting himself into? He suddenly felt like Joe Hardy standing in front of Mr. Apple-gate. Vaguely he wondered if the sassy woman who was still standing was named Lola.

  But then, the devil was always portrayed as an old man, and the one in front of him...

  Well, then again, there was something almost evil about him.

  "So how long do I have to make my decision?"

  The Vietnamese-American woman shrugged. "The judge said twenty-five years without the possibility of parole. That'll make you what, fifty-four years old when you get out? Really sucks, doesn't it? No hot women in short skirts to chase after because you're an old geezer with no prospects. Best years of your life gone while you fight off men who think you have a cute little ass they'd love to jump on--"

  Steele screwed his face up in disgust. "Is she like this at home?"

  Still the man showed no emotion. "Trust me, she's being nice to you. She's usually much worse." He looked at the woman by his side. "You feeling okay, Tiger?"

  "Never better."

  Steele drew a deep breath, but at the end of it, he knew what they did. He didn't really have a choice. The last thing he wanted was to waste his life behind bars.

  Like the green-eyed woman had said, it sucked being here.

  He sat back as he eyed the three of them. "Don't you guys want to know if I'm innocent of trying to kill him?"

  "It doesn't matter to us," the man said quietly. "Besides, even if you'd meant to kill him, you'd lie and say you didn't."

  Steele rose slowly to his feet and slid the folder across the table toward the man. He looked at the women, then stared unflinchingly at the guy. His anger poured through him, and he was sure it was gleaming at them from his eyes. "If I'd meant to kill that sonovabitch, he'd have been dead where he stood. I don't make those kinds of mistakes. One shot. One kill. I live and die by my sniper's code."

  "And that's why we want you, Mr. Steele," the seated woman said calmly.

  The man stared at him without blinking. "So what's your answer?"

/>   "Get me the fuck out of here."

  The man and woman stood up in unison. The Vietnamese-American woman lifted a small shopping bag from the floor, then handed it to him while the other woman and man moved toward the door.

  "Welcome back to the world, Mr. Steele," she said with a smile that was an odd combination of demure and evil. "Get dressed, and Joe will be waiting outside to walk you out of here."

  Steele was amazed by her words. It couldn't be that easy, could it?

  He took the plastic bag and opened it to find a pair of jeans and a button-down denim shirt, along with a pair of Nike running shoes. All of them were in his size.

  Yeah, these people were definitely spooks.

  "I'm Joe," the man said at last. "Just knock on the door when you're ready to leave."

  Steele stood in silence as they left him alone. This had to be the most surreal moment of his life. It was even stranger than his first day in prison.

  "Oh God, don't think about that."

  There should be a way to permanently burn certain memories out of the human mind.

  But soon, if they were to be believed, this whole thing would be behind him. Part of him still couldn't believe it. To be outside again without some asshole standing over him with a rifle...

  Happiness rushed through him as he peeled off his prison clothes and swapped them for the jeans and shirt. He almost felt human again.

  Almost.

  "Yeah, but what are they going to do when they realize I'm not willing to kill anyone anymore?"

  They should have delved a little deeper into his file to see exactly why he'd taken that shot at his CO.

  Oh, well. How much could a bullet in the head hurt anyway? At least then it would put him out of his misery.

  Fuck that. If they tried to shoot him, he'd teach them what had made him the best sniper in his unit.

  Four

  S teele quickly learned that Joe was far from a chatty Cathy as he led him from the prison to a waiting helicopter. In fact, Joe didn't seem to like to speak at all.

  He paused as Joe slid open the door to the helicopter. Trained on military choppers, Steele wasn't expecting what had to be the helicopter equivalent to a corporate jet. The interior could only hold six people, but each of the seats was made out of thickly padded tan leather. There were cup holders, plug-ins for laptops, and such. It was incredibly lush.

  The women, whose names they still hadn't bothered to divulge, were already seated inside.

  "Damn," Steele muttered, "this is nicer than any place I've ever owned."

  Joe didn't comment as he took a seat next to the Vietnamese-American lady.

  After Steele was seated, Joe inclined his head toward the pilots up front, who were doing preflight checks. "Joshua Steele, meet Jake Malone and Tony Casella. If in the future, you're dropped into a high-risk area, they and Retter--who you'll meet later--are the ones who will pull your ass out of the fire. So be nice to them. Your life depends on it."

  Wearing a pilot's helmet that completely obscured his face, Jake turned around and offered him his hand. "Welcome aboard."

  "Thanks," Steele said, shaking his hand.

  "You go by Josh?" Jake asked.

  "Steele. Just Steele."

  "No problem."

  Tony offered his hand next. "Don't worry if I lay my head back and start to snore while we're flying. It's normal. I'm just here in case Jake has a stroke and dies."

  Steele tensed. "That's not real comforting."

  "Yeah, but it's true. But don't worry. Jake only passed out once, and Joe woke me up real fast. He was great reflexes."

  "I did not pass out," Jake said between clenched teeth.

  "Yes, you did." He turned back to look at Steele. "Of course that was 'cause he'd downed a fifth of tequila, and I told him not to fly. But he didn't listen. 'No one touches my baby but me,' " Tony said in a mocking voice. "He was disgusting. He threw up everywhere--it even short-circuited the landing gear, which seriously pissed off those of us who were sober and aware of what was happening. But that's okay. Once Joe figured out you can't get the scent of vomit out of leather, he bought us a new toy."

