Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set

by Allan Leverone

  Tracie stared at Stallings, her mouth clamped shut. She knew what he was going to say.

  Didn’t want to hear it.

  Waited for him to continue.

  “J. Robert Humphries, that’s who. The man who lost a finger to those animals. He talked the president out of retaliating. And do you want to know why?”

  Again Tracie refused to speak.

  Again Stallings continued. “The Soviet Union is crumbling before our eyes. Four decades of fear and mistrust of our most significant enemy since the end of World War Two are coming to an end. The American people are not ready to face a new enemy, they’re not ready to turn in an entirely new direction and see nothing but trouble on that horizon.”

  Finally, Tracie had heard enough. “But the trouble is still going to be there, whether we bury our heads in the sand or not! This Iraqi operation demonstrated a level of operational sophistication that should strike fear into every single American’s heart.”

  “Thank you for your analysis,” Stallings said drily. “And I said we weren’t taking any action. I didn’t say we didn’t immediately convey to Baghdad our awareness of their treachery and their plan to annex Saudi Arabia. We made clear the consequences of such naked aggression, and our intelligence indicates that they’ve taken our warning seriously. They have already begun repositioning their assets away from their common border with the Saudis. The danger has passed.”

  “For now,” Tracie said. “You can’t truly believe Saddam Hussein is simply going to give up on the notion of annexing Saudi Arabia and gaining control of the flow of oil so critical to the West. You can’t possibly be that naïve!”

  “See, this is what I’m talking about,” Stallings said, his voice tight and his face flushed with fury. “You need to learn to keep your mouth shut.”

  He took a deep breath, making an obvious effort to get himself under control. Blew it out explosively. “You’re operational, so you have no need for this perspective, but I’m going to share a dirty little secret with you. It’s something your new pal J. Robert Humphries knows full well: there is always a threat on the horizon. There is always a nation looking to take by force that which it cannot gain legitimately.

  “Will Iraq eventually make more trouble in the world? How the hell do I know? Probably they will. But a nation can only deal with so many life-and-death situations at once, and the official position of the United States at this time is that there is no proof of any wrongdoing by Saddam Hussein, and no reason to act against him.”

  The room fell silent. Tracie considered the director’s words. Finally she shook her head. “That makes no sense to me whatsoever.”

  Stallings shrugged. “Spend enough time in Washington and it begins to make sense,” he said.

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Look at it this way,” Stallings said helpfully, the oily smile again plastered on his jowly face. “It’s these sorts of situations that permit those of us in the intelligence community to enjoy long careers in gainful employment. Think of it as job security.”

  “Job security. Right. Until you decide to fire me again.”

  “Do your job properly and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

  Tracie felt suddenly exhausted. It was barely past noon and she wanted nothing more than to retreat to her apartment and soak in the bathtub, to scrub her skin clean and remove the stench of international relations. “Will there be anything else?” she asked.

  Stalling shook his head. “Not at the moment. You’ll be hearing from me soon with your next assignment. Stick close to your phone.”

  Tracie nodded tiredly. She stood and left the room. Walked down the elegantly appointed hallway and out the front door without looking back.

  Her shoulders were killing her.

  The still-healing bullet wounds from last June ached and throbbed.

  She climbed into her car and drove home, wondering when the phone would ring.

  THE OMEGA CONNECTION

  Allan Leverone

  1

  Tracie Tanner shifted in her seat, fingering her gold cross necklace uncomfortably. The necklace had been a gift from her parents upon graduating Brown University nearly ten years earlier, and its delicate construction and expensive price tag made the jewelry risky to wear in any but the most formal of settings.

  This meant she had rarely gotten an opportunity to wear it. Tracie and formal settings were only marginally acquainted. As a veteran CIA covert ops specialist, she was much more comfortable in the field, with a gun in her shoulder rig and a combat knife strapped to her ankle, than in cultured company dressed in high heels and evening gown.

  But tonight’s dinner date qualified as a rare exception. The Congressional Steak House had been a Washington, D.C. fixture for nearly one hundred fifty years. A favorite of politicians and high-ranking bureaucrats, it represented a challenging dinner reservation for anyone not at least a cabinet-level member of the current presidential administration.

  How Marshall Fulton—a CIA data analyst with no significant string-pulling connections of which Tracie was aware—had managed to score a table at seven-thirty on a Friday evening she had no idea, and Marshall wasn’t saying. He offered her a dazzling grin when Tracie broached the subject, making him look exactly like a little kid who had just learned to ride his bike.

  “You’re not the only one with a secret or two,” he said with a wink. His white teeth contrasted with the chocolate-brown of his skin when he smiled, instantly transforming a good-looking man into a breathtakingly handsome one.

  Tracie laughed, losing at least a little of the discomfort that had plagued her since accepting the dinner-date invitation. She had only agreed to the date out of a sense of obligation after a chance remark during an extremely stressful night a few weeks ago. But she had come to realize that being alone with your regrets could be the worst thing in the world.

