Special Forces: The Recruit. Cindy Dees

the guy, forearm around Jimbo’s neck, and the drunk was rapidly turning an ugly shade of purple.

      She spoke calmly and slowly. “Beau.” She waited until he made eye contact with her to continue. “Toothless, here, has learned the error of his ways in trying to sucker punch you. Haven’t you?” she asked Jimbo.

      The drunk tried to nod within Beau’s grasp but only managed to bug his eyes out a little more.

      She glanced back at Beau. “How about you turn him loose so we can eat our dinner?”

      He hesitated, but then nodded tersely and turned Jimbo loose.

      The Cajun bent over at the waist, gasping and coughing. Tessa leaned down beside him and spoke coldly. “You’re welcome. And for the record, he could’ve snapped your neck like a twig if he actually wanted to kill you. Walk away from Beau and don’t ever mess with him again, or next time, I will let him break your neck.”

      Jimbo glared at her, spitting out something under his fetid breath about crazy bitches and their homicidal pretty boys. Whatever. She was more concerned about Beau.

      She straightened and turned, coming face-to-face with him. “You okay?” she asked under her breath.

      “Yeah. Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

      She stared at him, startled. He sounded utterly normal. Casual. The incident was a stark reminder of just how lethal these guys could be when crossed. They killed with cool, calculated precision. No anger, no emotion, just efficient violence in the blink of an eye.

      “How long have you been waiting to do that to that guy?” she asked low.

      “Awhile,” Beau replied shortly.

      She knew a thing or two about having old scores to settle.

      Jimbo stumbled back toward his equally dentally challenged buddies, grumbling about jealous bastards who refused to share the hot chicks. At least somebody thought she was attractive. Of course, she still had all her teeth. By that measure alone, she was probably smoking hot to those losers.

      Beau still stood rooted in place. Maybe he wasn’t so unaffected, after all. She reached out to touch his elbow lightly. “Ready to eat?”

      He shook himself a little. “Yes. You?”

      She smiled. “Show me the meat, big guy.”

      His eyes glinted at her double entendre, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

      He glanced across the room toward a grill that was actually an oil drum split in half with metal mesh over the two halves. Beds of charcoal filled the drums. “’Ey, Marie,” he called out.

      A large woman wearing a New Orleans Saints jersey and standing by the grill turned around, wielding a long pair of tongs. She bellowed back, “Grab a table and yell out what y’all want. Damn waitress didn’ show up t’night.”

      Tessa sank into a chair opposite Beau at a table for two, studying him closely. He had reacted the same way she would react if one of her mom’s boyfriends tried to rough her up nowadays. She would go postal on his ass.

      Beau scowled back at her as he caught her intent regard on him. Didn’t like being psychoanalyzed, huh?

      “Where do you know those guys from?” she asked.

      “Everyone in these parts knows the Kimball brothers. I’m surprised all four of them are out of jail at the same time.”

      “Are they petty criminals or into bigger stuff?”

      Beau shrugged. “They deal drugs. Run guns. Extort protection money from local businesses. Rumor has it they’ve killed a few folks who got in their way or refused to pay.” He added sardonically, “They’re just smart enough to stay one step ahead of the law. The sheriff puts them away for small stuff anytime he can catch them. But so far, they’ve avoided arrest for the more serious felonies everyone knows they’ve committed.”

      She eyed the big men across the room, memorizing their faces for future reference.

      “How do you like your steak?” he asked, his voice a bit too tight. Predatory intensity rolled off him, and frankly, it turned her on like mad. Not that she would ever admit to him that she was secretly a bit of a Spec Ops groupie.

      “Earth to Tessa, come in. Your steak?”

      “Rare,” she answered, mentally shaking herself. Get a grip, girlfriend.

      “Pink rare or bleeding rare?”

      “Marie can just walk my steak past the flame and call it good.”

      Beau called out, “Two steaks. Biggest ones you’ve got and rare as a virgin in a whorehouse.”

      Guffaws filled the room. The Kimball boys glowered, however. Their heads came together angrily as they muttered amongst themselves. She made a mental note to keep an eye on that bunch as the night progressed and the level of whiskey in the bottle in front of them went down.

      Marie came over to their table carrying an armload of plates and bowls.

      “It’s been a while, Beau. Been, what? Fi’teen years since a Lambert come ’round these parts?”

      “Something like that,” he answered noncommittally.

      Fifteen years? Wow. That was a long time to hold a grudge against Jimbo and company.

      “Well, ain’t y’all gone and got purty? Picture o’ yo’ daddy, you is. Good to have ya home, boy.”

      “Good to be he’uh.” With every word he spoke, Tessa swore his Louisiana drawl got stronger. Why on earth would Torsten have sent the two of them to one of his men’s hometown in the middle of Cajun country? The longer she was here, the more the questions were stacking up.

      Marie plunked down a platter of toasted garlic bread, a mess of green beans and ham hocks, and a big bowl of red beans and rice with sausage so spicy it made Tessa’s eyes water. When it came, a huge steak covered her entire plate and was tender enough to cut with a fork. She dug in with gusto.

      It took a while for her to lay her napkin down and push her plate back. Another perk of her recent training: she could eat as much of anything she wanted and not gain an ounce. If anything, she’d lost a little weight even with putting on more muscle mass.

      Someone fed the decrepit jukebox in the corner a handful of quarters, and twangy zydeco music abruptly filled the place. The talk got louder, the beer flowed more freely and women drifted into the bar and then out with men.

      Under the din, Beau leaned forward. “Did Torsten tell you anything at all?”

      “About what?”

      Beau frowned.

      She shrugged. “All he said to me was—and I quote—‘You’re out. You’ve got orders. Lambo, you have your orders. Get her off my base.’ End quote.”

      He swore under his breath. “I’m gonna need a drink for this, then, and so are you.” He called for some moonshine and two glasses.

      “I don’t like alcohol,” she announced as Marie thunked a mayonnaise jar of the local rotgut on the table along with two shot glasses.

      “Tough. Drink up.” He poured two shots of the stuff.

      “Are you trying to get me drunk?” she demanded.

      He shrugged. “Hey, if you can’t roll like one of the boys, we don’t have to have this conversation at all.”

      Scowling, she picked up the glass and tossed back the liquor, which burned like fire on the way down, shuddering at the powerful aftertaste. The alcohol went straight to her head, but at least it dulled the pain in her muscles while it was also dulling her brain function.

      “Walk with me,” Beau murmured.

      He sounded tense as heck. What on earth was going on with him? He’d