“So ask already,” Paulson grumbled.
The major quirked an eyebrow. Apparently, they were going to do this in the rain. He gave a mental shrug and crossed his arms.
“I’m looking for someone. It’ll be someone in your unit or close to it. They may have some sort of European Muslim background. They won’t necessarily advertise that, but it would have showed up on a background check. Could be male or female. Probably quiet, someone you wouldn’t look at twice.”
Paulson stiffened. “Now listen here, fuckface…”
“I’m not saying the leak is your fault,” he interrupted. “I’m saying it’s there. More than one, actually, but the leak from your team is causing the most damage. And I’m saying you can help me find it, or I can go over your head.”
Paulson stewed for nearly a full minute before grinding out, “No one on my team meets that kind of criteria. They’re all homegrown Americans.”
Yeah, so was the Unabomber. “It could be a family member. Sibling, spouse, stepparent. Just someone that might get bits and pieces of information. It might seem like harmless information. But it’s enough.” The major studied Paulson’s face, wondering how far he’d go to protect his team. “Remember, LT, homegrown Americans can be terrorists too. I’ve been tracing these leaks for three years. And it’s led me here. Look closely at your team. The field team, logistics, comms, everyone and their dog. Invite them over for a barbecue, meet the family. I’ll scout from a distance. Make it next weekend, and make sure everyone comes. Because I am absolutely certain that our rat is in your nest.” He eyed Paulson for long, silent moments before threatening softly, “If you don’t help me on this, I’ll have you court martialed before you can even blink.” He wouldn’t if he could help it, but the major never made a threat he wasn’t prepared to follow through on. Paulson was a damn fine SEAL, even if he was confined to a desk now.
Satisfied with the sunned look on Paulson’s face, the major turned and walked away. The rain continued, pelting down on his shoulders and head as lightning flashed in the distance. As he closed the car door a bright bolt of lightning lit the sky and he caught a glimpse of a wide-eyed, white-faced woman in the window next door.
The redhead.
The major watched for a few moments before starting the car and backing out of the driveway. He didn’t have time for a ginger.
Chapter 2
Paulson moved quickly, and the impromptu get-together was set up for the following weekend just as the major had specified. Only one original SEAL member had declined invitation, and he’d already been cleared. His name was Michael Davis, and he’d lost a leg due to the leak. The major had ruled him out already, and even gotten a tiny bit of intel from Chief Davis while he was in the psychiatric ward at Bethesda. But it could make things complicated if Chief Davis actually showed up because of their brief interview. The chances of being recognized were slim, since his appearance changed as often as the weather when he wasn’t maintaining a cover. Still…these were SEALs. It didn’t hurt to be careful.
The major eyed himself in the mirror of his hotel bathroom. It wasn’t often he actually looked at his face and saw the man he once was. He rolled his eyes. Hell, it wasn’t often he saw his own face at all. The major had so many different faces that his own was almost foreign to him.
He liked to examine the face that was a stranger to him once in a while though. Sometimes he just needed to remind himself that he was the same man that had joined Army Intelligence straight out of college; the soldier that had hugged his mother before he left for Basic; the brother that had bloodied his knuckles on some asshole’s face when he came home on leave to find his sister pregnant. That man was in there somewhere, and every now and then the major needed to remember that.
A stranger’s face stared back at him from the mirror. His current hair color was mostly black—courtesy of more than eighteen months posing as a Pakistani native—though some lighter brown and gray roots were beginning to show again. The angles of his face were too sharp, too severe, and it lent him a villainous look. In his younger years, women had called him “rugged,” but the major wasn’t sure that applied any more. Chocolate-brown eyes so dark they were almost black stared back at him blankly. The blank look was so much a part of who the major was that it was difficult to remember what he looked like with a smile. He tried to smile, just out of curiosity, and then winced. That had quite possibly been the worst smile on the face of the earth. His gaze wandered to the stubble on his chin, then lower to his shoulders. He jerked his eyes back up quickly before he could see any lower. He couldn’t look at his own body anymore. He’d once had a physique worthy of being spread across billboards, but years of this life had made the major look more like something out of a horror movie: scars, bullet holes, knife slices, and burns covered him from his shoulders nearly to his ankles. The major didn’t look. He couldn’t stand it anymore. His face remained unscarred only because the US Government was willing to pay for plastic surgery as long as it suited their needs. He’d let them hide the scars, but his angular face was too easy to disguise temporarily to warrant changing it with surgery.
