She handed it back, the figures on the screen in the language of computer science.
Richora glanced, frowned, clearly confused. Clancy was hoping he was too proud to admit he didn’t understand.
“Explain this as well.”
It was classified. To do so was treason and she’d already pushed her limits to get here. “No.”
Suddenly Richora grabbed it and threw it against the wall. Clancy flinched as it hit and shattered. She closed her eyes, unable to look. “You bastard.” About a million bucks’ worth of hardware was in pieces.
“If it was expensive and worthy, then neither of us has it.”
He just killed the Marines. Destroying the pods was the only way to save their lives, and with no Terminator to alter the implants, Clancy was helpless. She couldn’t re-create it, and even if she found the men, what could she do now?
Then Richora pulled her purse from the floor and dropped it on the table. “Why do you have a tracking device in your handbag?”
Her head jerked up. “What? No, there isn’t.”
He turned the bag over, spilling her things, and she grabbed for some before they rolled off the table as he pulled the handbag inside out. There was a slice in the lining, obviously restitched, and Clancy’s eyes widened as he pried for a second, then held up a small rectangular chip encased in plastic.
They’ve been watching me all this time.
“You are CIA.”
I wish. “If I was, I’d be out of here by now.”
“Not necessarily.”
This man was different from the others, more refined, his accent heavy, but his diction was perfect. “Who are you?”
“That is unimportant.”
“You could be a cop on the take with the dealers, for all I know.” Though that seemed kind of obvious right now.
“I am not, let me assure you.”
“It doesn’t.” She rose and moved to the room’s only window. There were no two-way mirrors, one window, one exit. She peered out the window, judging the distance to the ground, then inspected the sill. Painted shut.
“Sit down.”
“I’ve been sitting for two days. Give me a phone. I’ll call the U.S. consulate and get out of your hair.” She had to get out of here now.
“They will not get involved.”
“Guess again.”
“They do not know you are in this country.”
She looked at him. Why would he say that? The U.S. consulate couldn’t keep track of every U.S. citizen on foreign soil.
“You could die and none would find you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Tell me the truth!” He left the chair so quickly it shot back and hit the wall. “What are you doing there? What did you see?”
“Nothing!”
“Why have you come without escort?”
“I did, you killed him!”
His rage gave his eyes a demon glow, and she was thinking up some juicy lie when he backhanded her across the face. Clancy reeled with the impact, hitting the wall, her face exploding in hot pain.
Her eyes watered and she worked her jaw. “That’s not going to get you anywhere.” She spat blood at his feet.
“You cannot escape.” He stepped close and she put her hands up.
“Okay, okay, no punching! Maybe we can work a deal.” She moved to him, her expression giving new meaning to the words Come on, honey, I’m yours. “Just you and me.”
He smiled as if she were the stupid kid in the class and reached for her.
That’s all she needed. She grabbed his wrist, dug her thumb into the apex of his finger and thumb, and twisted hard, forcing his arm and elbow backward. He reached for her, for the chair, but Clancy threw her weight into it, lowering him toward the floor. Then she slammed her knee into the side of his head. He dropped like a stone. Clancy stepped back.
“Now, that’s what I’m talking about,” she muttered, stunned it worked and warmed with her victory.
The pain in her kneecap burned up her thigh and she rubbed, then quickly searched him for the cuff keys. It took a second to get them off. She put them on him, hands behind his back, then stole his gun and a fistful of bullets.
Grabbing her purse, she swept everything off the table and inside, then dropped the tracking chip to the floor. She crushed it under her heel. Screw you, Cook.
Richora stirred, pushed up, and she kicked him in the head. He flattened to the floor and Clancy gripped her bag and looked around. Now what, smart-ass?
The window was painted shut, and there was one door with another ten policia on the other side.
