by Donna Young
“It isn’t your operation, either.” Jim’s eyes narrowed. “Are we clear?”
“Fine.” Lewis backed down, more out of fear than accord, Jim suspected.
“How much farther?”
“It’s just over the next hill,” Jim replied. “The general is waiting for you at camp to discuss the final plans.”
They crested the dune and Lewis let out a long whistle. His eyes moved to an airbus parked at the base of a five-hundred-foot-high rock formation. The plane itself was forty feet high and well over one hundred feet in length, its white body covered in camo clustered netting from tail to nose.
“Well, hello, sexy.” Lewis jumped from the jeep the moment Jim parked.
“Dr. Pitman.” General Trygg approached from a nearby tent, caught the smile on the scientist’s face. “I can see you’re pleased with our efforts.”
“General,” Lewis answered, then slowly shook his head. “I can’t believe you did it. That you pulled it off.”
“It’s been refit to your specifications.” General Trygg stopped, his eyes flickering over the plane. “At great cost to my operation.”
“The payoff will quadruple your investment,” Pitman assured him. “A moving laboratory will be hard to detect once we disperse the CIRCADIAN.”
Trygg glanced at Jim. “Everything go well, Colonel?”
“Yes, sir. The helicopter was on time.”
“Colonel Rayo informed me that Sandra Haddad is not here. I must point out that without her—”
“You worry about the nanites, Lewis,” the general interrupted. “I will take care of Doctor Haddad.”
“I don’t think you understand the importance—”
“Listen to me. I will take care of Doctor Haddad.”
Jim understood the general well. The emotionless features, the toneless response, the hard set of his shoulders, told him Trygg was just shy of losing his temper.
“Let me show you the airbus, Doctor Pitman.” Jim’s eyes caught Trygg’s. “Go ahead of me. I’ll catch up with your bags in a minute.”
Trygg gave a sharp nod. “Good idea, Jim.”
“All right,” Lewis conceded. “I will do my part, and rely on you to do yours.”
“Thank you, Lewis,” Trygg responded dryly, then watched the doctor head for the plane.
Over the years, Jim had worked with many men and dealt with many personalities. Most, he coped with. But intuition and experience had taught him to quickly identify weaknesses in character. And Lewis Pitman’s backbone would break like a toothpick.
“I don’t trust him,” Jim commented in a low tone. “He’ll cut and run at the first sign of trouble.”
The general clapped him on the shoulder. “He’s already cut and run. Right after I was imprisoned. Remember? A coward doesn’t change. He just moves on.”
“Why ask Lewis Pitman back on this project?”
“Don’t worry,” Trygg reassured him. “I don’t trust the man, but I trust the fact that a coward stays a coward.”
Jim nodded. “Know your enemies. Keep them close.”
Trygg watched Pitman climb into the airplane. “He’ll make an excellent experimental rat.”
“Understood.” Jim had no sympathy for the man. Over the course of the years, he had eradicated many of the same.
“Now—” Trygg’s lips moved into a genuine smile “—I smelled coffee earlier coming from the mess tent. Why don’t I buy you a cup and you can give me a situation report?”
“I have to skip the coffee, sir. We’re missing two more men,” Jim answered, and walked with the general to the tent across their base. “The messengers I sent to get word out on our rewards for Doctor Haddad and McKnight.”
“Where is the good doctor?”
“East of us. Somewhere past Omasto.”
Trygg frowned. “That doesn’t bode well. Tourlay lies farther north. I know those cylinders are there. Or nearby. Otherwise she wouldn’t have booked her flight there.”
“Yes, sir,” the colonel responded. “I’m sending some men out in the helicopter.”
“I’ll show Lewis the laboratory. I want you to monitor your men and then report back when you get done,” Trygg ordered. “We need those cylinders in the next twelve hours.”
“And McKnight? If we take her, should we keep him alive for insurance?”
“No. Keeping McKnight alive is too much of a risk. If it comes to that, it’s best to kill him on sight. We simply find more painful ways of getting Haddad to break.”
Jim’s stomach tightened. Torturing a woman wasn’t in his nature. And it was highly likely, given Sandra Haddad’s personality, she’d die before revealing the location of the cylinders.
Rayo pushed the image of that out of his mind to focus on a question that had been nagging at him for the past few weeks.
“Can I ask where you’ve gotten this intel from, sir?”
“A close friend.”
“In Washington?” Jim pressed.
Trygg laughed, then slapped Jim on the shoulder. But the fingers stayed, dug in just enough to pinch the nerve. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
* * *
“ALL RIGHT, DOC,” Booker demanded. “Tell me exactly where those cylinders are hidden.”
The sun had set an hour earlier. They’d been driving for nearly two hours in unsettled silence. The soft green glow of the dashboard edged the darkness, filling the car with an eerie expectancy.
“They’re in a cave. The landscape might have changed some of my landmarks. It might take a while to find them again,” Sandra explained. “That’s why it’s essential I go with you.”
She dropped her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. “I almost had it, Booker.”
“Had what?”
