Desperate Deeds

by Dee Davis

  She struggled to hold on to her thoughts. Thinking of Roger. His wife. Their baby. And Anthony laughing about old movies. She’d faced death more times than she cared to admit. But this time it seemed as if maybe her luck had run out.

  From above her, she felt more than saw the bright beam of a flashlight. And she tried to sit up, to find some kind of weapon, but her limbs weren’t working, her mind going fuzzy. She stared up at the gnarled limbs of the old tree, surprised to see the oblong piece of blue silk.

  The color seemed brighter than before. Like a doorway, beckoning.

  And as she gave in to the peaceful bliss of unconsciousness, she realized that, like her mother, she was probably destined to die alone.

  Someone was trying to strangle her. She could feel fingers around her neck, and pressure against her chest. Summoning every ounce of strength she had remaining, Tyler struck out, satisfied to hear a grunt of pain. These bastards were going to pay for what they had done to Roger and Anthony.

  Shrieking like a banshee, her hand closed around a rock as she rose to her knees and raised her arm, trying desperately to focus on the dark shapes of the men surrounding her. Fighting against nausea, she squinted her eyes as she swung her fist.

  A steely hand intercepted hers, fingers locking on her wrist like a vise, a pair of eyes so blue they were almost black boring down into hers. “Never a good idea to kill the medic.” The voice was British, refined. “He was just trying to make certain that you were all right.”

  “He was trying to choke me.” Tyler frowned, her head spinning as she fought against his hold. “I could feel his fingers.”

  “He was taking your pulse.” The man lifted an eyebrow, waiting. And Tyler shook her head, her vision finally clearing. A man with a medical bag and a medic’s insignia stood off to one side, eyeing her warily. Beyond him, she could see the others, military men, working the scene.

  With a sigh, she relaxed her arm, allowing the man with midnight eyes to take the rock.

  “I didn’t know.” Her gaze locked with his, and she blew out a shaky breath. He nodded, releasing her wrist, the sudden lack of contact oddly disarming. “I thought they were still trying to kill me.”

  “Who was trying to kill you?” A beefy-looking man with a general’s star stepped into the light, his voice tight with anger.

  “I’ve no idea,” Tyler said, instinctively flinching away, searching for her blue-eyed stranger, disappointed when she realized he was gone. “I only saw them from a distance.”

  “And why exactly was that?”

  “I was down here. Looking for a body.” The minute it came out, she knew how stupid it sounded. Especially in light of all that had happened. She’d been duped. But she wasn’t about to let this man know the full extent of it. “There was a motorcycle in the road. We thought that someone had been hurt. So I checked it out.”

  “Where were Mather and Gerardi?” the man asked, making notes on a small pad of paper.

  “With the transport.” She blew out a breath, trying to clear her head, but everything was going hazy again, her beleaguered brain pulling out the images of Roger and Anthony’s bodies. “Are they…”

  “Dead?” The man glared down at her, and she felt a wash of nausea, the taste of bile bitter in her throat. “Yes, they are,” he said, his voice laced with contempt. “But then you already knew that.”

  “I tried to help,” she gasped, struggling for breath, her lungs feeling as if they were collapsing. “I was too late. What about the detonators?”

  “They’re gone.” His mouth tightened as he said the words. “Stolen.”

  “Pardon me, sir,” the medic frowned, interrupting as he moved closer. “She’s injured and I need to make certain that she’s been stabilized.”

  “Yes, well, my men are dead. So I think she can handle a few more questions,” the man said, waving the medic back.

  “You’re Roger’s father-in-law,” she whispered, everything suddenly making sense. This man thought that all of this was her fault.

  “I am—or should I say was.” The word hung between them in the air.

  “Sir, I—,” the medic tried again, as Tyler fought against another wave of nausea.

  “Gerardi was found by the motorcycle,” the general continued, ignoring the medic, his eyes boring into hers, even as his voice became less emotional.