  Marshall almost seemed to read her mind. “If I’m being honest,” he said, his smile never wavering, “I wasn’t at all certain you would accept when I asked you out.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  “Well, we do make a rather…unusual-looking couple, even in a supposedly enlightened city like Washington, DC, and even in the supposedly enlightened year of 1987. I was afraid you might not want to put up with the hassle.”

  Tracie returned his smile. “That’s how you would describe us? ‘Unusual-looking’?”

  “Well, you know what I mean.”

  She nodded. “You mean a Mack truck-sized black man walking around with a petite, redheaded white woman on his arm.”

  “Nah.” Marshall waggled his eyebrows. “That’s not what I meant. I was talking about a classy chick like you being seen with the likes of me.”

  The two shared a laugh and sipped their drinks. They hadn’t even been shown to their table when they had observed at least a half-dozen people do comical double takes at the sight of them.

  “Seriously, though,” Tracie said. “You didn’t really think I’d be concerned about the opinions of people I’ve never met, did you?”

  Marshall’s face turned serious for a moment. “No, not really. But I still wasn’t sure you’d say yes when I asked you.”

  “I already said yes,” Tracie answered quietly. “Remember?”

  “Oh, I remember alright. I don’t think I’ll ever forget. But you have to admit, you were a little preoccupied trying to save the life of the U.S. secretary of state at the time.”

  “As were you,” she reminded him.

  He shrugged. “I was just driving the car. You did all the heavy lifting.”

  “You’re not giving yourself enough credit. If it weren’t for you risking your career by sharing classified information, and then following me after I specifically told you not to”—Marshall hung his head in mock contrition and Tracie laughed—“I would never have been in a position to save anyone.”

  “Still, it was a hectic moment and I’d certainly have forgiven you for changing your mind. You know, after h
aving time to reflect on it.”

  “I was thrilled you asked me, Marshall. I haven’t been on a real date in years, and to spend a few hours with someone who shares so many of my interests is wonderful.”

  And it doesn’t hurt that you’re so damned handsome, either, she thought. Big, strong and athletic—he had been a high-school football star more than a decade ago in his native Louisiana and looked as though he could still fit into his uniform—Marshall Fulton cut an imposing figure in a town filled with effete politicians, bureaucrats and analysts.

  So, despite the fact she was still hurting from the death of Shane Rowley, the man she had met and fallen in love with a few months ago on an earlier assignment, Tracie had pushed her misgivings aside and agreed to the date.

  “Besides,” she teased with a smile, “this is probably the only time I’ll ever get to see the inside of the Congressional Steak House. How could I pass up an opportunity like that?”

  ***

  She decided the restaurant’s reputation for excellence was well deserved. The service was prompt and courteous, if a little off-putting in its formality, the cuisine was delicious and the surroundings exquisite.

  Without exception, the men were dressed in suits and ties and the women formal eveningwear. Tracie had felt ridiculously overdressed leaving her apartment in her only true formal wear: a full-length gown, midnight blue and studded with sequins. But now she realized she would have risked being denied entry had she elected to wear anything else.

  They lingered over dessert and coffee, their lively conversation petering out to a companionable silence. Tracie realized with some surprise she was considering inviting Marshall back to her apartment for a nightcap. It wasn’t something she did regularly—she hadn’t dated seriously in years—but she was not ready for the evening to end.

  They exchanged smiles and Tracie said, “I think we’d better consider bugging out of here. I’ve noticed the wait staff sending dirty glances our way, and I don’t think it’s because we look like Mutt and Jeff this time.”

  Marshall sighed. “You’re probably right. We don’t want to overstay our welcome and not be invited back, now, do we?”

  At that moment a tiny ice cube splashed down in his water glass with a clink. Water sloshed out of the glass and spotted his tie, and he wrinkled his forehead in confusion. “What the hell?”

  Tracie had noticed a sudden, unexpected movement out of the corner of her eye, a movement that would have gone unobserved by most. But even in this formal and romantic setting, even after a couple of drinks and the best meal she had eaten in at least a year, it was impossible to shut down the alertness and the observational acuity that had kept her alive over her nearly eight year career as a CIA covert operative.

  The ice cube had been thrown by a young man sitting three tables across from them in the crowded dining room. He looked barely out of his teens, and he was sharing a table with another young man, roughly the same age, both of them dressed in rumpled suits and ties. They carried themselves with the arrogant entitlement of spoiled brats who had been brought up knowing nothing but privilege, and who felt they were untouchable no matter their behavior because of that privilege.

  They were probably local college students, likely the sons of high-powered politicians or lobbyists or businessmen.

  Marshall wrinkled his forehead and looked in their direction. As he did, the two young men turned their attention to their table, snorting in derision and making perfectly clear they had caused the commotion and didn’t care who knew it.

  Marshall cleared his throat unhappily and Tracie said, “Kids are stupid, aren’t they?”

  His anger seemed to melt away and he turned back to Tracie. “We were never that stupid, were we?”

  “Oh no, of course not. Not us,” and at that moment a second ice cube whizzed through the air and struck Marshall on the side of the head. It then bounced off the table and skidded onto the floor.

