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Bree stoodin front of the window in her apartment provided by the embassy and stared out the window, willing herself not to drink. It was a knee-jerk reaction that had started when she was eight. Alcohol was what her mom used to cope with life, and after her mom had come home from New York City after 9/11, Bree had picked up the same habit. She had fought against it most of her life but got a handle on it in college after seeking help. So, it was a struggle under stressful situations. This time she won over the impulse. She was going to an embassy function, and she needed to have her professional face on. Her mouth was dry, and she was still shaking from the aftereffects of adrenaline. She tried to tell herself it was all normal, and she, the team, and Greg were all okay.
Heavy dusk had infiltrated from outside, secluding the room in shadows and silence, and she stood in the gloom, trying to will away the awful sensation in her abdomen—a sensation comprised of sorrow mixed with shame.
She’d started drinking in high school, something she’d learned from her mom who had always self-medicated with wine. Bree had her first taste of alcohol at eight years old and found it natural to imbibe when she was stressed. There were occasions in high school when she’d gone to class drunk, especially when something triggered her 9/11 memories. But it wasn’t until she was in college and facing four years of parties that involved alcohol that it was clear she had a problem. She’d hidden it ever since. She’d even hidden it from her college boyfriend.
After he left and she moved on with her goal of becoming an FBI agent—something he was vehemently opposed to and the main reason they had parted ways—she fought the urge to drink after hard days. When she allowed herself to unwind with wine, she made sure she wasn’t going to be on duty the next day.
She had showered off the dirt and grime from the op, treating her minor cuts with antibiotic ointment, then she’d attempted to get some sleep. But that had been fitful. She couldn’t shut down, the day’s events running over and over like a movie on repeat. The Fly Team was without a leader as Greg would soon be going home. His wound needed a good six weeks to heal. She had no idea if he was coming back or who was going to assume leadership of the team. In the back of her mind, she thought she deserved the shot, her mind switching from the current, disturbing present to the hopeful future.
Her ambition was to go as far as she could in the agency, then, maybe take up public service or an ambassadorship. She wasn’t sure. She respected and admired what Isabelle was doing in Niger.
It was years ago when she was still in high school, she studied abroad in Mali during her junior year through a State Department-sponsored program. She’d already excelled in languages by then, French was one of her favorites, and picking up Bambara was rather easy.
She’d made sure she had plenty of overseas travel on her résumé for the bureau and Mali was part of that. West Africa had changed so much since she’d been a student in Mali. She turned from the window and looked at the clock. It was almost five-thirty. Time to get dolled up. She went to her small closet and looked over the three dresses she’d brought with her. One was a red sultry wrap dress that came to about mid-calf, the other one was shorter, flirtier, and she thought of Blitz and how he might react to it. The dress was blocked, the bodice black and the flared skirt white. But she ended up choosing the third one.
Okay, she loved fashion. Everything from hair accessories, make-up, clothes, shoes and handbags. This particular stunning dress was a soft rose color with velvet appliqués of burgundy roses, the delicate straps tied in a crisscross pattern on her lower back, ending in a bow, exposing all her toned muscles. She tended to pick more feminine dresses to offset her well-defined body. She accentuated it with amethyst double drop earrings, a maroon croc embossed bag, and two-inch, closed-toe matching pink mules with tiny bows on the instep. She left her dark hair loose and wavy.
She strapped an elegant watch to her wrist, and after tossing her hair one more time, she spritzed on a little scent. She walked to the front of the embassy from her apartment where the limo was going to pick them up.
The guys were all there early, except Gator. He was going with Isabelle and would meet them there. But leave it to SEALs to be ahead of schedule. Freaking overachievers.
As she walked toward them, Buck turned to look at her. He let out a low whistle, garnering the attention of the other guys, including Blitz, who looked sharp in a small-checked black and white, short-sleeved button-up shirt fitted to his chest and accentuating his broad shoulders, dark linen pants, and dark suede sneakers. She had to catch her breath. His dark brown hair was mussed by the wind, those moss green eyes of his as piercing as ever, flashing with heat.
“Shoot, girl. You’re as fine as cream gravy all gussied up.”
“Thank you,” she said with a smile, dragging her eyes from Blitz. Buck was such a gentleman, that twang was so cute, and he was as handsome as all get out, but meant business when he had to with his steely-eyed focus. He had on a black western-inspired short-sleeved shirt with white stitching on the shoulders and button placket, with black jeans and dark mesh oxfords.
Professor was standing with his wife, Julia, who was in a simple blue sheath, her blonde hair in a classic twist at the nape of her neck, and he looked sharp in his blue-and-white-striped T, skinny trousers, the cuffs turned up, and a loose blazer pushed up to his elbows, white sneakers on his feet.
D-Day sported a black button-up shirt with a maroon pocket, houndstooth pants, and gray deck shoes. He looked sharp in that outfit, his blond hair catching the light and glowing like gold. Zorro looked darkly attractive in his navy-blue button-up shirt with white palm fronds on it, white linen pants and buff loafers. And, finally, the stoic Bear, accentuating his dark skin and features with a cerulean blue polo with a zipper at the neck and white collar. He was also in black jeans with black oxford-inspired sneakers.
As the limo pulled up, Buck reached for the door, preempting Blitz’s attempt to open it for her. She didn’t miss the fascinating glare he shot his teammate, a response that pleased her to no end. She liked to think that on some level that show of annoyance meant that he cared. Maybe more than Blitz realized. And she found that bit of information both exciting and disconcerting. Maybe this party wouldn’t be as tedious as she expected.
* * *
Sam “Buck”Buckard chuckled to himself as he settled next to Bree in the limo. Cutting off Blitz had been calculated. It was clear his teammate had a thing for the sexy FBI agent but was dragging his heels. Buck had all the respect and admiration he could muster for Blitz. The guy was solid, with a double backbone, but he needed a push into the woman who also had eyes for him.
Just to stir the pot, he leaned over close to Bree and said, “You handled yourself well this week, especially last night. High tailing after those two squirters. Did you get a good look at them?”
“Thank you,” she said, her pretty amber eyes warm, her mouth curving up into a smile. “I didn’t get a look at them, so I have no idea if it was Achebe and Olenska. The blast allowed them to get away, which was, I’m sure, their plan.”
“Heard you dropped a tango who had Blitz dead to rights.”
She nodded. “Yes, I did.”
“Are you sure you’re not a cowgirl?” He grinned as Blitz stewed. Ha. He swore if Blitz didn’t make a move, he would. The woman was badass with all those toned muscles, smart, sexy, and brave as hell. “Running and gunning seems to be in your blood.”
She flashed him a sassy grin. “I've wanted to be an FBI agent since I was young.”
“Did you? Why is that?”
“Nine-eleven. The FBI was under fire then, in the news a lot, and blamed partly for the attacks succeeding. I wanted to make the agency better so that 9/11 never happened again.”
“And here you are fighting terrorists. Got your wish.”
“And then some,” she murmured, her eyes darting to Blitz. Then lowering to her lap where her hands sat, the ragged nails clean, her palms showing some calluses.From handling her Glock, he thought.
They pulled up in front of the Trasker Gold Hotel & Conference Center. The building was located in downtown Niamey onBoulevard de Republique, one of the city’s safest near thePalais de Congress, the Old Presidential Palace, and international embassies. It was a sixteen-story, two-hundred-and-fifty-room, twelve-conference-room facility where the G5 Sahel Conference was going to take place.
