by Vicki Hinze
“Dr. Vargus disagrees. He says she can do it—if she will.”
“Can? Will?” An incredulous look landed on Kate’s face and stayed. “Good God, Colonel Drake, the woman lives like a monk to avoid hyper-stimulation attacks.” Kate shot out of her chair. “She can’t go to a shopping mall without getting knocked to her knees and you want her to do this mission? She works in a vault with old furniture and files because she can’t take being around us. You can’t throw her into the field at a busy border crossing.” Mutiny filled Kate’s eyes and a warning filled her voice. “She’ll lose it, Colonel.”
“Kate’s right, Colonel,” Amanda said, agreeing with her for the first time since they had entered the office. “Do this and the S.A.S.S. will fail on this mission. She’ll try—Darcy always gives a hundred percent—but she will fail. She just can’t handle it.”
“She will handle it, Amanda. She has to, she has no choice.” Sally stiffened, motioned to the chairs. “Sit down. Both of you.”
They were already sitting, but rebellion rippled off them in waves. Sally ignored it, because inside she was rebelling, too. Darcy was the only operative who could do what must be done to stop this attack. “Now, listen to me. I know Darcy’s challenges. I also know Dr. Vargus’s professional opinion on Darcy’s challenges. He’s a hundred percent certain she can learn to shield herself from the sensory input and avoid overload.”
“Not to dispute the good doctor or you, ma’am,” Kate said, her voice droll. “But this mission doesn’t sound safe enough for anyone to use it as a training ground to learn anything.”
“Do we ever have safe training grounds?” Sally countered.
“Valid point, Colonel,” Amanda said. “But Darcy would have better odds of success learning while on vacation or in some situation where she could control her exposure without consequences to others.”
“Uh-huh. Totally logical, Amanda, but also unrealistic.” Sally cocked her head. “Darcy’s had five years to do that and she hasn’t. Regardless, our backs are against the wall now. We have no choice, which gives Darcy no choice.” Knowing that grated Sally’s nerves raw. “The bottom line is that the S.A.S.S. needs her to stop Kunz from killing a lot of innocent Americans. The buck can’t go beyond there. So if Darcy has to face demons in unfavorable circumstances to make that happen, then she’s going to have to face them—and I expect both of you to help convince her she can.”
Kate had mutiny in her eye. “Permission to speak freely, Colonel.”
She had been speaking freely since entering the office. But she either didn’t realize it due to being upset, or she’d been holding her harshest opinions in check. Sally dared to hope it was the former. “Go ahead.”
“You’re coming across like these hyper-stimulation attacks are all in Darcy’s head, and they aren’t. She needs that self-imposed isolation to function and avoid the attacks. I’ve seen her have one. She suffers, Colonel. She gets little warning, can’t see clearly, loses control of her muscles—they totally lock down on her. I’ve watched her collapse and lay in a heap, unable to move so much as a finger. The whole time, she was in intense pain. This mission isn’t something she can just do anyway. That’s my point. You’re demanding more from her than she can give.”
“Kate is right, Colonel.” Amanda chimed in. “The head injury Darcy suffered in that fire wasn’t a walk in the park. She was in a coma for three weeks. Normal noise and activity are sheer torture for her.” Amanda chewed at her lip. “She’ll try, but she won’t last five minutes at a busy border station.”
“You two haven’t said anything I don’t already know,” Sally admitted. “Do you think I’ve been in a coma? Why do you think Darcy works alone in a vault? Why do you think I approved her waiver to live outside the twenty-five-mile radius to headquarters when we were stationed in DC? It’s a requirement for all of us, but I let her move to Rainbow Lake because she could be isolated and at peace there. As her commander, why do you think that I know I have this ace operative in her and yet I never assign her to missions in the field—and that’s not to diminish the value of what she does here. God knows, she’s saved our assets many times, piecing together seemingly unrelated bits of Intel. But Darcy was an ace in the field, and I could use her there. Yet I don’t. I haven’t since her injury.” Sally paused, but Amanda and Kate realized the questions she had asked were rhetorical and didn’t respond.
