Intimate Danger

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Unless her “tail” had her past laid out in front of him, he wouldn’t know her next stop. Ten minutes later, she stepped into the dark shop—through the rear.

  The instant Phil Bartley saw her, he went into a series of nervous ticks. He looked bad. His graying hair was gelled straight up, and the nose ring—with a dozen more up both ears—looked as if they were all holding up his drooping skin—and failing. At forty, it wasn’t attractive. And I thought this was cool?

  She’d hung around him to defy her parents. Well, that’s not true, she thought. She’d done it to outright piss them off.

  “How’d you get in here?” He looked beyond her to the back of the shop, for the cops, no doubt. “Get lost.”

  “You’re breaking my heart.” He was backing up as she spoke. “Afraid of me? That’s a new one.”

  “What do you want?” Phil grew some courage and leaned back against bookshelves. He tried folding his arms, but his nervousness wouldn’t let him. He pinched his nose, coughed, then shoved his hands in his jean pockets. His skin looked papery and she could see the needle marks from here.

  She tossed her passport on the counter.

  Phil didn’t even look at it. “I ain’t touchin’ that. Get the fuck outta here.”

  Clancy looked around the dirty smoke shop and sniffed. “Herb? That’s a little light for you, isn’t it?”

  “I’m clean.”

  “I’m sure.” She reached over the counter and flicked the crumbs of marijuana dusting his shirt. “Can’t roll a clean joint after all these years?” She tapped the passport. “Duplicate it and change the name.”

  “To what?”

  “Grace Murray.”

  He snorted, slapped his hand on the passport, and flipped it open. “You in trouble?”

  “Not yet.” At least she hoped not. Moving to the shop window, she studied the street. She wouldn’t be anywhere near a scumbag like Phil if it wasn’t for the tail. Or the strange shadows outside her house. Or the crackle on the phone lines. All that meant was she’d get nowhere fast and probably X’d out of the picture before she could do anything to help the Marines.

  “Some people think they change.” He walked to the rear. “But they don’t, not deep inside.”

  “Shut up.” She had changed.

  She had a career, a mortgage, and had obeyed the law since she was eighteen until today. She closed her eyes and wondered where this madness came from, but she already knew. There were four Marines out there with her technology in them. Time bombs in their heads, changing them physically, mentally. Though she couldn’t know the affects for certain—the reason she wanted more testing with Boris, damn it—but she was certain she hadn’t perfected it for long lasting capabilities. Foreign objects in the brain?

  It would be an ugly death.

  She turned and saw Phil stop at a long table, then pull a briefcase from underneath. It was those heavy silver things that carried delicate equipment. When he opened it, she realized it was a forgery setup. Customs stamps, laminates with U.S. holograms, handwriting machine, good grief. Bet the State Department doesn’t have this much in one small case.

  “You’ve gone state-of-the-art now, I see.”

  He just sneered and began working.

  Clancy didn’t take her eyes off him. Phil wasn’t trustworthy by any means. But he wouldn’t talk, unless he was backed into a corner.

  “So whatcha been doing all these years?” he asked.

  “Working for the government,” she said just to scare him. “Keep going,” she added when he stalled. He eyed her for a second, clearly debating calling the police and giving up his stash hidden somewhere in here. The stash won out.

  It took over an hour, and when he was finished he handed it over. The passport was still warm from fresh laminate. In her pocket was the real McCoy from her last cruise with her girlfriends.

  She tucked the fake in her purse. “Go to the front.”

  “Fuck you, it’s my shop.”

  She grabbed the open case and threatened to pull it off the table.

  “No! God no. Okay, okay. Be cool. I’m going.” He sniffled again and shuffled toward the front.

  What a dweeb.

  While Phil was snorting something illegal behind the counter—the man could never handle pressure—Clancy went to the back door, eased it open, and checked the parking lot before she left. She hurried to the end of the street, crossed, and went to her car parked in a service lot behind a craft store. It was amazing how it all came back so easily.

  But one thing she hadn’t left behind in her past was thinking like a woman in trouble.

