Troubleshooters 04 Out of Control

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “God, how I love you,” he whispered and I kissed him harder, so he wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

  I loved my country, but I loved this man, too. And I knew this would be the last time we would be together like this.

  Because in just a few hours, he was going to hate me.

  Jones heard them coming—people trying to move quietly on the trail from the village—and he put down Molly’s book.

  Yeah, even if he wasn’t about to have visitors, it was probably time to end his morbid fascination with Rose, with her “I’m going to betray you, my darling, for a higher cause” mentality. Nah, he really didn’t want to read her account of how she turned von Hopf over to the authorities.

  Maybe he was a Nazi, but the fool loved her. That much was clear.

  Love sucked.

  Trust no one.

  She got that part right. Von Hopf should have paid more attention to that rule, too. Trust only in yourself. Look out for numero uno. You were the only person in the world you could ever completely count on.

  Jones had learned that the hard way.

  Whoever was on the trail was getting closer, and he checked his handgun to make sure it was loaded.

  He’d heard the chopper overhead earlier and guessed it was Jaya on the trail, coming to deliver the part for the Cessna. And as frequently and successfully as he’d done business with Jaya in the past, it was always a good idea to be armed and ready for anything. The man did, after all, work for General Badaruddin—who had connections with the Thai, who wanted Jones dead. Scum, after all, tended to float together at the top of a pond.

  Trust no one.

  Yeah, Rose, that was his motto, too.

  “Jones.”

  Shit, that was Molly stepping into the kill zone of his gun. He put the safety on and tucked his piece out of sight, into the back waistband of his shorts.

  His fool of a body gave its usual enthusiastic leap of excitement at the sight of her, at the sound of her voice. His pulse quickened, blood rushed around, and he knew instantly how long it had been since they’d last made love. Five hours and twenty-odd minutes. Which under normal conditions was an acceptable length of time to go without sex.

  However, nothing about his relationship with Molly was even remotely normal.

  He’d told her everything last night.

  And here she was, already. Back for more, evidently. Go figure.

  Except, she wasn’t alone. She had two people with her—a man and a woman. Both American.

  The woman was blond and willowy, mid-twenties. Pretty in a porcelain, highly fragile, high maintenance way. He didn’t give her a second glance. She was not a threat.

  But the man . . . Not particularly big in either height or build, he was one of those lean, wiry guys who could keep going forever. His hair was dark, his face angular beneath a scruffy growth of jungle stubble.

  But it was his eyes that made Jones wish he hadn’t put away his handgun. They were hard. Intense. Whoever he was, this guy was driven. He was a man on a mission. He was definitely an operator, no doubt about that. Jones could tell within a half a second, just from the way he moved.

  He would have reached for his weapon again, but the guy was carrying an Uzi that was locked and loaded and held in a manner that broadcast an ability to use it and use it well.

  What the hell was Molly doing, bringing an operator up here to his camp?

  “This is Ken and Savannah,” she told him. “Otto Zdanowicz is after them. That was his brother on that helicopter that burned.”

  So that was Zdanowicz’s chopper he’d heard earlier, not the crazy, fucking General’s. Crap. He hated being grounded—it made him itchy. Jaya couldn’t get here with that part soon enough.

  Or maybe it was just Molly who made him itchy.

  “Do you have a two-way radio?” she asked him. “I know your radio in the plane’s not working, but I thought maybe—”

  “No. Sorry.”

  The operator—Ken—was staring out at the runway, at the Cessna, which was clearly in serious disrepair. In addition to the Uzi, he was also carrying a big-ass metal briefcase—the kind Jones used to see all the time in Washington, D.C., handcuffed to couriers’ wrists.

  “What do you need to get the plane off the ground?” Ken asked.

  “A miracle,” Jones told him flatly.

  Ken looked at him, wheels obviously turning in his head. Apparently, his mission was to get the blonde away from Zdanowicz. Jones didn’t blame him. Zdanowicz and his pals didn’t play nice.

  “We’ll pay you ten thousand dollars—each—if you can fly us to Port Parwati,” Ken said. “Is that enough for a miracle?”

  Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick.

  Somehow Jones managed not to cry. Somehow he managed to actually sound bored as he replied. “It’s enough for me to sell you my firstborn child, but unless you know a way to take off and land without an alternator, I won’t be flying you anywhere. Try me tomorrow.” Please.

  Ken was sizing him up, trying to figure out if Jones was the type to send up a signal flare to Otto Zdanowicz the moment he and his little blonde disappeared back into the jungle.

  “Make you a deal,” Jones said. “If they approach me, looking for you, I’ll give you a chance to make a better offer.”

  Molly wasn’t looking too happy with him at that, but Ken nodded.

  Jones knew from experience that Ken would buy that sooner than if he’d told the truth and said, “You’re safe because my girlfriend would probably stop sleeping with me if I sold you out to the local thugs.”

  Another good reason not to have a girlfriend.

