Deep Cover (Selena McCaffrey, Band 2) - Softcover

Butler, Rachel

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0440241219 ISBN 13: 9780440241218

Verlag: Dell, 2005

Inhaltsangabe

UNDERCOVER–AND TOTALLY EXPOSED . . .

Tall, lithe Selena McCaffrey turns heads on the streets–and hides an assassin’s knife beneath her clothes. In another life, Selena would have chosen a peaceful career as a painter. But as a child, fate plunged her into a fight for survival–and a trusted father-figure forced her into a life of crime.

Now the feds want Selena to go undercover. Her assignment: break up the criminal empire once run by her protector and mentor. But playing a double game threatens the first good thing she’s ever had with a man–an honest Tulsa cop–and draws Selena into a high-stakes sting filled with deception and shocking violence. Surrounded by danger–and coming closer to uncovering a chilling truth about herself and her past–Selena is about to find out just how much deeper she’ll have to go . . . to get out alive.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Rachel Butler lives in Oklahoma with her husband and son, where she is at work on her next novel of romantic suspense starring Selena McCaffrey.

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Chapter One


Selena McCaffrey had had one hell of a day.

A .45 gripped loosely in both hands, she sighted on a paper silhouette target seventy-five feet away. She'd emptied the previous magazine center mass in the target's chest. This one was going into the head.

She double-tapped the target--fired two shots in rapid succession--then did it again. The ground around her was littered with brass. In the time since the owner of the shooting range had left her alone to relieve her frustration, the sun had set and the flood lamps had come on, but she didn't feel much better.

The day hadn't started badly. She'd gone for a run that morning and then put in a good six hours at the easel. Then she'd opened her door to find Special Agent King of the FBI on her stoop, and everything had gone to hell.

It sounded so reasonable the way the FBI put it. She had a fourteen-year pseudo-father-daughter relationship with Henry Daniels, better known to her as William Davis, head of an extensive drug operation. He had always intended for her to take over the business someday, and now that he was out of commission, the FBI was pressuring her to fulfill his wish--and in the process, help them shut down the operation once and for all. If she cooperated, they would be willing to forget their list of charges against her. If she didn't . . .

Sweat trickling down her spine, she fired the last of the bullets in the magazine, set the pistol on the table beside her, pulled off the ear protectors, and combed her fingers through her hair. Summer nights in Oklahoma weren't much different from back home in Key West--hot and muggy--though she missed the ocean breezes. In Tulsa the best they could offer was the Arkansas River, sluggish and brown, and the scents of the oil refinery on the west bank. But that was all right. She hadn't come for the weather, and she wasn't staying for it, either.

Clenching her jaw against the curses she wanted to shout into the night, she reached for the box of bullets. A puff of dust rose from the concrete only inches from her hand and she stared at it--and the small neat hole left behind--for an instant. The same instant it took another bullet to glance off the cement and ricochet into the night. Instinctively she dove to the ground, taking cover behind the nearest half wall. From her position she could see her gun on the table--and fewer than ten rounds of ammo in the box beside it. She hadn't had a chance to reload, and the shooter probably knew that.

He couldn't have picked a better place for an attack. The neighborhood was largely industrial, and the people who worked nearby were accustomed to gunfire. Even if anyone was around that late, they wouldn't think to call the police.

Another shot splintered the concrete above her head, showering fragments and dust on her skin. She flinched, and the switchblade in her waistband dug into her skin. With the blade and her extensive martial arts training, she'd always felt confident in any situation, but neither was of any use against an attacker secreted in the darkness. He could kill her, then disappear with no one the wiser.

Damned if she was going to die without a fight.

She shimmied on her belly along the length of the cinder-block wall, stirring up dust. When she reached the far end, she drew a deep breath, murmured a prayer, then eased to a crouch. There was no sound--no heavy breathing, no fumbled reloading, no sirens racing to her assistance. Nothing but the thudding of her own heart.

One, two, three, she counted, then launched herself around the corner toward the table where her weapon lay. Bullets followed, biting into the ground, the cement, the wood posts that supported the overhanging roof. She hit the ground with a thud, rolling, reaching up to grab the pistol and the box of bullets. Relief rushed over her when her blind groping found both. She rolled again, came up on her feet in one fluid movement, then dove once more for the cover of the cinder-block wall.

Her hands were steady as she fed the bullets into the clip. Once the final round was in place, she shoved it into the butt of the pistol, chambered a round, and pushed the remaining ammo into her pocket as she rose onto her knees.

The angle of the shots indicated they'd come from the same location, the wooded hill to the south of the range. Presumably that meant there was only one shooter, and he had a bird's-eye view of the entire area. He knew she was alone, knew her odds of making it to the squat building that fronted the range or to her car in the parking lot beyond were minimal. He could pick her off like a sitting duck.

She was forty feet from the door, and the wall that currently shielded her was the last cover available. The door opened into a hallway that ran the length of the building. On the right at the back was the indoor range, used during the worst of Oklahoma's inhospitable summers and icy winters. At the front was the office and the armory, both heavily secured. She was a fast runner, but not fast enough, not with the shooter's vantage point and the flood lamps that turned darkness into day.

Unless he couldn't see her.

She quickly sighted on the nearest light and fired. The bulb exploded with a pop. She hit a second one, and a third, even as the shooter opened up on her protective cover with a hail of automatic weapon fire.

The instant the last lamp went out, she surged to her feet and made a furious dash for the door. Clods of dirt exploded around her and something hit her arm with enough force to send her staggering against the building. Biting her lip against the pain, she jerked the door open and raced down the dark hall. Wherever the assassin was parked, she had no doubt she could reach her Thunderbird before he made his way down the hill. Seconds were all she needed . . . unless he had an accomplice waiting outside.

She refused to let the thought slow her. Gripping the pistol in one hand, she dug in her pocket for her keys with the other. As she burst outside, she unlocked the car with the remote, yanked the door open, and threw herself inside. The engine roared to life, and the tires squealed wildly as she backed up, then accelerated out of the empty parking lot, barely making the turn onto the street before stomping the gas pedal to the floor.

She'd gone two miles, the speedometer pushing eighty, before the adrenaline rush deserted her. Her foot eased up on the pedal. The throbbing in her left arm was growing too strong to ignore. When she reached back with her right hand, her fingers came away sticky with blood.

In the last seconds her breathing had gone beyond rapid to nothing less than a pant, and her entire body was starting to shake. She turned off the street into a shopping center that was closed for the night, drove around one end to the back, and parked in a loading zone, where tall walls shielded her on three sides. Pressing a tissue to the wound in her arm, she closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe, calmness and control in, fear and pain out. When the trembling had stopped, when her heart rate had returned to some semblance of normal, she reached for her cell phone and dialed one of only two numbers stored in it.

"Tony, this is Selena," she said when he answered, surprised by how calm she sounded. "I was wondering if you could come meet me. I think I've been shot."



Chapter Two

The street was quiet when Scott Fleming pulled into his driveway, inching along as the garage door slid up to reveal his wife's SUV. It seemed he always got home late--for him, at least, working for the FBI had never been a forty-hour-a-week job--but this night it was several hours later than usual. No doubt the kids were already tucked into bed. Jen was probably in bed, too, watching Frasier or...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Dell
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2005
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0440241219
• ISBN 13: 9780440241218
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 400
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Dell GmbH; 6997927350; DE.CustomerSupport@dell.com; ; Unterschweinstiege 10; Frankfurt am Main; 60549; Deutschland