Act of Passion Read online

  Rurik scowled. “Do not make fun of it. It is a work of art that my country is proud of. And what I prefer to take on most missions. Reliable. Trustworthy. All you need.”

  “If he breaks out in song in honor of Mikhail Kalashnikov I’m going to think he’s as nutty as you are,” said Malik to Garth.

  “Mikhail Kalashnikov was ahead of his time,” supplied Rurik, standing tall as he stroked an AK-47 lovingly. “The AKM, the AK-74.” A dreamy look came over him.

  Malik snorted. “You need us to turn around a moment to give you some alone time with that?”

  Garth moved to another crate and pulled out an MTAR. As he withdrew the 9mm suppressor made for it, he looked to Malik. “So many weapons, but so few guards.”

  “Agree,” added Malik, surveying the endless rows of crates

  “Trap?” asked Garth.

  “Probably,” returned Malik. “I really hate it when they try to lure us to our deaths. You’d think it would get old for them after a while.”

  “I’ve found the enemy often lacks originality,” said Garth, still looking the MTAR over.

  Rurik paused in his admiration of the crate of AK-47s. “Should we go?”

  Malik shook his head. “And leave all this here to possibly end up on the streets and in the hands of drug dealers and criminals? Or to be used to help launch a war? No. We need to stay until a clean-up crew arrives.”

  “And if it is a trap?” asked Garth.

  Malik grunted. “Then we do what we always do—survive and kick the shit out of them.”

  While Garth technically outranked Malik, they’d been friends far longer than they’d been with PSI. There was an unshakable level of trust between them. And Garth was nearly as old as Malik, which was saying something, considering Malik was old as dirt. The men had worked together too many times to count over the years and trusted one another fully.

  The same could not be said for Garth’s former second-in-command, Gram Campbell. Gram was a stubborn Scotsman with a huge chip on his shoulder who fancied himself a cut above the rest of the shifters in PSI because he was part wolf-shifter and part Fae.

  He was also one hundred percent asshole.

  Rurik wasn’t winning any personality competitions, but the man was far better to deal with than Gram had been. Malik was happy Gram had gone over to the Shadow Agents side of PSI nearly twenty years ago. It made being around Garth and his unit so much easier. Before Gram’s transfer, things always ended in a fight between Malik and the outspoken male. And it wasn’t as if Malik lacked patience with Scotsmen. He’d worked with Striker, who was as Scottish as they came, for over a century now and hadn’t wanted to actually kill him—yet.

  Rurik pried open the crate nearest him with nothing more than his hand. He lifted a rocket launcher. “They aren’t playing around,” said the Russian bear-shifter, sounding like he was fresh out of the Kremlin. “I hate arms dealers. They always go for the easy money. They are probably American.”

  Malik hid his laugh under a cough.

  Rurik had a lot in common with Malik’s teammate Duke Marlow. The two pretty much hated everything and everyone. Though, Duke was an all-American man. Born and bred in the States, the man bled red, white, and blue. Rurik still missed the Cold War and the “glory days” of the U.S.S.R, reminiscing about it often. Each still viewed the other as a possible threat, and neither would admit they were just alike.

  Duke came up behind Malik holding a large rocket launcher of his own. A passing glance was all he gave Rurik. “Mine is bigger.”

  Rurik’s lips pressed together in a white slash. “Americans. And for the record, yours is not bigger. You just think it is.”

  Duke used his free hand to grab his belt. “One way to settle this.”

  Rurik faced Duke and began to undo his black cargo pants, still holding a launcher as well, a line of Russian falling free from him in the process. While Malik’s Russian was rusty, he was fairly sure the man had just called Duke a dickhead before insinuating that Duke’s dick was the size of a pencil.

  “I hear you talking there, Ivan Drago, but the proof is in the pants. There is nothing pencil-like about my wood,” returned Duke, undoing his belt fully while he still held the launcher over his right shoulder.

  Rurik appeared baffled. “My name is not Ivan Drago.”

