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Top Gun Guardian
Carol Ericson
Buzz Richardson survived as a navy pilot and a covert operative by following one rule: handle the unexpected. Partnering up with Raven Pierce, his ex-fiancée, who's still his sexiest fantasy come true, might be against all the rules. Buzz had already learned the hard way that a family…a husband…had no place in Raven's well-thought-out future. But even with an unknown assassin threatening to take down Raven and the little girl she'd risked her life to hide, Buzz saw a side of the UN translator he'd never thought possible. Keeping this new Raven safe only resurrected the desire between them…and letting her go this time was the one thing he wasn't willing to handle.
Raven licked her lips.
The mood had certainly shifted in here, as if the cold air from outside had seeped in through the window. It suited her. Guilt piled upon guilt didn’t engender lustful thoughts.
But the slabs of hard muscle across Buzz’s chest did.
“You want to join me tonight?” He patted the bed beside him.
She needed more seduction than a stark question. She’d already been feeling as if they’d been punished for their attention to each other.
“I don’t think that’s a great idea, Buzz—for a lot of reasons.”
He shrugged. “We may have different reasons, but I agree with you.” He squeezed her hand as she rose from the bed. “Get a good night’s sleep.”
Raven clicked the bedroom door behind her and leaned her forehead against it. A good night’s sleep with peril on both sides of her?
That wasn’t going to happen.
Top Gun Guardian
Carol Ericson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Randy, my top gun neighbor.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Carol Ericson lives with her husband and two sons in Southern California, home of state-of-the-art cosmetic surgery, wild freeway chases, palm trees bending in the Santa Ana winds and a million amazing stories. These stories, along with hordes of virile men and feisty women, clamor for release from Carol’s head. It makes for some interesting headaches until she sets them free to fulfill their destinies and her readers’ fantasies. To find out more about Carol, her books and her strange headaches, please visit her website at www.carolericson.com, “where romance flirts with danger.”
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Raven Pierre —Raven is a big-city girl. When the young daughter of an imperiled African president lands in her lap and her ex-fiancé jumps in to protect them, her big-city veneer begins to crack and her heart shows signs of melting.
Bryan “Buzz” Richardson —A former member of the covert ops team Prospero, Buzz swoops in to guard a girl targeted by terrorists, hoping his protection of her gets him closer to finding missing Prospero member Jack Coburn. The fact that his assignment also gets him closer to his ex-fiancée is icing on the cake.
Malika Okeke —She forms a bond with Raven after Raven saves her life, but now the girl’s attachment to her savior might just get them both killed.
President Okeke —The newly elected president of a fledgling African country, the president has ties in his past to terrorists.
Rodeo Clown —Clowns are supposed to be funny, but Raven isn’t laughing at the mysterious rodeo clown who shows up again and again.
Lance Cooper —He blames Buzz for his brother’s death in a plane crash.
Jeb Russell —A CIA agent who wants Malika, and may be willing to take her by force.
Farouk —Prospero’s former nemesis has expanded his business model and taken his terror worldwide.
Colonel Scripps —Prospero’s coordinator, the Colonel knows he can summon all of the former team members with one call.
Jack Coburn —The former leader of Prospero and current hostage negotiator has run into a little trouble.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Prologue
He stared into the boy’s face, searching for artifice…or danger. The boy blinked several times and hunched his shoulders.
He loosened his grip on the youth, but kept his muscles coiled and ready in case the kid ran off. He couldn’t allow him to escape.
This scruffy street urchin just might hold the key to his identity.
He leaned close to the boy’s ear and whispered, “Do you know me?”
A big grin split the urchin’s brown face and then melted away as he gazed into the eyes of his captor. “Of course I know you, Mr. Jack. It is me, Yasir.”
“Yasir?” Despite the chill in the morning air, he wiped a bead of sweat from beneath his headdress. “And my name is Jack?”
The boy nodded, his black brows meeting over his nose. “You do not know your name? What happened to you, Mr. Jack? I do not see you for a week.”
Jack jerked his thumb over his left shoulder. “See that mountain range back there? I woke up on a rock this morning with no memory.”
Yasir’s mouth dropped open, his missing teeth giving him the look of a jack-o’-lantern. He jabbed a finger into Jack’s ribs where a splotch of blood stained his grubby shirt. “Did they get you, Mr. Jack?”
A tingle of fear climbed its way up Jack’s back and he clenched his muscles to ward it off. “Who are they, Yasir? What am I? What am I doing here? Where’s here?”
The kid held up his callused hands. “Okey-dokey, Mr. Jack. We go to your place. I bring you food.”
Jack tensed. Could this be a trap? Did he really have a home in this teeming village of goat herders and traders and farmers?
He looked into the boy’s earnest brown eyes. Did he have a choice right now?
“Okey-dokey, Yasir. I’ll follow you.”
Keeping his head bowed, Jack trailed after Yasir, weaving his way through the press of people. Except for a few nods directed at Yasir, nobody halted their progress through the streets of the village. Nobody attacked him.
Glancing both ways, Yasir darted into an alley and Jack slipped in behind him. A few doorways into the pungent, narrow space, Yasir ducked into a small room, pulling Jack in behind him.
Jack blinked, adjusting his eyes to the gloom. An old man dozed in a chair, and Yasir tiptoed past him. He flicked aside a coarse blanket hanging from the ceiling and waved Jack through with one hand.
Licking his dry lips, Jack sidled through the opening and crept into a room even smaller than the adjoining one. His gaze flicked across the cot in the corner, a low table with a guttered candle on top of it and a few makeshift shelves holding books—lots of books.
