“A lifetime wouldn’t change that day.” Then he grabbed her close, hugged her tight, then laid a deep, quick kiss on her that rocked her to her knees. “That’s a proper thank you.”
She sputtered, unaccustomed to anyone treating her like that. She didn’t want to dissect the wonderful little spin of heat, but she didn’t back away either.
Then he said, “So who’s the suit?”
Moving out of his arms, she crawled to the rear of the trailer and spied around the rotting tire. “Someone to watch carefully. The kid?”
It amused him that she wasn’t giving up any information. “A parole fugitive.”
She scowled and glanced. “You’re a chaser?”
“For this guy, I am.” He drew out his billfold and flipped it open. Diplomatic Security.
“I thought you’d still be a Marine.”
“So did I,” he murmured, pocketing it and watching.
She settled beside him, looking through a monocular. When Barasa ducked into the backseat, she stood and retraced her steps to the bike, but she had company. “It’s great to see you again, Riley, but we part here, and I think you should forget about that kid.”
“I won’t.”
And she knew it. He’d gone after his friend in Serbia against direct orders. She wasn’t getting rid of him that easily. She went to her bike, backing it out of hiding, then swung her leg over.
“You owe me.”
Gripping her helmet, she tipped her head. “I thought it was you who owed me.”
“That too. But I won’t go away.”
Safia knew when she’d hit a brick wall and was about to concede when he scowled suddenly and tipped his head, preoccupied. She realized he was miked up as he strode nearer to the water and looked toward the bridge.
“I need a ride.”
She shook her head. “I’m tracking a target and he’s leaving.” The town car was moving.
“I can find him again, trust me.” Riley climbed on behind her. “But Sebastian’s in trouble, west of the bridge, and he’s unarmed.”
Oh jeez, she thought, the clean-up was in the skiff. She kicked over the engine, then worked on her helmet.
Riley wrapped his arms around her waist and turned his ball cap around. “Just be gentle with me, lass.”
“Been that long, has it?”
She gunned the engine and maneuvered the bike through a narrow alley, then shot west. The limousine turned in the opposite direction and he felt her tense. He should probably tell her he shot a bio-marker in Vaghn’s ass, but he needed to know exactly how she was involved. Because Vaghn wasn’t just a parole jumper anymore. He was caught up in a deadly business that brought in the CIA. She was the best lead he had, he admitted, yet riding behind her was a test of his pucker factor as she raced at spine numbing speed toward the bridge.
Safia was glad she had communication inside her helmet. “Base, get me what you can on Riley Donovan and Maxwell Renfield.”
“How do you have two names?”
“Donovan is a passenger.”
A bark of laughter came through and then, “How’s that feel?”
Warm and protected, she thought for a second, his body pressed tight to her back. She couldn’t recall the last time she had a man wrapped around her. December, Spain, she decided, Antonio. She could call on him any time, but the Spanish matador had a narcissistic ego she barely tolerated and that made it easy to use him just for sex. Shallow, she knew, but there you go, the life of a spy. Relationships brought questions. She didn’t like lying to someone she cared about so she solved it by not getting too involved.
Why she was thinking like that with Riley on the back of her bike, she didn’t have a clue, but she’d take the rare attraction for what it was, a man who knew and accepted what she did for a living. Sorta.
“You’re in good company,” Ellie said. “That much I’ll say.”
Safia could hear the laughter barely concealed. “Spill it, you little witch. You like tormenting me.”
“Well it’s just so hard to do, Raven. Or should I change that to Riley’s Girl? Oh my, he’s hot.”
This wasn’t the oddest conversation she’d ever had with Ellie, but it was close.
Yes, Riley was good looking, but it wasn’t his looks that made him so likeable. He definitely had that Irish charm going for him still. “He’s too old for you.”
“They all are. Dragon One, freelance retrieval experts, former USMC. Ooh-rah. Sebastian Fontenot, Maxwell Renfield, Killian Moore, Sam Wyatt and Doctor Logan Chambliss, he was a Navy Seal. Cool.”
“Keep going,” she said, wondering what constituted retrieval.
“Private hire, well-equipped, and from the look of their record, very dangerous. You should get along fine.”
“Last job?” She needed something current.
There was a stretch of silence so long that she thought she’d lost the signal.
“Raven,” Ellie said softly, “I just got an access denied to files on them.”
“Interesting.”
“No, it locks me out. I can’t bring up any details. It has a notation for referencing Major General McGill for authorization.”
“Our last director, that McGill?”
“Roger that.”
That changed everything, she thought. McGill’s command had been temporary, only for a few months but she felt the shake up all the way in Asia. He was the reason she had direct relay with Ellie twenty-four/seven. Intel in her hands. She adored the man for that.
“Okay back off. Don’t send up any signals. They’re after Barasa’s package. He’s a fugitive and no, I don’t know his name yet, but Riley has Diplomatic Security credentials and they’re legit.”
“So . . .” Ellie said and Safia could imagine her leaning on her elbow, her chin in her palm. “What I’m thinking is they were heading out of Singapore with their prisoner already secured, and you screwed it up.”
