by Cindy Gerard
“Yes,” Marcus told Ryang in a placating tone, “Valentina will participate in the delivery as planned.”
His palm was so slick with nervous sweat that he almost dropped the phone. “She’s making preparations for the trip as we speak,” he assured Ryang again. “I don’t know what else I can tell you. She’ll be there. We’ll both be there as originally planned.”
He closed his eyes, and listened as Ryang castigated him one more time for avoiding his calls.
“I’ve apologized,” he said. “What else do you want me to say? I regret not getting back to you but the truth of the matter is, I panicked. And frankly, that’s on you.”
Ryang’s silence told him how angry he’d just made him. “Again, I apologize, but when Val called me she was scared to death. I still don’t understand why you had to send those men after her. They shot at her! And you . . . you attempted to have her abducted again at the Cuzco airport.”
Again, he reined in his anger. The last thing he wanted to do was make Ryang suspicious of his boldness.
“Forgive me,” he amended penitently. “I understand that you found it necessary to take matters in your own hands, to make certain she accompanied the shipment. I realize what’s at stake for you.”
Marcus had never doubted that the North Korean was a cold-blooded killer. Just like he had no delusions about how this was going to end for him. His career was dead. His life was over.
Frankly, he was past caring. All that mattered now was Val. She was a good person. She’d kept his secrets in the face of the humiliation he’d caused her. He was so ashamed of himself for falling into Ryang’s trap, for knuckling under to Ryang’s demands. For selling out a country he had sworn to uphold and protect. And he was so, so sorry for dragging Val into the muck with him and exposing her to such danger.
“No,” he said, tuning back into Ryang’s ranting. “I already told you. Apparently the man was simply a fellow traveler who came to her rescue. He found her a place to hide out. He put her in touch with the American embassy, who issued her a duplicate passport so she could get back to the States,” he lied, pushing past Ryang’s accusations that Marcus had hired a team of mercenaries to protect her.
“I must beg your forgiveness, but I have to go,” he said abruptly, before Ryang could engage him in further conversation. “I’m expected at a meeting. Yes, an arms committee meeting, and if I don’t show up they’re going to come looking for me. Please rest assured the timetable will be met. The delivery plans remain unchanged.”
Ryang issued one more threat detailing what would happen to both him and Val if he didn’t come through, then hung up. Marcus’s hands were damp with clammy sweat as he hung up his own phone. He drew a shaky breath, then looked up at the man who had identified himself as Joe Green. Marcus had no idea who he worked for. He knew only that the man scared him almost as much as Ryang did.
“Did he buy it?” The look on Green’s face made it clear that Marcus had better have the right answer.
Marcus nodded. “I think so. Hell. I don’t know. You heard the conversation.” In fact, Green had practically dictated the dialogue word for word. “Ryang’s a loose cannon. Intimidation and threats are his life.”
And his own life was as good as over, he thought again. In a way, it was almost a relief. The subterfuge, the guilt . . . the shame. All of it had been eating him alive.
“I do care about Val,” he said.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you care about, Senator. All I care about is making this deal go down and putting an end to Ryang’s arms operation.”
“And keeping Val safe,” Marcus insisted. “You said you and the men you work with were going to keep her safe.”
“Little late to be worried about her now, isn’t it? After the way you screwed her over?”
He deserved that. He deserved a lot more, and fully understood that he would pay the price for his sins against her and against his country.
He propped his elbows on his desk and lowered his head to his hands. He hoped Val knew what she was doing. That this group of men could be counted on.
Joe could hardly bear to be in the same breathing space as Chamberlin. The man was a gutless coward. A traitor involved in a scam that transported illegal arms shipments to Sierra Leone.
Sierra Leone. It had been too many years since they’d lost Bry in that shithole. It had been an illegal arms mission back then, too, that had led to Bry’s death. It had eaten at Joe for years . . . just like the way that mission had gone FUBAR had eaten at him.
As a rule, he tried not to think about it at all. He and the BOI team had their plates full in the here and now. But what had happened on that long-ago mission . . . hell. It never should have happened.
He thought about it more than ever lately. Because of Steph, he supposed. Because they had this thing going . . . because he cared about her. And because when she hurt, he hurt.
She still mourned her brother’s death. He hated seeing the pain on her face when she looked at Bryan’s picture. Hated knowing that her parents, Ann and Robert, who had offered their home, their hearts, their love to the TFM team in the years since Bry’s death, had died a little, too, the day they’d buried their son.
Most of all he hated knowing that Bry shouldn’t have died that night. There wasn’t supposed to have been an RUF patrol within ten miles of their position. And yet they’d been caught with their pants down in an ambush.
For years, he’d been pissed with the talking heads running command central and calling the shots from hundreds of miles away, relying on drone and satellite surveillance to micromanage their operations, when what the team had needed were eyes on the ground. The consensus was someone had simply screwed up. They’d received bad intel.
But Joe had always wondered if it hadn’t been a screwup at all. If maybe they’d been set up.
He glanced at Chamberlin and anger knotted his gut. How many politicians had sold out their country, their troops, their souls, for money or to simply save face?
