Crazy Wild Read Online Free
photo, dressed in a school uniform, her long dark hair pulled back on one side and clipped up. She looked ridiculously young, oddly sweet, and too innocent to have ever ended up with a man old enough to be her father, or in the middle of an illegal international arms deal of world altering proportions.
Baldy was a different story. Creed quickly looked through the guy's wallet. Bruno Walmann was his name, computer parts were his game, with offices in Berlin, Moscow, and New York City. At least that's what his business card said—in German. He had fifteen hundred dollars in cash, half a dozen platinum and gold credit cards, a driver's license, a couple of restaurant receipts, and a few scraps of paper with phone numbers and addresses written on them—all good stuff, but not what Creed had come for tonight. He shoved the wallet into his coat pocket. It would all go to SDF, the organization that wrote his paychecks and assigned him jobs like the one he'd just screwed up.
Damn. He'd lost Dominika Starkova, which frankly unnerved the hell out of him. He'd never lost anyone he was tailing, not ever.
Shit.
He'd promised himself a break, that all he had to do was get Castano and Garcia and his part would be over for a while. Someone else could handle making the world safe for freedom, democracy, and a latte stand on every corner. Cars, that's all he wanted now—to work on his cars and forget how fucking brutal real life could be, to forget how fucking brutal he could be.
Geezus, with the fate of the free world hanging in the balance, he couldn't even stick a tail. But at least he could report that the spooks and the pencil pushers in Washington had finally gotten something right. Cordelia Kaplan was no librarian.
Turning away from the information desk, he glanced at the exits on either end of the atrium that spanned the library. There was a pumped-up, flat-faced, gorilla-looking guy in a leather bomber jacket loitering in front of the west doors, looking very much like a hired gun. On the eastern end, another man stood in the center of the hall, out-and-out commandeering the exit onto Broadway Avenue, checking his watch and looking like he was hell-and-gone out of time and none too happy about it. His other hand was stuffed into the pocket of a very expensive, gray wool topcoat, his black hair combed back off a hard, carved face, everything about him speaking of money and power.
Creed swore under his breath. Dylan had sent him this guy's picture, too: Reinhard Klein, one of the nuclear warhead buyers identified by the CIA and the DIA. If Bruno was working for Klein, he was working pretty high up the ladder. Reinhard Klein owned and ran an international conglomerate that included everything from the controlling interest in an oil refinery in Azerbaijan to a fashion house in Milan, a string of hotels from Bern to Berlin, a lot of pricey real estate in the Czech Republic, and not a damned thing in Denver, Colorado.
Suddenly, things were getting complicated. Why would Dominika Starkova be hiding from one of her buyers, a guy she was supposed to be bringing in on the big deal? And why was Reinhard out in a blizzard, instead of holed up in a plush downtown hotel, waiting for Bruno to buck the cold and bring him the girl?
The whole setup smacked a little too much of desperation to do anything but put Creed even more on edge.
Shit
. The frickin' fate of the free world was
always
hanging in the balance. Always, and God knew he'd done his part to save it at least twenty times in the last ten years. But the price for saving the free world had gotten too damn high, costing him more than he was willing to pay ever again.
Ever.
He'd left his blood and sweat on all seven continents for Uncle Sam, and unknown to anyone but himself, he'd left a bucketful of gut-wrenched tears on one—for all the good it had done him or his partner, J.T.
His best friend, J.T., who was dead.
Well, hell—he dragged in a deep breath—
that
was a place he
Baldy was a different story. Creed quickly looked through the guy's wallet. Bruno Walmann was his name, computer parts were his game, with offices in Berlin, Moscow, and New York City. At least that's what his business card said—in German. He had fifteen hundred dollars in cash, half a dozen platinum and gold credit cards, a driver's license, a couple of restaurant receipts, and a few scraps of paper with phone numbers and addresses written on them—all good stuff, but not what Creed had come for tonight. He shoved the wallet into his coat pocket. It would all go to SDF, the organization that wrote his paychecks and assigned him jobs like the one he'd just screwed up.
Damn. He'd lost Dominika Starkova, which frankly unnerved the hell out of him. He'd never lost anyone he was tailing, not ever.
Shit.
He'd promised himself a break, that all he had to do was get Castano and Garcia and his part would be over for a while. Someone else could handle making the world safe for freedom, democracy, and a latte stand on every corner. Cars, that's all he wanted now—to work on his cars and forget how fucking brutal real life could be, to forget how fucking brutal he could be.
Geezus, with the fate of the free world hanging in the balance, he couldn't even stick a tail. But at least he could report that the spooks and the pencil pushers in Washington had finally gotten something right. Cordelia Kaplan was no librarian.
Turning away from the information desk, he glanced at the exits on either end of the atrium that spanned the library. There was a pumped-up, flat-faced, gorilla-looking guy in a leather bomber jacket loitering in front of the west doors, looking very much like a hired gun. On the eastern end, another man stood in the center of the hall, out-and-out commandeering the exit onto Broadway Avenue, checking his watch and looking like he was hell-and-gone out of time and none too happy about it. His other hand was stuffed into the pocket of a very expensive, gray wool topcoat, his black hair combed back off a hard, carved face, everything about him speaking of money and power.
Creed swore under his breath. Dylan had sent him this guy's picture, too: Reinhard Klein, one of the nuclear warhead buyers identified by the CIA and the DIA. If Bruno was working for Klein, he was working pretty high up the ladder. Reinhard Klein owned and ran an international conglomerate that included everything from the controlling interest in an oil refinery in Azerbaijan to a fashion house in Milan, a string of hotels from Bern to Berlin, a lot of pricey real estate in the Czech Republic, and not a damned thing in Denver, Colorado.
Suddenly, things were getting complicated. Why would Dominika Starkova be hiding from one of her buyers, a guy she was supposed to be bringing in on the big deal? And why was Reinhard out in a blizzard, instead of holed up in a plush downtown hotel, waiting for Bruno to buck the cold and bring him the girl?
The whole setup smacked a little too much of desperation to do anything but put Creed even more on edge.
Shit
. The frickin' fate of the free world was
always
hanging in the balance. Always, and God knew he'd done his part to save it at least twenty times in the last ten years. But the price for saving the free world had gotten too damn high, costing him more than he was willing to pay ever again.
Ever.
He'd left his blood and sweat on all seven continents for Uncle Sam, and unknown to anyone but himself, he'd left a bucketful of gut-wrenched tears on one—for all the good it had done him or his partner, J.T.
His best friend, J.T., who was dead.
Well, hell—he dragged in a deep breath—
that
was a place he
Readers choose
Shannon Esposito
Nick S. Thomas
M.J. Harris
Agatha Christie
Charity Parkerson
Shelena Shorts
Viola Grace
Al Sarrantonio
Jacki Delecki
John McQuaid