Bait (2 page)

Remember your training.
She'd done much more difficult drops during her time at Camp Peary, including climbing thirty-­five feet into the air, crawling on a two-­inch rope to the center and dropping into the water. The principle was the same. Legs together, arms crossed, chin tucked.

She took a deep breath, and let go.

The impact with the hard-­packed earth jarred her teeth, and she swallowed a scream even as she let herself roll backward, reaching with her arms to slap the ground. She was up in an instant, running flat out for the orange grove, praying she made it before anyone saw her.

The towel had already soaked through, and blood trailed rivulets down to her fingers. She tucked her arm close to her side, hoping they would not be able to follow a blood trail. Using the tree trunks as shields, she rushed through the grove until she reached an embankment on the other side. She waited just inside the tree line, scanning in all directions for movement. Nothing.

Scrambling up the embankment meant using both arms. She was dizzy and sweating when she reached the top, stepping into an empty plot with a single scraggly palm squatting like a reverse oasis within the city confines. To her left and right, a collection of haphazard houses and apartments lined a cramped, crooked street. The residential area was virtually deserted this time of day, but a toddler and a shabby dog were chasing a baseball around the street.

Just as she stepped into the street, the black SUV turned the corner. Stas must have jammed his foot to the floor, because the vehicle jumped and roared toward her.

She ran.

Ahead of her on the left, she saw a simple mosque with a cupola. Every stride jarred her arm, but she set the pain aside, determined to reach the mosque before the SUV reached her. She burst through the doors moments ahead of the truck.

Not stopping, she dashed down the wide hallway. Two men in ankle-­length robes and long sleeves grabbed at her, shouting in Arabic, faces contorted in fury. She had no trouble understanding the gist as she dodged around them. Women were not permitted in the mosque, and were certainly not welcome without a hijab.

She burst into the main prayer hall, shocking the dozen or so men kneeling for noon prayers. Outraged mutterings began at once. Several stood. Christina regretted her offense to the Muslims, but she knew what would happen to her if the Osinovs caught up with her.

At the end of the prayer hall a door stood ajar, propped open with a folding chair. She shoved it open and ran into a courtyard. Shit. It was enclosed, and there was no gate.

Without missing a stride, she jumped at the wall, digging in with her toe to push herself higher as she reached for the top. From there, she swung a leg up, using hands and feet to pull herself to the top. She rolled over, hung by her hands on the opposite side, and dropped lightly to the ground.

A taxicab idled nearby as a well-­dressed man exited the car. She dove inside, yanked the door closed, and yelled, “Go-­go-­go!”

The startled driver frowned at her.

“I have money.” She dug into her pocket and came up with a fistful of crumpled bills. She threw them into the front seat. “Drive. Please!”

The amount got the driver moving. It seemed to take forever for him to put the car into gear and maneuver back onto the street. Christina peered anxiously through the rear window. It was clear.

“Where go, miss?” the driver asked.

“Gamal Airport, please. I'm in a hurry.” She dug out a few more bills. “This tip is for you if you get me there quickly.” If he broke every rule of the road and ignored land speed records, she might make it to the runway in time.

The driver glanced into the rearview mirror. “Yes, miss.”

Christina settled back with a sigh. The driver hadn't even blinked at the bloodstains on her jacket or hand. It was a sight glimpsed much too often in Baghdad. The cab jerked as the driver put pedal to the metal and got them the hell out of there.

It took about fifteen minutes through midday traffic to arrive. As they entered the airport proper, she said, “Down the left road, please. To the private planes.”

“Yes, miss.” His tone turned respectful.

Gamal catered to small planes for short hops, but a section of the airport was dedicated to the private jets of the wealthy. Before they reached that guarded area, however, she ordered him to pull over and get out. He complied, puzzled. His confusion gave way to alarm as Christina climbed out of the car and brought her pistol up. His hands shot into the air, and he began to babble in Arabic.

“Relax. I'm not going to hurt you.” She had to say it several times before he stopped talking. Pointing back the way they'd come, she added, “As long as you turn around and start walking back to the gates.”