  “Right,” she nodded, trying to keep her mind clear. To remember everything that had happened. “I forgot. He was moving it out of the road. So that we could pass.”

  “While you were down here in the ravine,” the man repeated, still eyeing her dubiously. “Looking for a body.”

  “I wasn’t sure what exactly I was looking for,” she said, anger flashing. “I just knew that something wasn’t right. And when I saw that the guard rail had been compromised I thought that someone might be down here. Hurt. Only it turns out it was a set-up.”

  The general shot her another disgruntled look.

  She struggled to sit up, but her head had other ideas, the world going wonky again.

  “General Fisher,” the voice of her Englishman carried across the clearing, even though she couldn’t see him. “She needs medical attention. There’ll be time for questions later.”

  The general sucked in a breath, as if to argue, but turned away as the medic dropped down next to her.

  “Who was it that was talking just now?” she asked, eyes searching the slope for some sign of the stranger. “The Englishman?”

  “Don’t know his name,” the medic said. “But he’s with British Intelligence. Must be a pretty big deal, because the general doesn’t give in to anyone. Anyway, I heard that the stuff you were transporting belonged to him—or more accurately, his government.”

  “MI-5,” she nodded, wincing as he tightened a pressure bandage. “He must be the guy I was supposed to be meeting. What time is it?”

  “Almost three.” He opened a packet of astringent, cleaning an abrasion on her face.

  She’s wasn’t sure exactly what time they’d stopped, but it had been close to midnight, which meant she’d been out a couple of hours at least. No wonder her head was hurting. “How’d you know to come look for us?”

  “Standard ops.” He shrugged. “When you didn’t turn up, they tried to raise you on the radio. And when that didn’t work, they figured something had to be up.”

  “Or down, as the case may be.” She tried for a smile, but coughed instead, wheezing with the effort, pain radiating down her side. “I feel like my chest is on fire.”

  “You’ve bruised your ribs,” the man said, his fingers gentle as they explored. “The body armor saved your life. But between the bullets and the fall, you’re pretty banged up.”

  “I’ve been shot before.” She sighed, her strength waning. “It was a close call, and I kind of developed a thing about protecting myself.”

  “Understandable,” he said, bandaging the abrasion on her forehead, then lifting his hand to call for a stretcher.

  “Too bad you didn’t think to share your caution with Mather and Gerardi.” The general was back, his gaze pinning hers.

  “You think I had something to do with this?” she asked, fighting against both anger and pain now.

  “Lady, I don’t know what to think,” he said, as the medic and another man loaded her onto the gurney. “All I know for certain is that my men are dead, and you’re still alive. And, considering the circumstances, that seems a bit too convenient.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Ambassador Hotel, Colorado Springs—twelve hours later

  I’m okay, Avery. I’ve got bruises on my bruises but nothing seriously wrong. I swear.” Tyler sank down on the bed in her hotel room, cradling her cell phone while she tried to make herself more comfortable. Avery Solomon was A-Tac’s commander and one of Tyler’s oldest friends. The two had met when she was in the Army. It was Avery who’d recruited her to the CIA.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.” Even with the distance she could hear Aver
y’s regret. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.”

  “It’s part of the job.” She shrugged, the gesture hurting more than she was willing to admit. “Missions go bad.”

  “I’m not buying any of this, Tyler. I saw you, remember?” Avery had insisted on being present for her debriefing, and since there was no way for him to be there physically, he’d settled for videoconferencing. “I know how much this cost you.”

  “I shouldn’t have lost them. I should have seen the signs and gotten us the hell out of there.”

  “But you didn’t,” Avery said, his tone probing. “Which tells me that something else happened. Something you omitted from the debrief.”

  Tyler sighed. Avery knew her too damn well. “There was something. But I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. Not even a secure one.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe I’m overreacting. But it seemed like someone was playing us—or more specifically, playing me. Anyway, I’ll tell you everything when I get there. Thanks for clearing me to come home.”

