Intimate Danger Page 3

  This wouldn’t sting so much if Clancy didn’t respect and admire Francine. Aside from being a tall, leggy brunette, Francine Yates was a genius, a doctor, a U.S. Army major, and head of a billion-dollar project. What’s not to admire about that? Just staying afloat in a generally man’s world was tough enough. Francine excelled. For both of them, it was all about the strides they were making to help troops in the field. But going ahead without monitoring Boris thoroughly first was insane and could bring the whole project down—and kill four decorated Marines.

  Clancy felt her stand against this strengthen, and she reminded herself that they’d done this without her, yet put her name on all the reports. Forging her signature wouldn’t be difficult. If she tipped her hand now, she’d be fired. Then the Marines would have no one watching their back.

  In stocking feet, she took a step away from the desk, her gaze locked on Francine as she said, “The review board doesn’t know this like we do, Francine. You’re letting outsiders make decisions and I want to go on record that I’m opposed.”

  Francine nodded. “Duly noted.”

  The orangutan stirred in the cage, sitting up, and looking between Clancy and Francine. Seeing Francine, the animal immediately rose and reached a clawlike paw for her, letting out a high-pitched scream and hopping wildly inside the cage. Francine jumped back and quickly ordered the men to remove it.

  Clancy went back to the desk and grabbed her shoes from underneath. As she put one on, she pretended to drop it, then hit the OFF/ON button on the computer. From her position the screen blinked and started a reboot.

  “I can’t understand why he does that to me all the time.”

  “Change your perfume and see what happens.”

  Francine’s brows shot up. “Maybe he just likes redheads.”

  Dark auburn, she wanted to correct, but let it go. “Now what? No test subjects? The others aren’t up to his timeline yet, nor his level. If he doesn’t survive, then you just canned a month’s worth of this project.” Clancy slipped the service record book pages from under the keyboard and carefully folded them. “Your tax dollars at work, I guess.”

  “Natasha was implanted at the same time, too,” she reminded her.

  Discreetly, Clancy stuffed the papers in her shoes. “And a female orangutan is supposed to tell us about the effect on human males?” Testosterone levels alone changed the data. This was a smokescreen and not a very good one.

  “It’s the progress of the pod first, then the remaining stress tests with the other candidates.”

  She wasn’t telling Clancy something she didn’t know. “Better keep a good supply of apes on standby. You’ll be running out.”

  As almost an afterthought, she opened her desk drawer and grabbed the deactivation device, the Terminator, and slipped it into her purse. She stood, removed her lab coat, and grabbed her bag.

  “I’m not coming in tomorrow.”

  Francine sighed and came to the desk, resting her hand on the monitor. It was still rebooting and Clancy hoped Francine didn’t notice the flickering screen.

  “You won’t attend the surgery?”

  Clancy shook her head. As far as she was concerned, two years of work was going down the toilet under the scalpel. “A piece of advice.”

  Francine arched a brow, changing her expression from friend to superior.

  “Just be very careful who and where you put your faith, Francine. It’ll come back to haunt you, trust me.”

  Francine’s brows kitted, her gaze questioning where that bit of acid advice came from. Clancy didn’t share and headed out the door.

  Her steps feeling awkward, Clancy tried to leave the building without much notice—-with the Terminator in her purse and classified material padding her shoes.

  Eleven days prior

  Virginia

  Mike followed orders. Sometimes.

  Right now, taking up a hospital bed when there were wounded coming back from the Middle East all the time just didn’t wash. He pulled on his shirt and felt only a twinge in his shoulder from the infection he’d contracted in Libyan waters. At least the stitches were out.

  “You can’t leave yet, Gannon,” he heard and kept his back to the nurse as he tucked in his shirt.

  “Watch me.” He was looking forward to a beer and a night without someone waking him to check his eyeballs or inject him with drugs.

  “I have to sign you out.”

  “Then get to scribbling, Ensign.”

  “You have to complete the psychological interviews, you know that.”

