Intimate Danger

by Amy J. Fetzer

  “We both have a class-A clearance and we’re going to stop this dance today,” he said, and Clancy felt a chill from his determined tone.

  “You had me checked out? What gives you the damn right to nose into my business?”

  The next sound spoke volumes. The shot tore through the leaves and underbrush, and Clancy heard it shoot past her head. She’d never forget that sound and dropped to the ground, drawing her weapon.

  “That?” Mike said dryly, then glanced at her. “What do you expect to hit with that peashooter?”

  She looked at the .22. “Hey, it was cheap and available. Got something better?”

  Mike slipped a pistol from a holster under his pant leg and handed it over. Then he just pulled off the holster and gave it over too. “They’re after you.”

  “My assassin is dead and gone. They’re following us, I agree. After me? Not so much. But I plan to find out.” She stood in a trapezoid stance and aimed. “I’ll wing him and you can beat a confession out of him.”

  She was something else, he thought, yet knew she was serious. “No, we make them come to us.”

  Her gaze flicked to his. “Agreed.”

  He was off in a shot. Clancy was behind him, struggling to keep up. Now we see the difference of a treadmill and the road, she thought. Impact to her legs exhausted her, and she was a big drenched mess when she grabbed his shirt and jerked him to a stop. She collapsed on the ground, then waved him on.

  “Dying here, leave me, save yourself.”

  “Oh, Christ.” He smiled.

  “Who is it?”

  “One guy, not too good at hiding.”

  “Okay, take him out, I’ll just rest.”

  “Come on, McRae, we’ve got less than a half mile to the town.” He pulled her up and pushed her along. “My truck is on the other side of the valley. We have to hoof it.”

  “Hoof. Do I look like a pack mule?” She was whining again, but inside her boots, there were blisters screaming at her to stop.

  It wasn’t until Mike pushed her into an alley that she realized they were already near a town. Whether it was the one she left or not didn’t enter her brain. She slid to the ground on a path under some trees.

  “No, no resting yet.” He pulled her up. “Take cover.”

  There was nothing behind her expect trash cans and the back of an adobe building. She used the tree and checked the load of her pistol. “What do you want me to do?” He issued crisp, clear orders. She grinned at him.

  “What?”

  “Hi, Marine.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Give it up, Mike. You aren’t fooling anyone, least of all me.”

  Not a word. But then, she didn’t think he would. He’d probably fall on his sword before giving up information. “I was a medic in the Navy, I practically lived with you guys for two years.”

  “I wouldn’t broadcast that if you want to keep a good girl reputation.”

  She snickered to herself. Boy, was he in for a shock.

  “Combat?” he asked. Jansen had told him only the minimal.

  “Desert Storm. First land assault.”

  He frowned hard, his gaze skipping over her and ending on her face. He hadn’t noticed her age on her passport. “You don’t look old enough.”

  She smiled. “Oh, be still, my heart. Wanna card me?”

  “Just stay back, jailbird.”

  “Wow, a sense of humor.” She smiled to herself as he moved farther to the edge of the path. She heard the footsteps. This guy wasn’t hiding a thing about his approach. Either he knew no one was around, or he didn’t care if he was heard. Not a good sign.

  Then Mike moved deeper into the forest again.

  He’d gone farther than she thought when she saw him to her left and come up behind the man. She spotted the guy’s legs through the brush, and then he wasn’t on them, lifted off the ground. No gunshot, no punch, and then a moment later, Mike held the man in a headlock and forced him out into the sun.

  Clancy stepped out, aiming. “He won’t roast on the spit well, Klugg, throw him back. I wanted mastodon.”

  Mike tried not to smile as he twisted his captive toward her. “Meet Howard Gantz, CIA. Now you believe me?”

  Clancy replied with a punch to the agent’s face.

  Eduardo felt the rushing heat in his blood, the feeling that drove him into archaeology: the chance to see something that hadn’t been viewed in a thousand years. Wearing gloves and in a clean room, he stood before a long steel table, lights beneath it under a frosted-glass top to show any fractures and breakage. He almost didn’t want to open it. The iconology warned him not to break the seal.

