THE MIDDLE SIN

by Merline Lovelace

  De­ar Re­ader,

  You know the sa­ying. Old sol­di­ers ne­ver die, they just fa­de away. Or in my ca­se, they turn to a li­fe of mur­der and may­hem-pu­rely fic­ti­onal, of co­ur­se.

  I'm thril­led to re­turn to my mi­li­tary ro­ots in this no­vel and the one to fol­low in the Cleo North se­ri­es. As a squ­ad­ron, ba­se and wing com­man­der, I saw fir­s­t­hand the ex­per­ti­se air for­ce spe­ci­al agents bro­ught to the­ir al­ways de­man­ding, of­ten gru­eso­me in­ves­ti­ga­ti­ons. As an aut­hor, I want to por­t­ray the­ir de­di­ca­ti­on and gritty de­ter­mi­na­ti­on to sa­fe­gu­ard air for­ce pe­op­le and pro­perty.

  I ho­pe you enj­oy this glim­p­se in­to the world of un­der­co­ver agents, past and pre­sent!

  All my best,

  Also by MER­LI­NE LO­VE­LA­CE

  THE FIRST MISTAKE

  UNTAMED

  A SAVAGE BEAUTY

  THE CAPTAIN'S WOMAN

  THE COLONEL'S DAUGHTER

  THE HORSE SOLDIER

  And watch for the next bo­ok in this ac­ti­on-pac­ked new se­ri­es

  THE LAST BULLET

  Co­ming June 2005

  MERLINE LOVELACE

  THE MIDDLE SIN

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  THE LAST BUL­LET

  MI­RA

  If you pur­c­ha­sed this bo­ok wit­ho­ut a of­fer you sho­uld be awa­re that this bo­ok is sto­len pro­perty. It vfSs re­por­ted as "unsold and des­t­ro­yed" to the pub­lis­her, and ne­it­her the aut­hor nor the pub­lis­her has re­ce­ived any. pay­ment for this "strip­ped bo­ok."

  ISBN 0-7783-2172-X

  THE MIDDLE SIN

  Cop­y­right © 2005 by Mer­li­ne Lo­ve­la­ce.

  All rights re­ser­ved. Ex­cept for use in any re­vi­ew, the rep­ro­duc­ti­on or uti­li­za­ti­on of this work in who­le or in part in any form by any elec­t­ro­nic, mec­ha­ni­cal or ot­her me­ans, now known or he­re­af­ter in­ven­ted, in­c­lu­ding xe­rog­raphy, pho­to­cop­ying and re­cor­ding, or in any in­for­ma­ti­on sto­ra­ge or ret­ri­eval system, is for­bid­den wit­ho­ut the writ­ten per­mis­si­on of the pub­lis­her, MI­RA Bo­oks, 225 Dun­can Mill Ro­ad, Don Mills, On­ta­rio, Ca­na­da M3B 3K9.

  All cha­rac­ters in this bo­ok ha­ve no exis­ten­ce out­si­de the ima­gi­na­ti­on of the aut­hor and ha­ve no re­la­ti­on what­so­ever to an­yo­ne be­aring the sa­me na­me or na­mes. They are not even dis­tantly in­s­pi­red by any in­di­vi­du­al known or un­k­nown to the aut­hor, and all in­ci­dents are pu­re in­ven­ti­on.

  MI­RA and the Star Co­lop­hon are tra­de­marks used un­der li­cen­se and re­gis­te­red in Aus­t­ra­lia, New Ze­aland, Phi­lip­pi­nes, Uni­ted Sta­tes Pa­tent and Tra­de­mark Of­fi­ce and in ot­her co­un­t­ri­es. www.MI­RA­Bo­oks.com Prin­ted in U.S.A.

  To Ma­rie and Tom, best fri­ends and fel­low tra­ve­lers. He­re's to many mo­re gre­at ad­ven­tu­res to­get­her.

  AC­K­NOW­LED­G­MENTS

  With spe­ci­al thanks to:

  Li­e­ute­nant Co­lo­nel Ed­die Ho­ward, USAF, for his OSI ex­per­ti­se, qu­ick re­ads and even qu­ic­ker wit. The bad guys bet­ter watch the­ir step!

  And to the men and wo­men in uni­form who get the bombs, bul­lets and com­bat bo­ots whe­re they're ne­eded, when they're ne­eded. As the sa­ying go­es, ama­te­urs talk tac­tics, pro­fes­si­onals talk lo­gis­tics.

