Stark Knight
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Chapter One
Don't kick. Don't move.
Sara Stark dug her fingers into the dirt edge of the chasm. Her flashlight lay shattered somewhere far below her dangling legs. Utter blackness amplified each rasp of breath. Drake should be here, not back in Houston sitting behind a desk. No way would he sweet-talk himself out of this one.
The packet had been waiting for her at the airport. A simple mission: penetrate an abandoned mine and find a stolen medallion. Drake said no guards, said it was an in-and-out operation, an easy job.
Easy my ass.
With a grunt, she pressed one heel against the side of the opposite boot. A blade clicked open from the boot's toe and she buried it in the dirt wall, giving her the leverage needed to boost herself onto solid ground. Grey light filtered forward from the depths of the catacomb passages, carrying with it the echoing shouts of Mexican guards. They shouldn't have had any interest in stopping her, yet they'd almost killed her.
Resting against the wall, her breath still harsh, she evaluated her options. She was too tired to outrun them and without a flashlight, they'd catch her before she fumbled her way to the exit. The Tazer on her belt might help, if they didn't take her down before she could zap them all. She needed an edge, an element of surprise.
Bare earthen walls emerged from the ink around her as the guards closed in. Support beams rose up each side of the passage and abutted a thicker one above. The big beam offered some hope. The shaft was narrow enough, if she worked fast and ignored her weariness, she'd have the edge she needed.
Sara sucked in the dank odor of moldering lumber and leaned forward. Palms pressed against the wall in front of her, legs braced on the wall behind her, she worked her way up spider-style until her back brushed the ceiling. Hidden behind the beam, knees locked, arms burning from the pressure, she waited and tried not to sweat.
They called her awful names in Spanish. With luck, they'd fall into the hole for that alone. But flashlights, jostling in the hands of running men, lit every surface, including the grubby edges of the hole.
Great, if they see me, I'll be nothing but a glorified pinata.
Luck was not on her side. They slowed, their lights illuminating the broken blackness in the floor. Five to one, each armed with made-in-America M2 Brownings.
Just perfect.
Not terrible odds, but it could have been better. A tremor ran through her arms and she silently cursed Drake again. Where the hell was the intel on this job? Someone better have some damn good answers. This wasn't in her job description.
The guards leaned over the chasm, searching for her. From her vantage point, the pieces of her flashlight were small on the bottom of the wide cavern beneath. Better the light than her, she supposed, and better to act now before her limbs gave out. She released herself.
The rush of air from her descent was their only warning. Twisting in midair, she planted the sole of each boot into the backs of two guards. The pair plunged headfirst into the crater with matching cries of surprised fear. She landed, rolled, and flipped to her feet.
The remaining three whirled on her and Sara drove her fist into the center guard's nose. He windmilled on the precipice for a scant second, then dropped in to join his pals. The shorter, stocky hombre on her left reacted faster than the stringbean on her right.
A roundhouse kick to the side of Stocky's head kept him from raising the muzzle of his weapon. Stringbean didn't lift his M2. His thin, incredibly strong arms grabbed her in a bear hug. They plunged against the wall in a cloud of hair oil, gun oil, and rank cologne.
Air exploded from her lungs with a woof. Dirt sifted over them. She went limp, pretending more than her sense of smell had been injured. He grinned, proving the ploy worked.
Just give me an opening.
Playing the frightened female, she slumped further down the wall. He taunted her with a lurid comment and a slimy smile.
Thank you.
She brought her knee up in a hard, quick thrust. His mouth curled into a small 'o' of surprised pain. A gurgling, high-pitched whine whistled from his throat. He fell to his knees, clutching the crotch of his khaki pants.
Satisfied, she yanked the Tazer from the back of her belt and delivered a jolt that would keep him immobile for fifteen minutes. He collapsed, face down.
Stocky howled with blind rage behind her. She turned, side-stepped him easily and touched the Tazer to his back. His momentum propelled him headfirst into the wall. He landed on the outstretched arm of his partner.
She exhaled a relieved breath. Smiling, she said, "You two make such a cute couple."
Unable to move, they only stared at her with anguished eyes. The Tazer nestled back in her belt, she patted the drawstring bag tied over one hip. The medallion hadn't appeared to be worth much-neither for the effort it had taken to steal and hide it here, nor the expense of hiring her to find it.
Despite the perplexing interference of the guards, she'd succeeded and the client would be pleased. On the other hand, Drake would not be happy to see her. Boss's son or not, he had a lot to answer for.
From the bottom of the cavern, the three guards yelled for help. She plucked a flashlight from the floor and shined the beam into the hole. In Spanish she explained their compadres would recover soon and rescue them. She wriggled her fingers in a cheerful wave. They raised their M2's and uselessly fired as she moved out of range.
