Shoot to Thrill Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  Teaser chapter

  “Intense pacing . . . powerful characters . . . searing

  emotions, and explosive sexual tension! Once I started

  reading Shoot to Thrill, I couldn’t stop! This is high-

  action suspense at its very best!”

  —Debra Webb, bestselling author Find Me

  Praise for the novels of

  Nina Bruhns

  “Shocking discoveries, revenge, humor, and passion fill the pages . . . An interesting and exciting story with twists and turns.”—Joyfully Reviewed

  “[A] delightfully whimsical tale that enchants the reader from beginning to end. Yo ho ho and a bottle of fun!”

  —Deborah MacGillivray

  “This is one you will definitely not want to miss!”

  —In the Library Reviews

  “Nina Bruhns . . . imbues complex characters with a great sense of setting in a fast-paced suspense story overlaid with steamy sex.”—The Romance Reader

  “Gifted new author Nina Bruhns makes quite a splash in her debut . . . Ms. Bruhns’s keen eye for vivid, unforgettable scenes and a wonderful romantic sensibility bode well for a long and successful career.”—Romantic Times (4 stars)

  “The intricate and believable plots crafted by Nina Bruhns prove she is a master of any genre. Her talent shines from every word of her books.”—CataRomance.com

  “The kind of story that really gets your adrenaline flowing. It’s action-packed and sizzling hot, with some intensely emotional moments.”—Romance Junkies

  “Nina Bruhns writes beautifully and poetically and made me a complete believer.”—OnceUponARomance.net

  “Tells a very rich tale of love . . . A book you are going to want to add to your collection.”—Romance at Heart

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  SHOOT TO THRILL

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / August 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Nina Bruhns.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-12907-4

  BERKLEY® SENSATION

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  This book is lovingly dedicated to my children,

  Gordon, Spencer, and Natalie.

  Dream big, kids, and never lose sight of them.

  I love you always.

  Acknowledgments

  My heartfelt thanks to Brian Kissinger and CJ Lyons for their invaluable help with the intricacies of airplanes and diseases. And to my beloved critique partners, especially Dorothy McFalls, for keeping me on the straight and narrow. Thanks, guys!

  And naturally a huge thanks goes to my wonderful editor, Kate Seaver, and my fabulous agent, Natasha Kern, for believing in me. Don’t know what I’d do without you, ladies!

  ONE

  Manhattan

  August, present day

  IT was their shoes that gave them away.

  The bastards.

  Kick Jackson glanced at the three suits walking into the greasy New York diner where he ate lunch more days than not. He hoped against hope he’d been wrong and it was actually Jimmy Tang coming with his stuff.

  It wasn’t.

  Kick had known the respite was too good to be true. That one day his former life would come rushing back at him with weapons drawn. Wanting him to do another of their dirty missions somewhere in the fetid underbelly of the world, so they could keep their own lily-white hands clean.

  What part of go fuck yourself didn’t they get?

  Kick sighed in annoyance as the blue-haired waitress, Doris, shoved the burger plate with extra fries he’d ordered over the counter at him, and wordlessly refilled his chipped cup of coffee. Of all the days for them to show up. He really needed his stuff.

  And hell, he’d already told anyone who’d listen that he was done with his old life. For good. No more. Finito. He didn’t give a fucking goddamn that the national security waiver he’d signed when he was young and foolish said they could pull him back whenever they wanted for the rest of his life. Getting blown to hell had just been the last straw in a long list of reasons he didn’t want any more to do with that gig. Ever.

  But Zero Unit, his former CIA NOC-ops outfit, wasn’t known for taking no for an answer. They’d tracked him down officially—well, as officially as it got with a Non-Official Cover unit, meaning top secret and highly covert—at least half a dozen times over the sixteen months since his release from the hospital, making it clear they wanted him back. Last time they’d even tried threats. Obviously they’d forgotten he had nothing to lose. Hard to threaten a man who didn’t care what happened to him—as long as it happened here in the good ol’ US of A.

  He might be in a bad way, but he still had his pride. Which was why he’d
shot the last guy they’d sent with orders to bring him in to Zero Unit—not so affectionately known as the ZU—headquarters by force if necessary. Like that was going to happen. The moron had actually tried to take him down. Kick’d had no choice but to shoot him. And he’d even been nice and aimed for the leg. Maybe a permanent limp would teach the kid not to mess with the big boys. Kick’s own mangled leg had certainly taught him a lesson or two. . . .

