Special Forces: The Recruit

“Torsten didn’t tell you?” he replied sharply.

“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be asking.”

“Come in and close the door. You’re letting in mosquitoes. And if I have to be in an enclosed space with you, please take a shower. You really do stink.”

“Screw you,” she said mildly.

His gaze snapped to hers, hot and willing. Her breath caught. Realizing belatedly what she’d just said, she rolled her eyes and stepped inside.

He held out her rucksack and she snagged it without comment as she passed by him, heading for the bathroom. She locked the door, stripped and turned the water on as hot as it would go. It was strange and disturbing knowing Lambert was right outside while she was in here, naked, like this.

Hyperawareness of her escort skittered across her skin, and it made her jumpy. It wasn’t that she was a prude. Far from it. But she could still feel all those acres of yummy muscle against hers. Smell his deodorant.

No amount of vigorous scrubbing erased the feel of him off her body. And, truth be told, she wasn’t sure she wanted to forget the sensations that had torn through her. They had been...amazing.

Irritated at whatever head game he was playing with her, she blasted the water, letting it pound her muscles until the water ran cold—which actually felt pretty good, too. Only then did she reluctantly pour the freebie bottle of shampoo over her head and scrub her hair blessedly clean. She soaped down her body, rinsed off and stepped out of the shower feeling like a new woman.

She toweled off and then stared down at the filthy mess that was her clothes. There were no clean ones in her rucksack, which held only combat and survival gear. She sighed and used the bar of soap in the bathtub to give her tank top, cargo pants and underwear a scrub and a rinse. God. How did women in the past wash all their clothes by hand like this?

She wrung out the garments as best she could, then pulled and plucked the soggy clothing onto her body. Oh, Lord. Beau was gonna love the wet T-shirt look. It didn’t help that her nipples were puckering with cold underneath her damp sports bra and thin tank top. Bracing herself for his disdain, or at least a rude stare, she stepped out into the room...and was startled to find it empty. Where had he gone? Out for food, hopefully.

She guzzled down a bunch of sulfur-tasting water using the plastic cup by the sink and combed out her hair. She was startled to see in the mirror that it had grown out to nearly her shoulder blades in the past few months. More startling was the deep tan she also was sporting. It made her gray-green eyes look even lighter and brighter than usual.

She towel-dried her hair and pulled it up into a high ponytail. It was going to go full poodle puff on her, but there was no help for it. Without a round brush or straightening iron, no way was she corralling its natural curl.

Using the motel’s blow-dryer, she worked at drying her clothes right on her body. They were still damp, but no longer clammy, when the door opened abruptly behind her and she spun, brandishing the blow-dryer like a six-shooter.

“Gonna take me down with that thing?” Beau asked drily.

Rats. No grocery bags or other sign of human sustenance. She would take calories right now in pretty much any form she could get them.

“I’m de-stinked,” she announced. “Any chance there’s somewhere nearby where I can grab a bite of real food?”

His cell phone rang just then and he fished it out of his jeans, answering tersely with, “Go.” He listened for a moment. Then, “The package is almost delivered. Understood.” He hung up.

She stowed the hair dryer in its wall mount and turned back to him. “Are you a drug dealer, or am I the package?”

“You would, in fact, be the package.”

“Can we please feed the package?”

He jerked his head for her to follow him and headed outside. She noticed this time as she passed him that she was about six inches shorter than he was. She was not quite five foot eight, which made him a little over six feet tall. He probably had sixty pounds on her in weight, even though at a glance he looked lean. She’d developed a discerning eye for the muscle density of special operators in the course of her recent training.

He moved past her with deceptive speed for a guy with a bum leg and reached for her car door just as her hand moved toward the handle. He opened it with a flourish and she looked up at him, startled.

“Don’t get used to it. I won’t coddle you or get any doors for you after tonight. But let the record show my mama didn’t raise a heathen.”

“Duly noted,” she replied, bemused as she slid into her seat and he closed the door. He went around to the driver’s side and in seconds was backing out of the lot. He threw the Jeep in gear and took off down the road. A gas station next to the motel appeared operational, along with a titty bar that looked like a total dive. Oddly, a bait shop was open, too. Apparently, night fishing was a local thing.