In the following quiet, she chuckled and called, "It's been a slice, gentlemen."
Sara left the mine with the treasure and a grin.
* * *
Drake flipped through the long list of repairs. The east wing needed new paint, patching, and a thorough refurnishing after their live-round exercise last week. The upper floors of the sprawling estate were in dire need of rewiring and two guest cottages had suffered flooding during the late summer rains. None of which was of great concern, he just hated the boring duty of hiring men and signing checks.
Starlight Estate, as his mother had named the old family home, had expanded like an elephant off the diet-wagon. In the last decade an indoor pool, the dojo, the gymnasium, and the armory, not to mention scads of smaller structures for security and training, had increased the sixteen rooms to nearly thirty.
Knight, Inc., the family acquisitions and recovery company, generated ample funds for the upkeep. He'd soon take over the enterprise after his father, Colonel Bruce Knight, retired for the second time. The ex-military man's focus lay more in Washington these days than it did back home.
The television glowed mutely from a walnut cabinet. Tuned to CNBC, Senator Halley commanded the media's attention with a finger-pointing declaration of some sort. Drake didn't care for the man, an opinion based on the current feud between his father and the senator.
The outer door slammed, followed by echoing shouts in the large foyer. Drake clicked the television off, eager for the interruption. Only one person in the world entered his home like that. Stark.
From the thudding footfalls bearing down on him, he guessed she wasn't happy about Mexico. He adjusted his cuffs and unsuccessfully tried to control his smile. If there was anything more interesting than a pissed off woman, it was a pissed off Stark.
Fritz appeared, more friend than butler, his wizened face puckered with concern. Drake waved him back through the red oak doors. No one could stop a freight train with polite cajoling.
"Drake!" She shouted as she banged into the room. "Easy job? Why the hell didn't I know the mine was guarded?"
"Hello, Stark. It's good to see you," he said mildly. She hadn't stopped to shower or change after their pilot had returned her to Houston. Mine dirt clung to her clothes and the thick, golden braid down her back was dulled to an amber hue. But there was nothing dull about the snapping green eyes peering between the ragged locks of her bangs. "I take it Mexico was more difficult than you were prepared for?"
She flushed with pure ire. "Don't even go there, I did the job. Bruce trained me to handle myself. He also taught me never to let someone off the hook for a sloppy job. Where the hell was your intel on this?"
For a moment, Drake saw the obstinate twelve-year-old who'd hit their home like a hurricane. At seventeen, he hadn't been prepared for an adopted sister so soon after losing his mother. As now, she'd disrupted his life in not altogether unpleasant ways.
"Time was of the essence, Stark." Drake rounded his desk and perched on the edge, sitting between her and the throwable objects littering its surface. "Had I known the Mexican government was interested in the medallion, I would have put that in the packet. The mine was supposed to be abandoned."
She glared. "From now on, I don't want to bypass our own surveillance. That was a bad call on your part."
Drake nodded. "I'm sorry that you went in there blind. I should've come along."
"You're damned right you should've come along." Her words were harsh, but Drake sensed the storm was over. She pulled a soft leather satchel from the back of her belt and tossed it to him. "The coins from Glasgow."
They clinked inside as he tested the weight. In a deliberate show of trust, he set the bag on his desk without looking inside. "Good work."
She shrugged and sat in the visitors chair. "And what have you been doing while I was out knocking skulls?"
"Until my father returns from D.C., I'm stuck here." He grimaced at his defensive tone. "If you didn't murder every computer you touched, you could stay here and lend a hand while I went on assignment."
Her expression softened with something close to amusement. Gaze locked on his, she lifted her legs and rested her crossed ankles on the teak surface of his desk. "Will you tell me who the client is? Or are you gonna keep me in suspense?"
He scowled at the crusted dirt on the heels of her boots, but didn't ask her to remove them. Stubborn Stark. She could be charming at times, and plain frustrating at others. Instead, he focused on the length of her legs and hunted for an answer that wouldn't get him...bruised.
"Drake." She drummed the arms of her chair. "Don't leave me hanging here. Who's the client?"
Muscles in his neck tightened. Here it comes. "I'm sorry, that's confidential."
She froze. "Then I guess the location of the medallion is confidential."
"You wouldn't." He stood. She never backed down when she took that tone. "Stark."
She cleaned the dirt from beneath her short nails.
Bending, he planted his hands on the armrests of her chair and loomed over her. "You have no choice. The Colonel wants this done."