  Jake shoved good-naturedly at his copilot. "Shut up and go back to sleep, Tone. You're starting to annoy me again."

  Steele looked at Joe. "Is there any way to put up some kind of divider between us and them?"

  Joe laughed. "Actually, there is, but you don't have to worry. Tony doesn't talk much once the blades start spinning. The sound of the motor lulls him to sleep."

  "Great," Steele said, his gut shrinking at the thought. "I always wanted to fly with a narcoleptic pilot."

  The woman beside him smiled. "Don't worry, Steele. Jake has a hot date tonight. He won't crash us until she breaks up with him."

  "Jeez!" Jake snapped. "That was only once, people. I swear you're all elephants. You can't ever let a guy forget one little mistake."

  Tony snorted. "That little mistake had me hospitalized for three weeks, and it almost cost me my leg."

  Steele frowned at those words. Oh, what the hell was he doing on this thing with these people?

  Jake glanced over at Joe. "Are we ready, boss?"

  "Home, Jake."

  Jake groaned as if it were an old bad joke between them. He turned around and fired the engines, which whirred at a dull drone through the insulation.

  Joe tossed him a pair of noise-canceling headphones as Jake lifted them off the helipad. "In case the drone gets to you."

  As they ascended, he noticed Joe rubbing his right eye again and frowning. The Vietnamese-American woman gave him a concerned look before she tapped her right eyebrow twice.

  Joe nodded.

  She winced in response before she pointed at his pants pocket. Joe held his hands up and made an expression that essentially said, "I know I screwed up."

  Rolling her eyes at him, the woman grabbed her briefcase and rummaged through it, pulling out a small gray plastic case. She opened it to remove a small foil pouch that she handed to Joe. The look on his face said he was truly grateful as he took the pouch and opened it.

  He popped a small tablet into his mouth while the woman opened her Coke, then handed it to him.

  Joe took a drink before he passed it back to her.

  Steele frowned at their actions. There was a familiarity with each other that said they were intimately involved.

  He looked at the left hands. No wedding bands, no engagement ring.

  Hmm...

  Joe leaned his head back and closed his eyes while the woman picked up a romance novel and started reading it. Jake was busy flying while Tony really did have his head back and his eyes closed.

  That just added so much confidence.

  He glanced to his side, where the other woman was seated reading the book Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking.

  Okay...this was an interesting group. What the hell was he doing here again?

  Leavenworth. Just keep thinking it's better than prison, and you'll be okay.

  Maybe. He glanced at the Blink title again and grimaced. The whole thinking-without-thinking concept was seriously screwing with his head. If he had to put his life in someone's hands, he would much prefer they think with thinking.

  Nothing you can do about it now.

  He'd already made the pact with the devil so to speak. Now he had no choice except to see it through.

  Steele crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back as he wondered just where they were headed. He probably should have asked before he jumped on board the helicopter. But what the hell. It had to be better than where he'd been.

  Then again, being on a helicopter with one narcoleptic pilot, another who had a penchant for crashing, and people who'd already told him that they had no compunction about killing him might be construed as an act of total stupidity.

  But he was Army trained to put his trust in strangers and to blindly obey orders...r-i-g-h-t. Some training, no matter how zealous, never seemed to sink all the way in.
r />   Not that it mattered. These people had come to him, and they had been able to get him released. Obviously they were legit and had a lot of pull.

  He didn't know all the details about the assignment they were about to give him, but whatever it was, it had to beat peeling carrots with a spoon and then feeding them into a food processor for his fellow inmates because no one dared trust him with a knife or a potato peeler.

  He closed his eyes and tried to focus, but before he knew it, he was sound asleep.

  Syd looked up to see Joe with his head back and eyes closed, while Tee was heavily engrossed in the latest Rachel Fire novel. Glad they weren't paying any attention to her, she slid her gaze sideways to see Steele resting in a stance much like Joe's.

  His head was back against the wall of the chopper, his legs open wide, his hands resting on his thighs. She'd known from the pictures in his file that he was good-looking, but what she'd never expected had been his overwhelmingly sexual charisma.

  Even while he was resting, she could feel his power. He was all manly sex appeal. His voice had been incredibly deep, with just a hint of a southern drawl to it. His dark hair looked soft. Inviting.

  And his dark brown eyes...

  They weren't just intelligent, they were spooky. Even handcuffed, he'd come into the room like he owned it. Swept that midnight gaze around and sized them up with what she was sure was unerring accuracy.

  He was completely confident.

  Most of all, he was delectable.

  Stop it, Syd. Work and play were a lethal mixture, especially when it involved two agents.

  You can look, but don't ever touch.

  She sighed irritably at that. Figures the only man she'd been attracted to in more months than she wanted to factor would be one she couldn't even consider.

  He shifted slightly, stretching his shirt tight over his chest.

  Oh, man...

  She could use a cold shower right about now. Uncomfortable with the effect he had on her, she quickly glanced back at her book.

  But even as she attempted to read, she wondered what had made Steele snap. If what he'd said to Joe about shooting at his CO and not killing him was true, why had he done it? He had to know the repercussions of taking that shot. From what she'd read, he hadn't even tried to argue it was an accident. He'd simply pled nolo to the charges and taken the sentence.

  What would make a man throw away his life?

  And even more importantly, would he snap under the pressures of this latest mission?