I Am Justice (Black Ops Confidential 1)

“At this Moment” by Billy Vera and the Beaters played through the speakers. Not what he would’ve expected here.

He pulled her to him as they hit the empty dance floor. She curved into him, drawing a sound from his throat that was as involuntary as breathing. She purred into his ear.

“That’s one.”

His hand slid along the silk fabric of her dress, down her back to her smooth, round, and hot-as-hell ass. And there he went. Zero to sixty. He cleared his throat. “One?”

She ran a tongue over his earlobe and inside his ear. That warm, wet stroke sent tremors zinging low into his body. Her sultry voice meshed with that teasing tongue and vibrated through him. “I’m counting how many different ways I can get you to moan.”

He growled, a raw, desperate sound that even to his own muffled ears sounded like raging intent.

She laughed. “Two.”

Okay. Definitely time to divert the conversation. Complex math, anyone? Or a subject destined to slow down any hot moment. “Have you spoken to your mother about our progress here?”

She laughed, as if she could see him wrestling control from the moment. She moved her mouth close enough that he could feel her breath on his neck. “No. But I’d like to meet your mother. You’ve met mine. It’s only fair. What’s she like?”

“You’d like her. At least who she used to be.”

“Used to be?”

“She’s been sick for a few years. Early-onset Alzheimer’s. She’s at a care center. I have friends and family scheduled to sit and read with her every night I’m away.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” She looked past him for a moment, then returned her gaze to his. “So what you’re telling me is that while you’re away on your humanitarian mission, you’ve organized it so your mother will always be watched over by a close friend or family member. You do realize I already want to sleep with you. You don’t have to sweeten the pot.”

He laughed. Only this woman would think talking about his mom—meant to cool things off—was sexy.

“Sandesh, I’m serious.” She began to roll her hips. His eyes rolled back in his head.

That. Felt. So. Fucking. Good. Nothing like a violent hard-on to give a woman the upper hand. Her hand. His hard-on. Settle. Settle.

Fuck it.

His lips came down on hers. There was an instant and overwhelming zing of electricity. Mindless of where he was, he tasted her, tickled, and teased her mouth open. Her wet response, the moan against his lips as his tongue played back, caused fire to erupt down his body.

Dubdubdub, dubdubdub, pulsated through him. He couldn’t tell what throbbed faster—his cock or his heart. He deepened the kiss. She opened wider, accelerated the roll of her hips.

Time to go. Time to get her off the dance floor and into his bed. Or her bed. Which room was closer?

The phone in his pocket buzzed. Justice stiffened in his arms. She pulled her sweet mouth away. “You should answer it.”

He tightened his grip on her. He ran his nose down her face, inhaled her lavender-warmed-by-the-sun scent.

“Ignore it.” Please. God. Ignore it.

“Your mission.” Justice shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

Oh. Shit. Not happening. He looked into her eyes, her endless depths, midnight-and-mystery eyes. She was serious.

She stepped back.

Fuck.

He answered the phone. It was Salma. The tremor in her voice doused the fire in his body. A tsunami would’ve had less impact.

“Sandesh, please, I need your help.”

Chapter 18

Salma pulled Sandesh from the trailer that served as the training facility for the refugee women. He entered the connected, smaller tent filled with a gurney and medical equipment. This was where Salma, a doctor, had originally started helping refugee women.

She’d created Salma’s Gems after finding medical intervention wasn’t enough. That was shortly before he’d reached out to her.

Salma pushed some medical equipment out of her way and sat on a steel stool. “We have a problem. Word is spreading that we have a place here for abused women rescued from ISIS. Your funding has made it possible for us to take in many more women. I have already negotiated a larger place, one left by departing aid workers. There, the women can sleep and work, receive therapy and care.”

“That’s a problem? It sounds good.” Not such a big deal to drag him back out here, refusing to even tell him why. “Except I don’t want you being overwhelmed with requests. We’re not set up for volunteers yet, and I’m worried the expansion might bring about threats.”

He’d already seen the attitude of a few people, mostly men, toward the former sex slaves, and he didn’t know how it would go when more women were brought in. “Do you think you can hold off for a few weeks? Until I get my volunteers here?”

Salma shook her head. “This is out of our hands now. This is blessed by God. Not a coincidence.”

The woman was getting to a point, he was sure of it. “What do you mean?”

Salma grabbed her right hand with her left and squeezed. Nervous? “I have word from some friends in Syria. A large group of women, Syrian and Yazidi, were being sold to an international criminal organization.”

“Were being sold?”

“Kurdish and resistance fighters intercepted the bus. Even now, they are hiding from their pursuers. They need a safe place to send these women. More importantly, someone with pull, with backing to bring them here.”

Sandesh nodded. The pull and backing was the sudden and generous donation of Mukta Parish. It didn’t matter where you went—Wall Street or a tent in Zaatari—money moved mountains. “When?”

“They are doing evasive maneuvers and plan to meet us later tonight at an abandoned village. In addition to your support, I was hoping you could help me to pick up the women. Would you be willing to drive a truck into Syria?”

He had no idea what Mukta or Justice would think about him diverting their humanitarian cause. But he’d started this charity and he wasn’t going to start asking for approval now.

“Yeah. Let’s get organized. But can we keep this between us? I don’t know how my backers would feel about the risk.”

Chapter 19

Even a few hours after sunrise, the day was sweltering hot. In Jordan. Go figure. Didn’t help that Justice had gotten no sleep. Her hair was plastered to her skull in thick strands of sweaty goo. Her clothes looked like she’d been living in them for two years. Her face was smeared with dirt.

Good thing Sandesh had gotten that call. Justice doubted that what had been going to happen between them would’ve left her much time to get into position here.

Until the produce had arrived at dawn, she’d been hiding in the alley, under th

e black bumper on the squat loading dock. Now she hid among the produce crates stacked outside. She had to pee. Her bladder felt like it weighed ten pounds.

Might’ve been all that water she drank.

The laundry-service truck backed up to the loading dock with a slow bEEp, bEEp tune that sounded somewhat off to her American ears.

The stench of oily exhaust mixed with the nearby kitchen odors of cumin and bread saturated the loading dock. Justice moved farther back among the crates. Hopefully, no one from the kitchen would choose this moment to get the produce.

Her hands fingered the small electronic device that would cut off the stream from the security cameras. She only needed a minute. Not enough time to really send up a security flag.

The driver, dressed all in white, clambered onto the loading platform. He was a young man, lean. He arm-wrestled a white handle and pulled. The rumble of steel wheels against pockmarked steel treads echoed as the door slid open. The driver disappeared into the truck and strolled out a moment later, pushing a dry-cleaning rack filled with staff uniforms draped in plastic. He stopped as someone from the hotel came out with an electronic pad.

They greeted each other. They chatted. About Jordan. About the violence in Syria. About the increasing violence in Iraq. And the heat.

While they spoke, Justice pressed the device that shut off the cameras and slipped from between the crates. She crept forward. Silently, she found and unhooked the correct staff uniform, balled it up, and shoved it up under her abaya.

The driver took the e-pad, signed, and handed it back.

She slipped backward as he reached for the rack. Her foot hit the edge of a crate. She stumbled, grabbed for leverage, and knocked over a stack of peppers.

The reverberation of the crate hitting concrete faded. There was silence on the platform. The men rushed to the area, stopped, and stared at her.