Hunter (35 page)

THE RED LION, WHITEHALL, LONDON

Alex Morgan laughed as he saw a young guy bounce off the Key on the way to the bar. The Key didn't even notice. Juggling glasses, Braunschweiger returned to their high bench by the window, underneath Lord Stanley's picture, and placed the drinks down: a pint of Guinness for Morgan, Pilsner for the Key and Budweiser for Sutherland. It was their fourth round.

Since wrapping up the ICTY mission, their services had been in high demand by Interpol and the UN but unlike that operation, the three of them had been off on solo missions in different corners of the world. They were finally enjoying some much-needed downtime. It was rare for the three of them to be in the same city at the same time and, on the very rare occasions that it occurred, they seized the opportunity to get together over a beer.

"So, Dave,' Morgan began, "tell us about that latest railway track down the side of your face. Rope burn?"

Morgan was referring to two parallel lines - one slightly longer than the other - that ran down Sutherland's right cheek. They were healing but still scabbed. Morgan also knew that Sutherland loved to share war stories about his injuries.

"Yeah, man,' Sutherland began. "I was fast roping from a Colombian police chopper a week or so ago
- when I was picking up that cartel boss, remember? Anyway, halfway down this massive wind hit us and—"

Morgan's head instantly dropped to his chest feigning sleep, snoring loudly.

"Asshole," said Sutherland.

"Ah, I think you have a visitor, Alex," said the Key, gesturing toward the front door of the pub.

Morgan turned to see the spectacular Charly Fleming standing at the door, looking straight at him. She was breathtaking in black: fitted jeans, knee-high boots and a loose-fitting sweater, with a pale gray scarf thrown around her shoulders. A pair of Ray-Ban tortoiseshell Wayfarers were in her hand. As she walked toward him, the three agents fell silent. All eyes in the bar turned to watch her.

"Boys," she said, hardly even looking at Morgan, but she placed her hand on his shoulder before he could stand up. "How are you all this evening?"

"F-Fine," Sutherland stammered, standing. "It's great to meet you finally, Charly."

"I'm guessing from the accent that you're David. Texas, right? And, you of course, must be the Key."

"Fraulein,"
the Key replied, almost knocking over half the bar as he stood and shook her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"And you," Charly replied. "I've heard a lot about you two from this one. I think we're all very lucky to have you guys in our corner."

"I didn't know you were already back in town," said Morgan, responding to her kiss on his cheek. "How did you know we'd be here?"

"Oh, I have my ways." She smiled that incredible smile. Her arm was around his shoulders now. "Besides, I wanted to surprise you. I'm in town for rehearsals with the London Philharmonic ahead of my concert series with them at the Albert Hall. I'm in London for an extra two weeks!"

"Fantastic," said Morgan genuinely. "So how long do I get you for?"

"As long as you want," she replied, with a seductive flash in her eyes. Then she whispered in his ear "I want you right now."

"Urn, before we need to start drawing blinds around you two," Sutherland piped up, "can we get you a drink, Charly?"

"I'm afraid not, Texas," she replied, cheekily flicking her eyes toward a stretch limousine outside. "I'm double-parked. I just thought I'd try my luck and see if I could entice Morgan here away from you two and all this beer for an early dinner. I hope that's OK?"

*

Half an hour later, Morgan had been discreetly smuggled into Charly's suite, The Trafalgar, to avoid the paparazzi routinely stationed within prime clicking distance of the Ritz.

He was lying back with his eyes closed and head resting on a towel, luxuriating in the warmth of the water and the sensation of her soft skin brushing against his legs. The oil-scented water lapped at his chest and the aroma soothed his mind of all the stresses and dangers of his profession. This wasn't the first time they'd been together over the past three
months and Charly was really coming through after the trauma she'd experienced. She was a fighter. Morgan liked that about her.

"What are you thinking about, action man?" he heard her coo across the surface of steamy water.

Morgan opened his eyes and looked at her. She'd tied her thick copper-red hair back in a loose bun and her face was perfectly framed by thin wet strands that were curling around her chin and dripping into the water.

"I was thinking about you actually," he said. "Thinking about this moment, being with you in this huge bath, naked."

