by Vicki Hinze
Praise for Vicki Hinze
LADY LIBERTY
“There is no question that Vicki Hinze has delivered a tour de force thriller that will leave readers gasping for breath. LADY LIBERTY is the ultimate thrill ride! This book would make one hell of a movie!”
—Romantic Times Top Pick
“With its candid view of Washington, a complex plot and perceptive handling of the heroine’s gradual realization that she can love again, Hinze’s timely offering should attract thriller and romance readers.”
—Booklist
“Political intrigue with nonstop action. You’ll read this one from the edge of your seat!”
—Christina Skye, bestselling author of My Spy
ALL DUE RESPECT
“Five stars. Dramatic and moving, finely crafted military fiction that weaves a touch of romance, intrigue, and danger into every page … the find of the year. Hinze has definitely made her mark with her latest release, earning herself the title of “Queen of Romantic Suspense.”
—New Age Bookshelf
“A diverting romantic thriller.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A must read for lovers of suspense, military thrillers and classic romance.”
—Romance Reviews Today
ACTS OF HONOR
“Gripping and adrenaline-charged, Hinze’s plot will appeal to fans who like their suspense razor sharp.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Absolutely riveting.”
—Philadelphia Inquirer
“An excellent story of awakening love.”
—Miami Herald
“Suspense filled and very well written.”
—The Jackson Journal
“Utterly thrilling from beginning to end. So suspenseful you don’t want to put it down. Hinze has proven herself a true master of military romantic suspense tales.”
—Romantic Times
“Five stars. An entertaining thriller.”
—Painted Rock
“A nail-biting psychological military romantic mystery. This is one book that won’t let you put it down!”
—Affaire du Coeur
DUPLICITY
“Written in the tradition of A Few Good Men, this highly suspenseful story of a solitary woman’s fight against an evil military conspiracy is one readers won’t want to put down.”
—Library Journal
“Hinze’s suspense-filled novel is one that will keep the reader turning pages and trying to guess the next moves in a complex and intriguing plot.”
—Raleigh News and Observer
“An exciting read. Guaranteed to keep you entertained.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“A page-turner that fuses thriller and romance. Hinze has a knack for combining compelling, realistic characterizations with suspense and a romantic plot.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Keeps the suspense going until the last page. Hinze’s books demand justice.”
—The Bay Beacon
“If you like well-plotted suspense with your romance, if you like clues and curves at a roller-coaster pace, DUPLICITY is for you. It’s a page-turner, and don’t skip a page.”
—The Courier Herald
“Clear an entire shelf for this author’s work, she doesn’t disappoint, making her a sure candidate for the bestseller’s list. Very highly recommended.”
—BookBrowser
“A blazing new star!”
—Romantic Times
“Wow! A spellbinding book. A true page-turner. The way [Hinze] pulls into the action with the characters is so incredible. There are so many hurdles to overcome, so many emotions, feelings and situations that leave you reeling, you won’t want to put it down until you see the story through the very end. Bravo!”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
“[A] tautly crafted thriller … a roller-coaster ride of sizzling suspense, deadly betrayal, and courage.”
—Merline Lovelace, Colonel USAF (Ret), author of Call of Duty
SHADES OF GRAY
“With her impressively realistic portrayal of the jeopardy faced by Special Ops members, dynamic author Vicki Hinze guarantees her readers an edge-of-their-seat thrill ride. You want intrigue, danger and romance? Ms. Hinze proves she can supply them!”
—Romantic Times
“A winner for fans of romantic suspense.”
—Affaire du Coeur
“A roller-coaster ride of suspense and terror. Hinze may just have initiated a new genre. A page-turner from beginning to end.”
—Suite 101
“High tension, riveting action, and characters of extraordinary integrity and self-control make SHADES OF GRAY informative and entertaining.”
—Amazon.com
LADY JUSTICE
A Bantam Book / August 2004
Published by Bantam Dell
A division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2004 by Vicki Hinze
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Bantam Books, New York, New York.
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-307-48689-9
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
Chapter One
Paris, France Thursday, July 4
It couldn’t be broken.
Canceling the mission was not an option; he would have to proceed regardless, and if it had broken, he would not survive.
Panic shot through Cardel Boudreaux’s chest, hollowing his stomach, and the stale air inside the sedan seemed to spike twenty degrees. He dodged the steering wheel, bent double to the floorboard, and looked closer at the glass vial he had dropped.
