by Amy Jarecki
She hadn’t. But Garth probably knew that as well as the fact that she’d been a spy since graduating from Cambridge with a bachelor’s in Social Science seven years ago. “How fast is your fast track?”
“That depends on you.” He gave her shoulder a thwack. “You’ll be hunting bad guys before you know it.”
Olivia’s back stiffened as she tightened her fists at her sides. Since the Khalil op, she’d had a fight response every time a man touched her—a new mind-fuck complication she was certain would pass. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to tell anyone about it. She’d made the mistake of telling a shrink about her night terrors when she was sixteen, and that had been a major blunder. Every time she had a psych evaluation, the first thing out of the shrink’s mouth was to ask her about how she was overcoming the tragedy of her parents’ death.
Did anyone ever recover from having their life blown to pieces before their eyes?
She dug her fingernails into her palms to stop her shudder.
Coping, moving forward one day at a time, and fighting to nail anyone remotely responsible had always been Olivia’s answer. And it worked for her.
She’d learned to play the shrinks’ games. “You mean the dreams I used to have when I was a teenager?” she’d ask while batting her hand through the air. “They were merely the result of a traumatic childhood.” Who didn’t go through a traumatic childhood these days? Besides, she didn’t have nightmares often—mostly after the end of a mission, like the string that had happened in London right after she’d returned from the Gulf. The ones no one knew about.
She stopped outside the training center, keeping plenty of distance to avoid another shoulder thwack. “As you are aware, sir, my life’s mission is to rid the world of terrorists.”
“Understood. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
He started off, but stopped and turned. “Apply yourself well and take this time of retraining seriously. Dr. R just gave me your psych evaluation. He recommends that you spend some time away from the field.”
“He did?” Olivia clenched her fists behind her back. “What else did he say?”
“You tell me. I got his summary—the same one he added to your employee portal. You can read it yourself.”
She crossed her arms and hugged them tight against her ribcage. “I’ll swear right now I’m an ace. I’m ready to go in deep. I’m always at the top of my game in the field. And you can count on me every single day.”
“That’s what I understand. My goal is to turn you and Rodgers out ASAP. The other five greenhorns…well, they’ll be here awhile.”
“Thank you, sir.” Olivia turned and headed straight for her suite. Dr. R’s psych eval had better be nothing less than pristine. It sounded like he’d already done enough damage, though. She needed time away from the field? Not likely.
No one knew she’d unloaded on the guy in the bar in London. That had been her only real slip since Khalil, and she’d only grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it a little. Okay, she’d twisted it enough to lay him flat, but he was steaming drunk. And he’d tried to grab her boob.
What bothered Olivia was her reaction after. She couldn’t control her shaking. Had he tried anything else, she might have rearranged his face. Hell, anyone who’d spent two years undercover playing the girlfriend of a pig ought to be entitled a rancorous kneejerk reaction or two.
***
Anders Lindgren left Logan on a frozen airstrip thirty miles from the nearest road. During the eleven-hour flight, the big boss had explained that he lived in Belgium and had offices at NATO. He’d also filled Logan with enough rules and regulations to rival the US Navy.
A woman wrapped in white snow gear stood beside a pickup that had four triangular tracks in place of its wheels. She looked like a modern Eskimo with rosy cheeks, horn-rimmed glasses and what looked like blonde eyebrows. She held out her gloved hand. “I’m Asa Geirsdóttir, one of the few Icelanders on the team. Welcome to ICE.”
The International Clandestine Enterprise. Lord save me.
Shaking her hand, Logan looked side to side. They were surrounded by white and the wind had to be blowing at fifty knots, making the temp feel sub-zero. “Literally.” Only wearing a light jacket, he shivered.
“Not used to the cold are you?”
“No, ma’am.”
She pointed to the truck. “It’s warm in the raptorTRAX.”
“Is that what you use to get around?”
“Ja, TRAX and snowmobiles up this high.”
“How far to HDQ?” Logan asked, climbing into the heated cab.
“You mean ICE?” Putting the truck in gear, she drove off, following tracks she must have just made, tracks leading to nowhere.
