“Of course.”
Pepper grinned. “To watch me fail?”
“I expect you to.”
“Colonel, you’ve just pushed a favorite button of mine—I love a good challenge. My whole life has been about dancing on the edge of a sword.”
Jim almost smiled. Again that unsettling turquoise warmth from her eyes enveloped him, and he felt his heart beating harder in his chest. There was something arresting about Pepper that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. At least, not yet.
“Tell me a little about yourself, Colonel. Personal stuff.”
Her directness scuttled him. He eyed her. “Why is that important to the mission?”
“If I’m going to succeed at all your tests, I need to know more about my partner than his military title. I want to know something about the man.” Her eyes narrowed briefly. “What makes you run, Jim Woodward?”
Jim pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. “You have a damn needling habit of being nosy, Ms. Sinclair.”
“And you have a damn needling habit of questioning my credentials when what we really should be doing is planning how to save Laura Trayhern.”
The set of her jaw, with her chin jutting out, challenged him, as did her incensed gaze. So she was angry, after all—but for the right reasons, Jim realized. “Believe me,” he said, trying to hide his emotion in a gruff tone of voice, “no one wants to save Laura more than I do.”
“I understand from Wolf that Laura is a personal friend of yours.” Pepper watched his cheeks flame red and saw sudden shyness in that imperious gaze he was trying to control her with. Maybe Woodward wasn’t such a jerk, after all. For a moment, she’d glimpsed a real man behind that egotistical marine facade he was employing to try to scare her into quitting.
“Laura and I go back a long way,” Jim muttered offensively, as he turned and walked to the window. In the distance he could see the Capitol and the WashingtonMonument outlined against the dawning colors of the horizon. “We met when I had my first tour at the Pentagon. Laura was—still is—a military-defense author. It’s rare for a woman to find success in the field, and she’s considered authoritative on a broad range of military subjects.” His voice dropped. “She’s an incredible woman…all that intelligence, that ability to comprehend…”
Pepper watched Jim Woodward’s face soften tremendously—as if he’d forgotten she was in the room. The incredible tension around him dissolved as he spoke of Laura. “And she married Morgan Trayhern?” Pepper asked quietly.
He shrugged. “Morgan Trayhern crashed into our lives, and she ended up with him.”
The sudden flatness of his tone belied his pain, his confusion over that issue, Pepper realized. No longer was he the tough marine officer; for a moment he was a human being struggling with unresolved emotions regarding a woman he loved.
“Are you presently in a relationship?”
Jim shook his head. “No, not a serious one.”
“Any family?”
“Just my parents, until recently. They died in an auto accident a year ago.” Jim turned. He felt oddly sad and didn’t try to cover it up. Pepper’s gaze was assessing, the warmth still there, continually surrounding him like sunlight. The genuine care and sincerity radiating from her was very real. Vaguely, he acknowledged that good leaders had that kind of charisma. Despite her almost-brutal honesty, Jim admired those qualities. He could understand now why men would work under her command without having male-female issues. Yes, she was personable and easy to talk to—too easy.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” she murmured. No one deserved to have their parents ripped from them like that. Trying to establish a less-traumatic line of conversation, she asked, “Are you an only child?”
“Yes. And I was spoiled rotten.”
“I have an older brother, Cam. He’s married to a wonderful woman named Molly. They have three children now, and I like playing Auntie Pepper to all of them.” She smiled fondly as she thought of her brother’s family.
Jim tried to resist her husky voice, but it was like a soothing balm to the sadness he still held in his heart over the unexpected loss of his parents. It uplifted him, and he noticed the luminous quality that came to her eyes when she spoke about her brother. “He’s the naval aviator?” he asked, remembering Harding’s comments about a Top Gun brother.
“Yes. Molly used to be in the navy, too. They met at test-pilot school a number of years ago. She’s such a homebody, a real hausfrau who enjoys being a mother and parent. Cam lost his first family in a freak airplane accident, so I’m really happy to see them together. I’m glad she decided to resign her commission and become a civilian.”
