Hellfire- The Series, Volumes 1-3

by Leigh Barker

  “And do you think we’re winning?” Kelsey asked.

  “I think we’re fighting, and that’s what we should be doing. And yes, I think we are winning.” He met her gaze and raised his eyebrows. “But even if we weren’t, it doesn’t mean we should just stop trying.”

  She nodded slowly and held his gaze. She’d never heard such passion from a soldier. Usually they just fought for their families and for their friends. This man fought for all that and for the right not to be bullied.

  The room was silent for several seconds as they digested what Ethan had said, and either agreed with it or shut up.

  “We’re not here to discuss the relative rights and wrongs of our government’s policy against foreign terrorists,” said Dryer, a little self-consciously.

  Ethan nodded once. The man was right, of course.

  “You’re suggesting that Faraj is here to avenge the death of his family?” Dryer asked Teddy.

  “I would,” said Ethan, answering the question. And obliquely reinforcing Kelsey’s point about assassinations producing a new generation of soldiers bent on revenge.

  “Yes,” said Teddy, squinting at this friend as don’t butt in. “My analysis of Faraj’s movements over the last three months shows he left Pakistan a week after his family was…” He was clearly going to say ‘was murdered’. He didn’t. “A week after they became civilian casualties.”

  Kelsey tutted quietly but let it go.

  “He was spotted in Britain but escaped to Mexico before the British could net him. I lost him in Mexico for a month. Then he popped up in California. Probably just drove over the border. Easy enough if you’re not Mexican.”

  Dryer slid his coffee mug from hand to hand again and nodded agreement, but nobody was sure if he was agreeing with the ease of border crossing or the fact that Faraj was in the US. “The question we have to answer,” he said, looking at the three young agents, “is what will be his next move?”

  The agents thought about it, Ethan could see them doing just that, and he let them. Philips was the first to speak, perhaps to make up for getting shot down for his stupid ‘pity’ comment. “If this is payback for us killing his family,” he said, leaning forward for emphasis, as it says in the Mastering Meetings self-help book, “then he’s going to make a splash next. Something for the six-o’clock news.” So far so good. “I’d say a senator or maybe even higher. Maybe even—”

  “Master Sergeant?” Dryer saw Ethan’s raised eyebrows and cut off the agent in mid-flow.

  Ethan feigned surprise, as if his expression had been wholly accidental. “Hey, sorry for butting in,” he lied to Philips. “I was just thinking, that’s all.” He thought some more. Or he had gas, his expression being the same. “He’s killed a member of the air force that deployed the Predator, a marine general because the marines probably called in the strike, and a logistics colonel because they provided the weapon.”

  Philips glared at him and spoke through gritted teeth. “Thank you, Sergeant, for bringing us up to speed on what we already knew.”

  “No problem,” said Ethan with a smile. “Seemed like you boys could do with a steer.”

  “As I was saying,” said Philips, still glaring at Ethan, “I think the next target will be a high-ranking member of the—”

  “Creech Air Force Base,” said Ethan.

  “What?” Philips snapped and seemed to be having trouble breathing, or controlling his urge to lean over and rip Ethan’s head off.

  His blood sugar is probably low, thought Ethan. Maybe skipped breakfast. “Seems logical to me,” he said, with a wink at Kelsey, who decided her blank notepad needed close scrutiny.

  “Sergeant Gill is right,” said Dryer. “It is logical that Faraj will want revenge on the people who piloted the Predator.”

  That’s Master Sergeant Gill, Ethan thought but didn’t say.

  “But Creech?” said Mancini. “That’s a US Air Force base. A heavily guarded US Air Force base.”

  Dryer looked at him while he thought it through, and Ethan could see he was starting to doubt.

  “One man could get into Creech and do some serious damage,” said Ethan.

  “I doubt that,” said Mancini. “The place is a fortress. Nobody could get into a US base.”

  “I could.”

  They looked at him with contempt, but it soon faded as they began to realise he wasn’t just bragging. Finally, they believed he could. Even Mancini believed it.