He bobbed his head several times. She didn't know if he actually understood her words, but he recognized an opportunity to come out of the situation unhurt. He started walking, looking over his shoulder several times until Christina made a shooing motion with the pistol. He began to run.

The CIA kept an airstrip for missions such as this one, but its location was classified. It was nestled far off the beaten path. She buckled herself into the car, and drove to the other side of the exclusive area. With any luck, her teammates would be waiting in the plane.

She slowed as she approached the airstrip, scanning constantly for anything out of the ordinary. The area was flat and open, making her feel exposed and vulnerable. Nothing stirred.

The office building near the runway was nothing more than a squat redbrick building with a blue door and windows on three sides. A storage shed abutted the fourth side. The generator in the rear provided electricity to the office. A tan Chevrolet Optra sat nearly perpendicular to the building. Thank God! Someone had made it here.

The plane, a single-­propeller Cessna 206, sat on the tarmac, waiting silently.

Too silently. Where was the pilot? He should be prepping for takeoff by now, if not actually in the air flying the team to Incirlik, Turkey.

He might be inside the office. She slapped her head for her paranoia. Surely they were simply waiting for her out of the heat.

Why had they left her behind?

The question she'd suppressed thrust itself to the forefront of her mind
. No,
she thought. Not now. After we're safe.

Then she would demand answers, especially of Bobby.

She drove up and parked the taxi near the Chevrolet. No one came to the office door, but she sensed movement behind the curtain.

Pulling the handle, she started to open the car door. From behind, she heard the rev of engines and craned her neck around, her heart sinking into her stomach. Two black SUVs accelerated down the road, spraying dust and dirt, closing with the building at alarming speed. One of the Osinov thugs leaned out the window holding an SKS semiautomatic assault rifle. Shots pinged off her roof. One came through the back window and lodged in the passenger seat. She didn't waste time swearing, or wondering how they'd known where to come. She simply rolled out of the car and ran for the building.

A rock exploded near her feet, and another bullet whined past her ear. She wasn't going to make it. Changing directions, she dove for the Chevrolet, scrambling on all fours to get behind the engine block.

Did gas tanks explode?

The front door flew open, and Jack popped out to return fire, the sharp cracks music to her ears. Yanking the pistol from the small of her back, she risked a quick look around the fender, ducking back as she saw one of the gunmen aiming in her direction. She pressed her back against the front tire as a barrage of rounds seemed to explode all around her.

Nanette pushed open the front window and snapped off six rounds. It barely slowed the SUVs. One slammed to a stop on the other side of the taxi, angled in toward the building. The other left the dirt road and slewed around in the rocks and scrub brush until it came to a shuddering stop on the left edge of the building. Which left her completely exposed.

She had no choice. She launched herself off the ground and sprinted away from the second SUV, bending as she ran to get what cover she could from the taxi as she tried for the right edge of the building. If she could just make it around the corner . . .

Yuri and Stas piled out of the car, trying to cut her off. To capture, not kill. She had tweaked his pride and he wanted his pound of flesh? She didn't spend any more time wondering. Lengthening her stride, she dodged Stas's meaty paws.

Yuri tackled her from the side, riding her down until her face met the dirt. She crabbed sideways, trying to pull free of his hold. He twisted her legs, flipping her onto her back, and yanked her hard. She slid helplessly across the rocks. Ferocity and frenzy in his eyes, he straddled her, wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing.

Christina tried to drag panicked breaths past his ever-­tightening fingers. Black spots appeared in front of her eyes. She brought both hands up to grab his wrists, only then realizing that she still held his pistol. His expression didn't change, his fingers didn't loosen. Didn't he see it? Didn't he care?

For an endless moment they stared at one another. She pulled the trigger.

The noise deafened her. Yuri's face went slack in vague surprise as he released her. He fell sideways off her, writhing in agony, both hands pressed over the wound as blood pooled around his fingers. Uttering tiny choked gasps as blood bubbled from his lungs to his lips, he locked eyes with her, fear and a mute appeal in his. Despite herself, she stayed at his side as she watched the light fade from his eyes.