“Surprising words from a gung ho career woman—or are you?”
“What do you think?” Pepper would play his game against himself. She wasn’t about to become cannon fodder for him or any military man stuck in the “women should be barefoot and pregnant” mind-set.
Jim rubbed his jaw and held her gaze. “I don’t know what to think about you—yet,” he admitted. “I know what I thought you were, but my original assessment isn’t turning out to be as accurate as I expected.”
“I’m sure you expected me to come striding in here wearing men’s clothes and acting like ‘one of the boys.’” Pepper countered. “Well, I would have at one time, Colonel—back in my army days. I became that way to protect myself from the men who wanted to tear me down and make me quit.” With a slight shrug, she added, “When I joined the Smokeys, I lost that facade. I discovered that the men and women who jumped into fires didn’t care what gender I was so long as I could do the job. I was allowed to be myself, to flourish and grow into the woman you see now.” Her smile was frank. “I think it’s nice to be a woman and do a first-rate job, whether it’s perceived as masculine or not. Don’t you?”
“Touché.”
“An honest answer. How refreshing, Colonel. Be careful, it could become a habit.”
Instead of being stung by her rejoinder, Jim laughed. And it felt damn good to laugh, as if an incredible weight he’d been carrying on his shoulders had slipped free for just a moment. That load had been there in some form ever since Laura had married Morgan, he realized. Getting up, he went over and poured himself a cup of coffee. Silence flowed back into the room, but the atmosphere was less tense than it had been.
“Since we’re exploring each other,” he said, coming back to the table, “tell me a little about yourself. Do you have a significant other?” He wondered what kind of man would be drawn to her.
Pepper slid her fingers quickly through some strands of hair. “No…not anymore.”
Jim heard the pain underlying her soft answer. He also saw, for the first time, a look other than happiness in her eyes. Pepper had a real vulnerability to her, even if she held down a decidedly male career with success. In his experience, the military molded women into a male image in order to help them survive. The military was unforgiving if someone—man or woman—showed vulnerability of any kind, so he was fascinated by Pepper’s ability to maintain that quality.
Pepper struggled with a sudden deluge of emotions that brought back her raw, unhealed past. She saw at least a shred of real concern mingled with the curiosity in Jim’s eyes. Afraid to release that genie of past suffering from its well-stoppered bottle, she straightened her spine. “Since we’ve both laid our cards on the table, why don’t we get down to the real business?” she said, her voice suddenly brisk. “What’s on the agenda today? I’m sure you’ve got something up your sleeve.”
Jim pulled himself from his reverie, realizing he was staring at her. Embarrassed by his own breach of officer-like etiquette, he murmured, “We’re going over to my office at the Pentagon. My attaché called to say they’ve got reconnaissance photos of NevisIsland taken by a U-2 flyby.”
With a shake of her head, Pepper got to her feet and slipped the purse strap onto her shoulder. “Amazing how all that old military lingo I thought I’d forgotten comes right back.”
/> “Once in the military, always in the military,” Jim said as he opened the door.
Pepper’s smile was still laced with pain. “There are some parts of it I wish I could forget,” she muttered, slipping by him and out the door. In the front office, she saw Wolf and Jake, their heads bowed together over some military information, talking in low tones. She went over to Wolf and touched his arm. The civilian clothes both men wore couldn’t hide their military bearing.
“Wolf, I’m going with Colonel Woodward over to the Pentagon.”
“Fine…we’ll see you when you get back.” Wolf gave her a brief, assessing look. So did Jake, who she’d met earlier.
Pepper smiled a little, reading his mind. “Everything went fine,” she lied. Wolf had a habit of sticking up for friends rather boldly and sometimes to his regret. Not wanting Wolf to dislike Jim any more than he already did, she felt the white lie would help reduce office tension to below the boiling point. As she turned, she saw the oddest look in Woodward’s gaze—an almost wistful expression combined with such heat that it threw her off guard.
