by Rachel Grant
She had nothing to hold on to. Nothing crystal clear to believe.
She mustn’t forget everyone had an agenda. For Alec, charming politician was his primary role.
He wasn’t her friend. He was a power-hungry politician who wanted to control anyone who could tarnish his image. She’d willingly entered the alpha tiger’s territory, but that didn’t mean she was prey to his predator. She wouldn’t let him control her. And she definitely wouldn’t give in to the heat that coursed through her whenever they were alone.
Chapter Thirteen
Keith Hatcher grabbed his girlfriend, Trina Sorensen, by the waist and pulled her flush against him. He kissed her deeply—probably too deeply for a public display of affection, but just ten feet from the security screen at Dulles Airport, the men and women who worked for TSA were probably immune to inappropriate PDAs after repeated exposure. And Keith was hardly a public figure who needed to keep things rated G like his new boss.
“I’m going to miss you like crazy,” Trina said.
“Same here, babe.”
She frowned. “I know your job is dangerous, but this trip was supposed to be easy. I’m a little annoyed that your first trip on Raptor business feels more like you’re going to Kazakhstan than Alaska.”
Keith shrugged. “I’ve been to Kazakhstan. I’m pretty sure it was worse.”
Trina’s eyes widened. “Really? You’ve never mentioned Kazakhstan. Was it a SEAL mission? Is it classified? I’d love to hear how—”
Keith kissed her again to shush her. They’d only been going out for a month, and he was still getting used to the fact that his military historian girlfriend was more interested in his exploits as a SEAL than most veterans were curious about entire wars. At the point at which a normal person’s eyes glazed over, Trina would start asking questions about troop morale or the underlying economic influences that pushed an individual to bow to a warlord’s commands to storm a NATO stronghold or turn to piracy on the East African coast.
She was adorable but also a little exhausting.
She dropped back to her heels, ending the kiss. “Fine. We’ll talk about Kazakhstan when you get back.”
Trust Trina to remember what they’d been talking about and to see right through his deflection. He smiled. “You got it, babe.”
“Don’t let Alec steamroll Isabel, okay?”
Keith shook his head. “You talk about Isabel like you know her. Alec is the one you know. I’m sure you remember him. The politician? My new boss? The guy who financed your bodyguard a month ago?”
Trina smiled. “Yeah, yeah. Alec can take care of himself. Isabel’s an archaeologist, and you know how the grapevine works. Erica and Mara asked around, and she’s solid. A little messed up—but who wouldn’t be after the way her brother died. Alec is a good guy, but he could have done more to investigate Vincent Dawson’s death.”
Keith grimaced. Rav might have done four hundred and twenty-eight things right in the last year, but he’d dropped the ball once, and Isabel Dawson had stepped forward and made sure the world knew it.
Because of the ongoing investigation and the campaign, only a handful of people knew the truth behind what happened to Rav—that he’d definitely been abducted, beaten, and left for dead, and that Isabel Dawson, of all people, had saved his life—but the media wasn’t likely to be held at bay for long. It was only a matter of time before the full truth came out, and for the sake of the campaign, Carey, Rav’s campaign manager, had floated the idea of casting suspicion on Isabel for the abduction. Carey had argued that Isabel had a well-known vendetta with Raptor and there’d been questions about her mental health.
Isabel Dawson had motive to abduct Rav, and her motive had nothing to do with politics, the military, special ops, Raptor’s mercenary work, or any of a dozen other reasons someone might target Rav. Even more important, unlike a foreign terrorist group, she didn’t have tools of torture or brainwashing at her disposal—and with a seven hour gap in his memory, that was a real concern—making Isabel the ideal villain as far as keeping Rav electable.
Keith had no doubt Carey wanted Isabel to be the culprit and she wouldn’t bat an eye at pinning it on her if the truth would harm the campaign.