A bellow of pure rage brought her back to reality. Fedyenka stood by the hood of the other SUV, his face purple with fury as he shrieked obscenities. He grabbed an assault rifle from one of his men, raising it toward her. Knowing she couldn't outrun the barrage of projectiles about to come her way, she still tried to dive for cover.

The unmistakable sound of a .50 caliber machine gun and the shouts of his men distracted Fedyenka long enough for her to scramble to the front of the taxi. Two armored vehicles raced up the dirt road, heading directly into the firefight. Christina almost laughed aloud. The heavy machine guns, mounted on British Special Air Ser­vice long-­range patrol vehicles, effectively trapped the smugglers between the customs cops and this new, deadly threat. The hail of gunfire forced the men to back toward their SUVs. One jumped in and started the engine with a roar.

She didn't know how, but the cavalry had just ridden over the horizon.

Fedyenka glared death at her. “You're dead, bitch. You just died, right here, right now.”

The wail of sirens shut him up. A half a dozen police cars followed the patrol vehicles up the dirt road. He turned and sprinted for his vehicle.

“Police. Damned fucking cops.” Stas Noskov glared at her, as though it were her doing, before diving into the back of the SUV with Fedyenka. The SUV roared down the runway, the police cars in hot pursuit.

Whoever manned the heavy machine gun had no trouble recognizing friend from foe. The firefight was short and brutal, ending with the other SUV disabled and Fedyenka's men exiting with hands in the air. As the police cars screeched to a halt and the Iraqi Police Ser­vice swarmed the area, Christina set Yuri's pistol on the ground and walked toward the Special Air Ser­vice's armored vehicles.

A man dressed in desert camouflage jumped from the front passenger seat and met her halfway, his assault rifle nestled in his hands. He might have been a movie hero of old, striding across the desert like the savior that he was. “You're bleeding. How bad is it?”

She shook her head, although in truth she knew she needed stitches on her bullet wound. And some painkillers.

The man pulled off his helmet. “Are you Nanette Easley?” Concern wrinkled his brow as he looked her over from head to foot. Not waiting for an answer, he turned to the British soldier who'd come up to stand beside him. “Havanaugh, tell them to bring the ambulance up. We have injured.”

“Aye, Major.” The man saluted and left.

Christina finally got her vocal cords working. “Thank you. I don't know where you came from, but thank you. You saved lives here today.”

The major smiled and held out his hand. “Major Trevor Carswell, 22nd British Special Air Ser­vice, Counter-­Terrorism, at your ser­vice.”

She put her hand in his. “Christina Madison.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Not Nanette, then.”

The door to the office opened, and Jack and Nanette emerged, followed by Bobby. Nanette ran to her, throwing her arms around Christina and hugging her tightly. Bobby ignored her entirely and addressed Trevor.

“I'm Special Agent Roberts with US Customs and Border Protection. I'm in charge here.”

Trevor shook his hand, then glanced at Nanette. “Thanks for the call. We were getting bored out there.”

Nanette gave a shaky laugh. “When we got here and our pilot had disappeared, I knew we were in trouble. I'm just glad you were in range for a rescue.”

“My pleasure. Glad we could help out.” He nodded politely, then surprised Christina by taking her arm—­her uninjured arm. “Let's get you to the medics.”

She followed him to the ambulance. “Were you on patrol?”

“Yes and no. We were doing a training exercise with an Iraqi special forces unit. Routine enough. Not as exciting as rescuing you lot.”

He stayed with her as the medic forced her to lie on the stretcher and started an IV for a blood transfusion. “You'll need to go to hospital, I'm afraid. I'm guessing about twelve sutures.”

Christina nodded, feeling the adrenaline drain from her body. It left her tired, dizzy, and in pain. Trevor said something to the medic, who started a second IV line. Within seconds, Christina felt herself fading.

“Sleep now,” she heard him say. “You're safe.”