  “Then that’s it,” said Dryer. “I’ll contact Creech—”

  “If you do that,” said Ethan, “they’ll up their alert level and scare Faraj off.” He raised his hand before anyone could tell him that was a good thing. “Then he’ll just switch to a secondary target. Or come back later. Who says he’s in a hurry?” He looked at Dryer. “I’ll go down there and look around.”

  Dryer thought about it and nodded. “Okay, but you take my agents.” He pointed at the clones. “No discussion on that. This is an FBI investigation. Philips, you stay and coordinate things.”

  Philips looked relieved. Maybe he had a hot date.

  Ethan looked at each of the agents in turn. A bit young—well, compared to him a bit young. Dryer wouldn’t have assigned just any agent to this high-profile case, so they were good. He met Rayford’s steady gaze. He hadn’t said anything to win points, which meant he was shy, which was unlikely, or he was good enough that he didn’t need to play to the crowd. They’d do.

  “Special Agent Lyle comes too,” he said and smiled. “To keep us out of the Las Vegas fun spots.” He caught the stern look. “And because she’s a damned good cop, and I’ll need the help.”

  “Very well,” said Dryer and looked straight at Rayford, confirming Ethan’s assessment. “Morning and evening updates, you got that?”

  “Sir,” said Rayford.

  Dryer stood up. The briefing was over, and the real work was about to begin.

  Christian Carter’s driver had no trouble finding Melissa’s address. First thing he tried worked fine. He Googled her, found she had a self-help web site for carers, so he checked who owned it, and there was her home address. He had other avenues if that had failed. Reverse telephone number lookup would probably have worked fine.

  He parked the Mercedes in front of the apartment building in a leafy street north-west of Dupont Circle, switched off the motor, and got out into the quiet street and looked around slowly. Nice. Who said government jobs don’t pay?

  Melissa answered the buzzer immediately, and the driver smiled. She’d been waiting. Probably thought he wouldn’t turn up. Sad woman. He told her he’d come to take her to Mister Carter, and went back to the car and started the engine and turned up the heater. It was going to be a cold night, and the wind already had a razor edge.

  A couple of minutes later she stepped out the front door of the three-storey building and walked quickly down the steps to the car. The driver got out, held open the rear door, and even managed a smile as she thanked him and got in out of the cold.

  “What’s your name?” she asked the driver as they fastened their seatbelts.

  “David,” he said and adjusted the interior mirror to see her.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Restaurant le Norma,” he said, glancing in his rear-view and moving off slowly. “Mister Carter is waiting for you there.” Ain’t he just.

  They went east for a few blocks, then crossed Connecticut Avenue before crisscrossing a few more wide, tree-lined streets and stopping in front of the restaurant. David got out and held the door open for her again. She clearly wasn’t used to the attention and thanked him half a dozen times. He shrugged and told her it was his pleasure. He watched her slowly climb the three steps, careful not to stumble in her stacked heels, which she was clearly unused to wearing. He shook his head in pity, got back into the Merc, and went to find a Denny’s for his dinner. Prime rib and chicken skillet, as usual.

  Christian was waiting just inside the door and pulled it open as sh
e approached. “You look lovely, Melissa,” he said with a big smile. “Is that a new dress? It’s exquisite.”

  She felt herself blush a little and fiddled with her coat to cover up her awkwardness. He took the coat gently and handed it to a waitress who was about to show them to their table. She seemed a little surprised but covered it up well and dropped the coat over the back of a chair. She’d hang it up later. Or not. She led them to their table next to the radiator by the window. As reserved.

  Christian held the chair while she sat, and then sat opposite, smiled and handed her the menu. “I recommend the fish. It is just excellent here.”

  She took the menu. “Thank you, but I’m a vegetarian.”

  Of course you are. “Then,” he said, reaching over and turning the menu. “I suggest the glazed aubergine and mushrooms. It comes with pine nuts, olives, and a beautiful shallot vinaigrette. And marinated artichokes to start.”

