Intimate Danger

by Amy J. Fetzer

  He thought the worst and tried not to. He pushed down his instinctive response of defense and attack. There had to be a reasonable explanation and he hoped she had one. More than he wanted, or should, he liked her, she was…scrappy, a fighter, and turning him on was easy for her. If she knew, he’d be cannon fodder.

  He threw the electronics back in the trash and left. Everything wasn’t as it seemed, he knew from experience, and until he had information, for all he knew, the lock on her job meant she was CIA.

  In the early morning, Salache stood from an apartment three stories up. With a perfect view of the park below, he watched his wife and children romp on the grass as he sipped a soft drink. Marianna tickled them, the giggles making him smile as he waited to learn something that revealed why she’d been so distant lately. Briefly, he suspected a love affair, but dismissed it. Not out of arrogance, but because he knew Marianna. She would never betray her beliefs, and “thou shall not” was etched in her soul.

  He glanced back into the apartment, his gaze moving slowly over the couple sitting on the sofa. Bound, gagged, and still in their pajamas. He didn’t want to hurt them, but finding the perfect, completely unsuspecting way to observe was valuable. Advantages, each set in motion with the belief that at least one would fail. Always have a backup. There was no perfection. He rubbed his smooth chin, smiling. Not yet.

  Watching his wife, he stiffened when she called out to the children to join her as she started for the parking lot. Marianna didn’t drive. His pulse pounded as he waited for his fantasy to be shattered, and then he felt instant relief shudder through him when her chauffeured car slid to the curb. Her guards were not close today. She despised that they trailed her, but he refused to bend to her wishes, yet he saw them now, leaving their hiding spots in doorways and cafés. When his family was a couple of blocks up the street, he called her.

  “We just left the park, we’re going home. Are you there now?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m in my lab but I’ll see you in a half hour or so.” They hung up, and he pocketed the phone and crossed to the couple.

  They flinched when he sliced through the bonds, then yanked off the tape.

  “I apologize for scaring you. Know that this has been for love.” He didn’t warn them, didn’t threaten. It was pointless, they knew. He headed to the door, stepping over the dead dog, then pausing to wipe its blood off his shoe.

  He left, smiling.

  If he was wrong about Marianna, she would never know he’d distrusted her. If he was right, well…she’d feel the wound she’d inflicted on him.

  Mike wanted proof the Hellfires were destroyed. Evidence. A chunk of the fuselage would be nice, he thought, and knew he couldn’t close the book on the UAV till he had the verification in his hands. There were roads on the edge of the rain forest. After that, it was by foot or the river, and the UAV crash wasn’t anywhere near the water. He hoped Gantz’s math equations of the trajectory were accurate or close to. Walking around a mountainside for days was nothing compared to live-fire combat and evasion. A stroll.

  He’d rather be having a deep discussion with Clancy, and was still bothered by the electronics in the room, but questioning her wasn’t an option. He had to respect her clearance. She’d obviously earned it. It was the lockout on her job that gave him the willies. He just couldn’t picture her as CIA.

  In the early morning, the air hung thickly, though cooler, almost dense to the touch. He listened carefully as he moved, deciphering his own breathing and footsteps from the little creatures moving in the distance. They were aware of him and watching. He was keenly aware that this part of the world was dangerous and it had nothing to do with predators. The plants could kill, sticky and poisonous, and his gloves saved him from having to look where he touched.

  Mike gripped a tree root and pulled himself up the incline. Then in the clearing under the sun, he drew his palm-sized binoculars, a Cyclops version. He tested the movement of the autofocus, then scanned the area once, and started from nearest to him, systematically clearing the area of predators before moving outward. Mike swung to the right, lower in the valley. Movement was sporadic, the flutter of birds moving from branch to branch, monkeys doing the same, and he could see only the tremble of bushes and trees, like short, quick bursts of air. He followed it, and where the trees thinned he hurried to focus. He jerked back, squinted, then focused again.

  Now why would she be out alone?

  Mike swung farther right, and saw something behind her, about two hundred yards and coming fast. She was walking slowly, unsuspecting of the predator. Immediately, he slid down the hillside on the side of his boot, then hit the ground running, hoping to intercept before they reached her. He pushed himself, batting at obstructions, jumping debris. He grabbed a vine and leaped over a creek, then stopped.

  He listened, closing his eyes for a moment, separating his breathing and heartbeat from other details—the scent of disturbed earth, the buzz of insects stirred from hiding, monkeys swinging above him. He tipped his head, his gaze sliding over the ground, and he could feel it before he saw the snake wiggle out and shimmy across the ground. The soft thump of footsteps hummed under the thick heat, and he turned in the direction.

  Clancy swiped her face and the back of her neck as she walked. No breeze and the sun barely skipped the forest floor. She held a Palm Pilot, minus a few processors since she’d used and destroyed them to re-create the Terminator. She checked the map to make certain she was still aligned with the river, then threw her leg over a fallen log. Her bootlace caught on a broken branch and she twisted to look, then went perfectly still.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Her gaze moved across the ground, then up from the bare muddy feet. She saw bare skin, painted to look like the jungle, yet when she still saw skin at the thighs, she was afraid to look farther. Her gaze shot up. Indian. Quechua? His clothing barely covered the essentials, his painted body ropy with muscle and whipcord slim.

