by Lois Greiman
“I know of her. She’s the colonel’s kid. Geez, Durrand, where’ve you been?”
A little hot spot called Iraq, he thought but he didn’t say the words out loud. “Just tell me what you know about her.”
“Well, if she’s got her old man’s temper, you’re not going to want to piss her off. Heard he court-martialed some poor bastard for not removing cover in the mess hall.” His fingers tapped away in the background. Frank McManning had taken a desk job years ago and had been happy to do so. “No use risking such a pretty face,” he’d said. Frank was, without a doubt, the ugliest toad of a man Gabe had ever met. “And if she looks anything like her old man, you’re definitely going to want to… Whoa!”
“What!” Gabe pulled his hand from his forehead and jerked his eyes up…a little too quickly. Tiny stars swam in front of his face. And although he wasn’t entirely sure he was right, he thought he saw an F-15 zipping between the constellations.
“Holy shit, brother. She’s a grade A yam slam.”
Gabe scowled. “I don’t even know what the hell that means.”
“It means she’s a hottie. A fox. A babe. A—”
He felt a muscle tick in his jaw. “I don’t need a physical description.”
McManning chuckled. “No wonder you struck out.”
“I didn’t…” Gabe gritted his teeth. “Just give me the information.”
“Geez, how long has it been since you got laid, man? You sound a little desperate.”
Gabe drew a deep breath through his nose and made a bid for patience. “I think I still have the colonel’s number on speed dial.”
“What?”
“Estevez. He might be interested to know about the life-size photograph you have on your bathroom wall.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” McManning said, but his tone had already lost its irritating hilarity. Frank liked to think he was a ladies’ man and a computer genius. He was correct about one of the two.
“Where were you stationed during that little photo op?” Gabe asked as if musing to himself.
“What do you want to know, Durrand?” McManning’s voice had pitched up a notch.
“Everything you can tell me.”
“The CIA doesn’t like people poking around in their affairs. I could get in a lot of trouble.”
“Yes, you could,” he agreed and let the words lie flat.
“Jesus, you’re a hardass,” McManning said. More keys tapped. “Looks like she graduated with a 4.0 from Cornell.”
Gabe scowled, unsurprised.
“She speaks five foreign languages, three fluently. She’s got a decent understanding of computers, and…holy shit, Durrand, don’t make this chick mad.”
Too late, Gabe thought wearily and waited for the bomb to drop.
“She could shoot the ass off a grasshopper at five hundred yards.”
Or a Ranger from across the latrine. “Is that all?”
“Is that all? According to the stats, she’s one of the best marksmen in the country.”
“What else?”
McManning sighed as if that should be enough. “She’s been with the agency for three years and applied for a field position four times.”
The first glimmer of hope shone through. If she’d been shot down that often, maybe she’d be willing to take a chance on something else. “Is there anything in there about tendering her resignation?”
“For real?”
Gabe scowled at nothing in particular.
“Is she throwing in the towel?” McManning asked.
“Could be.”
“You think she’d want a job with the best hacker in the northern hemisphere.”
Irritation growled in Gabe’s gut. “If I get a chance to talk to him I’ll ask if he’s hiring.”
“God, you’re funny.”
“Yeah, so let’s say, theoretically, she turns in her resignation because she feels she’s under-utilized.”
“You think a sweet little number like that would waste her talents on a field job?”
“Maybe she’s not as obsessed with her looks as you are. Will the agency accept her resignation?”
“Would you?”
Irritation growled a little louder. “What’ll they do?” Gabe asked.
“My guess?” The shrug was implicit even over the phone. “Offer her a shiny new title like analytic methodologist or leadership analyst. Maybe throw in a raise.”
“And if she won’t accept?”
“From what I see here, she is primed to be a full-fledged spook.”
Fuck. ”They’ve turned her down before.”
“Yeah, but she’s gained some seniority since then.”
Double fuck. “When will they give her their decision?”
“Who did she give her resignation to?”
Gabe wearily rubbed his forehead. “Do you know anyone called ‘Dickhead?’”
“I know a lot of guys called…” There was a moment of silence followed by laughter. “Dickey Mender?”
Gabe jerked his head up. “Maybe.”
“Mender is a dickhead, but he’s a dickhead with clout.”
So she could, conceivably, receive the promotion she’d been longing for. The promotion that would make dear old dad sit up and notice, which was, undoubtedly, her objective. But where did that leave Shep?
Gabe closed his eyes to the images that invaded his mind.
McManning was still laughing. “Ol’ Dickey wouldn’t—” he began, but Gabe didn’t wait for the remainder of the sentence.
“Can you stall him?” he asked.
The laughter stopped cold. “What’s that?”
“Their offer, if they make one. Can you delay it?”
“Sure. Why not? I could just go shoot Dickey in the head.” It didn’t take a genius to interrupt the sarcasm in his tone. “That’d slow him down at least.”
“I was thinking of something a little less drastic. Maybe waylay his email.”
“What makes you think that’s how they’d respond?”
That was a pretty good question actually. Gabe scowled, trying to remember the chain of events of the night before through the blur of whiskey. “I think she said she emailed her resignation.”
