Lady Justice

by Vicki Hinze

  “What’s that?” he asked, finding himself smiling.

  “My excellent taste in men.”

  Pure sass. But he could hardly dispute her since he was her favorite. “Excellent taste.”

  Her eyes held onto her laughter a moment longer than her generous mouth, but then sadness seeped in. “Max, you’d better do it now.” She clasped his hands. “I’m trying not to be a coward, but my brave front is slipping.”

  It was all an act. Another Gabby performance. A knot lodged in his throat. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then stood up. Inside, he was a rat’s nest of nerves and conflicting emotions. But he had to do this. He had his orders.

  “Could I impose on you for one more thing?”

  Anything. Anything at all. He nodded.

  “It’s going to sound crazy but, well, I want it for me.” She gave herself a little shake and then looked at him, her eyes calm and clear and intent. “Would you please kiss me, Max?”

  Too stunned to hide his surprise, he frowned. “What?”

  “Will you kiss me—please?” she repeated, and then shrugged. “For five years, I’ve wanted to know what kissing you would be like. I’d like to find out before … well, before … you know.”

  He couldn’t believe it. She had to be razzing him, sidetracking him to break down the emotional intensity that had blown up between them. “Are you serious?”

  “Would I joke now?”

  Her earnest expression said she wouldn’t. Ordinarily, he would gladly oblige her. She wasn’t the only one who had wondered what it would be like. But under the circumstances, he wasn’t crazy about the idea. Who would be now?

  Kiss her, kill her. The two just didn’t mesh on the actions-of-a-rational-man front. Especially when that rational man recognized that, in the last half hour, the woman had come closer to arousing every sense in his body and emotion in his soul than any other woman had come in thirty-five years.

  “I’m not asking you for the rest of your life, Max. Just for a kiss.”

  “Knock it off, Gabby.” He swiped a hand through his hair and paced beside her bed, then paced again. Stopping near her, he let out a burst of breath. “You took me off guard, okay?”

  “Well, when you can get back on guard, will you answer me?”

  Amused. Her eyes were actually twinkling in the candlelight. Damn it all, she knew she’d knock him off center, asking that. “I’m on guard. Believe it or not, I don’t stay on my ass when I get surprised. I’m good at my job, too.”

  “But this isn’t about your job,” she said softly. “It’s about you. And I have a feeling you’re about as good at being you as I am at being me.”

  Torture couldn’t get him to admit she was right. But one look, and she knew.

  She tilted her head back on the pillows, looked up at him. “Well? Will you kiss me?”

  Absolutely right he would. He wasn’t giving into temper, or proving anything to her, though. Flat out, he was insane. That was the only logical explanation for it. Bending deep, he pecked a kiss on her lips. “There. Okay. You got your kiss,” he said, oddly breathless. “It’s done.”

  “That’s not a kiss, Max. It’s an insult to my imagination. Five years of thinking about this, and that’s the best you believe I can come up with?” Frowning, she lifted her arms and looped them around his neck. “Believe me,” she whispered against his chin. “My imagination is far more fertile.” Steering his mouth back to hers, she kissed him deeply, lavishly, with an unexpected mix of tenderness and heat.

  Finally, she separated their mouths and looked up into his eyes. “Do you agree?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He finally found his voice. “I agree.” Her imagination was dangerously fertile, and her kiss wasn’t friend to friend but woman to man. Now, he’d have to live with knowing that, too.

  The twinkling light left her eyes and they grew serious. Sad and serious and pleading. “Max, I want something else from you.”

  He tilted his chin into her hand on his jaw. “What?”

  “No guilt. Promise me.”

  He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t deliberately make a promise he knew he didn’t stand a chance in hell of keeping. But this wasn’t about him. It was about Gabby. She’d be doing the dying, and she wanted to do it with her mind at ease. “I promise,” he said.

  “Thanks, Max.” She let out a satisfied sigh and then released him. “Hurry now.”