Beau turned off the narrow asphalt road onto an even narrower dirt road, and she was pretty sure she would start hearing banjos any second.

They banged along the terrible road for maybe ten uncomfortable minutes before a building on high stilts came into sight ahead with a half dozen muddy trucks parked in front of it. Another half dozen shallow-bottom boats were tied up at a dock behind it.

“We’re here,” he announced.

“Where’s here?”

“At the best steak joint in the Bayou Toucheaux.”

She salivated at the mere mention of steak. He led her up a staircase to a rickety wraparound porch. The weathered building looked as if a stiff breeze would blow it over.

She followed Beau into the dim, smoky interior. Any fire marshal worth his salt would have a stroke at the plentiful cigars and flaming grill filling the wooden structure with smoke. Four rednecks in sleeveless shirts and baseball caps bellied up to the bar, and several couples sat at tables in the middle of the room.

“’Eyy, chère,” one of the rednecks at the bar slurred as he spotted her. The guy strolled over to her, flashing a smile that had about one tooth for every three available slots. “You new come to dee parish, oui?”

Beau took a step forward, injecting himself between her and the drunk. “She new come to the parish with me.”

“Bah. Femme like dat wan’ de real man. Not girlie boy wit’ de pretty face...” The drunk trailed off, peering at Beau closely. “Lambert? Beau Lambert? Dat y’all?”

“Farty Lambert?” one of the other drunks behind the first one hooted? “Y’all done growed up. Got yo’self some muscles ’n’ all. Shee-it.”

Clearly Beau had some sort of history with these yahoos. Based on the taunts, she gathered he’d lived here as a child. Rough place to have come from if the poverty she’d seen so far was typical.

The other three drunks closed ranks behind the first one. “Li’l Farty Lam-bear? I’ll be damned. Never thought to see yo’ face round he-uhh no mo’,” one of them slurred.

Tessa’s entire body tensed. She knew that tone of voice from her own childhood. It belonged to a bully. One pumping himself up to inflict pain on someone weaker than he was. A bully enjoying his victim’s fear. Oh, this was not going to go well.

Anger at a bunch of big, strong jerks picking on someone else rolled through her, hot and sharp. God, she hated bullies. She sized up the four men quickly. She and Beau could totally take them. Teach them a lesson—

Check that. Not only was it strictly forbidden for special operators to lose their cool in public and particularly against civilians, but failure to control anger was also a big, fat disqualifier for joining them. Anger clouded the mind. Impaired judgment. Still. It was hard to rein in the urge to remove the rest of these jerks’ teeth.

As for Beau, he’d gone still and silent beside her. As in totally hunting-predator still and deeply, unnaturally silent. Menace poured off him like sublimated carbon off a block of dry ice. Surely, the four drunks weren’t so far gone that they failed to sense the threat emanating from him.

The first drunk gave Beau a hard shove. Nope. Too far gone to realize Beau was not a man to bait and threaten anymore. Little Farty Lam-bear had grown up into a stone-cold killer.

Beau stepped back up beside her after the shove. He spoke quietly, calmly. “Walk away from me, Jimbo. And don’t ever lay another hand on me. This is your only warning.”

The four drunks hooted with laughter. She thought Beau had gone a little pale, the only indication that these assholes actually bothered him.

“Easy, Beau,” she murmured low. “They’re not worth it.”

“Stay out of this, Tessa,” he muttered back. “This has been a long time coming. If they pick a fight with me, I’m within my rights to defend myself.”

She winced. It wasn’t a good idea for anyone to pick a fight with a trained Special Forces operative like him.

On cue, Jimbo took a clumsy swing at Beau. For his part, Beau dodged the meaty fist in negligent disdain, reaching up casually, gently even, to grasp Jimbo’s fist. The big drunk dropped to his knees, yelping.

Beau leaned down and spoke in a low, almost caressing tone, “You think you can mess with me like back in the good old days, Jimbo? Take my girl? Humiliate me in public? Think again, my friend.”

“Screw you,” Jimbo growled.

Beau just laughed quietly and tightened his grip until the guy on the floor howled with pain.