He turned away, walked restlessly around the office—then stopped short in front of a framed group photograph on the far wall.
There were around twenty people in the picture, but his gaze snagged on one specific face.
What the fuck?
He felt the room sway before he pulled himself together again.
“Tell me about this photograph.”
• • •
Green was standing with his hands on his hips, scowling at one of several framed eight-by-ten photographs hanging on the wall opposite his desk.
“It’s a group shot of the stateside and Sierra Leone teams who organized the first aid shipments six years ago,” Marcus said as Green leaned in close, his expression hardening as he studied the photograph.
When Green turned around to face him, there was a look in his eyes that could only be described as bloodlust. “I want a complete list of names and the personnel file information for everyone ever involved with the aid missions. Both stateside and in Sierra Leone.”
Anger radiated off Green in violent waves. Something, or someone, in that picture had set him off.
“That’s a lot of names,” Marcus said carefully. “Takes hundreds of people to make something this big work.”
Green whirled around and slammed the picture on the desk. The glass cracked as the frame shattered, sending shards of glass flying everywhere.
Jesus!
“I don’t give a fuck how many names there are.” He peeled the group photo out of the decimated frame, rolled it into a scroll, and shoved it in a deep pocket on the leg of his cargo pants. “Just get me the damn information. And don’t leave one person out.”
Marcus lifted a trembling hand and reached for the phone to buzz his aide.
Green grabbed the phone from his hand and dropped it back into the cradle. “No. You do it. Copy the files on everyone having to do with the initial S.L. project onto a flash drive. Do it now.”
Green stood with shoulders squared
, breathing deep as if he was using every ounce of concentration to keep himself from reaching across the desk and strangling Marcus with his bare hands, while Marcus pulled up the files on his PC, copied them onto a flash drive, and with a shaking hand, handed it to Green.
“Now what happens?” Marcus asked, braving the dark, brooding anger in the younger man’s eyes.
“Now you keep your mouth shut until I personally notify you otherwise. And a word to the wise, Senator. If you run, I will find you. And if you do anything but the right thing, you’re a dead man.”
He tucked the drive in his hip pocket and left the office.
Marcus slumped back in his chair, staring at the door Green had shut behind him.
And the walls came tumbling down.
He stared at the empty spot on the wall where the photo had hung. Then he shifted his attention to the shot of him shaking hands with the president. The framed photo covered his wall safe. Inside the safe was a Colt revolver.
He rose on shaking legs and crossed the room, broken glass crunching under his feet. He carefully removed the photograph, then set it on the floor.
His hand was trembling as he spun the dial and meticulously worked through the combination. The lock gave with a gentle click and the door swung open.
The gun sat inside the safe like a bomb, just waiting to explode. It was big and black and felt cold and heavy in his hand.
He walked back to his desk. Tested the pistol’s weight in his palm. Experimented with the feel of the trigger beneath his finger.
For long, heart-pounding moments, he envisioned himself lifting the weapon, pressing the barrel into his mouth, and firing.
Then he laid his head on his desk and cried like a baby, because he knew he didn’t have the guts to do it.
25
“We should talk about this,” Val said.
Apparently, however, they weren’t going to.
All she got was silence as Luke reset his apartment’s security system, then stalked past her toward the kitchen.
They’d come straight here after the strategy session about Sierra Leone. Her mind was still reeling at the sheer volume of operational details that needed to be worked out. They needed a flight crew from B.A. to D.C. Ground support in Freetown, Sierra Leone, for possible extraction if things got dicey. A backup extraction plan. An emergency medical treatment plan in the event there were causalities. The list went on and on.
By the end of the day, she had a firm grasp on just how dangerous this mission was—and why Luke was so opposed to her participation. These people were professionals; she was not. They lived and died by their wits, their skills, their experience; she did not. She understood that even though they needed her, she was also their single biggest liability, because in addition to carrying out the mission, they needed to worry about her safety.
To say that Luke was still angry was like saying bombs went boom. She was certain he was going to blow at some point but for now, he had yet to even speak to her.
“Luke, we need to talk,” she repeated, following him into the kitchen where he stood with his back to her, jerking open kitchen cupboard doors.
“I’ve said what I had to say. You didn’t want to hear it.” He banged a pan onto a burner on the gas stove, then set a can of soup and a can opener on the counter beside it. “Dinner. Knock yourself out.”
Taking great pains to avoid both eye and body contact, he moved past her. “You can take the bedroom tonight. I’ll sleep in my office.” He walked out of the kitchen, down the hall, and slammed the door to his office behind him.
The old Val would have left him alone, rather than incite a confrontation. But that Val was gone. She’d died in the mountains of Peru, perished in the ruins of Marcus’s betrayals.
That woman had experienced two epiphanies today. The first, while she’d sat in the Argentina sunshine with two women who inspired her. The second, in the situation room when she’d realized that most of her life had been a lie and that she had let it happen.
Phoenix rising from the ashes?
Not by a long shot. She had a way to go before she’d feel absolved of her sins of submission. A lot to prove to herself, and to the people who mattered to her.