A flicker of recognition flitted across his brain, and he dropped to his knees on the dirt floor to squint at the titles. Yasir nudged him in the back, and Jack spun around with his hands clenched.
“Jumpy, Mr. Jack.” With two steps, Yasir crossed the small space and kicked a black duffel bag at the foot of the cot. “This is yours. You take everywhere.”
Crawling to the cot, Jack snagged the strap of the duffel bag and dragged it between his legs as he perched on the edge of the crude bed. He yanked at the zipper and the sides of the bag gaped open.
Yasir scraped a match against the earthen wall of the room. Jack’s nostrils twitched at the smell of sulfur. Yasir lit the candle on the table and a soft yellow glow illuminated the small, dank space.
Grabbing the edges of the bag, Jack peeled it open. His brows shot up as his fingers traced the bundles of cash neatly stashed in the bag. Dozens of passports littered the top of the money stacks, and a gun was tucked in the corner of the bag.
His gaze darted toward Yasir’s face, waxy in the candlelight, but displaying no surprise at the contents of the bag. Jack dug his hands into the pile of passports and let them slide through his fingers. “Why is this here? Why didn’t you steal the money when I disappeared?”
A crooked smile played across the boy’s face. “What I do with all that money in my Afghan village, Mr. Jack? And if I take—” he shrugged his narrow shoulders “—you hunt me down and kill me.”
Jack coughed, a sour knot forming in his belly. Is that what he was? Would he kill a boy for stealing money?
“I doubt that, Yasir.” He grabbed one of the passports and flipped it open—John Coughlin, citizen of the U.K. He scooped up another: Jacques Durand, citizen of France. He nabbed the American passport: Jack Wilson. Was he Jack Wilson? He studied the picture of the man with the long blond hair, a moustache and glasses.
He knew he didn’t wear glasses and he didn’t have a moustache…at least not yet. “Yasir, is there a mirror in here?”
“That is not you, Mr. Jack. You Mr. Jack Coburn and you American spy.” Yasir groped beneath the cot and dragged out a bin filled with shaving supplies, including a dingy mirror.
A spy, huh? Jack held the mirror in front of him and slid the headdress from his head. Long hair, but black. No glasses. No moustache. Dark eyes, hard eyes.
He peered at the passport photo again, detecting blue eyes behind the glasses. How the hell was he going to get out of this country? Because he’d decided that’s exactly what he had to do.
And then Yasir read his mind, his much damaged mind.
“Disguises, Mr. Jack.” Yasir patted the side pockets of the duffel bag.
Jack unzipped one side and dipped his hand inside the compartment. He pulled out wigs, facial hair, containers of contact lenses. Poking around the pocket on the other side, he found more of the same. All of these costume pieces most likely matched the photos on the myriad passports spilling out of the duffel bag.
Now he had the means to get out of here and away from the people who’d left him on that mountainside. Then what? Should he seek an American embassy? Get back to the States and turn himself in to some agency there?
Leaving the money in the bag, Jack dumped the remaining contents on the floor and sifted through it. Between two fingers, he pinched a white sheet of paper folded in two. He shook the dirt from it and unfolded it, flattening the paper on his knee. It was a brief note: Thank you for your help, Mr. Coburn, and thank you for your discretion. If you bring Gabriel home safely, I’ll have another million waiting for you. Warm regards and Godspeed, Lola Famosa.
An address in Miami followed the flowery signature.
Jack narrowed his eyes as the candle sputtered. He didn’t know the identity of Gabriel or the condition of his safety, but he now knew where to start to figure out his own identity.
He was going to pay a visit to Ms. Lola Famosa of Miami.
Chapter One
Raven Pierre eyed the small girl clutching the baby doll in one grubby hand and growled in the back of her throat. It figured her supervisor, Walter, would give her kid duty just because she happened to be the only female translator on this job.
She didn’t even like kids.
Why did the president of the newly formed African nation Burumanda bring his daughter to the United Nations for his first address anyway? The General Assembly was no place for kids. Even Raven knew that.
Raven’s gaze shifted back to the little girl whose liquid brown eyes wandered between the closed-circuit TV screen and the impassive Secret Service agent parked in the chair across from her, sipping a soda. The girl’s small tongue darted from her mouth and swept across her lips.
Was the kid allowed to drink soda?
Raven pointed to the can clutched in the agent’s hand and said in the girl’s native dialect, “Do you want one?”
The girl nodded, her pigtails bobbing vigorously. “My name is Malika. What is your name?”
Raven raised her brows. Sounded like pretty good English to her. Maybe Malika, who looked maybe eight, didn’t even need a translator. “My name is Raven. Your English is good.”
Malika snapped her fingers. “English is easy language. Official language of Burumanda now. Your Chichewa—” she wrinkled her nose “—is fine.” Just fine? Raven narrowed her eyes. Maybe Malika was eighteen instead of eight. Raven never could guess kids’ ages anyway. “Do you want a soda? I can ask one of your guards out front to bring us a couple.”
As Raven pushed back her chair, the agent reached for his own can and knocked it to the floor where it fizzled and bubbled.
Raven snorted. “Smooth move, Garrett.”
The agent slumped forward, banging his head on the table. With her heart thumping, Raven stumbled to his side. She clutched his forearm through the dark material of his suit jacket. “Garrett?”
Was he fooling around? Raven swallowed hard. Secret Service agents didn’t fool around, especially Garrett Hansen.
