by Cindy Dees
Her boss, Army Major Gunnar Torsten, looked over her shoulder at the Israeli. He did a double take. “Avi?”
“Gun? Long time no see,” the Israeli exclaimed.
Rebel looked on in disgust as the two men shook hands warmly and clapped each other on the back. Of course, they knew each other. Torsten was fond of saying how small the Special Forces community really was.
The men were a study in physical contrast. Where blond Torsten’s hair was straight and buzzed short, the Israeli’s dark hair was wavy and thick enough to run her fingers through it. Torsten was fair and blue-eyed, where Avi Bronson was bronzed and brown-eyed. But that was where the contrast ended. Both men were tall, fit, and moved with confident grace. Also, they both had that particular cool look in their eyes announcing they were lethal, and furthermore, that they knew it.
“What brings you to the Land of Oz, Avi?” Torsten asked.
“Olympic security detail. You?”
“Same.”
Torsten glanced at Rebel. “You summoned me, Lieutenant McQueen?”
She winced at his dry tone, not sure whether to interpret the use of her title as formality for the guest’s benefit or a signal that she was in trouble for her presumption. Her boss was a very hard man to read.
She responded grimly, “I spotted two men tonight who looked shockingly like Mahmoud Akhtar and Yousef Kamali.”
Torsten sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re sure it was them?”
“I only saw them from a distance, but I know Mahmoud’s face. I’m pretty sure it was him.”
Torsten stared at her for a long moment as his expression passed through shock and chagrin, ending up wreathed in speculation.
She watched her boss cautiously as he placed a phone call on the speakerphone sitting on the table in front of him. He said without preamble, “Piper, how quickly can Zane join us?”
Rebel’s teammate answered briskly over the speaker, “He can be here in twenty-four hours from when I call him, sir.”
That wasn’t bad, given that the flight itself took on the order of twenty-two hours.
“Make the call,” Torsten said quietly. He disconnected the call to Piper.
Avi piped up. “Who is this Zane person?”
Torsten answered, “CIA officer. Embedded with Mahmoud and his cell in the US for several months last year. Best expert we’ve got on the bastard.”
“And who are these ladies you’re working with?” Avi asked, gesturing at the phone and then at Rebel.
The room fell silent. Rebel stared at Torsten, who stared at the Israeli.
Torsten asked obliquely, “You’re still operational, my friend? You’ve still got all your clearances?”
“Yes to both.” Avi was frowning and looking back and forth between her and Torsten, now.
Rebel watched apprehensively as Torsten stood up, closed the conference room door and came back to the table to sit. He wasn’t going to brief in the Israeli, was he? Her safety, and that of her teammates depended in no small part upon the secrecy around them.
Torsten said, “I command a team of women called the Medusas. They’re a fully operational Special Forces team. I have four more operatives out working in the village, right now.”
Piper and Tessa, original team members along with Rebel, were probably still working on fishing the women’s softball team out of the pool party and herding them back to their quarters.
Gia Rykhof and Lynx Everly, the two newest additions to the team, were working a media event for the US Women’s Gymnastic team, tonight. These Olympic Games were Gia and Lynx’s first operational assignment. They had more training to do before they would be fully up to speed, but both women could still handle themselves in most any situation.
“An entire team made up of women?” Avi repeated blankly.
“Correct,” Torsten answered briskly.
Avi Bronson was not the first man to react that way to hearing about the Medusas, and he would not be the last. But it still bugged Rebel that he acted so surprised and didn’t automatically take her and her teammates seriously.
Chauvinist.
Torsten leaned forward, asking Avi, “What have your people got on Mahmoud and Yousef?”
“Nothing recent that I’m aware of. Not until I caught up with your...operative...earlier after she raced out of the village without scanning out properly. She’s the one who brought Mahmoud Akhtar to my attention and claims to have seen him.”
“Claims to have seen him?” Rebel echoed in annoyance. “I know what I saw!”
Torsten intervened smoothly. “Avi believes you. And so do I. Where did Mahmoud and Yousef go?”
She answered more calmly, “I followed them out of the Olympic Village to a discotheque. They entered from one street, crossed the club and must have exited onto another street. I lost them when your buddy, here, tried to detain me and prevented me from following them.”
“I was just doing my job,” Avi protested.
Rebel glared at him. Damned if his dark eyes and darker soul didn’t light up with amusement in response. He seemed to think she was hilarious. As long as he didn’t think she was a joke—and he stayed out of her way next time—she could live with him laughing at her.
“Did they act like they were fleeing you or moving toward a specific destination?” her boss asked.
“Unknown.” She shot another disgusted look in Avi’s direction.
Torsten followed up tersely with, “Where in the village did you first spot Mahmoud and Yousef?”
At least her boss was taking her seriously. She answered, “They were standing beside the north pool. I don’t know if they saw me and I spooked them or if they just turned and left. But either way, they left the pool and headed for the nearest exit. Interestingly enough, they turned their faces away from every surveillance camera they passed.”
