Complicate (Deliver 9)

Bullets wouldn’t save them. Not from this.

A tremor rippled through his fingers as he removed the necklace that hung beneath his shirt. He couldn’t risk losing Danni’s engagement ring.

It went into the pack he kept in the back bedroom, safely stowed. Then he drew in a deep breath and stepped outside.

The mic on his transmitter remained on, his team silent and listening, waiting on his command.

The rumble of a single-cylinder engine vibrated the air as a BMW motorcycle approached, taking its time. The rider wore a black helmet and appeared small in stature, at least half his size. He realized why as the bike rolled up beside him.

Slender hands gripped the handlebars, connected to feminine arms sleeved in more tattoos than he had on his entire body. In the moonlight, vivid colors of ink formed so many artful designs it would take him hours to make out all the images.

The biker shut off the engine and left the headlight on, illuminating the desert behind him. No visible weapons. No immediate threats on the horizon. She appeared to be alone.

Three feet of space separated them. He was close enough to grab her and physically overpower her. Or shoot her point-blank with the 9mm in his hand.

“Right about now, you’re calculating your next move.” A sultry Russian accent crooned from the helmet as she lowered the kickstand and slid off the motorcycle. “You activated my bug, Cole Hartman, and here I am. But you weren’t expecting a woman. This, I know.”

You veren’t expecting eh voman. Zis, I know.

He certainly wasn’t expecting a Russian woman. He didn’t have enemies in that part of the world. But he’d worked there. The activity operated only outside of the United States, and since all his missions had been overseas, he spoke seven languages with superb fluency. Including hers.

“I’ll help you decide your next move.” With each syllable, she pulled her tongue to the back of her throat, adding friction to the H sounds and hardening the Rs. “If you shoot me, your friends will die.”

“Which friends?” he asked in Russian. “I don’t have many.”

The helmet cocked, paused. She seemed startled that he spoke her language.

She was probably a low-ranking myrmidon, a subordinate who carried out orders unquestioningly. Most likely, she was chosen for this task because she was a woman with an attractive figure, her purpose to lure and disarm. She wouldn’t know anything about him beyond what they’d given her to complete the job.

“I’m not talking about your two friends on the roof,” she said in Russian. “They can lower their rifles. They won’t need them.”

His scalp tingled. How did she know Tate and Lucia were there? Aerial thermal imaging? If that was the case, the position of his entire team was compromised.

Unease slithered down his spine, but he didn’t spare Tate and Lucia a glance.

Instead, he switched back to English so they could follow the conversation. “You have an infrared drone up there?”

“I have eyes everywhere,” she purred.

Maybe she was bluffing, but either way, his team knew what to do.

“Come in, esé.” Lucia’s voice barked through the earpiece. “What’s your 20?”

“Same,” Van said. “All present and standing by.”

“Any drones?”

“Eyes on the sky. No bogies in sight. No hostiles on the ground. All clear. Try not to get yourself killed, mija.”

“Roger,” she said. “Out.”

Relief swept through Cole as he turned back to the woman. “Tell me who you work for.”

“No.”

“Remove the helmet.”

“This, I can do.” She reached up and started unbuckling the straps.

Dark jeans caressed her toned curves, the waistband rising high to her midriff and exposing a sliver of smooth, pale skin. The denim folded into wide cuffs at her ankles, and Gothic boots sported random buckles that served no practical purpose.

Her cropped corset looked more like a strapless bra, with black and white polka-dots that clashed with the colorful artwork on her arms. The bodice clung to the round swells of her tits, clinching an hourglass figure that needed no clinching.

Her top dipped so low it exposed a red bird inked across her breast, its beak lost in her ample cleavage. A swallow bird. Vintage in its design. With vibrant swirls and elaborate filigree, the chest piece looked so fucking enticing on her perfect rack it demanded his stare, ensnared it, and wouldn’t let it go.

Until she removed the helmet.

Piles of thick, bright-ass-red hair tumbled out, bouncing off her shoulders and falling around her inked arms. Eyes of sea-green stared out of a face so feminine, so delicately formed, that her flawless ivory complexion didn’t appear natural.

Nothing about her appearance looked real. Or soft.

Heavy black eyeliner winged out from the corners of her large eyes. Her lashes were so dense and long he knew they were fake. Even the white stone piercing on her upper lip was an imitation of Marilyn Monroe’s beauty mark.