Woodward didn’t like her because she was a woman in a military man’s slot. Okay, so why was that look so tough to decipher? Sighing at the knowledge that Woodward was something of an enigma to her, Pepper grabbed her Pendleton coat off the hook and followed him out of the Perseus office.
The late-November chill was matched by a gray sky that threatened the first snow of the year, and Pepper was glad to get into the heated Pentagon building. As she walked at Jim’s side, she smiled to herself, once again surrounded by uniformed members of all four military branches walking the halls of this military icon. The tile floor was polished to perfection, and hundreds of pieces of artwork, depicting and honoring war from the ground, water and air, decorated the walls of the octagon-shaped building’s outer ring.
Jim was aware of the stares Pepper was receiving from more than one gawking officer. He tried to ignore her natural grace—the way she moved was more like water flowing than like the steady, deliberate steps he took. Maybe it was that effortless ease, he decided sourly, that made nine out of ten officers do a double take. Disgruntled, he had to admit that any man worth his salt would certainly look at Pepper. An old saying came to his mind: “She was easy on the eyes.” It was a decided compliment.
His office was tucked away, compared to many of the others. When they’d made their way in, Jim shut the door after Pepper. His natural inclination was to be a gentleman, to take her coat and hang it up for her. But a contrary part of him said, let her take care of herself. As he stood, debating which to do, Pepper crossed to the small closet, matter-of-factly hung up her coat and purse and turned toward him.
“What now?”
“This way,” he muttered unhappily, preceding her into the interior office—his private space. His secretary had yet to come in, and with Thanksgiving tomorrow, many people in the Pentagon would be working only half a day, anyway.
Pepper stepped into Jim’s small enclave and looked around at the officious degree certificates and awards hanging on the walls. She was impressed. Woodward was more than a Recon. He had a degree in engineering from OhioStateUniversity and had graduated with honors. Curious, she moved to a wall hung with several framed color photos. Most were of him with graduating officers, but one exception drew her attention.
The photo showed a younger Jim Woodward, his arm around a much smaller, delicate-looking blond woman. Both were smiling, obviously happy, with champagne glasses lifted in a toast to the camera.
“Who’s this?” Pepper asked, turning to him. Jim was behind his desk, riffling through a pile of papers that had been stacked there for his attention.
He looked up briefly. “Oh…that’s Laura Bennett—I mean, Trayhern. Morgan’s wife.”
Pepper returned her attention to the picture. “How old is this photo?”
“Eight years.” Frowning, Jim stopped reading the message in his hand and looked up. Pepper’s profile was clean, even pretty. Her dark hair fell softly around her face, completely natural and untamed. He liked that about her—her utter naturalness, with no apology for the way she looked or dressed.
“What was the occasion?”
Jim set the paper aside. “It was taken down in the Pentagon archives. Laura had just sold a manuscript to a publisher. It was her first hardback book. I bought some champagne, and she and I and the people she worked closely with down there—who’d helped her bring the book to life—celebrated late one afternoon.”
Smiling, Pepper nodded. “You both look very happy.”
“We were….” Shaking his head, he muttered, “Come on, we’re going to the photo lab. Those pictures of Garcia’s fortress are available. Ready?”
“Sure.” Pepper followed him out of the office. They walked, it seemed, forever, taking an elevator two floors down and into a more dimly lighted area. The photo laboratory had a small sign on its door. Jim ushered her in. The place smelled of chemicals. Without preamble, he led her into a smaller niche where several black-and-white photos lay on a hardwood table covered by thick glass. A naval-intelligence officer waited for them. She was dressed in a dark blue wool uniform with a white blouse and a black tie at the throat. Her black hair was neatly coiffed, barely touching the collar of her jacket.
Jim introduced Berenice Romero, a woman in her early thirties, to Pepper and immediately asked, “What have you got for us, Berenice?”
