by CW Browning
He sipped his drink as his eyes fell on an 8x10 glossy photo of an attractive brunette. Stephanie Walker, FBI and Agent-in-Charge of the case that had blown up and made headlines three months ago. She and her partner had single-handedly prevented what was potentially the largest terrorist attack on US soil since 9/11. The terrorists had been apprehended at the last moment and not a single American life was lost. That was the print story.
The actual events, as they happened, were cloaked in so much disinformation that Michael had no idea what really took place three months ago on Three Mile Island. According to Ms. Walkers account, the terrorists were led by Johann Topamari, the notorious leader of the terrorist cell, Mossavid. He was killed when Ms. Walker and her partner apprehended the terrorists. Though her name had not appeared in any of the official reports, and there was no witness to prove it, the widespread theory was that Viper had been present as well on the nuclear reactor site that night.
Michael turned to look at the huge map of the world that took up most of the far wall of the dining room. He set down his glass, picked up the latest intelligence report, and carried it over to the map. He scanned the report and picked up a red thumb tack, sticking it through Panama. Stepping back, Michael shook his head as a reluctant grin spread across his handsome face.
Red thumb tacks covered the map before him. There was at least one tacked in every country, often more. If this so-called Viper had been present at even half the locations, then she had enough frequent flyer miles to fly for free the rest of her life, and she clearly had a superpower that allowed her to be in more than one place at a time. Several, in fact.
Michael went back to the table to pick up his drink again, looking down at Ms. Walker. The theory was that she was the last one to see Viper. She had been interviewed repeatedly. She had been badgered, summoned and politely threatened until her agency finally said enough. Ms. Walker had cooperated every step of the way and she was now off limits. She had no knowledge of this mysterious government agent. She and her partner had worked closely with Homeland Security to apprehend a terrorist and prevent an attack on Three Mile Island. They had acted with unsurpassed bravery and were heroes. That was the FBI's final word on the matter and the case was officially closed.
Except Michael knew that it wasn't. Ms. Walker's agency was actively trying to find Viper. The FBI had alerts out all over the country, looking for information on not only her whereabouts, but that of her last known companion, Damon Peterson. The FBI wanted both of them for questioning in relation to that incident that happened on Three Mile Island in the Spring. Damon, allegedly a clandestine agent with the Department of Homeland Security, was also wanted for questioning in the unrelated investigation into the death of a Homeland Security agent in DC. The FBI was getting nowhere in their search for either of them.
Michael sipped his drink and let his eyes wander back to the massive map on his wall. He had been given the task of finding this phantom named Viper. Someone higher up on the food chain believed that she was a very real threat to White House security. It wasn't his job to ask questions, but Michael found himself questioning more and more why this particular agent was considered a threat. If she was present on the Island with Ms. Walker, then chances were pretty good that it had been her that killed Johann Topamari. Michael frowned. If that was the case, she was a hero, not a villain. If she was a security risk, wouldn't she have been working with the terrorist?
And why was everyone so desperate to find her? The FBI wanted her for questioning, but for what? Their case on the terrorists was closed, crisis averted. Homeland Security was also looking for Viper. They wanted her for questioning by an oversight committee investigating God alone knew what, because they claimed she could have information that could be relative to that investigation.
Michael sipped his drink again thoughtfully. Johann was dead and his associates were in custody. What additional information could Viper possibly have for DHS?
And then, of course, there was the CIA. Michael ran a hand over his short red hair and drained his glass. The CIA had alerts out to their agents worldwide. Michael had seen the alert. They were looking for any and all information on the location of one particular agent, commonly known as Viper. Their alert had gone to every station head throughout the world and brought back zero hits. Michael wasn't surprised. The people who sent the alert had taught Viper to be a ghost. It was clear that the alert had been sent as a courtesy only. They weren't about to let one of their agents anywhere near a Congressional oversight committee.
Michael sighed and set down his empty glass. Someone wanted this agent, and they wanted her yesterday. It had nothing to do with terrorists on Three Mile Island or oversight committees.
He stared at the map on the wall.
What did she know?
Alina handed Damon a beer over his shoulder and walked around to sit next to him on the overstuffed couch. He had a laptop balanced on his legs, his feet crossed on the worn coffee table in front of him, and he was studying a map on the screen. The sun had disappeared and the lights were on in the small living room at the front of the cabin. The large fireplace that took up most of the exterior wall was cold and dark. A thick woven rug consisting of reds and whites covered most of the hardwood floor in this room, and matching red curtains were pulled across the windows, shutting out the night. The front door opened directly into the living room, and a wooden staircase led upstairs opposite the front door. The cabin was small, but homey.
And Alina was getting heartily sick of it.
“This is in perfect position,” Damon murmured, sipping the beer and glancing at her. “You couldn't have found a more perfect location.”
Alina smiled slightly.
“Raven needed room to hunt,” she replied with a twinkle. Damon laughed.
“Of course,” he agreed, sitting back and looking at her.