She opened her eyes. “The answer.” She held up her hand, brought her finger and thumb within a centimeter of each other. “I was this close to figuring out the problem with my formula. I couldn’t walk away from years of research and experiments. This wasn’t about ego or Trygg’s Super Soldier dream. This was about making sick people well.”
She dropped her hand into her lap, tightened the fingers into a fist. “When they confiscated my files, something snapped in me. Something ugly.”
“And you took the cylinders.”
“When I came to my senses, it was too late to return them, and I couldn’t destroy them myself. So I buried them in a cave.”
“It never occurred to you that Trygg discovered your secret?”
She shook her head. “I took them the same day Cain arrested him,” she explained. “There was only one person who could have known. And I thought he was long gone.”
“Lewis Pitman.”
“Yes. He worked closely with me on the experiments.” She stiffened in surprise. “How did you know about Pitman?”
“Let’s just say I’ve had a long time to do my research on the CIRCADIAN project.”
“Including some hands-on research with me,” she reasoned, struggling to keep the sudden surge of humiliation and anger in check.
“What are you talking about, Doc?”
“Our last night together, when I confessed my involvement with the deaths of your men, you already knew about it.”
“I’d known since the trial.”
“Our meeting was no accident then,” she said slowly. “You understood Trygg would come after me if he had the chance.”
“Yes, I figured you might be a target if he ever escaped prison. But I didn’t know about your close relationship with the royals or the fact that our paths would cross often once I started working for Jarek.” Booker sighed. “While our first meeting wasn’t planned, it was inevitable, Doc.”
“And after, when we...” She was unable to go on.
“Slept together?” he supplied. “That had nothing to do with Trygg. Only you and me were in that bed together. No one else.” Booker stopped the SUV in front of a small oasis of brush and rocks. He turned off the motor.
> “You should have told me, Booker.”
“It took you three months to tell me, Doc.” He shifted around until he faced her. His elbow rested on the back of the seat and his fingers came dangerously close to her shoulder and hair.
“But I told you immediately after I found out who you were.”
“By the time I realized you didn’t know, we were heading for more than just a casual relationship. At that point, it didn’t make a difference.”
“It would have made a difference in me,” she countered. “Your knowing might have stopped me from...”
“From what?”
From falling in love with you. “From getting involved with you,” she snapped instead.
“That wasn’t going to happen.” His fingers caught a loop of hair. “Something sparked between us the moment we met.”
She couldn’t deny it. Quamar had introduced them at one of the many balls held at the palace.
The moment they’d touched hands, something rippled through them, crackled the air around them.
“We can’t go back in time, Booker. Too much has happened.” She pulled her head away, not liking how each tug on her hair made her pulse jump. “Let’s just finish this. Then we both can get on with our lives.”
Without warning, the air rushed around them. Booker’s head jerked; his eyes narrowed on the darkness. He hit the lights on the jeep. “Listen!”
The soft whop whop of blades hit the air.
Booker swore. “Helicopter.”
His turned the ignition on, kept the lights off and slammed the gearshift into Drive.
The SUV jerked to life. The tires tore through the sand, sending dirt and dust flying. Booker plowed through brush, then shot over a dune.
The vehicle caught air, hit the bottom of the dune. Sandra screamed. “How did they find us?”
Suddenly, a helicopter rose over the next dune. Its engine eerily silent. Muffled.
Stealth.
Its spotlights glared down on them.
“Stop your vehicle.” The order burst from the helicopter’s loudspeaker. “If you do not stop, we will be forced to fire upon you.”
“Hold on to something!” Booker stomped on the brake, slammed the gearshift into Reverse and hit the accelerator.
They sped backward down the hill, swerving and putting the helicopter temporarily out of firing sight.
Machine guns fired. The bullets ripped across the back window of the SUV. The rear window exploded.
“Can this thing fly?” Sandra glanced back, knowing it would be impossible to outrun the chopper for long.
“No. But it can detonate.” Booker hit a button on the dashboard. A drawer from beneath opened up. Six silver disks lay in a line. “These are magnetic explosives. Each has a thirty-second delayed trigger.”
“This is why you wanted the palace SUV?”
“Yes,” he answered. “There’s enough explosives in each of those to flatten a small house.”
“Then why can’t we just throw them at the bad guys?” she demanded, slinging her medical bag over her shoulder. “Out in the desert with nothing but the clothes on our backs is not my idea of a good time, Booker!”
“It’s better odds than dealing with them.” He pointed at the helicopter once again above them.
Booker stopped the car. “Out! Now!” he ordered.
Sandra shoved the door open and she scrambled out.
He aimed the car toward the belly of the helicopter, threw the car into Drive and stomped on the gas.
Closing on the copter fast, he pressed the triggers on each of the discs, counting off twenty-five seconds in his head. He shoved the door open and jumped.
The explosion hit the night air. The helicopter took the brunt of it in its belly and tail. In a grind of metal it started a death spin.
Booker scrambled to his feet, ignoring the rush of pain in his side. Instead, he searched for Sandra.
A thunderous rumble shook the earth beneath his feet. Booker swore and looked to the horizon.
Horses. Fifty of them clambered over the dunes from all directions. Led by the men on their backs, their swords raised.
