The Samms Agenda

by Alison Kent

  She would have done it. And suffered no cones-quences. In an ugly twist of fate and foreign policy, the camp of tents was considered a mobile embassy, the inhabitants subject to diplomatic immunity.

  That didn't mean he'd been able to let her.

  He'd looked into the child's eyes and seen desperation, but nothing even resembling fear. Nothing resembling hope. Whether he died of a knife wound, a bullet, starvation, or disease, he would die. And he knew it.

  "I took him out," Julian whispered, and choked. "Had one of my men help me dig his grave. And then I shot him because it was the right thing to do. I turned myself into my superiors after that. The end of my military career."

  And the beginning of another once Hank Smithson had gotten wind of what had gone down.

  Julian turned onto his back then, flung his forearm over his eyes and waited for the sweats to begin. For the after­shock of reliving that night that had defined his life. Of hav­ing to live with himself since.

  But they didn't come. And his heart didn't throttle like an outboard motor. Neither did his muscles seize up and burn. Even when, at his side, Katrina stirred.

  "I didn't know they grew coffee in Burundi," she said softly, turning over on the mattress and into his arms, drift­ing in and out and only hearing part of what he'd said.

  And that was okay. She didn't have to hear it all. It was enough that she'd responded to his voice. That she was here.

  He held her closer than he'd ever held another woman in all of his life. And he didn't even flinch when she whispered, "I love you."

  The words settled into his skin and soothed instead of stinging like he'd braced himself for them to do for years. It was a ray of hope strong enough to slash across his dark­ness, and it made him smile.

  It was midafternoon when Katrina finally woke for the day. Had she been at home, she would have headed to the gym, where she would sweat and ponder her column due on Monday.

  As it was, she was pretty much assured she'd never have a deadline again.

  Strangely, that didn't bother her at all. Not after the in­credible twenty-four hours she'd just come through. She was aware now like she hadn't been before how little what she did for a living mattered. Or how being alive was nothing compared to feeling alive.

  Escaping a killer's bullet had helped her make the dis­tinction.

  Falling in love with Julian Samms had defined the differ­ences in the subtlest of ways.

  She pushed up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, surprised to find the flow of blood into her foot hurt less than she'd expected. Surprised, as well—and pleased— to find a clean white T-shirt, socks, and gray athletic sweats on the foot of the bed.

  She hobbled her way to the bathroom and did her thing, glad to find the borrowed panties she'd hand-washed last night dry enough to wear. She dressed and exited ten min­utes later to find a steaming cup of black coffee on top of the bedroom's dresser. Ob, wow, she thought, smiling like a crazy woman to herself.

  What she didn't find was any sign of Julian, though she swore she heard him talking. And swore his voice was com­ing out of the bedroom wall. Coffee in hand, she stepped across the room and slid open the door to the closet.

  The interior wall was actually a panel that hid a tiny hutch of a room where Julian sat in front of an electronic console, a set of headphones held to one ear.

  He glanced her way, held up a finger signaling her to wait. She nodded, stood in the entrance, studied the bank of high-tech equipment that was like nothing she'd ever seen.

  No, that wasn't true. She had seen one similar. In a movie. On the command deck of a spaceship.

  And that's when it finally hit her. The truth about Julian Samms. Who he was, who he worked for. It was all so far and above anything she would ever understand. A truth she would probably never fully know or even grasp if he told her. Told her . . .

  What was it that he'd told her during the night?

  She frowned as she sipped her coffee, certain she'd heard his voice, picked up random words, though she'd never sur­faced to grasp what it was he was saying.

  What she had latched onto was the feeling in his tone, the emotion behind the confession. Yes, confes-sion. She was sure that's what it had been.

  And looking at him now, even with the fierce expression casting shadows over his face, she sensed that his spirits had lifted.

  Whatever it was that had happened beyond the incredi­ble sex, she was glad she'd been there for him.

  "Right," he finally said, adding, "I'll be in touch," before dropping the headphones to the surface of the desk, where he propped his elbows before burying his face in his hands.