Alina was curled into her corner of the couch with her knees up next to her, facing him. Damon took in the red hair and the sparkling green eyes. He wasn't sure he could get used to the hair, and the green contacts were disconcerting.
“You look completely different,” he told her.
Alina raised her eyebrow slightly in that gesture that was uniquely hers.
“That was the idea,” she murmured. “Don't you like redheads?” she asked with a flash of a grin. Damon smiled slowly.
“Not as much as I like brunettes,” he answered.
Alina's lips curved and her heart rate quickened.
“I like the red,” she said, ignoring the leap in her pulse.
“I've known too many redheads,” Damon informed her and Alina laughed.
“You spoke to Harry?” she asked, changing the subject and sipping her bottled water.
“Yesterday.” Damon closed the laptop with a snap and leaned forward to set it on the coffee table. “He says he'll be back in Washington tomorrow.” Damon shifted slightly to face her and rested his elbow on the back of the couch. His t-shirt stretched taut across his chest and he seemed to take up the whole couch. “He asks respectfully that we don't blow anything up until he gets back.”
Alina met his bright blue eyes and they shared a quick grin.
“I think I can go along with that,” Alina said. “I have a few more things to set in motion. Does he think he can keep Homeland Security spinning for a few more days?”
“He didn't say,” Damon sipped his beer, “but he seemed very confident that everything would go smoothly on his end.”
Alina nodded and stared thoughtfully at the empty fireplace. Damon watched her for a moment.
“The Organization reinstated you with a clear record,” he said. “Congratulations.”
Alina nodded absently.
“Mmm,” she murmured. When Damon was silent, she lifted her eyes to him again. He was staring broodingly into his beer. “They are cautiously endorsing this mission,” she said.
“Meaning if we succeed, they'll protect us,” he stated. Alina nodded.
“
And if we fail, we're on our own,” she added. “Same deal as always.”
Damon looked up and they stared at each other for a moment.
“They want to know who the traitor is,” Damon finally said, “and they don't want to go through normal channels.”
“Something like that,” Alina agreed. “They're looking the other way while we operate on US soil. Again.”
Damon nodded. He was strangely comfortable with working on US soil, in the FBI's backyard. He tried not to consider the possibility that it was because he was getting tired of globe-trotting.
“Are you worried?” he finally asked. Alina's lips curved slightly.
“I don't have time to be worried,” she replied. “Someone's trying to kill me to keep me quiet.”
Damon nodded and got up restlessly with his beer. He prowled around the small living room once before coming to a stop in front of the fireplace.
“What about the Fearless Feds?” he asked over his shoulder.
He was referring to the two FBI agents Alina had left behind in New Jersey. The two friends from her past had become irrevocably entangled in her mission there three months ago. That mission had been her atonement mission, the one that reinstated her with The Organization after an unusual mission failure two years before.
“Running in circles with the rest,” she said. Damon caught the note of regret in her voice and shot her a sharp look under his lashes. She was watching him with an unreadable look on her face. “But they're safe. For now.”
“What a God-awful mess.” Hawk shook his head and turned his attention to the empty fireplace. Alina was silent as she sipped her water. After a long thoughtful silence, he straightened up and turned to look at her, leaning his broad shoulders against the stone mantle. “So, what kind of odds are we looking at?”
“FBI, NSA, DHS, NCIS...pretty much the entire alphabet, except ours, is looking for me,” Alina told him, capping her water and setting it on the coffee table. She shifted on the couch and stretched her legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “And now the Secret Service has thrown their hat into the ring as well.”
“Secret Service was inevitable,” Hawk said. “He knows we'll come after him.”
Alina lifted that strange, sparkling green gaze to him.
“Yes,” she agreed. Her lips curved mischievously. “But what wasn't expected was who would lead the charge for them.”
Damon raised an eyebrow questioningly.
“Don't even tell me it's someone we know!” he exclaimed. Alina's smile grew to a grin.
“It's someone I know,” she replied. “The last time I saw him, we killed an entire bottle of Jameson in honor of my brother.”
Damon let out a low whistle.
“A Marine?” he asked. Alina nodded.
“He came to see me when he got stateside after my brother died,” she told him. “He wanted to give his condolences personally and tell me that he promised my brother he would look out for me.” Damon watched her through hooded eyes. “We drank an entire bottle and then he left. I joined up not long after that and I never saw him again, until today.” She made a face. “I never drank Jameson again, either,” she added.
Damon chuckled and went over to the couch again. He lifted her outstretched feet and sat down in their place, setting them down in his lap.
“Can we turn him?” he asked, rubbing her ankles absently. Alina was quiet for a moment, thinking.
“I don't think we'll have to,” she finally said slowly. “I didn't get the impression that he was hostile. He's asking questions and poking around in Frankie Solitto's backyard.”
Damon looked surprised.
“Really?” he drawled. “Now how on earth did he get wind of that old mobster?”
