by Misty Evans
In four minutes, Lawson had to get his men into the farmhouse, cover the CIA asset and arrest Dmitri. Agent Morgan's intel report stated there were four terrorists inside with Owens. Now one was out doing guard duty, leaving Dmitri, his lieutenant and another man inside. Even if Dmitri had something up his sleeve, Team Pegasus was skilled and experienced. Neutralizing four terrorists would be a simple takedown.
In his peripheral vision, Lawson saw his point man, Johnny Quick, retreat several feet and tuck his body into the shadows of the barn as Dmitri's security patrol sat on the porch step and lit a cigarette. The barn's floodlight illuminated the drive and a portion of the house. After a moment, Johnny gave him the clear sign. Lawson's other men, Teddy, Rooster and C.J., waited impatiently for his command. Like him, they were raring to go, even though the last mission was only hours behind them. Every dove call, every blip of his digital watch, fine-tuned Lawson's attention.
Above the rustling tree leaves, he heard the drum of a motorcycle engine. The guard on the porch heard it too, rising to his feet as the cigarette dangled from his mouth and his rifle came up. Ten seconds later, a finely tuned Ducati shot up the road with a woman driving it. Strands of long blonde hair blew out behind her as she ignored the driveway, hopped the ditch and jerked the bike into an abrupt skid ten feet from the cigarette-smoking terrorist's feet.
The cigarette fell and the rifle locked into place.
"Dmitri!” Her voice echoed off the house and into the woods as she killed the bike. She dropped the kickstand and raised her hands in the air.
Zara. The sledgehammer landed right between Lawson's shoulder blades.
Zara had no time to think or plan what was coming. The guard's gun was trained on her. She ignored him and his command to fall to her knees as she kept her focus on the living room picture window and yelled again. “Dmitri! I know where your missiles are. I'll take you to them."
The guard grabbed her by the back of her shirt and pulled her away from the bike. She let him push her to her knees, the end of his AK-47 digging painfully into her back. He yanked her gun from her waistband and ejected the clip. It bounced on the ground to her left.
A second later, the door to the farmhouse opened and Dmitri stood in its frame, his face in shadows.
Cold fear ran over Zara's skin like gooseflesh. He said nothing, nor did his lieutenant behind him. For several heartbeats, she knelt rigid, willing him to take her bait.
A modicum of guarded relief flooded through her when he ambled down the porch steps in his expensive Italian loafers. But the relief changed course as he crossed the yard to stand in front of her, the paleness of his eyes evident even in the half-gray light of the approaching sunrise. His gaze cut to the road behind her, to her Ducati and back to her face.
Through the years, Zara had perfected a myriad of personas to deal with her family, the press, the public at large. Like the different ringtones on her cell phone, she had one for her father, one for the coworker who made a pass at her in the halls of Langley, one for the psychiatrist who administered lie detector tests. It was a crucial skill in her line of work.
Dialing up her impersonal, model-spy face, she willed her voice to stay calm, sound cool. “I know where your weapons are. I'll take you to the cache myself.” She paused before offering him the key to success. “If we leave now, you can make your deadline to your buyer."
Dmitri said nothing, only cocked his head a millimeter to the side, studying her as if she were a curious oddity. Strands of his dark hair rose and fell on the wind. His gaze flickered over her, lingering for the briefest of seconds on the gold chain around her neck before lazily climbing back to her face. Another slight nod and the guard hauled her to her feet.
"Are you a complete fool?” he said in French.
It wasn't the question she was expecting, but she didn't miss a beat. Seconds were passing. “Non,” she answered him face-to-face. She switched to English. They would do this negotiation on her terms. “And neither are you. Accept my offer and let's get out of here. Prince Abkhahar will not wait one minute past the deadline."
Dmitri's gaze bore into hers. He switched to English as well. “Do you know how much I hate Americans? American women. American spies.” He spit on the ground at her feet.