 

Chapter One

11 months later

R
EPORTS
OF
THE
assassination attempt on Princess Véronique de Savoie barely made a blip on the news outside of Concordia. The tiny country rivaled Liechtenstein in size and importance. As in, very damned little. Most would be hard-­pressed to find it on a map.

Inside the CIA, however, the assassination attempt caused a ripple of reaction, starting in the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, bypassing normal channels, and landing directly on case officer Jay Spicer's desk.

“You want me to do what?” asked Christina Madison, eyes wide as she stared at her boss.

Jay Spicer looked back at her. “Have you been in front of a mirror lately?”

“Sure I have.” Every now and then, someone would comment on her eerie resemblance to the princess of Concordia. Princess Véronique made headlines inside her own country on a regular basis, though rarely outside of it. Concordian cameras and reporters followed her as she labored on various humanitarian projects. She'd been part of a BBC documentary last year on modern royalty in Europe, which Christina had watched out of curiosity. The princess remained gracious in the face of newshounds and paparazzi, even when elbow-­deep in dirt planting a new strain of bacteria-­resistant corn in Ethiopia or bringing clean well water to rural Bolivians.

Occasionally a European visitor to the Washington, D.C., area would ask if she were, indeed, the princess. Christina would laugh it off with a simple, “Don't I wish.” Truth be told, she much preferred her anonymous work bringing down money laundering and smuggling operations. Having cameras shoved in her face and every word and action dissected struck her as repugnant.

For the most part, though, Véronique remained one of the royal unknowns.

Christina grabbed a handful of Skittles from the crystal ashtray on Jay's desk. Red and yellow only. He'd already eaten the green and orange.

“Her face is well known inside Concordia. Resembling someone and taking her place are two different—­”

“This comes from the top,” her boss interrupted. “From the director himself. The British government specifically asked for your help.”

Her head began to whirl. The mandatory photographs of the president and CIA director frowned down at her from behind his head. Boring pictures. Boring white walls. The only interesting thing in the whole office was the life-­sized cardboard cutout of Captain America planted to the right of the door. “The British? Not the Concordians? I don't understand, sir.”

Jay leaned forward in his chair and tugged at an earlobe, his ADHD making it impossible for him to sit still. At fifty, he still managed to retain the air of an errant schoolboy. He smirked, cracking his knuckles. Christina crossed her legs, not fooled by his antics. Jay Spicer was a shrewd, brilliant case officer. He counted on his façade to cause ­people to underestimate him. He would clarify the situation in his own time.

“Princess Véronique is engaged to a landed baron in the UK.”

“He has enough clout to tap the CIA for help?”

“Sort of.” Jay pushed a folder across his cluttered mahogany desk. The beige file sported the banded red and large stamps indicating that it contained classified information.

Christina uncrossed her legs in order to lean forward and snag the folder. She flipped it open. The top page contained a request from . . . Trevor Carswell?

Jay rocked back, the chair squeaking. He grinned, tapping his fingers. “Julian Brumley, the eighth Baron of Daversporth, is a member of the House of Lords. He has enough political and personal clout to assign an elite member of the Special Air Ser­vice to head the investigation into the attempt on his fiancée's life. And that lucky son of a bitch is SAS Major Trevor Willoughby Carswell.”

Her astonishment and comprehension must have shown on her face, because Jay's expression became downright smug. “You know Trevor's worked with me a ­couple of times before, so he knows damned well what I look like,” she said. His middle name was Willoughby? Who knew? “There are plenty of highly qualified investigators in Great Britain. It can't be coincidence that the fiancé chose Trevor.”

“Nope. They're cousins. Second cousins, I think. He'll be heading the investigation. You'll replace the princess.”

Her head started to ache as she sorted through the implications. “So I'm being tapped for this job because a fluke of genetics shaped my face the same way as hers? Nothing to do with my abilities?”

He leaned forward on his desk, leg jiggling under the table. “You can say no, Madison. But this is an international request, asking specifically for you. The director himself will be monitoring this assignment. You'll never get another chance like this. You've been hounding me for a big assignment. Well, this is it. Do you really want to step away from it?”

