Shadows and Silk Page 2

  Darcy opened her eyes and got caught in the heated green of his gaze, lost in the need she saw there. She wanted him to love her, to remember this moment and know that no other woman would love him as she did. He shook his head as if he’d heard her plea, trying to clear his head from the spell she’d cast on him.

  “Darcy,” he whispered, almost apologetically. He took her mouth in a fevered kiss, his tongue thrusting in time with his cock. Her pussy pulsed with the need to climax, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before it came.

  She pulled away from his kiss and closed her eyes, pushing away the love she yearned for and trying to harden her heart against the pain. Wishing wasn’t the same as getting. If all they could have was soul shattering sex this one time, it would have to be enough. She’d be damned if she’d ask him for more.

  “Harder,” she panted. “Fuck me harder.”

  His eyes flared in surprise at her demand and his fingers dug into her hips. And then he did as she commanded and colors exploded behind her eyelids as she screamed out his name. Her body went taut like the string of a bow, and then sensation washed over and through her as pleasure ripped her apart. Her pussy tightened around him and she shattered, drenching him with her sweet syrup. She’d never had an orgasm so intense—that it whipped through her body like a raging storm and left her heart and soul in tatters.

  Darcy thought she heard him curse in the far off recesses of her mind, and then he thrust once more against her, stiffening in her arms as his release tore through him. She didn’t know how long they held each other up during the aftermath of the storm, but when she finally had the strength to open her eyes, she saw it was full dark and the wind had died down.

  She tried to think of something the old Darcy would say—something sassy or wicked—but nothing came to mind that wouldn’t give her true feelings away. The cold of the night air finally penetrated through the heat they’d produced and she shivered in his arms.

  “We should go inside,” he said against her neck, nibbling at the sensitive flesh.

  Her legs relaxed from around his waist, and she tried to push away from him, determined to keep a certain distance between them so it wouldn’t be so hard when he left. But Brant shifted and slid back deep inside her, still hard, and she gasped as the need ignited in her once more.

  “I’m not done with you yet,” he said, kissing her gently. “Not by a long shot.”

  He wrapped her legs back around his waist and picked her up, carrying her into the house and crunching over broken glass until they reached a bedroom at the back of the house that hadn’t been damaged.

  “It’s a good thing I kept my shoes on,” he said.

  “You’re also wearing your weapon. I could have shot you during the throes of passion.”

  “It’d be a hell of a way to die.”

  Brant kissed her again, building the heat in slow increments, making love to her mouth with a tenderness that brought tears to her eyes. Kissing her as if she were the only woman on Earth—a kiss of claiming—a kiss of promise. He laid her back on the bed and proceeded to love her once more, this time slowly, savoring every inch of her as if he were committing it to memory.

  Maybe he was.

  Because after they’d found satisfaction once more and she’d fallen asleep wrapped in his arms, she felt him shift away from her and rise from the bed. His finger touched her cheek gently, and it was then she knew he was leaving. And he didn’t plan on coming back.

  She waited a few minutes until she heard the front door close, then slipped out of bed, pulling on a robe and sliding into a pair of shoes as she made her way to the front room. She parted the lace curtains and watched as he picked up his scattered clothes and finished dressing.

  Her heart thudded wildly. She’d known he’d try to leave, but she hadn’t thought it would be so soon—with her skin still reddened from his beard and her body still tingling from his touch.

  He tossed his duffle bags into his Jeep and got in without looking back. He hadn’t even said goodbye, and the girlish dreams she’d once cherished shattered like the glass at her feet.

  Chapter Two

  Four Years Later

  MacKenzies were nothing but trouble.

  Brant had known that for almost fifteen years—ever since Cade MacKenzie had dragged him to his home in Montana for Thanksgiving one year and shoved him into the freezing cold pond behind their farmhouse. They’d been as close as brothers ever since, and he considered the MacKenzies to be his second family, especially since his sister, Bayleigh, was now married to Cade.

  But sometimes families were a pain in the ass, and this was one of those times.

  He weaved in and out of the late night Georgetown traffic—the Harley rumbling beneath him—as a cool mist fell and collected in fine droplets on his riding leathers. Every instinct he had was telling him to turn around and go the opposite direction.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t have much of a choice when it came to this latest summons. The call from Declan MacKenzie had come early that morning—there was to be a meeting between all agents involved in the investigation of the del Fuego drug cartel. All agencies had been working together for the past four years to put an end to the cartel’s reign of terror, and since Brant was the special agent in charge for Homeland Security, he had no choice but to be at the meeting.

  He slowed and turned onto M Street, cursing the inaccuracy of the weatherman as a loud crack of thunder rent the air and the soft mist turned into a downpour. Headlights glared off the wet streets and impatient drivers blared their horns as this latest inconvenience kept them from their social obligations. He veered around a florist van to pull into the underground parking garage across the street from O’Malley’s Pub.