  Then he started toward her.

  She rushed to unhook her boot and was building up to one hell of a scream when he reached for her and covered her mouth. Then with a strength that belied his size, he backed away, carrying her into the forest. They didn’t go far. He stopped, faced her in another direction, then pointed over her shoulder. His hand remained on her mouth, the pressure clutching her back against his chest. She barely heard the footsteps over the wild beat of her heart. A rapid trot, she thought, then saw a man between the trees run right past their position.

  Carrying a high-powered rifle.

  With a scope.

  Mike raced to intercept. It was like calculating the trajectory of a bullet, leading his target. He heard the whip of leaves against flesh and quickened his pace. Then he ducked in behind a tree, using the mass as a shield. Mike didn’t have time for the rules of engagement and remained hidden, listening to the approaching footsteps. Louder, closer…he rolled around and punched the man in the throat. He dropped on his back, choking. Mike grabbed him by the shirt and delivered a blow to his nose. The man never saw it coming. It was less painless that way.

  Mike pulled the rifle aside; then his gaze ripped over the man’s face. His first thought: A hitter, the man’s an assassin. Clancy? Till he learned about Clancy, no one knew Mike was here, yet the evidence at his feet, one Ryce P. Denner, he read in his passport, said he’d been close and following her for a long time. Then he found Clancy’s picture in his shirt pocket. Mike wanted to pound him all over again and quickly bound and gagged Denner, then lashed him to a tree. Satisfied he couldn’t move without strangling himself, he looked into the forest.

  Clancy should have been this far by now.

  When the man was gone, the Indian released her, but Clancy still frowned at the jungle. She’d never heard him. Nor the Indian. Then she groaned, just remembering she was armed. Hesitantly, she looked at the Indian, forcing a smile. Which wasn’t easy. He was scary looking, his body painted black and green and blending in where he stood. He held a sha
rpened spear and a small black shield inlaid with gold on his forearm. Why did he warn her? Then suddenly he grabbed her hand and said something. She shook her head and tried to draw back. His grip tightened and fractures of fear riddled up her spine.

  Nobody’s kidnapping me again. She shook her head. He frowned, confused, looking so young under all that paint. He really believed she’d leave with him. For what, a mate? My prospects are improving over an orangutan and my ex.

  An instant later, she flinched when Mike appeared, blocking her with his body, breaking the contact and aiming at the Indian’s head.

  “Don’t.” Where did he come from?

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No.” She pushed his arm down and stepped between them.

  “Jesus, woman!” Quickly, Mike aimed over her shoulder.

  The Indian looked between the two for a moment, his hand on his knife, then immediately turned away, melting into the forest. They were both quiet, just staring at the empty spot in the jungle.

  “You feel like you were just in another century?” Mike said into the silence.

  “Yeah, how cool was that?” she said, then turned her head. “He looked so deadly.” But couldn’t be more than twenty.

  “You had a tail.”

  “Yeah. Tarzan warned me, then wanted to date me, I think.” She was a little flattered, a thought probably deserving of some serious therapy. “You have the guy with the rifle.” His presence here said he’d done something about him. “Who was it?”

  “The German.”

  “Probably not German at all, huh?”

  The sun blistered down on the open market, a maze of street vendors filling the park, locals in colorful clothing milling with the tourists, the poor with the wealthy. Music and singing came from somewhere to his far left, and Antone decided he liked Peru. The people, they were always so happy with what they had. It had been a long time since he’d seen his own people like this. Yet his attention was on the woman, and Choufani watched her stroll through the crowded market. She hadn’t done it much, at least not alone, he thought. She kept glancing back at the two men trailing her at a distance. As if she wanted to escape.

  She was beautiful, and reminded him of a Polynesian woman he’d met once. Her skin the color of creamed coffee, her ink-black hair straight, falling down her back and tucked in a sparkling clasp. Effortlessly, she moved between the busy vendors and customers, as if she were air. They didn’t seem to notice her or respond to her presence until she stopped to inspect a scarf. The vendor rushed to her side, smiling and bobbing as the delicate fabric slipped over her fingertips. She smiled, saying something that made the vendor look bashful. She went to pay for it and one of the two men rushed forward.

  She waved her hand, her tone sharp and decisive, then continued to dole out money for the goods. The vendor glanced at the bodyguards, then went back to changing money. She was Marianna de la Rosa Salache, the wife of a local businessman, an entrepreneur. A man who hadn’t been seen in over a year.

  But his mark was everywhere; he’d learned from the locals. Their family name was on a plaque inside nearly half the buildings in the city. Salache had designed the most amazing fountain he’d ever seen, yet he didn’t come to admire his work.

  Marianna tucked her purchase in her handbag, then looked up and met his gaze directly. He felt struck by her light eyes, and he nodded ever so slightly. She stared at him with unquestionable interest and confusion. He’d made no effort to disguise his presence, and this would not be the first time they would meet. He would make certain of it.