Silence fell between them. They all wanted to protect Darcy. In a very practical sense, she’d already forfeited her life for the S.A.S.S. and none of them wanted to ask her for more.
Yet Sally had no choice.
That truth crept through her, and the full weight of being the commander, sending others into fight, settled on her shoulders. “I’ve done as much as I can do, but I can’t protect her now. Not this time. My first obligation and responsibility is to protect Americans and, this time, Darcy Clark is my best means of protecting them. I have to assign her to this mission. Let me say this again. Only she can do what must be done.”
“I caught that, when you said it before. But, Colonel, what can she do that Amanda or I can’t?” Kate asked. “We’ve gotten the same S.A.S.S. training and we might not be aces in the field, but we sure aren’t cupcakes or slouches. If Darcy can do it, we can. You know we can.”
“No, you can’t, Kate,” Sally insisted, and then gave in to her own frustration about this. “Neither can I, or I’d do it myself.”
That admission surprised them. Amanda recovered first and asked, “Why can’t we do it, Colonel?”
Sally frowned. “Because none of us has total recall. Darcy does and we need it because we can’t bring in equipment and remain undetected.” The bluster in them deflated and resignation slid into place on their faces. Sally captured a shuddery breath. “That’s why only Darcy can handle this mission.”
Sally gave them a second to absorb the fact in that then cleared her throat and continued. “Now, we’re all worried—and it is justified—but we must move forward and stop this attack. I support Darcy and I expect you two to support her—and to help reassure her that she’s capable of tackling this mission. Dr. Vargus says that support will help her, but only if it is genuine.”
Amanda stood up. “Colonel, how can we do that? We just gave you all the reasons we don’t think she can do this mission. How do we convince her we think she can without straight up lying to her, which I am not willing to do?”
“Her life likely depends on it.” Sally stood up, looked them right in the eyes. “Get genuine. That’s a direct order.”
Knowing an exit line when they heard one, the two stood up.
“Dismissed.” Sally waved them out.
They left her office without a word, though the rebellion in Kate’s eyes had now spread through her entire body, judging by her stiff gait and ramrod spine. But Amanda would talk her around. To protect Darcy, they’d follow her order.
Grateful for that, Sally collapsed back into her chair, hoping to God she hadn’t just made a decision that would kill thousands of innocent Americans and Darcy Clark and Agent Ben Kelly.
If what General Shaw said proved true, this Kelly had guts and grit. His coming forward gave the S.A.S.S. the opportunity to save thousands of lives—an opportunity they wouldn’t have had otherwise. And Kelly had come forward knowing that if Thomas Kunz or his GRID goons or the corrupt among them ever learned of it, he’d be murdered.
Definitely, guts and grit. She admired that.
Baffled, Ben Kelly stopped the Honda Pilot he’d rented at the Okaloosa Regional Airport on the dirt road at a metal gate. He was out in the middle of nowhere. This couldn’t be the right place, he thought, and retraced his path on the GPS.
He’d taken Highway 85, passed the turnoff for Providence Air Force Base, taken a right on the dirt road exactly twenty miles north on the odometer. Secretary Reynolds had given him the instructions and he’d been very clear that there were no landmarks, just bent and twisted pines—victims of former hurricanes that ha
d ripped through northwest Florida—and dense underbrush. His GPS location agreed with the verbal instructions given. This was it. He squinted against the blazing sun. Still, this patch of woods didn’t resemble any unit’s offices he’d ever seen. There wasn’t a building in sight.
His arm propped at the open window, he looked from the heavy-duty metal gate down the six-foot wire fence. Every eight feet, a posted sign read: Use of Deadly Force Authorized. That could be typical of a dormant bombing range, he supposed, but why wasn’t there a guard at the gate?
“Drive on through.” A disembodied woman’s tinny voice echoed through a speaker attached to the gatepost, and the gate swung open.
Not exactly a warm welcome, but something in her tone appealed to him.
You’ve been alone too long, Kelly.
