Adam

by Irish Winters

  The men stood in silence watching a happy, hairy dog bounce circles across the fenced-in acreage like a little boy high on sugar. Seamus looked the epitome of ecstatic, his normal attitude about life in general. When he wasn’t tearing around, he was sound asleep. The dog had two speeds—off and out-of-control.

  “Who’s going with you?” Harley asked.

  “Connor and Izza. Donavan, too.”

  “The Mahers? I thought Reagan only wanted two agents this time around.”

  “I don’t guess Alex cares what Reagan wants.” Adam nodded, his eyes still on his dog. “The boss decided to send the Mahers when Miss Reagan announced she was going. Guess he thought a married couple should accompany a single woman.”

  “Why Donavan?”

  “He’s just bumming a ride home. He’s got family on the big island.”

  “You remember the serial number to the drone?”

  “UVZ172661. Why?”

  “Just a thought. If you can, check all the serial numbers before you take off tomorrow. Write ’em down. Alex has a gut feeling. He thinks Paul Reagan’s got something up his sleeve, or he wouldn’t have sent his daughter.”

  Adam rolled his shoulder where the wound from South Dakota still healed. “I hate it when his gut starts talking.”

  Morning sickness could wait. Shannon needed to get smart in a hurry. Determined to be knowledgeable, sharp, and professional the next time she faced anyone from The TEAM, she pushed her persistent nausea aside and fired up her laptop.

  After absorbing all the publically accessible Hummingbird Hawk UAV data she could find, she challenged her father’s secretary for a higher-level security clearance. It was late afternoon by then, and she was tired, but Shannon couldn’t hide her surprise when Ms. Brant refused her request without hesitation.

  “If he wants me to take over the business someday, he’d better change his mind. I need full access, and I need it now.”

  “It’s proprietary, Miss Reagan. You don’t have a need to know,” Ms. Brant replied firmly.

  “But you haven’t even asked him yet.” What could be so top-secret that her father kept it from his daughter? The one he’d just publicly promoted without her knowledge?

  “I don’t need to ask him. This is common protocol.”

  “Is he there? Put him on.” The more she talked with Myrtle, the more Shannon’s aggravation grew. Her father was a puzzle, saying one thing, then doing another. What? He expected her to assume his responsibilities carte blanche without knowing everything about the business? There was no way he was winning this contest. He’d made her look like a complete idiot at Mr. Stewart’s office today. That wouldn’t happen again.

  “He’s busy. He’s with a client.”

  “That client wouldn’t be Alex Stewart, would it?” That would make sense. Alex seemed like a guy to confront his problems head-on.

  “No, ma’am. Mr. Stewart is not on the calendar today.”

  “Myrtle.” Shannon heard the uncustomary ice in her voice. “You tell my father that he’s got one minute to call me back.” She gulped. Or what? She had no ‘or what’ to threaten his with. There was no reason he’d return her call just because she’d said so, but now that the demand was made... She gulped again. Might as well see what happened next. All he could do was ignore her. She was used to that.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll give him your message.”

  Interesting. Ms. Brant just called me ma’am.

  Shannon replaced the phone in its receiver, doubting it would ring again.

  Setting her frustration aside, she had to give her father credit. Despite his reluctance to share information on it, the HH was an impressive weapon system. It was similar to its competition, the very deadly MQ-9 Reaper, a predator drone built by another heavy-hitting defense contractor. Compared to the sixty-six-foot wingspan of the Reaper, the HH, with its less than two-foot-long tail fins, really was a hummingbird.

  She had yet to understand how such a small airborne vehicle could carry munitions though. The much larger Reaper boasted a maximum payload of nearly four thousand pounds. If the information on the Reagan Industries website was true, the HH weighed in at less than twenty-five pounds, and that included its high-tech docking station. There was no way the drone could accommodate much in the way of explosive ordnance.

  While she waited for her father’s return call, she continued comparing MQ-9 specifications to the HH. By the time she was through listing differences in engines, airframes, fuselage, payload capacity and overall endurance, her pride in her father’s genius knew no bounds.