With a deep sigh he picked up his hair trimmer and trimmed his hair to a tall buzz. He brushed the stray hairs away and reached for the hair coloring kit he’d purchased and proceeded to dye his hair and eyebrows. While it was setting, he carefully pushed moistened cotton balls into his cheeks to give them a fullness he didn’t normally have, and glued on the flesh colored silicon nose and chin that would complete the transformation. They were tiny pieces of silicon, meant to change the shape instead of covering his nose and chin completely. It never failed to amaze the major how different someone could look simply because of two one-inch pieces of plastic.
He plugged contacts in his eyes to turn them hazel and blinked against the burn. He hated the damn things, but sometimes a change in eye color was necessary.
After several more minutes, the major checked a strand of his hair to make certain the bleach had worked and turned to take a shower before leaving. The smell of hair bleach was a scent that clung, and he had to wash it off before he showed this new identity to anyone. This was a short-term persona, and didn’t take much work. He was creating it just to find the leak. Hopefully he could do it at the barbecue and be done with this mission. If the leak showed up, the major would spot them. He just had to ensure he wasn’t spotted himself.
The major didn’t like to be recognized by anyone, and it chapped his ass that Paulson might very well see through him. Hell, if any of the other SEALs had ever seen his face, his disguises and transformations would probably be useless. SEALs were great to call in when you needed something done and done right. But they were a pain in the ass when you actually had to deal with them face-to-face. They were observant and intelligent fuckers, and the major avoided them whenever possible.
He showered quickly, never one to sacrifice efficiency for enjoyment or comfort. He checked the dye job in the mirror. The bleach had worked for the most part. His hair was a dark shade of blond, but had a few darker streaks that hadn’t bleached out completely. His eyebrows had lightened to a medium shade of brown that made it somewhat obvious his hair was dyed. That was fine. It fit the character.
The major dressed in the button-up shirt, khaki slacks, and sandals he’d bought specifically for this identity and returned to the mirror. Staring back at him now was an All-American, beach-loving, barbecue-crashing, next-door neighbor named Rick Jones.
Rick Jones was recently divorced, paid his bills on time, and worked construction. He liked to go deep-sea fishing, had surfed when he was younger, and had a real problem with authority. But he was a good guy, a friendly guy, and even thought of himself as a ladies’ man.
Abandoning the mirror, he unzipped the only bag he ever took anywhere. It was a small black shaving bag and had the perfect spots for hiding the few necessities that weren’t easily purchased. He gently cut the threads away from the lining and pulled out a small stack of ID cards. He si
fted through them until he found the right one. Then Rick replaced the cards, pulled the sewing kit out of the main compartment, and carefully sewed the lining closed once more.
* * * *
Rebecca added a healthy dash of rum to the plastic cup of Coke she was carrying, considered it, and then added a little more. Dillan was here, with the blonde tramp trailing along behind him. Once upon a time Rebecca had been swept away by Dillan’s charm and masculinity and had pushed aside her dislike for men in a uniform long enough to marry him. It had lasted less than a year.
Rebecca glared at the cheating bastard and his slut. She took a gulp of her drink and grimaced. Shit, that’s strong. She took a smaller sip and tried to set the blonde bimbo on fire with her eyes. It didn’t work, which was a damn shame.
