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  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  512 Forest Lake Drive

  Warner Robins, Georgia 31093

  On the Edge

  Copyright © 2007 by Shannon Stacey

  Cover by Scott Carpenter

  ISBN: 1-59998-445-8

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: March 2007

  On the Edge

  Shannon Stacey

  Dedication

  This book is for everybody who loved the Devlin Group and wanted more. Thank you.

  And thank you, Mandy, for being there to help drag me into the end zone when it was fourth and goal with no time left on the clock.

  Angie, I owe you a drink for this one. Maybe even two.

  Prologue

  Shooting one’s self out of a situation gone to shit was hell on the five senses. The scent of scorched gunpowder. The residual sound of ringing in the ears. The feel of sweat pooling in the small of the back. The acrid taste of adrenaline.

  And the sight of a teenage girl with the gleaming blade of a hunting knife held to her throat.

  “Law enforcement approaching from your six.” The woman’s voice in his earpiece was quiet and calm, a low murmur of reassurance. “Heat signatures show the positions of target and hostage, and we are negative for sniper position.”

  Tony moved to his left, putting solid wall at his back, keeping his eyes on Chavez. The girl whimpered and squirmed in the Mexican’s grasp, her eyes pleading with Tony. Save me.

  “All girls except hostage are extracted,” the voice in his earpiece informed him. “Officers holding at ten-foot perimeter around your location. Some in interior hall, some outside the building.

  “Put the knife down,” Tony told Chavez. He heard a confirmation of the target’s weapon in his earpiece. “If you let the girl go, you have a chance at bribing a judge and walking away from this.”

  “I’ll walk away now, cabron. The girl and I are going to get in my helicopter and fly out of here. If anybody gets in my way, I will cut her throat.”

  Tony kept his body relaxed and his muscles loose, ready for anything, while he considered his options. Nine freaking months he’d been undercover in Chavez’s operation. The job was to not only get to the Mexican child-trafficker, but to gather intel on the network of bastards who bought the young illegals from him. When the government had enough to go after the scumbags who bought underage Mexican slaves—for domestic, commercial and sexual reasons—he could deal with Chavez personally.

  But somehow, somebody had blown his cover. It might have been five or fifty minutes since he’d been in his room, talking to Charlotte Rhames about the goddamn New York Yankees of all things, while checking his weapons and magazines. His fastidiousness about his gun saved his life.

  Chavez’s men had come for him. With Charlotte still on open comm, he’d fought for his life, fought for the lives of two dozen girls being held in the house. Charlotte had been there for every step. Every shot.

  Now it had come down to this. Tony weighed the life of one girl against Chavez’s countless past and future victims. He had to be stopped at any cost—even if it meant one girl had to die.

  “I’m supposed to remind you the contract makes Chavez top priority,” Charlotte said in his ear. The woman had an uncanny ability to guess what was going on, even from two thousand miles away. Frightening sometimes, but helpful. “Reasonable losses are acceptable.”

  Tony glanced at the girl. Her dark eyes were liquid with terror, and tears streaked her face. She was pretty, just starting to show signs of the woman she should be allowed to become. He might never know her name because she was just collateral damage. An acceptable loss.

  Well, fuck that. There was no way in hell Tony was going to let that happen.

  “But I know that clause doesn’t mean shit to you,” Charlotte continued, “so the officers are standing by for a mass assault on the room. Confusion might be your best chance.”

  Not with that knife being held so tightly against the girl’s throat she had to lift her chin to swallow.

  “We’ve got us a bad situation here,” he said to Chavez, communicating a no-go on the mass assault through the mike.

  “It’s not a bad situation for me,” the Mexican pointed out. “You want to be a hero, cabron, so you won’t let me kill this worthless puta barata.”

  Tony breathed in through his nose, growling low in his throat as he then exhaled. “She’s not worthless, you disgusting son of a bitch.”

  “He’s looking for your trigger, Tony. Don’t let him use you.”

  “Then you’ll put your gun down,” Chavez said, “and let me and the girl walk out of here.”

  If Chavez walked out into the hall, he was going to meet up with a shitload of armed Texas law enforcement, and the girl was going to get hurt.

  “Okay. I’ll put it down and we’ll talk.” He lifted the nose of his gun, slowly transferring it to his left hand. Non-threatening move. Passive body language. He bent slightly at the waist, ready to set the gun on the floor.

  Chavez smiled. Then he got cocky and loosened his grip on the girl.

  Tony took the shot.

  The bullet passed over the girl’s shoulder, hitting Chavez in the clavicle. The girl screamed and broke free, falling. Scrambling across the floor.

  Chavez fell, roaring with pain and fury. Blood soaked the front of his white shirt.

  Tony advanced, ignoring the sobbing child moving past him toward the door. Chavez tried to crawl away from him, but Tony could see in the man’s eyes he knew his time was up.

  “Chingate, pendejo,” Chavez spat.

  “No, fuck you.” Tony pulled the trigger twice. A clean double tap and the job was done.

