Chapter 11
The world was seriously frickin’ conspiring against her.
Stella sat stuck at a computer screen looking at Predator footage of the melee outside her hangar. Someone had set off firecrackers just as the vice president’s wife stepped off the plane.
Firecrackers, for God’s sake, then just claimed they were celebrating. More likely, the fireworks had been a distraction for the bigger “show.”
Damn it. She hammered computer keys in frustration.
Mr. Smith had set up a mobile command center in a small hangar in the area sectioned off for private jets. The setup mimicked the one back at the base, making it easier to pick up where they’d left off in tracking down that bio toxin. Mr. Brown directed tracking data while Mr. Jones directed the collection of human intel.
The fact that this “goodwill” event was still happening in spite of the raised threat level blew her away. But the White House and VP’s wife had insisted on the diplomatic necessity. They’d ordered more protection and moved forward.
So how the hell had all that increased security allowed anyone to get by with a pack of firecrackers?
Really?
Clicking the mouse to rewind footage and recheck angles, she shuddered to think of what else had been missed.
Didn’t those idiot protestors realize they could have all been shot? Lucky for them security forces had only used tear gas while the VP’s wife had been hustled into the airport, skipping the whole opening remarks to the press part.
But then maybe that was what the firecracker toting idiots had been hoping for. She increased the zoom of the first checkpoint, then back to the runway, reviewing the airplane’s arrival for the third time.
Even with the Predator surveillance drones circling overhead, she should have been there. On the ground, in the crowd, walking through the masses, gathering human intel on how those firecracker pranksters had gotten through and what else may have slipped past.
Instead, Mr. Hard-ass Smith had parked her behind a computer screen reviewing satellite footage like a newbie recruit. Smith had mumbled something about not being sure she could bring her A-game after the stress of the kidnapping.
She’d bitten her tongue to keep from telling him where he could stuff his A-game.
So here she sat, watching Jose on the screen from earlier as they’d waited for the plane to land carrying the VP’s wife. The PJs were pulling guard duty in uniform, the SEAL team lying back farther out and incognito. Jose stood at attention in his uniform, his maroon beret like a beacon to her heart. The way they’d made love last night had been a transcendent farewell.
Transcendent farewell?
When had she gone from being an analytical soul to a lovesick high schooler? Just bring out a prom dress and CD mix of “their” songs. And yes, she knew she was being cranky and irritable because her heart hurt. She’d reconciled herself to a life without the man she loved, and that had been almost bearable when they didn’t see each other. But now? After what they’d been through?
What he still faced if she didn’t figure out where that bio toxin was hidden? So many unbearable scenarios rolled through her head. Worst of all? What if she’d screwed up? What if Mr. Smith was right and she was off her game? She could have totally misinterpreted the meaning of that cloth—even though they’d run her take through the CIA code breakers. They agreed.
Tuning out the chatter in her headset, she clicked through the different images being fed in, trying to focus less on the man she loved and more on the big picture. She cranked back in her chair and lined up a sequence of images: the plane landing, firecrackers exploding, the guest of honor being hustled inside. She was missing something, damn it; she could feel it.
She accessed additional surveillance cameras inside. The welcoming ceremonies had been shifted inside to the conference room inside the airport. American and Somali flags, along with other African flags, were hastily brought in along with the floral arrangements—the splashes of color from fireball lilies, deep crimson desert roses, and hibiscus brightening the sad little room for such a momentous event. Refreshments had been set up, fruits, cheeses, and a cake bearing both countries’ seals. The military honor guards resumed their positions.
The PJs were in place again—Jose was in view again.
Anyone watching on television wouldn’t see the frenzied caterers, the terse secret service agents, the ragged edges just outside a carefully edited view.
Then the guest of honor stepped up to the podium. Wearing a navy blue flowing dress, the VP’s wife had pulled her hair up in a French twist with a whispery scarf over it in respect to local tradition. Setting her notes aside, she spoke…
As much as Stella wanted to listen, she trained her eyes to look around the room instead, searching for where they could have hidden the toxin. Something to do with the flowers? The confined space of the press conference suddenly seemed wrong. Had the stunt outside been designed to maneuver the ceremony inside?
A shout over her headset had her sitting upright. Mr. Smith barked for all eyes to lock in on the motorcade waiting outside. The exhaust from the tailpipes pumped puffy clouds into the air. But that wasn’t his worry.
The delivery truck was marked with a bakery symbol. The truck was driving in, when clearly the three-tiered cake was already set up in a corner of the reception area.
Mr. Smith shouted, almost losing his cool altogether. “The bakery truck, damn it. Stop and secure that truck, now!”
Helplessly, she watched as Jose eased from his post inside the conference room. Surveillance feed from the Predators showed his maroon hat—Jose was taller than most people there and he was fast. Crazy fast. Her heart was in her throat as he ran outside, closing in on the white truck, with no windows in back.
A deep fear, deeper than anything she’d felt before, froze her in her seat. He’d worked dangerous missions since they met, but never had she felt this intense, immobilizing fear.
