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Book: Hot & Bothered (A Hostile Operations Team Novel - Book 8) by Lynn Raye Harris
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Authors: Lynn Raye Harris
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and he found time for that, though perhaps not as often as he might like. In fact, the last time… Shit, he couldn’t remember the last time. A month ago? Two months?
There was a knock on his door.
“Enter.”
His aide came into the room. “Sir, I wanted to check if you needed anything before I left.”
Mendez stretched and looked at the clocks on the wall. There was one for every time zone in the world, but the biggest one was for the eastern US. When he realized what time it was, he stood. “Lieutenant, you should have been gone two hours ago.”
The young man smiled. “Yes, sir, but I wanted to stay in case you needed me.”
“Go home.” Mendez shoved some papers into his briefcase. Then he took the classified reports and his hard drive and put them in the safe before closing it and spinning the dial. “I’ll walk out with you.”
Once in the parking lot, Mendez climbed into his SUV and headed for home. But when he got there, he couldn’t make his mind rest. If the Freedom Force executed those hostages, there would be hell to pay.
Aside from the fact he didn’t want to let those bastards harm innocent civilians, he also didn’t want to have to field questions from senators charged up over an incident and looking to make an example of someone for letting it happen. HOT was always one vote away from a funding cut, as were most organizations these days.
And he believed too much in what they were doing to see that happen.
When it became apparent he wasn’t going to quiet his thoughts anytime soon, he changed into jeans and a polo shirt and headed for a bar he liked. Not Buddy’s, where his men hung out, because he knew that seeing him meant they couldn’t relax. He was the boss, and having the boss around tended to dampen their enthusiasm.
It was part of being in charge, so he was used to it. Besides, most of his guys were in their twenties and early thirties. He was pushing fifty, though not quite there yet—but he still felt old when compared with them, even if he could do more push-ups than many of them. He’d gotten into the habit of challenging them at work from time to time. Kept him on his toes, and kept them surprised when he won most of the battles.
They might respect his rank and his power as their commander, but by God, he also wanted them to respect him as a warrior.
He parked under a streetlight and walked into the bar. It was an upscale kind of place, which was another reason he chose it. Less likely to get into scrapes in a joint where the beer was craft and the wine fancy. No cheap beer and free snacks here. No pool games or darts either, which was a shame in some respects.
Mendez went inside and found a table in a dark corner. He could see all the doors from back there, and he could react if someone invaded the place. Not that it was likely, but he’d seen enough combat to always be prepared.
He scoped out the entrances and exits of every establishment he entered, and he chose the best spot from which to defend his position if necessary. He was armed, though in a bar it had to be a knife rather than a gun if he was complying with local law. Still, he could do a lot of damage with a knife. More so than the average thug, that’s for sure.
The waitress came over, and he ordered a local brew before sitting back and watching the patrons. The interior was dark, and the people were much quieter than in some of the other places he’d been. It was downright civilized.
He was beginning to think he’d chosen wrong this time—that he needed more action and stimulation—when the door opened and a woman walked in.
A woman he recognized. Every cell in his body went on red alert at the sight of Samantha Spencer. She was medium height, medium build, with the kind of curves that didn’t quit, golden-blond hair tied in a ponytail, and only a minimum of makeup. She wore a black dress that hugged those curves and thin heels that showed her legs to perfection when she walked.
There was a knock on his door.
“Enter.”
His aide came into the room. “Sir, I wanted to check if you needed anything before I left.”
Mendez stretched and looked at the clocks on the wall. There was one for every time zone in the world, but the biggest one was for the eastern US. When he realized what time it was, he stood. “Lieutenant, you should have been gone two hours ago.”
The young man smiled. “Yes, sir, but I wanted to stay in case you needed me.”
“Go home.” Mendez shoved some papers into his briefcase. Then he took the classified reports and his hard drive and put them in the safe before closing it and spinning the dial. “I’ll walk out with you.”
Once in the parking lot, Mendez climbed into his SUV and headed for home. But when he got there, he couldn’t make his mind rest. If the Freedom Force executed those hostages, there would be hell to pay.
Aside from the fact he didn’t want to let those bastards harm innocent civilians, he also didn’t want to have to field questions from senators charged up over an incident and looking to make an example of someone for letting it happen. HOT was always one vote away from a funding cut, as were most organizations these days.
And he believed too much in what they were doing to see that happen.
When it became apparent he wasn’t going to quiet his thoughts anytime soon, he changed into jeans and a polo shirt and headed for a bar he liked. Not Buddy’s, where his men hung out, because he knew that seeing him meant they couldn’t relax. He was the boss, and having the boss around tended to dampen their enthusiasm.
It was part of being in charge, so he was used to it. Besides, most of his guys were in their twenties and early thirties. He was pushing fifty, though not quite there yet—but he still felt old when compared with them, even if he could do more push-ups than many of them. He’d gotten into the habit of challenging them at work from time to time. Kept him on his toes, and kept them surprised when he won most of the battles.
They might respect his rank and his power as their commander, but by God, he also wanted them to respect him as a warrior.
He parked under a streetlight and walked into the bar. It was an upscale kind of place, which was another reason he chose it. Less likely to get into scrapes in a joint where the beer was craft and the wine fancy. No cheap beer and free snacks here. No pool games or darts either, which was a shame in some respects.
Mendez went inside and found a table in a dark corner. He could see all the doors from back there, and he could react if someone invaded the place. Not that it was likely, but he’d seen enough combat to always be prepared.
He scoped out the entrances and exits of every establishment he entered, and he chose the best spot from which to defend his position if necessary. He was armed, though in a bar it had to be a knife rather than a gun if he was complying with local law. Still, he could do a lot of damage with a knife. More so than the average thug, that’s for sure.
The waitress came over, and he ordered a local brew before sitting back and watching the patrons. The interior was dark, and the people were much quieter than in some of the other places he’d been. It was downright civilized.
He was beginning to think he’d chosen wrong this time—that he needed more action and stimulation—when the door opened and a woman walked in.
A woman he recognized. Every cell in his body went on red alert at the sight of Samantha Spencer. She was medium height, medium build, with the kind of curves that didn’t quit, golden-blond hair tied in a ponytail, and only a minimum of makeup. She wore a black dress that hugged those curves and thin heels that showed her legs to perfection when she walked.
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