Operation: Protected Angel (Shepherd Security Book 1) Page 2

  “I’m not so sure that will matter,” Garcia interrupted, drawing their attention to the monitor. He restarted the mission feed he had just watched.

  It showed the interior of a room, a standard conference room. She sat in a chair along a wall. A man approached her, his back to the camera. As he reached her, he turned to the side. She rose, reached into his coat, pulled out his gun, shot him twice in the chest at point-blank range. A second man moved in from the left, she shot him once before turning the gun on a third man who entered the frame moving in fast from the right. She fired three times at him before he went down. The second man came up behind her and took her to the ground with a solid tackle. He violently slammed her head repeatedly against the floor with what looked to be a tremendous force. And then a flash-bang went off and the Tac-Team swarmed in.

  “Well, fuck me dead!” Doc voiced for them all.

  Jackson peered back at her, still unconscious in the chair. He probably should go secure her free hand. “Did you reestablish communication with Holden?” He asked Cooper.

  “Negative,” Cooper paused as he fiddled with the knobs on the equipment. “But let me replay his two messages.”

  He replayed the first call to have them come in and take custody of her.

  “Coop, I’ve got a witness I need secured. The bastards hit the ambulance. I’m not sure if they were trying to take her or kill her, but they came in fast and hard. They’re pros. Twelve ambulances pulled away with injured, somehow, they knew which one she was in. We’re in-route, requesting exfil at Northwest Regional Hospital.”

  “Roger that, Holden. My team is on its way, ETA one hour.”

  Cooper queued up another feed. “We’re being hit, damn-it, the hospital is under siege. How far out is your team Coop? We’re holed up in the imaging suite, I’ve got casualties!” The sound of gunfire was heard throughout the communication. “She needs exfil at all costs!”

  “He called her a witness from the start,” Jackson pointed out.

  “I’m not certain if he knew for sure.” Cooper would err on the side of caution. “We treat her as a suspect till we know.” He turned to Garcia. “You got an ID on her prints yet?”

  “Affirmative,” he brought up info on several monitors. “Angela Matthews, age twenty-eight, single, no arrest record, an employee at the Event Center, an events manager, whatever that is. Her prints are on file from a previous job at a bank, a personal banker. Give me an hour, I’ll have a full dossier on her.”

  Coop nodded. “Run her to ground. I want to know everything there is to know.”

  Garcia’s lips curved into that devious smile he got when he was allowed to invade someone’s life. His fingers flew over the keyboard. This was the kind of shit that got him off, fueled his wet dreams, his teammates were sure. If he wasn’t such a good Operator, he would be holed up in the geek-room playing on computers all day.

  Jackson pitied anyone who Garcia investigated. There wasn’t a secret they could have that he wouldn’t uncover. He glanced back at the dark-haired angel unconscious in the chair, her one free hand still clutching the blanket to her chest. She didn’t look peaceful, by any means.

  Cooper switched one of the monitors over to a live news feed covering the bombing of the Events Center. Oh boy, team coverage, the kind of news event that network television lived for. Hours upon hours of reporting would take place from the area designated for camera crews. So-called experts would give their opinions and suppositions from comfortable studios.

  What would have remained at ground zero, with all the agencies on-site, would be an alphabetic cluster-fuck of epic proportions. NSA, CIA, FBI, ATF would all be conducting their own investigations. Homeland would try to coordinate. Someone way above his paygrade would have to designate one entity over another in charge. Cooper was glad his unit would have no part in any of it.

  After Jackson changed into civvies, comfortable jeans and a short-sleeved t-shirt, he stowed his assault gear and then he sat in the seat beside her. She came to again, coming awake startled and disoriented, her eyes flashing around fearfully.

  “It’s okay, you're safe,” he said, leaning into her line of vision. “I’m Jackson. I’m here to protect you,” he told her again, patiently, knowing short-term memory loss was a given with a bad concussion.

  “Where am I?” She asked staring into his familiar green-hazel eyes. Her head pounded, the worse pain she had ever felt.

  “You're safe.” He took hold of her free hand. “They’re not going to get anywhere near you.”

  “Thank you,” she moaned softly. “My head hurts, really bad,” she said, her big brown eyes begging his to make it better. She didn’t notice that her other limbs were tied down.

  “I know. You have a concussion. It’s going to hurt like hell for a while.”

  “Can’t I have some Tylenol or something?”

  “No.” He shook his head, his lips forming a small and sympathetic expression surrounded by a nicely trimmed mustache and beard. “No medications with a concussion for the first twenty-four hours. We don’t want to mask any symptoms.”

  She breathed out heavily and stared at their joined hands. “May I have some water, please, I am so thirsty.” Her voice was raspy.

  He was stunned by her gentle manner, her polite pleading. She seemed so fragile. She didn’t seem like the same woman he saw take that Tango’s gun and shoot the three of them or had fought for her life against Doc and him. He summoned Doc to them, asking about the water.

  “How’s your stomach, you nauseous at all?” Doc asked her.