Rebecca watched as Dillan loaded his plate down with ribs, a hamburger, two hotdogs, and chicken. Bimbo Barbie got half a chicken breast and a tomato slice. Rebecca rolled her eyes. Skinny tramp. Rebecca didn’t carry a torch for Dillan. Far from it, actually. But he’d lied to her, deceived her, and betrayed her. That put him and his bimbo at the very top of her shit list. Rebecca very seldom admitted to herself that the fact Dillan had stayed with the home-wrecker longer than they’d been married hurt more than her divorce had.
Bimbo Barbie glanced at Rebecca over her shoulder and Rebecca tensed. The tramp gave a smug smile and turned back to rub her fake breasts against Dillan’s arm. Rebecca smiled maliciously at her back. You’re welcome to him, slut.
Rebecca noticed Chris then, glancing back and forth several times between her and the tramp. Chris shook his head at Rebecca and she grinned and flipped him off. His eyes narrowed and he started her way, stalking toward her with a determined look on his face.
“I won’t kill them here, I promise.” Rebecca smiled up at him when he reached her side.
Chris sighed, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t start anything. You know I’d do something about it if I could. But he’s our comms guy. Even if he is a desk jockey, I had to invite him.”
His eyes opened again and Chris tried to stare her down. Rebecca stared right back. Chris was a teddy bear and she knew it. He didn’t scare her. “There’s nothing you could do anyway. Besides, I’m not here to see him. I’m here because it’s kind of hard to share a backyard with someone and not show up when they’re having a cookout.”
Chris smiled sheepishly at her, and Rebecca struggled to maintain her fake hostility. He made it difficult though, especially since she’d seen the way he brought Callie out of her shell. She loved him for that, even if he was a Uniform.
“I couldn’t exactly do it at my apartment. There’s not a yard there.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes at him. “Whatever. You could have done it on base.”
Chris grinned at her, a full-fledged, cheerful grin and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “But then you wouldn’t have come to light up the day.”
She pushed at him, trying not to laugh. “Yeah, rainbows and unicorns are just flying out of my ass.” She sipped her toxic drink slowly.
Chris gestured at her plastic cup of poison. “You want something a little stronger?”
Rebecca looked down at her cup and smiled mockingly. “If this gets any stronger, it’ll eat through the cup,” she responded in a dry voice.
Chris’s eyebrow quirked up and he said, “Hard stuff, huh? Whatcha got?” He leaned over and craned his neck to get a better view of the liquored-down Coke in her cup.
Rebecca gave a sneaky look around and pulled the flask from her back pocket. She handed it to him and watched as he unscrewed the cap and took a whiff.
“Rum?” At her nod Chris turned it up and took a swig. “Whew,” he said, shaking his head. “Good stuff.”
“Yup.” She took the flask from him and stuffed it back in her rear pocket.
He looked at her with a frown. “You don’t normally drink the hard stuff.”
“Seeing Dillan and White Trash Barbie is enough to drive anyone to drink.” She sipped her Coke—well, there was Coke in it—and looked around at the other guests.
Her backyard was overflowing with Uniforms and their families. No one was actually wearing the uniform, but that’s how Rebecca thought of them. She could spot a Uniform from a mile away, even in civilian clothes. They were all the same: arrogant, manipulative, prideful bastards that felt they answered to no one outside of the military.
She hated them, all of them. Well, she amended, Chris was okay. He was all of those things, but he was basically harmless. Besides, he’d sort of saved her life.
She and Callie had stayed too late shopping one day and were attacked on the way to their car. Rebecca had been shot and Callie had been beaten unconscious. Before she’d been beaten, Callie had been on the phone with Chris, who told her to put pressure on Rebecca’s gunshot. She’d lost her favorite Vera Bradley purse because of it, but Rebecca considered it a pretty fair trade for her life.
Rebecca’s wandering gaze stopped suddenly when she spotted someone vaguely out of place. It was nothing she could put her finger on, but he was just…different. He may have been a Uniform at one time, but he wasn’t anymore, that much was clear. His dark blond hair was buzzed, but still a little too long for the military. He was fashionably sloppy; his shirt untucked and his pants baggy. He stood vaguely outside the group; close enough to be part of it, but far enough away to be left alone. Rebecca nudged Chris in the side and said, “Who’s that? I don’t recognize him.”