No spillage. No milky white serum on the floorboard. The vial seemed intact.…
Afraid to believe hi
s eyes, he lifted it, pinching his forefinger and thumb, and then gently rocked the vial end to end. There was no seepage, no serum, slicking the outside of the vial.
He let the truth that he had survived a near miss settle in; lower his pulse, his heart rate. When his hand stopped shaking, he slid the vial back into its sheath, rewrapped the sheath in bubble wrap, zippered it into its gray pouch, and then returned the pouch to his backpack.
Carelessness kills, Cardel.
It did. In his profession, religiously. Leaving his damn backpack open … he must have been out of his mind.
He abandoned his rental car in long-term parking, where it would be a little more difficult but not impossible to locate, and eased his backpack’s strap onto his shoulder. Near the main terminal, he tugged his white cap down on his forehead, so its visor shielded his eyes and the U.S. flag pin attached to it was clearly visible, and then he entered the airport.
Every second of his time had been structured specifically to maximize his odds for success, including booking his flight during the airport’s heaviest departure-and-arrival traffic.
Weaving through the thick bustle of people, Cardel blocked out dins of insignificant noises and made his way straight to the concourse dedicated to international flights. Security would be tightest there, but the Consortium, who had hired his organization, had connections worldwide, and his own superiors anticipated no challenges. Yet, like any other Global Warrior worth his fee, Cardel had prepared for unanticipated events that sometimes popped up, particularly on international missions. That preparation made his fee seven figures, rather than the typical six earned by the majority, and clients always seemed eager to pay it.
For fifteen years, he had worked hard to build and maintain a sterling reputation. He left no loose ends, offered no excuses, rarely made mistakes, and had never compromised a client.
Sidestepping a mother who was half dragging, half cajoling a crying little boy, Cardel entered the restroom and took stock. Only four of the sixteen stalls were occupied. The two open rows of urinals were all in use. Surveillance cameras bolted to the wall were positioned high overhead, focusing on the entrance and exit.
Seeing nothing that hadn’t been included in his briefing, he stepped into the nearest stall, shut the door, and unzipped his backpack. Inside, he found the gray padded pouch. He pulled it out, removed a syringe and the small glass vial. His mouth went dry.
Swallowing hard, he banded his upper arm with a thin strip of rubber, filled the syringe, and then injected himself. As the milky liquid entered his vein, his fear the vial might break before he could inject himself died.
He set the vial and empty syringe on the tile floor behind the toilet, crushed them with his shoe, then mopped up the bits of glass with toilet tissue and dumped them in the toilet. Next, he saturated the stall floor with chlorine bleach. No trace of the serum could be found; the Consortium had been emphatic about that.
“Flight one twenty-seven to Miami, Florida, is now boarding.”
Hearing the tinny loudspeaker announcement, Cardel glanced at his watch. He had seven minutes and twenty seconds to finish his work and get on that plane.
Moving quickly, he uncoiled a thin, clear hose, stuffed it down the waist of his slacks, further down the inseam of his right leg. The tip cleared the top of his shoe, remaining concealed by the hem of his slacks.
He pulled a quart-size canister out of his backpack, put it in a special holster crafted to carry canisters of the same size and shape, and then strapped it to his chest. A second canister remained in his backpack.
This is almost too easy.
It was. And normally that would have concerned Cardel. But this mission should be easy. The entire operation had been in the works for over a year. Every facet of it had been scrutinized, studied, tested, and then scrutinized again.
Calm and controlled, he connected the holstered canister to the hose, slid on a nasal oxygen mask, and then buried its unconnected hose from sight inside the holster. A quick twist and the canister’s valve opened.
A clear liquid drained through the hose and puddled on the floor near his feet. Stepping into it, he coated his shoes, and then left the stall.
After walking a path before the urinals, the stall doors, and the sinks where men stood washing their hands, Cardel left the restroom, careful to keep his chin tucked to his chest so his cap would block the security camera from recording a clear picture of his face. He stepped out onto the crowded concourse and tapped a release button on the canister near his waist. A thin trail of the liquid contaminant seeped onto the floor.
Obscured by heavy foot traffic, it was not noticed.
Because these passengers were heading for destinations worldwide, they would spread the contaminant to their various flights, infect others, who would go on to infect still others, and the diffusion would be accomplished. Tracing the contaminant back to its source would be impossible. In political circles, both Paris and Miami would have plausible deniability. That was vital to Cardel’s client. Why, Cardel didn’t know, nor did he care.
