Dark Rules (The DARK Files Book 3)

by Vaughan,Susan

“He is.”

  “Please ask him to accompany you. In five minutes, if that’s convenient.”

  She assured the AD’s assistant it was and disconnected. Her heart hammered. “Simon, your riddle can wait. We have an appointment.”

  ***

  Simon strained to focus his mind on the AD’s update and not on the possible reason he’d summoned Janna. Proof of Gabe’s guilt should’ve been enough to disillusion her, but no. Her wanting to probe deeper meant she still clung to some feelings for the treasonous son of a bitch. Did she hope to find that he’d been undercover after all?

  Damn. He wanted to leave her behind so he could leave behind his confusion about her. For all her geek expertise, intelligence and determination, she was a gentle, vulnerable woman who deserved better than a raw deal. Better than Gabe.

  Better than Simon and his love-’em-and-leave-’em rules.

  She sure as hell didn’t deserve the danger and heartache of further investigation. No way should she be part of any op against Roszca.

  No electronic recording devices were allowed in secure DARK meetings. He noted the intent expression on her face as, head bent, she recorded notes with a ballpoint pen, for her an alien low-tech device. Her left hand was bare of a wedding ring. About damn time. Because of Gabe’s treason, not because she was available.

  A shining veil of buckskin-blond hair feathered across her cheeks. Their chairs were close enough for him to inhale her scent as he forced his attention back to the AD.

  “Since we know where Roszca’s base is,” Ramsey said, “we’ve been intercepting phone calls and e-mails from Isla Alta. His computer system has firewalls, but his satellite phone and e-mails are vulnerable to EARS41.”

  Simon perked up at the mention of eavesdropping on the arms broker. “EARS41?”

  “Electronic Acquiring Reconnaissance System,” Janna said, removing her glasses and rubbing the bridge of her nose. “When I interned at the National Security Agency, we tested EARS38. This version must be even more advanced.” She smiled brightly at Ramsey.

  The man’s usual poker face softened as his lips curved to match her smile. Simon’s gaze whipped to her. Her eyes with that witchy tilt were working their magic on the hard-case assistant director. On purpose.

  A knot cinched Simon’s stomach muscles. Using feminine wiles to get her way wasn’t like her. And the AD’s hot-eyed ogling ground his gears. Simon had five years on Janna, but Ramsey had at least ten. Too many. Simon could swear the man’s nostrils flared like a damn stallion scenting a mare. He itched to slap those ugly dark-rimmed glasses back on her face and snap his fingers in front of Ramsey. “Messages and intercepted conversations you were saying, sir?”

  Simon the rule-bender calling a superior sir shocked the man out of his trance. Ramsey slowly turned his attention away from Janna. “Interceptions, yes. To potential buyers for his cache of weapons-grade uranium.”

  Janna slipped on her glasses and bent toward her notes. Good. About time.

  Ramsey explained that the auction summit Roszca was organizing would take place in three weeks. So far, three bidders had confirmed their interest. Ahmed Saar, an exiled Yamari fronting for more than one extremist group, was the first. A diamonds-for-arms trader with too many aliases to identify was the second. And a DARK officer, masquerading as Leo Wharton, now in U.S. custody, was the third. DARK would go after the bidders once they were en route to Isla Alta.

  “Except for our Wharton’” Simon said. “That’ll be our in.”

  Ramsey nodded. “Our Wharton informed Roszca that U.S. pressure was forcing him to keep a low profile. He would send a trusted lieutenant in his place. We need more than EARS41 on that island. We need to roll up Roszca before he can sell his nukes.”

  Janna leaned forward. “And we need to find out what Gabe might have leaked about DARK plans?”

  “Exactly. The U.S. Coast Guard will transport Wharton’s motor yacht, the Horizon, from St. Thomas to Guantanamo Bay.”

  “Gitmo’s only about forty-five miles from Isla Alta, an easy two-or three-hour trip for the undercover officer.” Adrenaline pumped as Simon imagined the possibilities. Undercover in the middle of Roszca and his entourage of thugs would be damned hazardous, like juggling nitroglycerin.