He grunted. At least they seemed to be expecting him. He tapped the gearshift into Drive, hit the gas and checked his rearview mirror. The tires lifted a cloud of dust. They’d likely seen him coming since he’d turned off the main highway.
Ben drove about a mile and came to a second wire fence. This one was topped with razor wire. Again, he stopped at the heavy metal gate blocking the road and glanced off to the right. In the distance, among tall weeds, he saw the telltale signs of an artillery battery. Definitely abandoned but obviously still protected.
The second gate opened—this time, without benefit of the woman’s voice.
Driving a short distance through the woods, he spotted a dilapidated shack. A beat-up trailer and two vehicles was parked behind it. Nothing else but trees were in sight. It was hard to believe this was the elite S.A.S.S. unit’s headquarters, but it stood exactly where General Shaw had described.
Pulling in front of the shack, Ben parked. The cut engine ticked and noonday sun glared off the hood of the Honda. Someone had put a little wooden sign above the shack’s cracked door that read: Regret.
Before he could decide what he thought about that, a woman walked out, looking mutinous. She was tall and lean; her hair streaked blond and curly; her jaw set firm.
She stopped six feet from the car. “Who are you?”
“Agent Ben Kelly.” It didn’t occur to him not to tell her. She was armed and looked ticked off enough to shoot him rather than ask twice.
“Let’s go.” She took yet another step back from the car.
Ben got out and his knees cracked. His legs were stiff from spending so many hours in the past two days on planes and in cars. He’d left Los Casas and driven to Corpus Christi, where he’d flown under an assumed name to Washington. He’d briefed Secretary Reynolds, who’d listened and then shuffled him to Homeland Security. They’d listened and then shuffled him to Intel, who’d listened and shuffled him to the Office of Special Investigations, who’d listened then shuffled him up the ranks to General Shaw who, with Secretary of Defense Reynolds, listened again, and then shuffled him to Florida to meet with the S.A.S.S. commander, Colonel Sally Drake.
Along about three shuffles ago, Ben had cursed himself as a fool for reporting anything, and then for not just going direct to General Shaw, since they had a history. But that was just weariness setting in. Ben had done what he’d had to do because it was the right thing to do. It had been right then and, though it had also been a royal pain in the backside, it was right now—regardless of how tired he was of repeating his story and being shuffled. Bureaucracies did have their drawbacks.
He followed the angry blonde into the shack and then, surprisingly, into a very modern and new elevator. When the door closed behind them, she issued him a warning. “If you want to live, forget what and who you see here.”
She was dead serious and not exaggerating at all. Certain of that, Ben nodded.
The door opened into a mass of modern offices. The blonde stepped out. “This way.”
She hung a right in a hallway lined with photographs of men “Most Wanted” by various governmental agencies. Scanning the line of them, Ben’s gaze lighted on the face of Paco Santana, the man whose actions had brought Ben here, and he slid to a stop. Anger burned in his stomach, but he squelched it and resumed walking, kept following the blonde, who motioned him into a conference room. In stark contrast to the falling-down shack and banged-up trailer above, everything below ground seemed barely used or brand new.
“Sit down,” the blonde said. “The colonel will be with you in a minute.” She moved back to the door. “Don’t touch anything, Agent Kelly. For the record, you are being monitored.”
What was there to touch? Six chairs and one table were in the room and not another thing. Nothing was on the white tile floor, no paintings lined the glaringly white walls, and not so much as a trash can or a pad of paper had been added or forgotten in here. He scanned the ceiling. This room, if not the entire headquarters, likely was a SCIF, a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, where classified matters could be discussed and privacy assured.
Minutes later, a petite redhead about forty walked in. Her short hair stood in spikes, and her expression was all-business. “Agent Kelly.” She thrust a hand in his direction. “I’m Colonel Sally Drake.”
Ben shook her hand. “Ma’am.”
“Please, sit down,” she said, then dropped into her chair at the head of the conference table. “Before you tell me your story, let’s make sure you’ve been briefed on the ground rules here.”