  “Sounds delicious,” she said and put down the menu. Decision made.

  The waitress stepped up to the table, pen poised above pad.

  He gave her Melissa’s order. “And I will have foie gras torchon followed by sole meuniere.” He glanced up at the waitress and smiled. “But hold the oysters. Don’t want to run before I can walk.”

  The waitress smiled an out-of-the-box smile and walked away to the kitchen.

  The wine waiter descended on them, all teeth and exaggerated hand gestures. “May I suggest a bottle of Cheval Blanc? It is just perfect at the moment.”

  “Yes,” said Christian, almost waving him away. “That will be fine.”

  “Just spring water for me,” said Melissa with a little strained smile at Christian, who smiled right back.

  Okay, he thought, the game is on.

  The wine arrived, and the waiter poured a little in a glass. Christian waved his fingers, and the glass was filled and the bottle put into an ice bucket by the stuffy wine waiter, who was not impressed by the man’s failure to follow proper convention and taste it first. But at five hundred dollars a bottle, it was probably not corked.

  Christian sipped the wine while Melissa drank the fizzy water and wished she hadn’t been so stupid and accepted the wine too. Another waiter brought the starter, and she looked at the artichokes with a little apprehension. She wasn’t even sure she liked artichokes. She should have had the crab and given up the pretence that she was a veggie. She cut off a tiny slice and tasted it gingerly. It was delicious, and she smiled at Christian.

  He smiled back. “I thought you’d like that. You can buy them in the stores, but that’s like buying ready-made pasta.”

  Oh great, a food snob. She let it go and concentrated on the food. Christian held the mouth of the wine bottle over her glass and raised his eyebrows questioningly. She nodded.

  Fifteen love to Christian.

  She sipped the wine, and that was delicious too. So much for being a water-drinking veggie. By the time the glazed aubergine arrived, she’d finished one glass of wine and was well into the second, with that nice warm don’t-care feeling that comes with wine, especially at five hundred dollars.

  Christian tasted his fish, nodded approval to himself, and put down his fork and leaned forward, resting his chin on his fingertips. “You’ve done something with your hair.” He smiled again. “Yes, it really works for you. You look ravishing.”

  She fiddled with her hair a little. “Oh, just a little brushing and spray.” She smiled. That and two hours in the salon, but hey, who’s counting?

  She met his gaze from those ink-black eyes and felt her world wobble. God, he really was hot. And here she was, having dinner with this beautiful man. She glanced around the small restaurant to see how many women were staring in open envy, but there were few people in, and the tables were arranged so they were not overlooked. Still, if they could see, they would be staring. She knew that for a fact.

  He poured her more wine, and she made a weak attempt to stop him. “Are you trying to get me drunk?” she said with a trace of a giggle.

  He raised a finger. “I would never do that, Melissa.” He smiled The Smile. “I would not risk impairing your wit or your beauty with excessive alcohol.”

  Now that was truly cheesy. But God, she loved it. How long had it been since someone had told her she was beautiful? Her father. On her tenth birthday.

  Yet another waiter arrived, took away the empty plates, and returned a moment later with tiny cups of thick, black coffee. She let that go. Coffee, even regular coffee, makes your breath smell like an old ashtray, and she was hoping that fresh breath would be important tonight.

  Christian appeared to be thinking the same, because he pushed the little cup off to the side and leaned forward again. “It’s early,” he said softly, even though it wasn’t. “Would you like to dance?”

  She looked around quickly. No dance floor.

  He laughed out loud, a wonderful, deep laugh that fluttered her stomach like missing a step. “No, not here.” He raised his eyebrows above laughing eyes. “Unless you want to. For you, I will make anything possible.”