  She moved closer, ducking beneath the low-hanging en­trance to place her palm on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

  He swiveled his chair toward her, grabbed her by the hips, and pulled her between his spread legs. When he lifted his gaze, she braced herself, one hundred percent certain she wasn't going to like what he had to say. "Mick's been shot."

  "What?" Her heart bolted to the base of her throat. "Who?"

  "Rivers."

  "Where is he now?" she asked, not even sure which man she meant.

  Julian didn't wait for her to clarify. "Mick's safe. He'll be fine. But Rivers is on the loose."

  Twelve

  SG-5 Safe House, Saturday, 3:30 p.m.

  Katrina didn't know what to say. Knowing what to say de­pended on knowing how to feel. How she felt was numb.

  Or at least that was her initial reaction. Moments later the reality set in along with the cold sweats and the nausea.

  Her stomach burned and heaved. Her throat ached. Her foot throbbed.

  She'd been expecting to, be a free woman in another few hours. Maybe a day. Maybe two.

  As long as she'd known Julian's partner was on her shooter's trail and she was in capable hands, she'd been able to con­vince herself she'd be out of harm's way soon. Back to Miami. Back to her life.

  Now, however, she was able to convince herself of only one thing. She was going to be sick.

  She bolted for the bathroom and dropped to her knees. Her coffee cup slid from the counter where she'd set it into the sink with a clatter. Eyes closed, she grabbed for her hair, and that was it.

  What she'd swallowed of the coffee came up along with remnants of last night's crab dinner. She retched, heaved, and spit her way through the process of her stomach turn­ing inside out.

  Humiliation blazed—she didn't want him to see her like this—overshadowed only by an angry fear. How dare these people ruin her life when she was only an innocent by­stander?

  Minutes later, Julian was on the edge of the tub at her side with a wet cloth. She lowered the toilet seat and flushed, collapsed back against the wall where she let him bathe her face, thinking that no man had ever done this for her.

  That there had never been one she had wanted to. One she would have allowed to.

  "Thanks," she said, taking the rag and opening it up over her face. Hiding behind it and wishing for a magic toothbrush to appear.

  "I can make you some tea," he suggested tentatively. "Some toast."

  She nodded, smiling, pulling the cloth away. "Tea and toast would be nice. Thank you."

  He shrugged one broad shoulder. "Sounded like a girly sort of thing to offer."

  She smacked him across the shin with the wet cloth for being such a man. "Are you calling me a girly-girl?"

  "Get over it. I like you that way." Hands on his knees, he got to his feet. But he stopped before leaving the room. "I do like you, you know."

  "I should hope so," she said, because flirting was easier and healthier than panic. And because flirting with Julian felt right in ways she'd either forgotten or never had known.

  "Katrina, I'm not going to let him get to you."

  She stared up into his gorgeous eyes, eyes brimming with an emotion he couldn't hide. Tears welled and spilled from her own in response.

  And this time it was the fear of losing the man she loved
to a killer's bullet that had her hugging the commode.

  The front door had opened and closed before Julian reg­istered that the sound had come from the other room and not from the toaster behind him.

  He was in the kitchen scavenging for a pink or blue packet of artificial sweetener, and had decided Katrina would have to settle for sugar in her tea when he heard her go out.

  Unless what he had heard was someone else coming in. Tzao gao. Shit. He didn't figure Rivers for that dumb. Katrina on the other hand . . . and his SIG was hanging on his chair in the comm room.

  He dashed through the house, snagged up his holster, slipped it on, and hurriedly reversed direction, hitting the outside steps in time to see her top half disappear behind the car's open back door.

  She scooted out, turned to sit on the bench seat as he jogged down the steps toward her. He swore she was going to fry what was left of his patience. "What the hell are you doing? Trying to get us both killed?"

  Her gaze came up sharply. Hurt at first, then mad. "I only wanted the house shoes." She had her hands wrapped around the fuzzy pink slippers she'd brought with her from Maribel's house. "I'm about to kill myself in those bulky sneakers."