  “Molly says you’re the equivalent of the local Wal-Mart. Can you set us up with some supplies? Food, water purification tablets, ammo if you’ve got it. A local map?”

  “The mule trail to the coast is clearly marked,” Molly volunteered.

  “We won’t be using that,” Ken said at the exact same time Jones said, “They won’t be taking that route.”

  Obviously, an operator would know enough survival tricks to stay far from the well-traveled trails.

  “When do you expect the alternator to arrive?” Ken asked.

  Jones shrugged. “It’s not exactly coming by FedEx.”

  “Do you have the things we need?” Ken asked.

  “Do you have money?”

  Ken had apparently figured out a thing or two about Jones, because he correctly chose show over tell, and pulled a wad of currency—both local and American—from the pocket of his shorts.

  It was a very thick wad, and—ding!—it was the right answer.

  It didn’t take a whole lot of effort for Alyssa to find out Sam Starrett’s schedule.

  With that knowledge in her pocket, she managed to be crossing the lobby of the hotel at the exact moment the SEAL lieutenant came in the front door.

  He was dressed in civilian clothes—shorts, T-shirt, baseball cap, sneakers—in an attempt to keep the locals as unaware as possible that there was an entire U.S. Navy SEAL team staying in downtown Jakarta.

  There was a Starbucks-wannabe coffee shop right by the front desk, and she was aware that Sam watched as she got in line.

  He stopped to speak to Senior Chief Wolchonok, but he stood facing the coffee shop, so that he could keep her in his line of sight.

  Yup. Here she was. All alone in line for coffee. Jules wasn’t around. Rose wasn’t there. Max was decidedly absent. It was just Alyssa. All by herself . . .

  “Hey.”

  She turned to find Sam standing right next to her. He was so close, she didn’t have to feign her surprise.

  Up close he was big. All wide shoulders and long legs and broad chest. He smelled like sunblock and heat, and as she breathed him in, Alyssa felt a flash of panic. What was she doing? This was crazy. She was crazy to get within ten feet of this man.

  “Hey,” she managed to say back at him. Just don’t hold his gaze. Don’t get lost in those pretty blue eyes. And—dear God—definitely don’
t touch him.

  “You got a sec?” he asked.

  “Sure. You want coffee?” She risked glancing at him, risked meeting his gaze. But his eyes were reserved, matching his careful politeness. They might as well have been strangers.

  “That’d be great,” he said. “Can we sit for a minute?”

  “Sure.” They ordered their coffee, paid and took it toward the little tables scattered about the shop.

  “You want to, uh, sit over there?” Sam pointed to one of the tables in the back where it was dimly lit and shadowy.

  Alyssa put her coffee down on a table right there in the front, in full view of the entire lobby. “This is fine.”

  “I just thought . . . You know, in case you didn’t necessarily want, uh, Max or someone to see you having coffee with me or something. Shit, I don’t know.”

  Polite Sam crumbled slightly, and real Sam shone through. Alyssa didn’t dare meet his gaze now. She took a sip of her coffee instead, even though she knew it would scald her all the way down.

  “Max isn’t the jealous type,” she told him as soon as she’d recovered enough to speak.

  He sat down across from her. There was no way his legs were fitting under that tiny table, so he sat kind of sideways and kept them out in the aisle. “So you’re, um, definitely seeing him, huh?”

  Damnit. It figured Sam would ask her about Max, point-blank. She didn’t want to lie to him. Not outright. So she didn’t answer him outright. She managed a smile. “He’s a wonderful man. We’ve got so much in common. It’s good. It’s a good thing.”

  “That’s . . . that’s great.” Sam nodded. “I’m really happy for you, Lys. I’m . . .” He put down his coffee, ran one hand down his face as he made a sound that might’ve been laughter. “I’m so fucking jealous I can hardly breathe.”

  His honesty almost undid her. She nearly confessed the truth.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, all the stilted politeness suddenly stripped away. His eyes were Sam’s again, hot and intense and desperate. “I know that’s not fair. I know I have no fucking right—I’m the one who’s married. And . . . Mary Lou, she’s . . .” He shook his head. “You didn’t see her at her best. She’s a good person. She works her ass off taking care of that baby. And she’s doing it stone sober, too. She’s been sober for nearly eight months now, and that hasn’t been easy. Every day, she works harder than anyone I’ve ever met in my life, just so she doesn’t take a drink. She impresses the hell out of me, you know?”

  “You obviously care for her a great deal,” Alyssa said quietly. It was also obvious that he wasn’t going to leave her. He was still determined to do what was right, even though it meant his own unhappiness.

  “She really loves Haley. And, well, me, too. It’s kind of nice—the trouble she goes to, to make sure there’s always a hot meal waiting for me when I get home. And the laundry’s always clean, you know?”

  “I’m the one who should be jealous of you,” she said. “Max never does my laundry. He makes a lousy wife.”