Chris followed her gaze and frowned. “No idea. He looks familiar though. Party crasher, maybe?”
“I don’t know him,” she murmured, looking around for someone he could have come with.
“Motherfucker!” Chris cursed softly beside her, his body suddenly tense. Rebecca jerked her gaze up to him then back at the mystery man.
“Know him, after all, huh?”
“Yeah. Excuse me.” He stalked off toward the stranger, his fists clenched by his sides.
Rebecca watched in confusion for a moment, and then she shrugged and went to find Callie.
* * * *
“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve showing up here.” Chris struggled to keep himself from bashing the guy’s face in. He hadn’t recognized him at first, the change in appearance dramatic but so understated that it was almost miraculous. The dickhead frowned at him and looked around, scared.
“I…I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought it would be okay. I just wanted to introduce myself.”
“You introduced yourself well enough last week. Now get the fuck out.” Chris seethed and gritted his teeth against the flashbacks this man’s presence brought forth.
“Uh…” The guy looked around like he was lost. “I just moved in three days ago.” He turned and pointed to the duplex across the street. “Right there.” The jackass stuck his hand out and had the nerve to say, “Rick Jones. I’m your new neighbor.”
Chris lost it, his temper snapping like a toothpick beneath a bulldozer. “The fuck you are,” he ground out, picking the weasel up by the front of his shirt and throwing him to the ground.
Before he could throw the first punch, he was lifted off the man and his arms were dragged roughly behind his back.
“Calm down, LT!” voices shouted around him, and he saw through a red haze as someone pulled the Black Ops guy to his feet.
The handcuffs closed around his wrists, the raw, stinging ache growing worse as they clicked…
Chris struggled against the arms holding him, trying to dispel the memory. This fucking bastard brought it back, made it fresh again, and he needed his team to help him, not hold him.
Chris fought to break free and probably would have succeeded if any other group of men had been restraining him. Their voices rang out as they shouted in an attempt to calm him, but he was helpless to stop it.
Suddenly Chris heard another voice, this one achingly familiar and so precious to him that he stilled immediately. His breath sawed in and out of his
lungs and his eyes closed when Callie’s cool fingers touched his shoulder.
Callie brushed the hands away that held him and the instant he was free, Chris crushed her to him and clenched his hands in the fabric of her shirt.
She grounded him, made him whole again. After a few minutes Chris became aware of Callie’s hands stroking the back of his neck. She whispered softly in his ear, telling him she loved him over and over until he was able to relax his grip.
Chris opened his eyes and looked up to see his team around him, watching the interaction in disbelief and surprise.
“Sir? Are you all right?” Lt. Martinez asked hesitantly.
Chris closed his eyes again for a moment, then pulled away from Callie and practically ran inside.
Chapter 3
Rick peeled the silicon nose and chin from his face and carefully placed them in the tiny case. He pulled the contacts out of his eyes and blinked in relief as his eyes adjusted. He’d have to put it all back on if anyone knocked at the door, but it was after midnight and he wasn’t likely to have any visitors. He shed Rick Jones like a cheap jacket and assumed his own identity—if it could be called that—once more.
The fucking barbecue had been a T-total disaster. Paulson had recognized him almost immediately and hadn’t been fooled by his persona. Everyone else had believed it, though, and that would only make it worse for Paulson. They’d think he was paranoid and he’d feel isolated, which wasn’t very conducive to the major’s investigation.
The major washed his face and moved into the bedroom of the duplex he’d rented. It had been sheer luck that the one across the street had been available. It had cost nearly three grand to rent it and move in so quickly, but the price was negligible; his expenses were covered in full. Off the books of course.
Since the previous tenants had left blinds in the back bedroom, he’d made that his work station and sleeping area. A single laptop was all that was required for him to work, and he’d purchased an air mattress to sleep on. That was all he needed, after all. Rick wouldn’t need to be here long, and the major could move on.
Dance With Me Page 2