Texas Hero

by Merline Lovelace

  Jack shot her an evil look, but before he could nix the plan that seemed to be forming despite his ob­jections, Cyrene broke ranks, as well.

  ‘‘When she meets with Foster tonight, Mackenzie could also let drop something about the bullet recov­ered from the river," Claire said in her quiet voice. ‘‘The possibility that the police might make the con­nection between the attacks on Ellie and his wife's murder would add significantly to Foster's stress lev­els."

  "The doc's right," Mackenzie argued. "I could spin all kinds of rumors. Really put Foster in a real puddle of sweat. My bet is he'll dump me like ra­dioactive waste and head straight for the nearest phone to contact his hit man."

  "Yeah," Jack snarled. "That's my bet, too."

  In the face of his fierce opposition, Mackenzie backed off. Ellie, however, held her ground.

  "I guess I'm taking my cue from William Barrett Travis. I'm drawing a line in the sand. I'll take my stand here, in the shadow of the Alamo."

  ‘‘Right! And just look where that got Travis. De­pending on how your final report reads, he either went down on the walls or was shot in the back of the head while trying to escape."

  Jack regretted the scathing retort the moment it left his lips. The color leached from Ellie's cheeks. Fear flickered in her brown eyes for a moment before she resolutely quashed it. Holding his gaze, she sum­moned a shaky smile.

  "I'm not running—or walking—away."

  Jack's head jerked up. Her message came through loud and clear. To him, at least.

  The other two in the room sensed the sudden charge in the air. The women exchanged questioning glances, but neither said anything until Renegade conceded with a bad-tempered growl.

  "All right. We'll play this out a little while longer. Mac, see what you can stir up tonight. First, though, I'd better advise Lightning on the change of plans."

  Jack had a feeling Nick Jensen wasn't going to be happy with the latest turn of events. Not only was the niece of Mexico's president offering herself up as bait for a killer, Mackenzie Blair was making an inch-by-inch transition from chief of communica­tions to fully engaged field operative.

  Jack was right.

  Lightning was not happy.

  He'd made a call to the President to bring him up to speed on the situation in San Antonio, then ad­vised Colonel Luis Esteban, as well.

  As afternoon wore into evening, Nick reminded himself that his chief of communications had gone through much of the same training as OMEGA's field agents. AU headquarters personnel took marks­manship training, endured the water, jungle and des­ert survival courses and learned hand-to-hand combat from experts to give them an appreciation of what operatives went through in the field.

  With the added benefit of her Navy background, Nick knew his comm chief could more than hold her own in just about any environment. But the gold Mont Blanc pen Maggie Sinclair had given him tapped an erratic beat as he leaned back in the leather captain's chair just past eight Washington time.

  "You're not wearing a ring." Dan Foster's dis­embodied voice floated through the Control Center. ‘‘Does that mean you're not married?''

  Nick's pen took another bounce. Foster was about as subtle as one of his eighty-ton earthmovers.

  Eyes narrowed, Nick studied the scene Cyrene was beaming to the headquarters via the pen-size camera in her purse. The wall screen displayed a detailed portrait of dim lighting, gleaming wood and the cou­ple in the booth.

  The builder had hooked an arm around the back of the booth. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the top to accommodate his bull-like neck. Gold glinted on his wrist. Pure, unadulterated male lust gleamed in his eyes.

  Nick could understand why. Mackenzie hadn't opted for subtle, either. If she drew in too deep a breath, she'd fall right out of that dress.

  "Isn't my marital status irrelevant to this discus­sion?" Her husky little laugh rippled through the control center like warm velvet. "We're here to talk business."

  ‘‘I make it a point to learn everything I can about the people I do business with," Foster countered with a predatory grin. "It gives me a leg up in ne­gotiations."

  "We haven't entered into negotiations."

  "We might. We just might. So what's the story? Are you married, engaged or otherwise involved?"

  "At the moment, none of the above. And I'd better warn you, I'm very ticklish in that particular spot." Nick's pen went still.