  He turned, eyeing the small young woman from head to foot. “My mental health is fine. Not like it’s the first time I’ve been shot.”

  Her shoulders pushed back as she said, “That’s an order.”

  Christ. Newly commissioned ensigns were a pain in the ass. Especially ones being trained for classified clearance. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She gestured to the door. Mike grabbed his duffel bag and advanced, but when he was close, she slipped back a quick step. He froze at the door, frowning. Christ, she’s afraid of me. It put him on edge and he gestured for her to lead the way.

  “Don’t put that clipboard away, Ensign Durry, I’ll be leaving.”

  Down the next corridor, she ushered him into a conference room, barely able to look him in the eye. Mike recognized the man behind the table and smiled slightly. Dr. Figaroa was a round, dark-haired man with a big Italian nose and easy humor.

  “You’re a frequent guest, Gannon.”

  “Let me save you the time, Dr. Figaroa. Read the last entry and we’re done here.”

  The shrink pointed to the chair. Mike dropped the bag and sat.

  “What are your plans?”

  “A beer, some TV, and if I’m lucky, getting laid. What’s yours?”

  The little ensign shifted in her chair, but Figaroa just smiled. “I should expect that.”

  “Then why are we here?” Mike leaned his forearms on the table. “What do you want that I can actually tell you?” His status was classified, need to know, and these people didn’t need to know shit.

  She fuddled with papers. “Your rank isn’t listed, why is that?”

  Figaroa put a hand on her arm and shook his head in warning. Durry was new to dealing with Spec Ops personnel, but even with a class-A clearance, all Figaroa knew about him was his service record; most of it was blacked out. The only smudge on his record was disobeying his senior command orders to watch an al-Qaeda training camp. He went in and blew it to hell. When his commanding officer questioned why he didn’t remain outside as ordered, Mike had replied, “Because the enemy was inside, sir.”

  “You think you’re special that you don’t have to undergo the same requirements as anyone else,” the woman said. “There are thousands like you doing the same thing.”

  He gave her a deadpan stare. “Pretty slim ratio considering there are nearly three hundred million American citizens, huh?”

  She flushed pink. “What did you feel when you shot those men?” she asked, reading off a checklist that was as impersonal as her questions.

  “Nothing. They’d killed innocent Americans. I’m an expert at an ugly job. I wish I weren’t necessary and there was world peace, Miss America, but there isn’t. I’d rather not kill anyone.”

  “Any new women in your life?” Figaroa asked.

  Mike hated people asking personal questions. His life was his own, and while his services belonged to the Marines, who occupied his bed didn’t. “No.”

  Next they’d be asking him why he didn’t kill the child.

  “Look, Figaroa, we all defend America’s safety in some form.” He glanced at the woman, and she seemed to flinch in her chair. “I go out and find the threats. If there were a reason beyond my countrymen’s safety that matters more, I’m all ears. But you lose your freedom once and you’ll understand.” Mike pushed the memories down and looked between the two.

  “This is exactly as you said last time, Gannon.”

  He loo
ked at Figaroa. “That’s because I’m still the same.” Eggheads, they just didn’t get it. It proved to Mike that military rank didn’t mean they understood anything outside their playground. He pushed the chair back. “I’m outta here.”

  “You can’t be listed as ready for active status till physical therapy signs off,” the ensign said.

  Mike raised his arm above his head, rotated it, then did the same at his side.

  “Excellent, but strength training is necessary.”

  Mike grabbed the extra chair beside him and lifted it above his head. Then he threw. She flinched at the crash. Figaroa chuckled, shaking his head.

  “Well, that was helpful,” Durry said, indignant. “An amazing recovery.”

  “For a rat maybe.” Mike was a fast healer. Always had been. Probably because he hated sitting still. He’d been working out in his room at night when all the on-duty corpsmen were watching Law and Order reruns.

