Page 7 of Under the Radar
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Commander Mac Mackenzie slid his thigh over an empty, red leather barstool and beckoned Julianna, the bartender, with a crook of his finger.
“Hi, Mac, you want the usual?” She spoke perfect English, draped in a silky Russian accent.
“Yes, that’s fine. Thanks.” He scanned the thinning crowd and returned his gaze to the beauty in front of him.
“One bourbon on the rocks, coming right up.” She lifted a rocks glass and gave him a sexy smile. “You’re rarely in here this late. You need company to fall asleep tonight?” She set the drink on a napkin in front of him and leaned against the bar with her ample cleavage in full view. “I’m off duty in a half hour. I could make you tired.” She reached across and traced his forearm with a lavender fingernail.
“You’re a temptress, Julianna. I’ll keep your offer in mind.” He winked as she left to wait on a new couple at the bar and took a sip of his drink.
Who am I kidding?
He wouldn’t take Julianna up on her offer. His stomach had been in a square knot for weeks over another woman. But she hadn’t answered any of his calls or texts since their explosive one night together. The inimitable, high-heeled, saucy Mo Reardon could heat his sheets any time she wanted.
Mac had gone to sleep hours ago hoping for a solid eight of restful oblivion and had another nightmare, waking with a shout and in a cold sweat. In his dream, his teammate Buzz pulled on his shirt, writhing from the three bullets he’d taken and screaming in pain. They both worked for a privately funded rescue firm called Sanctuary, Inc. During the past three years, Sanctuary had worked tirelessly to dismantle a large human trafficking ring taking advantage of undocumented immigrants. That grisly night in early May had left two of his teammates severely wounded, and their unit had disbanded for the summer while the injured recuperated.
At thirty-one, Mac specialized in both life and death. He’d started out as a military medic but ended up as one of their best snipers. He’d served three tours in Iraq and handled the worst triage combat cases. He’d lost a few good people. Each time, his heart seized with angst as he’d watched the light dim in their eyes. But he’d saved hundreds, and that is where his focus remained.
Until five weeks ago.
That’s when the nightmares began, and he started looking over his shoulder for an elusive enemy his mind insisted was present.
One medical doctor called it post-traumatic stress, and although Mac had seen it in dozens of active military members overseas, he’d not been personally acquainted with the SOB before now. His version of the illness included nightmares, insomnia, and a hyper-alertness to possible danger. In short, he no longer trusted his gut intuition. And that made him damn uncomfortable when making split-second decisions.
The only night he’d slept solid was the one he’d spent with Mo. When her fingers ran through his hair, her healing touch drove the nightmares to a distant corner where Buzz’s screams couldn’t claw at his psyche and Ethan’s bullet holes didn’t spurt blood in his face.
Maybe the shrink he’d seen was right. Perhaps Mac had thrived in high pressure situations for too long and it was time to take it easy for a while. Find a steady girl, maybe settle down. But he sure as hell couldn’t offer this weakened version of himself to anyone.
His wandering thoughts slammed to a halt. Why hadn’t Mo answered his texts or calls? He’d even contacted a private investigator and asked for a wellness check on her two weeks ago. The report he’d received said she was working, used her gym membership religiously, and enjoyed dinner with a coworker one night. End of story. She was fine.
Julianna’s voice interrupted. “You want another drink?”
“No. Thanks, Julianna.” Mac downed the final sip and laid a big tip on the bar.
He desperately needed sleep. With any luck, the bourbon would do the trick, because Mo Reardon didn’t seem interested in helping him sleep any time soon.