  He shoved the chair back roughly and stood, moving with surprising grace and speed for a man his size. Tracie could see why he had been a successful athlete in high school.

  She could also see that things were about to get ugly.

  She leapt to her feet, maneuvering her small body as gracefully as Marshall had moved his large one, and darted between Marshall and the troublemakers. He had taken one step in their direction, but she threaded her arm through his and began guiding him in the direction of the door.

  She spoke quietly. “Stupid kids, remember? Let’s get out of here and leave them to demonstrate their lack of manners to someone else, shall we?”

  For a moment she thought he was going to ignore her, and then he looked down at the floor. Took a deep breath and winked. “Fine with me,” he said. “I’m leaving with the prettiest girl in this entire place, and they’re leaving with…well…each other.”

  They shared a laugh and continued toward the front door, Tracie thankful the two idiots hadn’t managed to ruin the evening. They threaded their way through the dining area, moving unhurriedly, and exited onto the sidewalk, the cool air refreshing after the crowded stuffiness of the restaurant.

  Marshall had parked on the street, at a meter a quarter-mile north of the Congressional Steakhouse, and the pair walked arm in arm, the sidewalk nearly deserted, the near-confrontation already fading into unimportance.

  They were maybe halfway to Marshall’s car when Tracie heard the sound of harsh voices, muted but distinguishable. The voices floated along the nighttime air from somewhere behind them. She knew instantly it was the pair of losers from the Congressional Steakhouse. She wondered whether Marshall had picked up on the fact that they had company yet, but his suddenly rigid posture answered her unspoken question.

  Marshall slowed his pace and Tracie said, “Forget about them. They don’t matter. Take me home and we’ll have a drink and laugh at the fact that they barely have one working brain between the two of them.”

  Reluctantly, Marshall resumed walking. Tracie could feel the air being let out of the balloon of good feelings the date had engendered in them both. The two idiots had managed to ruin the evening, after all.

  The night was clear and relatively quiet, at least for DC, and soon they could hear bits and pieces of muttered curses and punk threats:

  “…stick with your own kind…”

  “…guess she’ll find out if it’s true what they say about black men…”

  Though he had continued walking, Tracie could feel Marshall’s anger rising. The tension was building inside him, although he was doing his best to hide it from her. Soon it felt like they were moving in slow motion, walking through waist-deep water.

  She felt exactly as she had in the restaurant when the damn fools were throwing ice: things were about to get ugly.

  “…and the white bitch, she’s a nasty little slut, isn’t she…”

  That did it. Marshall stopped in his tracks. They were directly under a streetlight.

  He spun around, turning to face down the punks. Once again he moved with surprising agility. “I don’t give a damn what they say about me, but I won’t let them insult you,” he growled.

  Tracie wrapped her two small hands around his elbow and began pulling him toward his car. He was big, but she was deceptively strong and had learned over a career’s worth of CIA training how to use leverage to move bigger, stronger bodies.

  “Forget about them, Marshall,” she said under her breath. “Besides, all you’re doing by standing in the light is making a target of yourself. Do you really think they’d have the guts to come after someone your size if they were unarmed?”

  He seemed to recognize the reasonableness of her statement and turned toward the car. He moved slowly, though, as if not totally committed to the present course of action.

  Once she had gotten him moving again she reached up and pulled a diamond earring off her right ear.

  Dropped it on the sidewalk.

  Counted to ten.

  The punks were almost on top of them no
w.

  “Dammit,” she said quietly.

  “What is it?” Marshall asked.

  “I dropped an earring.”

  “I’ll go back with you.”

  “No. I’ve got this.”

  “You’re not going to fight my battles for me. I can handle those two slimeballs with one hand tied behind my back. Besides, I know you dropped the earring on purpose.” Marshall Fulton hadn’t been a successful CIA data analyst for over a decade by being stupid, nor by being unobservant.

  “I know you can take care of yourself,” she said, and she meant it. “But what do you think is going to happen when the police get here and find a large black man standing over the prone, bloody bodies of two smaller white men? What do you think the end result of that is going to be?”

  Marshall stopped, fuming. The fury and frustration radiated off him in waves. “This’ll only take a second,” Tracie said. “If you think I’m in trouble, come and finish it.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she began walking. The punks seemed surprised she had moved ahead to meet them, and for a second they stopped just outside the ring of illumination provided by the streetlight, the outline of their bodies vague and indistinct.

  Then they stepped forward.

  Immediately Tracie sized them up. The kid on the right was the instigator, the one who had thrown the ice back at the restaurant. He had one hand in the pocket of his suit jacket, likely wrapped around a knife. At least, she hoped it was only a knife.

  The other kid was either unarmed or happy to let his friend handle the dirty work. Both his hands were visible, even in the dim light, and his posture—slouched and casual—suggested a rich kid who was accustomed to getting his way without ever having to fight for anything. He was a classic follower.

  “Oh!” Tracie said, pretending to be surprised at the sight of them. “I didn’t know anyone was there. I dropped an earring and I just need to…”