  Mike looked pointedly at Dr. Figaroa and inclined his head to the ensign, his look as if to say, “Clue her in, will you?” Figaroa tapped the file and the ensign read. Mike knew what it said. In the last six months he’d won two decathlons. He liked to run and wanted to get the hell out of here and do some of it. The door suddenly flew open and Mike jumped to his feet as his commander entered.

  “We aren’t finished.” Figaroa stood.

  “Yes, you are,” the colonel said.

  Mike didn’t let his expression show his amusement.

  “At ease, Gannon, and follow me.”

  Good. He really didn’t want to piss off the people that doctored him up. They might leave a sponge inside him next time.

  “If he leaves, it’s against orders.”

  The colonel looked at the ensign and she shrank in the chair. She won’t last, Mike thought.

  “Then I guess it is.” The colonel quit the room and Mike was right beside him. “Hold your questions.”

  Mike followed his commander through the hospital, an unmarked building on the outskirts of Manassas, Virginia. Outside, a uniformed Marine held open the car door. Mike ducked in, glad to be out of that antiseptic petri dish. If one more person took his blood pressure, or asked him “how are we feeling?” he was going to smash something.

  The colonel was in and the car was under way. “Are you ready?”

  “Hell yes…sir.”

  “Good.” The colonel opened a briefcase on the seat beside him, and handed Mike a dark-printed paper. Satellite photos.

  “Ecuador–Peru border?”

  Hank Jansen was always impressed that the man could read topography so well, but then he’d spent two years searching the mountains for an American charged with selling weapons to terrorists. It was always the little nuts that caused the big problems, in that case, treason. “Look at the Peru, north Andes.”

  Mike tipped the pages toward the light.

  “Central intel believes those are missile launchers sitting in the mountains.”

  Tactical ballistic missiles? Mike wanted to contradict, but waited to hear the whole report. “The U.S. is on good terms on both sides of the border. What do they say?”

  “Peru says not ours, and Ecuador is neutral, guarding her borders from the Colombian drug smugglers. They say it’s not in their territory and won’t go in to find out. For fear of a conflict they can’t handle. The Peruvian Army dispatched a squad, but it’s rough country.”

  “DEA in the loop?”

  “Yes.”

  “CIA is wrong. They’re too small to be Scuds.”

  “I would agree. But Shining Path is making a resurgence and DEA thinks they are involved with drugs. We sent a UAV to get closer and if confirmed, take it out. Except that the UAV surveying the area was shot out of the sky.”

  Mike arched a brow. “We know where it came from. Mark the target and take it out.”

  “Before marking the target with a laser, we had to recover the armed UAV first, so we sent in a team.”

  “My guys?” Why else would Jansen be here? He had other teams on standby and none of them recently injured.

  “Yes, Krane led, with one other, Corporal J.J. Palmer.”

  Mike’s expression tightened. He’d kicked Palmer off his team because the kid was a hothead. Not a hard charger, but a loose cannon. He’d jeopardized two missions, even after a reprimand. Orders and caution meant little to Palmer. He was bucking for a hero’s grave. “Pardon me, sir, but you sure that ass bag didn’t fuck up the mission?”

  If you were on Mike’s shit list you didn’t get off it, Hank thought. “No, we had a radio link. They were hit.” The colonel played the tape.

  His elbows on his knees, Mike stared at the spot between his boots. “They survived the crash. But there was no tracer, no warning?”

  “No, and the GPS beacon isn’t sending, either.”

  Mike looked up, scowling. “None of them? This was covert?”

  “No. The Peruvian government was informed of the recovery mission. They’re just as interested in this as we are, but the chopper was technically in Ecuador’s airspace. Ecuador insists they didn’t fire, didn’t crash there, and frankly, they don’t have the arsenal to go after it. We had one contact with the team. Under an hour later.” Hank played the tape again.

  Mike’s breathing locked in his lungs. God. It was horrific. Screams, gunfire, a gurgling plea for help from Nathan Krane. Marines didn’t scream like that. Not his men. They’d cut off an arm before showing the enemy a shred of weakness. “When do I leave?”