Thunder boomed in the distance and Zara jumped. A flicker of amusement danced in the madman's eyes. She used the gall it ignited in her stomach to stay focused. “Business is business. Abkhahar needs those missiles to funnel to Hezbollah. You fail to deliver them and he'll kill you. If you're ever going to be the ruling tycoon in the international world of black arms dealers, you need this deal to go down smoothly and on time.” She met his gaze without flinching. “I can make it happen."
"Tell me where the cache is, and you can go free with your comrade."
She didn't actually know where the cache was. Even if she had, Dmitri would never let her and Tim go once he had the location. “I take you to it or there's no deal."
He stepped forward, his face far too close for comfort. He was handsome in that French bad-boy way. Many women found the combination of devilish looks and cruelty appealing. Zara found it repulsive. “Do you know who I am, spook?"
Terrorist. Assassin. Certifiable nutcase. A ruthless businessman who enjoyed the sport of killing whether it was to further his political agenda, his philosophical views or just for the act itself. He loved cat-and-mouse games, toying with his prey until it was exhausted mentally and physically before he lost interest and finally had it killed. Rarely did he pull the trigger himself unless it was to purge one of his own men. He didn't trust many people and occasionally, even those in his inner circle were eliminated without hesitation.
Yes, Zara thought, I know exactly who you are.
But she also knew who she was.
She raised her chin a notch. “You're wasting time. Deal or no deal?"
The corner of his mouth lifted in a comma at the challenge. Seconds ticked by in unison with the beat of her heart, but this time when the thunder boomed again, closer, she didn't move a muscle.
Dmitri snapped his fingers at his gun-toting guard. “Bring the car around."
"Let's take my bike. It's faster.” She motioned at the others. “Your men can follow in the car."
Dmitri glanced at her bike and did an abrupt nod of his head, but her success was again short-lived. “Bring me Owens,” he said to his lieutenant. The man left the doorway.
The hair on the back of her neck stood up again. Her bones vibrated. “Why?"
This time Dmitri smiled fully. He reached out a finger and touched the chain at her neck. “A little game I like to play."
Tim staggered down the porch stairs in front of Dmitri's lieutenant and another guard. His hands were tied behind his back. His face was bruised, haggard. When his eyes met hers, she saw a spark of admiration mixed with surprise but he shook his head at her in disbelief.
He doesn't believe I can pull this off.
Glancing at Dmitri, Zara could see he was thinking the same thing. He pulled a heavy black gun out of his shoulder holster and held it out to her, butt-end. “Kill him,” he ordered.
The model-agent persona faltered. Dmitri was demanding she exterminate his witness. He was ordering her to kill her senior case officer. As a wave of panic threatened to undo her, her Farm training kicked in. If I can just grab his gun...
Dmitri's guard cleared his throat, reminding Zara his rifle was locked on her chest. Her gaze flew to Tim's and true panic squeezed itself like a python around her heart.
Her mouth dry, she forced her attention back to Dmitri. Flynn's advice rang in her head. Don't let him make this personal. Stay detached. “I don't play games."
With swift movements, Dmitri grabbed her hand and smacked the gun into it. Then he twisted her around, wrapping his left arm around her rib cage and slamming her back against his chest. He turned their bodies in unison, pulling the gun up to aim at Tim.
The contact was brutal and she jerked hard, but Dmitri's arm
was a vise. He rested his head next to hers as lightning cracked above them. The smell of cigarettes, expensive cologne and male sweat mixed in her nose. His hand closed around hers, forcing the gun to point at Tim's head.
"Let me help you,” he murmured in her ear, seductive as a lover. “Ready?” He trapped her finger on the trigger. “One, two—"
Beep. Beep. Beep. The timer on Zara's watch went off.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter One
CIA Headquarters, Arlington, Virginia
Two months later
"Alexandrov Dmitri.” Michael Stone, the Deputy Director of the CIA, pushed a button on the remote control in front of him and a giant picture of the terrorist's face appeared on the sixty-inch projection screen on the far wall. “French Intelligence has informed us he was released from Moulins, the high-security prison he was being held at, early yesterday morning. A judge reviewed his case and deemed the American evidence against him was invalid."
