Dangerous Desires

by Dee Davis

  “And what? Turn myself in?” Her laugh was hollow. “Please. You know as well as I do that’s not the way it works.”

  “It doesn’t have to be this way.” He shook his head, still holding up his hands. “You admitted it yourself; there’s something between us. Let me help you. Maybe there is a way out.”

  “Right. You’re going to come over to the dark side.” This time her laughter wasn’t forced. “You’re not the kind to turn traitor, Drake. And I’m not the kind to play noble. So I’m afraid we’re at an impasse, and since I’ve got the gun…” She shrugged, her expression resigned as she tightened her finger on the trigger.

  Drake dove for the bureau as Cass’s weapon exploded, the bullet grazing his arm as he grabbed his gun, hit the floor, and came up firing. His shot found the mark and Cass’s eyes widened in surprise as she slammed back into the closet door.

  For a moment, she held his gaze, and then with a soft exhalation she slid to the floor, the gun falling from lifeless fingers. His gut churning, he walked over to the body, kicking away the Walther. For a moment he stood, and then with a wave of self-revulsion, he bent over the body to retrieve the flash drive.

  There should have been some other emotion. Regret maybe. Or some sense of loss. Not ten minutes ago he’d actually been thinking that there might have been something between the two of them. Something beyond the world of espionage. But clearly he’d been a fool to believe Cass was different. To let her lure him into thinking they’d had something more than just sex.

  He should have known better.

  Cass’s betrayal only served to underscore what he already knew—women were liars.

  It was as simple as that.

  Di Silva Coffee, Bogotá, Colombia

  Madeline was depleted. Bone-deep, soul-shatteringly hollow. Some days she wondered if there was any part of her left that was untouched by the things she witnessed every day. The things she’d done. She’d become someone she despised. And yet, she’d had little choice. Her sister’s life depended on her pleasing Jorge di Silva, or more specifically his man Ortiz. But after three years, she had to admit that she had her doubts.

  The men continued to promise freedom. To hold it out like a gold-plated carrot. One more job. One more piece of information. But it never ended. They always wanted more. And she had no choice but to acquiesce. After all, they controlled Jenny.

  Currently, Madeline’s sister was sequestered in a seaside rehabilitation facility in northern Colombia, but it had been almost a year since she’d seen her sister and almost seven months since they’d talked. Instead of leaving Colombia after Madeline’s arrest, Jenny had sunk deeper into the dark side of Bogotá. Penniless and desperate, she’d gone to work for di Silva—as a mule.

  But in the end her hunger for drugs had rendered her useless, so she’d bargained for her life using Madeline—or more accurately her sister’s connection to a prominent diplomat living in New Orleans. Henri Marton had been Madeline’s first employer, the man who’d offered her a way out of Cypress Bluff.

  It had all seemed so easy sitting there across from Ortiz in the dank holding room at San Mateo. Then, his request had seemed simple. In return for Madeline’s release all she had to do was get information from Marton. Information that would aid di Silva’s organization. Once she’d accomplished the task, her sister’s drug debt would be paid, and the two of them would be free to return home. In the meantime, Ortiz promised, Jenny would go into treatment.

  But men like Ortiz lied as easily as they breathed, and Jenny hadn’t been interested in rehabilitation, her need for a fix outweighing any desire for freedom. So Madeline had continued to work for di Silva, seducing other men into giving up their secrets, while Jenny, with her addiction, had kept digging them deeper into debt.

  Madeline sucked in a breath and slipped into Ortiz’s office. Officially, Jorge di Silva ran the drug cartel she worked for, his aristocratic roots giving him entrée into all levels of Colombian society, his name adding legitimacy to the most illegitimate of businesses. His family, ostensibly in coffee, had run drugs since the days when clipper ships provided the fastest mode of delivery. He was the old guard. And Hector Ortiz was the new.

