The power of love

Paris, France
“Shall I get a car, ma’am?” the doorman asked in French. He held the door for her to walk through. “Maybe an umbrella?”
“Non,” she replied. “Merci.”
She stepped into the driving rain from the warm CIA hotel lobby. Wanting the rain, needing the river, she was drawn into the wild, dark morning.
She and Homeland Security Agent Arthur “Raz” Rasmussen were in Paris to clear out the Fey Special Forces Team vault. Two and a half years ago, the blood and lives of eleven troops had been spilled onto the floor, boxes, and crates of that storage vault.
Ten friends. Ten beloved teammates gave their lives. She was the eleventh “troop.” Turning onto the wide boulevard, Rue des Saints Pères, she snorted at the word “troop.”
She would have died.
She should have died.
But her friend, mentor, and, as she had found out a few months ago, biological father Ben had received a tip that her team had been assassinated. Ben and his assistant, Raz, had found her in the vault doorway with her best friend Sergeant Jesse Abreu’s head on her lap. Raz had carried her from the vault moments before she would have bled to death.
Two and a half years ago.
She turned left at the river. Moving along the Seine, the frozen rain battered her head and streamed from her oilskin coat. She tucked her ice-cold fingers into her sleeves.
She’d laughed when she opened the Fey Special Forces Team underground storage vault three days ago. Turning to Raz, she said, “I’ll clean up my own blood, thank you, sir.”
Fool.
Raz had checked in with her every couple of hours with a quick, “Ready to stop?” But she wouldn’t give up. They had work to do, and she was going to do it. Finally, after fourteen horrific hours of scouring blood and flesh, Raz demanded they stop.
By that time, her mind had fractured. She begged him not to leave her dead friends alone in the dark. His gentle words and kind presence led her through the limestone tunnels and back to their hotel suite.
They began cataloguing the vault the next day. Blood infiltrated every crack, corner, and possession in the two-hundred-foot space. They saved what they could for the families and threw the rest in large red-incineration bags. Sixteen hours later, they stumbled, broken-hearted, to the suite.
Yesterday, a US Army team had arrived to haul away the large items, the incineration bags, and anything already catalogued. Raz directed the soldiers’ work while she pushed boxes from the corners of the vault.
With the vault floor cleared, she collected stashes of porn, random weapons, and other personal items. The soldiers were removing their last load when she found her Commanding Officer Charlie O’Brien’s wedding ring lodged against a wall. He must have put his hand up to the shooter because the ring encircled his mummified finger. Numb from the macabre work and injections of a CIA “vitamin” cocktail, she slipped Charlie’s finger, and ring, into her pocket.
Five hours later, Raz found the finger among the pile of her dirty clothing. Horrified, he ordered her into their sitting room. When she didn’t respond, he burst into her bedroom. He found her tucked between the desk and the corner of the room.
She heard him calling her.
She knew he was worried.
But nothing could make her get up from the tight, safe corner.
Looking up, she watched his face shift from worry to sorrow. He fell to his knees in front of her. When he held out his arms to her, she crawled from her corner. Wrapped in each other’s arms, they wept for themselves and their friends.
She’d left Raz sound asleep in the suite.
She stopped on the bridge, Pont du Carousel. The hard rain made divots in the dark water below. She held out her arms as a gust of wind lifted her jacket. For a moment, she was flying backwards. When she hit the railing on the other side of the bridge, she knew what had called her into the early-morning storm.
She ran across the bridge and through the deserted Place du Carousel. Buffeted by the wind, she jogged the limestone gravel path through a labyrinth of evergreen hedges in the Jardin des Tuileries.
She skidded to a stop at the opening to an evergreen hedge circle. Embarrassed by her haste, she bowed her head to acknowledge the naked female form in the center of the hedge circle. The bronze statue beckoned her into the circle. Moving forward, she sat down on the bench, facing the statue.
Charlie O’Brien loved this statue. To him, she represented everything pure and simple. This bench had been their “strategic command.” Every time they were in Paris, she and Charlie laughed, plotted, and gossiped on this bench. According to intel, she sat here talking to Charlie only moments before her entire world turned upside down.
She stretched her fingers out to touch the wet green wood where Charlie had sat two and a half years ago. She raked her mind for some glimmer of what they had talked about.
Nothing.
Looking across the circle, she noticed raindrop tears flowing down the statue’s face. Her fingers found her own tear-drenched face. She bit her lip to keep from keening with grief.
