To the Xtreme (Xtreme Ops Book 2) Read online

  The first thing the special ops team had done was close the park to visitors, but that didn’t mean people weren’t still out here. The rangers all knew this and were working to find these people and ask them to leave for the time being. She had to alert Jack.

  In a brief text, she told him that the park had been closed to visitors because of a threat. She didn’t expect him to reply right away, so she quickly dressed in her clothes from the day before.

  Taking off the shirt she’d slept in that belonged to Harris gave her a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. The minute she dropped the black fabric over her body, she realized the sheer enormity of the man. The shoulders hung off hers. The sleeves she rolled three times to end at her wrists, and the hem skimmed her knees.

  Maybe being shrouded in his shirt had been the reason for sleeping so heavily, as if his protection was woven into the fibers.

  She shook herself and folded the shirt, placing it at the foot of the bed for him to find later. Then she went into the small bathroom consisting of campground-like facilities. The water came from a cistern caught by runoff from the cabin roof. The composting toilet kept to code for the park waste.

  On a short wood shelf above the sink, she found Harris had placed a toothbrush still in its packaging. Why did that make her stomach feel a little funny too?

  She washed her hands and face and brushed her teeth. Feeling slightly more herself, and less of a stranger who cared about how a man’s shirt fit her—or the man who’d loaned it to her—she walked out of the bathroom. Her uniform shirt hung open, and she began buttoning it over the thermal undershirt she wore.

  When she stepped into the front room, she found Harris seated in the same place she’d left him. He turned from the laptop, his stare hitting hers for a moment before dropping to her hands working her shirt buttons.

  She fumbled with one and it slipped out of the buttonhole. To cover her nerves, she nodded toward the computer. “Did you sleep at all?”

  “A few hours.”

  “My head hit the pillow and I didn’t budge.”

  “I thought I heard your phone ring in the night.”

  She stared at him. Had he been listening for movement behind her closed door? Silly—of course he would be on high alert for any noise either in or out of the cabin.

  “A text from a friend,” she told him.

  “Ah.”

  Another heartbeat passed, not uncomfortable but not what she was accustomed to. The second felt super-charged somehow, like a lightning strike that didn’t meet the ground.

  “Did you get something to eat?” she asked to fill the silence.

  “Grabbed a granola bar off the kitchen shelf. They’re stale.”

  “There might be pancake mix to add water to.”

  He waved a hand. “I’m good, but you’re welcome to make pancakes. Or I have a couple MREs in my bag.”

  “What’s an MRE?”

  “Meal, ready-to-eat military ration. I usually carry the meatballs in marinara sauce ones because I prefer them.”

  That brought a slight smile to her face. Thinking about this big, rough, unbending man liking anything amused her for some reason.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Why the smile?”

  “I figured a man like you eats bullet casings and rocks for breakfast.”

  He didn’t appear to be amused. Unsmiling, he said, “Nice.”

  She backed away and turned to the kitchen. There she quickly mixed up some pancake mix, dumping in extra in case Harris changed his mind. As she heated a cast iron skillet and applied some lard from a tin, she realized her good night’s sleep revived her and her body and brain were more than ready to take on today’s challenges. Either hunting down bombers or rescuing birds of prey, she was ready.

  “What’s that song you’re humming?” Harris’s deep voice reached her.

  Had she been humming? She didn’t realize.

  She turned from the propane-fueled stove only to see Harris sat stiff in his seat and didn’t glance her way when he spoke.

  “It’s a song my parents used to sing when I was little.”

  “Oh.”

  An awkward silence descended between them, and she felt the need to speak. “How is your ankle this morning?”

  “The damn cast is chafing, but it’s fine.”

  She studied his wide shoulders clad in a black material. She wouldn’t be surprised if he was wearing a bulletproof vest too. She slid her gaze up his tanned neck to the short, dark hairs on the back of his head.

  Realizing the pancakes were smoking, she quickly turned the burner down and flipped them. All three were a bit browner than she preferred but it was her own fault for not paying attention.

  “You burning those pancakes?” Again, he didn’t turn when he spoke. Holding a conversation with a man who wouldn’t even glance her direction irritated her.

  “Nope.” She lifted the pancakes onto a plate and stood at the counter eating them with a bit of birch syrup she’d found in the cupboard. Probably left here by Paul. She never did see a person so crazy about birch syrup. He’d even been known to tap trees to gather his own sap. He’d taught her a lot about the Alaskan wilderness, how to live off the land and harvest for herself if she ever had the need or desire.

  When she twisted to glance at Harris, she found him staring at her. She lifted her fork. “If you want some, there’s more mix. All I need to do is start the burner again.”

  “I’m good. Thanks.”

  “Did you find anything in your search?” She eyed the computer setup.

  “I can’t share information.”

  “Of course.” She took another bite of the triple stack of pancakes and chewed. She had to leave soon and check in at the ranger station for her shift. After the previous day’s events, Lord knew what she’d get into on the job today.

  She went to take another bite, aware of Harris’s eyes on her as she lifted the forkful to her lips. Before she took the bite, though, her phone rang. Her happy, upbeat ringtone caused Harris to wince, and she knew he must be thinking that she was an annoying woman and in his way.