  Guaranguillo, Ecuador

  Four days later

  I could live here easy, Clancy thought. The warmth and lushness of South America didn’t hold a candle to Virginia and especially D.C. No concrete for miles. She smiled as the warm breeze slipped through the jeep window, tugging at her hair. Miles behind her in Panama the tour group were boarding the cruise ship to travel up the West Coast. Though going through the locks of the Panama Canal was pretty amazing, she’d left on the pretense of a family emergency and flew to Ecuador. No one checked.

  A single piece of luggage, an oversized hobo flight bag, and she was good to go. Though she didn’t know exactly where she was going. The reason Fuad, her twenty-five-year-old Quechua Indian guide, was sitting next to her, humming softly.

  The intelligence she’d managed to get was vague. Eyes-only files were under heavy encryption, but the Tango team was in south Ecuador on a recovery for a UAV. Simple enough. She’d at least had something to look for aside from men. A crash site. The problem was the terrain, she thought as the jeep whined to struggle up a steep hill. Around her, the forest was like a blanket of rolling green, the air thin and the jungle so dense she could barely see a few feet beyond the road. She’d passed a small village a few miles back, but didn’t expect to see another for a while. The jeep bumped along the road ruts so hard that for a second she was airborne, then slammed back into the seat.

  Beside her, Fuad chuckled, grinning widely. She didn’t think it was amusing, but he seemed fascinated with the ride.

  “How much farther?”

  “This road, here!” He pointed and she turned slightly.

  He wasn’t much of a conversationalist. She’d already learned the natives didn’t like talking to outsiders, not in the small villages, at least. Even Fuad wasn’t much help with communicating. Despite the generous people at her last gas stop in Sumba, her questions were met with silence and stony looks. Apparently, she wasn’t as charming as she thought.

  “Want some tunes, Fuad?”

  “Sí, Senorita McRae.”

  It sounded like mackerel to her. Clancy leaned to tune in a radio station when a lamb darted out in front of her. She swerved left, braked, but the uneven road took the jeep into a gully. She braced for impact and the jeep dropped into it like a penny in a jar, nose down. Her head grazed the windshield, stunning her.

  “Well, hell.” Clancy rubbed her forehead, waiting for her brain to shift back into place, then tried reverse until she heard the tires spin in the mud. In her mirror, she saw a small boy with a stick herding sheep across the road. She threw her hands up. “Thanks a heap, kid.”

  The boy just shrugged and laughed, moving on with his flock and disappearing down a narrow dirt path.

  “Ya know, I really love lamb stew,” she griped. All the creatures did was bahh as they hurried after their little master. She tried reverse again, the tires spitting mud.

  “I think we need to push or get something under the wheels for traction.”

  When he didn’t respond, she looked at him. He aimed a gun at her stomach.

  “You little bastard.”

  Fuad grinned, then motioned with her own pistol.

  He looked past her and she turned to the window and found another barrel at her nose. That’s a really big gun, she thought before the man behind it yanked her from the jeep, then pulled a burlap sack over her head. He bou
nd her hands behind her back and led her around, chuckling when she stumbled. Kicking and screaming didn’t do anything but get her smacked around. Besides, by the sound of footsteps, she was outnumbered. Vastly.

  From inside the foul-smelling sack, she heard the voice of her guide, the little weasel, and tried to decipher the Spanish mixed with another Quechua.

  But she grabbed one word from it. Rescate.

  Ransom.

  Oh, who were they kidding? No one knew she was here, and there sure as hell wasn’t anyone who could pay a ransom. She was about to say so, then caught herself. If she was worthless to them, she’d be killed. Heavy hands forced her to a spot under a tree, the relief from the sun instant and welcome. She swore there were bugs flying around inside the sack on her head, yet their voices seemed closer and she realized there were buildings nearby. Then the distinct odor of rotting vegetation, sweat, and booze floated on the air. I take it back, I don’t want to live here.

  In the back of her mind, she chanted, Don’t panic, an opportunity for escape will present itself. She just hoped her escape didn’t include white lights and crossing over to another plane of existence.

  An engine rumbled, racing nearer, and she flinched at the skid of pebbles and dirt. A door slammed and a new voice broke past the noise, the command in his tone clear and thundering. Her high school Spanish stank, but he wanted to know who hired him. Him being her guide.