  1

  Cleo lun­ged at her at­tac­ker.

  He was hu­ge, six-fo­ot-six of so­lid mus­c­le wrap­ped in black le­at­her pants and a sle­eve­less le­at­her vest that dis­p­la­yed a half ac­re or so of ha­iry chest.

  The scum­bag had co­me at Cleo from be­hind just as she'd en­te­red a loc­ker ro­om ri­pe with the ac­rid tang of swe­at and the he­at of a mid-Ap­ril Dal­las mor­ning. When he'd whip­ped an arm aro­und her thro­at, she'd ma­na­ged to ram her butt in­to his mid­sec­ti­on and ca­ta­pult him over her sho­ul­der.

  Now she was on the of­fen­si­ve. La­un­c­hing her­self thro­ugh the air, Cleo an­g­led her at­tack so her knee hit squ­are in his gut. The bre­ath ex­p­lo­ded from his lungs. His lips cur­led over his te­eth. Un­der the tat­to­os de­co­ra­ting his bald skull, he went as whi­te as a we­ek-old cor­p­se.

  But be­fo­re Cleo co­uld ta­ke ad­van­ta­ge of her mo­men­tary mas­tery, he con­t­rac­ted his sto­mach. The mus­c­les un­der her knee snap­ped to­get­her li­ke co­iled springs and al­most bo­un­ced her right off the hul­king gi­ant.

  Cur­sing, she do­ve for­ward. The he­el of her hand was an inch from his no­se when he threw up an arm. Def­lec­ting her blow, he he­aved his hips up­ward and tos­sed her off li­ke a pesky spa­ni­el. She lan­ded hard eno­ugh to wa­ter her eyes.

  "Dam­mit, Go­ose!"

  The bald Go­li­ath grin­ned and ma­de a grab for her. "You're get­ting soft, North."

  This was what she pa­id him for, Cleo re­min­ded her­self grimly as they writ­hed ac­ross the con­c­re­te flo­or. Why she'd tur­ned to him af­ter le­aving the air for­ce and star­ting up her own se­cu­rity-con­sul­ting firm. She wan­ted Go­ose to toss her on her he­ad oc­ca­si­onal­ly-or try to. A girl had to stay on her to­es in this bu­si­ness.

  Jam­ming her bo­oted fo­ot aga­inst the flo­or for le­ve­ra­ge, Cleo he­aved to one si­de and slam­med Go­ose in­to a row of me­tal loc­kers. Wed­ged aga­inst the un­yi­el­ding ste­el, he lost just eno­ugh of his ma­ne­uve­ra­bi­lity for her to ho­ok an an­k­le over his and bring him down. She had his wrist in a de­ath grip and was at­tem­p­ting to sho­ve it up bet­we­en his mas­si­ve sho­ul­der bla­des when the cell pho­ne clip­ped to her wa­ist pin­ged.

  Cleo fro­ze. It was a spe­ci­al ring to­ne, one she re­cog­ni­zed im­me­di­ately. Go­ose re­cog­ni­zed it,too. He shot a lo­ok of sud­den ter­ror over his sho­ul­der.

  "That's Mae. For God's sa­ke, don't an­s­wer it!" Strug­gling for bre­ath, she hun­ke­red back on her he­els. Mae was her part-ti­me of­fi­ce ma­na­ger. The six­t­yish re­ti­red ac­co­un­tant had re­cently de­ve­lo­ped a se­ve­re ca­se of the hots for the mus­c­led gi­ant pin­ned bet­we­en Cleo's thighs.

  The cell pho­ne rang aga­in. Short. Sharp. Im­pa­ti­ent. She co­uld fe­el Go­ose start to trem­b­le be­ne­ath her. Mae did that to pe­op­le.

  Sur­ren­de­ring to the ine­vi­tab­le, Cleo un­ho­oked her leg and slid off her tra­iner's rump. "I'd bet­ter ta­ke it. You know she only uses this sig­nal in emer­gen­ci­es."

  Go­ose rol­led over, his fa­ce scrun­c­hed in ear­nest en­t­re­aty. "Don't tell her you're with me!"

  "She knows we had a tra­ining ses­si­on sche­du­led. Which wo­uld ha­ve ta­ken pla­ce in the gym on a ni­ce, soft rub­ber pad if my rat-fa­ced tra­iner hadn't de­ci­ded to jump me in the wo­men's loc­ker ro­om!"