Only two grainy satellite images existed. The first image showed Charlie pointing at her. Her face was set in mock indignation. One minute later, Charlie was bent forward with laughter. Her hand was forward as if she had pushed him. Her face was bright with laughter.
Charlie died twenty minutes later.
The storm released its fury. Obscured by sheeting rain, Charlie’s favorite statue was lost. Her heart broke open with loss. Rocking back and forth on the bench, she wailed.
Her tears slowed when the storm eased. The statue’s outline reappeared. Charlie’s statue had returned to her.
If only Charlie would return.
If only . . .
Her head jerked up. Footsteps crunched the gravel path! Someone walked toward her! Her heart pounded with hope.
Charlie?
Just in case, she slipped her hand around the handgun in her sacrum holster. She stood to peer through the rain. Across the hedge circle, she saw a well-dressed man enter the opposite side of the circle.
“Alexandra,” the man said in French. “Please sit with me.”
He held his wide black umbrella over them. The rain formed a rhythm across his umbrella.
“My brother telephoned. No ‘Hello.’ No ‘Good morning.’ Not even a ‘Did I wake you? How is your wife? Your children?’ Not Benjamin. ‘Find my daughter,’ he growled.” The man laughed. “He can be so very bossy.”
She glanced at him and then returned her attention to the statue.
“I will tell him I searched everywhere for you, but I knew you would be here.”
“I’m sorry, Dom. I . . .” She replied in French.
“No need to explain,” Dominic Doucet said. “You’ve spent the last three days in the vault where your loved ones died, where you almost died. I wouldn’t ask my worst enemy to do what you’ve done.”
Staring at the statue, she whispered, “Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”
“Yes, Lady Macbeth. You didn’t kill them.”
“I can’t get her out of my head.”
Cleansed by the downpour, the statue gave her a kind smile.
“You come here because it’s the last place you felt normal.”
“Sane,” she said. “Whole.”
He nodded. They watched the light rain dance on the statue.
“How are you holding up?” Dominic said, breaking the rain’s percussive tempo.
She turned her head to look at him and then turned back to the statue. He had never known her not to smile, laugh, or make a joke. Today, her face held only unspeakable pain.
They listened to the rain for a while.
“I don’t know how to do it, Dom,” she said. Her words were so quiet that he had to read her lips. “I don’t know how to move forward without them. Every time I try, I fall flat on my face. I’m failing at everything.”
“You have the curse of the Doucets. You’re impatient. We are gifted in so many ways. We expect everything to happen at our whim. Surviving, changing, moving on . . . These things only happen one tiny step at a time.”
“I . . . I don’t have any idea what tiny step to take.”
Dominic laughed.
“Only the brave survive, my dear. And you’re very brave,” he said. “Come. Let’s get your partner, your Rasmussen. I understand he’s frantic. We’ll eat crepes, drink too much café, and argue about nothing.”
She nodded.
“You’re done with the vault. I insist. If anyone asks, I will tell them the President’s wife is taking her clothes off again, and we don’t have the resources to protect you.”
The director of the French Intelligence service, Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur, stood from the bench and held out his hand to her. She looked up into his face. Nodding, she took his hand and stood.
“Today, our task will be to convince one fish to take a chance on our flies.” Dominic said. “That’s all. When Benjamin finds us, we’ll pretend we always planned to fish today.”
They walked across the gravel. At the edge of the labyrinth, she turned for one last look at Charlie’s statue. Winking at her, the statue whispered:
“Only the brave survive.”
She blinked, and the statue’s face became bronze again.
At the street, Dominic signaled his driver. A small limousine pulled in front of them. When they settled in the back seat, the driver gave them warm, dry towels. Dominic requested her hotel, and the car shot into a snarl of Paris traffic.
“Why didn’t you tell me I was your niece?” she asked. She rubbed her hair with the towel.
“I enjoy being your friend,” Dominic said.
“You knew when we met,” she said.
“Yes. I knew the moment you walked across the bridge carrying your fly-fishing rod and bright smile,” he said. “You and Max look very much like our mother.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Our mother was a beautiful person—inside and out,” Dominic said. “Just as you are.”
In the warm car and compassionate company, she felt herself relax. Fly fishing on the Seine was wicked fun. Her husband, Dr. John Kelly Drayson, and her identical twin, Max Hargreaves, would arrive tomorrow morning. If she was lucky, maybe Raz would take her dancing tonight.