Choufani moved through the blackened remains. What once stood eight wood crates high, now barely covered his boots. He squatted, pulling a pencil from inside his jacket to flick at the evidence. The piles of crates had exploded up and down into the floor. The gulley around him was more than twenty feet wide. What could have done this? A large bomb, certainly, but the depth and width of the explosion told him it was high-magnitude explosives. Yet everything was right where it had been, except contained. No real scatter, but the bodies were in pieces and shriveled.
Choufani dug, moving charred wood and burned rifle stocks. That wasn’t all that was in here, he knew. But this was all he’d been allowed to see. The group had not trusted him enough, but there had been more than small arms in the crates.
In the black debris soggy from firemen’s hoses, from the rain that had graciously fallen since the explosion—he found something angular. He started digging with his hands, the black muck climbing up his arms. He loosened the object, frowning at the long slightly curved piece that was practically untouched by the flames. Black and dense, it was as if it had melted. He tapped it on his watchband. Solid plastic? Not resin, nor steel. So then, what was it?
He lifted his gaze from the sooty block to the warehouse. Jail for arms was a great deal less…uncomfortable than for acts of terrorism. Even in Libya, they had strict ruling over crimes. If it were not so, Muammar Abu Minyar al-Qadhafi would not be in power. But was it worth dying for? Your beliefs, your country, yes, but keeping secret a cache of arms? They could be had across the border for a price. In Libya, an AK-47 went hand in hand with the rising of the sun.
In Tunisia, not so, Choufani thought.
But the dead had taken their intended target with them. Destroying their weapons rather than be taken alive. Unfortunately, this was not the first shipment.
He straightened and went to the forensic table, pieces of evidence bagged and logged. Broken jaws of teeth, a charred hand. He knew these men, and others like them. He had prayed four times a day as they did. For Choufani, they had achieved their goal.
To make the world see Islam their way.
Clancy had no way out and minutes before someone came in here and saw that she’d beaned the big jefe. She struggled to open the window, and sunlight blinked off her diamond ring, a hawking big thing she’d had redesigned after her marriage ended. It was worth too much to be pissy and toss in the Potomac, and she hoped Steven was still paying on it. Quickly, she worked it off, then pressed the edge hard to the glass, running it the circumference of the window a couple of times. It did nothing. Rats. She tried once more, harder, then tapped the glass lightly. Her eyes widened as it tipped outward. Oh my God. She caught it before it fell and pulled it inside.
Holding her ring in her teeth, she set the glass down, then pulled a chair close. She stuck her head out the window. The area was empty. She didn’t trust it. Putting the ring back on, she lowered her bag out the window. The gun made a heavy thunk when it hit the ground. Her gaze lit on the entrances to the courtyard. One at a side gate and another at the front. Side, she thought and climbed out, dropped to the ground, then slung the bag over her shoulder and under her arm.
She ducked low, running like a duck toward the gate to avoid being seen through another window. She met the edge and stopped, flattened to the wall. There were two men smoking at the front under the shade, piles of trash an
d old typewriters in the back. The gate was about forty feet ahead of her. She didn’t know if it was locked or not, and studied it for a second. Man, that’s high.
Then she heard shouts. Oh, crap. Time’s up. She bolted for the gate. It was locked, and she worked her hand through the bars to the other side and tried opening it. Not locked, but so old it was rusted in place. The pound of footsteps thumped behind her, shouts to surround the area.
Please, Goddess of the stupid people, don’t let me die here.
She ran back toward the building. Then as fast as she could, she took off, leaped at the scroll ironwork, pulling herself up. They were right behind her, and as she swung her leg over, someone fired.
The bullet hit the stucco wall, chipping away a large chunk near her butt. Oh, jeez.
She threw herself off and fell to the ground so fast she didn’t have time to get her legs out in front of her. She landed on her side, and for a moment was stunned. The voices were closer, men trying to get over the wall or shoot through the gate. Clancy pushed up, got a knee under herself.
Then a pair of heavy hands slapped on her shoulders, grabbed tight, and dragged her into the jungle.
