Beckett repeated the survey using a pair of high--power binoculars, useful for picking up details he might otherwise miss, given the loss of acuity he’d experienced in his right eye from a grenade explosion just over a year ago. His left was 20/20 all the way, but shrapnel had reduced his right to 20/160. His visual impairment in that eye was damn close to legally blind, and it made seeing at a distance a bitch.
That explosion marked the beginning of the whole clusterfuck that led to him sitting in this hellhole all night. Beckett’s Army Special Forces team had been ambushed at a checkpoint in Afghanistan, and their commander and six other members of the team had been killed. In addition to himself, the four survivors—-his best friend, Derek “Marz” DiMarzio; second--in--command Nick Rixey; Shane McCallan; and Edward “Easy” Cantrell—-had fought tooth and nail to make it out alive, only to be blamed for their teammates’ deaths, accused of dereliction of duty, and sent packing from the Army courtesy of other--than--honorable discharges and nondisclosure agreements ensuring they could never say anything to try to clear their names.
Now they were doing it anyway. This was their one and only shot.
Movement along the far side of Hard Ink.
Beckett focused in to see Katherine Rixey pause at the corner before running across the road to the shadows of the opposite building. From there, Nick’s younger sister skirted tight along the wall, darted across the road again, and then disappeared from view as she entered the warehouse where he hid. Within a minute the rapid thump of footsteps echoed up the stairwell.
Nearly 6:00 a.m., which meant his shift in the sniper’s roost was done. Kat was his relief.
Except that was maybe the only way Kat Rixey relieved him. Otherwise, she had an impressive knack for getting way far under his skin and pushing all his buttons. And every one of his teammates had witnessed it firsthand. Among elite operatives, lives and missions depended on being able to recognize and mitigate your weaknesses. And that meant Beckett had to admit that something about Kat distracted him, irritated him, made him . . . feel.
Not something he had much experience with. Not for years.
Her footsteps neared, their sound louder in the stairwell, and Beckett’s heart might’ve kicked up in time with her jogging pace. Something about her threw him off--kilter. And that fucking pissed him off. Because this woman was the younger sister of one of his best friends. And no part of what he was doing here involved—-
“Hey, Trigger. You’re free to go,” she said as she stepped into the large room behind him.
Fucking Trigger. She’d been at him with her cute little nicknames since the day they met. Like it was his fault he’d caught her roaming Hard Ink unannounced and pulled his gun on her. Times being what they were, she was lucky that was all he’d done. He kept his eyes trained out the window so she couldn’t see the irritation likely filling his expression.
“Helloooo?” she said, standing right behind him.
Taking his good old time, he put the binoculars down and slowly turned toward her. And had to work hard to keep from reacting to how fucking hot she was.
Katherine Rixey was an angel--faced beauty with a foul mouth, sharp green eyes, and curves that would not quit. His hands nearly ached to bury themselves in her thick, wavy brown hair every time he saw her, and the sight of her confidently and competently handling a gun made him rock hard. The fact that she was apparently a shark of a prosecutor was just icing on her five--foot--two--inch cake. Brains, body, beauty. Kat had it all. Too bad she drove him bat--shit crazy.
She waved a hand in front of his face, and he tore his gaze away. “You fall asleep there, Quick--Draw? Shoulda texted me. I would’ve come sooner.”
Whatever you do, do not think about her coming.
Jesus.
Beckett secured his weapon in a holster at his lower back, hauled himself off the floor, and swallowed the innuendo--filled retorts flitting through his mind. “Had it covered just fine.”
“Good to know,” she said, crossing her arms and smirking.
Beckett felt his eyebrow arch in question before he’d thought to school his expression. “Problem?” he asked, stepping right up in front of her. She was so short, he towered over her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. And damn if she didn’t smell good, like warm, sweet vanilla. It made his mouth water, his groin tighten, and his temper flare. Sonofabitch.
“Dude. I am so not the one with the problem.” Amusement filled her bright green eyes.
As he nailed her with a stare, Beckett tried not to admire the way her crossed arms lifted the mounds of her breasts under the clingy black long--sleeved tee. This woman was a Rixey, which meant sarcasm was coded into her DNA. Beckett had a decade of experience with her oldest brother to know that was true. No way he was giving her the satisfaction of a reply. He shook his head and stepped around her.
“Always a pleasure,” she said.