  Miles “Boomer” Walsh came around a set of stacked crates. While he was technically dressed in ops gear, he somehow managed to look as if he was headed to a rave, not raiding a warehouse owned by a big-time arms dealer. “Dude, it’s from the movie Rocky. Man, even Duke has seen it and he’s a damn Luddite. You should have seen how long it took me to teach him to use a DVD player.”

  Confusion covered Rurik’s face.

  Boomer shook his head, his long blue-black hair hanging to his mid-back. He narrowed his catlike violet eyes on Rurik. “We’ve had this talk, Romanov. You can’t understand pop culture references if you don’t bother to learn about pop culture. I sent you DVDs talking about the last few decades and popular references from each. Let me guess, you didn’t watch them.”

  “I hate DVD players,” returned Rurik, undoing his pants more. “They’re unnecessarily complicated. The last time I tried to watch one, strange voices played over the movie the entire time, telling me about the scene.”

  Duke stiffened. “That happened to me too.”

  Boomer pressed a fist to his mouth. “Seriously? You two realize you were watching them with the director commentary turned on, right?”

  Duke growled. “Fuck you. And no, I didn’t know that was what it was. I hate technology. Pointless. Plus, you’re a shit teacher.”

  Boomer paused and glanced between the men. “Why are you guys undressing?”

  Malik folded his arms over his chest. “They’re about to whip out their dicks. Apparently, there is some debate on which country produces the biggest one. And how much, if anything, Duke and a pencil have in common.”

  Pursing his lips, Boomer put his hands up and stepped back. “Sounds like they need a private moment here. I don’t want it coming out later that I was alone in a dark warehouse with a bunch of guys who had their dicks hanging out.”

  “Asshole,” Rurik and Duke said together, both glaring at Boomer.

  “Yeah, you two are nothing alike.” Malik stared at them.

  “This is going nowhere fast,” added Boomer, drawing more of their ire. He flashed a mocking smile. “And besides, you’re both wrong. I’m the biggest.”

  “Fucking cats,” snapped Duke, gaining him a nod of approval from the Russian.

  “You guys are a lot like taking preschoolers on a field trip,” said Malik, feeling like he was turning into his team’s captain—Corbin Jones. Corbin often referenced how dealing with them all was like handling small children. He was starting to see the guy’s point, and considered issuing a nap time mandate before writing a lengthy apology letter to Corbin for having ever judged him before.

  Garth shrugged, seemingly unconcerned with the possibility that pants were close to dropping around him. “I say we allow them to see who is bigger. Maybe then it will shut them up.”

  “What a fine role model you are,” returned Malik, reaching out and touching a grenade fastened to Garth’s vest that wasn’t PSI issued. It was obviously an item he’d acquired since their arrival at the warehouse. “Tell me again who thought you should head your own team?”

  “Somebody whose dick was actually pencil-sized,” supplied the Viking with a smile.

  Malik looked up, silently willing himself to another location. Unfortunately, he was stuck with a bunch of testosterone-driven alpha males. If Corbin wouldn’t have split off and gone to a secondary location with the other portion of Garth’s team, he could have dealt with the giant man-children.

  “Och, if I knew we were taking a break I’d have stopped going through boxes that smell like they were soaked in rat piss and shite thirty minutes ago,” said Dougal “Striker” McCracken. The exceedingly tall Scotsman had given up shavi
ng not long back and had a face full of scruff. His long hair was pulled up and he had thankfully left his kilt behind for the mission. It was hard enough for the man to blend in with his height (not that any of the PSI-Ops were considered short); adding a kilt was like adding a blinking sign. Not that Striker would have minded a blinking sign above his head. He was something of an attention whore.

  He strolled up and leaned against a crate full of C-4, crossing one ankle over the other. He reached into the front pocket of his vest and withdrew a cigar.

  “Bad idea,” said Duke, pointing to the crates near Striker.

  The Scot shrugged. “Och, I’ve had worse ideas. And there is no blasting cap so where is the harm?”

  Boomer motioned to the barrel behind the crate. “My Arabic is so-so but I’m pretty sure that one says gunpowder.”

  Duke nodded. “It does, which is why I told him the cigar was a bad idea. Let’s leave him here to smoke it and blow himself up. Serves him right.”