  Ramsey’s gaze veered from Simon to Janna and back again. He flattened his palms on the desk. “I see I didn’t make myself clear. Officer Byrne, I’m assigning you this undercover op. You are Wharton’s trusted lieutenant. Are you up to it?”

  Jackpot.

  Simon shot to his feet. “More than up to it.” Challenging and dangerous, but bringing down the slimy arms broker would help avenge the deaths of DARK officers and many other innocents. “One problem, though. I’m no more the crew-cut G.I. Joe type than Janna. Roszca won’t believe I’m Wharton’s man.”

  Still wondering why Ramsey had included her in this meeting, he slid a glance her way. When Ramsey added nothing, Simon hoped that meant he just wanted her informed.

  “Then you missed some research on Wharton,” Ramsey said. “He has a small cadre of trusted men. Some are streetwise gangsters with long hair and tattoos. And earrings.”

  “In that case, I’m your man.”

  “I knew you’d want this chance.”

  Simon slugged his hands in his jacket pockets so he wouldn’t rub them together in glee. “One other thing. Put me on any horse with four feet or behind the steering wheel of any land vehicle, and I’m good to go. But the only boating I ever did was in the Tunnel of Love. Can I assume I’ll have a captain and crew?”

  “And a tech officer. All rolled into one.” When Ramsey sent Janna another hint of a smile, Simon felt an iron-shod kick in the gut. He should’ve known. “I’m assigning Harris.”

  Eyes bright, she sat at attention. “Oh, thank you, sir. You won’t regret this.”

  “But Ramsey,” Simon said, avoiding her glare, “this is a delicate and dangerous mission. Janna’s too emotionally involved to be detached.”

  The AD arched a blond eyebrow. “And you’re not, Byrne? You’re practically salivating at the prospect of confronting Viktor Roszca.” He held up a hand to stay Simon’s next protest. “She has the technical and language expertise. And she knows the Horizon’s design and navigation systems.”

  “Then it must be a Caretti,” Janna said. “Simon, my family used to vacation on my uncle Dean’s Caretti. I did the navigation and manned the helm. She’s a sweet yacht.” She drilled Simon with a pointed stare. “With three staterooms.”

  “Enough room for more crew.” A vision of the two of them on a luxury yacht in the sultry tropics beaded sweat on his temples. How could he concentrate on his undercover op with this woman — this particular woman — as his only companion?

  Ramsey’s stern expression said he was adamant. “The boat’s designed for a couple to man. More crew would arouse suspicions. Roszca won’t suspect a beautiful female in a bikini of being anything but a … companion.”

  “Yeah, who would?” Seeing the intensity on Janna’s face squelched Simon’s lame excuses. Time to yield gracefully.

  “Don’t worry, Simon,” she said. “We have time for me to teach you how to handle the Horizon. Uncle Dean docks his Caretti in Annapolis.” Beneath the satisfaction in her soft voice, the strain of apprehension was clear. Damn right, she should be scared.

  Ramsey stood. “Get going then, officers. You have two weeks to prepare. I want a detailed outline of your operation plans in eight days.”

  A shiver skittered up Simon’s spine as he saw the week in the Caribbean looming ahead of him. Where Janna was involved, his protective instincts kicked into a flat-out gallop. He’d worked with plenty of female officers in the DEA and DARK without the anxiety knotting his gut about tandem time with Janna. He trusted her competence, her excellence. She was too sharp and stubborn not to excel.

  So why did he feel that this op just got a whole hell of a lot more dangerous?

  For him.r />
  Chapter 10

  JANNA WOULD BREATHE easier once Simon’s yachting lessons ended.

  For the next several days after Ramsay gave them the assignment, she and Simon had studied and plotted their operation. Satellites provided detailed photographs of Roszca’s compound. Operatives found the builder and decorator in Jamaica and sent drawings that aided her in designing surveillance equipment.

  He researched Wharton’s habits and dealings further to support his cover story as the arms buyer’s man. “Wharton” told Roszca his man was arriving a week early for preliminary talks. Then Wharton would participate later by satellite phone. Since the rogue American’s paranoia and attention to detail were well known, Roszca accepted the story.