“Need me to help kill him?” she asked under her breath.

Beau glanced up at her. His stare was flat. Emotionless. He looked like Death incarnate.

Which, of course, he was.

“Maybe you should cut him loose,” she murmured. “I’m starving, and I don’t want to get kicked out of here.”

Beau released Jimbo’s hand, or more precisely, he released the unfortunate thumb bent back nearly to the guy’s wrist. The Cajun surged to his feet, right fist cocking back as he rose.

Mistake.

Beau moved so fast Tessa barely saw him slide past his foe. But all of a sudden Jimbo was facing her, and Beau was behind the guy, forearm around Jimbo’s neck, and the drunk was rapidly turning an ugly shade of purple.

She spoke calmly and slowly. “Beau.” She waited until he made eye contact with her to continue. “Toothless, here, has learned the error of his ways in trying to sucker punch you. Haven’t you?” she asked Jimbo.

The drunk tried to nod within Beau’s grasp but only managed to bug his eyes out a little more.

She glanced back at Beau. “How about you turn him loose so we can eat our dinner?”

He hesitated, but then nodded tersely and turned Jimbo loose.

The Cajun bent over at the waist, gasping and coughing. Tessa leaned down beside him and spoke coldly. “You’re welcome. And for the record, he could’ve snapped your neck like a twig if he actually wanted to kill you. Walk away from Beau and don’t ever mess with him again, or next time, I will let him break your neck.”

Jimbo glared at her, spitting out something under his fetid breath about crazy bitches and their homicidal pretty boys. Whatever. She was more concerned about Beau.

She straightened and turned, coming face-to-face with him. “You okay?” she asked under her breath.

“Yeah. Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

She stared at him, startled. He sounded utterly normal. Casual. The incident was a stark reminder of just how lethal these guys could be when crossed. They killed with cool, calculated precision. No anger, no emotion, just efficient violence in the blink of an eye.

“How long have you been waiting to do that to that guy?” she asked low.

“Awhile,” Beau replied shortly.

She knew a thing or two about having old scores to settle.

Jimbo stumbled back toward his equally dentally challenged buddies, grumbling about jealous bastards who refused to share the hot chicks. At least somebody thought she was attractive. Of course, she still had all her teeth. By that measure alone, she was probably smoking hot to those losers.

Beau still stood rooted in place. Maybe he wasn’t so unaffected, after all. She reached out to touch his elbow lightly. “Ready to eat?”

He shook himself a little. “Yes. You?”

She smiled. “Show me the meat, big guy.”

His eyes glinted at her double entendre, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

He glanced across the room toward a grill that was actually an oil drum split in half with metal mesh over the two halves. Beds of charcoal filled the drums. “’Ey, Marie,” he called out.

A large woman wearing a New Orleans Saints jersey and standing by the grill turned around, wielding a long pair of tongs. She bellowed back, “Grab a table and yell out what y’all want. Damn waitress didn’ show up t’night.”

Tessa sank into a chair opposite Beau at a table for two, studying him closely. He had reacted the same way she would react if one of her mom’s boyfriends tried to rough her up nowadays. She would go postal on his ass.

Beau scowled back at her as he caught her intent regard on him. Didn’t like being psychoanalyzed, huh?

“Where do you know those guys from?” she asked.

“Everyone in these parts knows the Kimball brothers. I’m surprised all four of them are out of jail at the same time.”

“Are they petty criminals or into bigger stuff?”

Beau shrugged. “They deal drugs. Run guns. Extort protection money from local businesses. Rumor has it they’ve killed a few folks who got in their way or refused to pay.” He added sardonically, “They’re just smart enough to stay one step ahead of the law. The sheriff puts them away for small stuff anytime he can catch them. But so far, they’ve avoided arrest for the more serious felonies everyone knows they’ve committed.”

She eyed the big men across the room, memorizing their faces for future reference.

“How do you like your steak?” he asked, his voice a bit too tight. Predatory intensity rolled off him, and frankly, it turned her on like mad. Not that she would ever admit to him that she was secretly a bit of a Spec Ops groupie.

“Earth to Tessa, come in. Your steak?”