“One of Solitto's extended cousins is a regular informant for him,” Alina said with a yawn. Damon was massaging her ankles and the warmth of his strong fingers was sending goosebumps up her legs. It felt so natural to sit like this, to allow the soothing motion of his hands relax her legs. She stretched and sat up, pulling her feet off Damon's lap and reaching for her water again, abruptly ending the contact. “They meet in the back booth of an Irish bar downtown.”
Damon stared at her, his lips twitching.
“You never cease to amaze me,” he murmured. “How on earth did you ferret out that piece of information? Wait. Never mind. I don't want to know.”
Alina laughed and stood up.
“The important thing is that Michael O'Reilly will be on our side,” she said. Damon looked up at her.
“And just how do you plan on getting the Secret Service on our side?” he demanded. The smile that curved across her lips sent a shiver of foreboding down his spine.
“Let's just say that a Marine is always a Marine,” Alina told him, picking up her water bottle and turning to go into the kitchen.
“Viper!” Hawk called. She turned her head, pausing at the sudden use of her codename. “Be careful. He can just as easily say that an assassin is always an assassin.”
Alina met his gaze and smiled slightly.
“Oh, I'm counting on that.”
Hawk watched her disappear into the kitchen and the feeling of foreboding grew. Viper was one of the best in the Organization. Her planning and attention to detail were legendary. She had an almost perfect record and always got her mark, but she had never taken on her own government.
Hawk lifted his beer to his lips. He really hoped Viper's plan was flawless.
Anything less and they would both be finished.
Chapter Three
Stephanie tossed her bags into the trunk and slammed it shut. John leaned on her driver's side door with his arms crossed over his chest, watching her from behind his sunglasses. The sunlight glinted on his blond hair and Stephanie smiled as she walked up to him.
“And the vacation officially begins,” she said. John nodded.
“We've earned it,” he agreed. “I'm going to soak up every ray of sun I can on the beach.” He straightened up and unfolded his arms. “I still don't see why you're disappearing into the mountains. What's there to do up there?”
“Nothing.” Stephanie grinned. “That's the point.” She reached around him to open her door. “But keep your phone on,” she added as an after-thought. “I might get bored.”
“That I don't doubt,” he retorted, holding the top of the car door as she got behind the wheel. “To each his own, though. Whatever it takes to recharge.” He leaned forward and looked down at her. “Take the time to relax.”
“Oh, I plan to,” Stephanie answered, starting the engine. She glanced up when John made no move to step back. “What?”
“I know you're bothered about Lina,” he said seriously. “You have to let her go.” Stephanie stared up at him.
“I'll let her go after I thank her for saving my life,” she retorted.
John opened his mouth as if to say something, but apparently thought better of it. He nodded instead, pushed her door shut, and watched as she backed out of her spot. He waited until she pulled out of the parking lot before turning and slowly walking back to his own car. The motorcycle was locked up at his apartment and he was sporting his old Firebird today. John slid behind the wheel and sat for a minute thoughtfully.
Alina always loved this old Firebird. John ran a hand over the top of the dash and glanced over to the passenger seat. The leather seats were worn and cracked, but she used to say it was a classic. His eyes fell on a gray, burnt patch on the passenger’s floor. He stared at it, remembering the smell of burning carpet and cigarette smoke, and her laughter as she realized that the carpet was smoldering. They had been parked outside his friend's house when they started fighting. John frowned slightly. He couldn't remember the cause, but he remembered the make-up vividly. It had led to the burn mark on the floor. Her cigarette had fallen unnoticed and burnt all the way down to the filter, leaving a two inch burn in the floor before it ignited and started smoldering. Even then, it had been quite a while before either of them ha
d noticed anything.
John lifted his eyes from the damaged floor and turned the key in the ignition. The engine growled to life and he pressed the gas gently, revving it. Alina had been more upset over the burnt carpet than him. It had led to yet another attempt to quit smoking, an attempt that failed when they got word that her brother had been killed in Iraq.
John pulled himself back from the past and put the car in reverse. He had no intention of going to the shore.
He was going to find Lina.
A soft ocean breeze blew into the study, carrying the unmistakable scent of saltwater and sand, while the soothing sound of waves crashing onto the beach flowed into the study as if it were part of the decor. The sun had disappeared and the beach out back was bereft of moonlight, leaving it dark and mysterious. The beach was private property, belonging to the house and rigorously guarded. This house was a fortress, yet still a summer home away from home.
Frankie Solitto had a few residences. Running the Jersey Family had made him a very rich man, and this particular house on the Jersey shore was the pride and joy of his wife of twenty-odd years. She was in residence from before Memorial Day until well after Labor Day, spending her days on the beach and her nights either on the stone patio outside or at the casinos in Atlantic City. Tonight, she was in Atlantic City. Alina had watched her leave over an hour ago.
Frankie was in the dining room, finishing his dinner. His guards were on patrol on the beach and surrounding the house within the terracotta-colored privacy wall. No one could get in or out without their knowledge, and absolutely no one was allowed in Frankie's private study without him. Ever.