Charly's legs moved slowly against his beneath the surface and a devilish grin broke across Morgan's hard features.

"What is it with those eyes?" Charly said quietly. "I can never work out what color they are and they are constantly full of mischief"

"My eyes are officially listed as camouflage," Morgan responded. "As for the mischief, I guess you see what you want to see. Don't you think?"

"Windows to the soul, handsome," she whispered.

Morgan felt her legs pull away and watched captivated as slowly, enticingly, Charly lifted herself from the water, bringing her body toward him. Streams of water cascaded from her shoulders and over her breasts while, beneath the surface, her fingers danced across the top of his legs, her thumbs trailing along the inside of his thighs.

"You seem to be ready for me," she said, pausing for a moment. Morgan gasped a deep, involuntary breath as her hand found him beneath the water and her full breasts pressed against his chest.

"Alex," she said, serious for a moment as she began kissing him. "How long do you think we can make this last?"

"As long as you want," he replied. "Any ideas?"

"Do you remember what we did in Tuscany last month?" she said, her warm breath upon his ear.

"How could I forget?" Morgan's hands were gliding across her body now, his fingers lightly exploring those familiar, fabulous curves as he looked up into her eyes.

Charly laughed deliciously at the memory, holding Morgan's gaze with an intensity he found electrifying. Her lips were just inches from his. The water was churning around them, stirred by the simmering energy of their bodies. "Do you remember how it started?"

Morgan looked straight back into her eyes and smiled sinfully. He remembered.

Seductively, Charly peeled away from Morgan, allowing her naked body to slide over him with her arms outstretched and her fingernails running the gauntlet from his shoulders and along his muscled arms. With effortless grace she emerged from the water and sat provocatively upon the edge of the bath. Morgan's gaze remained fixed on her as Charly raised her arms, untied her hair and tousled it until it fell in a beautiful vermillion waterfall over her shoulder. Then, stepping from the bath, she turned from Morgan and walked slowly away across the room, confident in the allure and power of her body. Rivulets of oil-scented water streamed from her skin to the floor, drawing Morgan inexorably towards her with every sodden footprint left upon the tiles. At the door she 
stopped and glancing over her shoulder at him, she said, "Well, handsome. I hope you remember exactly how I liked it last time."

I would like to offer my most sincere thanks to the following people, without whom etc ...

My beautiful wife, Sarah, and our boys, Morgan and Rhett. I write every word for them.

My agent Jacqueline Pascarl. Cate Paterson and Tom Gilliatt at Pan Macmillan. Publisher extraordin-aire Joel Naoum and his team, Anne Treasure and Mark Harding, at Momentum.

Special mention must also go to: Laraine and Malcolm Grigg and Cameron Gumley.

And finally a huge thank you to Maria Sykes, Connor Turley, Hannan Le, Major Andrew Somerville, Major Tony Kaine, Brigadier Andrew Dudgeon AM, Commander David Bachi, David Geoffrey Wilson and Barry Pickering.

Chris Allen writes escapist action thrillers for realists, having seen and done it all.

Serving in three Commonwealth armies across two decades and four continents, one of the paratrooping elite, Chris saw the world from under a billowing parachute, often by night, entering foreign countries with the usual passport-stamping obligations eschewed.

Exiting military life with injuries, Chris transitioned into humanitarian aid work during the East Timorese emergency, served with three major law enforcement agencies in Australia, protected Sydney's most iconic landmark in the wake of 9-11 and between 2008 and 2012 was the Sheriff of New South Wales, one of the oldest law enforcement appointments in the land.

Chris's literary brainchild, Intrepid, the sword of Interpol, is a culmination of his military and law enforcement experience. Intrepid is the Intelligence, Recovery, Protection and Infiltration Division: the razor-sharp, ultra-secret, black ops division of Interpol, established to operate across the world, regardless of borders, politics or race.

Stay in touch at
intrepidallen.com
facebook.com/intrepidallen
twitter.com/intrepidallen
youtube.com/ intrepidallen

First published by Momentum in 2012

Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

Copyright © Chris Allen 2012

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Hunter: Intrepid 2

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Cover design by Matt O'Keefe
Cover photo by Lisa Pearl Photography
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