“Rare,” she answered, mentally shaking herself. Get a grip, girlfriend.

“Pink rare or bleeding rare?”

“Marie can just walk my steak past the flame and call it good.”

Beau called out, “Two steaks. Biggest ones you’ve got and rare as a virgin in a whorehouse.”

Guffaws filled the room. The Kimball boys glowered, however. Their heads came together angrily as they muttered amongst themselves. She made a mental note to keep an eye on that bunch as the night progressed and the level of whiskey in the bottle in front of them went down.

Marie came over to their table carrying an armload of plates and bowls.

“It’s been a while, Beau. Been, what? Fi’teen years since a Lambert come ’round these parts?”

“Something like that,” he answered noncommittally.

Fifteen years? Wow. That was a long time to hold a grudge against Jimbo and company.

“Well, ain’t y’all gone and got purty? Picture o’ yo’ daddy, you is. Good to have ya home, boy.”

“Good to be he’uh.” With every word he spoke, Tessa swore his Louisiana drawl got stronger. Why on earth would Torsten have sent the two of them to one of his men’s hometown in the middle of Cajun country? The longer she was here, the more the questions were stacking up.

Marie plunked down a platter of toasted garlic bread, a mess of green beans and ham hocks, and a big bowl of red beans and rice with sausage so spicy it made Tessa’s eyes water. When it came, a huge steak covered her entire plate and was tender enough to cut with a fork. She dug in with gusto.

It took a while for her to lay her napkin down and push her plate back. Another perk of her recent training: she could eat as much of anything she wanted and not gain an ounce. If anything, she’d lost a little weight even with putting on more muscle mass.

Someone fed the decrepit jukebox in the corner a handful of quarters, and twangy zydeco music abruptly filled the place. The talk got louder, the beer flowed more freely and women drifted into the bar and then out with men.

Under the din, Beau leaned forward. “Did Torsten tell you anything at all?”

“About what?”

Beau frowned.

She shrugged. “All he said to me was—and I quote—‘You’re out. You’ve got orders. Lambo, you have your orders. Get her off my base.’ End quote.”

He swore under his breath. “I’m gonna need a drink for this, then, and so are you.” He called for some moonshine and two glasses.

“I don’t like alcohol,” she announced as Marie thunked a mayonnaise jar of the local rotgut on the table along with two shot glasses.

“Tough. Drink up.” He poured two shots of the stuff.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “Hey, if you can’t roll like one of the boys, we don’t have to have this conversation at all.”

Scowling, she picked up the glass and tossed back the liquor, which burned like fire on the way down, shuddering at the powerful aftertaste. The alcohol went straight to her head, but at least it dulled the pain in her muscles while it was also dulling her brain function.

“Walk with me,” Beau murmured.

He sounded tense as heck. What on earth was going on with him? He’d actually been reasonably pleasant during the meal. Admittedly, neither of them had talked much as they devoured their steaks.

Perplexed, she followed him out to the porch. He strolled around back to face a narrow canal that stretched away into the blackness. They were alone out here. Citronella tiki torches provided the only light, their flames flickering weakly against the dark. A cacophony of sound wrapped around the pungent odor of the swamp rising from below. Beau propped his elbows on the waist-high rail and stared into the bayou beyond.

Just being alone with him out here in the dark like this was a turn-on. She’d never, ever been alone with a guy so hot, nor so deadly...which made him even hotter.

“You’re right about one thing,” he said low enough that she had to lean down in a similar, elbow-propped pose to hear him. “The military is never going to publicly stand for women in the Special Forces.”

She huffed in exasperation. “That horse is dead. You don’t have to kick it for fun.”

“But you’re right about something else, too. There is a place for women in special warfare. More to the point, Torsten agrees with you that we need women in the field.”

“No freaking way. He hates women.”

Beau snorted. “He hates everyone. But he loves the Special Forces. Wants us to be the best we can be. Male or female, he doesn’t care.”

“Why are you telling me this? He already booted me out.”

Beau didn’t answer her directly. Rather, he changed subject abruptly, asking, “Did you notice how publicly women are being tossed out of the various Special Forces courses?”