  The figures depicted warriors with no weapons. Highly unusual. Joined hands and crossed spears as if guarding this urn alone. The swirls etched alongside the warriors he’d never seen before, yet common etchings showed the gods of the mountain and water.

  Oddly there was no moon and sun god depicted, another unusual find. Eduardo knew it meant the breath of the gods and possibly coming from the warriors’ mouths or through them. As if at some point the warriors had the power of the gods. A poison perhaps, or some drink giving great strength? Or a hallucinogenic. Peru was filled with wild coco fields, and cultivated ones unfortunately. He didn’t know since little was known about their alchemy.

  With a razor, he made a small slice in the wax seal. It was surprisingly soft. He’d never have expected anything but chips, yet the stone sarcophagus that held this would have been sealed airtight. Only a recent cave-in near the dwellings had unearthed it. It was the wonderful thing about exploring Peru, there was still so much to find, so much hidden in the Andes.

  The wax flecked off in spots, showing boldly on the lighted surface. He carefully made a small enough hole to insert a syringe, the urn bracketed with mechanical arms and easy to maneuver. Beyond him were three undergraduate students.

  “You may ask questions,” he said, picking up the syringe. He inserted it in the small hole, frowning when he heard a slight hiss. My God, it’s airtight. He drew the plunger. The needle was wide enough to draw any loose substance, but if the container were filled with anything else, nothing would happen. Then he would have to lift the seal.

  Eduardo felt as if he were prying into something sacred. The process was slow, taking several attempts over days because keeping the layers of wax intact would tell them where the wax came from, if it was indeed wax, and possibly where the Moche had been before this spot.

  Archaeologists knew they had formed bands and lived on the coast. There were several sights, Lord of Sipan, and Trujillo. They had been opened and displayed, yet the Loma Negra dig was the most recent, and he and his team had sole possession of the find thanks to a benefactor who remained anonymous.

  He drew the needle farther back, disappointed when there was nothing in the tube. He hadn’t expected there to be. The X-rays told them whatever was inside moved slowly, the consistency of honey, and something solid, perhaps the possibility of rock or bone inside. He tried again, and withdrew the plunger, and went still, careful not to break the seal. He had to stop. Any more movement and he could destroy the contents. He withdrew the syringe, excitement coursing through him as a pale substance swirled inside the tube, as fine as ash.

  One assistant held open a bag. Before he put it inside, he turned back to the table, took out a dish, and tapped the tip on the petri dish, before bagging it. There was only a few spatters of ash. Nothing more than a speck for a microscope. Odd. The X-ray showed much more inside. Why wouldn’t it draw in the syringe?

  “The urn is two thousand years old at least,” an onlooker said. “There is already proof that Moche predates the Inca, but what if this find is an offshoot of the same society?”

  “Entirely possible. It is a theory coined by several scholars. I don’t believe in that theory as well. From what we’ve unearthed I believe this is the central hub of the society, and the coastal tribes were a part of natural migration.”

  “Or ru
nning in fear?”

  He looked up, frowning.

  “It wasn’t a society for longevity, Professor,” the young woman said. “Ritual death, drinking blood of the slain. That would scare anyone to moving away.”

  “If you knew otherwise, and had experienced another lifestyle perhaps, but they were born and raised into this strict society. They knew nothing else.”

  “Wouldn’t you, no matter what,” a somber student said, “want to leave a place that offered up humans to the gods of the sun and moon?”

  “Yes, I would. That is the mystery of the Moche. They remained and flourished.”

  “None of them exist.”

  “Perhaps you should review your studies. The Lambayeque are direct descendants, and we cannot discount that the Quechua Indians have many similarities.”

  Some of the tedious work was taken away by modern science, and technology. He’d photographed it all, yet was recording on video so he didn’t have to pause to take notes and make the painstaking re-creations he did as a student. But this was what he enjoyed most, clearing away the depth of time to see the mark of mankind beneath.