He glanced at the compass on his watch—southwest. “Is that what everyone calls it?”
“Ja, uh huh.” She sounded Nordic like Lindgren. “So, where’re you from?”
“The States.”
“Ja, I know that.”
“Montana.” He wouldn’t mind being there now, riding a horse behind a herd of fat steers. He’d be there full-time one day. Once he had enough cash in the bank and conquered his fanatical need to clear the world of vermin.
“Then you ought to be accustomed to our balmy spring weather.”
Logan smirked. “April and freezing? Not quite. I just shipped out of San Diego.” The truck bobbed and weaved over drifts like a ship in a heavy squall. “What do you do for…ah…ICE?” he asked, wondering if the letter he’d read from the President had been a forgery.
“I’m a techie.”
“A gadget girl?”
“Big time.”
“You must be pretty smart?”
“I suppose.” She shrugged. “Earned my PhD in physics at Oxford.”
Logan’s eyebrows shot up. “PhD? Then why were you the one to pick me up?”
“I had the time.” She gripped the steering wheel, driving like a pro as the truck slid sideways down a hill. “And we all take up the slack now and again. You’ll hear it from Tawney. We work with a flat hierarchy and that keeps us stealthy.”
“Tawney?”
“Director of Administration. She handles everything from supplies to HR to logistics, and Lord knows what else.”
Logan nodded, trying to get his bearings. The truck was heading straight between two peaks. “How much further?”
“Just over the hill.”
“Why so far away from the airstrip?”
“If anyone’s watching, the strip can be seen from a satellite, especially when it’s cleared like today.”
Asa drove the truck into a natural cavern and Logan leaned forward as she flipped on the lights. “Is this an ice cave?”
“Ja. We’re at twelve hundred feet—between mountains—very remote.” After stopping on a smooth surface that looked like ice, she tapped a code onto a device mounted on the cab roof. “It’s also a converted Cold War bunker.”
Logan snorted. “I didn’t know Iceland cared about the Cold War.”
“They didn’t, aside from providing a meeting place for Regan and Gorbachev in Reykjavik.” She gave him a wink. “This facility was built by NATO, then abandoned for forty years before it was transformed into ICE.”
With a shuddering rumble like a ship getting underway, the truck began to lower. In minutes, they were in a gunmetal-gray parking garage filled with snowmobiles and trucks with tracks like the raptor.
Asa grinned. “Welcome to ICE, home sweet home.”
“Right.” Logan stepped out of the cab as the frozen ceiling boomed closed above them. “This looks like something out of a Batman movie.”
“But a lot more high-tech.” She used a retina scanner to open a pair of steel sliding doors.
He slung his duffle over his shoulder and followed her into a brightly lit, sterile hallway. “Any chance I could get a tour?” he asked, looking for any sign of humanity. He’d half-expected Olivia Hamilton to be standing there with her arms crossed,
laughing at him for being a dupe.
Asa stepped into a side room and removed her snow gear. Coats and snow pants hung in a neat line with matching boots beneath. “Got to take care of some technicalities first, then introduce you to the brass.” She stretched out her hand. “Give me your duffle. I’ll see it’s delivered to your quarters.”
“Ah.” Logan hesitated for a moment, but then handed it over. Might as well dive in head first. “Thanks.”
She walked on, pointing to a door that read “Hospital”. “This is your stop. Dr. R will take it from here.”
Little did Logan know the technicalities would take hours and provide new meaning to the phrase “strip search” conducted by Dr. Robinson, Dr. R for short, an African American from Virginia. He stood about five-feet-four and introduced himself as an MD and psychiatrist. “I’m responsible for the mental and physical health of every ICE employee.”
“Sounds like you wear a lot of hats, just like everyone else around here.”
“I do.” The physician was efficient and, after asking a gazillion questions, told Logan he was one of the more emotionally stable members in the operation as well as one of the fittest thirty-year-olds he’d ever seen.
“That’s good…I think,” Logan replied, wondering if he was joining a team of nutcases. Hamilton probably ranked up there with the unstable. Good Lord, she’d shacked up with Jamal Abdullah Khalil for two years. That woman had to be a mess.
