She sat on a case of supplies, watching Eddy finish securing the ice encased mammoth. She shook her head and grunted. Here she was, one of the most well respected female paleobotanists in the world, reduced to a man-watching teenager. She was hopeless. Eddy hadn’t paid much attention to her once work was underway, which was typical and expected, but not appreciated. He didn’t have to profess his undying love, or even a small crush; Eve just wanted to be acknowledged. Eddy was chummy with Steve, Paul, Kevin and occasionally even Norwood.
“Personally, I don't know what you see in him, but if I were you, I wouldn’t just sit on the sidelines and do nothing.”
Eve looked up, her trance broken. Nicole stood next to her.
Eve tried her best at a convincing laugh. “What are you talking about?”
Nicole sat down on an overturned crate across from Eve. “You can’t play dumb with me. I’m trained to see through people’s protective shields. I've seen the way you look at him.”
Eve shifted, averting her eyes from Nicole’s.
“I’m the only other woman here,” Nicole said. “If you can’t talk to me, who can you talk to?”
Eve smiled. “Good point. This off the record?”
“You see a camera?”
Eve glanced from side to side. No cameras. No film crew.
“So, are you two an item?”
Eve guffawed, no pretending this time.
“I’ll take that as a no; were you ever?”
“We’ve had a few close calls over the years. Work just always seems to come between us.”
“You mean he puts it between you.”
“I suppose you could say that.”
Nicole leaned forward. “And that doesn’t tell you something?”
“Should it?”
Nicole rolled her eyes. “I can translate the body language of a man who’s just walked into a bar as easily as putting on lipstick. If he wants sex, beer or to spill his guts, I know before he reaches his seat. They’re all open books to me.”
“And what does Eddy’s book tell you?”
“Eddy’s book is very short and in bold print. The man is head over heels for you.”
Eve relaxed and snickered. “I think you need reading glasses.”
“Eve. Honey. We’re the only two women here. The only two. That means all these testosterone-filled boys are either looking at you, or at me.”
“Ugh, please don’t make me think about that. Some of these guys are like brothers.”
“Horny brothers.”
Eve laughed and leaned back, relaxing more. Nicole had a sense of humor after all.
Nicole continued. “My point is, I make a note when a man looks at me. His attraction might come in useful in the future.”
Eve raised her eyebrows. “And…?”
“And Eddy hasn’t taken a double take at me once. Even when I pretended to drop my pen and bent over in front of him. He didn’t take a second glance. Frankly, I was a bit offended, but now I understand why. He’s only got eyes for you.”
Nicole’s testimony began to sink in and take hold of Eve’s mind. “You’re serious?”
“Completely. Have you talked to him honestly about how you feel?”
“No.”
“No time like the present. What do you have to lose?”
Face contorting with obvious thought, Eve chewed on what Nicole had said. If she was right and Eddy reciprocated, she’d be breaking ground ten years old. But if not…if not, nothing. She didn’t have him fully now. If he rejected her, she’d just go on living as she had been, only she’d feel able to consider other men, which for some reason, she hadn’t before. Better make a move, Eve thought, before my feelings for him become fossilized versions of what once was—cold, hard and dead.
Eve stood up. “Can’t lose something you don’t have.”
“Exactly!”
Eve looked at Eddy and headed straight for him like a heat seeking missile. She had never felt so determined to tell him the truth; once and for all she was going to spill it all out.
Nicole opened her jacket and removed a small digital camcorder that had recorded everything through the space between her coat buttons. She pointed the camera at Eve and focused. But video wouldn’t be enough alone. After setting the camcorder down, aimed at Eve, Nicole reached into her pocket and took out a small device that she unfolded into a miniature satellite dish-shaped listening device, which she plugged into the camcorder. She held the listening device out like a gun and pointed it at Eve. She would record every word and twenty-four frames a second of Eve’s stunning success and the beginning of a romance, or Eve’s crushing defeat and broken heart. Either would be gold.
