Intimate Danger

by Amy J. Fetzer

  “Actually no,” Salache said. “But someone could have taken it upon themselves.” He seemed to think for a long moment.

  Richora frowned. He wasn’t concerned? “If not, then we are found out.”

  “That’s my problem. The woman is a witness.”

  Richora shook his head “Though she was hooded, she didn’t—”

  “I don’t care if she is blind! No witnesses or we fail.”

  His tone was brittle and absolute, and while Richora believed the woman had witnessed nothing, she’d killed his nephew. She he would kill with his bare hands and the man who helped her escape. Yet Richora agreed that the fewer eyes looking in their direction, the smoother the work would go. They’d already had to deal with one interference.

  “I have something else for you.”

  “Anything.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  “Anything can be had for a price.”

  “Your cause is not enough?” Salache tore another page out of the magazine and slipped it into a file in the desk drawer.

  “A cause is only as great as the money behind it. Are the others going to assist?”

  “They are wanted, Richora, you are not.”

  “So many secrets could spill to the wrong ears.”

  “If it does, I will carve up that handsome face so your mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

  Richora shrugged, not offended. “My mother never knew me.” And neither did yours, he wanted to add. Wealth brought a certain power and arrogance Richora never understood. He was Quechua, from the mountain tribes, raised by strangers in a mission, and dirt poor for years. Yet Salache had hidden his native origins from the world, and he wondered if the man’s lovely wife knew where he came from, his true roots.

  While Richora admired him, his skill, his cunning, and his astonishing intelligence, he was never certain if Salache created the weapons for his own personal cause, or if he wanted to sit back and watch the world terrorize itself into Armageddon.

  Choufani’s research told him that only one company manufactured that particular vellum. It was not cost effective for most printers or stationers shops to carry the brand. Its particular shade of white lavender and the scent the paper carried marked it for certain as Trazado en Flores, scribing with flowers. It was a blend of pulp and lavender, the flowers giving the paper its slight purple cast. It was feminine and not something you’d find in the pocket of a Hezbollah terrorist.

  This particular paper was manufactured in small quantities in Peru, a specialty of a small paper mill. The little company prided itself on its environmentalism by not cutting down trees and instead, using the castoffs from road clearings or mining. In a time when greed launched all causes, he found that admirable.

  He pushed through the door of the mill, and the noxious odor from outside lessened a bit. Yet he could hear the machines pushing pulp through massive strainers. The mill was well beyond the city for that reason, he suspected. Noise and smell didn’t bring tourists.

  A door to the left opened and the noise increased as an older gentleman stepped through, smiling. Antone matched his face with the ones over the desk and knew this was the owner.

  “May I help you?”

  When Antone explained that he sought the exclusive paper, the man was more than a little delighted. It was part of his wife’s design collection, but his excitement faded when Antone asked for a list of purchasers.

  “No, no, I cannot do that. I must respect privacy even for something so trivial as a purchase of my paper.”

  Antone tried to convince him. The man did not need to know his paper was somehow linked to a crime, but finally, he showed his badge.

  The old man straightened, pursed his lips. “Very well.” He turned to his files. Still the owner was reluctant to hand over the list. “These are my patrons. Mostly women.”

  Antone suspected his wife’s friends too. “I promise not to disturb your buyers, senor. This will be conducted electronically, they won’t be aware. I’m sure it’s nothing, but I must confirm every possible lead.” Antone would have a visual, but the man didn’t need to know. While his superiors were vocal, deeming the lead not worth following, Antone’s instincts said differently. If anything, he would discard it from his list of evidence and move on to another.

  The old man made him swear, and amused, Antone tucked the paper in his pocket, purchased some of the lavender paper, and left on a new hunt.