  "You think you're gon­na land on a rub­ber pad out the­re in the re­al world, wo­man?"

  Re­sis­ting the ur­ge to flip him the bird, she flip­ped up the pho­ne in­s­te­ad. "It's me, Mae. What's hap­pe­ning?" />
  "I just to­ok a call from a po­ten­ti­al cli­ent. He says it's ur­gent." "He who?" "Mar­cus Slo­an."

  Cleo's sto­mach did a qu­ick roll. The ima­ge that le­apt in­to her mind was tall, dark and drop-de­ad gor­ge­o­us. Not to men­ti­on ob­s­ce­nely rich.

  She'd first en­co­un­te­red Marc Slo­an fo­ur months ago in San­ta Fe, whi­le wor­king a ca­se. Slo­an had pro­mi­sed to call Cleo and fol­low up on his not-very-sub­t­le in­vi­ta­ti­ons to get her in­to the sack du­ring tho­se we­eks in San­ta Fe. Af­ter fo­ur months of not­hing, now it was ur­gent?

  "I told him you'd re­turn his call," Mae an­no­un­ced in her crisp, no-non­sen­se way. Wit­ho­ut mis­sing a bre­ath, she swit­c­hed ge­ars. "Is Go­ose with you?"

  "Go­ose?"

  Cleo glan­ced at her hul­king tra­iner. At the men­ti­on of his na­me, he ma­de fran­tic no-no-no signs with his hands.

  "Yes, he's he­re."

  "Put him on."

  Smir­king, she held out the pho­ne. "Re­mem­ber this next ti­me you de­ci­de to jump me in a wo­men's loc­ker ro­om."

  His scowl pro­mi­sed far mo­re let­hal tac­tics in the fu­tu­re. Fol­ding her arms, Cleo lis­te­ned with una­bas­hed enj­oy­ment to his si­de of the con­ver­sa­ti­on.

  "Hi, Mae. Yes. Yes." A long pa­use. "No."

  Anot­her pa­use, pun­c­tu­ated by he­avy lo­oks aimed at Cleo, fol­lo­wed by a star­t­led ex­c­la­ma­ti­on.

  "Go­od God, no!"

  Her eyes wi­de­ned. Was that a blush craw­ling up Go­ose's si­ze-twen­ty-two neck? It was!

  "I'm out­ta he­re," he sa­id, thrus­ting the pho­ne back at her. "Got a job down in Me­xi­co I've be­en drag­ging my ta­il on. It just mo­ved up to num­ber-one pri­ority."

  His fa­ce as red as the he­art on his left bi­ceps, he rus­hed out of the loc­ker ro­om. Grin­ning, Cleo put the pho­ne to her ear.

  "Go­ose is abo­ut to set a new world re­cord for de­par­ting Dal­las. What did you say to him?"

  Mae huf­fed in­to the pho­ne. "I me­rely sug­ges­ted he do­esn't ne­ed to pick up bim­bos at bi­ker bars to get his knob po­lis­hed." Cleo cho­ked.

  "The­re are mo­re ma­tu­re wo­men ava­ilab­le who might be wil­ling to per­form that task," the re­ti­red ac­co­un­tant fi­nis­hed.

  She wasn't go­ing to to­uch that one. "Spe­aking of ma­tu­re wo­men," Mae ad­ded. "You ne­ed to call yo­ur step­mot­her. She left a mes­sa­ge sa­ying she wants yo­ur ad­vi­ce on new wal­lpa­per for the gu­est ro­om."

  With a lit­tle thump, all the fun went out of Cleo's mor­ning.

  For ye­ars, it had just be­en her and her fat­her. Her mot­her had di­ed when Cleo was only three, and her dad's job as a hydro­lo­gist with the U.S. Agency for In­ter­na­ti­onal De­ve­lop­ment had ta­ken both fat­her and da­ug­h­ter all over the world. Cleo had rid­den her first shaggy pony in Ne­pal, star­ted scho­ol in Bra­zil and le­ar­ned to dri­ve in Ban­g­kok. Pat­rick North had re­tur­ned to the Sta­tes at fre­qu­ent in­ter­vals du­ring Cleo's ye­ars at the Uni­ver­sity of Te­xas. On­ce she'd jo­ined the mi­li­tary and qu­ali­fi­ed as an agent with the Air For­ce Of­fi­ce of Spe­ci­al In­ves­ti­ga­ti­ons, tho­ugh, he was off aga­in.