The other end of the line went silent long enough for Gabe to realize a new possibility “Could you get rid of hers?”
“What?”
“Her email to him. Could you delay that?”
“Absolutely not!” McManning said, but the answer was too quick.
“You could, couldn’t you? You could make sure they don’t see it.”
“No.”
“Just for twenty-four hours.”
“What makes you think they haven’t already read it?”
Shit! Another good point. He gritted his teeth. “If they haven’t…” he said. “If they haven’t read it yet, can you make it go MIA?”
“Not only would that be immoral, it’s—”
“I’ll forget the colonel was naked in the pictures.”
“Blackmail?” McManning’s voice had slipped into the region where only dogs and gerbils could hear him. “You’re blackmailing me?”
Gabe rubbed his eyes with his free hand. They felt as dry as dust. “Delay their offer for forty-eight hours and I might even forget you were the one spanking him.”
Chapter 8
“When will you be flying out?”
“What?” The single word sounded more like a growl than Gabe had intended. He cleared his throat, tried to calm the whiskey demons that pounded the interior of his cranium and tried again. “Who is this?”
“Eddy Edwards.”
He sat abruptly, making the room swim a dizzying circuit around him. Planting his right hand on the bed to stop its crazy rotations, he carefully squelched the frenetic hope that soared through him like a hunting eagle. He didn’t want to sound too eager. “Is this Jenny with a y?”
“Are you hung over?”
“Aren’t you?”
There was a moment of silence before she spoke again, voice as sober as a monk’s. “I will require more information before I can make an informed decision regarding your proposal.”
He stood jerkily. Outside, it was fully light. But that was hardly the most surprising part of the morning; he was naked except for one sock. That sock was pink. It was a thinker. “They are dickheads,” he said.
“What?”
His mind was careening wildly. “I assume the fact that you called means the agency accepted your resignation.”
“It’s 0700 hours. I doubt they’ve had an opportunity to consider it.”
And he doubted they would for another forty odd hours. Guilt, or something like it, diffused his system, but guilt was a luxury he could ill afford. “What do you want to know?”
“How many operatives will be on this mission?”
“Operatives?” He glanced around the hotel room, searching for God knew what. Maybe the other pink sock? “You really are a spook aren’t you?”
“Mr. Durrand, how many—”
“Me,” he said and, closing his eyes, abandoned his search. “It’s me.”
The phone went silent to the count of five, long enough for him to wonder if she had hung up. “Are you suggesting that you are planning a rescue mission into the jungles of one of the most notorious drug countries in the world with no backup?”
“No,” he said, “I’m going to have a linguist with me.”
She paused a second. “Mr. Durrand…”
“Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant Durrand, I do not think you are fully prepared for this mission.”
He refrained from laughing out loud. “That’s possible,” he said, tone admirably dry.
“In which case, it would not be prudent to involve myself in what could only laughingly be called a—”
“I didn’t realize it was your goal in life to be prudent,” he said and didn’t entirely try to keep the contempt from his voice.
He could almost feel her irritation through the phone. “Neither can I, in good conscience, allow you to do something so idiotic.”
He did laugh now though he managed to resist asking how she planned to stop him.
“I think it would be much wiser to notify our operatives already in South America about Mr. Shepherd’s circumstances.”
He drew a deep, steadying breath. “I think you know me better than that, Jenny with a y.”
“I don’t know you at all.”
“Are you trying to say you didn’t check up on me?”
There was a pause. “I’m not a complete idiot, Mr. Durrand.”
He didn’t comment. “Then unless your intel is completely worthless, you realize I’m going in whether it’s prudent or not.”
She sighed. The sound was long and slow. He waited in silence. It would have been nice to believe that he wasn’t holding his breath.
“Why?” she asked finally.
“Why what?”
He thought he heard her grind her teeth in frustration. It was not an altogether unfamiliar sound. “This could very well be a suicide mission. Why are you going in?”
He thought about the last time he had seen Shep. The bastard’s smile had been as cocky as ever. It was the bleak despondency in his eyes that had been new. “He owes me money,” he said finally.
“Really?” Her tone was dubious at best. “How much?”
“Ten bucks. We made a bet.”
“About what?”
“Whether or not he was going to get his ass kicked in Colombia.”
“So, you’re going to spend thousands of dollars and possibly forfeit your life so you can extract him from an ass-kicking and collect your ten bucks.”
“The Army takes its bets very seriously.”
“What do I get out of it?”
He felt his heart rate speed up, but squelched the hope that sailed through him. Hope was for dreamers like Linus Shepherd, who, despite everything life had taught them to the contrary, expected to find the good in people. “I’ll split the bet with you.”
“Anything else?”
“An all-expensive-paid jungle tour.”
“Your generosity is astounding. But I don’t think—”
“Plus a good review,” he added and let the words lie silently between them. He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. If he had an ounce of morals, he’d hang up immediately and make damn sure she didn’t go. Hell, if he had a soul, that’s what he’d do. But he’d left his soul somewhere near Tehran.
“Like I care what you think about me,” she said finally.