The instant Zara heard Dmitri's name she was transported back to France. The skin on her right cheek prickled as if his breath were a ghost touching her there. She brushed her hand across her cheek and shivered. Fear and anger warred inside her. Another betrayal.
"Last night,” Stone continued, “Jon Vos Loo, the renowned biochemist, escaped from the same prison. The French believe Dmitri orchestrated the escape and the two may be partnering up."
Across the table from Zara, Maureen Tolland, a member of the Department of Homeland Security, spoke up. “To do what?"
A new picture filled the screen. This one showed the photo of a laboratory. Stone stood and shrugged off his suit jacket, his broad shoulders seeming to relax a bit at the freedom. “Odds are Dmitri recruited Vos Loo to set up a lab. Dmitri wants to supply various terrorist groups with biological weapons. With the continuing war on Iraq, these groups are piggy-backing on anti-American sentiment and launching their own agendas into the limelight. Most of them already have an array of black-market weapons and are now looking for unconventional ones."
Zara wished, not for the first time, Lawson had put a bullet in Dmitri's head. “He's an opportunist,” she volunteered. “What his fellow terrorists are willing to pay for, he's willing to provide."
Maureen made a note on the papers in front of her. “What does Dr. Vos Loo specialize in?"
Annette, the FBI agent who'd worked the Dmitri operation with Zara, answered, “Anthrax, botulism cultures, aflatoxin, you name it. Ricin was his last interest."
Stone nodded at Annette. “What else do we know about him?"
Well-versed in European criminals, she continued. “Dr. Vos Loo is a trained geneticist who emerged from Russia after the Cold War. He's worked for several governments developing biological weapons.” She checked her laptop's screen. “Yugoslavia, Saudi Arabia and Sudan. But as far as we know, he's never hooked up with any non-state-funded terrorists like Dmitri."
"What was he in prison for?” Maureen asked her.
"Murder.” Annette scanned the document on her screen again. “He fed his girlfriend a dose of botulism for touching something in his lab. His sentence was for life in maximum security."
Another shiver ran down Zara's spine. While a terrorist could take out a building with a bomb and kill dozens if not thousands of innocent people, a psychotic biochemist could wipe out the entire human race with a dropper full of toxin before anyone saw it coming.
It was important to impress upon the DHS agent how dangerous this potential partnership could be, but first she knew she had to give Maureen the actual logistics. “An untested source with good access inside the prison notified us three weeks ago that Dmitri and Vos Loo were spending time together, checking out the same books from the prison library and bribing guards to pass messages back and forth between their cells. A woman who had been visiting Dmitri, Varina Scalfaro, began visiting Vos Loo as well. Varina has loose ties to several criminal organizations in Europe."
Stone's pacing slowed as he joined Zara in connecting the pieces of the puzzle. DHS needed to be on board with what they were going to propose. “We think Dmitri offered to help the doctor escape in return for his participation in Dmitri's new network of terror."
The door to the conference room opened and Zara's boss, Conrad Flynn, blew into the room with his usual air of controlled impatience. The head of the spy group gave her a lazy wink and nodded at the others as he dropped a Day Timer and some dark blue files on the table.
"What'd I miss?” He pulled out a chair and plopped into it, turning to face Michael Stone with a direct stare that made Zara want to duck out of the line of fire.
Stone crossed his arms and returned Flynn's piercing gaze. His tone was curt with warning. “Nice of you to join us."
Zara knew Flynn hated the never-ending meetings his role as Director of Operations dictated. He hated being in the office at all. She felt a kinship with him since she hated it too. The field was where she came to life, where all covert agents let the blood in their veins run wild with daring and anticipation. She was cut from the same cloth as Flynn. A cloth that seemed to rub against Stone like sandpaper.
Everyone inside Langley knew Flynn and Stone had issues. Big ones. Rumor had it the tension between them was over a woman. For a split second Zara wondered what it was like to have two incredible men like the rock-solid deputy director and the sexy spymaster fighting over you.
But only for a split second. She had no interest in relationships. No time, either. Her career was all that mattered, and stopping Dmitri now topped her to-do list.