“Are you asleep?” Dominic asked.
“Thinking. Planning,” she said.He looked over at her. She caught his brown eyes.
“Thank you, Uncle.”
“I prefer to be your friend.”
“Thank you, friend.”
Resting against the leather seats, Major Alexandra “The Fey” Hargreaves smiled for the first time since she had entered the vault on Monday. Today was going to be a good day.
F
Chapter Two
Two months later
Monday early-morning
March 24—4:30 A.M. MDT
Denver, Colorado
“It’s weird, isn’t it?”
Alex lifted her head from the pillow to kiss her husband, John. Like most mornings, they started the day in each other’s embrace.
“What’s weird?” she asked.
“How everything can be the same.” His London-accented words were punctuated with quick thrusts of his hips. “And still so different.”
She bit his ear. Even after thirteen years of marriage, she never understood why he started conversations in the middle of sex. He laughed at her ear-nip reprimand.
“You mean the new bedroom? New house? New clothing? New . . .”
“Yes,” he said.
They had moved into their new bedroom the previous night. She rolled on top of him.
“You mean everything,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. He kissed her lips. “Yet some things are deliciously the same.”
“Delicious?”
Her rhythmic movements caught his full attention. Sitting up to look at him, their eyes locked. His hands held her hips. They rose in intensity. She was very close when he said:
“I don’t want you to go today.”
She ignored him.
Pulling on his arms, he rose from the bed to wrap himself around her. She dropped her head back and let herself slip away to bliss. With a sigh, he followed her. Wrapped in each other’s tight embrace, they slipped through the waves of sensation. He kissed her neck and throat. She shifted to catch his lips. He moved on top of her again when the alarm went off.
Alex reached over to hit the snooze button.
“Warning bell?” he asked.
“It’s the finish-what-you-were-saying bell,” she said. She kissed his neck. “What’s going on, John?”
“God, Alex, what do you think?”
“Vell,” she said in her best imitation of Dr. Freud. “I think your home vas destroyed by terrorists; you vere exposed as a member of the illustrious Kellys of the IRA; your vife vas held hostage, and . . .”
“Fuck’s sake, Alex! This isn’t a joke! I don’t to be away from you again,” he said. “I spent an agonizing month in Scotland vhile my vife vas held hostage.”
She smiled at his imitation of her.
“And. . . .” Attempting to control his strong emotions, he blew out a breath. “I was awful while you were in Paris in January.”
“I was awful while I was in Paris in January,” Alex said.
“I have my General Surgery certificate already. I can work as a General Surgeon,” he said. “I’ll quit the vascular surgery program and go with you.”
She shifted so he could disengage. She lay on her side to look at him. Her eyes reviewed his dark, curly hair and large cobalt-blue eyes. Her thumb ran over his cheekbone. She leaned forward to kiss his lips. Her mouth less than an inch from his, she whispered what she had said thousands of times before:
“Your dreams are important to me.”
“I don’t care anymore, Alex. I only want you. That’s all. I don’t care about anything else.”
She pressed her fingertips to his mouth.
“We have five months left in your eight-year program,” she said. “By August, you’ll be done. Let’s finish.”
They nestled together in each other’s arms until the alarm went off again. Moving off the bed, she held a hand out to him. She guided him to the spacious bathroom adjacent to their new master suite. Pulling him into the shower, she took them through shampoo and soap, ending with blue fluffy towels. She left him in the bathroom to finish shaving.
Wandering into her barren walk-in closet, she put on the only thing hanging there: a solitary pair of jeans. She grabbed a T-shirt from the stack. He was tying his tie when she re-entered the bedroom. Sitting on the bed, she watched him finish dressing.
This week, he was stuck in a week-long class on the effects of advanced diabetes on the vascular system. Their drama of last fall forced him to miss this class. If he didn’t finish this class now, he wouldn’t finish his program. Period.
And she had orders to leave Denver in an hour.
She brushed his lips with hers in a quick kiss and then adjusted his tie. Reaching for his hand, they went down a flight of stairs through the remodeling of their dilapidated, hundred-year-old rooming house. The second-floor walls were stripped down to the studs and the brick exterior. They turned the corner and then continued down another flight of stairs to the kitchen, dining, and living areas they shared with Alex’s identical twin brother Max and the rest of their family—Raz and John’s brother Cian.