  The success of the tiny HH seemed to hinge on the innovative solar battery that stored enough compressed energy to support the Hummingbird’s high-powered laser beam. That explained the lack of a heavy payload. If the industry claims were accurate, Shannon’s father had pulled off a tremendous technological coup.

  She could’ve danced at what she’d discovered. This tiny drone carried its own death ray. It didn’t need bombs or ammo. Combined with its state-of-the-art targeting system, it was nothing short of phenomenal.

  Shannon kept digging. Another claim she found interesting, if not a little terrifying: Each Hummingbird was capable of completely autonomous flight. It required no human contact or intervention once it lifted up from its docking platform with its mission pre-programmed into its tiny brain.

  Designed to serve in remote war zones where armies or secret operatives couldn’t go, the HH was programmed to dock intermittently with its docking platform. There it recharged and hooked into the main computer at Reagan Industries to receive further intelligence or instructions.

  The docking station could likewise be set up remotely. An uplink with the Department of Defense, the CIA, or any other government entity was possible, but had yet to be tested. All RDT&E (research, development, test, and evaluation) had thus far been done in-house with Reagan Industries satellites and their mainframe only. Further testing would take place at Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam in Hawaii. In two days.

  Wait. My father has satellites? Shannon didn’t know that, either.

  She thought she’d had enough until she came across a heart-stopping phrase. Artificial intelligence. That required closer scrutiny. Shannon didn’t understand everything in the technical article, but if it meant what she thought, the HH had been designed with the ability to perceive threats to its environment or hardware, and to adapt accordingly. Shannon read faster. The tiny creation could develop solutions to that perceived threat. Worse. It could select defensive strategy based on previous directives, performance and mission outcomes. The tiny drone could alter its prime directive.

  Oh. My. God. It can think.

  A full-on body shiver slammed her with images of science-fiction movies with robots rampaging across the world and killing mankind. The darling little contraption named after a sweet little bird had just taken on an entirely new perspective. What if something goes wrong with the HH brain? How do you stop a drone with a license to kill?

  Maybe it should’ve been named Pterodactyl Hawk.

  Her desk phone rang before she could think of a solution to that scary scenario. She cringed at the name on her caller I.D. Darn. It’s him.

  “You don’t need Delta level clearance,” her father roared when she’d no more than lifted the receiver to her ear. “It’s math, not literature. You’ll never understand the complex schematics or the engineering involved behind HH technology no matter what clearance you have.”

  He might as well have told her she was brainless. She took the hit gracefully. Yes. He was the math genius. One point in his favor. She opted for open dialogue instead of verbal warfare. “Am I to understand the HH can make decisions? That you’ve empowered this drone with artificial intelligence?”

  “What do you think? It’s an intelligent system,” he shot back. “More so than most humans.”

  She gulped. Point two went to him with that nasty volley. She tried warming him up with praise. “Frankly, I’m not sure what to thi
nk. It sounds as if you’ve created quite an astounding weapon if the HH can actually problem solve. That’s so—”

  “What do you mean ‘if’? The Hawk’s design is ingenious. It builds complex mathematical algorithms based on incoming data—not that you’d understand what I’m talking about. Of course, it can problem solve.”

  “Which means...?” She let her question trail away, not sure she’d comprehend his explanation, but needing to hear him verbalize precisely what the drone could do. Unless he wanted something, Paul Reagan had no use for her. She got that. He’d proven it within the last eight hours. The real question was why she’d ever thought she could please him. For a man who’d recently declared to the world that he wanted her to take over his business, he had a funny way of showing it.

  “Which means...” He blew out a big sigh of exasperation. “I don’t have the time to waste educating you in the field of mathematical deduction and cybernetics, little girl. Take my word for it. You don’t need access to secure files because you won’t have a clue what you’re reading. It’s science, hypothetical, and far above your head. It’s cold, hard logic, not fairytales and bedtime stories.”

  She winced. That hurt. His sarcastic, condescending tone hadn’t helped.

  “I want access to all company files, Father,” she said firmly. “I’m far more capable than you give me credit for, and if there’s something I don’t understand, it’s time I learn. When I have questions, I’ll ask you. If you can’t answer or don’t have time, tell me who does. Sound fair?”

