Read Online Crazy Wild by Tara Janzen - Free Book Online
Authors: Tara Janzen
Tags: Fiction
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didn't bat an eyelash, the youngest agent, a dark-haired, dark-eyed rookie named Mathers, quickly dropped his gaze down the length of her body, taking in her black muscle shirt with the silver lightning bolt streaking across her breasts, her waist-length platinum ponytail, her skintight black leather pants, and her sturdy pair of black lace-up work boots. She'd been about to go out and look for Creed herself when the CIA had shown up—unexpected, unannounced, and unwelcome.
“That's his job,” she said, keeping her voice as flat as any trained CIA agent. “To be dangerous.”
“I know he's been highly trained to be a danger to others, to our country's enemies,” Royce agreed. “But there are limits even in that arena. We all operate under certain rules of engagement, even in extreme situations, and Creed Rivera has overstepped those rules. We feel certain he'll do it again. He's not to be trusted, Ms. Bang, not by anyone. To put it bluntly, he's a danger even to you.”
And that's where Agent Royce was wrong. No matter how many evaluations he'd read on Creed Rivera, he didn't know SDF's jungle boy the way she did. The only person Skeeter worried about Creed hurting was himself.
“I've seen your file . . . Skeeter, isn't it? Trying to protect him is just another bad choice in a life full of bad choices,” Royce said, his voice losing its monotone in favor of a thick dose of condescension. “Do yourself a favor and help us out here.”
God, she hated the CIA. If Dylan hadn't told her to let them in, she wouldn't have, not on a bet. And if Royce had seen her file, he knew she was a helluva lot older than she looked, twenty as of last summer, but he was still treating her like she was twelve. It was her face. Despite her five feet eight inches of height, she had one of those too-cute button noses and the kind of soft little cheeks that most people outgrew by the time they hit their teens. But not her. Oh, no. She was kicking twenty-one in the back and still had a baby face. Instead of the riot girl she was, she sometimes looked like a freakin' fairy princess, even in black leather.
“You saw the pictures,” he said, and then, just to drive his point home, he picked a stack of photos up off the desk and dropped them into her lap.
She didn't need to look; she'd seen them. But her gaze dropped anyway—and there was Pablo Castano, looking pretty rough with his throat cut, the ground around him dark with his blood.
It was bad, but Castano's death had been deemed justice by three governments who had paid for him and Garcia to die. She'd read the reports. Neither Creed nor Kid had left anything out. Royce had to know the facts of the mission as well as she did, probably better. He was in the same business.
She picked the photos up and slowly flipped through them, one by one. They hadn't improved in the twenty minutes since Royce had first pulled them out. Kid and Creed had left a mess on that mountainside—and a message that had run the length of South America and gotten all the way back to the Department of Defense of
los asesinos fantasmas,
the ghost killers. Somehow, in the jungles of Colombia and in the mountains of Peru, in people's minds, Hawkins and Creed and Kid had become the vengeful reincarnations of Kid's brother, their sole purpose to bring death to everyone with the American soldier's blood on their hands.
And so it had come to pass. All the NRF rebels who had tortured J.T. to his death had been killed. None was left alive. The U.S. Department of Defense had ordered the deaths, and the CIA hadn't been too bothered by any of them—not until tonight, when Creed had suddenly gotten orders to stake out Dominika Starkova and pick her up. He hadn't been gone two hours before the CIA had shown up.
Skeeter could add well enough to put two and two together and come up with twenty-eight reasons why the CIA would want the Blonde Czech Bimbo who was selling a nuclear warhead on the black market.
“The way I
“That's his job,” she said, keeping her voice as flat as any trained CIA agent. “To be dangerous.”
“I know he's been highly trained to be a danger to others, to our country's enemies,” Royce agreed. “But there are limits even in that arena. We all operate under certain rules of engagement, even in extreme situations, and Creed Rivera has overstepped those rules. We feel certain he'll do it again. He's not to be trusted, Ms. Bang, not by anyone. To put it bluntly, he's a danger even to you.”
And that's where Agent Royce was wrong. No matter how many evaluations he'd read on Creed Rivera, he didn't know SDF's jungle boy the way she did. The only person Skeeter worried about Creed hurting was himself.
“I've seen your file . . . Skeeter, isn't it? Trying to protect him is just another bad choice in a life full of bad choices,” Royce said, his voice losing its monotone in favor of a thick dose of condescension. “Do yourself a favor and help us out here.”
God, she hated the CIA. If Dylan hadn't told her to let them in, she wouldn't have, not on a bet. And if Royce had seen her file, he knew she was a helluva lot older than she looked, twenty as of last summer, but he was still treating her like she was twelve. It was her face. Despite her five feet eight inches of height, she had one of those too-cute button noses and the kind of soft little cheeks that most people outgrew by the time they hit their teens. But not her. Oh, no. She was kicking twenty-one in the back and still had a baby face. Instead of the riot girl she was, she sometimes looked like a freakin' fairy princess, even in black leather.
“You saw the pictures,” he said, and then, just to drive his point home, he picked a stack of photos up off the desk and dropped them into her lap.
She didn't need to look; she'd seen them. But her gaze dropped anyway—and there was Pablo Castano, looking pretty rough with his throat cut, the ground around him dark with his blood.
It was bad, but Castano's death had been deemed justice by three governments who had paid for him and Garcia to die. She'd read the reports. Neither Creed nor Kid had left anything out. Royce had to know the facts of the mission as well as she did, probably better. He was in the same business.
She picked the photos up and slowly flipped through them, one by one. They hadn't improved in the twenty minutes since Royce had first pulled them out. Kid and Creed had left a mess on that mountainside—and a message that had run the length of South America and gotten all the way back to the Department of Defense of
los asesinos fantasmas,
the ghost killers. Somehow, in the jungles of Colombia and in the mountains of Peru, in people's minds, Hawkins and Creed and Kid had become the vengeful reincarnations of Kid's brother, their sole purpose to bring death to everyone with the American soldier's blood on their hands.
And so it had come to pass. All the NRF rebels who had tortured J.T. to his death had been killed. None was left alive. The U.S. Department of Defense had ordered the deaths, and the CIA hadn't been too bothered by any of them—not until tonight, when Creed had suddenly gotten orders to stake out Dominika Starkova and pick her up. He hadn't been gone two hours before the CIA had shown up.
Skeeter could add well enough to put two and two together and come up with twenty-eight reasons why the CIA would want the Blonde Czech Bimbo who was selling a nuclear warhead on the black market.
“The way I
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