The kitchen was the first room completed in their remodel. Alex checked to make sure the electric kettle was plugged in for John’s morning tea and poured herself a cup of coffee.
“Hallo, brother!” Cian Kelly said, as he walked through the kitchen. “You’re here tonight, right? I understand there’s something called ‘March Madness.’ Thought we might get a pint at the Hound.”
Cian was now a part of their family after having appeared in the middle of last fall’s drama. He and his friend Eoin Mac Kinney had opened a bakery near the end of last year. Thanks to good looks, thick Irish accents, and great baked goods, the bakery was a success. Alex hugged Cian good-morning.
“I think that’s American football,” John said.“Basketball,” Alex’s identical twin Max corrected. He and Alex pressed their foreheads together in their usual greeting. “You’re sport-free since Manchester United is out.”
“Don’t remind me,” John said.
“Manchester United! Where’s your loyalty to the Boys in Green?” Cian protested, before moving toward the front door.
“Lost somewhere in the past,” John replied.
Cian opened his mouth to say something and then laughed.
“Then a pint with me and the boys tonight? You in, Max?”
“Of course.”
“Wait! What boys?” John asked.
Laughing, Cian went out the door.
“See,” Alex said. “You already have fun plans.”
John gave her a curt nod.
“You’ll watch some b-ball and hang with the boys and . . .” Walking to the top of the basement stairs, she yelled, “RAZ, WE HAVE TO GO!”
“Ten minutes,” came from downstairs.
Raz and a woman’s muffled conversation moved closer to the stairs. Alex was closing the basement door when a woman dressed in crumpled clothing appeared on the basement landing. She wagged her eyebrows at Alex and then turned to kiss a mostly naked Raz. His broad, caramel-colored, muscular shoulders engulfed the woman in a hug. Stepping back, the woman stroked his taut abdomen and then ran her hand along the waistband of his Levi jeans.
“Ten minutes,” Alex said.
Raz raised an eyebrow to Alex and opened the side door. He followed the woman out the basement door.
“I think . . .” Max started.
Alex looked at Max. Seeing she needed a moment, he stopped talking. She walked John to the front door.
“You’re late for class,” she said.
“Not quite. I love you, Alexandra. Will you . . .” He looked away from her. “Please, say it.”
“I love you, John Kelly Drayson.” Alex touched his cheek. “Today and every other day for the rest of this life and any other I’m blessed with. Now you.”
“I love you, Alexandra Hargreaves Drayson, today and every other day for the rest of this life and every other I’m blessed with.”
He held her tight, kissed her cheek, and walked out the door to his rental car. She went out onto the porch to wave goodbye. Feeling movement, she reached for Max’s hand when he stood beside her. He took her hand.
“Leaving?”
“I’m in court all week. Messy contract stuff.” Max held up his briefcase as if all the mess was locked inside. “I have to get in early to meet with the client. You’ll be home Wednesday?”
She nodded.
Max’s eyes scanned her face. He nodded, before setting off down the street to catch the bus downtown.
Turning into the house, she watched the construction workers stream into the house from the back. To escape the noise and chaos, she took the stairs two at a time to their bedroom. She belly-flopped onto the bed.
For most of their marriage, Alex had traveled with the Fey Special Forces Team, rescuing hostages around the world. She was home at least once every five weeks and six weeks in the summer. Even when she was home, there were times when John was busy with school or surgery. They spent most of their time away from each other.
Everything changed when her team was slaughtered in the storage vault under Paris and Alex was gravely wounded. After six months at Walter Reed Hospital, Alex came home to Denver. Limping, crutching, until, finally, walking erect on a new hip, Alex and John lived together for the first time in their twelve years of marriage. Then everything fell apart last fall and . . .
Alex rubbed her face and sighed. She moved to sit on the edge of the bed. They would be together in a few days.
A few days.
Maybe she’d figure out how to tell him about the baby.
FFFFF
Twenty-two hours later
Tuesday early-morning
March 25—2:40 A.M. MDT
Somewhere over Central Colorado
“Alex, we’re almost there.”
Alex was sleeping with her head on Raz’s shoulder. Shifting to upright, she shook her head in an attempt to wake up.
“Sorry. Green Beret habit.” She smiled at him. “I sit down in a helicopter, and, bam, I’m out.”
“I know,” He smiled.