  He reached in and grabbed her upper arm, forcing her out of the car. "You don't leave the house, understood? You want something from the car? You tell me."

  She jerked away, opened her mouth to obviously give him an earful, never got out a word. The car window shat­tered all over the both of them.

  Julian shoved her back, dove into the car on top of her. He went for his gun; she grunted as his elbow caught her solar plexus. Then she scrambled into the floor behind the driver's side seat before he could say a word.

  At least a word in English, yelling, "Liukousbui de biaozi he bouzi de ben erzi," just as the rear windshield exploded. Glass pellets burst inward. Katrina screamed and covered her head.

  Her forearms took the brunt of the blast. Blood pep­pered her skin where she was hit. She whimpered softly but didn't move, didn't speak, didn't even breathe.

  He needed to draw Rivers away from the car, away from Katrina. He bailed into the front seat, kicked open the pas­senger side door. He pressed his head back into the head­rest, counted to ten.

  "Rivers! We need to talk."

  He turned to glance over the seat at Katrina—just as Benny answered with a single red dot of his laser sight on Julian's white T-shirt. He ducked, but it was too late.

  The shot came through the driver's side window, lifted him off the seat, and slammed him to the ground. The last thing he heard before darkness took him was Katrina's scream.

  And Benny Rivers's hollow laugh.

  Julian came to to searing light in his eyes, searing heat swarming over his body, and searing fucking pain ripping his shoulder apart.

  He squinted, grunted, winced, and unscrambled what he could of his brain. Rivers. The gunshot. Katrina. Qingwa cao de liumang. He struggled up to his good elbow . . . only to realize he wasn't wearing his shirt or his holster.

  And that he wasn't alone.

  Crouched on the ground beside him was a man packing supplies into Julian's first aid kit. He blinked, focused, stirred to the fact that he'd been wrapped up and taped up and put back together again.

  Just like Humpty Dumpty.

  He cleared his dry throat. "How bad is it?"

  "You were two inches away from needing your shoulder rebuilt." The man, his dark skin glistening like coffee beans in the sun, zipped up the canvas pack. "That'll hold you until you get to a hospital."

  Julian shook his head. "No hospital. I've got to go . . . somewhere."

  "Then I hope to hell you have another way to get there." Squatting now, his wrists dangling over his knees, the man nodded toward the borrowed car. "Rivers did a number on your spark plug wires."

  Julian turned his head slowly to take in the other pieces of the V8 engine strewn on the ground like so much litter.

  He had to find Katrina. With Mick out of commission and the trail gone cold . . . He needed to get inside, raise Kelly John or Christian. There had to be word on the wires about Rivers.

  Rivers. . .

  Pushing to sit upright, Julian turned back to his visitor and sized up the other man who knew way too much about Katrina's assassin.

  His reflective sunglasses and combat boots, weathered skin-and-bones appearance, his dreads tied back in a black bandanna, and the Tac-Ops Tango 51 slung across his back— it all said one thing.

  Julian had just hit a big fat dead end. A roadblock worse than any he'd erected to keep those who tried to get close at a distance. His partners. Hank.

  Katrina.

  Didn't matter much now. He wasn't going to have much of a life left once this man was through with him. Though why he'd patched him up first. . .

  Julian frowned, said, "You're Spectra."

  The man nodded, stood, shook a dark cigarette from the thin square box he pulled from the pocket of his black T-shirt. He offered one to Julian before firing up the lighter he dug from a webbed pouch on the leg of his khakis.

  He drew smoke into his lungs and blew out a long slow stream, then stepped back and kicked Julian's SIG across the drive.

  "Hell of a situation here, isn't it?" he said, bringing the cigarette to his lips again.

  The hell? Julian stared at the gun as if seeing a mirage be­fore picking it up, scooting back against the car, holding his injured arm close to his body.

  His palm scraped over gravel and broken glass, but his gaze never left the other man's face. And his hand never left the gun. Even though it had been freely given.

  Spectra was just as good at taking away. "Do you know where he is? Where he took her?"