  “You…” he hissed, “had to divorce him.”

  What? That came out of nowhere. “Brit was abusive, Father. What would you have had me do? Put up with a man who—”

  “He knew how to get things done!”

  Shannon gathered her courage. “He… he cheated on me. He lied.” She swallowed hard. This was not the time to tell her father she was pregnant. “I refused to live like that. Why should I?”

  “Everyone lies, little girl. Get over it. Life’s hard, and it really is a dog-eat-dog world.”

  “Don’t call me little girl,” she said, shaken at the harshness slithering over the phone. “What’s wrong, Father? Tell me. You’re not feeling well, are you? I can tell. Why don’t you ever talk to—?”

  Another deep breath in her ear followed by a clear, crisp “no.” And the phone went dead.

  Shannon closed her eyes, chastised once again, but angrier than she’d ever been. He pushed her in two very opposite directions. You’re my heir. Come join the business. But when she tried, Oh wait. You’re not smart enough. Do as you’re told. Look pretty, little girl. Just don’t get in my way.

  Shannon made up her mind. No more bullying. Ever.

  Returning her house phone to its charger, she snapped her laptop shut. The only reason she’d forge ahead with this final duty was because she’d promised Mr. Stewart. Someone in the Reagan family ought to be a man—or woman—of their word.

  Grandpa Denver’s warning came back to her in a whisper. Maybe it was time to leave. Everything and everyone.

  Chapter Six

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Adam stood at the rear hydraulic cargo door on the starboard side of the silver Gulfstream twin-engine jet aircraft. Not at all what he’d expected.

  “Thought we were flying Air Force?” he asked the gray-uniformed pilot. “What happened to the C-130?”

  The man looked ex-military, his hair trimmed high and tight. “Mr. Reagan prefers dependable transportation,” he replied without a break in his granite composure.

  Adam shrugged the dig against Air Force travel off and turned to Conner Maher and his wife Izza, also junior agents for Alex. “Looks like we’re flying in style this time.”

  “Works for me.” A spitfire Hispanic who could always dish out trouble as good as she gave, Izza smiled that dazzling smile of hers and gave him a knuckle bump on her way into the jet. “You guys go check the cargo. I’ll see what’s on the in-flight movie.”

  Adam nodded toward the open cargo door, but Connor was already headed in that direction. He offered a striking contrast to his sassy wife. She looked the part of an edgy South American jungle guerrilla, her long, black hair pulled into a tight ponytail, her cargo pant pockets full of who knew what, and a camouflage gear bag slung over her shoulders. Her signature clothing statement—two tank tops beneath her half-open shirt—added to her tough chick persona, while laidback Connor sported a brightly flowered Hawaiian shirt and knee-length shorts. Flip-flops. Sun-streaked blond hair. Tanned from his last operation in the Mid-east. He always looked ready for vacation. Izza looked ready for war.

  “Crap. They’re palletized,” Connor muttered out of the side of his mouth. “Doesn’t that figure? Reagan won’t like us opening these babies just to jot down serial numbers.”

  “I don’t care if he likes it or not.” Adam stepped into the cargo compartment where two crates stamped REAGAN IND sat wrapped in cellophane on a single wooden pallet. Red nylon packing straps ran like Christmas ribbons around and over them.

  A fierce-looking guy inside the hold jumped to his feet. “You punks got no business back here. Move it.”

  The guy was Stallone on steroids, thick-necked and big-chested, with cold, black eyes, and a Remington Rangemaster bolt-action rifle strategically positioned at chest level. He handled that weapon like he meant to use it. Adam went for the soft sell of diplomacy. “No, sir, I’m responsible for these drones making it safely to Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam. I’ll be inspecting each of them before take-off.”

  Mr. Steroids took a menacing step forward, his rifle sideways. “You’re not responsible for anything. I am, now get outta here.”

  Adam planted both feet, not going anywhere. Connor stiffened beside him. The guard glared, and Adam prepared for trouble too soon in the day.

  “It’s okay, Ramsey. I’m good with it. Open the pallets up and let him look.”