Standing to stretch his back, Raz’s Homeland Security identification badge fell from his waistband. When Alex leaned forward to get it for him, he snatched it off the floor.
“I know, I know, I’ll get it for the old man,” Raz said. “I’m only nine years older than you are.”
“It’s not my issue. I was encouraged to ass-ist you in those classes we had the pleasure of taking last month.” She cleared her throat. “A Homeland Security partner ass-ists his partner in tasks.”
“Very funny.”
“How is your back?”
“I’ll live. Would you like to go over your questions for the Weasel again?” Raz said, as he scowled and looked away. Turning back, his face softened at her smile. He winked. “Par’ner.”
“I think I’m ready. Thanks, Duke,” she replied.
He laughed.
They were flying in a Black Hawk helicopter over a remote region of Colorado. Alex was meeting with the Secret Service agent who had shot Max, John, and teammate Captain Joseph Walter at the two-year memorial ceremony for the Fey Special Forces Team. The ex-agent agreed to share what he knew in exchange for a reduction in his sentence.
So far, the little weasel refused to speak to anyone except the Fey.
The male Fey, that is.Like most people, the ex-agent believed the Fey was a male Special Forces Intelligence officer. The Fey could only be identified by a bright blue fairy tattoo under his left arm and the cursive green F’s that formed the tattoo band around
his right arm.
The Weasel didn’t expect a tall, thin, bleach-blond-haired woman with fake blue eyes. Alex snorted. He didn’t expect a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman either.
“Are you laughing at your own jokes?” Raz asked.
“I think I’m very funny,” she replied.
Raz smiled.
Colonel Gordon, Alex’s Military Intelligence boss, christened the Secret Service agent with the name “the Weasel” and the name had stuck. He was “the Weasel” to everyone involved. At this point, his renaming was the only reason he was still alive.
And, in a few minutes, she would find out what he knew about the murder of the Fey Special Forces Team.
It had been a full day: Drive to Fort Carson to pick up Sergeant Larry “G.I. Joe” Flagg; a three-hour briefing; working through a molehill of Department of Corrections paperwork to discover a mountain of Military Intelligence paperwork; twenty phone calls looking for her men, only to learn they were already en route to the meeting site; another push-the-food-around-her-plate meal; and finally a nap on the helicopter. Pulling on her T-shirt, she stood and stretched.
She felt filthy.
At least she looked reasonably clean. Rubbing her dry eyes, she walked forward to the cockpit. His head covered in a silver-blue helmet, Zack “the Jakker” Jakkman leaned forward to click on the speaker.
“Welcome back,” Zack said.
The co-pilot nodded to Alex. He had been assigned as the Jakker’s personal slave in retribution for being nasty to Alex last fall. He detailed Zack’s car weekly, babysat his kids, cleaned his house, washed his laundry, made breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and stayed up all night to ride co-pilot. For someone so mistreated, the co-pilot seemed very happy to be with the Jakker and the Fey. Alex curled her lip at the co-pilot and turned to Zack.
“Thanks for the nap, Zack. Can we see where we’re going?”
“It’s right in front of us,” Sergeant Larry Flagg said, walking from the back. “You can see the lights. Right there. We’re about ten minutes out.”
“That’s very helpful, G.I. Joe,” Zack said.
“Will you fucking call me Larry? God damn it,” the young man said.
Alex coughed into her hand to keep from laughing
“Is the Weasel there?”
“He was moved from Super Max to Cañon City Maximum Security this morning,” Raz said. “He left Cañon City about an hour ago. They landed with him about fifteen minutes ago.”
Through a pair of binoculars, she looked across the tops of dense pine trees to a clearing ahead. Five diesel-fueled floodlight towers created a fifty-foot circle of light in the center of a forest meadow. Deep-black diesel smoke wafted into the cold mountain air.
“Are you wearing body armor?” Alex asked Larry.
Larry nodded.
She turned and looked at Raz. “Body armor?”
“Always,” Raz said.
Her face pinched at the uncomfortable feeling growing in her gut. Rubbing her stomach, she closed her eyes and opened them again.
Something was very wrong.
Or maybe she hadn’t eaten in a while.
Her insecurity and intuition fought a staccato drumbeat in her head.
“Shouldn’t land,” her intuition said.
“Don’t blow it,” her mind spit out in response.
“Need to get out of here.”
“Chicken.”