  Before her cell rang again, she put it to her ear. “Moon Shadow.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Harris’s dark brows draw together into a thunderous V.

  “It’s Paul. We’ve got a report of a dead moose.”

  “Hit by a car?” She dropped her fork, food forgotten.

  “Poachers.”

  Crap. “I’ll be right there.”

  She ended the call and hurried to the door, where she put her boots on and bent to tie the laces. “Don’t worry about cleaning up my dishes. I’ll come back at some point today and do it.”

  He said nothing but when she glanced up from tying her bootlaces, she found his gaze on her.

  “What’s the emergency?” he asked.

  “Nothing that involves your mission. A poacher.” She straightened and searched around for her coat but realized she’d left it in her truck along with her backpack full of supplies.

  “Will you be all right?” she asked.

  She didn’t think those dark brows could draw down into an angrier expression, but they did, tightening into a crease above the bridge of his nose and creating a deep furrow.

  “I’ll be fine,” he bit off tightly.

  She assessed him for another second. “With a dangerous bomber on the loose, I don’t like leaving you alone in the cabin, especially with your leg in a cast.”

  He issued a noise that sounded more like a wild animal than most wild animals made. “I’m not an invalid.”

  She nodded. “I have to go. I’ll be back to take care of those dishes and check in on you later.”

  She turned to the door, and another growl of irritation followed her outside. It seemed whatever she did or said, it would never be right to Lieutenant Harris Lipton.

  Chapter Four

  Son of a bitch.

  The woman knew how to get on his nerves, under his skin and chafe him the wrong
way, just like his cast.

  Had she seriously suggested that she needed to protect him? Even a cracked skull couldn’t keep him from seeing to his own personal safety. Unlike Jenna, who took off with a madman on the loose in order to rescue a damn bird with a crippled leg and wing, he took safety seriously.

  He inhaled deeply but only caught a whiff of smoke from the pancakes she claimed weren’t burned.

  When he turned back to the computer screen, he let loose another grunt of annoyance. He’d gone through all the intel sent to him, and he’d even done hours of digging on his own, going so far as to run background checks on all the park personnel. All checked out, and until his captain gave him another order, he had nothing to do with his time.

  Staring at these four cabin walls wasn’t doing him any favors, and the team left without him to comb the mountains for more explosives.

  Hell, he was even jealous that Jenna could leave and hunt for a poacher. That thought led to several minutes of grinding his teeth over the idea of her facing down danger without the proper training or regard for her safety.

  And why the hell did she call herself Moon Shadow, anyhow?

  With too much energy and nowhere to exert it, he hopped on one foot away from the desk and settled on the floor. After a hundred-fifty sit-ups, he flipped over and did a hundred pushups, half of them one-armed to compensate for not being on his toes on his injured leg and resting on his knee instead.

  Barely winded, he grabbed his crutches and stabilized them under his arms. Since he couldn’t see through the cardboard and duct-taped front windows, he moved to gaze out another window—in the room where Jenna had spent the night.

  As soon as he entered the space, he saw the neatly made bed and at the foot, his folded shirt. His gut clenched at the sight. Had she worn it…slept in her clothes…or naked?

  An uneasy breath left his lungs, and he stumped to the window to peer out. The small, high window offered a piss-poor view of the back of the cabin, with only a few bleak tree trunks in sight.

  He turned from the window, thought about grabbing his shirt but in the end left it there, for what reason he didn’t know. Jenna wouldn’t be staying the night here again.

  At the front door, he cautiously opened it, saw nothing and no one, and breathed in the scent of pine and sap. Hard to believe he’d injured himself less than twenty-four hours before. He’d lived through some long motherfucking days, but the previous one might have won a prize.

  Unless this one proved worse. It was barely seven in the morning and he was already bored.

  He slammed the door shut so hard the birds quit singing, and he moved to drop into the chair next to the fireplace. For a moment, he stared at the cold ashes and decided to start a fire. Unable to crouch with his cast, he knelt on the floor and used a sharp knife from his pocket to shave off curls of wood for kindling. After he had small orange flames licking at the wood, he fed sticks of wood into the fire.

  With some warmth radiating from the wood, he dragged the chair away a foot or so and sat glaring at the flames.

  His entire life had become one big, unending mission, and being forced to sit with only his own thoughts became torture. Since the day he left the foster care system at seventeen, he’d been working to stay alive, first on the streets of Chicago where he grew up. Staying alive on the rough streets took smarts, and he managed to survive until the age of eighteen when he joined the Marines.

  The Marines was a vacation after living on the streets. He didn’t need to wonder where his next meal would come from, and three squares and a place to lay his head at night where nobody would fuck with him, steal the few possessions he had in a backpack or try to slit his throat, meant he could focus on new goals.

  To be the biggest, baddest, toughest motherfucking Marine the Corps had ever seen.

  A few tours overseas fed his adrenaline-junkie soul. Disarming bombs too. After that, he was recruited to Operation Freedom Flag, a division of Homeland Security, and his attention turned to neutralizing threats on US soil.