“You don’t exist, ma’am. The people working here don’t exist, and this place doesn’t exist. S.A.S.S. isn’t an elite Air Force unit assigned to the Office of Special Investigations. Sass is when you talk back to your mother and usually get your rear busted or your face slapped for doing it.”
“I see General Shaw was candid.” Colonel Drake smiled. “Good.”
The door opened and someone walked in behind Ben. “Sorry I’m late.”
Recognizing the voice of the woman who’d opened the gate, he turned to look back at her and his breath hitched in his chest. She was a captain in uniform, trim with a dark auburn mass of hair that brushed her shoulders. She glanced at him and intelligence burned in her green eyes. Beautiful came to mind and stuck. Not a conventional beauty, but a kind all her own. Very personal and very distinct.
“Agent Kelly, this is Captain Darcy Clark,” the colonel said. “Darcy, this is Agent Ben Kelly, customs chief inspector and entomologist.”
Darcy hesitated, and then took his hand. “How do you do, Agent Kelly?”
He closed his fingers around hers. “It’s Ben.”
“Darcy.” She nodded, shivered and then stepped away and took a seat at the table opposite him.
He didn’t know whether to be pleased or repulsed by that shiver, but he was certainly captivated by the woman. There was something different about her. He tried to peg it and couldn’t. Whatever it was, she had it buried deep inside, and he couldn’t repress a persistent curiosity about why.
“So, tell us why you’re here, Agent Kelly.”
He looked from Darcy to the colonel. “Didn’t General Shaw go through this with you?” He’d repeated the story so many times already.
“I want to hear what you have to say from you,” she said, dispelling any hope that he’d get out of rehashing it yet again. “Please.”
Resigned, Ben fixed his gaze on Colonel Drake—looking at Darcy Clark unnerved him for some reason—and started at the beginning. “I’m a crossing guard, so to speak, at Los Casas down on the Texas/Mexico border,” he said. “It’s my job to verify identities and inspect shipments of food and products coming into the country.” That was simplifying his responsibilities, but these were enlightened women. They’d know that. Honestly, they probably knew what he ate for breakfast most days. “Three days ago, I witnessed my supervisor, Station Chief Lucas Wexler, cut a deal with a member of GRID at our point of entry.”
“Excuse me,” Colonel Drake cut in. “Two questions. One, how do you know about GRID, and two, Wexler cut a deal with which GRID member—specifically?”
“A little over a week ago, Homeland Secur
ity put out an alert on GRID,” he said. “I read the bulletin.”
“The alert report is accurate, ma’am,” Darcy said. “Though it was on June sixteenth—eleven days ago—or it will be at 2:30 p.m.”
So precise. Ben gave Darcy a strange look, then shrugged. “The GRID member I saw is on your wall out there. Paco Santana. I recognized him from the alert photo, though he crossed the border wearing dark glasses and a hat.”
“You’re absolutely sure it was him.”
Ben nodded. “When I overheard the conversation between him and Wexler, I knew bad things were in store.” Ben folded his hands against the tabletop. “I waited until Wexler went home for the day—he always works the day shift—and then I reviewed the security tapes. Santana entered the U.S. on business as an agent for TNT Incendiary Devices, Inc.”
Darcy’s blood chilled to ice, but she sat still, watching Colonel Drake scribble notes.
Ben went on. “Frankly, finding that rattled me, so—”
“Why did that rattle you?” Darcy asked. She hadn’t meant to, but the question popped out of her mouth before she realized she had asked it.
He swung his gaze to meet hers. “Because the name of the company nagged at me. I’d heard it before. I couldn’t remember where or why, but getting that bad feeling, I checked it out on the Net. They manufacture fireworks in Mexico,” he said.
Darcy grasped the connection. “And last October tenth, that company won the contract awarded for the July Fourth fireworks celebration.”
“That’s right,” Ben said, clearly surprised she’d made the connection without first researching.
Colonel Drake picked up on the high tension, stopped scrawling and stared at Darcy. “What fireworks celebration? Where?”
Darcy and Ben locked gazes, their worry shooting back and forth between them. Ben, not Darcy, answered the colonel. “The White House.”
Chapter Two