Around and around the thoughts went, until they reached their conclusion:
“If Charlie were here, he would know what to do.”
Shaking her head, she walked back to the passenger cabin. She strapped herself into a seat and closed her eyes.
“Sleeping?” Raz slipped his arm over her shoulder.
“Just thinking,” she said. “This whole thing . . . It doesn’t feel right.”
He nodded.
As the helicopter began to descend into the meadow, Larry dropped into the seat next to Alex.
“Would you mind going through it again?” Alex asked.
“We are meeting with the Weasel in an undisclosed, unmonitored location in order to get information regarding the Fey Special Forces Team murder,” Raz said. “As far as we know, there is an active threat to your life and to his life.”
“The brass said stay alive, spare no expense,” Alex said. “That’s why we’re meeting here and not at Super Max.”
“Right. We’re meeting in the most remote wilderness in the continental US.”
“Weminuche Wilderness.”
“Exactly. This entire region is set as a no-fly zone. Cheyenne Mountain is monitoring all activity. The area is only accessible by military helicopter or . . .”
“By hiking in a hundred miles,” Alex continued. “It’s too rugged for motorized vehicles or even civilian helicopters. And I selected this location less than eight hours ago.”
“Yes.” Raz smiled at the growing confidence in Alex’s voice. “The entire region was swept two days ago. It’s been locked down since then. The last sweep was . . .”
He looked at his watch.
“An hour ago. The Weasel, three prison guards, and a team from Homeland Security are waiting to speak with the Fey. They are expecting to meet with a thirty-year-old . . .”
“Thirty-three,” she said.
“Yes, thirty-three-year-old male Special Forces Intelligence Officer. You and I will be dressed in Homeland Security gear. They won’t know it’s you until we confirm safety. The guys were dropped about a mile from here. They should be on scene within the next five minutes. Your Sergeant is our communication point.”Alex nodded her head.
“You have your pocket computer?”
Alex pulled the device from the back pocket of her jeans.
“Our ear buds?”
She nodded and gave him an ear bud communicator. Slipping the communicators into their ears, they were treated to the men’s assessment of women’s pubic hair. She took her ear bud out.
“And I’m going to pretend to be the Fey,” Larry said. “I would make a great Fey. I mean, it’s a role, right? I have the walk down. I’m male. And . . .”
Seeing the looks on Alex and Raz’s faces, Larry shut his mouth.
“Never mind.”
“Where is Ben?” Alex asked.
“In route,” Raz replied. “He wanted to stay connected until the meeting starts. Just in case there’s late intel.”
“You mean in case someone calls to say I’m dead?” Alex asked.
“Something like that. Zack will switch choppers as soon as we land. The co-pilot will take this helicopter back to base with Larry. If something happens, Zack will get you out of here. Stick with Zack.”
Alex nodded. Zack dropped the helicopter onto an open space near the circle of lights. The bright lights filled the meadow with dazzling light and deep shadow. The diesel smoke blew in white clouds to obscure the helicopters. No one would be able to see who got out of this chopper.
“Promise me. You will leave without me,” Raz said into her ear.
“No,” she said.
Standing, she pulled on an oversized dark-blue jacket with HOMELAND SECURITY printed in white letters across the back. Raz stuck a Homeland Security baseball cap on her fake blond hair. When she looked up, Raz was dressed in a matching jacket and hat. She took a pair of brown-rimmed glasses from his hand.
The helicopter door opened to two Homeland Security officers. Raz and Alex followed Larry out of the helicopter. On the way to the clearing, the senior Homeland Security officer updated Larry. Reaching the edge of the lit area, Larry glanced back at Alex and Raz. His smile faded, and his eyes flicked back and forth with anxiety.
Something wasn’t right.
Alex smiled to comfort the young man.
Larry nodded his head and entered the circle of light. Alex and Raz stood about a foot from the lit space almost hidden by dark shadow and smoke.
Seated in the middle of the bright-light circle, the Weasel’s orange jumpsuit lit up like a lighthouse. His hands were cuffed behind him and his legs shackled. Three Federal prison guards stood behind him. Two Homeland Security agents stood next to him. The Weasel watched Larry move across the lit area.
Zack hopped out of the Black Hawk. He swaggered over to a group of Homeland Security agents. After making a lewd joke, he moved off into the forest.
So far, so good.