When the woman came flying over the gate, Mike couldn’t have been more surprised—and disappointed. He’d expected to find his men. One, at least. She dropped to the ground, and he thought, That’s gonna leave a mark. Then he heard the troops, the gunshots, and didn’t think about his decision to help. But she fought him, landing a kick to his shin, and all he could do was drag her.
Out of sight, he gritted, “Stop fighting me, damn it.”
Clancy turned wide eyes toward the voice. An American. Where did he come from?
He didn’t give her the chance to ask, moving on long legs, pulling her with him, then paused long enough to toss her unceremoniously over his shoulder and grab something off the ground. Then he was off again, running hard, each jolt punching the air out of her lungs and making her want to puke down the back of his trousers.
“Stop,” she choked. “Stop!”
He didn’t.
So she cupped his rear and squeezed. He nearly stumbled. “Stop, damn it, please!” she hissed. “I can run.”
Mike set her on her feet.
Clancy pushed hair from her eyes, then reached out when the world tilted. Her hand landed on his hard shoulder. “That was unnecessary. Nice butt, by the way.”
“We have to move.”
She met his gaze and thought, He’s huge. “Who are you?”
“Help?”
“Yeah, well, I was doing okay, sorta.”
“If you wanted a bullet in your head, sure. Get moving.”
Clancy was about to bitch when she glanced back and through the trees, saw troops. She looked at him. All he did was arch a dark brow.
Great, big, handsome, and arrogant? “Lead the way.”
He didn’t wait for her, and Clancy struggled to keep up. For a big thing, he was agile, leaping chunks of ground while she raced over it.
“They took my jeep,” she said into the silence.
He glared at her and thumped a finger to his lips. He waded into the water, his machete in his hand as he turned back for her. She held out her hand. He stared at it for a second and she wiggled her fingers, her expression pleading for help. He grabbed her hand, pulled her the last couple of feet to the shore. She smacked into him, her nose to his chest.
She met his gaze. Thank you, she mouthed exaggeratedly, and his lips curved. She had a feeling he didn’t do that often. He turned away, kept the steady pace, and she thought, Somewhere at the end of this better be a bed and a hot bath, and lots of room service.
No such luck. Just more jungle.
Mike listened for her footsteps instead of looking behind himself. She barely made a sound. What the heck she was doing in jail was something he’d learn later. Right now, getting out of here was essential. He didn’t want the notice and pissing off the Federales wasn’t good any way you looked at it.
When he felt they’d lost the troops, he stopped. She slammed into his back. He twisted, grabbing her before she fell. She was winded, sweating, not unusual in this country, but she looked like a drowned cat. Wisely, he didn’t say so.
“Okay, chief, you’re gonna have to cut the pace a little.” She bent over, her hands on her knees as she dragged in air.
“It was only a mile.”
“At top speed when it’s a hundred ten out here?” She tried to put some force in her words, but it just sounded like whining to Clancy. She hated whiners. “I run five miles, three times a week for years. But you…you’d clean up in the Olympics.”
“Keep up or I leave you behind,” he said coldly, then frowned at the GPS.
Cute and crabby, who knew? “Well, that would just ruin my day,” she bit back.
His gaze flashed to hers. “You want to be a fugitive?”
“No, but I’m still wondering why they wouldn’t let me contact the consulate.”
“Maybe because the nearest one is in the capital.”
“You’re kidding.”
His frown deepened. “Who arrested you?”
“Some jefe…Richora?” His features smoothed and Clancy said, “What?”
“You pissed off the wrong guy, lady. He’s corrupt as hell.”
She’d figured that out easy enough. “Abusive, too.”
Mike just noticed her swollen lip. “Richora won’t let this go. This is his jungle.”
Clancy didn’t need an explanation. He owned the people, not the land. Richora ruled, and she didn’t doubt that the smugglers who took her jeep handed it right over to him.
His gaze moved over her slowly and she felt, well…so thoroughly undressed she looked down to see if her clothes had suddenly melted off.