  She thought that at any moment she would wake up in front of the TV with Today in the Senate rolling. Things like this didn’t happen to her. She was plain, a little too broad. Her hair wasn’t blonde. Her boobs didn’t stick straight out in front. Her hips—

  He put down his cell that she hadn’t even seen him use. “David will be outside by the time I’ve dealt with the bill.” He looked around, then stopped with his gaze fixed on the washroom. “Perhaps you would like to…”

  She glanced where he was looking, then back at him, and nodded. Yes, a moment or two to catch her breath and compose herself. By the time she’d taken the huge napkin off her lap and placed it on the table, he was standing behind her chair and sliding it out as she stood. She put her hand on the back of the chair to steady herself as a little dizziness buzzed her head, and their fingers touched. She felt a tiny jolt of electricity. Static probably, or something else. She went to the washroom quickly before he saw how crimson she imagined she’d become.

  When she returned a few minutes later, he was speaking into his cell but immediately ended the call and put the phone away. He picked up her coat from the chair where it had been dropped, turned it once and slid it over her arms and onto her shoulders in a single, effortless move.

  David was parked right outside the restaurant door, as he was supposed to be, and jumped out to open the door for his boss. Christian gave him a hard look and held the door open for Melissa.

  David shrugged and climbed back in behind the wheel. Who’s to know that kinda stuff? He was just a driver, not some sort of stuffed-shirt chauffeur.

  The car turned north, up through Georgetown, along Canal Road, and right into Palisades, finally turning into a wide, tree-lined drive and coming to a stop in front of a house only marginally smaller than the White House.

  She looked up at the building and then at him. “Yours?”

  He nodded. “This is my town house,” he said without even a hint of a boast, like it was normal to own a three-million-dollar house that was just his town house.

  Not to be caught twice, David jumped out of the Merc and opened the door for Melissa, glancing at his boss for the approval he didn’t get.

  Christian strode round the car, took Melissa’s hand, and led her up the marble inlaid steps to a front door that was almost as wide as her apartment. As they approached, the doors opened as if by magic, that was in reality an immaculately dressed butler, who stepped behind Melissa and helped her off with her coat, which he folded neatly over his arm.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said in a clipped British accent. “Two members of staff are off tonight, as we understood you would be late getting home. This will, however, have no impact on you or your guest.” He took Christian’s cashmere overcoat and hung it carefully next to Melissa’s slightly worn woolen coat on the arm of a chair that looked like a mini throne. “Please follow me,” he said, as if Christian wouldn’t know his way aro
und his own house. But from the size, it was quite possible he didn’t. “I think you will find everything is to your liking, sir.”

  Melissa found herself trying to keep in step with Christian’s long strides, but it wasn’t going to happen. He stopped in front of mahogany double doors and waited for the butler to open them as Melissa approached.

  “Thank you, Merriman,” said Christian

  The butler opened the doors, and Melissa stepped into a ballroom complete with a classical sextet on a small stage near the window and two young women dressed in waitress uniforms and holding trays of what looked like fluted champagne glasses. She looked round, as if expecting to see a wedding party waiting for the big speech, but it was just for the two of them. It was outrageous. It was wonderful.

  Christian took her hand and nodded at the sextet, who began a Straus waltz. “Shall we?” he asked, raising her hand and putting his arm around her waist.

  She thanked the impulse that had taken her to ballroom dancing lessons to fill the empty nights, and counted one-two-three in her head as they glided around the ballroom, with the light from the two huge chandeliers filling the room like a fairytale castle.

  He kissed her, and the world stopped spinning.

  When their lips parted and she opened her eyes, they were alone. The orchestra had left and with them the servants. How long had she been in his embrace? It had felt like standing beneath a huge waterfall, with torrents crashing around her, spinning her head and suspending all thought.

  He took her hand as gently as he would have held a rose petal and led her across the polished wood floor. He took one of the champagne flutes, handed it to her, and picked up one for himself. “Thank you for a wonderful evening,” he said, raising his glass. “And for being a beautiful woman.”

  Oh, please, does he think I’m sixteen? she thought but was glad she had a hand resting on the sideboard. Her knees were shaking.