But no matter what his reservations might be, Logan had received his marching orders. He had to make this work, at least for the next year when he’d receive his first bonus. Hell, after tours in Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria, he could endure anything for a year.
Once he’d been retina scanned, finger printed, x-rayed and bled, Dr. R issued him three uniforms, which were comprised of a pair of cross-trainers, a white t-shirt and a navy-blue jumpsuit. The jumpsuit was stretchy and more form-fitting than a set of navy coveralls, more comfortable, too. He rubbed the collar against his cheek. It felt soft like Egyptian cotton or something expensive, though Logan wasn’t about to ask.
Dr. R led Logan deeper into headquarters. His senses honed, he noted everything. The place was speck-free, bright and oddly warm. People of all shapes, sizes and ethnicities hastened past giving friendly nods. Some carried folders or laptops and they all wore the standard issue jumpsuits.
“The entire operation runs on geothermal energy,” Dr. R said, as if he could hear Logan’s thoughts. Maybe he could. After all, the man was a shrink.
Along the next corridor, there was a great deal of smoky glass. And at the far end, a waterfall filled the hall with a rush of gently tumbling water. “Where to next, Doc?” he asked, seeing no sign of Asa or Olivia among the passersby.
“ICE Command Center, Command for short.” He pointed to the scanner next to a pair of steel doors near the waterfall. “Your turn. Scan your eye.”
Logan gave it a whirl and the doors opened to a state-of-the-art hub of activity, not unlike a shipboard CIC. Flat computer screens, manned by a host of techs, scrolled with information. Illuminated maps lined the walls and, at one side, enormous screens displayed live images of assorted scenes—desert, urban, derelict—the mountainous one was Afghanistan. There wasn’t time for Logan to analyze everything he saw as Dr. R directed him to an enclosed room in the center, looking like it might be made of one-way glass.
“This is the Situation Room.” Opening the door with another retina scan followed by a sequence of numbers, the doc gestured inside. “Commander Rodgers, reporting for duty.”
Logan stepped inside as the door closed behind him. With two shifts of his eyes, his heart rate spiked. Yes, his mind registered the woman at the head of the table flanked by a man who looked as military as General Patton, but Logan’s gaze immediately shifted to the frozen blue stare of Olivia Hamilton. Logan had all but hoped she wasn’t as attractive as he’d remembered. But, if anything, she was prettier.
Too bad gorgeous women had a propensity for hearts of ice. No way would he succumb to his damned male response. He hadn’t on the Washington, and he wasn’t about to during his tenure with ICE, however long that would be.
The woman at the head of the table stood. “Rodgers, I’ve heard a lot about you. Welcome to the team.” She wore the same plain navy jumpsuit, just like everyone else he’d seen. Brown hair, fortyish, she was attractive and spoke with a British accent. “I’m Tawney Weber, Director of Administration. Allow me to introduce Garth Moore, Head of Field Operations, and I understand you’ve met our espionage specialist—”
“Olivia Hamilton,” Logan said, holding out his hand. “Pleased to see you again, ma’am.”
She gave his palm a firm shake, her face cool and impassive, framed by lustrous blonde hair. “Commander.”
Logan’s hand tingled and he wiped his palm on his hip to stop the blasted sensation.
“I’m in charge of every asset employed by ICE.” Garth offered his hand as well. “You and Commander Hamilton both report to me. I oversee training and run all ops from Command.”
“You’ll find every individual at ICE is highly specialized and among the best in their field,” said Tawney.
Logan arched an eyebrow at Olivia. He wasn’t convinced. Yet. But if nothing else, he respected the duchess for her competence. “That so?”
She raised her own eyebrow with a quick nod, then turned her attention to the Director of Administration.
Tawney gave a brief overview of the administrative side of ICE, including the background, the support and more stuff than Logan probably needed to know. She explained that Anders Lindgren had a beeline to Stoltenberg at NATO headquarters in Belgium. Anything Anders wanted, he got. He used unconventional tactics to recruit the best and Tawney said that’s why Logan and Olivia were on the team. Operatives were assigned to missions based on their skillsets. Tawney gestured to Garth. “When it comes to the details of running ops, I’ll pass the baton to your CO.”