“Attention, passengers. Flight one twenty-seven to Miami, Florida, this is your final boarding call.”
Cardel stepped up to the only middle-aged male security screener on duty. Slumping beside his machine, he looked bored. Heavy, dark circles rimmed his eyes. Definitely innocuous. Cardel approved the mission planner’s choice. “Long shift?”
“A double,” the screener said, grimacing. “Cutbacks.”
Offering a sympathetic nod, Cardel passed over the canisters and the oxygen certification provided by headquarters, which would get the canisters on the plane. “Rough times all over,” he said, then adjusted the nasal tabs in his mask and smiled, knowing it wouldn’t touch his eyes.
The screener didn’t smile back. He gave the certification and the canisters a cursory glance, and then passed them back. “Better hurry.” His voice sounded as flat as the loudspeaker. “They’ve already made the final boarding call.”
“Thank you,” Cardel said, and then made his way to the gate, where he produced the certification, the canisters, and his ticket for the flight attendant. It had been purchased weeks ago with a credit card that would soon disappear. These days, cash transactions and one-way tickets raised red flags with monitors. “Sorry I’m late. I got held up by Security.”
“Doesn’t everyone these days?” Totally forgiving, she quickly reviewed the certification and the numbers on the canisters. On verifying the match, she returned them, smiled, and then rushed him onto the plane.
In short order, the plane took off. When it leveled out at high altitude and they were gliding over the Atlantic, Cardel checked his watch. As if on cue, the seat belt sign went off. Right on schedule.
He left his seat and headed toward the back of the plane to the restroom. On the walk down the center aisle, he depressed the canister button and held it, silently dispensing the contaminant. Odorless and colorless, it failed to draw the flight attendants’ attention, or that of the passengers seated along the aisle.
With a casual effect, he smiled at a blue-haired grandmother seated across the aisle, and then made his way to the restroom. At this moment, only a fool wouldn’t be on edge. If the canister failed to eject …
Cardel entered the restroom, closed the door to secure the OCCUPIED sign, and removed the canister from its holster. Coolly, he dropped it into the toilet, flushed, and waited to see if the mission planners had properly prepared for the disposal.
The canister disappeared from sight.
A moment of pure joy lifted him. There was no broken vial, no jammed canister, and no evidence. Expelled from the plane, the canister would end up somewhere in the Atlantic, and the truth of its origins would be lost for all time.
He loosened his limbs, relaxed. His portion of the mission would be a success. He was out of danger on the flight, and nearly finished. Once the plane landed, he had only to holster and connect the second canister, and then to take a stroll through a couple of Flor
ida orange groves.
Piece of cake.
Pleased with himself, Cardel stepped out of the rest room—and came to a dead halt.
Bright red, yellow, green, and blue plastic cubes littered the contaminated center aisle. And among them crawled a curly-haired toddler.
In a cold sweat, Cardel stared at the child. Over the years, the mission planners had been flawlessly professional, but this time—on the Global Warriors’ most intensive U.S. attack ever—the planners hadn’t considered that a parent might put a child on the aisle floor to play so early in the flight.
Cardel blinked hard, forced himself to look away and return to his seat. He snapped on his safety belt and then signaled the flight attendant for a drink. “Scotch and water, please.”
“Yes, sir.” She smiled down at the toddler.
Cardel’s gaze invariably followed. If the child died before the plane landed, the mission would be a disaster. “Make it a double.”
Chapter Two
Texas/Mexico Border Thursday, July 4
Hundreds of U.S. flags flew on the docked cruise ship.
Tonight there would be a fireworks display that would set American passengers’ spirits soaring, but Jaris Adahan would no longer be aboard to see it. He would, however, enjoy the irony in Americans celebrating Independence Day on the very day he made them dependent.
After checking the brim of his white baseball cap to make sure the U.S. flag pin was secure, he tugged it on and then gave himself the injection that would protect him from exposure to the contaminant. He ran a length of thin, clear hose down his sleeve, holstered the canister under his arm at his side, and mentally reviewed his checklist. He had already contaminated the ballast tanks, and the handrails and decks at the ship’s exit points he would not be using to depart the ship. He had bleached his quarters, destroyed all evidence of his ever having been aboard, exchanged his passport and visa for new ones, claiming yet another false identity, and, while still at sea, he had disposed of the empty contaminant canister.