“Of course not.” Christina's mouth flattened. Her career was hanging by a thread as it was. The intelligence community had an elephantine memory, and the failed mission in Baghdad had shredded her reputation. Maybe if she could figure out what she'd done wrong . . .

“Well?”

“Naturally, I'm happy to help the Concordian government.” What other answer was there? And, truthfully, this represented a huge opportunity for her to redeem herself. This would be high-­profile all the way. “You know I'll put a hundred percent into it, sir.”

“That's what I figured. And you'll have a bodyguard.”

Uh-­oh.

“Trevor?” She and Trevor shared a history. She trusted him. He had saved her life.

“No. But you know him. He was one of the Delta Force soldiers you worked with in Azakistan.”

And just like that, Christina knew. Of all the ­people she never wanted to see again, he topped the list. Therefore, it had to be him. She barely kept herself from sticking her fingers into her ears and singing, “Lalalalala.”

“Gabriel Morgan.”

G
ABE
M
ORGAN
GAPED
at Jace, his commanding officer. “You want me to do what?”

His gaze glanced off the multipaned windows on two sides of the main troop area; past the American and North Carolina flags; the mess of desks, chairs and sofas; to his own overflowing inbox and the dead fern on the edge of the desk. He flipped the throwing knife in his hand and flicked it toward the human silhouette tacked to a wooden target hanging thirty feet away, on the other side of the room. Thomas ‘Mace' Beckett, his nose buried in the latest John Grisham book, barely glanced up as the blade passed within inches of his head.

He hefted the second throwing knife, pointed its tip toward Jace Reed, then carefully, gently, set it on his scarred and pitted desk. He placed his palms flat against its surface, elbows locked, spine stiff as he leaned forward. He glared into Jace's eyes.

“You can say no.” Unintimidated, Jace tapped a manila folder against the gray metal desk, standard Army issue, functional and ugly. “You know. If you think you can't handle it, I can assign you something easier, like walking General McCutcheon's wife's Pomeranian.”

Gabe blanched. It wasn't an idle threat. He'd long ago filed both the Pomeranian and the wife under To Be Avoided At All Costs. He didn't know which was the bigger yappy terror. “Good God. Shoot me now.”

Jace snickered.

“I don't understand why we're being tapped instead of the SAS,” Gabe said. “If Trevor Carswell is heading the investigation, why isn't his team protecting her?”

Jace glanced around. Gabe followed his gaze. Sandman and Tag were pushing 'em out, egging each other on. The pushup contest had been going on for a while. Ken Acolatse cleaned his Sig Sauer. Gavin had his earbuds in, head and feet tapping in time to God-­knows-­what kind of music. Alex tacked yet another
Call of Duty
poster to the wall. Kid was obsessed.

“They'll be guarding the real target,” Jace said. “He's only got the one team, though, and he can't get authorization for another. He asked for my help, and, lucky you, I'm assigning you the job. It'll be a cakewalk.”

Gabe felt a shudder work its way down his spine. “Assign someone else. Jace, Jesus. Nothing's ever a cakewalk when those ­people are involved.” His fists clenched. He wouldn't resort to begging.

Sympathy flickered in Jace's eyes. “I could do that,” he said quietly, all humor gone. “We work with other agencies regularly, though. I need you to be able to handle it. Or I need to know you can't.”

“You realize that if I do this, I'll be useless for undercover work,” he said, even knowing the excuse wouldn't hold water. It wasn't the assignment. He'd done executive protection work before. An executive protector—­bodyguard—­could do any number of other jobs. There would be nothing to connect him with Delta Force, which relied on strict anonymity in its work. That's not what set his teeth on edge.

It was the who.

Christina Freaking Madison.

“You know better. Even if you're undercover and recognized, that won't ID you as one of the good guys. Maybe the opposite, if you can convince our assassin you're a douchebag.” He grinned. “Not a huge stretch.”