Her green gaze lifted and a humorless grin curved across her full mouth. Dropping her legs, she shifted to the edge of her chair and eliminated the last cushion of space between them.
He straightened quickly. Stark was off-limits. A sister to him, though no blood relation. His father had told him to befriend her, be a brother, be her family.
That had been fine when she was twelve.
She stood. The air crackled between them. He thought he saw triumph in the back of her gaze, but Stark wasn't a woman you could rely on to feel or think the way her body language indicated.
She forced him back until he hit the desk. Toe to toe, her chin tilted up to keep his gaze, she said, "The Colonel may want this done, but you owe me."
Like silk, her voice brought more to mind than he would confess to a priest. "All right."
She considered, then released him by stepping away.
He squared his shoulders, trying to regain a semblance of control. The Colonel had, in his own way, given permission to tell Stark if she pressed the issue. If she pressed any harder, more would crumble than his ability to withhold information. "I'll tell you who the client is. But first, the medallion."
"No way. Talk."
He shrugged and offered a smile to ease the tension. "It was worth a try. Sara..." he stopped at the use of her first name. Maybe it was safer behind his desk after all. He sat and began again. "This client needs to be kept confidential."
"Like I would tell anyone, even if there was anyone to tell." Sara waved him on.
"The client asked for anonymity-and considering who we think is behind the assignment, we felt it best to honor that. We were also concerned about your reaction."
"Reaction?" Stark rested a thigh on his desk and lifted the crystal pen-holder. He eyed it warily. "Listen to you. Stop beating around the bush. It's not like I'm some debutante you want to dump."
Drake ignored the familiar dig and resigned himself to the inevitable. "This is different."
"Who's the damned client?"
He braced himself for her response and said, "Victor Acosta."
"What?" Sara snapped upright so fast her spine crackled. Victor Acosta?
They sent me on a job for the man who killed my father?
"Let me explain," Drake began, but she shook her head. Betrayal stripped the armor from her heart. Cleaved in two, she didn't know what to think, which way to turn. She definitely couldn't stomach any sad sack excuses.
"Stark," he said, concern darkening his mahogany eyes.
How dare they use her this way. Volcanic with rage, she fast-balled the crystal pen-holder into the fire place with a growling shout. She spun away to hide the sudden prick of tears.
Better to be angry, to shout and curse than to let Drake see her cry. Nothing on this hell-hole of a planet could have carved through her as easily as this. Victor Acosta? Confused and too mad to speak, she strode for the door.
"Sara," he pleaded. "It's not what you think."
Hand on the brass knob, she glanced black, pleased she could muster a mutinous look. "No? What would you know about what I think? You have a father."
She slammed the door, the bang echoed through the cavernous foyer and inside her aching chest. Fritz held out the bag she'd dropped on entering and opened the front door. With a distracted thanks, she left the house she'd once considered home.
Every grain of dirt on her body turned to sludge in the muggy air. A nasty, overwhelming heat molested her chilled flesh. She wanted a hot shower, a cold drink, and not necessarily in that order.
The footpath across the back of the property led to one of the many converted cottages on the estate. She passed the more elegant one reserved for Drake's aunt and continued over the stones to her own, more comfortable home.
Each step punctuated a new knot in her neck and shoulders. Lock it away, Stark, lock it away. It didn't serve her purposes to be so greatly affected. But this time, the lock didn't work and grief, accompanied by fatigue, followed her inside.
A lamp glowed softly beside a heavy crystal glass, a silver ice bucket, and a bottle of Chivas. Fritz must have sent one of the staff to freshen her quarters. The comforts of wealth, and the emptiness of the abandoned and betrayed.
How could they?
She tossed the bag through the door leading to the gym-a new addition to the minimal cottage. Dead on her feet, emotionally depleted, she fell into her favorite chair. Glass filled, sans ice cubes, she sipped past an irritating knot of tears in her throat.
How long had she tried to convince herself having a family didn't matter? So what if her mother had died soon after giving birth to her? Who cared if relatives hadn't taken her in after her father's funeral? How many times had she risen in the night to confront ghosts of what should have been, only to face the reality of what was? To have all those years obliterated by two words made her feel weak.
Her father smiled at her from the military photograph on mantle above the never-used fireplace. Memories of the American flag draped over his coffin, the startling noise of the Color Guard firing their weapons, and strangers dressed in black drifted through her mind. Then came the foster homes.
When Colonel Bruce Knight, liaison to the Department of Defense, had plucked her from juvie at the age of twelve, it had been like a fairytale. Daddy Warbucks rescues Annie. She'd left poverty and fear behind for a life of privilege. He'd even arranged to change her name to prove just how far behind her that life was.