  Adam glanced up to Shannon Reagan walking toward them in all her glory. Dressed in khaki slacks, a cream-colored blouse, and sandals, she looked the part of a rich woman. On vacation. Dark glasses concealed her light blue eyes, but she had a lot more color on those pretty cheeks than the last time he’d seen her, and none of it was green. Honey-streaked brown hair spiraled down her back, held away from her face by two gold clips tucked high at the sides of her head.

  Hot babe came to mind—and a couple other body parts, too. He brushed the tantalizing thoughts away. No sense revving those engines. This hot babe wouldn’t be flying with him. Not in that way.

  The breeze on the tarmac toyed with the few loose tendrils of hair around her face, adding to her allure. Her rust-colored scarf lent an elegant air to her already regal demeanor. Full, red lips framed a pleasant smile. High cheekbones drew his attention back to her wide-framed dark glasses. Miss Reagan employed that minutia of a woman in complete control very well, the message in her eyes hidden while the rest of her long, elegant body commanded awe, if not respect.

  He lowered his Oakleys and peered over the frames in case he’d missed anything. He hadn’t. She didn’t resemble the nervous chick he’d met two days earlier. Even the chauffeur following at her heels with a small woman’s carry-on suitcase validated she knew how to give orders. With her hands relaxed and comfortable at her sides, all Miss Reagan needed was a riding crop in her hand, and her command would be complete.

  The sway of her hips was new, though. Captivating. Damned if his southern boy pride didn’t stand up and take notice with a healthy dose of ‘aw shucks, ma’am.’ Adam shifted his stance to, hopefully, adjust his crowded jeans without notice.

  “Not going to happen, Missy Reagan,” Ramsey objected, “not as long as I’m running the show. These seals are not to be broken except by your father’s hand at Hickam/Pearl, and that’s the way they’re going to stay.”

  Adam caught the condescending title. Missy Reagan? What an ass.

  She boarded the cargo ramp in two quick steps, slightly out of breath, and stra
ight away faced her father’s guard. “I said open them, Ramsey. These gentlemen have every right to inspect the cargo they’re obligated to protect. Please? It’s okay. I’ll speak with my father.”

  Adam stepped back to watch the drama. In all his military time, he’d never seen anything that matched it. There she stood, toe-to-toe with an employee, her chin stuck forward with determination. No chief or boss commanded with polite language or by asking, and this man obviously didn’t respect Miss Reagan. This was her plane and her cargo. She didn’t need to ask. She was brave, though. She took another step inside Ramsey’s testosterone zone. He squinted down at her like she had no authority over him. Like she was a bug he could squash.

  Showdown.

  When she took another half-step forward, the jerk had no choice but to back up. His square jaw clenched. His top lip curled.

  “I won’t ask you again,” she said, quietly maintaining the dignity this whack-job so did not deserve.

  At last, Ramsey glanced sideways, lowered his rifle, and whipped a USMC Night Stalker Bowie knife out of his boot holster. When he flashed the double-serrated, twelve-inch stainless-steel blade too close to Shannon’s chin, Adam’s fists clenched of their own accord. One more display of male attitude, and he’d knock Ramsey on his butt. Men just didn’t treat a lady like that where Adam came from.

  “You open all your mail with that?” Connor joked.

  Ramsey turned on him. He hadn’t raised the blade, but the threat was clear. Stay out of my way.

  Happy-go-lucky Connor shrugged it off, deflecting the bully’s attempt to engage. “No need to show me what that snazzy steak knife can do. Heck. I’m just making conversation.”

  With a grunt, Ramsey sliced the almighty Reagan foil seal, cut the plastic wrap, and undid the straps, while Connor carried out introductions behind Adam’s back. “Good to finally meet you, Miss Reagan. I’m Junior Agent Connor Maher. My wife, Izza, is already onboard. Glad you could join us.”

  Leave it to Connor. Did he or did he not just politely emphasize the correct way to address Miss Reagan? A sudden need to break Ramsey’s line of sight with Shannon propelled Adam forward. He stepped between her and the man she should most definitely fire. Spoiled boss’s daughter or not, she didn’t deserve the hostile attitude emanating from this ’roid freak.