  Primate testing lab

  U.S. Army Medical Facility, Virginia

  Francine hit the lock on the door, then strode to the exam table. She checked her instruments, then looked at the wireless pod intelligence load and waited for the green flash on the screen. In the 10 cc’s of saline, the pod floated, invisible to the naked eye, and even a microscope. She placed the EEG leads on her chest, then snapped on latex gloves, her hair already swept to the side and tied off with a tourniquet. She adjusted the mirrors stacked on seven-inch-thick data files, then lifted the syringe. With her fingers, she probed her throat on the side beyond her ear, judging the connecting nerves. Using mirrors, she palpated to under the base of her skull. The cerebellum. She’d done this before, but never on herself.

  She inhaled and let it out, then positioned the thin long needle and pushed. She didn’t feel it, the area numb, but the painkiller wasn’t deep enough. The EEG registered her elevated heartbeat. Her eyes watered as she felt the needle hit a tendon. She was forced to move it, and while her nerve faltered, she didn’t have anyone to turn for help. Mentally, she followed the line into her skull and pushed the plunger.

  Done.

  Slowly she removed the needle, then turned to the keyboard, the EEG monitoring. It was the simplest way to track implantation at the start. An elevated heart rate followed by elevated white count of the body trying to reject it. Clancy had figured out how to maintain peak optimal status without rejection. She matched the white cell to the nano. Eventually the body accepted it as one cell.

  As with all the pods, they had a fluorescent tail that allowed them to follow the path. The fin would dissolve after a few hours and tracking ended. Francine could see that hers was progressing slowly, and while other enhancements would travel in the bloodstream, this was injected into the brain stem to ensure its most useful location and application.

  She felt the hum first, and walked to a chair, staggering a bit before she sat and gripped the arms. She dug in her pocket for her iPod, recording the experience.

  Prior to this, injection was done under anesthesia and the candidates felt nothing until they were wakened from the induced sleep. Bringing in an outsider wasn’t possible. While Francine offered her medical expertise in every aspect, Clancy had created it, then adjusted the minute technology to its precision perfection.

  And it was perfect.

  She closed her eyes, experiencing what no one else had.

  Clancy wouldn’t approve, not of this. It stung that she didn’t believe in the work as much as Francine did, but Francine understood her concerns. It was new, untested—and dangerous. But unlike Clancy, Francine felt it was ready.

  She was betting her life on it.

  Eight

  San José de Lourdes, Peru

  Mike was breathing fire. Not because he believed half of what Renoux said, but the man had no reason to lie and knew Mike would come find him if he did. His men snatched out of the jungle? By what, who?

  He needed reliable information. Now. The longer it took, the more likely his men were dead.

  Unacceptable.

  He slammed the brakes and cut off the engine. Beyond him were narrow streets leading in three directions, a traffic circle with speeders tearing up the road, while a man walked a burro down the side of the street. The contrast was enough to make his temper simmer, and he let out a lungful of air and scrubbed his hands over his head.

  He wanted to hit the jungle in a dead run, search, but without decent coordinates, a little gear, it would be a long haul and the jungle would kill him
.

  He knew. It had been tried before.

  Pushing out of the truck, he strode briskly down the street. Approaching the front of a tailor shop, he smelled that funny odor that came with new fabric before he slipped into the alley and overtook the narrow staircase running alongside to the second floor. He knocked. The door swung open on its own.

  Mike drew his weapon, nudging the door and sweeping the room. Gantz waved from his spot on the balcony.

  “You ass. Are you looking to get caught with your shorts down?” Mike holstered his gun.

  “I saw you coming,” Gantz said, from his spot in the plantation chair, his bare feet on the balcony rail. He tipped his Panama hat back and held up his glass. “Join me, the view is great.”

  Mike scowled at the amber liquid in the tall glass.

  Howard Gantz had quit drinking four years ago when it nearly ended his career and his life. He was on a rampage then, hunting for the killer and drinking himself to death. He’d wanted to die, to end his grief. Then he’d found the people who killed his family, and Mike took care of the rest, including drying Howard out so he could function.

  “It’s tea, taste?”

  Smiling at the dare, Mike crossed the room to the sunny side and leaned against the balcony door frame. The city, sun washed and peaceful, stretched out before them, beyond that the slope to the mountains topped with clouds, and the river in the valley below. A slice of paradise, Mike thought.