With a perfect patsy in the crosshairs, Keith feared the FBI would begin and end their investigation with Isabel Dawson. She might well be guilty, but he didn’t like the idea of anyone being railroaded simply because they were politically convenient. He wanted Alec to win the election so he could stay on as Raptor’s CEO, but no job, not even this one, was worth selling his soul.
Alec smiled at Isabel from his seat at the table and nodded toward the breakfast spread laid out on the marble-topped sideboard. “Help yourself,” he said.
She filled her plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, and fruit and set it across from him on the small table, then turned to grab utensils. He had a tablet in front of him, the modern version of reading the morning paper with breakfast. It felt strangely intimate, sharing breakfast with him, as if this were a morning after. It didn’t help that she’d dreamed about him. Not a sex dream, but the undercurrent of desire had been there, giving the dream a sexual edge. She woke fully aroused and wishing Alec were spooning with her, his morning erection pressed between her thighs.
This was a problem.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
Her dirty mind turned his innocent question into a proposition, and she shook her head to clear it of the sudden fantasy of him clearing the sideboard with the sweep of his arm, then lifting her onto it and sliding deep inside, making her feel much, much better.
“You aren’t feeling better?” he asked, and she realized he took the shake of her head as a negative.
She felt her face flush, knowing she was turning a deep cherry red—the curse of red hair and fair skin. “No, I feel much better.”
He studied her face, and one corner of his mouth kicked up. A little smug and a whole lot sexy. “Care to share what’s making you blush?”
“Not particularly.”
He stood and plucked a strawberry from her plate, then advanced on her, slowly. She couldn’t help but feel like prey as the tiger stalked. She took one step back, then another, until the sideboard pressed into her spine. The same sideboard that had just played a vital role in her quick, hot fantasy. Her breathing turned shallow.
Alec paused before her, but he didn’t clear the marble counter. He didn’t lift her. He didn’t spread her legs and fill her. Instead, he brushed the strawberry over her lips. She couldn’t resist and took a small bite. The sweet juice dampened her bottom lip, and she licked it.
His gaze had fixed on her mouth; he let out a soft growl and bit into the berry himself.
He’d kissed her once, but she’d put an end to it before it could go too far. Now, here she was, wanting another kiss—and much more—so badly she could feel the flush spread from her face to dangerous, hidden regions.
“Your move, Iz.”
She cleared her throat. “I can’t.” Not until she was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that he hadn’t known Vin was murdered and covered it up because it would have destroyed his fledgling candidacy.
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Both.”
He nodded and stepped back, giving her room to breathe. He popped the rest of the strawberry into his mouth. “Fair enough.”
“When do we head out on our hike?”
“I’m afraid it won’t be until early afternoon. With everything that’s happened, we’ve had to rearrange the schedule. This morning, Falcon team will practice training scenarios in the simulated village and the shoot houses. I need to be there to go over the setup with them.”
Vin had described how realistic the village and shoot houses were, and she’d always wanted to see them and how the trainings were conducted. “Can I join you?”
He frowned and studied her. “They’ll be running through hostage-rescue drills. No live fire—but still, it can be intense. The team will be amped.”
She had a good idea what that meant. After all, as a teen, she’d lived on base with Vin. She’d particularly enjoyed the times he invited his fellow soldiers over. Just watching football could send testosterone levels through the roof. Much to Vin’s irritation, at sixteen she’d found it a rush to be surrounded by pumped-up nineteen- to twenty-one-year-old men in prime fighting shape. Her jailbait age combined with her brother’s threats of bodily harm to any guy who touched her ensured—much to her irritation—nothing ever happened with any of Vin’s friends.
“What does that smile mean?” Alec asked.
“I was just thinking it’s been a long time since I’ve hung out with a group of handsome, amped-up soldiers. Pretty please can I go?”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I like the idea of you getting excited about watching Fraser and Sufentes.”
She couldn’t help but grin. “I have a feeling you can hold your own with Brad and Nate. Besides, Brad’s taken.” Truthfully, she wanted to see Alec—and only Alec—in soldier mode. “I promise to stay out of the way.”