“Garcia’s mansion, Colonel.” Berenice smiled a hello at Pepper as she responded, then used a pencil to outline the shape of the main house and grounds on one of the photos. “This is his fortress. Garcia’s got a ten-foot-high wrought-iron fence surrounding the main compound. Guards are posted every quarter mile, and Doberman pinschers walk the fence line, too. Take a look at this.”
Leaning over the photo, Jim squinted through the film magnifier she handed to him. “Oh, yeah…big, black Dobermans. You can even see their teeth, can’t you?” He smiled a little and handed the magnifier to Pepper, who also took a look. When she straightened, he said, “Still want to go, knowing those dogs are more than willing to rip us apart and call us breakfast?”
“Dogs like me.”
“Those dogs don’t like anybody.”
Berenice chuckled. “Colonel, by accident, our flyby caught something else interesting.” She brought out another picture and laid it on the table. “It’s a jeep. I think you’ll be interested to see who’s in it.”
Jim took the magnifier and leaned over the photo. He choked back a gasp. “Laura Trayhern…”
“Yes, sir.” Berenice beamed triumphantly at Pepper. “We had no way to know for sure if Garcia had her, but for once we got lucky. I’m sure they didn’t expect a flyby or they wouldn’t have transported her during daylight in an open jeep like that.”
Pepper nodded, noting the strained expression on Woodward’s face as he handed her the magnifier. He had paled considerably, obviously shaken by the photo. She leaned over to study the minutely detailed photo, focusing on the jeep. Laura, her blond hair streaming behind her, sat in the passenger seat next to a driver dressed in battle fatigues. A handgun of some sort was pressed against the back of her neck by a soldier sitting directly behind her, and his hand gripped her shoulder.
“How awful for her,” Pepper whispered as she returned the magnifier to Berenice. She glanced at Jim, who immediately turned and walked a few steps away. Sensing his anguish, Pepper said nothing more, but when he returned to the table, his eyes were suspiciously bright.
“We’ve got a mission report on Garcia for you, too,” Berenice said, noting Woodward’s reaction. “Come with me, sir.”
Pepper remained at a distance as they moved to a small, comfortable office, where four steel gray chairs were arranged before a desk. Berenice moved behind the desk and sat down. She handed them each a sheaf of papers and gestured for them to sit.
“Guillermo Garcia is the top drug lord in the Windward Islands,” she began. “This is a color photo of him. You
can see he’s short and overweight. His most distinguishing feature is his face, pockmarked with deep scars. He’s fifty years old—an autocratic tyrant as murderous as his boss, Enrique Ramirez, of Lima, Peru.
“Garcia has been a pain in the neck to us since the early eighties. The FBI infiltrated his organization in Florida and Texas and managed to collar most of the U.S. bosses, but Colombia refused to extradite Garcia. However, it scared him enough that he moved his profitable operation from our country to the Caribbean. Now he’s had ten years on Nevis to set up another empire, which has proven equally profitable.”
“Berenice, do we have an operative there?” Jim fervently hoped so.
“No, sir, we don’t.”
“Damn,” he muttered, then glanced apologetically at both women.
Nodding slightly, the lieutenant continued the briefing. “Garcia calls his fortress Plantation Paloma.” Berenice looked at Pepper. “Paloma is spanish for dove.”
“Rather an irony, isn’t it?” Pepper drawled.
“To say the least,” she agreed. “Garcia is as cold-blooded a killer as Ramirez. All the bosses who work for Ramirez pattern themselves after him. When you make your jump, if Garcia discovers either of you, he’ll kill you without question. Although we don’t have an operative on Nevis right now, the CIA is working to come up with one. At one time we had an informant.” She frowned. “She was a local Nevis woman, a laundress for Plantation Paloma. She was in Garcia’s employ for five years, and we were able to gather a great deal of useful background information about his fortress from her. Unfortunately, Garcia somehow found out she was working for us.”
“What did they do to her?” Pepper asked quietly.
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