“We’re all on the same side,” Smith said with such a somber air the fella could have been a hundred and ten rather than…
How old? Smith had that ageless look most CIA dudes wore like a suit of armor. Best guess? He must be in his forties. Did he have a family back home? Kids? Or was he married to the job?
“With all due respect to your secret agent awesomeness, since when did you stop marking your territory?”
“Everybody needs a smoke break once in a while.”
“Fair enough.” Jose tucked away his unused cigar. “What’s in your file about me?”
“You’re a recovering alcoholic.”
Wow, that one came out fast. Smith’s first thought about him. Nothing to do with successful missions or training. Just that big albatross hanging around more than his neck. It was chained to him for life.
Then he shrugged off the defensiveness long enough to realize a nuance to Smith’s words. “Recovering.” Rather than recovered or reformed because those words could never be assumed, not by someone walking the walk. “You know the lingo.”
Smith stared at the ground for a moment before answering. “My wife’s in the program.”
“I’m sorry.” Damn, he hadn’t wanted this kind of bonding.
“Don’t be sorry. It’s working.” He rubbed his empty ring finger. “She’s doing well.”
“Glad to hear it.”
The missing wedding band didn’t mean anything. Most agents and warriors out in the field didn’t wear one, preferring to keep their private life off the grid as much as possible. So why was Smith sharing?
Smith stared straight into his eyes. “Your file says you got your name because you nearly suffered alcohol poisoning from a bottle of Jose Cuervo the day your mother died.”
Fuck.
One look at Smith’s eyes told him he’d been played. All this sharing and bonding was just an act. Smith had played him, waiting to go for the jugular to get a real read off of him. What did the dude want from him?
How much of what Smith said had even been real? Had the story about the wife been fake, just to get him to loosen up and talk? “What is it that you really want to know?”
“Is your girlfriend through yet?” Smith asked, confirming Jose’s suspicions.
Nothing got past this guy. And while he respected the dude for doing his job well—intel kept them all from dying in this crazy-ass, mixed-up world—right now he was damn glad to be on the rescue side of things rather than living in that dark hole of secret ops.
Where Stella lived.
His stare-down with Smith lasted a good sixty seconds before the sound of someone approaching sent them both on alert. Steady footsteps echoed along the side of the hangar, not at all stealthy, which should be a good thing. Bad guys snuck up. Nonthreats just walked.
Still, Jose rested a hand over his 9 mm just as Mr. Smith did the same. The afternoon’s attack was still too fresh in his mind, the smell of the mortar exploding, the feel of Stella’s heartbeat against his.
The steps came closer and Jose realized he recognized the tread well. So well, it should have unsettled him all the more.
“Stella,” he called out, “Smith and I are out here just shooting the breeze.”
She probably already knew, but best to be sure.
A second later, she rounded the corner, fire shooting from her eyes. Her arms pumping, her braid swaying with her every determined step, she stalked straight up to Mr. Smith and said softly through gritted teeth, “When the hell were you intending to tell me they’re trying to set off a bio toxin in the middle of a diplomacy visit?”
Chapter 9
“Bio toxin?” Jose jerked to attention, his every instinct narrowing to block out anything that distracted him from Stella’s words.
Ironic as hell since Stella was a walking, talking distraction by just breathing the same air space.
But for now he blocked out the planes roaring overhead, the sun baking down, the overpowering urge to take Stella somewhere, anywhere, and hide her away safely. Instead, he zeroed in on the moment, one of those instances that battle-honed instincts told him was a crucial, defining instant. She smoothed her palms down the thighs of her jeans, leaving a hint of perspiration before tucking them in her pockets. She tugged the tunic, flipping back her braid nervously.
Shit. If Stella was sweating, this was beyond bad.
An angry tic twitching at the corner of one eye, Smith snapped the cigar in half. He stepped closer, his voice low. “Agent Carson, you’re going to need to be more specific with what information you’ve uncovered and how.”
Stella’s bracing sigh wasn’t reassuring. “I accessed the writing on the cloth and ran them through some programs. I’m assuming your programs didn’t decipher the pattern yet or you sure as hell wouldn’t be standing around shooting the breeze, taking a smoke. Bottom line, I realized I only have half the puzzle because there’s another cloth out there somewhere. But from what I can put together, the separatist group responsible for my capture has a nerve toxin. I believe it’s a variation of the tetanus toxin, one so intense a regular vaccination won’t do anything but delay the onset of symptoms for a few extra minutes.”
Jose closed his eyes for a long heartbeat processing what he’d heard. He didn’t doubt her conclusion for a second. They may have had their problems in the romance department, but when it came to her job, Stella was one hundred percent rock solid. He found that brilliant mind of hers sexy as hell most of the time. Right now, he’d wished like crazy that he could be wrong… That she could be wrong.
Cursing softly, Smith turned to Jose. “The symptoms of extreme exposure to tetanus are… what?”
Jose’s brain shifted into medical mode, but knowledge brought him little comfort. Horrific images filled his head. “Muscle spasms so intense they lead to paralysis, then suffocation.”