“If they search you, what will they find?”
She cocked her hip. “Tits, ass, and a gun.”
Both brows shot up this time.
“What could I be hiding? They killed Fuad, took my jeep, and have my good panties and makeup.” She wanted to shout, to really let it loose, but that was just plain stupid. But whispering at him like a madwoman wasn’t helping her case either.
Mike grabbed her bag, and since it was still looped around her, the motion pulled her close. He dug in it.
“All you had to do was ask,” she said, yet understood this man didn’t ask for anything.
Mike fished and found what he was looking for. He opened her passport. “Grace Murray?”
“Here, teacher.” She grabbed for it.
He held it away, then found her wallet. It was empty except for some cash and a credit card. “No other ID? Who are you?”
Clancy just tipped her chin up, refusing to answer, and for a moment she thought he’d given up till he pulled her close and ran his hands firmly over her body. A little gasp escaped when his hand smoothed between her legs, then up the back of her thighs.
“Shouldn’t we date before you get this familiar?”
Mike ignored the sound of her voice, but this close, her words skipped down his spine. His hand slid over her tight little rear, and his look went as dark as the ocean floor.
“Interesting hiding place.”
His big hand dove down the back of her slacks and pulled out the passport. Inside it was her Virginia driver’s license. He took a step back, examining it, and then only his gaze shifted. “So, Clancy, Moira McRae, why two passports? CIA?”
“You know, that’s the second time someone’s asked me that. What is this area, spy central?”
“Other than intel operatives, people who are dealing in illegal contraband need more than one passport.”
“I’m neither.”
He studied both, then waved one. “This is the fake.”
She grabbed them back. “How did you know?” And did Phil screw it up on purpose?
“I just do.” He inspected her gun, checking the ammo. “Can you even fire this?”
She took it back. “Yes, I can, and lay the hell off.” S
he cocked the slide and pushed it down behind her back. “I’m not your problem.”
“You are right now.” He grasped her arm. “We’re going to do this the hard way.” He forced her ahead, sticking right behind her, then in front, leading her God knew where. She didn’t trust him. He was here, a little too convenient and the whole passport thing was surreal. A merc, she thought as he walked faster to the right.
She stopped in her tracks when she saw the bodies. One in the water, two on the bank. “Did you do that?”
“A sniper did.” Mike stilled, a chill of caution tightening the back of his neck. The crates were gone, not even a piece of the contents left behind.
“And where was he?”
“That’s a thing about snipers, if you see them, they’ve failed.” He waded into the water after a flatboat.
Clancy couldn’t take her eyes off the young man floating facedown. She’d seen dead bodies, many times, but something chilled over her when he pushed the corpse aside to get to the boat.
“Move it, they’re still coming.”
She looked back, frowning. She didn’t see or hear anything.
“I can smell them.”
“Whoa. How’s my perfume, then?”
“Like a dirty jail.”
“A man with no tact, how novel.”
He scoffed. “Clam up and get in.”
She obeyed, only because she didn’t have any other option, she told herself. She needed to get back on track, and that was far away from whatever he was doing in the jungle around dead bodies.
He let the boat float while he went to a thin tall tree, pulled a knife from behind his back, and chopped. It sliced through the tree in record time, and as he waded to the boat, he cut off the branches. Then he stabbed holes in the second boat, but it didn’t sink.
In the craft, his feet wide apart, he pushed them off the bank.
“Who are you?”
“Mike.”
“Just Mike?”
“All you need.”
He was scaring her. He let the boat slide over the water for a few yards as he worked off the khaki shirt. Muscles rippled inside a black T-shirt as he pushed the pole into the water.
“We’ll get to a town first.” When she started to question, he cut in. “I’m dropping you in the safest place I can find. End of story.” The sooner the better. The longer it took to find the UAV, his men, and the Hellfires, the bigger the chance they were long gone or dead. A long to-do list, he thought, and he couldn’t do shit with her along.
Intimate Danger Page 6