Gabe ignored him. It had been, what? Six months? Yeah, about that long ago. His team had been in Azakistan, helping foil a plot by a twisted bastard who tried to release a deadly cocktail of poisonous gases into crowds of families on a US airbase. Christina Madison had gotten photographs of the terrorists for them, but she was also an annoying, brash, inexperienced junior officer of the CIA, an organization he loathed. Sure, she was attractive, with a tight little body that revved his motor, but she would also no doubt be a pain in his ass. And certainly not someone he could trust to watch his six.

“Yo. Sleeping beauty.” Jace snapped his fingers in front of Gabe's face. “Where'd you go?”

Gabe straightened abruptly, scooping up the knife and flicking it toward the target with barely a glance. It penetrated deep into the wood. “Nowhere. So you want me to pretend to guard a pretend princess? But in fact, she's going to be bait, to draw out the person or persons who tried to kill the real princess? That about it?”

“In a nutshell. You got a problem, Morgan? Let's hear it.”

“You know what my problem is.” Gabe pushed a hand through his shaggy hair. “You know who she is, boss. She's unreliable. Her team almost got killed in Iraq.”

Jace nodded. “And she's CIA, which means you're already prejudiced against her. I get it. Between your mother and the Peru fiasco, you've got some heavy baggage.”

Baggage? Hell, yeah, he had baggage. All it took was one CIA motherfucker to ruin a mission. Or a family.

“If it makes you feel any better, her job really is just to be bait. You'll be in charge of security and laying the trap. She's the cheese. You reel in the rats.”

Gabe grimaced. “She's a hothead. I don't need to be trying to corral her while I'm laying the trap.”

“Her boss assured me of her complete cooperation,” Jace said dryly. “Apparently, her ass is on the line. If she messes this up, she's done. And she knows it.”

Gabe stalked to the human-­shaped target and yanked both knives out of the silhouette's throat. He rammed them back into the special sheaths in his boots.

“Fuck.”

C
HRISTINA
DROVE
UP
the Capital Beltway toward Silver Spring, cataloguing the things she would need to do before flying to Concordia's capital city of Parvenière the next day: put a hold on her mail, ask her neighbor to water her plants, clean out the refrigerator. She needed to get her leather jacket back from Frank the Fink, but that wasn't going to happen before she flew. The jerk. He'd been anything but frank with her. As soon as he'd heard the rumors about her within the Company, he'd treated her like a plague victim.

Unbidden, her mind slid from unremarkable Frank to six feet one inch of hard muscle and overlong, dirty blond hair. To sculpted cheekbones and a strong jaw that he usually kept covered with two days' worth of stubble. To cynical eyes and lips that tipped up at one corner, as though the world around him both amused and bored him.

The Friday afternoon rush hour and her preoccupation with Gabe Morgan almost caused her to miss the gray panel van. By the time she noticed it, it had followed her from the Beltway onto Georgia Avenue. When she reached Woodside Park on Spring Street, she felt certain she was being followed.

The question was, by whom? Truthfully, Christina couldn't generate much inward alarm. The CIA trained constantly in surveillance and countersurveillance. It wouldn't be the first time a class of newbies in the Surveillance Detection Training Program had been assigned to track the movements of CIA field officers. It provided good practice for both groups. And she could be off the mark entirely; this could be merely a delivery truck.

She turned left onto Ballard Street, past the Methodist church with the blooming cherry tree. Sure enough, the van, which had been lagging five car lengths behind her, appeared moments later. She flicked a glance in the rearview mirror. Amateurs. A tiny smile tugged at her mouth. The trainees were obvious and anxious.

Small houses and mature trees lined the streets. She eased left around a Volkswagen Rabbit and immediately swerved to avoid an elderly ­couple coming through the gate of a yard enclosed by a brown picket fence. As she passed the No Outlet sign, she chuckled aloud. She could navigate these streets blindfolded. The trainees couldn't.

Third Avenue dead-­ended at a yellow house. Without hesitation, she left the pavement for the dirt track, winding her way past the huge logs and tangled undergrowth. In moments, she pulled out onto Second Street. Easing past another elderly ­couple strolling on the street instead of the sidewalk, she made it to the end of the road and turned left before the van caught sight of her.