And Luke Colter mattered.
She headed for his office. Not bothering to knock, she swung the door open and stepped inside.
His office consisted of beige walls, a single window, a small desk with a PC, an overflowing bookshelf, and a brown sofa against one wall. The room felt utilitarian, spartan and lonely.
He looked lonely, sprawled on his back on the sofa, one arm over his eyes, one knee cocked, one foot on the floor.
How often had he lain alone in the dark here or in his bed and relived the horror of San Salvador, she wondered, her heart aching for him. How often had he questioned who he was, what he was?
Sometimes I think I really did die . . . sometimes I feel like I’m little more than a ghost of the man I once was . . .
Now, more than ever, he needed to be reminded of how very vital he was. And if it would snap him out of this funk, she was ready to pick a fight if that’s what it took to make him see the light.
“I didn’t figure you for a pouter,” she said.
He grunted. “Yeah, well, I didn’t figure you for a martyr,” he spit back.
“Fine.” She crossed her arms tightly under her breasts. “We can do this all night. I’ll label you. You can label me. We can be as judgmental as hell. It’ll be fun. Your turn.”
For the longest time he didn’t move. Finally, he lifted his arm and looked at her. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly and sat up. He let his head fall back against the cushions and closed his eyes. “I don’t want anything happening to you.”
“Like it happened to you?”
His eyes snapped open. “This has nothing to do with me.”
“Doesn’t it?” she asked, already certain of the answer.
His jaw clenched as he leaned forward, clasped his hands together, and dangled them between his knees. “Okay. Let’s make this about San Salvador. Let’s talk about life and death and the fact that this isn’t an action adventure movie you’re getting yourself into, Val. This is real. Like San Salvador. This is as real as it gets. People get hurt. People get killed. You are not prepared for what’s going to happen when that plane sets down in Sierra Leone.”
He swallowed, then looked at his tightly clenched hands. “And I’m not fucking prepared to lose you.”
Her heart swelled. So did her tears as she walked over and knelt in front of him.
“I have to do this,” she whispered, placing her hands on his knees. “The same way that you have to do this.”
“I know,” he said, sounding miserable. “Doesn’t mean I like it. Doesn’t mean I have to support it.”
He looked at her then. His eyes were tortured, his expression grave.
And her heart broke when she realized how truly afraid he was for her.
She couldn’t remember anyone ever looking at her that way. In all her life, she couldn’t remember feeling a connection so strong. Last night he’d almost destroyed her with the intense intimacy of his lovemaking.
She’d never felt so connected, so possessed, so completely vulnerable to any man, and yet so empowered by one. But she understood that her emotions were under siege by everything that had happened to her. She knew that she couldn’t fully trust these intense feelings. So she still couldn’t risk telling him the things he made her feel.
But she could show him, she thought, aching for his anguish. She knew exactly how to show him.
“Make love to me,” she whispered. Because when he was holding her, when he was inside of her, there was no fear. Only trust. Only pleasure and passion and the perfect illusion that everything was right in her world.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Go to bed, Val.” He slumped back against the cushions. “Just . . . go to bed.”
He was still angry. Because he was afraid for her.
A tear trailed down her cheek as she moved in closer, then slid her palms slowly up his thighs. His muscles tensed beneath her touch.
His eyes shot open, then flamed with desire when he realized her intent. He shook his head slowly, but the denial didn’t reach his eyes.
“Don’t,” he whispered when she brushed her fingers along the seam of his zipper, then caressed him, feeling the unmistakable swell of his response beneath her hand.
“Don’t,” he managed gruffly, but didn’t stop her as she undid the snap at his waist.
“Don’t.” His eyes pleaded but the single word held little conviction as she slowly lowered his zipper.
“Jesus, Val.” He groaned her name when she freed him, when she took the long, hard length of him in her hands, then traced the tip of her tongue over the engorged head of his penis.
His hands were in her hair now, an aborted attempt to push her away before he surrendered with a low growl, begging her, “Don’t stop . . .”
He was hers now. No fight, no regret, only pleasure as he helped her shove down his pants.
Thrilled with her victory, she drew him deep into her mouth and showed him that she adored him, couldn’t get enough of him, couldn’t bear to think about life without him.
He sucked in a harsh breath and stiffened when she cupped his testicles and gently squeezed. He was hot and full and heavy in her hand.
The next thing she knew, he’d gripped her under her arms and dragged her up his body. He lifted her arms around his neck and caught her mouth in a deep, carnal kiss. She hung on for her life as he tore open the snap on her new jeans, wrenched down the zipper, and shoved them and her panties roughly down her hips.
She managed to kick her jeans free, and then she was straddling his lap as he guided himself to her opening and thrust inside.
She gasped against his mouth, shocked and thrilled and stretched to the limit as he gripped her hips and held her while he pumped hard and deep with an aggression bred from passion and turmoil.
The pleasure was so intense, so exquisitely wild and carnal, she wanted to scream and claw and bite him like an animal. As the salty taste of blood registered on her tongue, she realized how out of control things had gotten.