  “There wasn’t anything more you could tell them. I can understand Fisher’s need to probe. I’d feel the same if it was my people that had been lost. But he was pushing too hard. Barking up the wrong damn tree.”

  Tyler smiled. “Thanks for that. It’s nice to know someone has my back. Have you got any leads on who might have stolen the detonators?”

  “Nothing concrete. It’s too early. Hannah is working on it as we speak.” Hannah Marshall handled intel for A-Tac. If there was anything to provide insight into who’d stolen the detonators, she’d find it.

  “So does everyone know what happened?” It wasn’t that she wanted to keep it a secret, but there was part of her that hated having her failure paraded about—even among her friends.

  “As you know, word travels fast in our circles,” Avery said. “So the whole team knows that the detonators were stolen. And that you almost died in the process. But beyond that I figured it was best to keep the details need-to-know. So Hannah’s up to speed. And Nash, of course. He threatened to fly to Colorado if I didn’t tell him everything.” Nash Brennon was the unit’s second in command.

  “And if he knows, then Annie knows,” Tyler said. Annie was Nash’s wife, and there were no secrets between them.

  Avery laughed. “Sometimes I wonder how they made it all those years apart. It’s like they’re two halves of a whole. Anyway, I knew you wouldn’t mind if I filled them in.”

  “Of course not.” Nash and Tyler were close. And she and Annie had hit it off almost from the beginning—except for the part where Tyler had thought Annie was a traitor. But that was water long under the bridge.

  “So you’re sure you don’t want one of us to fly up there?” Avery asked.

  “No. Honestly. I’ve got a flight out first thing in the morning. So I’ll be home for dinner. And we’ll talk then. Right now I just want a stiff drink,” she sighed, realizing that it was going to take more than one.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Tyler.”

  “Intellectually, I know you’re right,” she closed her eyes, seeing Gerardi’s body on the roadside, “but emotionally I just keep replaying it, trying to figure out what I could have done differently.”

  “Hindsight and all that,” Avery said, his pragmatism calming her in way nothing else could have. “And you can rest assured that we’re going to hunt down the bastards that did this.”

  “I’m counting on it. And when we find them, I want first crack. But right now, I just need to decompress. You know?”

  “I do. So I’ll let you go. But I’ll be here if you need me. Nash and Annie, too. In fact, I’m sure they’ll be calling.”

  “Thanks. But I’ll be fine.” She sucked in a calming breath, ignoring the resulting pain that laced through her chest. “I’ll call you when I get to New York.” She terminated the call, and then turned off the phone. Avery was right. Nash would call. And tomorrow she’d be glad to hear his voice. But for now, she was tired of talking. She needed quiet. And she needed that drink.

  Pushing off the bed, she walked over to the minibar, and pulled open the little refrigerator door. Inside, lined up as neatly as soldiers, were a platoon of tiny liquor bottles.

  She pulled out two bottles of Wild Turkey and poured them into a glass. When she’d turned eighteen her father had taken her to her first grown-up dinner party. The host, a longtime family friend, had asked her what she wanted to drink. She’d hadn’t actually had much experience with cocktails, so she’d asked for a strawberry daiquiri. And she’d thought herself very sophisticated drinking the icy pink beverage.

  It was only after she got home that she learned that the host had actually left the party to go to a nearby market to get the supplies needed to make the drink. Her father had been furious, and he’d informed her that she was never to ask for something so complicated again.

  He’d taken a bottle of scotch and a bottle of bourbon from his liquor cabinet and poured a stiff tot of each. And then he’d told her to pick one. Scotch or bourbon. The scotch had tasted bitter, with a hell of a bite, and the bourbon, by contrast, had been smooth, almost sweet.

  She’d drunk bourbon ever since.

  She downed the glass in a single swallow, closing her eyes as the heat slid down her throat, expanding through her chest. She could almost feel the tension coiled inside her loosen as the warmth filtered through her body.

  But it wasn’t nearly enough.