"Zara?” Flynn lifted a brow at her.
Jerked out of her daydreaming, she straightened her back. Busted. She looked into Flynn's dark eyes and swallowed hard. Don't stutter. Dial up competent intelligence officer. “Alexandrov Dmitri was released from Moulins yesterday after a French judge reviewed his case and dismissed it on a technicality."
Making a production of taking a pen out of his jacket pocket and writing a note, Flynn muttered, “That's what happens when you give a French terrorist back to his own government for punishment instead of taking care of him yourself."
The gazes of everyone in the room ping-ponged between Flynn and Stone. Flynn was a firm believer that counterterrorism only worked when diplomacy took a backseat.
Office politics here or in her father's boardroom were the same. Stick to the facts, ignore the emotions. She pretended not to notice the tension. “A few hours later, his prison buddy, Dr. Jon Vos Loo, escaped. Vos Loo's a biochemist who likes to cook up nasty stuff. Deputy Director Stone believes there's a connection."
Flynn rocked his chair, gave Stone an I told you this would happen look and jutted his chin at her. “And what do you think?"
She glanced around the room at the men and women gathered there. It was a powerful group but not one of them had ever done counterintelligence in Europe face-to-face with a terrorist with the exception of her boss. They believed in diplomacy, even when it failed, and squirmed at military interventions. Zara believed in taking out sponsors of terrorism, period. That's why she belonged to Flynn's lethal and efficient counterterrorism team. Some people might call her a vigiliante, but those same people might owe their lives to her ability to take out a known terrorist before he struck again.
Stone had been a Marine in his pre-Agency days and Zara respected that, but it was to Flynn that she directed her comment. “I'd wager my father's well-diversified stock portfolio they're up to something ugly. With Vos Loo's skills and Dmitri's connections, they could have a profitable network for the production and distribution of biological agents running within a week. Two, tops."
Flynn nodded, then put Stone on the spot. “So what are you doing about it?"
Maureen leaned forward. “What are the French doing?"
"We've heard the usual rhetoric from the French,” Annette answered. “They believe both men have gone to ground. Dmitri's freelance men are missing in action, as is Scalfaro. The whole operation seems to have disappeared."<
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"Forget the French.” Flynn waved his pen in dismissal. “There's obviously a corrupt official inside their judicial branch if a terrorist like Dmitri gets out of prison on a technicality. And they've no doubt got a problem with their intelligence group as well if Dmitri helped Vos Loo escape. If you're worried about these two teaming up, then we need to find them."
All attention shifted to Stone. He avoided meeting Flynn's eyes, instead studying the picture of the lab still on the screen. Stone preferred diplomacy, but would do whatever it took to protect his country. He pulled out his chair at the head of the table and sat down. “I agree."
Maureen glanced at her notes. “I agree as well, but I'm curious about what happened at the farmhouse earlier this year. Why did Dmitri believe Agent Owens knew where his missiles were?"
It was the same question Zara had pondered herself. When she'd asked Tim about it, he waved it off, swearing he had no idea, and she'd ignored the uncomfortable tingling inside her. “Tim and I were working on flushing out the mole in the Paris Embassy. Tim had nothing to do with the operation to confiscate Dmitri's weapons."
Maureen frowned at her. “But according to the transcript I read, you told Dmitri you knew where the missiles were and you offered to take him to them."
Zara shrugged. “I was bluffing."
"Bluffing?” Maureen snorted. “Why would you bluff about such a thing under those circumstances?"
"Under those circumstances?” Flynn glared at her, the lion ready to defend one of his pride. “Those circumstances dictated her actions or didn't you read Zara's report?"
Maureen met his glare for less than a second before pointing at Annette. “I'd like to hear the tape that corresponds to the transcript I read. Did you bring it? Start where Zara confronts Dmitri."
She doesn't believe me. Zara glanced at Flynn for help as Annette tapped the keys of her laptop. He made a small, almost unnoticeable gesture with his hand, telling her to relax. Don't let her think she's getting to you. The next second she heard her voice coming from the room's speaker system.