  Men exploded into the room and Tony moved away. He sank down against an exterior wall and leaned his head back against the gaudy wallpaper. “Did we get them all out?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte responded. “Four of the girls are receiving medical treatment for injuries—one caught a ricochet and another was in the crossfire. A couple were hurt when the girls stampeded. Nothing life threatening. You did it, Tony.”

  “We did it,” he whispered. “I don’t think I could live without you, darlin’.”

  “It’s a good thing you don’t have to try, then. I’m not going anywhere, Tony.”

  He closed his eyes. It was a damn good day.

  Chapter One

  Much to Tony Casavetti's disappointment, his plane didn't crash.

  Instead it landed with a polite little thump, delivering him safely to his date with the Tupperware party from hell.

  Sean Devlin wanted all the Devlin Group agents to meet at his exec admin's home—the closest thing the agency had to a headquarters. Something big must be up, because a meeting like this was unprecedented. Hell, many of his fellow agents he'd never even met in person.

  And Tony liked it that way.

  Like a mild-mannered steer, he followed the herd off the plane, through the throng of people trying to sort through hundreds of identical black, wheeled suitcases, and then toward the main exit. The crowd made him twitchy, and the tw
itchiness made him hypersensitive to being naked.

  Not that he wasn’t wearing the requisite clothes—jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket and well-broken-in roping boots—but he wasn’t armed. His S&W was locked in the suitcase he was dragging, along with some forms he’d had to fill out—or rather, Charlotte Rhames had—in quadruplicate. Even a DG agent couldn’t carry a gun on a commercial flight nowadays, castrating him as effectively as a hot blade.

  Where the hell was that exit? The sweaty bodies of aggravated, travel-weary people pressing against him made him clench his fist tighter around the handle of his suitcase and shift the weight of the carry-on riding on his shoulder. Tony was a loner by nature, and crowds ranked on his phobia list somewhere above poisonous snakes and only below heights. Whatever Sean Devlin had to say, it better be good.

  Finally, the herd he was trailing found the exit he was looking for and they squeezed out into a scorching, odorous blast of Big Apple air. The scorching he didn’t mind—he was a Texan, after all—but the pollution and the noise were like a stampede trampling his brain.

  He scanned the crowd, looking for a woman whose face he’d never seen. Charlotte Rhames, Devlin’s executive administrator, was scheduled to pick him up outside this exit in—he looked at his watch—four minutes. And he had no idea what she looked like. There was no file photo for Charlotte. It was considered classified which, in the DG, meant only Devlin—and maybe Alex Rossi, his top guy—needed to see it. She’ll find you, he’d been told.

  Tony communicated with her often by email or phone. As a matter of fact, she’d been on open comm with him when his latest assignment got blown all to shit. She’d been a cool, calm voice in his ear, calling in the local law enforcement and coordinating the flow of information between them while he was busting his ass trying not to get shot.

  Yes, he’d spoken to her many times during his years with the Group, and he’d even admitted to himself on occasion that she had an incredibly sexy voice. But her ruthless organizational skills and almost maternal knack for controlling temperamental agents scattered around the globe painted a picture of an experienced, downright matronly figure. Tony figured he was looking for an older woman with steel gray hair pulled into a tight knot, maybe even toting a metal ruler.

  Scary control freak or not, Charlotte Rhames was the only reason he hadn’t found a way to weasel out of this mandatory trip. Throughout his eight years with the Group, she’d filled a lot of roles during their communications. Information central, cyberpartner, confidante. Always his rock. He was looking forward to meeting her in person.

  And maybe, if he were very lucky, she woudn’t be old enough to be his grandmother. There was something about that voice that kept him up at night.

  He looked at his watch again. It had only been a minute. Well…shit.

  The air was almost liquid with humidity, and he considered slipping out of his jacket. He was acclimated to wearing it as a rule, but he had no gun to conceal at the moment.

  Tony looked at his watch again. He wanted this thing over with. After almost a year living with sick bastards who made their livings off little Mexican girls, he was ready for the two months of R&R he’d told Devlin he was taking. While it had been gratifying to employ the thirty-two-cent solution on the scumbags, he could still sense the burnout approaching. Time to sleep, ride some horses, eat and ride some more.

  Tony cursed the humidity. Looked at his watch again.

  A raised voice further down the sidewalk diverted his attention from the time. Even with the guy's face flaming red from the heat and temper, Tony recognized him as a Devlin Group man. He flipped through his mental filing cabinet, looking for the right ID photo.

  Konrad Ludka. German by birth. With the Group for about three years, if he remembered correctly. Specialized in infiltrating the crime syndicates of former Soviet Bloc nations, both in the States and abroad, with a more-than-passing knowledge of explosives and the nuclear black market.

  Ludka was obviously on his way to the meeting, as well, but he’d managed to find some trouble on the way. He appeared to be involved in a pissing match with two guys standing next to an Escalade. Or rather, with one of the guys. The second guy was only watching—a bodyguard, perhaps?

  Instinct had Tony’s hand sliding toward where his gun should have been. Another look showed him the guy yelling at Ludka was visibly armed and bore all the hallmarks of being a paid security thug.