“Booker!” Sandra screamed from behind him. He swung around. A horse rose on its hind legs in front of her, its front hooves punching the air mere inches from her head.
Booker scrambled after her. Two men jumped in his path. He punched one in the neck, grabbed the man’s rifle and clubbed the other.
“Stay there!” A man, Al Asheera, pointed his rifle at her with one hand while he tried to control the horse with the other.
Booker stopped, aimed and fired. The man stiffened, then slid dead from the horse.
“Come on!” Booker grabbed her arm, hauled her to her feet.
“Where—”
“Not now!” He dragged her across the sand to the horse.
He grabbed the reins, brought the horse around. “Get on!” he ordered. “In front.”
Men yelled, catching sight of the couple. Gunfire strafed the sand at their feet. Booker bent over, grabbed her foot and hoisted her in the saddle before settling behind her.
“Hey ya!” he ordered, and hit the horse’s ribs with his heels. They shot across the dunes, racing across the desert, letting the darkness swallow them whole.
Chapter Seven
The dark sky softened slowly into the predawn light.
Booker stopped once, taking a few moments to get his bearings and search through the canvas sack attached to the horse’s saddle.
The man had left them nothing more than flat bread and cheese, a few containers of water and rifle ammunition.
Sandra slept against his chest, her eyes closed, her face settled into the curve of his neck.
From the moment he’d found out Trygg had taken her, he lived with fear. Fear he wouldn’t get to her in time. Fear he couldn’t protect her.
Fear that he’d fall in love with her again.
Without thought, Booker’s arm tightened around her.
The wind whipped around them, catching her hair, just enough for a few wisps to tickle his cheek.
Booker tapped the horse’s sides, picking up its gait.
Sandra shifted closer, her curves soft against his thighs, the tight muscles of his stomach.
His body strained against the intimacy, while the echoes of their earlier conversation went through his mind.
She insisted this was only about Trygg. He knew better.
His hand gripped the reins tighter. Anger was easier. If only she hadn’t stolen those cylinders, hadn’t made herself a target...Booker never would have met her.
She sighed, snuggled her backside between his thighs. Booker gritted his teeth.
The desire, the need, had been there from the beginning.
The first time they had talked, had touched.
The first time she’d smiled.
When he’d lost his wife, Booker mourned. Dark days of grief, anger—guilt.
It took falling in love with Sandra for him to understand.
He’d never loved Emily like this.
He’d been attracted to her. He loved her spirit, her craving for excitement. Life was her playground and she was the princess.
Once they were married, he’d expected her to slow down, to settle into the marriage. But when she didn’t, it caused problems. Her flirting. The partying.
Their fighting escalated until, tired of it, Booker stayed away from home more often, not wanting to deal with her tantrums.
If he’d paid more attention to her. If she hadn’t followed him to the base. But he’d been caught up in his military career. Trying to prove something, make something of himself, at the cost of his marriage.
Emily had come looking for him that day. To tell him she was pregnant.
And inhaled the CIRCADIAN.
Sandra’s head shifted back into the hollow of his shoulder, exposing the long line of her neck.
He’d watched Sandra for two years.
The woman who brought Trygg down.
Her habits. He’d bugged her phones, her apartment. She made a move, he followed.
She haunted him. His dreams, his nightmares. Emily’s red hair became a dark, rich black. Her blue eyes darkened to a deep mahogany brown.
Soon Emily’s features blurred into Sandra’s. Stayed Sandra’s.
She burrowed in, her breath warm against his skin. Slowly, without thought, Booker held the reins with one hand and slid his palm over her rib cage, just inches from her breast. He felt adolescent, copping a feel, so he forced his hand to stop.
“Sandra, wake up,” he whispered, hoarse with restraint.
Her eyes blinked open. Widened at the desire he didn’t hide from his features. The silent question that haunted his eyes.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Without a word, she shifted closer until her lips touched his.
Desire—held in check for far too long—broke free. With a groan, he pulled her closer. The rhythm of the horse set a sexy, heated tempo as their bodies bumped, pressed, bumped.
Booker dropped the reins, let the horse have his lead.
Suddenly, Sandra found herself lifted and turned so that her legs straddled his waist. The hard result of their kissing pressed against the apex of her thighs.
His hands slipped under her shirt, slid over her back; his fingers ran up her spine, then down, until each hand gripped a butt cheek and brought her in closer.
They both groaned.
His mouth found hers. His tongue was merciless as it stroked and burned inside her mouth.
Booker tapped the horse with his heels.
The horse stepped into a slow canter. Sandra gasped; her hands gripped his shoulders, felt the muscles flex beneath her palms.
Sandra lost all track of her surroundings. His hands grasped her hips, holding her tight against him while their bodies matched the horse’s gait.
Heat pitted in her stomach. Liquid fire flowed between her thighs.
“Booker,” she whispered. Her hands slipped behind his head, bringing his mouth to hers. Her fingers shoved the scarf aside, buried themselves in the thickest part of his hair.
His hand delved between her cheeks, felt the wet, soft center of her.
The sun broke free of the horizon. Sandra blinked into its harsh glare.