  “We are taking a break then?” asked Striker, biting the end of the cigar off and spitting it onto the floor.

  “It’s not a break so much as a dick-measuring contest,” said Boomer, taking the cigar from Striker.

  “I’m in!” Striker had his pants undone and down before anyone could comment. He stood there with all his manly glory hanging out for the men to see. He put his hands on his hips, puffed out his chest, and jutted out his stubble-covered chin. “Och, there is no competition. I win.”

  “For fuck’s sake, put that away!” shouted Duke, covering his eyes with one hand while supporting the launcher over his shoulder with the other. “My brain needs bleaching now to get that image out of my head.”

  “I agree with the American,” said Rurik, curling his lip as if he might be sick at the sight of Striker’s full-frontal.

  Garth ignored Striker’s antics and began to remove weapons from the crate nearest him. He lifted out a Stuart Mitchell survival knife and ran his fingers over it gently. “Oh, I don’t have one of these.”

  Boomer laughed. “Is it me or is Garth handling that like it’s a woman? He might need a private moment too.”

  Garth’s eyes crinkled with mirth. “Gentle strokes bring out the best in everything.”

  Malik reconsidered the nap mandate. Not that it would do any good. They’d all ignore him anyway. They obeyed orders when they felt like it. He missed the good old days when he’d issue a mandate and thousands obeyed.

  His comm unit made a light noise before Corbin’s voice came through.

  “Anything of interest discovered there yet?” asked the Brit.

  “Not unless you count seeing Striker’s junk as interesting,” said Malik as he gave Striker a stern look.

  “Do I want to know?” asked Corbin, sounding as English as ever. “Wait. I am quite positive I do not want to know.”

  The Scotsman finally pulled up his pants, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He then reached into a pouch in his tactical gear meant for additional ammunition and pulled out a flask.

  Malik rubbed his temple, a low-grade headache setting in. At least the flask was better than smoking a cigar while standing near explosives. “Captain, how is it you haven’t killed Striker yet?”

  “Pretty much a daily challenge,” replied Corbin.

  “Och, I heard that,” said Striker before taking a swig from his flask.

  He then handed the flask to Duke, who took a sip too.

  “There is a hell of a lot of firepower here, but nothing noteworthy. The clean-up team hasn’t arrived yet so we’re just holding down the fort until they get here, all the while waiting for it to come out that this is a trap. Find anything where you are?”

  Corbin sighed over the line. “No. But we did find a large quantity of peculiar medical supplies. They’re all stamped with Donavon Dynamics. We’re finding more and more here, but nothing that sticks out as what we were searching for. I put a call into a contact I have on the human side of things. He said no reports of missing shipments have come in from the company.”

  “Maybe they don’t realize it’s missing yet,” said Malik.

  “Possibly,” replied Corbin before going silent for a bit. “We’ll be here for a couple of hours yet and then we can meet to discuss our findings. Be sure there isn’t any threat there before leaving the clean-up team. They may be trained operatives but let’s be honest, the majority of them aren’t really fighters.”

  “Will do,” he said, having long since given up on proper radio communication. He was too old to bother.

  The flask was now with Rurik, who handed it back to Striker with a nod.

  “Corbin wants us to hang here a bit and be sure the clean-up team doesn’t require a clean-up team,” said Malik.

  Striker groaned. “I’m sweating my balls off in here. Can we wait outside?”

  “Your balls were just aired out. You’ll be fine for a bit.” Malik was about to sit on a crate when he heard the sound of approaching vehicles. His shifter senses homed in and a feeling of unease came over him.

  “Sounds like the clean-up team is here,” said Striker, capping his flask.

  Malik gave the hand signal for silence and Duke grunted.

  “I really don’t like your hinky vibes, Tut. They never lead to anything good,” said Duke.

  Garth went to a side window and peered out. He then chambered a round in the weapon he was holding. “Want the good news or the bad news?”

  Boomer laughed, finding humor in odd situations. “The bad.”

  “We’re standing in the equivalent of a giant powder keg and that isn’t the clean-up crew out there, armed and ready to start shooting in here,” said Garth evenly.