  More rattled than he’d ever been in his life, he moved away from the bed and pulled out his gun. “Close your eyes.”

  She dutifully lowered her lids. “You’re a good kisser. I wish I had known that sooner.”

  “I wish you had, too.” He checked the chamber, though he knew the gun was ready to fire. It was always ready to fire.

  “So?” She opened one eye a slit and peeked at him. “Was I a good kisser, too?”

  “Oh, yeah.” His knees were still knocking. He aimed the gun, saw that the shaking extended to his hands, and remembered her memory box. “I’ll never forget it.”

  That pleased her into smiling. “Wait. I have to ask.” She opened both eyes, saw he hadn’t dropped his aim, and winced. “Are you as good at making love as you are at kissing?”

  He eyed her sharply. She wasn’t stalling, just bluntly asking. And though he saw where this was heading and he was tempted, he knew he’d already have nightmares about this for six months. No way was he intentionally going to extend that to a lifetime. “I’m not going to make love to you, Gabby.”

  “All right.” She sighed, again closed her eyes. “I guess I’ll die with a regret, after all.”

  Max had to work at it not to groan. He would carry around a bucketful of her regret and his guilt forever. Yet his logic sucked. He would still be here. Without her. He shook off his misgivings and took aim. Right in the center of her forehead …

  The director clipped the microphone to his suit jacket’s lapel. Broadcasting his message into the screening room, he greeted the potential buyers, and then began his briefing. “As you know, the Consortium successfully introduced West Nile virus to the United States in 1999. As of today, it has spread to thirty-two states. Although this proliferation has been far too rapid to be considered possible by normal means, thanks to our efforts, the scientific community broadly considers it a ‘natural occurrence.’

  “While the research grants and residual financial gains have been beneficial to all participants in this venture, the Consortium has been disappointed with the biological results of the infection itself. Roughly one in two hundred people infected get seriously ill, and only twenty percent even experience mild flulike symptoms that require medical treatment. This less-than-stellar performance is, of course, an insufficient return on Consortium members’ investments. Therefore, we have taken concrete steps to maximize profit potential through the development of a more powerful flavivirus—a superbug, if you will, referred to as Z-4027. Naturally, we have also developed a pesticide to counterbalance its effects so that we retain full control of its impact.

  “At this time, only the Consortium offers Z-4027, the vaccine to inoculate people against it, and the only pesticide developed to kill its carriers. While mosquitoes were initially used to carry Z-4027, it has been successfully transmitted to birds, horses, dogs, cats, and other wildlife indigenous to specific geographical areas. It has also successfully contaminated blood transfusions undetected. Soon, we expect to know if the infection can be effectively transmitted through a new mother’s breast milk.”

  The image on the screen flashed, and a new one replaced it. One of a busy airport. “If you will, note the man on the left of the screen, wearing a cap with a U.S. flag pin.” The man was Cardel Boudreaux; though with his chin dipped to his chest, his face wasn’t visible on the screen to the buyers. “The date was July fourth. This man was performing a trial study of Z-4027. I’m happy to report the biological results exceeded our expectations. While this trial study was limited in scope, it proved that Z-4027 is five hundred times more lethal than W
est Nile. From this one study, the virus has already spread to seventeen countries. As I’m sure you know from media coverage, the scientific community has also dubbed this outbreak a ‘natural occurrence.’ ”

  The director paused to check the monitors. The buyers’ gazes were riveted to the screen.

  Smiling to himself, he pushed a button on a handheld remote. The image on the screen flashed again, and two new images appeared, side by side: On the left, a cruise ship, and on the right, a cotton field. In both, Jaris Adahan appeared, wearing a U.S. flag pin on the brim of his hat. “The date again is July fourth. I doubt I need to delve into a deeper explanation. The medical conditions of the ship’s passengers and the medical staff who initially treated them have been well documented in the media. What is worthy of mention is that on this same day, at this same port, a shipment of fruit was also contaminated. With minimal effort and expense, both contaminations went undetected, and again, while limited in scope, Z-4027 exceeded our expectations by three hundred percent.”

