My eyes jump from one man to the next, trying to figure out which one’s Agent O’Brien. I’ve seen a photo of him, but it was taken when he joined the bureau almost thirteen years ago. Two men have hoodies pulled over their heads, and I can’t make out much of their features.
“We have confirmation, sir,” Eric says, gesturing to an Albanian. “Ismail Kelmendi.”
“Time to wrap this up,” Chief Archer orders, and as he steps out of the container, I fall in behind Briggs, my heartbeat kicking up a gear. Everything’s quiet, and I search for the SWAT teams, but there’s no sight of them.
The warehouse is in a run-down part of town, the walls sprayed with graffiti and water stained. As we approach the main entrance, we’re joined by a SWAT team, and Chief Archer gives orders to apprehend Kelmendi.
I take two deep breaths, my gun drawn and ready in my grip as they roll the steel door up.
God. Don’t let me kill anyone on my first day.
We move forward, and then Chief Archer shouts, “FBI.”
No amount of training could’ve prepared me for the hell breaking loose. Half of the Albanians open fire on us while the other half scatter deeper into the warehouse.
My pulse races and sweat breaks out over my skin as I stay behind Briggs, following her into a maze of crates to take cover. The popping of gunfire mixes with the sound of my erratic breaths.
Holy shit. This is really happening.
Two men open fire on us, and I attempt to become one with a stack of crates. My skin prickles and I’m highly aware that any of the bullets can hit me at any time.
Briggs fires a shot, hitting an Albanian in the leg, and then she’s on top of him, kicking his weapon out of his hand while pulling a pair of cuffs out. “JJ, get the other one!” she orders, and my body shoots forward.
You can do this. Deep breaths.
Gun raised at shoulder level, my heart’s pounding against my ribs, my lips quickly growing dry from the rapid breaths bursting from my lungs. My eyes dart all over the place, every one of my senses on high alert.
God.
You trained for this.
Where the hell did the Albanian go?
Reaching the end of a line of crates, I quickly look around the side before pulling back. My thumb feels for the safety on my gun, making sure it’s off, and then I move around the crates.
Stairs leading to a second level. More crates. An office. Two doors.
I catalog my surroundings, and as I glance up at the second level, it’s just in time to see a man jump toward me. I point my weapon at him, but my finger freezes on the trigger. A second later, his body hits mine and gunfire erupts around us.
My back slams into the concrete floor, forcing all the air from my lungs as pain shudders through me. Bullets tear through the crates around us, splinters of wood exploding in the air.
My heart’s a second away from jumping right out of my chest. My mouth dries out completely, and adrenaline thunders like a second heartbeat through me.
My survival instinct takes over, my hand holding my weapon flies up only to be slammed back down against the floor by the man on top of me.
“Motherfucking hell,” he snaps angrily, his hand painfully gripping my forearm. His other arm’s around the top of my head, his five o'clock shadow scraping against my jaw and neck. Then his voice is deep and threatening in my ear, “Stay fucking down unless you want to die.”
The gunfire violently increases, and it’s so loud I can’t hear my own breaths. It’s only then the realization sinks in the man on top of me is literally covering my entire body from the attack.
He’s protecting me?
A second later, silence buzzes in the air. Or it’s my ears ringing from the gunfire. I can feel my breaths exploding from me, but I can’t hear them.
The man lifts himself until his face hovers above mine. I’m met with a grim scowl on the most rugged and attractive face I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Agent Daniel O’Brien.
His eyes are dark brown, the color richer than chocolate. His black hair’s been gelled back, and a week's growth of bristles covers one hell of a strong jawline. His scent hits my nostrils, and it’s all man and something earthy.
Holy. Shit.
My body becomes immensely aware of his, sparks zapping through all my nerve endings. It’s freaking intense, the moment stunning all my other senses.
I’ve never had such a strong reaction to a man. But in all fairness, I’ve mainly dealt with men my own age, and I know O’Brien’s thirty-five. Twelve years older than me. He makes all the guys I trained with look like boys.
“Do you have a fucking death wish, Jefferson?” he growls as he climbs to his feet, yanking me up by the scruff of my neck like I’m some ragdoll.