  With tweezers and a gentle touch, he started to pull off the first fragment. He saw the imprint of a thumb, and excitement bubbled through him and his patience waned. The door opened sharply.

  “Gil, please.”

  “Professor, you should read this report.”

  Eduardo looked at the young man and thought, He’s been up all night doing a chemical analysis on the wax. He held a sheaf of papers. But it was his expression that made him lay down the tweezers and step back from the table.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Gil glanced at the other students, then the professor. “All the iconology was common, what we’ve seen in every dig except this one.” He pointed to the sketch on the wall. “The warrior is defending with no weapon, and yet unlike the other pictographs we’ve discovered, in this urn”—he gestured—“the gods are depicted right beside them.”

  He understood now. “They didn’t consider themselves equals to the gods in any form. They worshipped and feared them.”

  Gil stared at the urn. “Enough to believe they trapped one in there?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because that’s not a wax seal, it’s human skin.”

  Ten

  “Apparently the lady is pissed, Howard.”

  “Christ, let go so I can defend myself, then.”

  Clancy looked at Mike, confused. “Gantz? But that’s the name you put on the paper.”

  “You shot at us?”

  “No, not me. I heard it.”

  Mike released Gantz and checked the man’s gun. He shook his head. It hadn’t been fired. “So why are you following me?” Mike asked.

  “Not you, her.” Gantz strained to look up. “There’s a flag on her, Gannon.”

  Gannon, she thought, realizing that’s about all she knew about him, really.

  “Confirmed?”

  “No, no yet, but it’s on the loop.” The man straightened his clothing.

  Yet Clancy’s attention was on Mike. He was too quiet, and when he looked at her she knew everything had changed. The air practically frosted between them.

  Then he came toward her. “Let’s go.”

  She backed up, more than a little stunned. God, he looked ready to choke her. “Whoa, stay right there.” She backed up another step. “What’s the matter? I get that a flag is serious stuff, but what is it?”

  “It’s a watch list, Clancy. Homeland Security, FBI, Interpol, CIA, the works.” He pulled her close, holding her nearly against him as he searched her and quickly relieved her of her weapons.

  “You have no right!” She tried to take the gun back.

  He held it out of her reach. “Don’t, and I do.” Over her head, he said to Gantz, “My truck. That way, two miles. Take a cab.” He tossed him the keys.

  Gantz obeyed and Clancy glared at Mike, wondering who the hell he was that CIA officers jumped through hoops for him. “I’m not saying anything to you, Gannon, and if you think you can bully me, you’re mistaken.” She yanked her arms free and folded them over her middle. “But kind soul that I am, I’m ready to listen while your chauffeur brings your truck around.”

  “Flag means if you’re spotted, capture. If not possible, eliminate.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. He could be lying, you know?”

  “Yes, and until I confirm, you’re mine.”

  “I’m all aflutter.”

  Mike slid her a thin glance, yet said nothing. Nothing was his motto, she thought. She still had choices: the press for one, the Senate another. Provided she got out of Peru alive. But that he went ice cold on her, like she was some package to be picked up and delivered, stung. A lot. “And here I thought I might mean something to you.”

  Mike stared into the whiskey-dark eyes and almost folded. She was the first woman who didn’t back down, who gave as good as she got. She wasn’t all tears and complaints, but getting it done, and he was saved from saying anything when Gantz barreled down the road, a flock of chickens skipping out of the truck’s path.

  He stopped, threw the truck in neutral, and left it running. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  Gantz looked at Clancy, rubbing his mouth. She snarled at him like an angry cat. Mike arched a brow at her, then gave Gantz Denner’s passports. “Find out what you can on him. He’s a hitter, after her.”

  “Figures.” Gantz flipped through them. “You leave him alive or not?”

  He told Gantz about what they’d found, and Gantz looked pointedly at Clancy. “She doesn’t look capable.”