His mouth quirked up at one corner. “Your reputation for getting in the way precedes you.” His eyes were a warm blue, and she realized the swelling was now completely gone. “But this might be the only way to keep you out of trouble while I’m with Falcon.” He nodded. “Fine. You can join us.”
“Thank you.” On impulse, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.
He slid an arm around her waist before she could slip away. “We’ll set out after breakfast.” His voice lowered as his eyes flared with heat. “Although I can delay it. One of the benefits of being the boss.”
She imagined the cold marble of the sideboard under her bare ass, her head banging into the wall as he pounded into her. So very, very tempting. She cleared her throat. “No. After breakfast is fine.”
“How many people do you have to play the market crowd?” Alec asked Nicole as they strolled between the rows of wooden stalls in the fake outdoor market.
Two rows away, Isabel paused to admire the setting. The stalls were set up to simulate an open-air market in the Middle East or any of a dozen different terrorist hotspots. According to Nate, they had different “product” props to fill the tables, depending on which scenario they were running. Today the tables were empty, the props stored in Conex boxes tucked in the woods well away from the training area, so as not to interfere with the authenticity of the setting.
Nicole and Alec were conferring about the training for US Army soldiers that would begin on Wednesday as Nate gave her a tour of the facility.
“Isn’t it a little cold for a Middle Eastern market?” she asked.
Nate fixed her with a look and cleared his throat. “Um, well, that’s why we like to run these trainings in the summer, but since we were closed the last two months—”
She pursed her lips, duly chagrined. “My intention was never—”
Nate smiled and held up a hand to cut her off. “Wars and markets aren’t confined to the summer. We’re going to set this up to simulate an Afghani market, and we’re going to run two different scenarios—one is going to be US soldiers in the market finding themselves targeted by Taliban; the other is going to be a hostage scenario.”
Isabel gazed across the stalls to where Alec spoke to Nicole. “The soldiers, when they show up for the training, do they know what to expect?”
“No. Everyone starts out at the simulated base camp two clicks from here. Their CO will assign them all duties. Not even the CO will know exactly what we have in store. Several soldiers will be sent here with operatives who are playing the role of Afghan military personnel training under the US soldiers. While in the market, the Afghan trainees might turn traitor or be targeted by Afghan civilians, or they might come across a suicide bomber, or the Taliban can show up and take hostages.”
“Who plays the villain in those scenarios?”
Nate grimaced. “Falcon team always plays the Tangos—the target, or villains. It’s the price of being on the top team.” He shrugged. “But we get to play good-guy roles too, so it balances out.”
“When you’re playing the good guys, do you know what’s going to happen?”
“No. The only people who know the full details of the Tango’s plan are the operatives who are given the role of Tangos, plus Nic, and Rav, if he’s visiting. Sometimes Nic will assign Tangos conflicting plans—they won’t be working together. Like ISIS and al Qaeda, we can have two factions who are out to screw everyone, but they haven’t communicated with each other their particular plans.”
“So what are you going to do here today?”
“Today we’re scouting out vulnerabilities. Where the worst place to be caught in the market is, what attacks are easiest and hardest to defend. I think Nic already has this week’s training outlined, but Rav always has tweaks he likes to toss in at the end.”
At a sharp whistle from Nicole, Nate left her side to receive his orders. Isabel hung back, trying to stay out of the way as promised.
It was fascinating to watch Falcon work as a team as they walked through the market and discussed tactics and training measures with a level of detail that sounded like a foreign language.
Engrossed in his work, Alec seemed to have forgotten Isabel’s presence, which pleased her—the last thing she wanted was to be a distraction here—plus she could study him, unobserved, as he directed the team, asked questions of Nicole, and mapped out his plans for the training.
From the market, they moved on to a brand-new shoot house. Brad had explained the purpose of the shoot houses to her about a month after she was arrested, and she knew Vin had found the shoot house trainings to be the most intense.
The shoot house was usually used for hostage scenarios. Soldiers were expected to work their way through the house, clearing each room by taking out Tangos without shooting hostages, women, or children—unless the women attacked.