  Janna’s cover was simple. She was a “boat bunny,” one of many anonymous females who hopped from yacht to yacht as cook, crew and/or companion. Her job of monitoring their eyes and ears meant remaining on the Horizon when Simon went ashore to meet with their quarry. His sigh of relief was audible when Ramsey agreed to that rule.

  Only a few days to go until their lift-off for Guantanamo Bay. They’d be fine if Simon could curtail his love of speed. And if she survived his learning curve. One more time and she’d call a halt to today’s efforts.

  She gritted her teeth as he slowed the twin 700-hp, V-drive engines. With his weed-whacked hair and bristly jaw, and sitting on the well-cushioned helm seat in his torn cutoffs, he resembled a pirate more than a legitimate yacht owner. She tried and failed not to respond to his Pirates of the Caribbean T-shirt and boyish grin.

  After Ramsey had finalized their assignment, Simon stifled his objections. Thank goodness. And he said nothing about her shameful lapse in professionalism. Flirting with the AD had been born of desperation and a mistake in judgment. And unnecessary. Ramsey gave her the assignment because of her expertise, not her sexy eyes.

  Eyes she would continue to hide — today behind sunglasses.

  Keeping her independence meant sticking to her rules. Only professional contacts with men meant less chance of endangering her goals, less chance of panic reactions that would leak her shame. This mission could threaten that secrecy, but she had to know. And she had to prove herself.

  Simon slowed the powerful engines.

  Open-water navigation wasn’t his problem. He needed practice docking the sixty-foot cruiser. Rather than take a chance with her uncle’s yacht or his boat slip, they were using a couple of orange buoys as a target for docking.

  Dented and drowned buoys at this point.

  On the third try, he approached too fast. Again.

  “Simon, think of it as taking a horse into his stall. You wouldn’t canter or trot in. You’d slow him to a walk.” She kept her voice calm and patient, but her jaw clenched.

  “Got it.”

  She held her breath as he jockeyed the engines into reverse and applied the bow thruster. He turned the wheel. The Horizon eased closer to the two buoys. Closer.

  The orange cones disappeared beneath the broad hull.

  “Damn,” Simon said without heat. “Thought I had her that time.”

  She sighed, but couldn’t help smiling at his unrelenting good cheer. “Me too. You’re getting better. But that’s enough for today.”

  “Sweet.” He shrugged. “Docking’s the least of our problems. Anchoring offshore is more secure where we’re going. Easier for you to stay under Roszca’s radar.”

  Simon gave her the helm and watched her expertly maneuver for him to retrieve the buoys. As she steered the yacht back toward the Annapolis marina, he relaxed on the companion seat beside her. He savored the ocean’s salty air and her profile — thick eyelashes that nearly brushed the lenses of her sunglasses and full mouth pursed in concentration. Thanks to sultry May weather, white shorts showed off her tanned legs.

  “I agree on the safety issue,” she said, huffing as she chewed her lower lip, “but you still ought to be able to dock her. Who knows what we’ll face.”

  So right. And he wanted her kept out of danger as much as possible. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep practicing.”

  She nodded absently as the Bay Marina hove into view. A forest of bobbing masts and flying bridges spread across the sunlit water and into the docks. And beyond, the brick facade and dome of the state capitol building dominated the quaint old town. Slowing to the required five-mile-per-hour no-wake speed in the harbor, she brought them toward the boat slip.

  “You’re a good teacher, Q. I know a great place right on the Severn River. I’ll spring for soft-shell crabs and beer on the way home.”

  “Thanks, Simon. I’d like that, but I’ll pay my way.” She tilted her head. Pushing her sunglasses up on her head, she studied him oddly. “My showing you how to maneuver the boat doesn’t bother you?”

  “Bother me? Why should it?”

  A pink flush crept up her cheeks. “I mean, having a woman know more than you. That doesn’t threaten your…?”

  He burst out laughing. “Threaten my male ego, you mean? No way. I’m fine with anything you can do better than me. Your geek brain fascinates me.” And turns me on as much as your witchy eyes and perfect butt.

  “Good. I didn’t want a problem between us.”

  “We have plenty of other problems. Our biggest is the hole in our strategy. I have no idea how to trick Roszca into leaving that island so DARK can nab him.”

  “You’re known for fast thinking on your feet. Something will come up after we get to Isla Alta.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But Ramsey wants a plan now.”