  Not long af­ter Cleo had fi­nis­hed her stint in the air for­ce, a bo­ut of an­gi­na had bro­ught him back to his na­ti­ve Te­xas and in­to re­ti­re­ment. Cleo had cho­sen Dal­las as the ba­se for her se­cu­rity-con­sul­ting firm pri­ma­rily to ke­ep an eye on him. Then, al­most a ye­ar ago, big, bluff Pat­rick North had fal­len hard for a wo­man he'd met at a dan­ce at the se­ni­ors' cen­ter. Wan­da was pe­ti­te, perky, and the ba­ne of Cleo's exis­ten­ce.

  Her dad was happy, she re­min­ded her­self sternly. That's all that mat­te­red. But Cleo wo­uld rat­her walk ba­re­fo­ot ac­ross a sea of ra­zor bla­des than go wal­lpa­per-hun­ting with a wo­man who dit­he­red for twenty mi­nu­tes be­fo­re she co­uld de­ci­de bet­we­en French or Ita­li­an dres­sing on her sa­lad.

  "Do me a fa­vor," she beg­ged Mae. "Call Wan­da and tell her I'm on a ca­se."

  "Sorry, de­ar. I tee off in thirty mi­nu­tes. I'm not get­ting suc­ked in­to that dis­cus­si­on. Be­si­des, you're not on a ca­se."

  "I might be," Cleo re­tor­ted, "once you get aro­und to gi­ving me Marc Slo­an's num­ber."

  A mo­ment la­ter, she pun­c­hed in the long-dis­tan­ce num­ber. The vo­ice that an­s­we­red was yo­ung and fla­vo­red with a soft, rol­ling ac­cent that hin­ted at mint juleps and mag­no­li­as.

  "Slo­an En­ter­p­ri­ses. May I help you?"

  "This is Cleo North. I'm re­tur­ning Mr. Slo­an's call."

  "Hold, ple­ase."

  She was han­ded off to the next ec­he­lon of pa­la­ce gu­ard. This one so­un­ded ol­der, cris­per and mo­re dif­fi­cult to get aro­und.

  "I'm Di­ane Wal­ker, Mr. Slo­an's exe­cu­ti­ve as­sis­tant. I'm sorry, but I don't show you on the call log, Ms. North."

  "Not my prob­lem. He cal­led me."

  "If this is in re­gard to a per­so­nal mat­ter, Mr. Slo­an has en­t­rus­ted me to han­d­le his af­fa­irs."

  Impa­ti­ent now, Cleo put a bi­te in­to her reply. "I re­pe­at, Ms. Wal­ker, Mr. Slo­an cal­led me. My bu­si­ness is with him."

  Any no­ti­on that the sop­his­ti­ca­ted exe­cu­ti­ve was cal­ling to pick up whe­re they'd left off a few months ago eva­po­ra­ted ten se­conds af­ter he ca­me on the li­ne.

  "Hel­lo, Cleo." It was the sa­me sexy ba­ri­to­ne she re­mem­be­red. "Thanks for get­ting back to me."

  "Hel­lo, Marc. How's Alex?"

  The last ti­me she'd se­en Slo­an's twin, the re­ti­red air for­ce co­lo­nel had be­en slum­ped over his desk, blo­od oozing from the ne­at ho­le in his skull.

  "He's wal­king. Slowly and with a ca­ne, but wal­king."

  "Go­od to he­ar. What can I do for you?"

  "One of my as­sis­tants hasn't shown up for work this we­ek. I'm wor­ri­ed abo­ut her and wo­uld li­ke you to find her. How so­on can you get to Char­les­ton?"

  Nor­mal­ly, Cleo went thro­ugh a de­ta­iled in­ta­ke in­ter­vi­ew be­fo­re ac­cep­ting a job or a new cli­ent. But Slo­an's ti­ming was per­fect. He'd ca­ught her just co­ming off anot­her job and fa­ced with the grim pros­pect of go­ing wal­lpa­per shop­ping with Waf­fling Wan­da.

  "I can fly out this af­ter­no­on." "That's what I was ho­ping. My pri­va­te jet is al­re­ady in the air. It'll be on the gro­und at Lo­ve Fi­eld in an ho­ur."