Heart thumping in her chest, Eve walked up behind Eddy, who was yanking on one of the Liquidmetal cables, as though a pull from his arm could test the material’s strength. But Eve knew it made him feel better. Eddy turned at her approach.
“Steve, can we take another—oh, I thought you were Steve.”
“A man can dream.”
Good idea, Eve, she scolded herself. Sarcasm will win him over. Stupid.
“What?”
“Nothing. Everything all set for tomorrow?”
“As ready as we’re gonna be.”
“Great, great. Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?”
“This better not be about Brian.”
“No, not about Brian.”
“Good, is there a problem with your equipment? Your microscope didn’t break again?”
“No, my equipment’s fine.” Not that you would ever know.
“Then it will have to wait. I’m kind of busy.”
Eve’s shoulders dropped. Just like that, she was dismissed. “When are you not?” She walked away without another word.
Eddy went back to tugging on cables but froze as his mind replayed what had just happened. “Damn it,” Eddy said under his breath. He turned and watched Eve walk away. He took a deep breath, shook his head, and went back to testing the cables, though not with the same enthusiasm as before.
Nicole wrapped up her equipment, careful not to draw Eve’s attention as the woman stormed back to her tent. It didn’t play out how Nicole had hoped, but it was a start. Eddy hadn’t turned Eve down directly, because Eve never spit it out. She loved him, and by the way he watched her leave, Nicole was sure Eddy felt the same about Eve. If only Nicole could get them to hash it out…preferably out in the open. They’d given her silver, but she still longed for gold.
8
THE DESERT WASP
Ryan Dombroski had suffered a barrage of insulting nicknames growing up. Dumbo. Dumb boy skiing. His favorite was Dumbbraboy. But the years of name calling and black eyes that came with his last name gave him the desire and willpower to stand up to the world’s biggest bullies. He’d joined the CIA straight out of law school and excelled at Special Ops assignments. He soon longed for more and rather than hunting down and teaching a lesson to Evan Fontneau, his grade school nemesis, he had leapt at the opportunity to train as one of the CIA’s elite assassins. With an IQ of 181, he was one of the smartest men on the planet. With a knife, he was one of the most dangerous.
His current assignment was typical: get in, kill the bad guy and get out again. And if he couldn’t get out again, get killed so no one could ask him questions. His mark was Sheik Abdul Bin Sherrif. The man had come out of nowhere. He had just appeared from the desert with an army of men at his disposal. The CIA discovered that Sherrif, the Desert Wasp, was hatching a scheme to overthrow the government of Pakistan in a bloody coup, after which Sherrif would be named king of a new monarchy.
A power change in Pakistan would destabilize the Middle East, and with a radical Islamist like Sherrif calling the shots, it wouldn’t be long before World War III erupted. Simulations predicted that Pakistan under Sherrif’s rule would attack India within one year. Sherrif, being a warrior and not the type to accept defeat, would most likely strike out first with Pakistan’s growing nuclear arsenal. India would become
a graveyard and Sherrif would turn his attention to other neighbors. Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran and Saudi Arabia would all fall in line behind Pakistan and the world would be drawn into conflict.
So Dombroski had been called in. Someone high up had enough faith in his abilities to believe that one man could change the future. He’d spent a month searching for Sherrif’s palace; once it was found, like an oasis in the sands of the desert, it took him a single night to work his way into the servant’s quarters and through the ventilation system. He now had a front row seat in the air conditioning duct that ran directly into the sheik’s office.
Dombroski stared at Sherrif with steel gray eyes. Looking down at the sheik, dressed in a spotless white robe and a red turban, Dombroski realized he could end it all right here, with one shot. But the CIA wanted intel first.
Would the coup go on without Sherrif? Who was second in command? Who funded the sheik’s campaign?
