Read Online Crossfire by Joann Ross - Free Book Online

wheels turning in her head.
    ‘‘So you liked being a SEAL?’’
    ‘‘For the most part. A lot of the time it was like playing war when you were a kid.‘‘
    Not that he’d been allowed to when he’d been a kid. At least not at home, where he’d never been allowed to have friends over, anyway. But his parents hadn’t been able to control what he did at recess on the school playground.
    ‘‘The difference is, being in Special Operations, I got to play with the most expensive toys Uncle Sam could buy, which was cool. And it’s true what they say about joining the navy and seeing the world. I liked going to lots of different countries, liked the adventure, the night runs, really liked the commitment and adrenaline rush of HALOing—that’s high-altitude, low-opening parachute insertion—and I really enjoyed the camaraderie of being part of a team.’’
    Actually, he’d freaking loved what had been the first real family he’d ever known.
    ‘‘How about the fighting?’’
    ‘‘Yeah. That, too. There’s one helluva rush to combat you can’t get from anything else in life. At least nothing that’s legal.’’
    Whoa. Having grown up in the weird and solitary world of the Vietnam War protestors’ underground, Quinn was an expert at keeping secrets. Which was why, he’d often thought, he’d been a natural to join a covert Spec Ops team.
    The only people he’d ever shared anything the slightest bit personal with were Zach Tremayne and Shane Garrett. He’d certainly never spilled his guts to a woman. Most of whom, he’d realized early in his career, might really enjoy the idea of going to bed with a big, bad SEAL but didn’t want to dwell on what, exactly, warriors did to earn their paycheck from Uncle Sam.
    ‘‘Well.’’ More turning of mental wheels. ‘‘That’s not exactly a politically correct statement to share with a civilian.’’
    He shrugged. ‘‘You’re not exactly a civilian. You’re a cop. A federal terrorist-fighting cop.’’ Who knew the business end of a weapon and how to use it. ‘‘Besides, I’ve never been all that politically correct.’’
    ‘‘Now there’s a surprise,’’ she murmured.
    He didn’t hear the edge to her voice that he would’ve expected. In fact, although it might just be hopeful thinking and although he couldn’t see her face, because she was looking out the window again, Quinn thought he might just have heard a touch of a smile.
    ‘‘It’s become popular, especially these days, to admire the troops,’’ Quinn said quietly. ‘‘For what’s perceived as their innate toughness, courage, patriotism. But that image doesn’t allow for the idea that anyone could actually, in some way, feel any exhilaration in combat. And if you do, you’re damn well expected to keep it to yourself.’’
    ‘‘Yet you just told me.’’
    ‘‘Yeah. Must’ve fallen under the power of your excellent interrogation skills. I’ll bet you busted a lot of balls in the box.’’ In a stroke of lucky timing, he glanced over at her just as she looked back at him. ‘‘Isn’t that what you cops call it? The box? Or is that just on TV?’’
    ‘‘Yeah.’’ This time the smile in her voice was echoed at the corners of her mouth. A mouth that, although it should have been impossible, he could still taste after all these years. She’d tasted like rum and sugar and mint and he could’ve drunk from those sweet lips forever. ‘‘That’s what we call it. And, yeah, I was okay.’’
    He suspected she’d been a lot better than okay. She’d always seemed driven to perfection. Something she probably, at least back then, never would’ve believed they had in common.
    ‘‘I’d bet you played the good cop.’’
    Quinn could easily visualize it, like a scene from a book. There’d be a small, stark, airless room with the requisite one-way mirror taking up most of one wall. Her partner would be seated in a straight-backed chair on one side of a narrow wooden