She snorted. “It’s hard to miss. Every time a woman fails it practically makes national news.”

“That publicity is intentional. We need the general public, hell, the world, to believe there are no American women operators and there will never be American women operators.”

“Well, yeah. That’s because there are none.”

“That wasn’t true once. There used to be an all-female Spec Ops team called the Medusas. Highly classified bunch. Operated for years and were wicked effective.”

“What happened to them?”

“The original team worked together for about ten years and gradually retired from active duty. The second generation team was lost.”

“As in they died?”

His voice no more than a sigh, he answered heavily, “Yeah.”

“How?” she asked quietly.

“Not my story to tell, and too classified to discuss here.”

Yikes. “And now? What’s next?”

“Next, we’ll try to build a new team.” He glanced at her and then back out at the bayou. “Starting with you.”

She stared at him. “Come again?”

“Torsten thinks you’ve got what it takes. He wants to train you to be a full-blown special operator. Not just a support type. A completely qualified combat specialist. That’s the purpose of Operation Phoenix. To raise the Medusa Project from the dead.”

She laughed in disbelief. “Right.” She added sarcastically, “And that’s why he threw me out of training and sent me across the country to a swamp.”

“I’m serious. Do you want to be a Medusa or not?”

Chapter 3

Beau stared at the stunned woman beside him. Please say no. Please say no.

“Hell to the yes, I want to be one!” Tessa exclaimed.

Dammit. He knew she would say that. He was in no shape to be training anyone, let alone the next Medusa. What was Torsten thinking, throwing him into a scenario like this? The boss knew his knee was destroyed. That doctors said his career was over.

Of course, Torsten also knew Beau was determined to get back in the saddle and back onto the teams no matter how messed up his knee was.

Beau did have to give Tessa Wilkes credit for one thing. She was a good-looking woman. Sexy as wild hellfire. But that didn’t necessarily mean she was cut out for the Medusas. Torsten had been clear. Assume she was not fit to be a Medusa. Test her. Push her. Make her prove she was Special Forces material.

And, as soon as he was done working with her, he could get back to the business of being an operator himself. Which could not happen soon enough for him.

Operation Phoenix. The reference to the mythical firebird rising from its own ashes didn’t elude him. Torsten was resurrecting the Medusas after convincing the world the idea of an all-female Special Forces team was dead. He wondered, though, if Torsten had also chosen the name with him in mind. Was Gunnar trying to resurrect Beau’s career from the ashes, as well?

If so, this was a hell of a strange way to go about it. Assigning him to work with a woman who would do nothing but slow him down.

He’d vehemently protested the idea of a woman operator when Torsten broached the assignment with him. Not that the boss had listened to a word of what he’d said. Just because Torsten thought this woman had the drive and mental toughness to play with the boys didn’t mean she had the physical strength or stamina to hack it.

The compromise they’d reached was that Beau would try to train her. But he also retained the right to wash her out if she couldn’t cut the training.

No way would he let her onto a Spec Ops team if she was going to be the weak link. Any team was only as strong as its weakest member. He wasn’t about to let a woman get his brothers killed just so Torsten—and some wannabe chick—could prove a point.

He swore under his breath. If his boss thought that because his knee was busted up Beau would take it easy on Tessa, Gunnar Torsten was in for a surprise.

Everyone kept telling Beau he could contribute to the teams by training the next generation of special operators. But damned if he was going to accept that his field days were over and settle for playing nursemaid to anyone, male or female.

He was the first to admit it was a miracle he could walk. But the thing was, if he’d made it back this far, well beyond where the doctors had told him he could rehab his knee, why couldn’t he rehab his knee all the way back to operational? One thing he was sure of: no way was he cut out to be an instructor. Torsten—in his infinite bloody wisdom—seemed to think this insane, waste-of-time mission would be good for him. Bastard.

“Why Louisiana?” the waste of time beside him asked, all eagerness now that she knew why they were really here.

“The idea is to keep your existence completely off the radar. We don’t want anyone to know the Medusas are back.”

“Is that why Major Torsten had you march me across camp this afternoon where everyone could see me leaving?”

“Affirmative.”