  Sam laughed. “I bet. He’s probably . . . pretty good at other things, though, huh?”

  Lord God. She stared at him in disbelief. He was serious. “Are you really sure you want to go there? Because—”

  He leaned toward her. “Just tell me you know what I know. That together we were incredible. That what we had—”

  Alyssa shook her head and closed and rolled her eyes. Egocentric fool. How could she possibly love this man as much as she did?

  “What we had was too short to ever be compared to a real relationship. For God’s sake, Sam. We didn’t get a chance to move beyond the screaming sex stage. Was it good? Yes. Was it better than what I’ve got right now with Max?” Dear God, she was really lying now. “No.”

  She leaned forward, too. “Would it have lasted more than a few months? I don’t think so. I mean, come on, Starrett. You and me? It was fun while it lasted. And I’ll be the first to admit I wish it had lasted a little bit longer. But in a way, we were saved. It didn’t have to die a natural death. We didn’t have to get sick of each other. And face it. I definitely would have gotten sick of you.”

  He was silent for several long moments, just sitting there, completely still.

  “No offense,” she said.

  “No,” he said, and finally moved. He looked at his watch. “Well . . .”

  “You probably have to be somewhere,” she said for him, as desperate for him to get away as he was to leave. If she suddenly burst into tears, he might guess that everything she’d said was a lie, and that her heart had broken all over again for the way she’d just hurt him.

  “Yeah.” He stood up. “Thanks for, um . . .”

  Alyssa managed to smile. “Yeah. I’m glad we could talk like this—you know, be so honest with each other.”

  “Right,” he said.

  Sam walked away without looking back.

  And Alyssa knew he’d never look back again.

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Fifteen

  “You,” Molly said to Savannah, “are not allowed to do anything but get off those feet. You’re making me hurt just by standing there.”

  Ken was looking at the map that the man named Jones had sold to them for fifty dollars. Fifty dollars for a map. And that was after Ken had haggled.

  Savannah watched him, remembering how tightly he’d held her after the gun runner’s helicopter had left the village, after they were safe. She hadn’t wanted him to let her go.

  Ever.

  He glanced up at her, and, afraid to be caught staring, she looked around.

  Jones’s Quonset hut was a warehouse. It held boxes of everything from toilet paper to canned food. The building itself was in far better shape than it looked from the outside. The heavy-duty bolt on the door was controlled by some kind of high-tech keyless entry. But the push-button panel was hidden beneath a rusting flap of metal.

  One corner of the room had been converted into living quarters, with a bed covered with mosquito netting, a table and chairs. There were votive candles—the kind in the little glass cups—scattered everywhere, on every available surface. Most of them were burned completely down.

  Jones may have been a black marketeer or even a drug runner, but it was more than obvious that he was a romantic. And completely hung up on Molly.

  Who pushed the mosquito netting aside to make Jones’s bed. “Come on,” Molly said, patting the smoothed bedspread. “Lie down.”

  When Savannah hesitated, she added, “I’d like to point out that I don’t make a habit of inviting other women into Dave’s bed. The fact that I’m doing this should make you realize how serious I am that you need to get off your feet.”

  Savannah laughed, and Molly added, “It’ll be awhile before he gathers all the supplies you and Ken are going to need, so you might as well take advantage of this. I know I would.”

  And so Savannah climbed onto the bed, wincing as she slipped off the sandals she’d bought from one of the villagers.

  “Oh, honey, there’s no way you’re going to walk all the way to Port Parwati,” Molly said. She raised her voice so that Ken and Jones—Dave was apparently his first name—could hear. “She should stay here. You both should stay here.”

  “I could hide you,” Dave volunteered. Dave Jones, Savannah realized. Yeah, sure it was his real name. No doubt about it. He was the person Molly wanted to keep safe. “You know, for a fee.”

  But Ken was shaking his head. He was wearing a shirt again, and shorts that he’d gotten from one of the missionaries. It was a shame. The half-naked Tarzan look had suited him. “This guy Otto will show up here sooner or later.”

  “And you’ll be hidden,” Jones said. “He won’t find you.”

  “But he’ll find you,” Ken countered.

  Jones shrugged. “Fair enough. I wouldn’t trust me, either.”

  “Oh, come on.” Molly was exasperated. “Stop trying so hard to be dangerous,” s
he said to Jones. She aimed her absolute confidence at Ken. “You can trust him. I trust him. He’s not going to sell you or anyone out to Otto Zdanowicz.”

  Savannah recognized the set to Ken’s mouth, and knew he wasn’t going to be convinced. But Molly was stubborn, too. “Look, the part for the Cessna’s going to get here sooner or later. Why make Savannah walk all that way when she could fly? She could stay here and, I don’t know, Ken could go out in the jungle and lead Zdanowicz on a wild goose chase. If they think you and Savannah are out in the brush, they’re not going to come looking here. I really think you need to consider it. Her feet are pretty badly scraped up.”