Page 7 of Ship Outta Luck

I scoff under my breath. Hoping Pierce doesn’t hear. Can’t let the ‘man in charge’ know I’m not impressed.

You’re just a contractor. You’re not here to pick the equipment.

Nor was I able to give Pierce a detailed list of exactly what was needed for this op.

This is the DEA’s business. They only brought me in for support. Muscle.

Despite my misgivings towards government agencies these days, Pierce isn’t a terrible partner. At least, there’s nothing wrong with him I could find. I read up on him, asked around—at least as much as a contractor can. Everything I got my hands on said Pierce was clean, and at the very least he didn’t raise any red flags with the DEA.

But still, I would have preferred my own team, especially on a job that could make or break my fledgling company. A grim smile turns up the corners of my mouth.

Not like my team’s far away, though.

Shifting, the black roof wickedly hot, I glance over at Pierce again. Something about the man bothers me.

He handpicked me for this job, despite my quick and dirty departure from the military. And that black mark cost me adozen bids for other work. It kept a lot of guys from picking me. Yet here I am.

Trust issues.

My therapist would love to explore that at our next meeting.

Again.

Sighing, I flick my eyes to the slick black gun propped next to us.

Guess we do have everything we need.

The rifle my therapist dubbed atroubling safety blanketsits there, waiting should the need arise. Troubling or not, the government hasn’t sidelined me, not when there are fish this big out there. Not that they would. Contractors with my resume aren’t exactly easy to come by. No matterhowI left the military.

Grunting, I refocus on the task at hand.

Mission first.

Dark brown tendrils of hair halo the target’s face as she steps out of the shade of the building.

“Heads up.”I swallow as Pierce goes quiet.

Perfect body, ten out of ten. Curling hair down to her slim waist, shapely legs I’ve been tasked to watch all week. Eyes like chocolate, long lashes. High cheekbones and full pink lips.

The black and white faculty photo the analysts provided with her profile didn’t do her justice.

So she’s pretty. Doesn’t mean she isn’t neck deep in this shit with the fucking Russians. If anything, her beauty makes her doubly suspicious.

“Target on the move,” Pierce says, shimming closer to the rooftop edge, bringing his own tiny pair of binoculars up. “She looks pissed.”

June Legarde, PhD, pauses, looking around.

“She’s spooked. Goddamnit Pierce, I told you we should’ve stayed in the car.”

“I’m sick of sitting in that thing,” Pierce mutters. “It’s hot as balls. Besides, you know we don’t have the go-ahead to make contact.”

“Fucking stupid,” I mutter.

Working for this new org comes with endless bureaucratic catch-up for one of the alphabet soup agencies, the steep learning curve of figuring out when I can push them to my timetable and where they might budge.

But I grin and do it. I’d do it all to get back in the intel community’s good graces, to carve out a spot for my new company.

And once I figured out the stakes of this op, no one could talk me out of taking the job. Not even my team.

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