by Meryl Sawyer
Kyle’s kiss nearly annihilated her defenses. Why? There’d been no finesse to it. His kiss had been bold, utterly masculine. Unbelievably erotic. She had come dangerously close to throwing her arms around him, and kissing him back.
Why didn’t you tell him something—to appease him—when he asked why you were angry?
The last round shot out of the Colt, and she lowered her hand, examining her motives. She’d kept the door to the past securely locked for so long. She didn’t want the bleak, mind-numbing darkness to drag her under again—if she opened the door to the past.
Long ago, she’d suffered terribly, coming precariously close to snapping. And lost the one thing she loved beyond measure. She couldn’t afford to open the black box of her former life again.
She would have sworn she had locked the door to the past—until he kissed her. The minute he’d pulled her into his arms, she’d experienced the same surge of passion she’d had the first time he’d kissed her. Oh, for God’s sake. She’d been fifteen then, enthralled by first love. Puppy love.
It had taken her years to get over Kyle, long, lonely years complicated by her mother’s quick remarriage followed by her suicide that contributed to Jennifer’s own battle with depression. Jennifer had found herself on a farm in rural Georgia with a stepfather who was the only person she could turn to for help.
Hiram Whitmore guided her through her ordeal and the dark days that followed. Two years later, when tragedy again struck, her stepfather pulled her through. He taught her to care for the bloodhounds he raised and train them.
Working with puppies, preparing them for search and rescue work had given her a purpose in life at a time when she’d been in the depths of despair. Like a whirlpool of blackness, the dark vortex of mind-numbing grief had threatened to drag her under.
It had been a miserable experience, and some part of her would never get beyond it. But blaming Kyle for what happened wasn’t fair.
She hadn’t realized she still harbored such hostility after all these years until she had seen Kyle again. Suddenly, a rush of resentment and hurt too complex to be labeled mere anger had engulfed her like a blind rage. She had always been impulsive, but throwing a pitcher of margaritas at him had been over the top—even for her.
“How incredibly childish,” she said out loud as she yanked off the earphones.
It wasn’t the first time she’d realized how badly she’d behaved, but now the situation had been complicated by her unwilling reaction to Kyle’s kiss.
“Oh, Sadie, how do I deal with him?”
She looked down, but Sadie wasn’t there. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where the four-legged traitor had gone.
“Hey, Jennifer, is the smart gun helping?”
She turned and saw Brody Hawke walking toward her, covering the distance in long, powerful strides. He’d come in from the field course, and she had no doubt the handsome SEAL had nothing but perfect scores.
“I’m doing a little better,” she told him with a forced smile.
“You hit the bull’s-eye once. Not bad, not bad at all.”
“It was an accident. I wasn’t even aiming.”
“Keep trying. All it takes is practice.”
“You’re going to Cuidad del Este. Is it dangerous?” she asked, thinking of Chad, and knowing he could very well be working undercover in the same place.
“Every time you’re around drug smugglers there’s a risk.” Brody shrugged. “I guess it’s a little more dangerous because of all the Asian gangs like the Tai Chen operating out of the village.”
“I didn’t know there were Asian gangs in South America,” she replied, wondering why Chad hadn’t mentioned this. “Why would they send SEALs to an inland village?”
“If I tell you, I’ll have to shoot you.” Brody winked. “It’s top secret.”
Kyle let his gaze drift over the classroom in the barracks where he trained the antiterrorist groups. Jennifer was sitting in the third row, flirting with the guy next to her. Today she was wearing white denim cut-offs and a blue T-shirt that read:
If We Can Send 1 Man to the Moon,
Why Not All of Them?
No question about it, she was a piece of work.
Brody was standing at the back of the classroom waiting until Kyle gave him instructions. The kid was good, too good, he thought, keeping Jennifer in the corner of his eye. Kyle had to admit Brody was a real life Rambo—the way he had been once. Camouflage pants, black T-shirt, hip-slung holster, cocky shit-eating grin.