“Yes. I did.” She was never going to live this down and supposed she had to take her hits. She deserved them. Thankfully, she wasn’t normally wrong or she’d be out of a job. “It was difficult to tell the good guys from the bad at the moment.” Lame, Safia, really lame.
“Dragon One are the white hats, confirmed.”
It wasn’t so much of a relief. She worked alone and didn’t like bringing anyone inside her operations. Too many chances for leaks and breaks in cover. Yet Dragon One had a McGill stamp of approval and ignoring another set of expert eyes was asinine, this Op was quickly blossoming out of control.
2 hours earlier
6°21´ N, 134°28´E
Sonsoral Islands, Philippine Sea
Bridget braced her footing and sighted on the island. Like a string of pearls unraveling, the islands were scattered south of Palau. This one was nearly two hundred miles away from the main island.
She lowered the glasses and unclipped her radio, then looked to the pilothouse as she spoke. “Circle it once. There’s a better spot to come ashore in the southwest.”
Travis responded with a cheeky, “Are you questioning my topography or getting a wee lazy?”
She brought the radio up. “Funny, love, that’s not what you said last night.”
She heard the hoots from the sailors and captain, and smiled. The only two sharing a bed on board, they were the brunt of jokes often. But they’d been married too long to take offense and joined in the fun.
“I’d rather dive in, but after the ruins, I’ve got another twenty-four hours before I can go deep again.”
She was eager to return, yet she’d spent too long diving off Okinawa with minimal surface time between. It forced her to stop longer to let her blood refresh with oxygen. She clipped her radio to her belt and sighted in again. Returning to this island was her decision. Despite Jim’s reluctance, she’d pitched the side expedition to the project board. Jim was wounded by something, and the lack of trails or any reported inhabitants convinced her and the money. The prospect of animal survival worked into her Tsunami expe
dition. She kept her expectations low, but Jim deserved an answer. And well, she was just plain curious as to what had attacked him.
She lowered the field glasses and saw Jim bend over a duffle of equipment, the claw marks on his throat no longer inflamed, but deep. An invisible spray bandage protected it. Occasionally, she caught him touching it and knew the trauma lingered in his mind. The man spent most of his career inside a testing lab, just being in the field was new to him.
She walked toward him, her hand on the rail as the ship cut through the sea. “Jim, you can reconsider going ashore.” He looked up, a little offended maybe.
“I’m going. Even if it’s just a monkey surviving the storms around here,”—he zipped the duffle and straightened—”I need to know.”
She nodded and didn’t press. She had a habit of mothering her staff, but honestly, some of these men needed guidance. When the vessel came around the most southern point, she recognized the shoreline formation she’d brought up earlier on satellite. She radioed the captain to stop. They would go ashore on the rubber skiff.
A little tingle of excitement danced on her skin as she went to properly suit up. She walked the passageway, cornering toward their room when her radio hit the bulkhead. It fell, spinning across the deck, and she dove to catch it before it slid under the rail and into the sea. She barely nabbed it and crawled her fingers over it to get a better grip. Then it crackled and clicked. No one spoke. She stood, checking the setting. The frequency was off by a couple degrees. The channel was open.
She looked at the island, and for a second, wished her brother was here.
Because she swore she heard breathing.
Six
Deep Six
Satellite Intelligence
Virginia
David Lorimer checked his email first, frowning when he didn’t find a priority message. He imagined his analysis report sitting upstairs somewhere on a large stack to be read by someone with authority. It wasn’t as if he was paid per trace, but he didn’t have authorization to go further than he had. He wanted the chance.
While the report gathered dust, he was in a satellite communications room deep underground. The black hole of computers had three separate and different locks to get through the door several yards behind him. Lucky for him he wasn’t claustrophobic because inside the crypt, he lost all sense of time. More than once, he’d had the crap scared out of him because he forgot about the intelligence officer on a dais behind and to his left.
At a slick console desk with his feet on top was Major Mitch Beckham, an officer who was pretty much the voice of the strategic defense command, better known as the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He was cool though, a laid-back kind of guy, which was good. It got tense around here sometimes. With only one-half of the earphone in his ear, he listened to intelligence traffic, and despite that his eyes were closed, David knew the Major’s hand was on a control, sliding over the globe.
The dais had the perfect view of the six-foot screens on the wall in front of David’s station. He rarely looked at them, and focused on his string of five monitors. The last time he was in a pit of electronics was with Major General Joe McGill. He’d learned a lot about the man, and how intelligence really worked. He admired the people in the field. In the cheap seats, as McGill would say, it was easy to be objective. He’d heard McGill was retiring soon, and David was a little disappointed. He reminded him of his dad. A no bullshit officer if I ever met one. The three-star’s recommendation had put him here, at the beck and call of the JCS, but he lived for it. Every assignment they gave him tested his skills. And so far, so good. He twisted in his chair.
Though David didn’t have to, he addressed the major as “Sir?”
Beckham cracked open one eye.
“There’s something behind that burst.”
He made a rolling motion.