  Mackenzie waited until the builder had brought his left hand from under the table and clasped it loosely around his drink before picking up the conversational bob.

  "What about you? Are you married?"

  "I was. My wife died a few months ago."

  "A few months ago?" With a slight turn of her head, Mackenzie let her glance drift to the arm draped around her shoulders. "I'd offer my condo­lences, but you seem to have recovered from your loss remarkably well."

  ‘‘Joanna and I had what you might call a mutually satisfactory arrangement rather than a marriage. She didn't ask any questions. Neither did I."

  "How did she die?"

  "She was kidnapped and murdered."

  "Good God! How awful for her. For you, too."

  "Yeah, it was pretty awful." Making a show of pain, Foster knocked back the rest of his drink. “I still have nightmares."

  Nick just bet he did. No doubt those nightmares had started about the time reports about Elena Maria Alazar's work in and around the Alamo hit the front pages.

  Tucking his pen in the pocket of his camel sport coat, he leaned forward. Cyrene was providing backup for Mackenzie, leaving Renegade to guard Elena. Nick would have trusted either operative with his life. He couldn't seem to get past the fact that Mackenzie was trusting them with hers.

  Grimacing, Nick remembered the strip he'd ripped off Jack for crossing the line with Ellie. Nick had better take a dose of his own medicine. Personal and professional didn't mix in this job.

  "Like any big city, San Antonio seems to have a lot of murders," Mackenzie commented. "A woman staying at my hotel was shot at just yesterday. Right on the Riverwalk."

  "That so?"

  With apparent disinterest, Foster signaled to the waitress to bring another round of drinks. Settling against the booth, he stroked his fingers over his companion's bare shoulder.

  ‘‘I heard about it from the concierge,'' she contin­ued with a theatrical little shudder. "According to him, police divers recovered the spent shell casing."

  Foster's hand froze.

  ‘‘I have to admit, he didn't seem all that surprised that someone had taken a shot at this woman," Mac­kenzie confided ingenuously. "Evidently she's been stirring up all kinds of trouble. Something to do with the Alamo. Supposedly the story made all the papers. Maybe you read it?"

  "No."

  "Really? Well, you might see something soon.

  Rumor is the woman's about to release some bomb­shell report."

  Careful, Nick thought. Go careful here.

  "The concierge says she's reserved the hotel's ballroom for a big bash," Mackenzie continued air­ily. "She's going to give some kind of multimedia presentation, complete with sound, light and digital images."

  Having neatly dropped her own bombshell, she snuggled into the crook of Foster's arm.

  ‘‘Now, about the presentation I'd like to give you on the communications for your building. If you'll tell your secretary to provide me a set of blueprints, I can work up a detailed plan."

  "Yeah, I'll do that." Disengaging, Foster reached into his back pocket and dragged out his billfold. "Listen, I'm sorry to run out on you like this, but I just remembered something I have to do."

  "Now?"

  "Now."

  Tossing a bib onto the table, he started to slide out of the booth. Mackenzie halted him by the simple expedient of hooking a hand in his belt buckle.

  "I want this contract." Her voice dropped to a seductive purr. "I'm fully prepared to give you a special deal."

  Foster's startled glance dropp
ed to his belt. What­ever Mackenzie's hand was doing behind the metal buckle had snagged his serious attention. Beads of sweat popped out on the man's brow. Nick felt a few pop out on his own.

  "How long are you going to be in town?" the builder asked, his voice hoarse.

  "That depends on you."

  "I'll call you, okay?" He patted his shirt pocket. "I've still got your card. You see my secretary, tell her I said to make you a copy of the blueprints. To­morrow, the next day, we'll, uh, get down to busi­ness."

  With a smile that hovered between a pout and a promise, Mackenzie released him. Foster slid out and disappeared from the screen.

  A moment later, Mackenzie winked at the camera. Her amused voice floated through the speakers.

  "He might lose my business card, but until he changes belts, he'd not going to lose the bug I just stuck to his buckle. Over to you, control."

  A half hour later, the team assembled in Jack's suite.