  It was Hector who’d shifted the cartel’s focus from drugs to weapons, the former providing cover for the latter. What had been a profitable organization under di Silva had become an even more powerful force under Ortiz’s influence. Basically, Hector made the money, staying under the radar, while Jorge took all the credit.

  And Madeline hated them both.

  Which was why she’d been stealing documents for the past two years. Ortiz had taught her well. Information was better than currency, and she’d managed to secure some pretty damning evidence. But as long as they had Jenny, her efforts were pointless. Still, her mother had always said it was best to be prepared.

  Somehow Madeline didn’t think working for a drug cartel was what Candace Reynard had had in mind. But then, her mother had been dead for more years than Madeline cared to remember. She’d left her girls when they’d needed her most. And Madeline was still struggling to fill the void.

  Ortiz’s office was quiet, the only sound the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. It was early yet, only a few overachievers already hard at work. Ortiz had a breakfast meeting. She’d overheard him discussing it with di Silva, which meant that for the moment at least she had the office to herself. It was always a risk coming here. But she was so rarely in Bogotá, she wanted to make the most of the opportunity.

  Usually, when she wasn’t working, she spent her time at di Silva’s compound near Cali. It was the center of operations, but he kept offices in Bogotá as well. And it was here that she hoped to find something to document the recent influx of munitions into the country. She had evidence to prove that the cartel had been buying arms, but nothing that documented their arrival in the country. She’d seen the stockpile herself—once or twice when there’d been no option but to bring her along. But if she was going to bring down the cartel, she needed more than her word. She needed proof. A paper trail.

  Maybe her efforts were futile. Maybe she’d never find a way to get Jenny free. But hope was all she had. That and the burning need to make Ortiz pay for everything he’d put them through.

  A noise outside the office interrupted her thoughts. If Ortiz caught her rifling though his things, she was dead. It was as simple as that. Madeline’s heart beat staccato against her ribs as she ducked beneath the desk, holding her breath. Footsteps echoed as they approached and then faded.

  Counting to ten, she waited to be sure the coast was clear, then pushed to her feet and sat in Ortiz’s chair. The desk was a monstrosity, carved oak with drawers on either side. She pulled the first one open. There were the usual assortment of office supplies and a few harmless invoices. Nothing that would help. She reached for the bottom drawer, smiling when it refused to budge.

  A locked drawer almost always meant pay dirt. At least she hoped so. Producing a pick from her pocket, she made short work of the lock and slid the drawer open. The files looked promising, and she reached for the first one, pulling it upward, dislodging an envelope in the process. Frowning, she bent and picked it up, the return address indicating a physician. Maybe Ortiz was sick. A girl could dream.

  She glanced again at the door and then pulled out the sheets of paper inside, forcing her mind to translate the Spanish. She’d become quite fluent in the time she’d spent in di Silva’s organization. Andrés would have been proud.

  Her smile was bittersweet as she thought of her friend. She’d tried to get word of him, but to no avail. Most likely he was dead. But at least she’d always remember.

  She shook her head, concentrating on the letter, the words forming into sentences, the sentences into a horror she couldn’t begin to contemplate. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead, her eyes swimming with tears as her heart dropped to her stomach, her lungs no longer capable of taking in air.

  With shaking hands she read the letter agai
n, its meaning still the same.

  Her sister was dead.

  Dead.

  Madeline shuddered. The word was so final. Drugs had ruled Jenny in life. And now it seemed they ruled her in death as well. She’d died from an overdose. No, Madeline amended, her grief turning to burning rage, she’d died because Ortiz had killed her. As surely as if he’d administered the drugs himself.

  She wiped away her tears, glancing at the document that accompanied the letter, a death certificate from a hospital in Bogotá, dated six months ago. Jenny was supposed to have been in a treatment center in Barranquilla on the other side of the country. Swallowing a sob, she slid the letter back into the envelope, her fingers still shaking. There was nothing to be gained by losing it here. She had to maintain control.