  “A little, I’m more dizzy than anything. Can you help me sit up?” She tried to sit and realized she was tied down. She began to pull at the restraints with as much strength as she could muster, a panicked expression cutting across her face, fear overtaking her.

  “Shh, it’s okay,” Doc said. “You're restrained for your own safety and ours.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  Doc rubbed his bruised chin. “You’ve got a hell of a kick, honey.”

  “I did that?” She asked horrified. “I am so sorry.” She sounded sincere.

  Doc was glad she could see his chin and understand what he was saying. With the way her head had been repeatedly slammed against the floor she shouldn’t even be conscious.

  With Doc’s blessing, Jackson helped her to take a drink of water. She clutched an airsick bag in her free hand, ready, but didn’t need it. As the cool liquid ran down her throat, a chill gripped her. She pulled the blanket more tightly around herself, pulling it from her feet.

  “Where are my shoes?”

  Jackson chuckled, looking at her toes, just noticing her toenails were painted a glittery dark blue. “I don’t know. They must have gotten lost somewhere along the way.”

  “They were Kate Spades,” she moaned.

  “I’m sure she will understand that you lost her shoes given the situation you were in.”

  “No, not a person, a designer. They were three hundred dollars! I saved forever to buy them.”

  He laughed at her, concerned with her shoes when she had nearly died. Then he noticed she shivered, or was she trembling? “Are you still cold?”

  She nodded, fighting to keep her eyes open. He covered her with another blanket and got a pair of his own socks from his bag. He slid his large socks onto her tiny feet, his lips forming a smile at the sight. His mind went where it shouldn’t, her toes, his mouth, his tongue swirling around those pretty glittery, dark blue toe nails.

  He retook the seat beside her and held her hand. He noticed her fingernails painted with a skin-tone pink on the bottom, a strip of white at the tips. He couldn’t recall what it was called when they painted it that way, but it looked very feminine and drew his eyes. He also couldn’t help the arousal he felt from fingering the soft skin, of her hand, of her cheek. He knew he had to step away from her. His thoughts were not where they should be regarding her. Shit! He was thinking like a horny sixteen-year-old.

&nb
sp; Doc and Cooper took an incoming call from their boss, Samuel Shepherd. A secondary team had arrived moments after their departure from the hospital. They had finished the job eliminating the threat. Shepherd relayed the quick statement obtained from Bryce Holden before Holden was wheeled into surgery. Cooper learned that Holden did indeed consider her a witness.

  It wasn’t long after that she lost consciousness again. Doc was concerned that she was dehydrated. If she had been a hostage all day, as Holden had thought, she probably hadn’t drunk much if anything all day. She had only swallowed a few ounces before passing out.

  It would be several hours until they were at the silo. He’d wait till then to assess the need for an IV. He was also hoping that in a few hours she would regain consciousness and maintain it for more than a few minutes. She didn’t like to be restrained, that was clear, and he preferred to treat the cooperative. IV needles and tubes didn’t do any good if the patient pulled them out. Time would tell if she would be cooperative or not.

  Doc relieved Jackson in the seat next to her so Jackson could step away and get solid sleep, unaware it was what Jackson needed. Jackson knew his focus on her was way out of line. There was something about her that drew his attention in a way it should not. He tried to recall how long it had been since he’d had sex with a woman. They had been on back-to-back-to-back missions for over a month. Obviously, it had been too long.

  Cooper sacked out in another reclined chair falling into REM sleep almost immediately. Doc would doze, but he never slept soundly when he had a patient. They had been up for twenty hours already, coming off a previous Op when the call from Holden came in.

  Doc glanced at Garcia who still clicked away at the keyboard with energy. Then he glanced back at the woman. Poor thing, she had no idea how invasive Garcia would be. Everything about her life would soon be laid out before the four of them. He retrieved a couple of ice packs from his bag and placed one on her eye, the other on the laceration at her hairline.

  Doc’s mind wandered to the bruises on her inner thighs. Those only meant one thing, attempted or completed was the question. Treating rape victims was nothing new, he’d seen some horrendous injuries, another reason for hoping she would be cooperative. He reclined his chair and closed his eyes hoping to get at least a short nap.

  Bravo

  The Lear touched down at the private landing strip far from any town or house. They transferred all their gear and a still unconscious Angela Matthews into the waiting black SUV within the small barn at the end of the short runway. The plane took back off within minutes of its landing per established protocol. Seated in the back seat, Jackson held her upper body cradled in his arms. Her legs laid across Doc’s lap. Cooper drove by muscle memory to the secluded, decommissioned silo and barn structure off a tiny dirt road literally in the middle of nowhere.

  Once inside Garcia entered the proper code into the dashboard computer. The platform descended, bringing the car down to the substructure where the facility was housed. Cooper drove off the platform and parked between the four other vehicles in its designated spot as the overhead lights switched on illuminating the space that resembled a cave with rock walls. The four men all climbed out, grabbing gear. Jackson scooped her back up and carried her to the elevator in the rock wall, that was the only gleaming silver within the space. Doc followed. Doc pressed his palm to the smooth onyx scan pad outside and then an identical one within. The elevator descended to level one.