  From another pouch pocket, the agent pulled a GPS lo­cator. "Looks like they're back in Miami, man."

  Christ! He'd been out that long? "What do you want?"

  "Me?" The man shrugged. "I want Rivers."

  Julian levered himself to his feet using the sedan's door frame. "What're you doing here then? If you want Benny?"

  "I figured you might want the girl." He filled his lungs one last time then flicked the cig to the driveway and ground out the fire with his boot heel. He then picked up the first aid kit and nodded toward the house. "You wouldn't have a beer in there, would you?"

  Julian nodded because he was hurting too bad to think straight. He needed a whole lot of answers but couldn't come up with a single coherent question.

  Holding the elbow of his busted-up arm with his good hand, he made his way to the front steps, wondering what the other man knew of where he was and who he was tan­gling with. Wondering if at this point either of them cared.

  After all, they were about to share a beer.

  "There's a six-pack in the fridge." Julian indicated the kitchen. "I'm just gonna . . . get another shirt."

  Gritting his teeth as he hurried down the hall to the bed­room, he grabbed a T-shirt from the closet, stepped into the communications room, and as quickly as he could with one hand, typed the security code to launch the program he needed.

  Another few seconds of using only his index finger to hunt and peck out his message to the SG-5 ops center, and he was done. He secured and shut down the system, secured and backed out of the room—right into the cold beer bottle the Spectra agent held out for him.

  Having hooked the earpiece of his sunglasses over his T-shirt's neckband, the other man inclined his head toward the concealing door now sliding shut. "Nice setup."

  "Yeah. It's not too shabby." Julian took the beer, and led the way back to the front of the house once he heard the click of the lock on the comm room door.

  With a loud grunt, he lowered himself slowly to the sofa's edge and struggled into the shirt, sweat running from what seemed like every freaking pore on his body. He'd for­gotten the pain of the gunshot.

  He didn't like remembering. "You've got a tracking de­vice on Rivers, right?"

  "Actually no." The agent sat across from Julian. "It's on your girl."
>
  "Katrina?" His pulse raced against his fast-tracking thoughts. No wonder they'd never been able to shake Benny. But how...

  His head came up. "The earrings."

  A knowing nod. "Deacon wanted to keep her in line. Who'd've figured they'd come in so handy, eh?"

  Nothing here was making sense. "Why the hit on her?"

  "Hell, man. There's no hit on her. That's all Rivers's para­noia." The man sat forward again, spun his beer bottle back and forth on the coffee table. "He did a lot of off the books work for Deacon. Stuff the bosses are interested in."

  "And he's taking out Katrina before she can talk." Ta ma de bun dan. He wasn't going to let that happen. He was not going to lose this woman now.

  "Not if I get to him first, my man."

  Julian pushed to his feet and met the other man's gaze di­rectly. "You know she doesn't know a thing."

  "Yeah." A nod, another cigarette worked between two fingers. "She's been on the radar for awhile. Bosses know she's clean."

  That was good. That was good. But it wasn't enough. He needed to make this one thing crystal fucking clear. "You so much as look at her the wrong way after this and I'll shove that rifle barrel up your ass and shoot you myself."

  "I'll just bet you would," the agent said as he stood, his dangerously soft laughter rising with him, though never reaching his eyes.

  Weird or not, he was Julian's best hope for getting out of here and getting to Katrina. "What're you driving?"

  "Ah, my man. A Baja Outlaw." He winked. "Docked in the marina. We can blast around to Key Largo and up to Biscayne Bay."

  Julian nodded, figuring how much time he needed to get out of the house, down to the docks, into the water. Cal­culating the equation on his way to the door, he punched the resulting instructions into the electronic keypad above the deadbolt.

  This place had been the main source for monitoring Spectra IT's Caribbean activities for years now. But not any­more. Not after being compromised. He walked out, gri­macing with every step as he followed the agent to the docks.

  They were well into Florida Bay headed east when the explosion rumbled around them, shooting a fireball like a rocket into the sky.