He’s in the mood for a sandwich and a good time… but gets a whole lot more than he bargained for.
Tripp Shaughnessey is a trip: funny and fun-loving, ridiculously sarcastic, and appreciative of every woman he meets. But it’s Glory Brighton, the owner of his favorite sandwich shop, who gets him hot and bothered. Their ongoing back-and-forth has been leading to a kiss to end all kisses in her supply room. And that’s where they are when all hell breaks loose.
Glory’s history includes some men connected to Spectra IT. They’re convinced she’s hiding vital intel in her place. With the shop under siege and the customers held at gunpoint, Tripp’s hand is forced. Breaking the Smithson Group’s rules, he reveals that he’s no simple engineer, but a hardcore covert operative, whose easy-going veneer is about to be stripped away.
“The star of the show is the double-entendre-loaded repartee between Tripp and Glory—smokin’! Hottest dialogue I’ve ever read!” — Melanie S.
“Kent combines James Bond-like characters with a realistic plot that has descriptive and detailed scenes to provide readers with plenty of fast-paced action.” — RT Book Reviews
SG-5’s Manhattan ops center, never a hot bed of mind-blowing excitement in and of itself, was duller these days than a plastic knife working at a stick of cold butter.
It was driving Tripp Shaughnessey out of his ever-loving gourd.
He understood the laid-back, uneventful, mellow-as-molasses mood; really, he did. But without something to do besides sitting and staring zombie-eyed at static surveillance feeds, he was at a huge risk for losing the rest of his mind.
The Smithson Group—Christian Bane specifically—had recently pulled the plug and sent Peter Deacon, the sleazy frontman for the international crime syndicate Spectra IT, swirling down one nasty drain.
That only left, oh, another umpty dozen members of the organization to annihilate.
There were days it seemed nothing short of an apocalyptic, second-coming, end-of-world scenario would make a dent in the work the SG-5 team had remaining to do.
In the meantime, Tripp’s eyes and ass needed a break. Even a highly trained Smithson Group operative could only sit and stare for so long without giving in to distraction.
He pushed up from a squat to his feet, righted his chair, capped the tube of bearing grease he’d brought with him this morning, and tossed it to his desk.
He twirled the chair this way, twirled it that, sat and drew his knees to his chest.
Bracing the balls of his feet against the edge of his desktop, he shoved. The chair sailed into the center of the ops center’s huge horseshoe-shaped workstation and beyond.
He was rolling, rolling, rolling . . . slowing, slowing, slowing . . .
He glanced to his right where Christian sat holding headphones to one ear, shaking his head.
He glanced to his left where Kelly John Beach faced him, arms crossed, brow arched.
“What the hell did I tell you? Inline skate wheels, you maroon. Otherwise, forget it. You can’t race Hot Wheels on a NASCAR track.”
Tripp shrugged, leaned back in his chair, legs extended, ankles crossed. It was all good. He had it under control.
Laced hands behind his head, he stared up into the cavernous darkness of the twenty-fourth floor’s ceiling that was nothing but a web of exposed duct work.
“Thought I’d give the bearing grease a try before changing out the wheels. Picked the stuff up at a skate shop down in Philly last week.”
His comment was met with snorting in stereo, and Kelly John’s, “Waste of money.”
Tripp rolled his eyes. “Now, how can you say that when I bested my record by ten feet at least?”
“Good to see you’re keeping yourself busy,” Christian said without looking up.
K.J., on the other hand, met Tripp’s gaze straight on. “Yeah, don’t you have some work to do?”
“Nag, nag, nag.” Yes, he had work to do. Or he would as soon as the Spectra IT agent he had on his scope made a noticeable move.