  She slowed the engine and applied the bow thrusters as she jockeyed the boat into its narrow space.

  Simon observed with admiration. He did want to do that. Speed and power thrilled him big-time, but finesse could also bring a major rush. He knew that from horse training.

  And sex.

  A grin curved his lips, but he stifled his libido as her strange concern came back to him. “Janna, did Gabe have a problem with your intelligence?”

  But she’d already jumped out of earshot onto the dock with the bowline.

  ***

  Isla Alta

  “Don’t wiggle so much, Simon.” Janna took a step back and stood with her arm propped on one hip and her other hand holding what appeared to be tiny felt circles. “I can’t attach these bugs if you don’t stand still.”

  She wore two blue scraps that passed for a bikini and a sleeveless white cotton shirt. Unbuttoned, it flapped in the tropical breeze. His mouth went dry at every glimpse of lightly tanned skin.

  “Sweetheart, you can bug me anytime. But tell the boat to stand still,” he said through gritted teeth. The gentle motion didn’t rock him nearly as much as having her hands roam over his chest. If her warm fingers drifted below his belt, she’d discover exactly how much. “I’ll try.”

  With an indelicate snort that said she doubted his compliance, she stepped closer. “You don’t have enough buttons on this shirt. I’ll have to slip some of the devices into the waistband of your trousers.”

  He nearly groaned.

  Deftly slitting the waistband seam with a sharp tool like a scalpel, she didn’t seem to realize his predicament. In fact, ever since they’d stepped on board, she’d been nothing but professional. As if they hardly knew each other. Concealing her eyes and slim but curvy figure behind dark-framed sunglasses and the white shirt worked as well as hiding an AR-15 in a shoulder holster.

  When she slid her hands across his stomach, his pulse skipped, and heat blasted his lower body. The tropical furnace couldn’t compare. Sweat trickled down his spine. Suck it up, Byrne. Professional. They’d both be better off. Safer.

  Seeking distraction, he stared out the Horizon’s tall windshield at the tropical lushness of Isla Alta. Behind a strip of spun-sugar sand and palm trees rose the jungle-covered heights that gave the island its name. Birdsong floated to the yacht on the light breeze.

  What appeared to be paradise was a predator’s
lair. Viktor Roszca’s white stucco compound squatted almost hidden among flowering shrubbery at the hill’s base.

  The estate consisted of a main house that horseshoed around a central courtyard. Four smaller guest cottages buttressed the open end. The builder’s wiring diagrams indicated that the security base and Roszca’s office, with its all-important computer, occupied two rooms on the longer land side of the main house.

  His eventual goal was twofold — dupe Roszca into leaving his sanctuary and invade his computer. But not today. Today, his objectives were to plant as many of Janna’s mini-listening devices as possible and to convince Roszca he was who he purported to be — Leo Wharton’s emissary.

  They’d arrived late yesterday, ostensibly at the end of a voyage from St. Thomas, a hell of a lot farther across the turquoise Caribbean than the forty-five miles from Gitmo. He’d spoken with Roszca’s assistant on the satellite phone and arranged an appointment for today at one-thirty.

  His gaze turned to the boat dock, where a gleaming white three-decker motor yacht and four other smaller boats bobbed. Nearby, three brown pelicans were taking turns diving for fish.

  One of the smaller boats was a Cigarette-type speedboat, a fast and sleek Checkmate, Janna had informed him. Probably the tender to the big yacht. Another was maybe brought over from Jamaica, a Bertram fishing boat with rods sticking up from her like porcupine quills. The last two were smaller, rigid inflatable outboards.

  Roszca’s yacht stretched half again as long as the Horizon and boasted about the same horsepower. Could a world-stage player like the arms broker resist a race?

  In half an hour, the man’s bodyguards would meet Simon there to escort him to the house. At the prospect of a face-to-face confrontation with the man responsible for arming countless terrorists and killing thousands more — including Simon’s DARK colleagues and friends — a pure rush of adrenaline whipped his pulse.

  He couldn’t wait.

  “Okay, that does it. Even a strip search shouldn’t find those.” Her voice — oddly breathless, though cool in tone — jolted him as much as her warm hands.