Book Crazy Friends: Walker

Title: Walker

Series: Bad Boys of X-Ops Book One

Author: Rie Warren

Genre: Erotic romance, humor, thriller, suspense, military, action/adventure

Release Date: April 5, 2016

From the world of bad boys of Retribution MC comes a deliciously dangerous, scandalously sexy, four part series!

Good girl versus Bad boy. Southern charm comes head-to-head with military grit. They say opposites attract. That’s an understatement where Justice and Lawless are concerned.

JUSTICE

Let’s face it. I’ve got a bad rep with the ladies. I’m a rough-talking, smooth-loving, international playboy—yeah right, whatever—and an X-Ops specialist. Sure, I’m hiding a secret or two. Who isn’t? That’s the least of my concerns when I’m called in to lead an infiltrate-and-retrieve mission.

I’ve got my head in the game—the one firmly attached to my shoulders. An American embassy overseas is under siege, and I’m expecting to rescue the ambassador and his daughter, a stereotypical geeky damsel in distress, Matilda Lawless.

Caught in the crossfire between explosive danger and wild desire, I’m in for the shock of my life.

TILLY

I’m not looking for any man to save me. I’m pretty damn capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much. I have a successful career and was practically born and bred on a gun range, even if I can’t bake a perfect biscuit to save my life like a good southern woman should.

But there’s just something about that hardcore operative called Justice. He’s haunted and lonely, and I know that pain inside and out. It doesn’t hurt one little bit he’s been blessed with more than his fair share of good looks, plus a body that would make any red-blooded woman drool.

Barricaded inside the embassy, under my father’s shrewd eyes, I intend to have Justice no matter how many times he says he’s not good enough. I see the way he watches me. With dirty, sexy, hungry lust.

Fighting is what Justice does. Now I need him to fight for me.

Warning: Graphic sex, graphic action, graphic language. Triple X caution.

“JUST A LITTLE R&R, he said.”

I listened to Storm grumbling through the industrial sized headgear affixed to my ears, the rotors of the HH-60 Pave Hawk whump-whump-whumping overhead and on the tail.

“Exotic location was the phrase I used.” I chuckled low in my chest. “Didn’t mention nothin’ about R&R.”

“Thought I’d at least be able to get my jock off without gettin’ my fucking head shot off.” Storm aimed me a look from the pilot’s seat, one sinister black eyebrow raised.

“I’ll get you a hooker in Dubai after we get out of this mess.” Unbuckling, I reached over and tapped him on the cheek, ignoring the growl that parted his lips.

In the cargo area of the Sikorsky helicopter, I checked my parachute, the altimeter, the straps of my harness, and my pack filled with all sorts of goodies. I was unofficially Storm’s copilot, but fuck it. The man didn’t need me. He could handle the chopper on his own without the usual five-man crew. He’d have to, because I was getting ready to jump ship in high-altitude, high-opening, full-on fuck-this-shit terror.

Storm snorted, and his deep voice rumbled over the ear-gear. “Unlike you, I don’t need to pay for my pussy.”

“Not after that time you caught syphilis, right, Kemosabe?” Ignoring the curses Storm slung my way, I started zipping into my fancy flight suit, checking and double-checking straps, buckles, my bailout O2 line.

Storm stepped into the back with a dip of his head. “Remember what Blaize said about covert mission?”

“The fuck. I’m always covert.” I wrapped my arms protectively around the desert camo pack snuggled against my chest like it was a baby in a papoose, because I knew what was coming next.

“Hand over the flash bang, Walker.” He opened his palm.

“Goddammit. I feel naked without my C-4. You know that.”

“Gimme.” Storm advanced.

“Motherfucker.” I watched while he dexterously unzipped the side pocket of my pack, eagerly snatching the two M112 demolition blocks of putty-white plastic explosives wrapped in a Mylar bundle.

My eyes narrowed. “Blaize is a bitch.”

“Head bitch in charge.” He pleasantly agreed. “Blasting caps? Priming unit?”

I placed both in his hands, my own shaking like a meth head giving up the last of his stash.

Watching hungrily as Storm placed my precious bundles aside, I muttered, “Blaize is definitely a chick with a dick.” Tearing my gaze from my favorite weapons, I grinned. “Bitch chick with a dick you got the hots for.”

“I’d rather dip my dick into a vat of boiling oil.”

“Like when you got syphilis? That can be arranged.”

Storm cuffed me on the back of the head. He was just lucky I was trussed up like a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. Thanksgiving . . . heh.

Blaize Carmichael was our new hardnosed higher-up at Operation T-Zone. Op T-Z was an organization quite possibly unsanctioned by the PTB of the USA, because they didn’t need to know what we did behind enemy lines, in the line of duty.

We weren’t military.

We weren’t from the CIA Viper Pit.

We weren’t Black Ops.

We were darker than that.

Unlike previous operations managers who’d given years of orders over secure lines and in scrambled codes, Blaize had come on the scene, giving it the personal touch with an up-front team meet-and-greet. Yeah, the woman’s touch in the form of intense head games more mind-fucking than any passive-aggressive wifey could come up with.

By the time she’d debriefed us with her high-heeled boot up our collective asses, read us the riot act, and nailed us to the wall over every single possible past mistake and mission mishap, I’d gone home and drunk a bottle of tequila.

Blaize did have nice legs though.

I rubbed my sleeve across the mask of my helmet then peered at Storm . . . then gawped at the cockpit. The empty fucking cockpit.

“Wait. Who the fuck’s flying this thing?” I asked.

“Autopilot.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Autopilot?”

“Jerry-rigged autopilot.” His smug smile did not put me at ease.

“I do not want to know.”

“Probably not, but it involves a selfie stick and duct tape and—”

“La la la . . . I can’t hear you.” Jesus Christ. I was gonna die tonight. I just knew it.

Rie is the badass, sassafras author of Sugar Daddy and the Don’t Tell series–a breakthrough trilogy that crosses traditional publishing boundaries beginning with In His Command. Her latest endeavors include the Carolina Bad Boys, a fun, hot, and southern-sexy series. A Yankee transplant who has traveled the world, Rie started out a writer—causing her college professor to blush over her erotic poetry without one ounce of shame. Not much has changed. She swapped pen for paintbrushes and followed her other love during her twenties. From art school to marriage to children and many a wild and wonderful journey in between, Rie has come home to her calling. Her work has been called edgy, daring, and some of the sexiest smut around. You can connect with Rie via the social media hangouts listed on her website https://www.riewarren.com. She is represented by Saritza Hernandez, Corvisiero Literary Agency. http://www.corvisieroagency.com/Saritza_Hernandez.html