  The lavender paper had come from her home. Found in the pocket of a terrorist who’d bombed a wedding, killing nearly a hundred, including the new bride.

  His sister.

  As far as Choufani was concerned, she was his prime suspect.

  Clancy trailed Mike, his strides long, and she occupied herself with trying to put her feet in his prints. It was better than thinking about what he’d just told her.

  “Did you hear me? He’s a hitter,” Mike said quietly.

  “Assassin, I get it.” This was unbelievable.

  “He’s after you.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “That we’ve seen him before says he’s been following you,” he said. “And I just arrived.” He didn’t say how, but till Pablo told him about her, no one had really seen him.

  “And then this was on him.”

  He paused long enough to hand her the photo. Clancy took it, more than a little shocked to see herself shopping in Panama. Oh man. She’d seen the German or whoever he was a couple of times, at the café and before she went back to her hotel after the cart cut loose. Then there was last night and now this? Changing towns and hotels hadn’t done much good, obviously. Cook knew where she was by the tracking chip, but she’d crushed it two days ago. Then how did the German know enough to be at the Peru border when they were? Or was that just chance? Did Cook really have the guts to send someone to keep her quiet?

  Someone paid to take her life. A killer.

  “The cart that almost hit you,” Mike said and she looked at him. “The rope was cut, not old.” She didn’t say anything, but Mike could tell this was crushing her. Reality bites sometimes.

  “You saw that? Then you’ve been everywhere I have too.” What was she thinking? It wasn’t Mike last night. She’d have known just by the raw sexy pheromones the guy radiated.

  Suddenly Mike stopped and cursed. Clancy moved around him. He stared at the tree as if it would grow new limbs any second.

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Where is he?” She looked around for a trail and found only her own. “It’s been cleared, they cleaned up.” She pointed to the brushstrokes on the dirt floor.

  “Not quite,” he said from the opposite side of the tree.

  Clancy came to his side. Black slip ties were cut in pieces on the ground, but what shocked her was the blood. Everywhere. It scraped up the sides of the tree. She leaned close. “Is that skin?” Bits of bloody pink clung to the trunk. “Oh God, that’s disgusting.” She turned away from the gore. “I guess you didn’t tie him up all that well.”

  Mike turned his head and gave her a hard stare.

  “Okay, Boy Scout, then where is he and what could do that?” She pointed to the blood and tissue.

  “Nothing. He had help.”

  “It looks almost as if they dragged him up the tree.”

  Mike lifted his gaze to the treetops and thought of Renoux’s words: plucked out of the Andean Mountains like vultures to the dead. He looked at her. “We need to move.”

  His tone grabbed her, and then he did, pulling her with him. They weren’t alone, she realized, and with him ran through the forest, relieved when she saw it thin. But it was just a path. Mike took it, then turned off, ducking behind some brush and pulling her down beside him.

  “You think whoever did that to the German is out there?”

  “Yes, and he wasn’t a German,” he whispered. “His name is Denner.” He fished in his shirt pocket and handed her a stack of passports. He kept watch on the area, waiting for something to tell him whoever was out there.

  “Bolivia, Hungary, Hong Kong, French, U.S.?”

  “That’s the real one.” He tapped the U.S. passport.

  “You’ll have to teach me that.”

  “Notice the countries?”

  She frowned at each.

  “They’re strategic jumping-off points, all over the world.”

  “This guy could have a Bolivian passport and travel freely in South America,” she said. “A Hong Kong one and the Far East was open to him.”

  “He’s CIA or a hired asset.”

  “I feel so important.” She sagged beside him. “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen him before. Or his file. I didn’t notice it at the bus, but clean him up and cut his hair? Yeah, he’s company.” He looked at her. “If he’s here, then it’s sanctioned.”

  She shook her heard. “Co
lonel Cook would never let this out.” She clamped her lips shut. “Crap.” Why was she confessing to him?

  “Let what out, and you don’t mean Carl Davis Cook?”

  She frowned hard.

  “He’s a former deputy chief, Clancy.”

  “Of what?”

  He aimed his gun. “DIA.”

  Defense Intelligence Agency. Could she dig her own hole any deeper?

  “And he’s got some nasty people who owe him,” Mike said, his gaze on their surroundings.

  “We’ve met, thank you,” she said. “A man broke into my room last night.”

  He looked at her sharply and she told him what happened, minus the part about running into the street half naked. She turned her arms out and showed him the purple bruises. “Think it works as an accessory?”

  “Christ.” The marks were dark and brutal, stirring something in him. No wonder she left in the middle of the night.

  “What do you want? Oh, woe is me, protect me? I’m not a kid.”

  “What are you?”

  She jerked back, brows high. “Excuse me?”

  “What are you doing here that people want to kill you?”

  “I can be a real bitch sometimes.” He wasn’t amused. “And I could ask you the same thing. I bet there are a handful of people who can spot a fake passport and handle explosives so easily.”

  He met her gaze, and she felt it tear over her, in that intense way he did everything. She wasn’t telling him anything, for more reasons than security, but because he wouldn’t understand. There was no gray area for Mike, she thought. Only right and wrong, black and white, fast or slow.