  She put the envelope back into the drawer, and then carefully relocked it. It was tempting to run. She craved her freedom, but she wanted Ortiz more. And to bring him down, she needed the information she had ferreted away, the files hidden at di Silva’s compound. Which meant she’d have to wait. Pretend that she didn’t know.

  But there was one thing she could do now. One thing to set the wheels in motion. There was nothing to hold her back anymore. Jenny was dead.

  She pushed away from the desk, her mind made up.

  It was time to play Andrés’s card.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sunderland College, New York

  The air smelled like fall even though Indian summer was still holding court, the temperatures higher than normal for late September. Drake Flynn made his way across campus, his thoughts far away from students and classes. He’d been back for a couple of weeks, been going through the motions. Teaching. Working with friends and colleagues. But he still couldn’t shake the image of Cass dead on the floor, her blood staining the carpet.

  He hadn’t had a choice. It had been her life or his. But even so, he couldn’t let it go.

  Not that he intended to share that fact.

  He trusted his friends, but he wasn’t a share-his-guts kind of guy. So he’d rebuffed all attempts to talk and thrown himself into his work. He nodded at fellow professors and students as he walked, forcing his thoughts to the lecture he’d just given. He’d always found the past a better place than the present. It was part of why he’d chosen archaeology as a profession.

  At least until the CIA had come calling.

  “Professor Flynn,” a breathless coed called, her voice interrupting his thoughts. “Have you got a minute?”

  He stopped, dutifully shifting his attention to the girl in front of him. “What can I do for you, Stacey?”

  “I had a question about the degradation of ancient ruins,” she said, glancing up at him coyly from behind lowered lashes. God, they started young. “You were talking about how much had been lost to deforestation and greed. And I was just wondering why it mattered so much. I mean, isn’t it better to have progress? People working? Food on the table?”

  “There certainly is an argument to be made for the modern world over the ancient one,” Drake responded. “But I’m not sure that stripping the land of everything it harbors—trees, animals, artifacts—is truly a step forward. There’s got to be a way for us to use our past to make a better future. And if we destroy everything that’s old, we lose a valuable tool in understanding not just where we’ve been but where we’re going. Look, Stacey, since you seem to be so interested, maybe you should consider the topic for your paper.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Flynn. I’ll think about it. And you’re right”—the girl licked her lips and flicked her hair provocatively, and Drake fought to keep his expression neutral—“not everything old is bad. I mean, look at you.”

  “Right. I’m positively decrepit.” He nodded, shaking his head as she walked away. Maybe he was taking it all too damn seriously. It was a job, and Cass had been a distraction. Nothing more. She’d played him. But in the end he’d managed to come out on top. And he’d learned his lesson. He’d handle it better next time, and he had no doubt there’d be a next time. A-Tac wasn’t about sitting on your ass and doing nothing. It was a war. Pure and simple. And sometimes the bad guys got a leg up.

  But, push come to shove, A-Tac usually won the day.

  The American Tactical Intelligence Command was an off-the-books arm of the CIA. Operating out of Sunderland College, it was cloaked under the guise of the Aaron Thomas Academic Center, one of the country’s foremost think tanks. Members of the unit were adept at both academics and espionage, their unique abilities setting the stage for some of the CIA’s most dangerous missions.

  “Fraternizing with the coeds?” Nash Brennon asked, pulling Drake from his reverie. Nash was Drake’s best friend, as well as A-Tac’s second in command. He also chaired Sunderland’s history department. An expert in covert operations, he was the go-to guy when something needed to be accomplished under the radar.

  “Are you kidding me?” Drake asked, shaking his head. “She’s like nineteen.”

  “If that.” Nash grinned. “You on your way to Avery?” Avery Solomon was their boss. A hard-nosed ex-military man, Avery inspired fierce loyalty among team members. He’d successfully ridden out four political administrations, and maintained contacts at the highest levels of government, including the Oval Office.

  “Yeah,” Drake said, patting the beeper on his belt. “He paged.”

  “Me, too.” Nash studied him for a moment, his eyes darkening with concern. “You doing all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Drake answered. “Just ready to get back to work.”