  With his helmet stuck under his arm, he sprinted across the street and into the warmth and familiarity of the long time hangout used by a mixed bag of federal agents. The smell of beer and the polish they used to wipe down the seats of the bar stools and booths hung heavy in the air. The floors were scarred and the wood paneling on the walls darkened with age. Music thumped steadily from the speakers, but not so loud you couldn’t hear the person next to you. O’Malley’s was a place to talk shop, let off steam, or sweet talk pretty waitresses—though not necessarily in that order

  Brant ran a hand through his hair, dripping water onto the mat on the floor, and wiped his feet.

  “Agent Scott,” Jimmy O’Malley said from behind the bar. “Haven’t seen you in here in a while. What’ll it be?”

  O’Malley was a former FBI agent and had opened the pub after a bullet shattered his knee and he’d been taken out of the field. He always said he’d rather serve whiskey than start drinking it because he was bored out of his mind sitting behind a desk. Brant couldn’t say he blamed him.

  “The usual. And put it on Declan’s tab,” Brant said, causing O’Malley to laugh.

  “I’ll have Lily bring it to you. Your friends are upstairs.” O’Malley jerked his thumb at the curved staircase that led up to the private room he sometimes rented out for parties or wakes, and Brant nodded his thanks and moved toward the back of the bar. He acknowledged a few of the familiar faces he passed on his way, and headed up the stairs.

  “It’s about damned time, Scott,” Shane MacKenzie said, his concentration never wavering from the game of darts he was playing. “Devlin here already owes me fifty bucks. Can’t play darts for shit.”

  Max Devlin was leading the DEA team assigned to the recent tourist murders that had been happening throughout Mexico as the cartels battled over their turf and the Mexican government’s crackdown on drug trafficking. He’d been Cade’s boss once upon a time, and since Devlin was a former Marine sniper, Brant very seriously doubted it was him that couldn’t play darts for shit. Devlin punched Shane in the arm and called him an inappropriate name and then quickly made a bullseye on his next turn.

  Seeing Shane reminded him of his own brother, Brady. Shane was Brady’s SEAL Team Commander, and it seemed they’d been ou
t of the country more often than not in the past couple of years. Considering some of the missions he suspected they’d taken part in, he was just thankful his brother was still alive. Shane’s team was the best there was, so they got the most dangerous missions.

  Brant narrowed his eyes as he took a closer look at Shane. The youngest MacKenzie had a hardness about him that hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen him. He was a couple of years younger than Brant, and there was something about him that went beyond just being a SEAL. Brant remembered all too well the things he’d seen during his SEAL days, not that working for DHS was a walk in the park, but he no longer feared that any given hour could be his last.

  Shane’s dark blond hair was buzzed close to his scalp and there was a vicious looking scar at the base of his skull that was still puckered and red in its newness.

  Brant caught Max’s eye and raised his brow in question over the wound, but Max shook his head, signifying he didn’t know and didn’t ask. Not that Shane would even tell them how it had happened if they did ask.

  Max looked like the odd man out in their group. Everyone was dressed down in jeans and tshirts, but Max had on a pair of grey dress slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, which meant he’d probably been stuck in meetings with his superiors all day.

  Max was an anomaly. He looked like he belonged in the corporate world—like an Ivy League boy next door with his clean cut pale blond hair, and his face freshly shaven. His quiet nature and relaxed air made it easy to forget that he was deadly. Like he was the kind of man who got his muscles playing tennis and swimming at a country club instead of the MMA training he did to stay in shape. No one could gutter fight better than Max Devlin.

  Brant stripped off his leather jacket and tossed it across an empty chair, laying his helmet in the seat. The noise from below was muted and the bass from the music vibrated the floor, but the room was private for all intents and purposes.

  Declan MacKenzie sat in one of the wooden whiskey barrel chairs, his posture relaxed and his eyes hooded halfway in sleep. Brant knew as well as any of the others in the room that Declan was never fully relaxed, and he could be up with a weapon in his hand before most people could blink. He and Declan were the same age, though it was Cade, the oldest MacKenzie, who was his best friend.

  He’d been crossing paths with Declan for years during different assignments, and he’d sat across from him at the dinner table for MacKenzie family dinners more times than he could count, but he still didn’t know exactly what branch of the government Dec worked for. By the way he seemed to know every damned thing almost as soon as it happened, Brant was guessing CIA. The one thing he did know was that Declan was in charge of this op, whatever it was, and he was calling the shots.

  Lily knocked on the door and came in with a tray filled with drinks. Dark haired and dark eyed, she gave Shane a smile that would have any red-blooded male’s blood boiling, and went about passing out the drinks. She was efficient as she set them around the table, and Brant raised a brow as he saw her place a napkin and a beer in front of the fifth seat. As far as he knew, only the CIA, DEA, Homeland Security and the assigned Navy SEAL teams had active operatives searching for the del Fuego labs. It had been an assignment met with little success over the last few years.

  “Ooh, baby,” Shane said, as Lily gave him one last smile and closed the door behind her so they’d have privacy. “I think I’m in love.”

  “That’s what you said last night, dickhead,” Devlin said.

  “There’s love and then there’s love,” Shane said, waggling his eyebrows. “I think Lily could be the one. And she was real delicate about the way she slipped her number in my pocket.” He held up the piece of paper from his pocket for them to admire.