  “Pick a team and—”

  “No. Alone.”

  The colonel shook his head. “Negative.”

  “Hear me out. A Scud didn’t hit that chopper. Not only is that overkill, there would be nothing left and you’d hear it for miles.”

  Hank nodded. “Agreed.”

  “And if missiles are in the jungle, why there? For what purpose and, mostly, who the hell would they fire them at? They don’t have the range. Five hundred miles at best. South America bombing South America?” Mike shook his head, his forehead tight. “I’d say if anything it’s SAMs.” Surface-to-air missiles were shoulder-launched and, lately, damn easy to come by. “If it’s drug smugglers, they don’t come out in the open enough and they’re smart.” Or they wouldn’t be getting drugs into the U.S. “Shooting down an aircraft over any territory in that area will bring the Army, so why risk it?”

  Drug factories were underground so they couldn’t be seen from the air. This made no sense. But then, crime rarely did.

  “We send in another team and they’ll end up like that.” He flicked a hand at the recorder. “Or get nothing. A crowd will scare them off. Besides, some people down there owe me some favors.” Mike sat back. “Permission to speak freely?”

  Jansen chuckled. “When have you not?”

  “Scuds? Without DEA or CIA seeing cargo transportation to that area? Nothing stolen? No intel on who’s got new hardware or what’s in the warheads? Come on, Hank. Cut the bullshit, what’s going on? You didn’t tell me this because it’s my team.”

  Mike could smell a smokescreen before it hit the breeze, Hank thought, and he knew Mike as well as the man allowed anyone to know him. They’d served together when he was a young, eager Marine and Hank had made certain Gannon came with him. Hank trusted him completely, and was honored that the trust was returned. But Mike’s true attributes weren’t his special tactics and skills, but that he didn’t need anyone to issue orders. He knew what had to be done and how to do it, no matter the risk.

  Hank sighed. “Nothing but small arms has flowed through that area. We just don’t know what hit the UAV or the chopper.”

  Mike scowled. Intel knew what the premier of the Soviet Union had for breakfast, but they didn’t know this?

  “There wasn’t a heat signature before the blast.”

  “There has to be.” All weapons radiated heat. A muzzle flash when fired, a warmup to launch.

  The colonel handed him sequential satellite photos in closer detail. Mike st
udied each carefully. The only spot that resonated white on the page was the fire in the chopper’s tail. The next photo was a still from the UAV. Same thing. A nose cone, then nothing. The previous photos showed no launch heat. None.

  “Jesus. A rocket, small and highly accurate.” Mike handed the photos back and looked out the window, thinking of the security risk and the damage just one could do.

  A surface-to-air missile without a heat signature would be invisible to radar and thermal tracking. Hell. They’d have no possible means to counterattack before impact.

  And we have no clue who fired it.

  Three

  There were some things about a wild youth that never leave you, Clancy thought. Distrust of authority, of herself, the vigil over your own moral standards—and knowing when someone was following you.

  Not close or overtly, but as she left the Starbucks with a double Mocha Latte caffeine fix locked in her grip, her senses lit up. She glanced up and down the street, her gaze flickering past the pale green car before she crossed to her own.

  She slid behind the wheel, secured her cup, then pulled into traffic. A moment later, so did the green car. Why follow her? They couldn’t know about her snooping. She’d covered her tracks well.

  Unless Cook was staring at his computer at the time, she reminded herself. If that was true, why not haul her in?

  Just to be sure she wasn’t coming up with a paranoid worst-case scenario, she got on the Beltway and drove in the far right lane. Her speed backed up traffic behind her for a couple of hundred yards, and when drivers were ticked enough to blow their horns, she slipped off the exit. A few blocks down, she pulled into a parking lot behind a strip mall, got out, and looked around the edge of the building. The green car appeared on the off-ramp. She couldn’t see the driver behind the tinted windows, but when he turned away from her direction Clancy jumped in her car and drove across the lot to the far west side of the mall behind delivery trucks, then took surface roads.