Under Fire (Elite Force 3)

Laughing, she tugged his T-shirt. “You are such a man.”

“I hope so.” He eyed the dogs sprawled on the floor in front of the television, wrestling and rolling. “You two, behave while we’re gone.”

He closed the door behind him.

She hooked an arm through his.

Pulling his arm from hers, he hooked it around her shoulders, hugging her tighter to his side. Closer. Nowhere near close enough to keep her safe. With the handgun strapped to his waist he doubted anyone would mess with him. He had a permit to carry, but this also didn’t look like the kind of place where people carded anyone.

He spotted at least seven trucks with gun racks full in clear sight. “Let’s make this quick and seriously low-key this time.”

“I’ve got your back.”

Something in the way she said that made him glance over at her sharply. She simply smiled back and kept walking toward the one-story bar painted a gross, mucusy green.

Inside, the place smelled of smoke and unwashed bodies, sweaty from dancing their slicked selves against each other. He hauled her closer. Yeah, he was feeling primitively protective.

What of it?

He’d seen the same kind of dive bar in countless places around the world. Not that he’d hung out there, but rather hauled someone out before they landed in trouble. Or worse.

He stepped up to the bar and caught the bartender’s attention, settling for the simplest order to speed things along.

“Three cheeseburgers, an order of nachos, and a jug of sweet tea.” He glanced at Rachel quickly for confirmation, and when she nodded, he turned back to the guy wearing a beer-stained apron. “That order’s to go. There’s an extra twenty for you if you move the order to the front of the line.”

He passed one bill over now, the other folded and ready. He didn’t want to flash his wallet full of cash out in the open here.

“Done.” The bartender snagged the twenty and shouted into the kitchen. “Three CBs, nachos, sweet tea—on skates.”

While Liam waited, his eyes drifted over a trio clanking longnecks while they waited in line outside the bathrooms. He watched for any threat, the warm press of Rachel at his side a reminder of the stakes. Her body vibrated against his as she hummed along with the jukebox cranking out an old Roy Orbison classic.

Farther into a shadowy hallway, he saw a couple of other unobtrusive doors. Could have been offices. But he knew they weren’t. As if on cue, a couple sidled toward one of those back rooms. A woman in fuck-me heels, a shrink-wrapped miniskirt, and a tired perm led a sunburned tourist by the hand. Liam scrubbed a hand over his head and looked away, frustrated all over again that he had to bring Rachel to a place like this. But then the luxurious safe-house quarters on base ultimately hadn’t been any more secure.

He’d accepted the failures he’d made in his personal life. He refused to accept failure in his ability to do his job. And right now, his job was keeping Rachel alive and finding out why Brandon Harris’s accusations had set off such a hailstorm in the military community.

The crack and snap of a game of pool reverberated from the back corner. A beer rested on the edge of the table, serving as a paperweight for a couple of twenties. Angling over the velvet table, a middle-aged guy in khaki cutoffs and a T-shirt lined up his shot.

A brawl could break out at any second in a place like this.

Liam leaned on the bar to hurry things up just as the bartender passed over a bag of food and jug of tea. He passed the guy the extra twenty and made tracks back out to the parking lot toward their first-floor room. How had the air gotten even muggier in the span of—he checked his watch—seventeen minutes? Could be something to do with the woman tucked against his side, a woman he would be spending the whole night with alone in a motel room.

He rounded the corner and found… oh crap.

A local TV station, with bright lights and a camera rolling, taping footage of God only knew what as they interviewed a cop. Probably a knifing or robbery.

Their room was at least five doors down from the epicenter of the media frenzy, straight through the camera’s line of shooting.

“Rachel,” he hissed, turning her around. “We need to go back into the bar.”

“Kiss me.”

“Huh?”

“Turn away from the camera and kiss me.” She grabbed his face and plastered her lips to his, dragging him until his back was to the crowd.

His brain went on stun for a second at just the feel of her mouth on his, her hands against his cheeks. Reason filtered through. But just barely.

He buried his nose in her neck. “Damn it, Rachel, I said not to draw attention to us.”