  He pushed the button again. This time, images of two fields of cotton separated by only a dirt road appeared on the screen. The left field was brown. Nothing in it lived. The field on the right side of the road was lush and green with mature cotton plants nearly ready to be harvested. “Both of these fields were contaminated with Z-4027 on July fourth. The one on the left was not treated with the pesticide being offered to you today. The one on the right was treated. As you can see, the treatment was highly successful.” He allowed himself a little laugh. “This study is also why we advised all of our associates to replace their existing interests in this market with ones in Egyptian cotton. Unless treated with our pesticide, the damage to crops will continue to spread through the region. In five years, the state of Texas could look like a desert, gentlemen—if we will it.”

  Again, he glimpsed the monitors. The men were sitting on the edges of their seats, transfixed by what they were seeing on the screen.

  He flipped to the last slide. Sebastian Cabot’s photo appeared. The director felt a pang of pity that quickly faded. Cabot had been a good man who had made one mistake in his life. If he hadn’t been such an altruistic idiot, he’d still be alive. In the slide, Cabot was squatting in a vineyard, scraping the contents of a tin of pâté onto the ground.

  “This study,” the director said, “was also conducted on July fourth as a gift to potential buyers of our products. In it, the Consortium introduced a genetically altered grape louse to vineyards in California’s Napa Valley. As you’re surely aware, seventy-five percent of those vineyards have suffered a total loss.

  “The properties will eventually be purchased by Consortium members for pennies on the dollar. Market values have already suffered a swift decline that will spiral down substantially further. Then, Consortium associates will purchase those vineyards. While the land appears to be un-treatable at this time, we have the means to reverse this challenge and will do so once all of our objectives are met. In three years, California will have the best wine crop in its history.

  “All of this is evidence that once again the Consortium’s methods and means are effective. Our profit ratio is now satisfactory.”

  Setting aside the remote, the director hardened his voice. “Until now, all of the trial studies have been extremely limited in scope. But broader studies are currently under way in Carnel Cove, Florida. You’ll be apprised of the results in due time.”

  Now came the real test. The director took in a deep breath, expelled it slowly, and then went on. “Gentlemen, we have proven that anyone who wishes to can successfully launch an economic war against the United States of America. Manipulating its economy, thus its government, and the world market is our goal. This is an opt-in proposition. Your initial investment is one hundred million U.S. dollars. We anticipate a fifty percent return within one year and a three-hundred percent return within three years, when the vaccine becomes available to the public. One question is on the table tonight. In the Consortium’s economic war, will you be its ally, or its enemy?”

  He paused to let the weight and implications of that choice set in, and then delivered his final message. “You have seventy-two hours to decide.”

  One by one, the escorts led the buyers out of the building and into their waiting limousines. When the screening room stood empty, the director lifted the receiver on the red phone. “The briefing has concluded.”

  “Excellent job.” The chairman’s voice sounded ragged, like gravel over a grate. “You have three minutes to exit the building before it explodes.”

  Fear slammed through the director’s chest. “What?”

  “Three minutes.” He laughed. “I wouldn’t waste them chatting with me.”

  The director dropped the receiver on the desktop and frantically gathered his notes and slides, taking no chances on what would and would not survive the explosion.

  When he disarmed the security system and crossed the threshold of the door, the vicious sounds of that evil voice still rang in his ears, infuriating him.

  Eliminating any trace of evidence, any ability of an infiltrator identifying the building or following a trail from it to a Consortium member; the director should have expected this. He’d known the chairman was cautious—hell, he’d be dead if he weren’t cautious—but who could have predicted he would blow up the entire building? Much less, in three minutes?

  The buyers would still be within spitting distance. They would see the flames, hear the sirens, and smell the smoke. And the chairman knew it.