  So why, then, would his boss so calmly be watching him swap obscenities on an airport sidewalk?

  Before he could decide if he needed to unlock his suitcase and retrieve his weapon in full view of the herd, the quiet guy raised a hand. Ludka and his adversary fell silent immediately.

  Interesting. Tony made a mental note to ask Devlin if Ludka was on an infiltration assignment. Just in case, he’d stay back and not risk blowing the man’s cover.

  He saw the boss’s lips move, and then Ludka climbed into the back of the Cadillac. The other two men disappeared into the airport, gun and all.

  Tony looked at his watch again.

  When a brand-new, red Ford Shelby GT500 pulled up to the curb with a throaty growl, even the most harried traveler paused to look. And Tony did more than pause when the door opened and a pair of red do-me heels appeared. Then what had to be miles of perfect, bare legs. A skirt short enough to drive a man crazy.

  Especially a man who hadn't been laid in almost as many months as he had fingers. During deep undercover work, women were wild cards he didn't need to be holding.

  The woman was out of the Mustang now and the entire package didn't disappoint. Even without the heels, she was damn near six feet—mostly leg—and well toned, but had rounded hips and softly mounded breasts a man could fill his hands with. Her blonde hair was cropped close to her head and tousled like she'd just gotten out of bed.

  And she walked right up to him. “Hi, Tony.”

  He blinked, as dumbstruck as a boy seeing nipples for the first time. He had no idea how this woman knew him, but he wouldn’t mind her getting to know him even better.

  “I'm Charlotte,” she said.

  “The hell you are.”

  “I am. It says Charlotte Rhames on the labels of all my naughtiest nighties, but I can only prove it if you're a really good boy.”

  Damn Rossi and Gallagher for not giving him a heads-up on this piece of work. He’d talked with those guys about the woman who ran all things organizational and administrative for the Group and kept more secrets than a teenaged girl's diary. Neither guy had ever said one damn thing about her being a walking wet dream.

  He let a slow grin ease over his face. If his rock wanted to kick their mild tele-flirtation up a notch, he was game. “I bet you labeled your panties, too. So we can find a private spot and you can prove it right now.”

  She stepped real close and licked her red frosted lips. Goddamn, but he was never going to hear her voice on comm again without picturing that little move.

  “I would, but I'm not wearing any panties.”

  —

  Charlotte turned and walked back to the car. She put a little extra swing in her stride, knowing the man's eyes would follow her ass like it was a hypnotist's watch.

  So this was Tony Casavetti in the flesh—lean, tan and nicely muscular flesh. Despite having a starring role in many of her XXX mental movies, his file photo did not do justice to the man himself.

  He was tall—just the right height to dance with while wearing killer stilettos. Well-broken-in jeans hugged a really fine ass, and even more broken-in leather boots and jacket gave him a decidedly bad-ass cowboy look.

  Charlotte had a lifelong thing for bad-ass cowboys. The world could keep Tom Cruise and Orlando Bloom. She’d take her Sam Elliott, Clint Eastwood, James Arness.

  She’d play Miss Kitty to Tony Casavetti’s Marshall Dillon any day.

  And the thing about Tony was his delicious physique wasn’t even the best part of him. She’d been on the comm system with him during the good times and the d
ownright horrific, and she liked the man he was. Decent, intense, smart. He wasn’t as coolly detached as Alex Rossi and Gallagher when an operation got interesting. Tony’s emotions fueled his temper and he tended to go balls-to-the-wall toward his objective.

  In the eight years she’d known Tony, she’d come to see him as the complete package. And now she finally had the opportunity to maybe take him home and unwrap him.

  After popping the Mustang’s trunk, she stepped back to let him dump his suitcase. He dropped the carry-on bag next to it, then stripped off the leather jacket. Charlotte admired the smooth rippling of his biceps as Tony unzipped the suitcase and removed a lockbox. He pulled a key from his pocket and a moment later was strapping on a holster. Unfortunately, his next step was slipping the jacket back on.

  Tony closed the trunk and rolled his shoulders. “Much better.”

  Once they were buckled in and navigating through the city as slowly as she could get away with without being obvious, Charlotte glanced over at her passenger’s rugged profile. It was no accident she’d been free to meet Tony Casavetti’s plane.

  She’d been waiting a long time to spend a few minutes with this agent, and the tall, dark and silent thing wasn’t cutting it. “How was your flight?”

  “Commercial.”

  “Sorry, but we’ve only got the one jet. We did spring for first class, though.”

  “I’d have felt better about the extra helping of shitty peanuts if I’d been armed.” There was a relaxed, almost amused tone in his voice that she found encouraging.

  “That’s one of the key bullet points of new and improved Homeland Security—not giving shitty peanuts to armed airline passengers.”

  He laughed—a husky baritone—and Charlotte realized it was the first time she’d heard it. She’d heard Tony’s calm, slightly southern-accented voice give status reports. She’d heard him hissing live surveillance into the comm, and screaming orders into it when the shit really hit the fan. But she’d never heard him laugh. She wanted to hear it more often.