The back roads route was a small effort to take back some semblance of control. The news that she may have passed bad intelligence on to Langley ate at her. And the suggestion that she might be a target did nothing to soothe her jangled nerves. But, more than anything, it was her reluctance to contact Headquarters that troubled her.
She should have called in immediately after the contact from Senator Anglin’s aide. But she couldn’t shake the fact that she’d heard about the QL contract, not from her bosses at the Western Hemisphere Division, but from a nervous political aide. That stark fact loomed over her like the distant Shenandoah Mountains. If she couldn’t trust Langley—if they didn’t have her back—she was truly and utterly alone.
She pushed the thought out of her mind and exited the car, scanning the compound for a building that looked like it might house a reception area. While Potomac abutted and shared a driving track with a private, upscale race course resort that resembled a country club, it lacked the Virginia country manor esthetic of its next-door neighbor. It was nothing but a sea of drab, anonymous structures that reminded her of Soviet-era construction. Lots of colorless boxy buildings and sharp angles.
None of the buildings were labeled—at least not with any useful signage. She had parked between a long, squat structure identified as C6 and a tall, windowless concrete block building labeled H11. Neither designation gave a hint as to the activities housed within, and the buildings weren’t laid out in any discernible order. It was disorienting. After a moment, she amended. It was deliberately disorienting.
She wavered between the two structures, trying to decide which way to go. Just as she turned toward H11, a tall, broad-shouldered man with spiky, shower-damp dark hair loped through the glass door of Building C6.
“Mrs. Santos?” he called, giving her a wave and a lopsided grin that made the skin around his eyes crinkle.
She returned his wave and strode toward him. “It’s Ms.,” she corrected automatically.
His gold-flecked hazel eyes swept over her and then the station wagon. “Is that your ride?”
“Yes. Well, it’s not my personal vehicle. It’s my aunt’s.”
He squinted through the window into the car’s interior. “That thing have a manual transmission?”
“Yes.”
“So you can drive a stick.”
She arched an eyebrow at the patronizing question. Could she drive a stick? When disaster struck, she could hardly waste time running around looking for a car with an automatic transmission. “Of course I can. Can you?”
That earned her a deep throaty chuckle. “You’d be surprised how many people your age never learned. And, yes, I know how to drive a manual transmission. I’d better. After all, I’m the chief driving instructor around here.” He stuck out his hand. “Trent Mann.”
She took his extended hand. His skin was warm and calloused. His grip was firm but not painful. He wasn’t one of those muscle-bound jerks who felt the need to prove their strength by crushing your fingers. But he was definitely muscle-bound.
She reviewed what little she knew about Potomac. It was a relatively new operation. Most of the private military contractors were more than mere security agencies. They also ran covert operations and sensitive missions for an array of military and government agencies. The sort of work a government would want to be able to deny if push came to shove.
Was Potomac in that group? She searched her memory, unsure, and took another look at Trent Mann.
Most of the PMCs drew their operatives from the ranks of former special forces, her own colleagues at the CIA, and their counterparts at the FBI. Trent certainly looked like he was more than a mere driving instructor. For a moment she allowed herself to wonder.
Then her common sense tapped her on the shoulder. Who cares? The less she knew about him, and the less he knew about her, the better.
He interrupted her reveries. “Let’s head inside and fill out some paperwork. Then we’ll get you behind the wheel and get started.”
His stride was long and fast, but she matched it without difficulty. She was, as her father liked to say, a fast talker and an even faster walker. Trent badged open the door and ushered her inside. He led her to a small, spotless office. She took a seat and studied the room. It was sparse and impersonal. No photographs, no sports memorabilia, no hint about the man who occupied it. She sensed the blankness was deliberate.
He handed her a sheaf of paperwork, and she scribbled her name everywhere he indicated without bothering to read it. She assumed she was waiving her right to sue Potomac, but her entire life was one enormous waiver of liability. She handed the stack of documents back to him and stood up.
