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“Um, thanks,” she said, then glanced at Anna. “Do I want to be on the team?”
“Oh, yeah.” Anna laughed. “Right, Hayley?”
“What?” Hayley steered herself and Scotty closer.
“Toni asked me if she wanted to be part of our team, and I said yes.”
“Definitely.” Hayley grinned. “Forget the guys—we girls know how to party.”
“What do you mean, forget the guys?” Scotty said, looking affronted. “We’re the center of your existence, right?”
“In your dreams.” Hayley smacked him on the back of the head. “Don’t forget who begged me to come back, who said he couldn’t live without me, who wanted to—”
Scotty silenced her with a kiss, and Spencer snorted. “Hope they don’t scare you off,” he said to Toni.
“Nah.” She grinned. “I’ve been shot at, received all kinds of threatening messages, and been mobbed by the press more times than I can count. I can handle you. Easy.”
“Yeah?” He pulled her closer and rubbed the tip of his nose against hers. “Is that right?”
“That’s right.” She pulled him in for a kiss, and neither one of them did any more talking until the music ended.
“You want another beer?” Spencer asked her as they returned to the table.
“No, thanks. I’m good. I have to get back to my office soon.”
“More charity functions?” he asked, holding her chair for her before taking his seat beside her once more.
“Always.” She pulled Spencer’s arm around her shoulders and snuggled up against him as Kyle returned from outside, his expression a bit less dark than before.
“So,” Spencer asked while doing his best not to get too distracted by the feel of Toni’s lush curves pressed tight to his side. “What did Brighton say?”
“He said we need to catch the next plane to Tennessee.” Kyle took a deep breath and looked around the table at each of them, smiling. “Who’s ready to catch some homegrown terrorists?”
EPILOGUE
“Sir, I believe you’ll want to see this.”
Miles Arrieta gazed dispassionately out over the Pacific Ocean as his butler dropped a newspaper onto the small wicker table beside him. He didn’t need to read the headline to know what it said. His contacts in the States had already informed him that Coran Williams had been taken into FBI custody.
The man would turn on him in a heartbeat and spill every secret he knew to please his beloved US government. Miles had known that from the start of this debacle, though he’d allowed the arrogant billionaire to think he’d outsmarted him. It had been worth it, to gain access to his funds. He snorted. Outsmart him? Honestly. The day Coran Williams or any of those SEAL jackasses outsmarted him would be the day he died.
And Miles didn’t plan on kicking it any time soon. “Thank you, Rogers,” he said, waiting until the butler departed before leaning over and picking up the paper.
Sure enough, cowardly Coran had cut himself a nice deal with the feds after those SEALs had captured him in Jubail. The guy should’ve listened to Miles and had them all taken out when he’d had the chance. But no. Coran Williams considered himself too much of a patriot to live with that much innocent blood on his hands.
Good thing Miles had no such scruples.
According to the article, Coran was sharing his digital file tracking technology with the government to trap suspected terrorists like him.
Chuckling, Miles tossed the paper aside. One man’s terrorist was another’s freedom fighter, and he had no intention of being apprehended by Williams or the US government—or anyone else, for that matter.
Those SEALs, though. They were going to be a problem. He’d lost good men in that bomb blast in Jubail.
Fury boiled inside him like molten lava, ready to explode.
If there was one thing Miles couldn’t stand, it was a bully. Like the United States itself had become. Oh, yes, the officials liked to pretend to be the good guys. All for one and one for all, and all that bullshit. Until you got captured, as he’d been on that last, fateful intelligence mission for the CIA. They’d never checked on him, never offered any kind of deal to get him back—not once. Instead, they’d left him for dead, abandoned, tortured, alone…
Screw ’em. Each and every one of those red-white-and-blue-bleeding assholes. Because he wasn’t alone. Not anymore.
And Miles wasn’t without a plan, either. One that involved a certain woman with ties to those same SEALs, who had foiled his plans in Jubail and skipped out on a certain meeting spot on the wrong side of Nashville.
Miles knocked back the rest of his thirty-year-old scotch and stared out across the open deck of his seaside cabana to the deep turquoise waters beyond. Havana was his most recent refuge of choice. Large and lawless enough to provide adequate shelter, yet small and close enough to the mainland to feel homey.
His hammock swayed gently in the salt-scented breeze, and he tucked his arms behind his head, a fat cigar jutting from his lips. One day soon—and sooner than any of those bastards expected—he’d be putting his plan into place. And when he did, Coran Williams and the rest of the American-loving world would be getting exactly what they deserved.
Miles Arrieta would make sure of it.