  Below, people waved. Gantz called out a greeting.

  “They think I’m a writer,” he snickered like a teenager with a secret. “Good cover actually, they leave me alone when I want and people chat like crazy if they think you’ll put them in a book. Even the bad ones want to be immortalized in fiction.”

  “That’s why they do bad things in a loud and grotesque manner.”

  “When did you lose your sense of humor?”

  “Last week, about five thirty,” Mike said, smiling for the first time since leaving Renoux’s. He didn’t have to ask Gantz why he was here. The CIA didn’t need a good reason. He was a snoop of the first water. He watched, listened, chatted, no one paid him much attention. Howard Gantz was as unassuming as air. About fifty, he wasn’t tall or striking, just the average Joe. Mike had seen him portray a priest as well as a scholar to get what he needed.

  “Any potential characters?”

  “Nah, a couple I’m watching with a source north, but pretty quiet.”

  There had to be movement, but the stone walls Mike hit told him when he unearthed this mess—and he would—it was going to be ugly.

  “I know why you’re here.”

  Mike wasn’t surprised. “My guys, they’re out there somewhere.”

  Gantz immediately dropped his feet off the rail and stood, moving to the desk. He handed over a sealed package. “Spec Ops sent this for you.”

  Though it had a DOD address, Mike knew it was from Jansen by the mark on the seal. A pass code he’d used when he was much younger, leaner, and had worked for Jansen. Triple stars. Your eyes only. He tucked it away, then said, “I need all you have.”

  “You got it. I’ve been getting satellite photos for an hour or so.” He glanced at the clock. “Out of range in about fifteen minutes, should have come for breakfast.”

  Gantz hovered over a simple desk stacked with equipment that shut into cases. His gear was anything but eye-catching. The laptop looked beat to hell and out of date, a Web cam, a couple of digital cameras, and listening equipment, but that was about it. If he had more stashed, he wasn’t showing his cards.

  “Don’t scowl at my babies, they do the job, just don’t look it. I can contact Moscow on this.” Gantz worked the keyboard. “The Falcon isn’t at the last location, I’ve been looking.”

  “It should have caught something on fire.”

  “Shoulda, coulda…not here.” Gantz tapped a key and pointed to the screen. “You’re in the right country, I think.”

  The world’s greatest superpower and the damn CIA couldn’t give him accurate intel. That didn’t bode well for the good guys.

  Mike studied the terrain. High and low country from mountains to jungles on the Peru side. They were over Peru’s airspace when they were shot down, he thought. Not Ecuador.

  “Wanna hear my theory?”

  Mike straightened. “Yes, surprisingly.”

  Gantz smiled. “The rocket that shot the UAV out of the sky knocked it farther than we think. The last UAV location was here.” He used a pen to point at the computer screen. “I think it was here.” He pointed about twenty miles or less to the east. “Now, the chopper, your guys, they were about thirty miles from the target when they were taken down. Took out the tail rudder. Then nothing. A satellite pass got the explosion but not the rocket launch. We were out of range then, but the second pass, eight hours later, showed zip. Not even smoke. There just wasn’t shit to see.”

  But there was, Mike thought, the terrifying screams pealing vividly through his mind. He rubbed his forehead uselessly. “The distance between can’t be that far, Howard. Heavy stuff hits the ground fast.”

  Gantz made a sour face, then drew a paper map from the desk and flattened it to the wall. “Sure, but I figured possible range to targets, speed of the UAV and the chopper at the time, and impact.” He slapped up tape to hold it there. “Rockets, even small ones, move at 715 miles an hour.”

  “We had satellite photos ASAP after the UAV hit to see where debris fell. The second pass didn’t show squat.”

  “Scavengers are good, but that good?” Gantz said, doubtful.

  “They’re covering a trail and trying to keep anyone out, that’s a given.” Mike’s gaze slid over the map of colored lines and math equations on the edges. “Busy, were you?”