  He was pretty dam­ned su­re of him­self. Then aga­in, you don't ta­ke a com­pany on­to the For­tu­ne 500 list by be­ing fa­int of he­art. Which re­min­ded Cleo…

  "We ha­ven't dis­cus­sed fe­es." A smi­le crept in­to his vo­ice. "Wha­te­ver they are, Brown Eyes, you're worth it."

  Lit­tle shi­vers dan­ced down Cleo's spi­ne. She co­uld al­most fe­el the crush of Slo­an's mo­uth on hers. The man was one hell of a kis­ser. Not as go­od as Jack Do­no­van, she ad­mit­ted, but Cleo and Spe­ci­al Agent Do­no­van had yet to fi­gu­re out what they had go­ing bet­we­en them. Be­si­des ca­re­ers that in­c­lu­ded get­ting shot at every so of­ten and in­ter­mit­tent ses­si­ons of wor­ld-class sex, that is.

  At the ra­te things we­re go­ing, they might ne­ver fi­gu­re out just why the heck the air star­ted ste­aming whe­ne­ver they got wit­hin ten fe­et of each ot­her. Do­no­van had e-ma­iled her exactly three ti­mes in the past fo­ur months and then only to tell her he was still un­tan­g­ling the web of tre­ason and de­ce­it they'd un­co­ve­red in San­ta Fe.

  Cleo had ne­ver be­en one to sit aro­und and wa­it. For men or for jobs.

  "See you this af­ter­no­on," she told Slo­an.

  When Cleo ar­ri­ved back at the nor­th-Dal­las con­do that ser­ved as her re­si­d
en­ce and ho­me of­fi­ce, Mae was out whac­king golf balls aro­und the co­untry club's ma­ni­cu­red fa­ir­ways. Un­for­tu­na­tely, she'd left Do­re­en be­hind to man the of­fi­ce.

  Do­re­en was Wa­ve­ring Wan­da's ni­ece by mar­ri­age, which ma­de her Cleo's step-co­usin-in-law, or so­met­hing li­ke that. When the dot.com com­pany Do­re­en had wor­ked for fol­ded, Wan­da had beg­ged Cleo to hi­re the girl. Just un­til she co­uld find ot­her em­p­loy­ment.

  The "girl" was thir­ty-se­ven, had a la­ugh li­ke a con­s­ti­pa­ted hye­na and was ad­dic­ted to The Sim­p­sons car­to­on se­ri­es. She was al­so a ne­ar ge­ni­us when it ca­me to elec­t­ro­nic gad­getry. Go fi­gu­re.

  When Cleo let her­self in­to her con­do, Bart Sim­p­son was do­ing his thing on the big-sc­re­en TV in the li­ving ro­om. Do­re­en was do­ing hers on the co­uch. She lay spraw­led on the cre­amy Na­tuz­zi le­at­her, cac­k­ling away. For this Cleo pa­id her twi­ce what she'd ear­ned at the dot.com.

  She ma­na­ged to drag her at­ten­ti­on away from the TV long eno­ugh to lift her he­ad. "Hey, cuz."

  "Hey, Do­re­en. What are you do­ing he­re? I tho­ught you had a job in­ter­vi­ew this mor­ning."

  "I went, I saw, I pas­sed."

  Cleo swal­lo­wed a gro­an. She was be­gin­ning to sus­pect Do­re­en wo­uld re­ma­in on her pay­roll in­de­fi­ni­tely. Or un­til all Sim­p­sons re­runs went off the air.

  Her gro­an slid in­to a gulp when she spi­ed the shiny lit­tle cylin­der sit­ting on the kit­c­hen co­un­ter. It lo­oked li­ke an or­di­nary pen­light, but she knew bet­ter than to to­uch it. Do­re­en's toys co­uld shock, burn or ot­her­wi­se se­ve­rely inj­ure the uni­ni­ti­ated.

  "What's this?" she as­ked wa­rily.

  "A fo­re­ver light."

  "O­o­oo-kay."

  Pus­hing off the so­fa, her step-co­usin-in-law am­b­led over. She was a big wo­man, top­ping Cleo's fi­ve-eight by two in­c­hes and her we­ight by at le­ast a hun­d­red po­unds. The fact that she squ­e­ezed all tho­se dim­p­led po­unds in­to stretch leg­gings and a T-shirt em­b­la­zo­ned with Bart's fa­ce didn't exactly in­c­re­ase her em­p­loy­ment op­por­tu­ni­ti­es.