  He and Ellie had listened via satellite link to the exchange between Mackenzie and Foster. Together with Mac and Cyrene, they now waited for the builder to take care of the something he'd suddenly remembered he had to do.

  Foster made the call from his home just after 9:00 p.m. Shaking her head, Mackenzie adjusted the volume on the receiver.

  "What a jerk!"

  Amazed that the man would be so stupid as to risk calling from his home, she listened to the muted beeps of the dial tone. Although muffled, they were picked up by the bug she'd planted on Foster. The control center's computers would translate those beeps instantly into numbers.

  "Yeah?"

  "This is Foster. Things are happening. Things I don't like. You have to take care of that business we discussed. Like, now."

  "I'm workin' it."

  "Work harder!"

  The phone was slammed down.

  The four people in the hotel suite maintained then-silence, hoping for something more. An indiscreet mutter. A short, angry tirade. Anything that might give them a better clue as to Foster's arrangements with his contract killer. All they got was the clink of glass on glass and the sudden blare of the TV.

  "Well, Scarface didn't say much," Mackenzie told the others, "but we should be able to get a voice print out of it. Let's see if Control got a lock on the number Foster dialed."

  Jack stood at her shoulder. His face darkened as he read aloud the message that flashed on her screen.

  "The number was traced to the call notes for a cell phone registered to Harold Berger, 2224 River Drive, Austin."

  Cyrene's silver blond brows lifted. "The dead man?"

  Nodding, Jack cut a quick glance at Ellie before turning to Mackenzie.

  "Can you work a satellite lock on the transmis­sions to and from that cell phone?"

  "Not unless we catch a call during a broadband sweep of the entire transmission area. The chances of that range from zero to minus zero."

  Jack didn't like the answer. He could see that Ellie didn't much care for it, either.

  "Control will take it from here," Mackenzie ad­vised, shutting down her unit. "If there's any further contact tonight, they'll let us know."

  She rose, as did Cyrene. The psychologist cocked her head, studying Jack's grim face.

  "You're tired. I'll take first watch."

  "I'm okay."

  "You need sleep."

  "I'm okay."

  "I won't let anything happen to her," Claire said gently. "I promise. And you'll be right here, a shout away."

  Jack knew damned well he was operating on sheer nerves. He also knew that he wasn't about to let Ellie out of his sight tonight. Or any other night, if he had any say in the matter.

  "You stand first watch here in my room," he sug­gested by way of compromise. "Ellie can leave the connecting door open. I'll bed down on the couch in her sitting room."

  Cyrene accepted the altered arrangements without argument. While she went to her room to collect a few things, Jack grabbed a pillow and blanket from the closet and deposited them on the rolled-arm sofa in the living room. He'd pulled out his automatic to check the magazine before he noticed the woman standing in the shadows. Hugging her arms, she stared blindly at the curtained windows.

  "Ellie?"

  She jumped and swung to face him. Her eyes were wide, their pupils dark pools. "You okay?"

  A shiver rippled down her spine. She didn't an­swer for a moment. She couldn't. The fact that she'd just heard Foster issuing her death warrant had taken some time to sink in, but sunk it had. She understood how the Alamo's defenders must have felt when Santa Anna delivered his final warning that he'd give no quarter if they continued their hopeless resistance.

  Panic swept through her. She came within a breath of telling Jack that she'd changed her mind, that she wanted out of the hotel, out of the city and as far away from the Alamo as he could take her.

  But she couldn't erase the mental image of that line in the sand. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't bring herself to tuck tail and run.

  "I'm okay. Just a little shivery. Guess I've got the air-conditioning turned up too high."

  The she was so obvious Jack didn't bother to chal­lenge it. Instead, he crossed the room, caught her in his arms and returned to the sofa. The cushions whooshed under his weight as he wedged his back into the corner. Settling Ellie comfortably in his lap, he gave her his warmth.

  This wasn't the moment to tell her he'd also given her his heart. Not when Cyrene was moving about in the next room within easy earshot and a killer lurked somewhere in the shadows. He'd come as close to it as he dared earlier, when he told her she'd have to be the one to walk this time. She'd answered obliquely but unmistakably. That would do. For now.