“It wasn’t garbage, but a live send. Australia post got the same burst Mariana Island did, but they didn’t start a trace till it was out of range.”
“What do you expect to do?”
“We have a section of transmission. Granted it was a mega ton of information, but sent right on the cusp of the satellite range of two birds so neither destination would have a complete piece.”
“That could be mere chance. There are hundreds of companies with their own satellites. Didn’t you conclude that a stream crossed?”
He nodded. “At this level, it would explain the red flag.”
Communications needed line of sight, direct range in a straight line. Waves didn’t bend, they bounced. Like an octagon circling the earth, signals jumped from one satellite to another till it reached its destination. They weren’t in a straight line, more like a jagged moving equator. This last one didn’t reach anywhere that he could tell. He had a piece between two points of reference, the satellites. Problem was, that was just on our birds. The rest could have bounced off of any number of birds up there. Getting clearance to examine deep classified satellite imagery wasn’t a hill he could take alone.
“You want to pursue?”
“Yes, I believe it warrants it. If anything, to confirm or deny.”
Immediately, Beckham dropped his legs off the counter and sat up, then reached for the phone. He dialed, sipped his coffee, then got comfortable again. David listened as Beck-ham pitched his case.
There was a stretch of silence, Beckham’s gaze flicked to him, then he ended the call. “You have thirty minutes to get a brief together.”
“For who?”
“Major General Al Gerardo. He’s sending his car.”
David let out a deep breath and sat back for a second, then thought, here we go again.
Sebastian treaded water, swiped his face, then searched for the twin, spotting him several yards up river. The guy wasn’t struggling and went under. Christ. He thought only his hillbilly relatives were that stupid and swam, his long arms pulling through the water. The guy bobbed. Sebastian grabbed a handful of hair and yanked him above the surface.
“No! Let me go—”
“Sure pal, I jumped thirty feet to do that.”
Sebastian dunked him long enough to lock his arm around his throat, then pulled him up for air and started toward the shore. The package clawed at Sebastian’s arm, and when that didn’t work, he reached for his weapon.
“Give me a break,” Sebastian said, then felt the ground beneath his feet. He swung the machine pistol around and pulled the trigger. It clicked. The guy inhaled and coughed again. “Now that I know the caliber of dumb ass I’ve got, tell me why you want to die so quickly?”
He didn’t respond, choking out water, and Sebastian dragged him into the shadows under the bridge. He ordered his hands on his head and searched him, finding a knife. The machine gun he used to kill the old man was at the bottom of the river. The careless slaughter told him the young scientist was up to no good in a big way. Sebastian had read Vaghn’s dossier. The kid belonged in the psych ward as far as he was concerned.
He forced his captive to his knees. Water drained off them both, a muddy river pooling and spilling down the cement incline. Sebastian removed the strap from his machine pistol and used it to secure his prisoner. He searched him again, but the guy was clean right down to the labels cut from his shirt. Professional, he thought, pulling him to his feet. Then why go for suicide? Not the way of Mercs. Anyone could hide if they knew how.
“Want to talk now and save me hours of crapola?”
“You won’t get anything. Ever.” He spat, the mucus landing on his chin.
Sebastian tisked softly, then pulled his bandana from his neck, wiped the spittle, then used the bandana to gag him. The man glared and his eyes said there’d be payback. Not a problem. Sebastian wanted some of his own. He shook water out of the machine pistol he knew was toast, then heard a motor and turned. A skiff burled a huge wake as it sped under the bridge, and a reflector glinted off the white crash helmet just as the driver raised his arm and leveled a long barreled pistol.
A real clue came when he saw his prisoner and the perfect hole in his pasty forehead.
Jason thought, I might be young but I’m not stupid. He’d expected a simple transfer. Take the boat escort to the Land Rover and drive away. What a fuckup.
Donovan, he thought, laying the blame in the Irishman’s lap. The shock of seeing him didn’t hold against being snatched out of the boat. Christ. He was surrounded by idiots, and Jason wondered who fucked him over to send that particular man. Donovan wasn’t an element he factored into this deal. He had hoped he wasn’t worth the trouble to send a chaser since he’d paid his debt. So he broke parole, big deal. As far as he was concerned, his slate was clean. Hell, leaving the country had been effortless, his prison mates proving their advantage on the outside. What little cash he had went a long way with illiterate cons. The stupid were so easy to use, he thought and though he didn’t lack for cash now, accessing his five million was impossible.
He flinched when someone jabbed his elbow into his side for no apparent reason. He didn’t know who it was, nor did he care. No one had spoken since shoving him in the car, at least not in a language he could understand, and he was fluent in three. Once they were moving, a man traded the cloth gag and blindfold for a hood, doing it so quickly, he didn’t have the chance to focus on a face. The Suit was near though. He could smell his cologne, but above that, the air conditioning didn’t help the ripeness of sweat and BO. Did no one bathe around here?
“Who were they?” a voice said close to his ear.
Jason shrugged. Let them figure it out. He wasn’t ready to give up Dragon One just yet and put Donovan’s patriotic ass in his back pocket for now.
Fight Fire With Fire. Page 9