  “Jesus, sometimes I can’t believe I’m related to you,” Declan said. “How old are you again? Fifteen?”

  “Jealousy doesn’t become you, brother. Just because you’ve got a sex life that rivals great-aunt Matilda doesn’t mean I’m ready to follow in your footsteps.”

  “Am I wrong, or did I miss the part where this was a MacKenzie family brawl instead of a government op?” Brant asked.

  “You’ve been in the middle of enough MacKenzie family brawls to recognize when it’s serious,” Declan said. “Or have you forgotten the broken nose? Maybe I need to refresh your memory.”

  Brant flipped him off and took the seat next to him. “I knew you did that on purpose, asshole. A slip of the elbow my ass.”

  “All’s fair in football. Suck it up, Nancy.”

  “Maybe if Cagney and Lacey are done playing darts, we can get this show on the road.” Brant took a long sip of beer and felt some of the tension drain out of his shoulders. It had been too long since he’d just taken an evening to relax. “I’d like to have an entire weekend off at some point in my career.”

  “I’ve never had one of those,” Declan said. “I don’t see why you should get one if I can’t.”

  “I appreciate that, Dec. You’re nothing but heart.”

  “That’s not what the ladies tell him,” Shane broke in with a laugh. “They tell him he’s nothing but—”

  “Enough, Shane,” Declan growled. “Take a seat, and lets get this done. Our guest will be here before I’m done with the briefing.”

  An uneasy feeling slithered up Brant’s spine, but he pushed it away. His intuition had been infamous when he’d been a SEAL and that reputation had followed him to DHS. And right now, his intuition was screaming red alerts at him. He trusted Declan. Hell, he trusted all the MacKenzies. But something was going on, and he was pretty sure he was going to hate whatever it was.

  Brant was an expert at reading people—at body language and the signs a person gave when they were in an uncomfortable situation. Declan wasn’t giving away anything as usual, but he’d known Shane long enough to see the worry in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders. He hadn’t stopped tapping his ring finger against his leg since Brant had walked into the room.

  Declan tossed out sealed manila envelopes to everyone at the table. At Declan’s nod, they each broke the seal and pulled out the papers.

  “We’ve received new intelligence that the del Fuego cartel has in fact been taken over by Alexander Ramos and the whole operation moved to Mexico.”

  “Shit,” Brant said, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. They all knew of Alexander Ramos. He was currently the leader for the Sinaloa drug cartel, which happened to be the most powerful and deadly cartel in Mexico. “He’s expanding his territory.”

  “It looks that way,” Declan said. “He’s setting up the del Fuego cartel in southern Mexico, from the Yucatan to the border of Guatemala. He already controls almost all of western Mexico, and I think we can agree that controlling that much territory isn’t going to go well once the Mexican government finds out and they start cracking down. The rumors are already spreading. The streets will be overflowing with the blood of innocent people.”

  “But according to this information, we still don’t have a location for the new labs,” Devlin said, shuffling through the intel quickly. “How are we any better off than we were?”

  “We don’t have the exact coordinates,” Shane said. “But we do have information we didn’t have access to before, and the new labs have definitely been set up in Ramos’ territory. My tech wizard was able to ferret out the information while my team was doing surveillance. In fact, we think Ramos took control over what was left of the del Fuego cartel just weeks after Carlos and Miguel del Fuego were killed. We were focusing all our attention on Colombia, but Ramos was keeping things on the down low until he had everything in place. I’m assuming it took time to rebuild the labs in a place no one would find them. The new rash of killings in the Yucatan area suggests the cartel is up and running for business now. Whispers on the street are starting to strengthen.”

  Miguel and Carlos del Fuego had been the heads of the del Fuego cartel up until their deaths a few years before. Carlos
had killed his father in a struggle for power, and Declan had killed Carlos with a shot straight to the heart while Cade rescued Brant’s sister, Bayleigh. It had been sweet justice considering the del Fuego’s had killed Cade’s lover a few years before.

  “How’d it come to your attention now?” Brant asked. He didn’t bother to read through the papers in front of him. He was waiting for the axe to fall. He took another sip of beer and kept his gaze steady with Declan’s.

  “Intelligence picked up an unusual transmission through satellite. It seems Ramos is a little smarter than your average drug lord. He’s got brains behind the muscle, and that makes him even more dangerous.”

  “Spit it out, Dec,” Brant said.

  “The cartel has set up the underground communication system using Maya as their language of choice.”

  Brant was already shaking his head, knowing where Declan was going. His stomach twisted in knots, but Declan didn’t let him get a refusal out before continuing his explanation.

  “Ramos is a Mayan descendent and has managed to bribe enough native speakers to work for him. An underground network to pass along sensitive messages, much like the Navajo Code Talkers during World War II. Unfortunately for us, there are only a handful of people outside of the natives who are knowledgeable in the language. They’re a closed culture, and they wouldn’t want our interference. And Ramos is probably paying them handsomely or threatening their families to gain their cooperation, so we can’t try to work our way in through them. They’re loyal to him.”

  “No way in hell,” Brant said, shaking his head again. “You’re out of your fucking mind.” He saw Max pass Shane a twenty-dollar bill out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored them.