The office was decorated with solid gold candelabras, large paintings of Arab warriors and flowing silk curtains. The Sheik’s oak desk shined with the glow of a recent polish. On the floor was a hand woven rug depicting Mohammed killing the infidels—a persuasive means to achieve conversion. This man was a fundamentalist. The sheik would say that he believed in true Islam, while most present-day Muslims believed in a watered down, politically correct version of the great prophet’s teachings. Based on what he had studied of Islam, Dombroski agreed, but would have added that wasn’t a good enough reason to proclaim Jihad on the entire world. Not even Mohammed had been that brazen. Of course, it wouldn’t be long before Sherrif would see his plans of a worldwide conversion to Islam through terror spilled out on the rug, along with his guts.
After twenty minutes of watching the sheik eat fruit carried in by women dressed in black abayaa, which covered them from head to toe, masking every inch of their skin like black apparitions, Dombroski had seen enough. Intel or not, this might be the only chance he would get to end this man’s life.
Inching forward, Dombroski gripped his knife and prepared to smash open the vent, slide out like a viper, and slash the sheik’s throat before he could scream for help. The telephone rang, causing Dombroski to become rigid, like he’d just looked into the cold stare of Medusa. It seemed the sheik would live a few minutes more.
Sherrif answered the phone in Arabic, which Dombroski spoke fluently: “Hello? Ah, my friend, it has been too long. How’s the Cuban weather treating you?”
Cuba?
Dombroski pressed against the vent, listening intently.
“Good, good. These people are weak and easily bent toward our will. The time is coming for us to end our long-lived game.”
The man on the other end spoke and the sheik snorted. “Ha! You’re right, of course. It’s been only two years since my time in South America, but I do miss the seclusion provided by the jungle. Tell me, Reginn, to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”
What kind of name is Reginn? Dombroski wondered. What the hell is going on here?
The sheik had apparently spent some time in South America, which explained why his sudden appearance in Pakistan was so unusual. And now he was talking with an old friend in Cuba, of all places.
Can the planned coup be the beginning of a much larger plot? Dombroski’s instinct told him it was.
Sherrif swiveled to the side in his chair as he listened to the voice on the other end, allowing Dombroski a view of his dark face and inky, sunken eyes. The sheik’s eyes narrowed. “This is interesting, to be sure, but we’ve tracked several expeditions such as the one you have described to me, and each without discovering the beacon.
“These people pose no threat to us. Really, I’m surprised you—” The sheik’s face fell flat. “They’re in the Canadian Arctic? Are you sure?”
As Sherrif listened to the man on the other end, he leaned back in his chair, opened a drawer and pushed a single button.
What is going on here? Dombroski thought furiously.
“Yes, of course. Have Hoder keep track of them. I want to be alerted right away if they uncover anything of interest. If they do, I’ll handle the situation personally.”
Like hell you will.
This was Dombroski’s moment of opportunity. Sherrif was distracted and the room was otherwise unoccupied…
Boom! The double doors at the front of the lavish office burst open and two men dressed in black, wearing white turbans and carrying automatic weapons stepped into the office. Sherrif didn’t seem in the least bit surprised. He waved them over to his desk.
The two men stopped in front of his desk and one of them spoke. “Marutas, you called?”
Marutas? Was that a name? If it was an Arabic word, Dombroski didn’t recognize it.
The hair’s on Dombroski’s neck shot up. He knew this was all wrong. Dombroski quickly sheathed his knife and drew his Glock 9mm semi automatic pistol. He figured he could squeeze off three shots into each man—two to the chest and one to the head just to be sure—and he would still have time to sever the sheik’s jugular before the man reached the door. Of course, getting out of the palace alive would be a trick, but he’d survived worse.
“Call me here as soon as you know something,” the sheik said into the phone, then glanced toward the vent.
Dombroski pulled the trigger on his Glock six times in two seconds, pausing for a half second to aim at the other guard. After smashing through the vent and sliding out onto the floor, Dombroski was already on his feet inside the office when the second guard’s body hit the floor, staining the rug with his blood.
