Page 22

The man nearly growls. “Cut the bullshit, Chelsea. I’m being serious.”
“So am I,” I say, smacking the steering wheel. “I’ve seen you exactly three times before this mission. What do you want from me?”
“I… Well, shit.” He scrubs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I’d like to get to know you.”
“No, you don’t,” I insist. “I never take anything seriously and don’t do relationships.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard or seen. Bash has had nothing but good things to say about you. And I watched you almost single-handedly point out the pitfalls and strategies for this mission.”
I dismiss his praise with a shrug, wanting to change the subject. “You seem so convinced of my worth and that I should fall at your feet. Tell me, what does a woman need to know about you? If I know what I’m missing out on, I might have a grand epiphany.”
Jackson’s frustration rolls off him in waves, but the man doesn’t bite back. He calmly says, “I have a son.”
“Ugh. God. I’d be a terrible mother,” I respond with a wry laugh.
“That’s fine because he’s twenty-one. Not much mothering left to do.”
That math ain’t mathing in my head. I glance his way with my nose scrunched up. “Just how old are you?”
“Caleb was born when I was sixteen. I’m thirty-seven.”
Jackson isn’t that much older than me, but I refuse to give him any hope. “Nope. Too old. I’m looking to be a cougar when I grow up.”
Jackson turns in his seat and leans over the console. “You could pull it off for sure, but a boy won’t make those thighs quake like I can.”
Said thighs clench up, but Jackson isn’t finished. He leans closer and murmurs, “I’d make it so good, you’d call me daddy.”
The truck veers off the road just a few inches, and I gently steer the big machine back between the lines. “Are you fucking crazy?!”
Jackson flops back into his seat. “When I’m around you, I wonder.” With a voice laced with smug satisfaction, he adds, “That was the first honest emotion I’ve gotten from you.”
My automatic response is to lash out. “You are a certified psycho asshole.”
“And you are one hell of an actress.”
I bite my tongue to keep from responding, and Jackson chuckles. “Nothing to say?”
His careful study of my…well, me…feels about as comfortable as having strips of skin peeled from my bare arms. Jackson is too close to seeing me, and that’s the last thing I want. Stiffening my shoulders, I clamp my mouth shut, figuring I’ve exposed enough.
Jackson’s satellite phone rings, saving me from more prodding. He answers the call, and I spot the last turn for the airfield coming up ahead.
Tuning Jackson’s voice out, I park the rig next to a waiting jet and jump out of the cab as soon as I kill the engine. Bandaid and Jackson’s medic stand at the doors when I get them open. Thankfully, all eleven of our prisoners are still out.
“How was the ride,” I ask them.
“We’ve endured worse,” Bandaid answers as he picks up a man’s legs and drags him to the door.
I take over and hold the feet, and Duck jumps down to take the guy’s upper body. Jackson jogs over, finished with his phone call, just in time to help Bandaid with the second man.
A crew of paramilitary types spills out of the sleek jet and rushes toward the truck to help move the unconscious passengers. We don’t ask who they’re working for, and they don’t volunteer the information.
Once the delivery is complete, the agents zip off in their jet, leaving the four of us watching. “We leave the truck,” Jackson says, answering the unasked question. “Knot’s sending a chopper.”
The wait is short, and I refuse the headset offered to me when we load. I’ve said and heard enough for one night. And since the mission is over, there’s no need for me to communicate with anyone.
I need some downtime to regroup and get back into character before dealing with Jackson or his team again. And oddly enough, I could use a beer.
Jackson