Page 26 of Deep Cover

“It’s open.” Rivers sounded as miserable as he felt.

Rorke let himself in and dropped into a chair by the desk. Seamus Rorke was a puzzle to anyone who met him. People assumed from his name that he had Celtic roots, but his father was Scottish and his mother Latina. With his brown skin and dark eyes, he wasn’t the Seamus anybody pictured.

Rorke stared at Rivers for about two seconds before a grin spread across his face. “So.”

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything yet.”

Rivers sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face, aware that half an hour ago he was running his hands all over Caryssa’s slick, silky skin instead of his own beard stubble.

Rorke didn’t stop grinning. “How are things going with the woman you jilted?”

He straightened a little. “I think I’m making progress with her. Breaking down some walls.”

“Oh, we all heard you breaking down some walls.” His grin stretched wider and he looked far too pleased with his own joke.

Rivers closed his eyes, hunching his shoulders. “Fuck. You could hear?”

“Brother.” He spread his hands, looking even more delighted. “This place is basically an echo chamber. Concrete and tile everywhere. You want privacy, you don’t break down walls three doors down from the guy with the best hearing on this team.”

“Jesus Christ.” Rivers dropped his head into his hands, laughing despite himself.

“Anyway.” Rorke stood and stretched before heading for the door. “Try to get some sleep. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you’re about to lie there for three hours overthinking everything.” He paused at the door. “I better not hear you pacing the halls till sunrise.”

He was gone before Rivers could argue. No point when Rorke was completely right.

He lasted three seconds after the door shut before restless energy crawled under his skin and pulsed in his veins. Sleep wasn’t happening—not with his head this full.

He pulled on a shirt and went looking for Rorke again. He found him partway down the hallway, just leaning against the wall, waiting for him.

Rivers continued past him. “Let’s go blow off some steam.”

He arched a brow. “Thought you already did that.”

Rivers groaned and heard Rorke’s boots tapping faster behind him to catch up. Thankfully, his buddy let the subject drop and fell into step beside him.

They took the junction toward the shooting range, following one of the original tunnels beneath the old Montclair ski resort the base was buried beneath.

As with other Blackout bases, Sierra’s had its share of history—tax evasion, drug raids, other secrets even the team hadn’t uncovered. Rivers didn’t give a damn about any of it right now.

He needed a target, a loaded weapon, and enough rounds to get his head out of the shower room and back in the game.

Two of the guys were already down there, Younger and O, both with ear protection around their necks as they reloaded at the bench.

O looked up when they walked in and grinned as if Christmas had come early. Younger threw Rivers a glower.

“We needed target practice to drown out the noise.” O didn’t hold back.

Younger checked his weapon without glancing up. “Too bad the universe didn’t see fit to drop a hot chick from our pasts into our laps.” He shook his head mournfully, amusement flashing in his eyes. “Rough life you’ve got, Rivers. Shame there’s no future in it.”

Rivers edged up to the bench as if squaring up for a fight.

Younger snorted. “What? You think the FBI’s gonna open a satellite field office in one of our tunnels? Convenient commute, I’ll give you that.”