Women thought Brody was the stud to end all studs.
To hell with women, he thought. To hell with Jennifer. She preferred phone sex to kissing him. Unbelievable. Okay, maybe his ego had been inflated by too many women who’d told him he was God’s gift.
Sadie, who was snoozing at his feet, woke up and spotted Jennifer. The bloodhound slowly stood, then lumbered down the aisle, her ears flopping from side to side and her low-slung body nearly brushing the floor. She stopped beside Jennifer, her tail wagging. Jennifer snapped her fingers and pointed down. The dog obediently sat.
If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a spark of anger in those baby blues. Could he help it if her dog was crazy about him?
“I’ve asked Brody Hawke, a recent graduate of this course, to join us,” Kyle began, conscious of Jennifer’s eyes on him. He told himself it was natural—he was the instructor—but he shifted, uncomfortable.
“I wonder if any of you can tell me when modern terrorism began.”
Dead silence.
Then Jennifer’s hand shot up.
“Miz Whitmore,” he said, allowing his gaze to rest on her face for the briefest of moments before looking around the room at the other men in the class.
“Modern terrorism began during the Revolutionary War,” she said without hesitation.
What? Kyle asked himself. Once again, he wondered what went on beneath all that tousled blond hair.
“Until then, fighting had been done in formation. Troops assembled on the battlefield and marched out to meet their enemies face-to-face. But when the American colonies were established, they didn’t have the manpower or the weapons to fill a battlefield with troops. They adopted the Indians’ methods and hid in the bushes or behind trees and fired on the unsuspecting soldiers.”
“At the time, it was considered cowardly,” Brody added with a wry smile.
“No way,” interjected Mike, the sharpshooter. “What were they supposed to do?”
“Exactly,” Kyle responded, still trying to decide what kind of mind leaped to this conclusion and only half willing to admit she had a point. “Desperate people use whatever methods are available to them.”
“Whether or not we agree with today’s terrorists, they are convinced these crimes are their only way of fighting for their cause,” Brody added.
“So, modern terrorism began with the colonists,” Jennifer concluded.
For a moment their gazes fused, and his pulse kicked up a notch. Kyle wasn’t about to concede she was correct—more or less. “I believe modern terrorism began in the 1960’s with Marxist terrorists who kidnapped American diplomats to gain the release of political prisoners.”
“Long-term hostage seizures where they hold a plane full of people mostly seems to be a thing of the past,” Brody added. “Ditto kidnappings of diplomats.”
“Terrorism in the next millennium—your problem—will be very different,” Kyle told the class.
“Are you talking about the Terror 2000 report?” Jennifer asked.
Where in hell had she heard about the report? “You’re right.”
“What’s the Terror 2000 report?” asked Mike, and the other men echoed his question.
“About fifty experts in antiterrorism were asked to predict what impact terrorism will have on the United States in the next millennium,” Kyle responded.
“Which experts?” one of the men asked.
From the back of the room, Brody answered, “CIA, FBI, State Department, and the Ran
d Corporation, a think tank in California. They reported their findings to the Pentagon’s Office on Special Operations and Low Intensity Conflict.”
“The Pentagon buried the report after they showed it to a congressional committee and they freaked.” Kyle shook his head in disgust. “They didn’t want to frighten the public by warning them to expect increasing terrorism.”
“The projections in the report turned out to be true, right?”
“Yes,” he replied to Jennifer’s question. “They predicted overseas extremists would target a major financial center in the United States.”
“The World Trade Center,” one of the men commented.
“Right.” Kyle waited while the murmurs died down, trying not to look at Jennifer or notice the way the other men’s eyes roved in her direction. “They also predicted extremists would use chemical or biological agents in a major city.”
“The Tokyo subway saran gas attack,” Jennifer said.
“A dozen people killed and thousands injured,” added Brody from the back of the room.