  But today his former unit commander had added insult to injury by sending a team of rank amateurs after him. I mean, really. Who wore sneakers and combat boots with suits and ties? Kick barely resisted snorting out loud as they approached his back in an oh-so-subtle fan formation.

  Whatever.

  “Hello, Kyle,” said the big one who seemed to be the lead clown. To be fair, he wore appropriate black dress shoes with his blue pinstripes . . . unlike the jarhead standing to his right in combat boots with an ill-fitting brown suit or the Amazon to his left looking uncomfortable in an ugly business skirt and formerly white sneakers. “How’s the leg?”

  Kick ground his jaw. “The name’s Kick, and the leg’s fine; thanks for asking.” No sense starting out on the wrong foot. As it were. The two goons had their hands within quick reach of their concealed weapons. And, well, he had shot that other guy. They were probably feeling twitchy. He could relate.

  Pinstripes eased a hip onto the stool next to his, hooking his heel on the crossbar. “The boss would like to have a little chat with you, Kyle.”

  “It’s Kick, and I’m getting bored with this ritual, Mr. . . .”

  “Call me Al,” Pinstripes helpfully supplied with a fake smile that didn’t make it past the taut muscles of his cheeks. He didn’t offer his hand. Smart guy.

  “Seems to me, Al,” Kick said, sparing the man a casual glance—Large-caliber sidearm in left shoulder-holster; creds in left breast jacket pocket and right hand positioned close to calf, therefore right-handed, and probably a knife strapped to right ankle—“that the boss would have gotten the hint by now. I’m not. Interested.”

  Pinstripes gave him a raised brow. “Haven’t you been watching the news? I’d think that al Sayika incident two days ago would make you interested.”

  “You mean the three-second spot on CNN about al Sayika terrorists moving from Afghanistan to the Sudan?” As if. Fuck al Sayika, and double fuck Afghanistan. Scene of the worst betrayal in a lifetime filled with betrayals: the place where Kick had left more blood and body parts than he cared to remember—and where he’d lost his best friend. Hell, those were the last fuckers on earth he’d be interested in. “Then you’d think wrong,” he said, managing to hold his face neutral despite the acid churning in his gut at the reminder of everything he’d been trying so hard to forget for over a year.

  “The deal is,” Pinstripes said, “NSA intercepted some very disturbing chatter regarding your old friend Jal—”

  “Don’t wanna know.” Kick held up his hand like a stop sign. “Do. Not. Wanna. Know.”

  Pinstripes sighed. “You’re not going to be . . . difficult again, are you, Kyle?”

  Kick did a half turn on his stool to face him, and brought his fingertips to his chest in a gesture of Who, me? innocence.

  Instantly the goons behind him went for their weapons, but before they could pull them out, Pinstripes patted the air, signaling them to stand down. “Listen, I don’t want to have to get rough, Jackson,” he said, dropping all pretense of friendliness. “But the situation out in the big, bad world is getting very serious and the boss wants you, simple as that. This time there’s three of us and one of you. No way are you getting the drop on us. I’ve got my orders, and you’re coming in.”

  Just then, Doris walked up with her crisp apron and stooped gait, coffeepot in hand, and gave the others a gimlet eye. “You three eatin’ or just taking up airspace?” she demanded with a classic New Yorker scowl.

  “They’ll have coffee,” Kick told her, eyeing his burger regretfully. He really was hungry. Damn Jimmy Tang for not showing up on time.

  “Hmph,” Doris muttered, smacking a cup down on the counter in front of Pinstripes and filling it. She shoved it over to him. Too fast. He tried to catch it, missed, and scalding hot liquid flew all over his hands. He yowled in pain and jumped to his feet, shaking them furiously.

  Thank you, Doris. Kick vaulted over the counter, seized the coffeepot from her, and sprayed it at the goons with one hand and grabbed her wrist with the other. He flung the pot, pulled his SIG Navy automatic from the back of his waistband, and shoved it at her temple, grateful his hand only shook a little.

  Doris screamed over the sound of the coffeepot shattering on the floor, her aged vocal cords cracking pitifully.