“Which suggests they know the security layout of the village,” Torsten replied. “Have they been added to the Iranian delegation?”
Avi jumped in. “I cannot believe the Iranians would try to slip terrorists into the games on official credentials. The scandal if they got caught would be humiliating.”
Rebel shrugged. “In my experience, the Iranians will suffer a humiliation or two if it means they can destroy an enemy.”
Avi met her gaze head-on. “Truth.”
“Possible targets?” Torsten threw out.
Rebel ticked off, “American athletes, Israeli athletes, a large public venue containing lots of athletes, a large venue containing lots of spectators—”
Avi interrupted, “In other words, everyone and everything at the Olympic Games.”
Torsten drummed his fingers on the tabletop, a rare sign of tension from her excessively self-disciplined boss. “When Zane gets here, we’ll see if his people have any chatter on what Mahmoud might be up to.”
Zane’s people being the CIA.
A spear of jealousy for Piper stabbed Rebel. Zane and Piper were wildly in love, and he was about to come join her for possibly several weeks in a beautiful, romantic locale. Lucky dogs.
Rebel’s last boyfriend had dumped her when he found out she’d agreed to join some kind of special team that was going to involve her traveling all over the world for several years to come. As long as she’d been stationed at a desk and never deployed, he’d been all over her naval career. But as soon as it had interfered with his convenience and comfort, she was history.
Jerk, she thought tiredly. Not that she could blame him entirely. She’d volunteered for the Medusas knowing full well it might break them up. Maybe she’d taken the job partially because she thought it might break them up. Which made her a coward, at least in the romance department.
But how often did a woman get a chance to be on one of the most classified—and cool—teams on the planet? To serve her country in a direct, meaningful way
? And to fulfill a lifelong dream of doing something awesome?
That had been her main reason for joining the Medusas. Dumping the loser had been a side benefit.
Avi was talking, and she yanked her attention back to the discussion at hand. “...will touch base with my Mossad contacts and see if they’ve heard anything about Mahmoud Akhtar. How should I let you know what I find out?”
Torsten answered, “Why don’t you liaise with Rebel, since you two already know each other? I’m up to my elbows in alligators chasing down other rumors and threats, but I want to give this possible sighting of Akhtar highest priority. I’ll pull Lieutenant McQueen off her other security rotations for now so she can follow this up specifically.”
Avi nodded, the ghost of a grin flitting across his face. Was he pleased that she would be working with him? Or was that indulgence for the little girl playing commando with him? God, he was as hard to read as Torsten.
The Israeli glanced at his watch. “It’ll take me an hour or so to find out what the Mossad knows and to take a shower and change clothes.” He glanced at Torsten. “On the way here, I took a beer down my back defending the honor of your girl. Had I known she was an operator, I’d have let her take the beer in the face.”
The men traded grins, and she bit her tongue. She was standing right here, while they talked over her head and called her a girl. Of course, she knew Torsten actually thought highly of her, or else he wouldn’t have invited her to be a Medusa in the first place, nor would he have passed her through the rigorous training program. He’d washed out plenty of other women without any compunction.
But it bothered her that when he was around a male counterpart he reverted to Neanderthal talk about her and her sisters-in-arms. Of course, it was entirely possible he was speaking in sexist terms intentionally to relax Avi about the whole idea of working with a female special operator. Torsten was fully that calculating a guy.
Avi stood, and she was vividly aware yet again of how big a man he was. He had to be pushing six foot three. And every inch of him was solid, functional muscle. He wasn’t thick, but he wasn’t exactly a beanpole, either.
His face was a wee bit on the long side for Hollywood, but his nose was proportional to his face, his cheeks and jaw were just the right amount of craggy, and his smile was wide and beautiful when he shook hands with Torsten.
All in all, he was a ruggedly handsome man in an understated way. Like most special operators in her experience. They didn’t draw attention to themselves, and a person’s eye tended to slide past them without stopping to really notice them. But then, she supposed she could be accused of the same thing. She never wore makeup and left her hair its natural mousy brown color. She wore boring clothes that hid her figure, and in general, she worked hard not to be noticeable.
Avi glanced at his watch and then speared her with a penetrating look that made her feel positively naked. “What say we reconvene at ten o’clock for a late supper? Have you eaten tonight?”
Supper? Him and her alone? Her stomach leaped against her ribs until she silently admonished it to behave. She managed what she hoped was a nonchalant shrug. “Okay. That’ll give our guy in Washington some time to track down any intel from our end—”
Torsten’s and Avi’s cell phones rang at the exact same moment, exploding in stereo in the small room. As they reached for their phones, she saw red lights illuminate all over the ops center through the glass window—including the emergency phone from the International Olympic Committee’s operations headquarters.
And then her own phone vibrated in her pants pocket.
Uh-oh. She didn’t even need the hackles rising on the back of her neck to know it was something bad.
She jammed the phone to her ear and immediately heard screams and shouting from the other end. Over the din, Piper yelled, “There’s been an incident at the pool. Bring everyone you can. And bring bottled water and first aid kits!”
