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“Let me do this,” she whispered, trailing her lips down the front of his shirt and wrapping her mouth around his hardness.
—:—
“Where in the hell have you been?” asked Striker when Monk walked into the downstairs office. Doc, Mercer, and Gunner were there too, and all of them were looking at him as though they expected an answer.
He pushed past them and sat in the chair next to Mercer. “What’s this about?” he asked.
“Monk,” said Striker. “I asked you a question. Where have you been?”
“Sleeping,” he answered without turning around.
“Rhys.”
Monk spun around and looked at Doc, who said, “Onyx filed a flight plan earlier today. We aren’t certain of the details, but it appears that he, Corazón, Tackle, and Halo are on their way to Colombia.”
Monk turned to Striker. “I thought I was the handler on this.”
“There he is,” said Razor, walking into the office, breathless.
“Anybody wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?” Monk asked.
Mercer stood, and Striker sat down in his place.
“Did you authorize their deployment?”
“Whose?”
“Jesus Christ, Monk! Onyx, Corazón, Tackle, and Halo!”
“You said to put them on standby, and that’s what I did.” What the fuck was going on? “Has anybody made contact with Onyx?” he asked.
“Negative,” Mercer answered.
“How’d you find out about the flight plan?” Gunner asked no one in particular.
Everyone else in the room looked at Razor.
“I got a call from Jimenéz asking if Striker was on his way. I asked what he was talking about, and he responded that there was a K19 plane in the air.”
“What did you tell him?” asked Doc.
“That his intel was bad.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“There was no K19 plane I knew of on its way to Colombia.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me it was my intel that was bad.”
“Has anyone actually confirmed the plane is even in the air?” asked Gunner.
Monk looked around the room, but everyone was looking at him. If what they were dealing with wasn’t so serious, he’d get up and walk out. How dare they question him. He’d been in this goddamn room for the last two days. “I hadn’t slept in forty-eight fucking hours,” he muttered.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone you were leaving?” Razor asked.
“Seriously?”