“Right. The Terror 2000 report has been proven true.” Kyle hated government cover-ups, and this was clearly another head-in-the-sand trick by the politicians running America. “They also predicted terrorists would move further and faster in using deadly force.”
“Meaning?” Jennifer asked.
“Superterrorism. Sensational attacks.”
“Like the simultaneous bombings of our African embassies in Nairobi and Dar es Salaam,” Brody added.
“What we’ve seen is a tendency to target less defensible places—”
“We’ve become a victim of our own success, scaring them away from the public buildings and embassies with better security,” Jennifer said.
“True,” Kyle reluctantly admitted. “In the sixties, when I believe terrorism began, none of the dozen or so known terrorist groups were religious. They were mostly political. That’s no longer true. Religious zealots are much more dangerous.”
“Because they don’t care if they die in the process,” added Mike.
Kyle nodded at the sharpshooter, saying, “Then we have the home-grown crazies. There are too many paramilitary groups in this country to count. What makes them especially dangerous is the readily available information on the Internet. Three sites provide info on Semtex. Who needs sophisticated data on plastic explosives?”
“There are literally’ hundreds of sites with information on saran.”
As Jennifer spoke, Kyle couldn’t help noticing a compelling quality about her that mesmerized the other men, luring them closer, ever closer. No wonder Chad Roberts had proposed just to get her into bed.
“One drop of that nerve gas can kill hundreds of people,” commented one of the men. “Why isn’t there a law against putting info on it out on the Internet?”
“Freedom of speech,” Jennifer answered, “is our constitutional right. Don’t expect any changes. We’d be smart to keep our eyes on these Websites and their chat rooms to see if we can anticipate a problem. The minute I applied for the Counterterrorism Task Force, I went on line looking for sites terrorists might visit. That’s how I knew about the saran sites.”
With an unanticipated surge of pride, Kyle gave her credit. Jennifer might not be the best shot in this group, but she was a damn sight more intelligent than the rest of the guys. None of them even considered checking the Internet.
Jennifer was breathing a little easier now. Being in the same room with Kyle wasn’t as difficult as she had anticipated. Discussing the terrorist threat was territory she knew, an area she had studied, but hearing Kyle’s take on it was extremely thought provoking.
“Today, we’re going to begin with one of the newest pieces of equipment in the arsenal of antiterrorists—the satellite linked laptop computer,” Kyle told the group.
She stared down at the lightweight black box on her desk. It wasn’t much bigger than a paperback book and had a small antenna protruding from the back.
“This technology is like the satellite navigation systems on boats and in some cars,” Kyle continued, “except it is more sophisticated. It has a built-in modem and a special scanner. You use it the same way you do a regular laptop except this one has a high-powered battery pack built into the system. It’s a prototype of laptops soldiers will have in the field soon.”
Jennifer lifted the lid and stared at the small screen. She followed Kyle’s instructions, turning the machine on, then adjusting the Saturn antennae on the back so the computer could pick up transmissions from the satellite.
She sensed Kyle watching her. He had a disturbingly sensual way of looking at her, or maybe it was just her imagination. Suddenly, she recalled his kiss. She bit the inside of her lip to quell the flutter building in her chest.
“Identify yourself by giving your name, ID number, and entry code.” Kyle waited while the group keyed in the information. “Now you should see a box on your screen. Put your face as close to the screen as you can get without your nose touching it. As soon as you see the word ‘Processing,’ you may sit back.”
Jennifer saw the word and pulled away. “How does it work?” she asked, fascinated.
“The antennae beams the image up to the satellite. It relays the picture to a computer back on earth where it is compared to the high-definition photograph taken of each of you when you joined the program. The master computer deletes everything except one eye. The eye is enlarged and scanned again for comparison to the file photo. Striations of the iris and blood vessel patterns on the retina are crosschecked with the original.”
“That’s friggin’ unbelievable,” exclaimed one of the men.