  Duke eyed the man. “There is a good side to this somewhere?”

  “Yes. We have more firepower,” said Garth, motioning to the crates. “If we don’t blow up first. Anyone here able to survive being blown to bits?”

  They all looked at Malik as if awaiting his answer to the question.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “Well, can you survive that?” asked Boomer. “Inquiring minds want to know. When you’re as old as time, does it give you extra superpowers?”

  With a roll of his eyes, Malik joined Garth near the window to survey the situation. When he saw eight vehicles forming a barricade of sorts with men standing behind them, aiming at the building with more than just guns, he rubbed his temple again. “Sure. Why not? Garth?”

  Garth flashed a wide smile, clearly loving the fact they were going to get into a firefight. “Rurik and I will take the east corner.”

  “Och, I’m ready to be done with this shite and find a bonnie lass to bed up with for the night,” said Striker, taking the rocket launcher from Duke. He then stood behind a crate full of explosives and lined up to take a shot at the side of the building. His intention clearly was to shoot through the thin metal wall of the warehouse and out at the men.

  Boomer tackled him and rolled, taking the launcher with him. Since Boomer’s nickname had been born out of his love of blowing things up, he rarely was the voice of reason when it came to anything that went boom. “Dude, no. Just no.”

  Striker grumbled. “Kitty, you suck all the fun out of everything.”

  “Guys, try to act like trained professionals here,” said Malik as the sound of a rocket being launched at them came from outside. The men shared a look and then ran in the direction of the exit, each one knowing they needed to get out of the area with the explosives.

  They only just made it out of the building when there was a loud noise followed quickly by a series of explosions. The force of them blew Malik up into the air as flames licked past him. He struck something massive and it moved with him. He and the object tumbled, taking turns skidding against the ground before finally coming to a stop. Disoriented, Malik tried to figure out why he didn’t feel ground beneath him and what the smell was that now surrounded him.

  Garth was suddenly there, beating out the flames on Malik with
his shirt, his vest, and gear discarded. Someone was yelling at him but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. It took him a second to realize that someone was Duke, who was under him and pissed.

  “Get the fuck off me, Tut,” snapped the surly wolf-shifter, using a nickname Malik barely tolerated. He was born in ancient Egypt and had been alive for thousands of years. The men enjoyed teasing him because of it. They didn’t know the half of it. If they did, they’d never let him live it down.

  He wouldn’t have minded the nickname so much but he’d never really cared for Tutankhamun. He’d found the boy king to be spoiled. But it could have been worse. The guys could have decided to call him Amenhotep, or Akhenaten, as the pharaoh later referred to himself. That pharaoh had been so full of himself that one would have thought him an actual god.

  He wasn’t.

  Not by a long shot.

  Malik would know.

  Malik rolled off Duke and groaned, the smell of burning flesh filling his nose. Lifting his arm, he saw just how much of his flesh was burnt. He lifted his head partially and spotted Striker meandering over to them. The man still had a rocket launcher over his shoulder, which meant the Scot had delayed escaping the warehouse to grab the thing.

  “I wish I had a camera. That compromising position you were both in was Asshole of the Week worthy,” said Striker, his Scottish accent thicker than normal, indicating he was worked up.

  The Asshole of the Week Award was one no one really wanted to be the recipient of. While it wasn’t official, it was an award all the men had won at least once. It basically commemorated anything exceedingly stupid or funny that the operatives did. Often the men tried to find creative ways to set up situations in hopes they could catch another operative in a situation that was award worthy. Not that anyone needed help doing something stupid.

  “Son of a bitch!” shouted Duke as he came off the ground with a huge snarl. “That hurt!”

  “You smell like a roasted pig,” said Rurik with a grin before turning and firing at the row of vehicles as well.

  Malik sprang to his feet and did the same, ignoring the bite of pain in his arm. He didn’t need to look to be told the flesh was burnt away and pieces of his shirt were stuck to him. It wasn’t his first brush with fire. It wouldn’t be his last. The arm would heal within an hour. The shirt was pretty much toast.