Garth spoke with a hint of a southern drawl. He sounded like a drill sergeant on crack, and Logan doubted the man slept. “My goal is to have you in the field as fast as possible. But while you’re here, I want the pair of you to cross-train with each other. Hamilton is a like a ghost when it comes to espionage and Rodgers has earned the Navy Cross. Christ, if you want to go in with guns blazing, kill the bad guys and go home without any casualties, I’d put my money on this sucker right here every time.”
Frowning against his urge to grin, Logan glanced to Olivia. She didn’t look back, just sat there as if she were an obedient soldier, which he knew she was not.
“I’ll see you both at 0700 tomorrow morning. Give you a chance to see the rest of the facility and acclimatize yourself to your new digs.”
Logan hopped to his feet. “Thank you, sir.”
Garth gave a nod. “Commander Hamilton will take over from here.”
She stood and walked past Logan, her expression aloof. “Did Asa show you the training center?”
“No, ma’am. She dropped me off with Dr. R and I haven’t seen her since.”
“All right. We’ll start there.” She led the way out to the corridor.
He followed, trying not to look down. When she’d passed him in the sit room he’d made that mistake. The jumpsuits might be as comfy as Egyptian cotton, but they should have been hewn from canvas. A woman as shapely as Olivia Hamilton should wear hers three sizes too big, then she mightn’t be so distracting. It had only taken one downward glance. The fabric hugged her well-formed butt like a glove.
He quickly shifted his gaze to her eyes when she stopped and faced him, grasping the knob of a door with a sign that read “Training Center”. “Of all the fab equipment, I like the flight simulator best.” Up close, she wore her jumpsuit unbuttoned a little too far, showing more cleavage than Logan thought she ought—especially if any other male operatives would come within fifty feet of the woman.
He took a step back to put more space between them. Maybe if he wasn’t standing q
uite so close the cleavage wouldn’t be as obvious. “Does everyone learn to fly?” Nope. Still obvious.
Opening the door, she gestured for him to enter. “The basics. The goal is to hire assets who are as well rounded as possible. When you go on a mission, you never know what you’ll be faced with. If you have a general knowledge of everything, you’re more likely to survive.”
“Have you ever flown a plane?” Logan asked, moving inside a training facility that could rival NASA. The needle on his internal impression meter moved up a notch.
“No.” She crossed her arms, making her jumpsuit spread open a bit further. “How many languages do you speak?”
Logan poked his head into the cabin of the flight simulator, making himself look at anything but boobs. “Spanish and some French. You?”
“Arabic, Farsi, French, German, Italian.”
“No Spanish?”
“I could probably get by in Spain, but there aren’t many terrorists in Madrid. You’ll need to learn some Arabic while you’re in training.”
“I know a few phrases.”
“Phrases only work for short ops.”
“Will we see any long-term assignments?”
“We’ll be assigned with whatever needs doing.”
“Things that can’t be handled by mainstream spies?”
“Mainstream spies?” She leaned her hip against the flight simulator. “Where did you get that?”
“Just trying to figure it out. Lindgren said something about eliminating bureaucratic red tape. My guess is ICE operatives are sent in when it’s too hot for MI6 or the CIA.”
Her finely-chiseled chin rose with a hint of pride. “ICE is sent in when there’s no time. When governments disagree. We’re fast, we’re stealth, and no one knows about us.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that’s the plan. Heard the same from Lindgren on the plane, but you couldn’t have been here all that long. It’s only been a couple months since we killed Khalil.”
“I have a week on you, cowboy. But don’t forget, I’ve been a spy since I graduated from Cambridge.”
“Hmm.” He crossed his arms. “I’ve been a SEAL since I graduated from Annapolis.” He was also a year older, but she would know that. Yeah, he’d looked at her file—at least the stuff that wasn’t classified. And she’d looked at his, no doubt. That’s how these things rolled.