  The holding room was towards the end of the hall. Doc hurried ahead, unlocking the door with the correct code to the keypad. He set the lighting low to a candlelight effect illuminated from the baseboards. He pulled the covers on the queen-sized bed back and stacked two pillows to set the proper height for her concussed head before Jackson laid her to the bed.

  She came awake and grabbed his hand in a death grip. “Where am I?” She squeaked out.

  Jackson leaned into her face but didn’t pull his hand free. “You’re safe. Do you remember me?”

  She shook her head no, instantly regretting it. She moaned out in pain, her free hand clutching her pained head.

  “Shh, shh, it’s okay. You’re safe. I’m Jackson, I’m here to protect you.”

  “Where am I?” She repeated.

  “You’re safe, Miss Matthews. That’s all you need to know right now,” Doc said coming into her line of sight. He assessed her condition, heart racing, pulse weak, breathing ragged, eyes still dilated. Damn, the couple hours she’d slept on the plane hadn’t helped at all. “I want you to try to take slow, even breaths.”

  She did, her eyes darting between the two men, which made her dizzy and her head hurt worse. “My head hurts so bad,” she said in a whisper, all she could force.

  “You have a bad concussion,” Doc said.

  She stared into his cold gray eyes. His face was chiseled with sharp angles. He looked harsh and scary. The other man looked nicer, black hair framing a square face that was softened by a trimmed beard and mustache. He had hazel-green eyes that were warm and trustworthy. She tried to reach her hand to her head.

  Doc stopped her. “You don’t want to touch up there. You also have a nasty cut at your hairline. I have it bandaged, and I don’t want you ripping it back open.”

  “Oh, God! What happened to me?” Tears spilled out of her eyes.

  “Shh, it’s okay. Don’t cry. It’ll hurt your head worse,” Jackson said softly. “I want you to relax and know you're safe. We’re going to take care of you.”

  “Okay,” she agreed softly. Her eyes began to reclose.

  “Hey, stay with me,” Doc said, shaking her. Her eyes flashed open. He opened a water bottle. “Take a drink.”

  Jackson tilted her head up slightly and Doc helped her sip. The cool water felt so good going down her parched throat. Doc watched her closely for a moment. Then he went into the bathroom, into the closet and grabbed what he guessed would be her size in the white tank top, gray hoodie, and the gray sweat pants they stocked in all sizes, the standard unisex detainee uniform.

  “I have to use the bathroom,” she whispered.

  The two men helped her up and brought her to the bathroom, practically carrying her. She was in no condition to stand on her own, let alone walk. Perfect timing. They would use this opportunity to help her change clothes. Doc unzipped her dress just as she caught sight of herself in the bathroom mirror.

  She was in a haze, like she was drunk, very drunk. She saw the blood on her dress and panicked. “That’s blood, shit, what happened? Why is there blood all over my dress?”

  “That tends to happen when you shoot people at point-blank range, Miss Matthews,” Doc said.

  “What? No, I didn’t,” she protested. Her head pounded, and the room spun. She grabbed the edge of the counter for stability with one hand, her head with the other. Doc’s hands steadied her on her feet.

  “I’m going to help you put on something more comfortable that doesn’t have blood all over it.”

  Doc pushed her dress from her shoulders, hoping she wouldn’t react badly to her clothes being taken off. He helped her to put the tank top on. After it was on, he unfastened her bra and slipped it from her, knowing she would be more comfortable without it. He had four older, large-breasted sisters, and he knew from a young age the first thing any of them did to get comfortable was take their bras off.

  Jackson turned his back as Doc helped her to sit on the toilet. He only turned back when he heard her speak again. She was gazing at her reflection in the mirror, one hand up to her purple-bruised eye. “What happened to me?” She demanded.

  Doc hadn’t gotten the pants on her yet. Jackson couldn’t help but notice the sight before him. She wobbled on her feet in the form fitting white tank top, which hugged all her perfect feminine curves. Her black panties matched her flowing black hair. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking of their detainee as sexy, but damn she was.

  “Shh, you’re okay,” Jackson said moving in. He scooped her up into his arms. He carried her to
the bed, laid her head on the pillow, and tucked the covers around her. “You’re safe.”

  “Who are you?” She mumbled with a weak voice.

  “I’m Jackson. I’m here to protect you.”

  “This will be a long fucking night,” Doc complained with a huff. Her repeated questions were already grating on his nerves. He knew she probably didn’t remember prior conscious moments. It wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t trying to be annoying.

  Jackson flashed a glare at Doc. He was being a lot less patient than usual. He must be more tired than Jackson thought. Of course, Doc had been awake as long as the rest of them and he had treated three patients during that time coming off their last Op. That required a different level of focus than the rest of them had maintained.

  “I’ll stay with her tonight, if you want, Doc,” Jackson offered even though he knew it would be best to distance himself from her. Why couldn’t their detainee be a fat old man?