  Propping his chin on Ellie's head, he began to murmur the repetitive, hypnotic mantras that would ease the tension locking them both in steel cages.

  For the first time in longer than he could remem­ber, the relaxation techniques didn't work. Jack couldn't blank out the shape and scent of the woman nestled against him. Couldn't empty his mind of how near he'd come to losing her.

  Again.

  He didn't realize his hold had tightened around her until she squirmed and tipped her head back. "Jack?"

  Her eyes held a question, but it was her mouth he ached to answer. The tendons in his neck corded with the effort of holding back. He'd compromised her safety once by losing himself in her arms. He was damned if he'd do it again.

  "Sorry," he murmured, loosening his hold. "Try to relax."

  Lowering her head to his shoulder, she wiggled into a comfortable position. The movement of her bottom drove every mantra Jack had learned over the years right out of his head.

  Gritting his teeth, he focused all his psychic en­ergy on maintaining control over his body. He might not ever walk upright again after tonight, but he would keep Ellie safe at all costs.

  Chapter 11

  .Detective Harris contacted Jack just after ten the next morning.

  "We ran the bullet retrieved from the river through ballistics and sent the results to the FBI, who worked the Foster kidnapping and murder. You were right. The same gun fired both."

  Jack's stomach clenched. No question now. Their conjectures had moved right out of the realm of possibility and into cold, lethal reality.

  "So where does that leave us?"

  "With some very excited FBI field agents who want to know just how the heck you tagged Dan Foster. They'd like to meet with both of us this af­ternoon. Two o'clock. Their offices are in the court­house at 615 East Houston Street. Can you make it?"

  His glance went to Ellie. She sat at the desk, a cold cup of coffee beside her. She was in jeans and a short-sleeved white shirt, its tails tucked in neatly at her trim waist. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, but her face wore a look of intense concentration.

  She'd been hard at work since breakfast. Jack sus­pected her fierce attention to detail sprang as much from a need to keep her mind off her stalker as from a determination to tie up every loose end o
n her pro­ject. From the stack of field notes sitting beside the computer, he suspected she'd be at it for hours to come.

  "Yes," he told Harris. "I can make it."

  Cyrene would provide security for Ellie. Jack would take Mackenzie. She'd made the initial con­nection between Foster and Scarface and run it through her contact at the FBI. She'd also had two face-to-face sessions with Foster. The FBI guys were going to want to hear about those. And about the tag she'd put on the builder.

  Mackenzie would know how to finesse that bit of electronic eavesdropping. OMEGA took its direction directly from the President and wasn't bound by the same rules and restrictions when it came to field op­erations as other government agencies, but it didn't hurt to head off jurisdictional disputes at the pass.

  Cyrene was one of OMEGA's best. Jack could trust her to keep Ellie safe. Still, he had to force himself to the door after lunch.

  With Jack gone, the suite seemed emptier, the af­ternoon endless.

  Cyrene curled up on the sofa with a spy novel. Ellie made calls to several companies for estimates to fill in the excavation site. She also called each of the volunteers, thanking them for their assistance at the dig before putting the final touches on her report.

  As she scrolled through the pages, she fought an­other sharp stab of disappointment. She and her team had come so close to fitting the pieces of the puzzle together. She hated to end the project by offering supposition and conjecture instead of fact.

  Setting aside her personal feelings, she forced her­self to take a critical eye to the report. She'd fine-tuned the sections detailing the discovery of the re­mains, the assembly of the team, the recovery of artifacts and the on-site authentication processes the team had employed. She'd add Dr. Dawes-Hamilton's laboratory results later.

  The section dealing with the remains was the hard­est to work on. She'd already incorporated Dr. Wea­ver's anthromorphical analysis, which included the basic physical features as extrapolated from the skel­etal characteristics.

  Male. Caucasian. Average height for his time. Age thirty to thirty-five. Indications of incipient arthritis, with some degree of bone degeneration in joints.