The others agreed, awed, but Jennifer knew a little about the technology from her research. She’d wanted to hear Kyle’s explanation. He’d dodged telling them what satellite or where the master computer was located.
“Just what satellite are we using?” she asked, looking as innocent as she possibly could. She dropped one hand and gave Sadie a casual pat.
“A military satellite,” Kyle replied. “The armed forces share one, and its operation is overseen by the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”
“Worried about Big Brother?” Brody asked from behind her.
She turned to face him. “I’m wondering why we aren’t using the Environmental Protection Agency’s satellite. Isn’t it the best?”
Brody quirked one eyebrow and looked at Kyle.
“The EPA satellite has the newest high definition cameras,” Kyle conceded, and she turned, again facing Kyle. “But it’s not for military use.”
She suspected they were using it on the sly but didn’t press the point. “Whose computer processes the information?”
A beat of silence.
“It’s a ‘deep’ computer, which means—”
“It’s heavily secured.”
Kyle shot her a look she couldn’t quite decipher, then said, “Where the secured computer is located isn’t important.”
It was to her. Having a computer—God-only-knew-where—matching pictures of her eye gave her an eerie feeling. She’d gone through an extensive security check for this program. The “deep” computer knew more about her than any person living or dead.
“Your computer screens should now read ‘Access Granted,’” Kyle told them. He continued, explaining how to make the computer show the latest satellite pictures of Key West. “It’s a little tricky at first, but you’ll get the hang of it. I’ll come around and help. So will Brody.”
She heard Brody come up behind her.
“Hey, Jen, looks like you’re doing all right. You’ve got Key West on your screen already. That’s fast. Let me show you how to zoom and enhance.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Kyle watching them. He didn’t look too thrilled with the way Brody was leaning over her shoulder. She made it a point to smile ever so sweetly at Brody.
“Could we check out Thunder Island?” she asked.
“Piece of cake.” He changed the coordinates, pu
nching the new numbers into the computer. “There you go. You’re above Thunder Island, but too far up to see anything. Here’s how we zoom.” He hit the keypad’s Tab button. “Holy sh—”
“Oh, my God!” she cried as she put her hand over the screen to hide the naked bodies.
“What’s wrong?” Kyle demanded.
Brody was chuckling and she was giggling too hard to answer. Kyle was at her side in a second.
“Raven and Chuck are out on the beach breaking Rule 7,” she managed to tell him with a straight face—she hoped.
“Change your screen,” he ordered. “We’re not invading people’s privacy.”
Brody quickly punched in new coordinates, but before the screen changed, Jennifer couldn’t help noticing the woman in the top corner of the picture. It was Chuck’s sister, Lisa, standing on the balcony, watching her brother make love to Raven. Was that Plotzy standing nearby?
Chapter 7
Kyle told himself Brody Hawke was only doing what he’d asked. The SEAL was helping teach the class how to use the sophisticated satellite linked laptop computer. But why did the jerk have to stand so close to Jennifer and put his arm around her to show her how to use the keyboard?
“What am I doing wrong?” the man from the bomb squad asked him.
Kyle smiled—or tried to—leaving Jennifer and Brody. The guy might be an expert in disarming bombs, but he was about as bright as Alaska in December when it came to computers. “You need to type in the longitude and latitude for Key West in order for the satellite to know where to aim the camera.”
“Yeah, right. How do I do that?”
Kyle tried to be patient. Lat+lon coordinates were second nature to pilots and sailors, but it took a little practice to understand longitude and latitude positioning. He helped the man, trying unsuccessfully to tuneout Jennifer’s low, sexy voice as she and Brody targeted the Navy base on her laptop instead of Thunder Island’s beach.
Kyle had barely noticed the beach blanket bingo on Jennifer’s screen. He’d been too pissed with the way she and Hawke were huddled together. Jennifer couldn’t be bothered with him—the lousy kisser—but she flirted with Brody shamelessly. She’d conveniently forgotten she was engaged.