They sometimes ran scenarios with Raptor operatives acting as Tangos, hostages, and innocent civilians. Those were dry-fire trainings, in which everyone used unloaded guns. When dummies or photos were used to represent Tangos and hostages, then live fire was used. The walls were constructed with a special concrete that absorbed bullets with less scarring, so the house would stand up to several years’ worth of trainings.
Months ago, Isabel had been down range from a shoot house during one of the live-fire trainings, when she’d been spotted and arrested. Alec’s concern was well warranted, she could see now, because while the concrete walls did stop bullets, there were windows on the south side of the building, and portions of the structure lacked a roof, so there were opportunities for strays. There was a wide buffer zone that was off-limits, and instructors watched those exercises from an observation post on a hill above the shoot house, which was enclosed in bulletproof glass, so they could watch the portions in the roofless rooms as well as a video feed of the action in the roofed sections of the house.
The video feed from the shoot house—and all the training ground settings—went to God’s Eye, back at the compound, where Nicole was usually situated when trainings were in progress.
Today, Nicole divided Falcon into teams of two, and they ran practice drills with unloaded guns to rehearse and block the moves for the upcoming hostage scenario. Because they weren’t using any type of ammunition, it was safe for Isabel to observe the action from a closer vantage point.
Beside her, Nicole said to Alec, “With the design of this house, we can run dry-fire exercises where the hostage is moved from room to room—doubling back into rooms that have already been cleared.”
“I want to run that a couple of different ways,” Alec said. “With the connecting doorways covered by tapestries, and other times with a visible opening. I also want tapestries hung on solid walls as well, so they have to find the opening.”
“I think we’ve got enough tapestries in Conex storage. I’ll have maintenance install hooks today.”
“Good.”
Brad
and Chase finished their dry run through the building. Brad flashed a grin at Isabel and flexed a muscle. “How’d I do?” he asked with a wink. Even though it was just a demonstration for blocking purposes with invisible Tangoes and hostages, she could see he was pumped. As Alec had warned, the exercise got the adrenaline flowing.
“Not bad. But I think you took out at least one hostage in room two.”
“Nah. Clearly it was a Tango.”
She laughed.
“You want to st-stand in for a h-hostage, Isabel?” Chase Johnston asked.
She did a double take. It was the first time the man had ever spoken to her.
“No,” Alec said flatly, before she could respond.
She turned to Alec, head cocked in question. The fact that the invitation to play hostage came from Chase, of all operatives, was admittedly, a little creepy, but the exercise could be more effective if they had a clueless stand-in for a hostage in the mix. Plus it would give her a chance to be useful. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not a game. The moment we play it like a game is the moment we get sloppy and forget the stakes.”
She stiffened, offended he’d assume she’d diminish the exercise with her presence. That she wouldn’t take it seriously. “I didn’t suggest it was a game, or that I’d play it as such.”
He shook his head. “Not you, Iz.” He nodded toward the members of Falcon and stepped aside. He lowered his voice, making their argument semiprivate—or at least, the others were no longer invited to listen. “The team. They wouldn’t treat you how they must treat a hostage in these scenarios. Because they know you, they’d soften it up, make it less scary. Which means it would become a game, not an exercise. Exercise, to be effective, has to hurt a little bit.”
She glanced at Nate and Brad. Friends, but soldiers through and through. She couldn’t imagine them going easy on her, if they were instructed not to. “So tell them not to go easy on me.”
Again he shook his head. “You don’t get it. I can’t do that. I won’t do that. When people are assigned roles—victim, traitor, terrorist, bystander—we run it as real as possible. Every time. We never play. Hostages are tied up. Possibly gagged. Gun to the head. And I’m telling you right now, I will not allow Brad to hold a gun to your head. I don’t give a fuck if I’ve checked it first and know without a shadow of a doubt there isn’t a bullet within a hundred yards of the chamber. It’s not gonna happen. Not even with a prop.”