  “No one, I swear.”

  Then she heard a scream and something hit the ground near her. She felt the scatter of dirt and air on her legs. For a moment, she thought Fuad was dead. Then he begged for his life. She tipped her head in an effort to pinpoint voices. The mental picture she had wasn’t pretty, and through a thin spot in the hood, she glimpsed Fuad.

  About two seconds before his brains exploded out his temple.

  Clancy dropped to the ground as people shouted. Gunfire barked through the air and she didn’t have time to think of the ugly sound that bullet made leaving his skull, or the dampness on her arm. She rolled to her back and arched, working her bound hands under her butt, behind her knees, then her feet. Men fired toward the mountains as she worked her bound hands over her boots. She yanked the hood off and her gaze filled with Fuad’s face, his blank eyes staring back at her. Biting back a scream, she looked away and, using her teeth, loosened the thin nylon rope. Her palm cramped from bending her hand to reach the ties at her wrist, but it slipped slowly. Then she was on her feet and running.

  She plowed into the forest, leaving everything she had behind and only thinking of escape. Sticking around would get her dead and she really loved living. She swatted at vines, pushing faster. She was accustomed to the pace, not the heat and thin air. Her breathing strained, her head swam. I feel tanked.

  Then a figure stepped out in front of her and she stumbled back, falling on her rear. She looked up. With bushy dark hair and nearly jet-black eyes, he aimed at her head.

  “Just why are you in my jungle, senorita?” He pulled back the hammer.

  “I’m a tourist, for heaven’s sake.”

  He drew a leather billfold from his shirt pocket and flipped it open. “And I am the police.”

  Clancy thought, Saved.

  An hour later, she was wishing she’d stayed on the cruise ship.

  Two days later

  Near Guaranguillo, Ecuador

  0500 hours Zulu

  The freezing temperatures of a High Altitude Low Opening jump fell rapidly as he neared the ground. The land came screaming toward him at 120 mph before Mike deployed the chute, abruptly slowing his silent descent into the jungle.

  Right into drug dealer heaven.

  If anyone saw him, he’d be shot out of the sky.

  As he dropped into the deep valley, the wind tore at his black jumpsuit, the fit tight to avoid sound, his body rapidly warming as hot air slowed him further. Through his night-vision visor, he saw lights from Guaranguillo near the mountain slopes. Below him was nothing but a black canvas and coming fast toward his face. It was a personal high. He didn’t get excited about many things, but jumping out of a speeding aircraft topped the list.

  He aimed for the sweet spot, a small clearing that would be tough to hit without getting snagged in the dense trees. When his boots brushed the treetops, he pulled the suspension lines of the parachute close, bringing him straight down, rapidly.

  His feet hit with a jolt that rattled his fillings, and he tucked and rolled, pulling the black chute with him. He spat out the oxygen mouthpiece, then unhooked his helmet, on one knee, weapon aimed.

  He didn’t expect company. Switching the visor to thermal, he surveyed his surroundings, sweating inside the suit and layers of clothes. It showed him nothing but dense forest and a couple of monkeys.

  Easy in, he thought. Entering the country under radar kept him invisible for now. That wouldn’t last long. His passport was stamped, just not in a customs office, but real enough that no one would question it. This was drug and gun-smuggling territory. People didn’t ask too many questions.

  In the dark, he stripped off the jumpsuit, wrapping his jump gear in the chute, then dug a deep hole. Equipment buried, he positioned rocks and foliage over the pile, dusted his hands, then pulled out his GPS and marked the location. Three miles from the UAV’s last location. On a remote part of the border, he didn’t expect military checkpoints or patrols.

  He shifted items in the pockets of his worn black cargo pants, then pulled a khaki shirt over his black T-shirt. His gear and ammo in an old Army surplus rucksack, he looked more like a digger than a Marine. Letting his hair grow made it itch around his ears, but he wasn’t Latin and stood out as it was. Mike didn’t want attention.

  Though the monkeys were already screaming warnings to each other, he wanted to get in, do the job, find his men, and bring them home.