  “Move and the old lady gets it in the head,” Kick growled at his would-be captors, shoving her unceremoniously toward the door to the kitchen. “I told you, I’m not coming in.”

  She screamed again as he dragged her through the padded swinging door and kept screaming as it flapped closed and he lowered the SIG and let her go.

  “Sorry about the mess,” he muttered, digging in his pocket for the roll of twenties he always kept there for emergencies. He pressed two into her hand as she crossed her arms and calmly continued to scream.

  The grizzled short-order cook, Manny, glanced over with a frown, flicking a worried gaze between Kick and the door as he tossed strips of bacon onto the grill. He jerked his head toward the back exit that led to an alley behind the diner. “Better make tracks, son. We’ll hold ’em off.”

  Kick could hear the goons yelling out front and dishes breaking as they scrabbled over the counter to give chase.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” he told Doris, and gave her a parting peck on the cheek, wincing at the scream in his ear. “I owe ya.”

  “What are you gonna do now?” Manny called after him.

  “Disappear.”

  Doris’s scratchy voice floated through the chaos. “Got to face them down someday, boy.”

  “Running’s safer,” he yelled back, a twinge already starting in his leg. “And tell Jimmy Tang he’s fired!”

  “MY God. Cheer up! It’s not like we’re going to a funeral or something, Rain.”

  Lorraine Martin’s best friend, Gina Cappozi, rolled her eyes and gave her a firm push through the doors of the venerable Park Avenue hotel located several blocks from Bellevue Hospital, where they both worked. They had arrived punctually at eight PM, thanks to Gina’s showing up at Rainie’s apartment two hours early to nag and prod her into the slinky blue strapless Versace cocktail dress Gina had made her buy—under vehement protest—at Filene’s on their day off. And give them time to walk to the hotel.

  Rainie tugged at the hem, which ended a good bit above her knees, but had to tug it right back up by the bodice when the low décolletage threatened to expose her. Great.

  They joined a small herd of smiling and preening single medical professionals, and were swept along through the chic Art Deco-style lobby and up the escalator to the mezzanine check-in desk. Everyone was all dressed up and reeked of anticipation. Gina glowed excitedly. Rainie just felt nauseous.

  Speed dating.

  Good grief. How had she ever let herself be talked into this?

  Rainie had pretty much given up dating over the past couple of years. Who had the energy to get romantic after a long day or night in the emergency room dealing with blood, drugs, violence, and senseless death? Gina insisted that was exactly why she should get romantic at every possible opportunity. Sort of self-medication for the overwhelming stress of the job.

  Easy for Gina to say. A medical doctor as well as a tenured professor, she headed a genetics research project at Columbia University, and did a stint in pediatrics at Bellevue once a week, dealing with cute little babies. Major stress there.

  Well, at least Rainie wouldn’t have to worry about staving off an actual relationship with anyone she met here. One thing about medical professionals, most were as driven as she was, totally married to their w
ork. That’s why these speed dating events were so popular with the staff of Bellevue. Just pick your flavor and head upstairs. Yikes. Which was also why Rainie had avoided them thus far. Just too embarrass ingly obvious what was going on. Sure, it had been a while since she’d felt that mindless flutter of physical attraction to a man, and even longer since she’d done anything about it, but had she really missed sex that much? Not really.

  “Wow, look at the muscles on that guy,” Gina murmured, indicating a grinning blond surfer-dude type flexing his biceps for a bevy of female admirers as they waited in line at the registration table.

  “Please. He can’t be a day over twenty-five,” Rainie muttered, semiappalled. She and Gina had both turned thirty several moons ago.

  “Then he could use a nice pediatrician,” Gina said with a wink.

  Camera flashes lit up the foyer as the kid showed off for one of several photographers recording the event. By morning, pages of pictures and video clips would be loaded onto the dating organization’s website. Yet another reason Rainie had refused Gina’s previous invitations to accompany her. Who needed their embarrassment recorded for posterity?

  “He doesn’t look like he has a brain in his head,” she muttered, praying her friend was kidding. Gina was smart as a whip, but had an out-there sense of humor. “Probably empties bedpans all day,” she added for good measure.

  “And your point is?” Gina said cheekily.

  Apparently, hormones trumped intelligence.

  Oh, brother.

  “Okay, I get it,” Rainie responded with a dry smile. “You have to leave your standards and good sense at the door at these things.”