  She opened the refrigerator door again, sorting through the little bottles, but to her dismay, there was no more Wild Turkey. And somehow, in light of the events of the last twelve hours, she didn’t think that a thimbleful of Bailey’s Irish Cream was going to suffice.

  She turned to the telephone, searching for the room service number, and then abruptly replaced the receiver, deciding instead to head downstairs for the bar off the lobby. She’d find a dark corner and nurse a couple of really good drinks. She’d be less likely to let her emotions take over in a crowded bar. And besides, misery was supposed to love company.

  She grabbed her keycard and headed downstairs via the elevator. The bar was small. Like a thousand other hotel bars. Nondescript in a high-concept, designer kind of way. Huge vases of flowers had been placed strategically throughout, dividing the space into even smaller alcoves. The perfect place to unwind—or to hide.

  Ignoring the curious stares from a couple of businessmen sitting at the bar, she made her way to the far corner and a table with two large wing chairs. An electric fire flickered behind a glass screen, the lack of warmth and sound only adding to the sterile feeling of the place. After ordering a Maker’s Mark, she settled into the chair facing the room. It would be more peaceful to stare into the pretend fire, but old habits died hard. Better to keep watch.

  One of the men at the bar smiled and lifted his glass, and Tyler shifted the chair so that she could more easily avoid his gaze. The waitress brought the bourbon and retreated, leaving Tyler to her thoughts as soft music swelled in the background. Just what she needed—a soundtrack.

  Gerardi and Mather weren’t the first people she’d lost during a mission, but that didn’t change the depth of her regret. And even though Avery was right and it wasn’t her fault, she still felt as if she should have done something different. Something that would have kept both men alive.

  She blew out a breath and took a sip of bourbon. Usually, when an operation went south, she had backup. People to decompress with. This was the first time in years she’d handled an op on her own. But as she’d told Girardi and Mather, she was the expert in munitions. So the assignment had fallen to her. And since there’d been no need to involve more personnel, it had been deemed a routine operation.

  But the mission had turned out to be anything but routine, and now, because of her mistakes, two good men were dead.

  She tipped the glass and finished the contents.

  “Way I’ve always heard it, Maker’s Mark is a
sipping bourbon.”

  “Didn’t know you Brits ran toward bourbon at all,” Tyler said, looking up into the dark blue eyes of her MI-5 agent, although for the life of her, she couldn’t think why she’d think of him as “hers.”

  “We do get shipments from across the pond.” He shrugged, signaling the waitress for more drinks as he slid into the chair next to hers. “I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself before. Owen Wakefield.”

  He held out his hand, and Tyler sucked in a breath, not certain that she wanted to touch him. Another irrational thought. Maybe he was right and she should have been sipping. With a tight smile she reached across to take his hand in hers. “Tyler Hanson. But considering the circumstances, I suspect you already know that. You’re MI-5, right?”

  His hand tightened for a moment, his grip strong, his fingers engulfing hers. Then he sat back with a crooked smile. “How did you know?”

  “The medic at the scene. He told me. And if he hadn’t, the accent would have given you away. I guess I was supposed to be bringing the detonators to you.”

  “Well, I was just a courier. Same as you. But, yes, I was at the base when we heard about the ambush.”

  “Yeah, well, sorry I couldn’t have done more about that.” She sat back, waiting as the waitress brought their drinks. “If it matters at all, I was just sitting here replaying the whole thing.”

  “Haven’t you already done enough of that? Looked to me like you were getting a pretty thorough debrief.”

  “You were there?” she asked, with a frown.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “At least in spirit. I was listening in via computer. At the base. Reciprocal courtesy and all that. After all, technically, the stolen detonators belonged to us. My government put a lot of money into their development. They’re not going to be happy about losing them.”

  She tilted her head, studying him. He was just this side of devastating, his dark eyes framed by lashes that would have made Revlon cry. His hair was perfectly cut, and she’d wager a month’s salary that his suit was hand-tailored. He carried himself with the assurance of an aristocrat and the stealth of an operative. James fucking Bond with a five o’clock shadow.