She'd chosen Stark, an acronym for star in Starlight and the K in Knight. Why had he gone through so much damned trouble to help her forget and then accept an assignment from the one man responsible for it all?
The Chivas burned through the pressure in her chest and she finished the whiskey in one long swallow. She banged it on the table. The shower could wait. Only getting down and dirty would relieve this stress.
The gym boasted a long wall of night blackened windows and when she flicked the lights on, her doubled image bounced back from a dozen reflective panes. She shed her button-down shirt and boots, ignored her dirty t-shirt, and taped her hands. Metallica suited her mood best and as the opening harsh chords blasted through the speakers, she went to town on the heavy bag chained to the ceiling.
She drove her fists into the bag, reliving the childhood terror of waking in a stranger's house, the awkwardness of new schools. She delivered a round house kick for the juvie guards tackling her when she defended herself and another for a foster father who had her arrested for arson, a fire he'd started to collect insurance money. The bag swung.
Halfway through her work-out, sweat dampening the t-shirt at her spine and between her breasts, the tiny hairs on her nape bristled; she wasn't alone. She threw another punch and glanced toward the door.
Drake watched her, his arms crossed casually over a burgundy silk shirt. He'd deceived her. She never would have gone on that assignment if she'd known the truth. Breathing hard, but unwilling to allow him the power of interruption, she continued her assault on the bag. "What do you want?"
He straightened to his full height of six-three and strolled to the stereo like a man without a worry. Metallica stopped mid-guitar-solo. He turned mahogany eyes on her. "The Colonel's flying in tonight and wants to talk to you at breakfast in the morning."
"Oh, he does, does he?" Hands on hips, she gulped air. "He'll have to eat alone. What you both did was... inexcusable."
She stalked to the door, unable to remain stoic, and unwilling to have him witness the fault. Drake didn't let her sail past him. He grasped her arm. The contact unleashed her fury. Reversing the hold, she gripped him and bent, flipping him over her shoulder with a grunt. He landed on his back.
Drake swept her legs, but overextended and caught the low stool beside the door. It toppled as she hit the ground. She yanked him forward by a fistful of silk, and delivered a kick to the center of his chest. A satisfying exclamation of air burst from him. "Had enough?"
"Not by a long shot." They'd played this game for nearly fifteen years, he never gave up. He rolled until she was pinned beneath him. She held her instinct to damage the family jewels in check. Attacking Drake below the belt had always been off limits.
She wished they hadn't trained her quite so well.
Astride her hips, he trapped her wrists into the mat. "I didn't come here to spar with you, Stark. He wants us both there, he's got something important to talk about. I think you should listen."
Drake didn't smile, didn't plead, didn't try any of his usual charm tactics. Sara struggled for oxygen, but his weight made it impossible. "Get off me, I can't breathe."
He shifted his weight to his knees, but kept her pinned. "Not until I get your agreement."
"Would you believe me? You don't think I'd just say what you wanted to hear so you'd leave me alone?" She stalled, trying to decide if she wanted to follow the Colonel's orders, a man who had so recently broken her trust.
"Of course. You always keep your word."
Unlike some I know.
He smiled. That damned crooked grin of his. Although she couldn't be sure if it was calculated, all her arguments evaporated. She quivered inside. The old game turned into something completely...unfamiliar.
Her breathing didn't get any easier. His gaze shifted a fraction to where her t-shirt was stretched taut. When he raised his eyes, they settled on her mouth.
Warning bells rang deep in her mind. She tried to speak, tried to agree to join the Knight men for breakfast. Anything to end the dangerous electricity surging through her, but nothing came out.
The grip on her wrists relaxed. She didn't try to pull away, she couldn't. Drake searched her as he leaned forward, the distance between them closed.
Don't let him kiss me.
She felt open, raw and blamed that on him. His eyes smoldered.
Please, kiss me.
The tension, the temptation, was too great and she hooked the fallen stool around one ankle. With an effort, she sent it careening into his back. He grunted, surprised, but not injured. The angle had been too awkward to do much damage.
The air returned to normal, breathable matter she could use. On her elbows, she wriggled backward and out from beneath him. He stood with her, breathing too hard for the little bit of grappling they'd done.
"Tell your father I'll be there." Sara left the room without a backward glance. She'd had a warm drink, and now she needed a cold shower-a very cold shower.
© Jennifer Turner, 2005
Release Date: September 2005
Title: Stark Knight
Author: J.R. Turner
ISBN: 1-59080-406-6
Genre: Action Adventure
Pages: 240
Price: $12.00 US $15.49 CAN £9.99 UK
Ebook: HTML and PDF: $8.00
Echelon Press Publishing
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