Negotiations (Close Contact Book 2) by Megan Mitcham

Negotiations
    P aige clutched a fistful of Abercrombie-style button-down and pivoted.
    The college boy, who smelled of cheap whiskey, completed his decent headfirst to the concrete without taking her along for the ride.
    Bobbing around his friends, who all looked as cute and just as wasted, she continued winding through the crowd. While most around her craned their necks toward the sky, mouths agape at the colorful spectacle of friendly little bombs, she kept her target in view. The Fourth of July crush of one million warm, Detroit bodies wasn’t enough to deter her lust for vengeance. It had been twenty-four hours since she’d been royally fucked and reaped no pleasure from the experience. Tonight, she would get release.
    The security guard working the door of the City-County Building nodded at Paige’s badge, and she stomped through the lobby. She took the elevator to the top floor, walked down a corridor full of cubicle-sized offices, and saw the door labeled ROOF ACCESS in the distance. After the echo of two ground-eating strides in its direction, the door swung wide with a metal smack. Two Special Response Team members in full tactical gear strode into the hallway.
    Black balaclavas obscured their faces. Kevlar and weaponry embellished their muscle bound bodies. At the sight of the blacked-out commandos, adrenaline shot through her veins, a high capacity round from a big-girl gun. All thoughts of fatigue from lack of sleep over the past forty-eight hours or the hour and a half it took warring through the crowd to get here vanished.
    Shoulders back and chin up, she stopped directly in front of the two men.
    “Donovan Wolfe?” Her voice conveyed too much.
    Lock it down, Cline.
    Two sets of eyes bloated. Double head shakes followed. The tallest of the two hitched a thumb toward the access door.
    Paige inclined her head in a small gesture of thanks, and pushed past them.
    One of the men cleared his throat.
    “Sergeant Cline?”
    “Yes?” Her boots slowed, but this close Paige couldn’t stop or even look back.
    “Should we call an ambulance?”
    “No.” The corners of her mouth turned up. “Call the medical examiner.”
    Behind her the metal door slammed shut, cutting off the men’s oohs and chuckles.
    Outside the cover of the building, an otherworldliness of the rooftop caught Paige by surprise. Height and whipping wind muted the wail of sirens and honking horns. A violent gust stole her breath and slapped a lock of blonde hair across her face. On any other night, she could lose herself up here. Tonight she couldn’t allow distractions. She pulled in a lungful of air and focused.
    Two more SRT members occupied the tar-topped roof. One big mother stood, legs braced apart, leaning loosely against the building’s wide ledge where he studied the ground below through the scope of his SR-90. The other crouched his more meager, yet respectable frame on the sleek black epoxy, stowing his gear.
    Coordination between the negotiator and the SRT funneled through the commander. So Paige had never met the elite leader of the Special Response Team she sought. Both men’s faces were hidden from view, yet she knew which of the two bore the name Wolfe. She’d heard through the department the former Special Forces officer always went the extra mile for his country. Here he was again, working harder than his men, leading by example.
    Wasn’t he special.
    Paige ignored the hint of respect that bubbled up and tried to hate him for it. Quickly, her rage came back in the form of a roar in the night.
    “Donovan Wolfe!”
    Her voice rang in her own ears, but the behemoth didn’t look up, didn’t shift in the slightest. For a split second she wondered if the wind carried off her demand before it could make it to his ears. His buddy’s eyes met hers in a flash before they returned to his gear and he packed the last of it in a flurry of movement.
    Wolfe had heard and didn’t care.
    Buddy stood, nodded at her and made for the door,