  “I can understand that,” his friend said with a nod, thankfully not pushing any farther.

  “So, any idea what the new orders might be?”

  “Not a clue.” Nash shook his head as they walked into the Center to a bank of elevators at the back of the lobby. Nash inserted a key into an elevator marked “professors only” and the doors slid open. They stepped inside, and Drake inserted a second key as Nash pushed a button behind the Otis Elevator sign.

  The doors closed as the elevator started downward to the A-Tac complex hidden beneath the campus.

  “Any luck convincing Annie to join the team?” Drake asked. Nash’s wife was the exception to Drake’s rule about women. She actually made his friend happy. They’d recently married, and although Avery had done everything possible to convince Annie, an ex-CIA operative, to join A-Tac, she was still holding out.

  “Not yet. But I think maybe she’s weakening. Avery asked her the other day for about the millionth time if she’d be interested in being reactivated. Usually she just says no. But this time she told him she’d think about it.”

  “Sounds like progress. I bet she won’t hold out much longer. Hell, she’s as much of an adrenaline junkie as the rest of us. She’s got to be itching to get back into the saddle.”

  “Well, there’s Adam to think about.” Nash and Annie had almost lost their son a year ago. “I know he’s safe here, but I worry about both of us being gone.”

  “So you split your time,” Drake shrugged. “It’s doable.”

  “Hey, I’m not the one saying no.” He held up his hands in defense as the elevator doors slid open. They walked into what appeared to be a reception area, and Nash slapped his hand on a bust of Aaron Thomas, the Center’s namesake. Then, palm identification completed, a panel in the far wall slid open, and Drake followed Nash into the A-Tac complex.

  “I was wondering where you guys had gotten to,” Hannah Marshall said, as the panel slid shut again. Although no one would ever guess it, Hannah was the team’s intel expert. She looked more like one of her students than an expert in both political theory and ferreting out information. Her spiky hair was streaked with purple today, the glasses perched on the end of her nose a contrasting green. “Everybody’s waiting for you in the war room.”

  “So what’s the mission?” Nash asked.

  “No idea.” Hannah shrugged. “You know Avery doesn’t like spilling the beans until everyone’s together.”

&nbs
p; The three of them walked into the war room. With computer banks flanking the walls and LCD screens above and behind the oblong conference table, the oversized space was the heart of A-Tac.

  Hannah moved over to the far end of the table, opened a computer console and flipped up the screen. Like Jason Lawton, who was sitting to her left, she lived on her computer. Jason handled the unit’s IT needs, as well as computer forensics. A whiz with everything electronic, he was an invaluable asset to both the college and the team.

  Jason lifted a hand in greeting as Nash settled in next to him. Across the way, Tyler Hanson was sitting on the edge of the table, talking with Avery, her long blond hair, as usual, pulled back into a ponytail.

  Tyler was the epitome of the girl next door—with a definite twist. Drake doubted there was a bomb in existence that she couldn’t put together or tear apart. She served as the team’s ordnance expert. And, to add to the dichotomy, she was also the chair of Sunderland’s English department.

  Rounding out the team were Emmett Walsh and Lara Prescott. Emmett handled the team’s communication issues. And Lara, a noted expert in biochemical warfare, served as the team’s medical officer.

  It was a diverse group. But they were all professionals. And Drake would have laid his life down for any one of them. And even though he was the newest member of the team, he knew that the sentiment was returned.

  “You okay?” Lara asked as Drake dropped into the chair beside her. “I haven’t had the chance to talk to you since you got back from Hungary.” In the face of her open concern, Drake bit back his flippant retort. It wasn’t her fault he’d acted like a fool.

  “I’m doing better. Thanks. Like I told Nash, I’m ready to get back to work.”

  Lara nodded, her gaze speculative, clearly seeing far more than he wanted her to. But thankfully, before she had the chance to respond, Avery cleared his throat, signaling that the meeting was to begin.