“Hang on. I’m as eager to get in the car as you are, Mrs. Santos—”
“It’s Ms.” Did this guy not listen?
“Sorry. Ms. Santos.” He paused and glanced pointedly at the enormous diamond and emerald ring on her left ring finger.
She smiled faintly and shrugged.
He went on. “We’ve established you can drive a stick. Do you often drive yourself in Mexico City, or does your husband arrange for a driver?”
It was a fair question. Many of the couples in their circle employed bodyguards who doubled as drivers or butlers. And most of their friends had armored cars. But Mateo scoffed at such precautions. He was a native of Mexico City and had run wild in the city’s streets as a child.
She wondered if he’d change his view if he knew who she really was, how dangerous her job was. But dropping that bombshell was out of the question. Aside from the fallout that ‘I’m an undercover CIA operative spying on your employer and your government’ would cause after three years of marriage, she’d been explicitly ordered not to tell him. Sharing the truth with her husband would open her up to a charge of treason.
She blinked. Trent Mann was waiting for an answer, and he didn’t need to know the details of her duplicitous relationship. “No, we don’t have a driver. And, yes, I typically drive myself.”
A wrinkle creased his forehead, and his lips tightened, displeased with her answer.
“I see. What do you drive?” In contrast to his expression, his voice was noncommittal.
She met his eyes with a knowing smile. “I don’t think you’ll like this bit of information either. It’s a Mercedes-Benz SL-class. Gold.”
“An expensive convertible? You’re right, I don’t like it. I’m not sure why you’re here if you don’t take your personal security seriously, Ms. Santos. Wearing ostentatious jewelry, driving a flashy convertible? Senator Anglin’s office seemed to think that you were in some danger. Do you disagree?” His face hardened into a mask of disapproval.
She gazed back at him unblinkingly. “I honestly don’t know. But what I do know is, that’s the car I have. My husband was born in Mexico City. He doesn’t view it the same way that foreign nationals do. To date, he hasn’t seen the need for any extreme security measures.”
“I suggest you tell your husband that if he loves you, he’ll rethink his position on security. More than five thousand people vanished in Mexico last year, and the capital city saw an increase in kidnappings that far outpaced the rest of the country. It’s foolish in the extreme to deny the statistics. Especially for a woman of your stature … and, uh, appearance.”
She flushed and stilled her hands. She was vibrating with anger. Or maybe it was embarrassment. Because the sad truth was she had no idea whether Mateo still loved her—if he ever truly had. But she sure as hell wasn’t going to share that pathetic tidbit with her driving instructor.
She cleared her throat. “Look, we’ve established I’m asking to be snatched. Got it. Are we going to sit here and chat all day? Or ….” She turned to look out the window.
In answer, he grabbed a set of keys off a pegboard hanging on the wall beside the door and stalked out, leaving her to catch up.
4
Trent stormed out of the building, aware that he was telegraphing his emotions but unable to tamp down his anger. The
woman jogging along behind him was a fool—or her husband was a fool. The carelessness and arrogance of their life in Mexico City slapped him across the face.
He tried to pretend that his reaction was nothing more than detached professional dismay, but he couldn’t deny that he was drawn to Olivia Santos. He could drown in her eyes, slate blue like the ocean on a stormy day, and deep as the sea. Her slow, wide smile that started at the corners of her delicate lips curved upward like the sun, transforming her face and warming him from the inside out.
It was inexplicable. She wasn’t his type. She was fair and blonde and willowy. And married, he reminded himself. The pampered, privileged wife of a rich man who didn’t deign to take care of his treasures. And, worst of all, she seemed to lack the strength or desire to take care of herself. She. Was. Not. His. Type.