  “I’m not just a pretty face. This is your possible theater.” He outlined the small orange triangle. “All the villages surround that area,” Gantz said. “Sometimes geologists and anthropologists get in this section to study the river tribes.” He tapped a spot in the Andes. “But it’s damn rough. Well, hell, you know that. You don’t live where the mountain, the jungle, and the river meet. Good for the gods, but us?” He shook his head. “Bad juju.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “Hey, monsoons fill the valley, mud slides off the mountain, and the river is the most dangerous in the world, especially when it overflows, what’s not to love?” He stepped back and flicked a hand toward the computer. “There you go. See what I see.”

  Mike cupped the screen and Gantz rushed to shut the curtains against the glare. “There’s a trail.”

  “Not much.”

  “I have what I need.” The spot of pale land, torn earth showing in discoloration. Satellite imagery wasn’t perfect. That would be too easy. He compared it to Gantz’s wall map and orange triangle. Dead-on. Outstanding.

  While Mike studied, Gantz said, “I didn’t get down here till two days ago. I expected you last night.”

  “Ran into a little trouble.”

  “Drugs or weapons?”

  “Five foot six, auburn haired, and Irish.”

  “God, introduce me.”

  “You’re old enough to be her father.” Sorta.

  “And this means what in terms of a piece of ass?”

  Only Mike’s gaze shifted. The reference to Clancy annoyed him, but he let it slide. “She split. Give me a topographical of this, then thirty miles east.”

  Gantz nodded, taking the GPS pilot Mike offered.

  “Are you the idiot that said there were Scuds in the mountains?”

  “Not me, hell no. Tried to tell them. Visual is poor, but the damn things are the size of a school bus. That would sure stick out.”

  “Unless they were modified.”

  “Now, there’s a thought.” On the computer, Gantz drew up the photo. Mike looked, though he didn’t need to see it. He’d studied it on the jet over here. It was a slick area that reflected light. A definite even surface on the east mountainside, but nothing that looked like
missiles. Launchers, yeah, he could see how they came to the conclusion, but the photos showed only so much. The rest had to be human intelligence.

  That would be me, he thought.

  “The rocket, what I saw on the film, was small and it probably needs a custom launcher.” The lack of heat signature still had him stumped. Mike knew weapons. He’d disarmed and destroyed more than his share, even carried several out of hostile territory on his back. It would take a physicist, and design engineer’s expertise to create something that would propel into the sky at terrific speeds without detection. Maybe someone in the DOD was looking up possible suspects. Mike didn’t have the time to wait and see. His men were out there. If they could have, they’d have left him a trail.

  Mike used the computer to do a search on Clancy. But he got stopped by firewalls, locked out to the public. He scowled at the screen for a moment before he dialed his satellite phone. “By the way, your buddy paid me a visit.”

  Gantz looked up from the GPS. “Renoux? Jesus, the guy’s got balls, huh?”

  Mike told him about Renoux’s messenger and his conversation with the arms dealer. Gantz laughed at the story, yet bagging Renoux was an obsession with him. He’d tracked the man for nearly fifteen years, managed to get a couple of indictments, but Renoux had friends in high places, people who wanted his weapons to sell and put pressure on the U.N. He received no more than a slap on the wrist and was kicked out of whatever country he’d pissed off at the time. The crappy angle was Renoux was warmly welcomed by the enemies of the U.S. and Britain. Gantz lived for the moment to stop him. Mike understood the need to nab the one that got away.

  “The bastard has the devil on his shoulder. I almost had him last year.” Gantz finished the load. “You believe his story?”

  Renoux’s location matched Gantz’s triangle, but that was about it. “Some, but he was more than pissed about it and scared.”

  “What the hell scares a man who’s dined with Saddam, a few ayatollahs, and that bloodthirsty ethnic cleansing bastard in the Congo?”

  “He mentioned sightings. Strange happenings.” Mike gave him a heebie-jeebie look.