He snorted. Pushing the motel’s cheap curtain toward the scarred window trim, he glanced outside. He had a dynamite view of the parking lot just a few yards away. A quiet zephyr tossed a plastic bag against a weary Honda’s right front tire. “Let’s cut the crap, shall we, Edwards? We both know why you joined the agency.”
“Do we? Maybe you should enlighten me.”
“It’s to one-up your old man,” he said and let the curtain drop back into place.
He thought she would argue. In fact, he was sure of it, but she drew a soft breath. “All right, let’s say your hypothesis is correct. What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m a decorated Ranger, Edwards. A favorable review from me is as good as pinning a silver star on your chest.”
“Sleeping with the right people are you?”
He snorted and glanced to his right. The room looked like a cluster bomb had been detonated under the bed. “Listen, honey, a Ranger doesn’t have to sleep with anyone.” And rarely did, if he was the norm. “We’re gods in the military world.” Lonely ass gods with missing pink socks.
“What’s the pay?” she asked.
It took him a moment to shift gears. A little longer to forgive her insult to the Army. And how fucked up was that? “Five thousand upon return to the states,” he said.
“And if we don’t get Shepherd out?”
He stifled a wince. “Either way.”
She was silent for an eternity. “All right. I’m in,” she said.
For one long moment, he forgot how to breathe. But he forced his lungs to expand, convinced his lips to speak. “Don’t you want that in writing?”
“I think I can take your word on it.”
Or she wanted to outdo her father so much she really didn’t care about the money. Jesus, what had her old man done to her? “Can I take yours?”
“If I say I’ll do it, I’ll do it.”
“And?” His chest felt tight.
A knock on the door surprised him. He scowled and pushed the curtain aside again.
Eddy Edwards stood on the opposite side of the window, eyes steady as a drill sergeant’s on his. “I’ll do it,” she said.
Chapter 9
Gabe wrapped a stray shirt around his waist and yanked open the door.
Dressed in blue jeans and a short, fitted jacket, Eddy Edwards looked hopelessly fresh and ridiculously young.
“I thought we were in a hurry,” she said and stepped forward, ponytail bouncing as she moved past him.
“So you’re really in?” he asked.
“You a lightweight drinker and hard of hearing?”
Relief flooded him in a tidal wave of gratitude, but he nodded, going for casual. “All right. I still have some loose ends to tie up, though, so you’re excused to pack whatever you’ll need for the next couple weeks while I—”
“My bag’s in the car.”
He tried to remember not to blink at her like a stupefied steer. Didn’t she need…tampons or hair barrettes or something?
She raised a brow at him and broke the silence. “What needs to be done on your end before we leave?”
It occurred to him that her take-no-prisoners attitude shouldn’t surprise him. He’d been raised by a woman who could command a squadron of rank recruits while doing one-armed pushups, but Sarge Ostroot Durrand didn’t look like she’d just been plucked off the streets of Disneyland, while this girl…
He mentally bumped himself back to the business at hand. “We need airline tickets. I have to pick up some meds, and there are a few people I’m going to interrogate this morning.”
Her brows jumped. “Interrogate?”
“Talk to,” he corrected. He’d been told on more than one occasion that most of his conversations could be called interrogations. It wasn’t necessarily meant as a compliment.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll purchase the tickets while you get dressed.” Dropping her pack from her shoulder, she pulled some sort of unknown electronic device from a side pocket.
He glared at her, but she was already completely focused on the gadget.
“You are going to dress, aren’t you?” she asked and glanced up.
The quizzical expression on her happy-pixie face almost made him crumble, almost made him admit how damned much he appreciated her taking a chance on him. But he wasn’t a dumbass about women like Shep was. And now seemed like a good time to prove just that.
“I think we’d better get something straight first,” he said.
“What’s that?” she asked, but her lightning-fast fingers never slowed on the miniscule keyboard.
“I’m CO on this mission.” He narrowed his eyes. Hers were as round as marbles. “What I say goes. No questions asked, no discussion needed.”
Her brows lowered the slightest degree. “Are you afraid of strong women, Durrand?”
He snorted, considered trying to convince her that such a thing was ridiculous, but was pulled irresistibly toward honesty instead. “Damn straight.”
She didn’t try to hide her surprise, and for reasons entirely unknown that only increased his sense of gratitude. And her appeal.
“If you knew Sarge, you would be, too,” he added.
“Sarge?” She shook her head a little. “Your commanding officer?”
“My mother,” he corrected.
Her cotton candy lips quirked up just the slightest degree. “Get dressed,” she repeated.
He would have liked to argue, but he was getting chilly, and although he admittedly didn’t know jack shit about women, he was pretty sure goosebumps weren’t considered particularly virile.
“What’s with the pink sock?” she asked.
Gabe glanced around the room. Three pairs of jeans and a crumpled dress shirt were laying kittywampus across the arm of a nearby chair. Maybe he should have had housekeeping do their thing, but obviously, he hadn’t. It was anybody’s guess why he was phobic about people touching his stuff. Shepherd, of course, had all sorts of hypotheses. Generally, Gabe had to threaten him with dismemberment to make him quit guessing.