His type was capable, courageous, and curvy. Like Carla. Fiery Carla, with her flashing brown eyes and her tangle of glossy black curls. Fearless and magnetic. The exact opposite of the slender spun-glass creation at his heels. Olivia Santos seemed impossibly breakable and every bit as dangerous. He pictured her shattering into hundreds of pieces, the sharp shards glinting underfoot.
She overtook him while he rolled up the garage door. The training cars sat lined up in the bay like panthers on their haunches, gleaming under the bright overhead lights. As she brushed by him, he caught a whiff of something spicy and citrusy. Her shampoo or lotion, maybe. It was intoxicating, heady.
Get a grip. Teach this woman some basic evasive maneuvers, drill her on what to do in the event of an ambush, and ship her off to Mexico. Mark it as a favor done for a political ally and move on. Don’t ask too many questions about her life in Mexico City, and, whatever you do, don’t talk to her about her husband.
Her eyes had turned to ice when she spoke of the man she’d married, and her face had frozen into a bland, distant mask. But he’d seen the way she’d twisted her ring around her finger—a tell of discomfort. And he’d noted the heat that crept up her neck to her cheeks when she admitted the guy refused to provide even basic protection. Her husband, for whatever reason, didn’t care about her safety. Did he care about her?
He shook his head. Do not get entangled with Olivia Santos. It was pointless, it was reckless, and it would lead to nothing but pain. He had plenty of that in his life already.
He jabbed the button on the key fob, and a bright blue Miata flashed its lights in greeting. He tossed the keys toward her, expecting them to clatter to the concrete slab floor, but she snagged them out of the air with a lazy gesture.
“I’m driving first?”
“Yeah. I want to get a sense of your baseline so I know what I have to work with. Then I’ll teach you some tricks.”
He winced at the sound of his gruff tone echoing off the garage walls. Jake would raise hell if he heard him talking to a client this way—especially one who was tight with a senator. But Olivia brushed off the brusqueness. It made him wonder what else she was in the habit of accepting, and he resolved to speak to her with more respect. She deserved that much, at least.
“And we’re taking this out?” She gestured toward the shiny little MX-5. Her gaze swept the rows of SUVs and armored vehicles.
“We have to prepare you for real-world scenarios. You drive a ridiculous little convertible, so we’ll use the closest approximation.” He grinned at her. “Potomac’s not in the habit of using luxury cars that cost six figures-plus for training, so this baby’ll have to do.”
She slid behind the wheel while he climbed into the passenger seat. She turned the key, and the engine sprang to life with a rumbling purr. They both racked their seats back for more legroom, and he realized she was even taller than she looked. He glanced down, expecting to find a pair of impractical stiletto boots on her feet—stylish footwear that would add inches to her height, slow her down in the event of an attack, and possibly slip off the gas pedal and get wedged underneath. But she wore a pair of broken-in hiking boots. He nodded a grudging approval to himself.
He unlocked the glove compartment and removed a pair of wireless communicators. He seated one in his ear and positioned the microphone near his chin, then passed her the mate.
“What’s this for?” she asked as she wiggled the earpiece into her ear, pushing aside a long strand of straight flaxen hair.
“So you can hear me, and so I don’t have to yell.”
Also so Jake could listen in from the office if he was so inclined, but there was no reason to tell her that.
She pressed her foot down on the gas, revving the engine. “Where to?”
He eyed her. She seemed comfortable behind the wheel. Relaxed, loose, with her hands at three and nine. She looked good. Time to see how she drove.
“Let’s start with some basics. The Federal Circuit is over that hill to the left. It’s a mile-and-a-half course with some elevation changes.”
She hung a left out of the bay. “How many turns?”
The question revealed a familiarity with course driving. “Fourteen. There’s also a long straight where we can work on acceleration and threshold braking.”
“Skid pad?”
“That, too.”
She nodded, and her chin jutted forward. “Good.”
He turned in his seat and fixed her with a quizzical look. “Have you taken a training course like this before?”
She pursed her lips. “Not exactly like this. But, yeah, I have some track time under my belt.”