  In the few months since Xtreme Ops had been formed, every chance he got, Lipton took off to explore the harsh terrain, pushing himself on climbing expeditions and then the hike in Denali that put him out of commission.

  Sitting here brooding over all this made him realize that he hadn’t relaxed in his entire life. And he didn’t know how to fucking do it.

  Or how he’d survive sitting in this chair staring at the fire like an old man.

  He scraped his fingers through his hair and glared at the flames flickering over the side of a log, blackening it to char. His soul was as black, tainted by his abusive father in childhood and countless foster families who called him dumb or worthless. He didn’t give trust easy, and the men he served with were the closest thing he could call family.

  Looking at his duffel, he considered unpacking everything and re-packing it in a more efficient way and abandoned the idea. He couldn’t improve the way his gear was packed.

  He pulled out his knife and opened the blade, turning it to catch the light to see if the edge dulled by shaving off wood. He picked up a stick no bigger around than a half dollar and tested the blade on the bark. Shaving off the birch proved easy with the sharp edge. He shaved more and more.

  Pretty soon he turned the wood around, taking small chunks away to form a shape. So this was what the next six to eight weeks had been reduced to—sitting around whittling like an old man.

  He produced a crude-looking bear that stood about six inches high. Knowing that he could do better, he grabbed another stick of wood and created another bear, this one with not only a better shape but a bit of life to its expression and some lines for fur. He set that up on the floor by his chair and made a pair of squirrels. After studying them, he figured they’d better have a nut to fight over and carved a little walnut to set between them.

  Pretty soon he had five animals, which he carried over and lined up on his desk. Standing back, he examined them.

  Both bears’ ears were lopsided and could use work. He could do better.

  The cabin door opened, and he automatically reached to his spine for his weapon. A curly head popped around the frame, and he dropped his hand to his side.

  “Hi.” Jenna entered the cabin and closed the door behind her. In her hand, she held the straps of a fabric bag, and she appeared to have changed clothes at some point. Her uniform was the same, but she’d swapped the green thermal for a purple one.

  His gaze shot to her curly hair. For a moment, he thought she’d deconstructed that small braid she wore, but she tilted her head and the light caught a glint of gold among the loose natural curls.

  When their gazes met, he also noted a pink flush to her cheeks, probably put there by spending most of her day outdoors.

  She flicked her eyes away and gasped. “Oh my God!”

  His brows shot up. “What?”

  “What are those!” She rushed a few steps to the desk and stared at the wooden animals he’d spent the morning—and possibly the afternoon too—carving.

  She shot a look at him. “Where did you get these? Out of your bag?”

  His brow crinkled. “I made them.”

  “Made them? When?”

  “Today.” Up close, he realized she had ash in her hair and smelled like woodsmoke. Without seeming obvious, he inhaled more of her scent.

  She bent over the carvings and sliced a glance his way. “Can I pick them up?”

  “Feel free.” They were just crudely fashioned bits of wood. Why was she making such a big deal out of them?

  He watched as she drew the first bear into her hand. Head bent and curls falling forward, she studied the bear while turning it over and over in her hand. She placed it back on the desk and reached for the second, doing the same with it. When she spotted the little tail he’d attempted to give life to, she pressed a fingertip to it.

  The pair of squirrels came next, the walnut and finally, his half-assed attempt at the bird she’d rescued the day befor
e.

  “These are amazing.” When she turned to him with wide eyes, he felt as if she’d stroked a hand over him. Her eyes had an I-just-saw-a-cute-puppy-dog expression, the depths glowing.

  He realized with a stunned shock…that he was seeing her happiness for the first time.

  And it was a fucking jolt to the soul.

  To escape the insane new adrenaline rush, he stumped to the chair and picked up the piece he’d just finished before she came in. He tossed it into the box of firewood and pocketed his knife.

  Jenna rushed forward and plucked the carving from the box. She cried out and whipped toward him. “You weren’t going to burn this, were you?”

  “It’s just a carving.”

  “Just a… Oh my God. You did all these today?” With the tiny otter in her hand, she waved toward the desk and the other carvings.

  “Nothin’ better to do around here.”

  “You could sell these, you know.”

  He met her stare. “Why would I do that?”

  “Money?”

  He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Got enough of that.”

  “Other people don’t.” She bent her head over the otter, running her fingertip along the rounded furry head and down to the haired paws.

  With a wrench of his heart, he wondered if she referred to herself.

  She raised her head. “You could help people by selling these and buying things they need such as warm socks and jackets.”

  He swallowed hard, some of his worry for Jenna trickling away. “If you know someone who will buy them, you’re more than welcome to do that.”

  She turned the otter over in her hand again. “Oh! I forgot I brought you something.”

  Why did his guts clench as he watched her cross the room to where she’d set the cloth bag down by the desk? She returned and stopped before him. With a smile stretching her red lips, she reached into the bag and pulled out a plant.

  He stared at her. “This is for me?” He didn’t know whether to be irritated or touched. First of all, most men didn’t give a damn about plants. Second, why was she bringing him gifts?

  “It’s a get-well plant.” She held the small clay pot out to him, and he stared at the spiked plant, wondering what the fuck to do with such a thing.