  That they could be dead and buried didn’t enter his mind. Defeatist thinking didn’t win anything. He’d memorized the topographical terrain before leaving the U.S., but he knew it, two years’ worth of looking for a drug dealer and murderer was enough for anyone. Yet in the dark, he had to rely on the glowing GPS. Drawing his machete, he started walking. At over six thousand feet above sea level the air wasn’t any thinner than with a HALO jump. Even as dawn broke, the rain forest was wet, hot, and dark.

  Mike hacked through undergrowth, listening for anyone else and hearing only the squawk of macaws and seeing white-faced monkeys hovering overhead as he worked his way toward the target.

  The sun rose slowly. Giant kapok and rubber trees shadowed the Andean valley, the ground spread with a gray-white mist that wrapped the giant palms and curled toward the sky, where it hovered, hiding in the jungle canopy. The roots smothered the ground so much that his boots rarely touched the soil.

  Mike ignored the sounds around him, the movement of creatures, the drop of nuts from trees. A small green iguana skittered, counting coup on him, then vanishing into the thicket. He remembered they tasted good roasted over an open fire. He checked his compass on his watch, advancing to the spot where the UAV was last recorded. As he neared the target, his gaze moved over the land, searching for broken branches, the path of descent.

  There wasn’t any.

  Even as he drew his pistol, Mike got a feeling in his gut, the one that never failed him, and warned that what he thought was out there—was wrong.

  He pushed aside giant palm fronds. Should be right…

  Mike scowled. The land around him was lush and untouched. He climbed over fallen trees to a cropping of granite boulders protruding from the hillside. Red and blue macaws were perched on the jagged rock face like ornaments on a tree, and as he approached, they shrieked at the invasion. A dozen birds flew into the trees and gave away his position.

  He was hoping no one was up at this hour.

  Mike knelt on the boulders, and through binoculars scanned the area three-sixty.

  No sign of the UAV. No crash site. Not even a piece of scrap metal. Bupkes. How could intel be this
wrong? If not here, then where the hell did it crash?

  And if this intel was this flawed, he’d bet the chopper wasn’t anywhere near where it went down. His gaze slid over the land, the Andean mountains in the distance.

  So much for being invisible and getting in and out.

  The Hellfires were still on the loose.

  Ben Guerdane, Tunisia

  0200 hours

  The market on the border was empty. All that remained were discarded crates like fragile bones unearthed with the beat of the wind. In the day, traders came in carloads across the border of Libya to sell goods to Tunisian merchants. Now it was nothing but sand and stiff, arid breezes as officers of more than three intelligence agencies spilled out of the van. They didn’t pause to check their weapons or to say good luck, but took off in a dead run.

  Antone Choufani led them here, his intelligence firsthand. He’d worked for over a year to infiltrate this faction, a bleed-off of the dragon that roared over the Middle East. He believed in Allah, believed in the Quran, but didn’t take it to such deep levels as so many others had done. Kill an unbeliever, an infidel, and get seventy-two virgins? He’d had a virgin; it was a tiresome experience. Besides, he loved life too much to strap a bomb to his chest and walk into a mosque. True Islam didn’t believe in the murder of their own.

  At this storage building, unmarked crates had arrived, yet none left. Unusual because the weapons were always quickly divided, remarked, and sold so fast—by several different means—that they couldn’t be tracked once they left. No one spoke about what was in the crates: rifles, grenades, or explosives? He wasn’t trusted enough to be told, only to carry them inside.

  Approaching the target, the men circumvented the building, one man running forward and setting explosives at the doors. They ignited, popping the hinges and locks. The doors fell and the agents swarmed inside. All Antone could see was the drift of smoke, hear the sound of gunfire and screams claw the night in vulgar spats of death.

  Then, for a brief moment, there was complete silence.

  The building lurched first. Five thousand square feet of concrete and steel looked as if it would fall in on itself, a giant indrawn breath. Even the lingering smoke from the explosives drew inside. Atone had never seen anything like it. A heartbeat later, the structure erupted like the regurgitation of the earth’s core. Flames shot up into the air in broad stabs of orange-red, the base of the explosion already blue hot. Several short explosions followed, driving anyone too close back with a punch to the middle. The fuel or gunpowder, Choufani thought as his fingers worked the grip of his gun. He waited behind the lines for anyone to come out.