“In Mexico?”
“No.”
He waited, but she didn’t elaborate.
“Okay, then. Pull into pit lane.”
She did as instructed. “Now what?”
“I’d like to know what I’m dealing with here, Ms. Santos. When you say you have track time, I don’t know if that means you’re a high-performance driving enthusiast, an amateur racer, or you took a driver safety course in high school.”
She quirked her lips into a smile. “None of the above. Let’s just say I did receive some security driving training a few years back. Before I moved to Mexico. It’s been a while, though. So, I need a refresher.”
Security driving training, at least the way he taught it, was evasive driving training on steroids. Rich wives didn’t need that level of training. Foreign service officers, federal law enforcement officers, G-men, and CIA operatives did. He studied her profile.
No way. There was no way this ice princess was an agent, officer, or operative of any kind. You’re losing your grip, Mann. She’s inside your head.
“Go ahead and get it up to speed on the main.”
She nodded and peeled out of the pit, gunning for the straight. He watched the speed tick up. Higher, higher.
“Now what?” she asked, her eyes pinned on the track ahead.
“Mercedes-Benz invented anti-lock brakes, so I’m assuming your SL has it.”
“Right.”
“You’re in luck. ABS isn’t standard on this model, or at least it wasn’t back in the day. But this car has it so we can practice limit braking. Here’s what we’re going to do. When I say—”
She accelerated with her right foot. Then, with her left, she slammed on the brakes, and the wheels locked up, activating the ABS.
He grabbed the cage. “What the devil are you doing?”
She shouted into the communicator. “I don’t know this car. If you want me to practice limit braking, first I have to get a feel for the wheel lock.”
He bobbed his head. She was right. But if she knew that, she hardly needed to practice her threshold braking. Basic evasive driving, my ass, Jake.
He eyed her. “Let’s try this another way. What do you think your weak points are? What’s the highest and best use of our time together? Reverse 180s? Bootleg turns?”
“Nah, have you seen the streets of Mexico City? The traffic congestion makes DC look deserted. I’d never get up to speed or have space to execute either.”
So she knew the terminology. She drove with both feet like a traine
d driver. The mystery of Olivia Santos deepened.
“So, what then?”
She thought for a moment. “Most on-the-road kidnappers create a barricade with their vehicles, right? Assuming we’re not talking about a carjacking.”
“That’s correct.”
“Then I want to practice ramming. Do you have any cars we can hit?”
His eyebrows crawled toward his hairline. This woman was full of surprises. But she was right. Knowing how to ram her way through an ambush would be useful.
“Yeah. I need to call into the office and let them know. They can bring a couple old Crown Vics over to the pad for us, and a crappier car for us. Sorry, but you’re not using this baby to practice barricade breaching.”
“Of course.”
She beamed at him, hitting him with that sunshine smile again, and something inside his chest went, for lack of a better word, gooey. Her porcelain skin was infused with a peachy glow from the adrenaline rush of driving at speed and her hair was wind-tangled. It was entirely too easy to imagine what she would look like after sex.
He swallowed and gripped the cage, digging his fingers into the metal to distract himself from his stirring desire. He hadn’t felt lust, or attraction, or anything like it since Carla. Olivia Santos was trouble with a capital T. The sooner he got her through the course and out of his life, the better.
Olivia eyed the speedometer and gave the sedan some gas.
“A little slower,” Trent urged, his voice soft in her ear through the communicator.
“Slower?”
“Yeah. This is a last-resort maneuver, and if you’re doing it in your personal vehicle, you don’t want to be going any faster than fifteen miles per hour when you approach the blockade car.”
“Why so slow?”
If she found herself doing this in Mexico City, it would mean she was evading a kidnapping team. While her mind balked at the idea of smashing into a car at speed, slow and steady didn’t seem like the way to go.
Burned (Shenandoah Shadows Novella Book 1) Page 2