  The bastard was shrewd.

  And twisted.

  Chapter Twelve

  Max lowered his aim from Gabby’s face to her heart.

  That would be better. Quick and clean. No suffering. And her face would be intact for her funeral. Her mother would appreciate that.

  Gabby’s breasts rose and fell furiously. Soft. Lush. He swallowed hard, blew out a sigh ripe with frustration. Why had he had to notice?

  “Did you change your mind and decide to make love with me?”

  “No.” Now her voice was trembling. She was scared. He couldn’t shoot her when she was scared. Her eyes looked even more haunted than the veep’s.

  He wouldn’t forget it. Not ever. He’d endure nightmares. Cold sweats. Guilt. Pacing the floor in the middle of the night, seeing that look in her eyes, tasting her kiss; things like that made forever a long, long time …

  “Oh.”

  She uttered one word on a little sigh, and yet it somehow held a world of disappointment. So was it him she wanted? Or just anyone? He couldn’t believe he was even asking. Had to be anyone. She’d had no life of her own. She just wanted someone to remember her.

  But she had wondered about his kiss for five years.

  And he would remember it and her for the rest of his life.

  His common sense slid into a nosedive with his resolve. If she wanted to make love once more, then why not? They were friends, they had been attracted to each other for five years, and they wouldn’t have another chance. So what if a good man would refuse her? According to his nagging conscience, he hadn’t been a good man in a lot of years. “Why do you want this?”

  Gabby hesitated so long he thought she’d decided not to answer. But then she pursed her lips and made herself look into his eyes. “I don’t want it. I need it. Just once, I need to feel special to one man. Not loved, or anything. Just special.”

  She was about to die and she’d never felt special. Neither had Max. His heart ached a little for both of them. “You have been special. In significant ways, to a lot of people—”

  “But never to one man. There’s a difference, Max, and you know it.”

  When she laid down her armor, she really laid it down. As hard as it was to look at those deepest secrets, he could see himself in her exact situation, feeling all the things she was feeling. Grieving. Mourning. Resenting. “That’s the way it is for most of us, honey. You know that.” Very few SDU agents married, and of those who did, very few stayed marrie
d. The risks of death were high and ever present. Operatives were frequently absent from home, often for months at a time, and always without explanation. And when they were home, they had trouble shifting away from the high-wire tension that came with the job. Love, marriage, and covert operations—especially covert ops in SDU—just didn’t mix.

  “In my head, I know it. But not in my heart.” She hugged an emerald silk pillow to her chest. “Why do you think I kept the wings, Max?”

  “Because they were your first pair, after you became a pilot.”

  She shook her head and sent him a telling look. “I kept them because with wings I could fly.”

  Finally, she’d be special. “And you did.”

  “But there are a lot of pilots,” she countered. “My wings weren’t any different than anyone else’s.”

  To her, she’d been just run of the mill and more of the same. Frustration and empathy warred inside him and empathy won. “I hear what you’re telling me, Gabby. I just don’t know what I can say that will change anything.”

  She tossed the pillow aside. “Haven’t you ever wished that just once you could be really special to someone? That a woman would look at you, and you’d know she believed her world was a remarkable place just because you were in it? That the mere sound of your voice, or the most fleeting sight of you, or one touch of your hand made her feel really lucky to be alive? Haven’t you ever wished for that, Max? Even once?”

  “Every day of my life,” he answered honestly. The words had rolled off his tongue as if he had said them often when, in truth, he’d never before dared to utter them aloud. He’d barely permitted himself to think them.

  “Really?”

  No sense in denying it. “Unfortunately.”

  She sat up. The covers spilled down to her waist, exposing the frothy lace and the swell of her breasts. “Did Commander Conlee give you a timetable?”

  “Not exactly.” Conlee’s “no pain” hardly qualified.

  “So you don’t have to kill me and get right back to Home Base?” she asked, referring to SDU headquarters in Washington, D.C.