“Mr. Smith, if that’s let loose in a large gathering,” she hesitated, swallowing as if her mouth had gone dry, “a large televised gathering…”
The loss of life, the worldwide panic… the consequences were… beyond imagining. He might as well have been cleaved down the middle. Half of him still shouted to get Stella somewhere safe, while the other half of him knew they would both do their jobs and their jobs were going to take them to the core of the threat.
Smith flicked the broken cigar into a trash can. “Smoke break over. We need to roll. Carson, patch a call through to Sutton and see if you can find out more about where he got the kanga. We’ll also need to send someone back to the compound to search again.” He charged ahead in a blur of generic dark suit, words floating over his shoulder. “And we can talk later about why the two of you felt the need to play me.”
***
Strapped into a CV-22 heading to Mogadishu, nearly a seven-hundred-mile trip, Stella fought down the welling outright panic that had been threatening to swallow her whole since she’d cracked part of the code. The CIA had stepped the operation into high gear.
No cigar breaks.
The bulk of their mobile command unit was being related to Somalia’s capital, ahead of the arrival of the vice president’s wife. They had limited time to prevent the attack. Attempts to persuade her to abandon her trip fell on deaf ears. Canceling the visit would embolden the very warlords she and the U.S. administration as a whole condemned.
Now it was up to the CIA, Interpol, the Secret Service, and the military to ramp up their efforts to keep the nation’s second lady safe.
From what Stella gathered, the rest of the details were on the second stretch of cloth. But the details on the first length of fabric had been chilling enough. The deciphered code contained the formula for a bio toxin.
Ajaya had been warily helpful thus far. From what the teenager had said, the attack was supposed to take place when the vice president’s wife made her goodwill visit to Mogadishu—also known as Xamar. The celebrations would be huge, spanning days. There would be everything from a brass band welcome on the tarmac to a speech at a local monument to high profile diners at a convention center. He vowed that he’d only heard about a regular package bomb.
But the code indicated otherwise.
The potential devastation was beyond imagining with so many different scenarios to protect against. An outdoor bomb? An indoors insidious release through the air ducts?
Once Smith had led them back into the hangar, he’d mobilized his CIA team. The PJs were included for on-the-ground security.
Even if they prevented the release of the bio toxin, there was still the potential for panic if word leaked. Mass chaos. The PJs’ medic skills would be in high demand. With that kind of threat hanging over their heads, Smith had never gotten around to chewing her out for breaking into his intelligence files to get her own private take on that cloth.
The tension in the aircraft was thicker than the humidity. And it was mighty damn dense, carrying the scent of hydraulic fumes and fear. Yes, fear, because she knew something these big badass warriors would never admit. Anyone with sense was afraid at a time like this.
She wanted to reach for Jose, needed the reassurance of his touch, but knew now wasn’t the time. Even though they’d worked as a team to give her time in the hangar, they had left so much unsaid.
He’d been here for her again and again, even when she pushed him away, he came through for her. She pressed her leg to his, giving what comfort she could without dinging that male pride. The flex of his thigh against hers told her he noticed even as he continued to sit in his webbed seat, his head resting back, his eyes closed.
How could he be so calm in light of what they were facing? They had scraps of intel to chase down a major terrorist plot likely to take place eighteen hours after they landed. Not much time to defuse things that could change world dynamics forever. She saw Smith on his comm set still chasing down leads about the second kanga.
She looked at the other men on Jose’s team, all of them sprawled much like Jose. Catching catnaps? Storing energy, no doubt, which she should be doing. Jose breathed evenly, his eyes closed and his hands folded over his stomach. How many times had she watched him just this way? He always snagged power naps—in a chair, on a train, anytime he had to wait. She’d figured out his body went on autopilot, grabbing rest whenever he could to make up for all the times he pushed himself for days straight in rescue situations.
God, there was so much to admire about him. She felt small and petty right now for pushing him away because he didn’t have room in his life for anything more.
For a full life with her.
Bad, bad, bad idea letting her thoughts run that path. No good could be found there. She needed to be smart, focused. Tearing her gaze away, she looked around the belly of the aircraft until her eyes landed on Fang; the junior team member wasn’t sleeping at all. His foot was twitching. He looked around at his napping teammates, his gaze and movements jerky. This was big stuff early in the newbie’s career.
Big stuff for any stage.
Fang realized she was watching him and he bulked up, sitting straighter with bravado, then shrugged sheepishly. “Can’t sleep,” he said. “Smells like straight up crotch in here.”
A laugh popped free and God it felt good right now.
Bubbles peeked out of one eye. “Lovely, Fang. Lovely.”
They could all use a laugh right now. Stella reached into her bag and tossed her fuzzy loofah at Bubbles.
Sgt. Novak flinched back.
Jose laughed. Hard. Wade Rocha pinched the bridge of his nose as he chuckled, and slowly they all settled back to sleep, but their bodies less tensed, less ramped. Well, all but Fang. The baby-faced PJ was still awake, but less tense at least. His hand dropped beside him, reaching under his seat and Stella realized…
Holy crap. The dog from earlier was tucked under there asleep.
The kid looked like Tom Hanks from the actor’s early days, with curls and an aw-gosh-golly attitude. He waved a hand. “It’s all cleared and official, ma’am. Some folks at the base arranged the paperwork since they care about the dog so much. No worries about the military getting their knickers in a twist.”