Dombroski ignored the ringing in his ears caused by firing his gun in such an enclosed area and raised the Glock toward Sherrif’s head. But the sheik was merely amused. He chuckled.
“You find this humorous?” Dombroski asked in perfect Arabic.
“Actually, yes,” the sheik replied in flawless English.
“You speak English?”
“Who doesn’t? But I also speak Japanese, Chinese, Spanish, Latin, Greek…”
The sheik was stalling. There was most likely a small army on its way to the office. Dombroski circled to the door, keeping his weapon trained on Sherrif’s head, and shoved a gold-plated chair under the doorknobs of the dual doors, sealing the room, at least temporarily.
“Now you’ve gone and locked yourself in,” Sherrif said with a toothy grin.
Ignoring the comment, Dombroski moved on to business. “Who were you speaking to on the phone?”
“Castro, of course.”
“Fidel Castro?”
“His brother, Defense Minister Raul Castro. Fidel’s time is…limited.”
“And why would you give me this information so freely?”
“I have no secrets to hide from a dead man.”
The sheik made the comment so coolly, with such self-assurance, that it gave Dombroski pause. What did Sherrif know that he didn’t?
“It’s really a shame to have to kill you, Special Agent Dombroski.”
He knows me?
“Of course the CIA has always been part of our plan, but you, I’m afraid, are just a little too smart. It was only a matter of time before you put two and two together. If you weren’t so busy gallivanting around the world putting bullets in people’s heads, you might have already figured out the truth.”
Dombroski began to sweat. This was a setup from the beginning. To kill him. But why? What was he going to figure out? His eyes darted back and forth. There was no one else present and the sheik was unarmed. There hadn’t been a single knock on the door. They were completely alone. How were they going to kill him?
Sherrif stood up. “It’s a shame, really. You’ve always been one of my favorite killers.”
Dombroski grinned. “You’re stalling for time, and I’ve just decided your time is up.”
Three shots echoed through the room as Dombroski unloaded his remaining bullets at the sheik’s head. When the sound faded, Dombroski dropped his weapon and took a step back, forehead glistening w
ith perspiration. What he had just witnessed was not only amazing, it was impossible. Sherrif had dodged the first two bullets by diving and rolling across the floor in one swift movement. The third bullet clipped Sherrif’s shoulder.
The sheik stood still, looking at the wound in his shoulder, which began to bleed…purple. His white robe became wet with lilac-colored liquid, which he rubbed with his index finger. “Shocking, isn’t it?” Sherrif said, as Dombroski stared at the blood covered finger.
“What…what are you?”
Sherrif grinned widely. He reveled in every second of this. “I, whelp, am your master. I have always been, and always will be!”
As Dombroski faced the sheik, he felt the man’s evil emanate throughout the room. He didn’t care what color blood Sherrif had; he was bleeding, and that meant he could be killed.
With a speed perfected through years of training, Dombroski spun around, kicking low and clipping the sheik’s feet, knocking him off balance. He continued his spin, using the momentum to plant his foot on Sherrif’s chest. Sherrif was knocked backward and rolled over the desk.
When the sheik stood from the floor, his eyes were wide as though he had just overdosed on speed. His teeth were bared like an animal. “Yes! Yes! Fight for your life!”
Sherrif bounded over the desk and lunged into the air. Dombroski dove to the side, rolled to his feet and drew his six inch blade. Running forward without pause, he slashed his knife through the air four times in quick succession, missing the sheik’s body but shredding his robe.
Sherrif threw a single, lighting-fast blow that cracked three of Dombroski’s ribs and sent him back into the corner of the desk.
With a leap, Sherrif crossed the gap in seconds, landing on top of Dombroski and cracking two more ribs.
The pain only made Dombroski angrier. He swung in high, going for a killer slash across the sheik’s throat, but Sherrif moved like a cat and caught Dombroski’s hand…with his mouth! As Sherrif bit down like a crocodile, Dombroski screamed in pain and dropped the knife.
Raising the Past Page 8