Had he been this insanely rocked when watching footage of her being held hostage? Of course he had. The full impact of that slammed through her, the toll that both their jobs would take on them, watching each other take on horrifying risks year after year. Knowing the risks for them were tenfold what they were for other couples. She’d been so confident they could make this work; now she wondered if Jose had been right after all, that she was oversimplifying how they would work things out.
How could they both live their lives at this high-octane pace and not self-destruct?
Troops and security shifted with such seamless ease. The ceremony never even paused. Not the least sign showed that they’d even noticed the disruption.
Stella glanced back at the VP’s wife quickly just as the woman accepted a gift from a local general’s wife. The woman passed over a small flat package wrapped in simple gold paper. Stella started to turn away—then hesitated, something tugging at her, a sense of premonition. The VP’s wife set aside the gift wrap and unfurled…
A long length of burgundy cloth. A kanga. A strikingly familiar kanga. She magnified the image but she knew it was the missing code even before her improved view confirmed it.
It was an exact match to the kanga with the coded message.
Oh God. Her gut fell to her feet like the floor of an elevator dropped out from under her. The bio toxin was a diversion. Maybe real, maybe not, but whatever it was, it was meant to draw their attention away from this. The VP’s wife was somehow being marked or used to transport the rest of their message, their plan… She didn’t know what, she only knew she couldn’t let it slip away and she couldn’t let Jose walk into whatever trap had been set.
She shot out of her seat, already eyeing the door.
Mr. Smith scowled from beside the big screen, his infamous clicker in hand as he orchestrated the forces closing in on the bakery truck. “Agent Carson, please return to your seat.”
“No, sir, I need to talk to you about what’s going on in there.” She wasn’t sure who she could trust and she didn’t want to announce her suspicions over the headset to the dozens of listening ears. “If you’ll just give me a moment of your time.”
“No can do,” he snapped. “I’m busy. Sit your ass back down in the chair now. That’s an order.”
Chain of command be damned. She was out of here. And even as much as she wanted to tell herself she was just a field operative following her well-trained instincts, she also knew she couldn’t sit by passively any longer. She had to see Jose.
“Sorry, sir.” She tapped the mouth piece with one hand and snagged a New York Yankees ball cap from the station beside hers. “Can’t hear you. Going through a tunnel.”
She tossed aside her headset, rammed the ball cap over her head, and sprinted toward the door.
***
Jose whipped open the back doors of the bakery truck.
And—shit. There wasn’t so much as a petit four in sight. His worst fears were confirmed. A half-dozen large steel canisters lined the inside of the truck. They could be as innocuous as milk containers, but they also looked exactly like vessels for transporting a toxic gas.
Bubbles and the Saint had weapons drawn on the driver and passenger in front. Data was on lookout. Brick and Fang had his back in case anyone leaped from inside the truck. Only one man waited in the back and he kept his hands raised, the bottom half of his face covered in the black head wrap. He seemed to be cooperating, but Jose wasn’t lowering his guard. He’d seen too many instances of feigned compliance.
Did the dude have explosives strapped to his chest?
And where were the guys who dealt with hazardous waste? The last thing he wanted to do was inadvertently open the things.
Carefully, he crawled into the truck. “Keep your hands in the air.” Gun leveled, he gestured with his free hand in case the guy didn’t understand.
Brick edged closer. “Need help?”
“I’m good. It’s tight in here.” Crouching, he studied the containers, his skin crawling and his mind buzzing with distracting images of Stella. Why the hell had he left her while she slept this morning? “We’re just going to keep the truck locked down until the military hazmat dudes arrive.”
As if conjured by his words, the guys in hazmat suits jogged forward looking like something out of a Ghostbusters movie. Damn, wasn’t that an irreverent thought when he knew deep in his gut this was it? A no shit life-or-death moment. Yet he hadn’t looked into the eyes of the woman he loved this morning.
He’d faced his fair share over the years—parachuting into war zones, crawling through shaky earthquake rubble to save a couple of kids, the list went on and he remembered every mission, every face. They’d all stuck with him. But he couldn’t even imagine the kind of hellish brain stash he would have to wade through if anything happened to Stella today.
He waved the guy out of the back of the truck. “Careful. Hands up.”
The man’s eyes darted wildly, like a captured beast.
No. No. No, damn it.
“Brick…”
They’d all worked together long enough, words weren’t needed. Brick and Fang grabbed the guy’s arms and Jose patted him down, forcing himself to stay calm, nerves level in case he found explosives. They had bomb guys. They had everything thanks to the high profile visit.
And… nothing? “He’s clean.”
From inside the truck, one of the hazmat guys shouted, his voice muffled. “Please clear the perimeter. Our meters are already pinging. Decontamination stations are already being set up.”
Already pinging?
Jose exhaled hard. Okay. Bad. But it could have been so much worse. They’d made it before those containers were unleashed on the crowds on the other side of the building.
Bubbles and the Saint hauled the two fake baker bastards from the front seat. Jose grasped the elbow of his prisoner, wind tearing across the concrete stretch, wind that could carry lethal gasses for miles. The gusts slammed harder, whipping his clothes. The wind tore the cloth from around the detainee’s face.