Torsten and Avi were already moving, sprinting for the door. She darted out right on their heels without stopping to ask why water was necessary. She trusted her teammate and expected the need for water would become clear when they got to the scene of whatever had happened.
She and the two men each grabbed a case of bottled water from the stack in a storeroom and raced outside to a golf cart, leaped in and drove at the electric vehicle’s top speed—close to twenty-five miles per hour—to the pool.
The scene was utter chaos when they arrived. Naked athletes laid all over the lawn around the pool in various degrees of distress. Many of them appeared to have suffered some sort of burns on their skin and had angry red patches, and even raw wounds, on their bodies. Most were coughing and rubbing their eyes, and some were vomiting.
A few people, obviously trying to render first aid, were moving among them, but the victims vastly outnumbered the medics. Thankfully, though, help was starting to arrive as golf carts and running coaches and trainers got wind of the problem.
She leaned forward and shouted in Torsten’s ear that the American athletes would probably be congregated by the northwest corner of the pool where they’d left their clothes.
He headed that way, but had to stop well short of the pool because of the sprawl of humanity on the ground.
She tumbled out of the golf cart dozens of yards short of the pool, grabbed a case of water and picked her way through the mess as quickly as she could. The athletes moaning and crying at her feet acted like people who’d just escaped a burning building full of smoke as they coughed thickly and nursed what looked like burns.
The medics on scene appeared to be trying to attend to the most severely affected, but coaches and team officials were shouting for their own athletes to be seen first. The result was a disorganized mess with no semblance or proper triage and sorting of patients into those who could wait and those who could not.
Rebel looked around for the fire and saw no smoke, no flames, no building with people pouring out of it.
“There! Tessa and Piper!” Torsten shouted at her, pointing off to their right.
She followed him toward her teammates, weaving between victims as fast as she could. Avi veered away as someone shouted at him—probably an Israeli athlete or coach. Ignoring him, she ran to her own teammates.
“What the hell happened?” Torsten demanded.
Piper looked up from the legs of one of the women softball players where she was pouring bottled water over several angry, palm-sized burns.
“Athletes were partying away in the pool, and all of a sudden, people started coughing. Shortly thereafter, they started thrashing around and screaming. Other athletes started pulling them out, and then people started screaming about acid in the water.”
“How can we help?” Rebel asked quickly. All of the Medusas had emergency medical training, but most of Rebel’s to date had been classroom theory and not practical field experience.
“Grab bottles of water and flush the wounds. There’s definitely something caustic in the water that has to be washed off the skin of anyone who was in the pool. A few of our girls need eyewashes, but I don’t have the right solution or equipment to irrigate their eyes.”
Rebel spent the next few minutes rinsing off the American women’s skin and reminding them not to rub their eyes. The girls were coughing up a lot of mucus, and their eyes were watering copiously. But fortunately, none of them seemed badly injured. The softball players claimed to have been on the far side of the pool from the worst of whatever had happened.
The Medusas handed off the American athletes to another American security type who escorted the women to an ambulance where an eye washing station had been set up, and the Medusas grabbed their remaining bottled water and headed for the most seriously injured athletes.
It was a frantic race to provide breathing support for those who were struggling to get air, to keep the people puking their guts out from choking, and to get as
many skin wounds rinsed and dressed as possible. Over the next half hour, though, the plentiful medics and team coaches nearby arrived and gradually got ahead of the crisis.
More ambulances pulled up, and the most seriously burned athletes were carted away to area hospitals. The less seriously injured limped away to their rooms to take more complete showers, and gradually, the lawn around the pool calmed.
It was nearly midnight before the scene was fully cleared of victims, leaving behind only police and security types for the most part. Rebel pushed loose strands of hair back from her face and made her way over to where Torsten and Avi Bronson had their heads together.
They glanced at her as she joined them and kept talking in grim undertones.
Avi was saying, “...Aussies are saying they think someone accidentally shocked the pool. It should have been closed, but they got their wires crossed.”
“What did they shock it with?” Torsten responded.
“Concentrated chlorine.”
Rebel frowned. “Wouldn’t whoever have poured it into the pool seen it filled to the brim with people and refrained from putting caustic chemicals in the water?”
“This pool has an automated cleaning system that releases chlorine into the pool from several dozen injection points along the bottom of the pool for more rapid and even distribution of the chemicals.”
“Snazzy,” she commented wryly.
“Did someone forget to turn the system off?” Torsten asked.
Avi nodded. “That’s what Olympic officials are saying.”
Rebel frowned. “If the chemical was supposed to be distributed evenly, then why weren’t the American women athletes affected much? Why were athletes on one side of the pool hit worse than the rest?”
“Could be your athletes were in a part of the pool where the water wasn’t being churned up as actively,” Avi offered.
She didn’t argue, but the explanation didn’t sit right with her.
“I don’t know about you,” Avi commented, “but I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since noon, and it’s been an active evening for me.” He threw her a significant look.