  “She was with me.”

  “All the time?”

  Mike delivered a look that said don’t question and Gantz shrugged and left them. At the side of the truck, Mike stared at Clancy, deadpan. “Get in.”

  This is the ugly part, she thought, and having no choice, she climbed inside.

  Richora backed away from the street, turned, and walked in the other direction. He holstered his gun, disappointed he’d missed her. “But what have you done to anger your rescuer?”

  Even from the distance, he could see the man’s fury. But Richora wasn’t concerned about killing the couple. It would be a pleasure he’d stretch out till he could avenge his sister’s son. Yet that they were still together warned him they weren’t without some skills. Salache wanted no witnesses, and Richora considered that when this transaction was over—he too would be a last witness. One who knew Salache’s real face, though the memory of it was fading in his mind.

  He’d have to find a photograph to remind himself of exactly who he was dealing with. While the face changed, the man inside did not. Salache wasn’t flicking his nose at governments; he planned to bring them to their knees.

  The car door was standing open when Richora slid into the rear of the sedan and patted the side. It rolled away, his men hopping into cars. Behind them, the streets started to fill with people again, some watching the car drive away. They wouldn’t ask; it was better to be ignorant of these matters. Then a thought filled his mind.

  Ignorance is the single greatest tool of oppression. He knew of that firsthand. His people, the first inhabitants of Peru, were pushed farther into the jungle by the Spaniards and the Dutch. They had survived centuries and still lived the same culture as their ancestors. Primitive, yes, but happy. Untouched by greed. Richora had been touched by greed or he wouldn’t be in this deal with Salache. He didn’t want what Salache had, nothing except his wife, yet she was out of his reach and money was a greater comfort.

  His phone rang and he slipped the earpiece in before answering.

  “Back off, he might see you.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” Richora said.

  “He doesn’t know a thing and he’s not here for you. Let it go.”

  “But I am here for them.” Richora was amused with himself. He was sounding like Salache.

  “Not if you want to sell
this product. He’s hunting. Retreat or you’ll regret it.”

  The threat made him stiffen. “What do you plan to do?” Alejo said.

  “Not me, him.”

  The phone went dead and Richora looked at it. He snapped it closed, pocketing it, then smiled. An adversary. A healthy battle before the final victory. He looked forward to it. The man was clever and resourceful, Richora recalled, still fuming over the holes in the boat. But that he destroyed his cargo was unforgivable. Before he would die, this man wouldn’t know why, only that he had wronged him. He could go to his death haunted already, he thought, smiling as he checked where they were, then ordered to stop. He rolled down the window.

  “Marianna, what are you doing out here alone?”

  “I am not.” She gestured behind herself to the guards yards back and kept walking.

  He left the car and came to her. “You’re crying.”

  She looked away as she discreetly wiped her tears. “You are mistaken, I forgot my sunglasses, and the sun is too bright.”

  He stepped in front of her. “Who has hurt you?” he said, crowding her when he wanted to touch her. He waved her guards back when they approached. “Marianna?”

  “I can’t share this with you, Alejo.”

  “He has done this to you.” She knew who he meant.

  She looked up. “No. No,” she said more firmly. “I have done it to myself.” She moved around him and Richora watched her go. The bodyguards passed him and he grabbed one, then simply inclined his head.

  “She will not say. Not to Salache either.”

  Richora dismissed them, yet continued to watch her hurry away—and his heart broke for her.

  The room was shut up tight, and despite the hundred-degree temperature outside, it was cold. There were no restraints, no threats. No touching. But he was interrogating her just the same.

  Clancy shifted in the chair, drawing her legs in. Mike didn’t pace like a caged animal, nor raise his voice. He was more subtle, occasionally moving behind her back on the pretense of getting water, or a bag of stale chips, his hand coming so close several times to stir her hair, let her feel the breeze on her neck. It was starting to make her flinch. Exactly as he wanted. Now he was several feet away, his back against the wall.