Page 26

That doesn’t mean I’m not still self-conscious. I’ve just chosen to focus on what I’ve made of myself instead of my hip size. I’m in a small fraternity of women to become Force Recon, a damned good strategist, and a hell of a marksman. I shouldn’t be surprised that a man could be attracted to me.
Whether I should or shouldn’t be, I am. And if I’m honest, I don’t think I could trust someone enough to try a relationship. Not even a Navy SEAL who thinks he’s got me figured out.
For argument’s sake, say Jackson’s right. Say I like him. In my experience, that only makes the man more dangerous. All those years ago, deep down, I knew Trace Newel was wrong for me. I never loved him. I only moved in with him because I didn’t believe I would ever do any better.
Trace ripped me to shreds and walked away. If I were to fall for Jackson and he did the same, the end would be so much worse. Yes, the thought of someone wanting me for me is appealing, but I don’t think it’s worth the risk, not with my track record.
A small part of me wonders if Jackson could handle my chaos. That small part just isn’t enough to convince the rest of me to gamble my heart on him.
Chelsea
“Danforth! Are you punching that bag or waltzing with it?”
Being called out by Spatch, the former Army Ranger trainer, snaps me out of my mental fog. I attack the bag with renewed focus, cheeks heating at being called out.
I was doing it again, replaying the truck scene with Jackson in my head. “I’d make it so good, you’d call me daddy.”
Annnd, my gloves just dropped again. “Ugh! Would someone please kick my ass?” I yell to the room.
Several hands raise, volunteering for the task. Sadie jogs over, but Bash heads her off. “I got this, Fate.”
Judging by the look on his face, I would prefer Sadie. My partner gestures to a far corner of the room, away from nosy ears. I follow without comment…reluctantly. Bash grabs a shield target off the wall, sets into a low stance, and barks, “Front thrust kick, jab, backhand.”
This isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but I don’t argue. I set my stance to launch the first kick, and my partner asks, “What did he do?”
I work through the combination and answer, “Nothing.”
My left arm drops, and Bash smashes the target into that shoulder. “Nothing? That’s it? No sarcasm? No jokes? No, mind your own damned business, Bash?”
Refusing to meet his eyes, I shrug and answer casually. “Nothing, as in nothing. I’m just a little off today.”
“I’m not buying it. Jab, cross, knee strike.”
I obey the command, and Bash continues. “You haven’t made a single smartass remark today. That means something’s wrong. Hell, you haven’t even smiled this morning.”
Shrugging again, I say, “We all have to grow up sometime.”
Bash slams the target to the mat. “That’s it. I’m going to kill him.”
“Oh, for cripe’s sake, Laurent. Knock it off. I’m having a little identity crisis. Your boyfriend had nothing to do with it. As a matter of fact, I think you should check on him. Jackson needs his head examined.”
“That’s nothing new,” he grumbles, scrubbing his jaw.
Spatch sounds his electronic whistle, and I sweep Bash’s legs from under him. Leaning over my friend, I sneer. “By the way, you suck at ass-kicking today.”
I leave Bastien on the floor and clear out of the gym with the rest of the contractors in search of a shower. After dressing and drying my wavy hair, the mass goes into a messy bun instead of running it through a flat iron. Rumor has it that Knot is calling a meeting for Alpha and Bravo teams at one, and there’s no time for silky hair, not when I still have firearms training to get through.
Precisely at one, Knot’s door closes, and the secret spy security measures activate. He must have big news.
“Don’t ask me how, but my contact in the CIA intercepted a message going to Congressman Harding describing an attack on a Navy SEAL team in Bulgaria. Just like with Iron Strike, this report blames Knot Corp. contractors for leaking the intelligence report, leading enemy forces to the location of the SEAL team. My contact saw the message before you put your rafts into the Maritsa River.”
“So, not only is someone selling out US forces, they’re orchestrating these attacks,” Dani affirms.
Our boss nods. “Orchestrating and reporting to Harding.”
Cassanova snarls. “That bastard is probably the one planning all this shit.”
There’s no way. “I agree that someone is purposefully reporting these occurrences to Harding, but something isn’t adding up here. How can a first-time congressman, a man who never served in the military, have the kinds of contacts necessary to pull off such complicated attacks? You’ve seen the prick’s interviews. He never changes his song and dance, always reciting the same lines of information. Someone’s only feeding him enough bits and pieces to make him sound informed.”