Her taste alone was insane, intoxicating. Yet unbelievably grounding. The feel of her in his arms was, hell, it was perfect. And if he’d learned anything that one single night, those few amazing hours in her bed, it was that what he felt for Eva Salinas didn’t have to make sense. Not when he was kissing her. Not when he was inside her. Not when she was gasping his name and moving against him with an abandon that she could never have given in to if there wasn’t something important happening between them.

But that wasn’t happening now. He pulled away, pressed his forehead to hers, and dug for control. There were other important issues they still had to deal with. Ramon was one. History was another. The snake pit they were about to set foot in was yet another.

“We will finish this,” he whispered, then dove back for one final taste. “When this is over, we will figure this out and we will finish it.”

As abruptly as he’d grabbed her, he let her go. Sliding back behind the wheel, he cranked the ignition and glanced at her. Her lips still parted, her nipples erect against her thin knit top, her expression was slumberous and sexy—and damn if it didn’t make him smile.

“Ready?” he asked as if he hadn’t just kissed her into next week. He was pretty pleased with himself for not only catching her off guard but for bringing her on board. If they weren’t where they were, he’d have dragged her out of the Jeep, flattened her up against the door, and taken her right there. And she would have let him.

“Ready?” he asked again, his voice low this time, intimate, and she finally snapped to.

“Um… yeah.”

Oh, yeah. She definitely would have let him.

He felt smug as hell. So sue him.

To be continued. “Then let’s do this.”

Her hand on his arm stopped him. The dreamy look in her eyes had been replaced by something that sobered him.

“This isn’t going to be easy for you, Mike. Coming face-to-face with Lawson. Buddying up to him. Pretending to drink the Kool-Aid. You sure you can handle it? Because you really need to be sure.”

She wanted guarantees that he could keep his cool, contain his anger, and play nice with the man who had ruined his life and was responsible for ending the lives of some of the best men he’d ever known.

“I can handle it.” He had to handle it.

She searched his eyes, then squeezed his arm. “Then let’s do this.”

He put on his sunglasses and shifted into gear.

They were as prepared as they could get. They both knew their own and each other’s cover as well as they knew “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” They’d studied the intel on the Squaw Valley area and the encampment. They knew the United We Denounce doctrine as well as they knew their own faces. All they needed was to get into the compound.

Which would be no easy feat, if the size of the guns held by the men in the camouflage pickup that suddenly roared up to meet them was any indication.

24

“You can’t read the signs?” The guy riding shotgun—literally—stepped out of the pickup, a big-ass, 16-gauge double-barrel propped against his shoulder. Dust rolled up from under the truck where its oversized tires had skidded to a stop on the dirt road.

Mike squinted through his shades and sized up Mr. Personality with the 16-gauge. He put him at around forty. He was broad-shouldered, beefy, bald, and judging by the swagger and the scowl, saw himself as bad to the bone. Two guys, a few years younger with more wiry builds, sported short dark hair and beards. Both stood in the truck bed, elbows propped on the roof; each had one foot hiked up on the rim of the box in a combative stance. One carried an AR-15 assault rifle. The other held a shotgun that would have been a twin to Mr. Personality’s if the barrel hadn’t been sawed off to next to nothing. All three wore camo T-shirts, cargo pants, combat boots, and varying degrees of a Hitler complex. Mike guessed that the guy behind the wheel was decked out and armed pretty much the same, but couldn’t see him clearly behind the dust on the windshield.

Mike glanced at Eva. “Showtime.” Then he opened the door and stepped out of the Jeep.

“That’s far enough.”

He lifted his arms away from his sides to show he’d come in peace. “I’m looking for Joseph Lawson. Maybe you boys can help me.”

Dead silence. Stone-cold glares.

“This is the UWD compound, right?”

“Don’t matter what this is,” Sawed-off said, all slow and hostile. “ ’Cause it’s no business of yours. You’re on private property, boy. Best you turn around and head back the way you came.”

Mike stood his ground. “Came a long way, fellas. All I want to do is see Lawson.” Not deal with jerk-offs like you, his tone made clear. “I was told I could find him here.”

Personality glanced over his shoulder at Sawed-off, then back at Mike. He was close enough by now that Mike could see SIMMONS stenciled on the pocket of his T-shirt. “Is that a fact? Told by who?”

Mike returned his glare for a tense moment, then finally gave it up with a hint of exasperation. “Barry Hill.”

Hill’s name got exactly the reaction he’d been shooting for. Simmons wasn’t the brightest bulb in the fixture, and the look on his face gave away his surprise. “Hill? What have you got to do with Hill?”

“That’s between me and Lawson,” Mike said, making his impatience clear. “Look. I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m just here to talk to your boss. Now is he here or not?”

Simmons got a real mean smile on his face. “I asked you to tell me how you know Hill.” It was no longer a question but a demand.

“I don’t have to tell you anything.” Another show of irritation that Simmons found amusing.

“Now, see, you’re wrong about that. You don’t get to Lawson unless you get through me.”

Mike pretended to consider, then surrender. “Yes. I know Hill. He said he and Lawson were tight. Brothers in the movement.”

Simmons still wasn’t buying it. “I got a little problem with your story. No way you coulda talked to Hill.”

“Because he’s in stir?” When hostility turned to surprise then to interest, Mike put a cap on it. “He joined the club a couple months before I got out.”

That had them all looking at him in a new light.

“Look, I’m not on the run. I did my time. Now I’m square. Don’t owe anybody anything. I’m not looking for trouble and I didn’t bring any trouble with me.”

“She looks like trouble.” Sawed-off glanced at Eva.

Mike ignored the reference to Eva. Just like he ignored Eva, something he knew instinctively that these Neanderthals would respect the same way they grudgingly respected his show of arrogance. This was men’s business. A woman had no part in it.

“So is Lawson here or not?” he asked Simmons point-blank.

“You still haven’t told us who wants to know.”

“Jesus,” he swore, a man beyond tolerance and weary of their games, then he met Simmons’s combative expression with his own and stepped out on a limb. “The name’s Walker. Dan Walker. But you know what? Forget it. You’re not looking for recruits? Fine. I’m outta here.”

He jerked open the door and moved to get back behind the wheel.

“Hold on there.” Simmons made it clear that he made the decisions around here and he would decide if and when Mike went anywhere. He scowled a while longer, then turned to the driver with a clipped nod. “Call him.”

Inside the shadowed interior of the truck, the driver punched some keys, then held a phone to his ear.

Mike glanced at Eva. She sat stone still, eyes down, hands clasped in her lap. Like a good little subservient of an alpha male would do. It was a nice touch.

A raven flew overhead as they stood there, playing the waiting game. A fly buzzed his ear. The July heat, cut only by the pines that blocked direct sunlight, bore down in evergreen-scented waves.

And time turned agonizingly slowly as they all waited on a conversation that could seal or stall the deal.

Everything hinged on Lawson’s response.

Finally, the driver gave Simmons an almost indiscernible nod and Mike knew they were getting in. It was all he could do not to exhale in relief.

“You carrying?” Sawed-off asked, still perched in the truck box.

“Couple handguns. A Makarov and a Taurus.”

“Turn ’em over.”

Mike made a weak show of looking reluctant, then leaned down to window level and told Eva, “Get the guns out of the glove box.”

“Keep ’em where we can see ’em.” Rifleman felt the need to exert his show of power.

With slow, deliberate moves, Eva handed the handguns to Mike, who handed them to Simmons butt end first, to make sure no one got too excited.