Page 75 of Dangerous Games (Tempting SEALs 2)

"He likes to think he can," Macey grunted. "There's not many of us who know Clint down deep like I know him, sweetcakes. Me and Reno. We know Clint to the bone. And we know what you mean to him. Don't doubt that."

"How can you know this?" She hoped, prayed. She kept her confidence intact when Clint was around, but he hid so much from her. Kept too much to himself.

Macey grimaced as he turned away from her for a moment, watching as the gray pickup eased from the back drive, [be lights off as darkness shadowed it.

"I've seen him when he can't hide." Macey cleared his throat softly. "Me, Reno, his men. Clint was hurt pretty bad once; we didn't know if he would make it until we could get him to the pickup point. Reno, uhh, told him you were hurt. Told him you were crying for him." He shook his head as she stared back at him in shock. "He fought like a madman to live. He shouldn't have survived, but he did. And he will now."

His dark eyes bored into her as he turned back to her. "You do what that boy tells you to do and you'll stay safe. If he wants you trussed in cotton and hid in a corner, then you DO it. Because if he lost you, I don't think he would survive, and maybe that's something you'd better think about."

LEAVING MORGANNA ALONE WITH MACEY was hell. Beneath the rage and pain, and the knowledge that another part of the team that he called family was gone because of Fuentes, was the knowledge that another man was protecting his woman.

Forcing the jealousy, the possessiveness, into the distant corners of his brain wasn't easy, but the violence swirling through his head made it easier. Fuentes had made a serious mi stake in thinking he could strike at Morganna for any reason as long as Clint was alive. This was the reason Fuentes had fallen the first time, because he liked to play games.

Fuentes had been convinced he was the master games-man. He'd been wrong. His wife, Carmelita, had been the true strategist. She had allowed Fuentes to believe he was the mastermind of the cartel, but that black-hearted bitch he had married had been the true mastermind. And she had wielded that power with effortless ease through the easily manipulated Fuentes.

It didn't take long for Clint to pick his tail back up or to lead the bastards where he needed them. They weren't stupid; Clint gave them credit for that. It took him nearly an hour to "lose" them again and to make certain they spotted the pickup parked behind Diva's.

Watching from the shadows, he waited as the three men left the sedan and made their way into the club before he moved. He knew the fourth had held back; Clint had watched him slide into position along the shadows of the back of the building, with a clear view of the truck.

Yeah, they were good. Some of Fuentes' finest, and if Clint wasn't mistaken, the little prick watching the truck was one of his highest lieutenants. It was just a sad day when you had to use your best men to play trackers. But Manuelo was no place to be found.

Fuentes' soldier was good, but taking him out was easy. Clint slipped from position, careful to stay low until he was only feet away from assassin wannabe. He hefted the blade he held in his hand before drawing back slowly, then letting it go with a powerful flip of his wrist.

The body slid slowly down the side of the building without a sound. Clint moved quickly to the fallen form, rifling through pockets and shoving the contents into the pack at his side to go through later.

As quickly as he moved in, he was fading into the shadows, moving into position to wait for the other three. Taking them out wasn't much harder. They hadn't expected him to be waiting for them. He dragged each one back to their vehicle, throwing him in quickly before closing the door and patting the hood triumphantly with the pad of his thin leather gloves and connecting a small receiver to his ear.

"Macey, four down. Am I clear?"

"Clear, Ice," Macey spoke. "I have a report on Loader," he said then, his voice soft as he used Markwell's code name. "He was called out at zero hundred hours last night. A call to his cell from good ole Santos reporting information he needed to give Loader for Ice." Clint was Ice. The Iceman. "They arranged a meet and the rest is blood."

"How did he know who to contact?"

"That one's up in the air," Macey reported. "But he called Max's cell, too, left the same message. Important information for Ice and a request for a meeting. That's all we have."

Their cells and numbers were secure. Son of a bitch, how had one of Fuentes' men gotten hold of them?

"We have more than one mole," Clint murmured.

"Roger that," Macey agreed.

"I'm making

a stop inside Diva's; then I'm clear," Clint reported. "Expect me in sixty. If I'm not there, contact the remainder of the teams and secure the kitten."

Morganna had to stay safe at all costs.

Pulling the receiver from his ear and tucking it into the small pack on his belt, Clint headed for the back entrance of Diva's.

The private room he kept there held a small store of cash, fake IDs, and a few credit cards. He had learned enough over the years to become one paranoid son of a bitch where protection was concerned.

The dimly lit hallway was empty as he moved inside, the hard thump of the music pounding through the walls as he strode quickly to his private room. He was under no illusion that Drage wasn't watching for him. It shouldn't have surprised him to find out the club owner was involved with Joe in this mess. Drage Masters was a sly bastard, living just on the light edge of complete criminal intent and somehow managing to keep his balance.

Clint pulled the key card from his wallet, swiped it quickly through the security bar, and watched for the green light. He kept the gun securely against his thigh as he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Son of a bitch.

His lips thinned at the sight of the couple leaning negligently against the bar on the other side of the room. Speak of the devil and he will come, followed by his gun-toting demoness.

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