They stood in the shadows, listening to Larry bluff his way through the preliminaries of the interview. A half hour in, one of the Weasel’s Department of Corrections guards came out of the lit circle.
“You with the Fey?” the man asked.
His voice was loud enough for the other Homeland Security Agents to look up. Surprised, Alex nodded.
“You need to come with me.”
Chapter Three
Raz hesitated. Alex reassured him by putting her hand on his elbow. He looked into her face and then nodded. They followed the man toward the forest.
“That’s Perses.”
The apparition of Alex’s best friend, Sergeant Jesse Abreu, appeared beside her. Alex nodded her head slightly. As usual, Jesse continued in Spanish:
“The Weasel is completely freaked out, Alex.”
Alex glanced in his direction.
“Something weird is going on, but I can’t tell what. Ever since those Homeland agents arrived, he’s become more and more anxious. Perses has been with him the whole time. I think he’s guarding the Weasel. Funny thing for a no-fingerprint, no-name assassin to do.”
Alex raised her eyebrows. Used to speaking out loud with Jesse, Alex could only communicate with facial gestures. She signed “the guys” in American Sign Language.
“The guys are following you in the forest,” Jesse said. “They’re tracking the GPS signal in your hip. In this forest, they could be six feet away, and you wouldn’t see them. But I can.”
Alex smiled at his “so-there” laugh. Jesse had been her best friend since the first week of basic training. Their lives intertwined, they had been each other’s constant companion through Bosnia, Special Forces training, and the Fey Special Forces Team. In the doorway to the vault in Paris, he died with his head on her lap. His reappearance in her life was a gift. Especially now.
“Larry’s a little prick,” Jesse continued his update. “He’s bossing people around, making them get him coffee. But I guess you can hear him on your ear bud.”
Alex nodded.
“Anyway, Zack’s ready to go. I’m going back to the Weasel.”
Jesse disappeared.
“Any idea of how far we are going?” Raz asked.
Perses turned to look at him. He nodded his head to Alex. He gave Raz an eerie smile and then continued hiking.
“There’s a bunker a quarter mile from the location,” she said. “It’s not marked on any map, but it is the reason this is a no-fly zone. I think that’s where we’re going.”
Raz knew better than to be surprised. Every plan had three or four side journeys. When he started working with Alex, he’d tell her she was wasting time on these side ventures. She’d smile and nod. But time and time again, the simple complexity of her plans saved them.
The farther away from the circle of light, the noisier the men became. Through their ear buds, Alex’s second in command, Captain Matthew Mac Clenaghan, asked if they should take out the man they were following. She made no indication she heard them They slowed at a slight hillside. A clear dirt path continued in front of them. But Perses turned to the right into the dense forest. He went about six feet and stopped.
“Take them inside,” Perses said to Alex. His voice was straight out of British-ruled Africa. “I’ll get the prisoner. We’ll talk when I get back?”
Alex nodded her head.
Perses moved to touch Alex, but Raz stood in the way. The man gave an unearthly smile, turned in place, and ran off into the dark.
Alex raised her hand. Matthew, Troy, and Vince emerged from the forest. With a nod, she walked until she reached a large granite formation. Rounding a forty foot high boulder, Alex slipped through a gap between the boulder and the dirt.
“Head lamps,” she ordered.
She pressed against the dirt walls of the natural cave. Certain she’d lost her mind, the men gaped at her actions.
“These bunkers were built in the late 1920s . . . early ’30s . . . around the time the stock market crashed.” She pushed on a wall. “This is it. Mattie? Troy? Can you stand on the right here? Raz? Vince? Over here? It’s going to take all of us to move this.”
“What are we doing?” Troy asked. His voice echoed his suspicion that she had lost her mind.
“Oh. Sorry. In the movies, there’s some complicated mechanism at the entrance to these places. They aren’t. There is a sliding metal door under this dirt.”
“So we dig?” Raz asked.
“No. No one was sure what or who would use these bunkers. They determined that a single person should be able to get into a bunker. When Army engineers designed these bunkers, they made them accessible for teams of at least twelve men. Damn-the-politicians kind of thing. I’ve heard the entrances are some combination of easy and hard.”
“Who put these together?” Matthew asked.
“Let’s see if we can get in,” Alex said. “I’ll tell you about it when we get inside.”
“What do we do?” Vince asked.
“The doors slide one way or the other. Each one is a little different.”
“On my count . . . One, two, three,” Matthew said.
With Alex in the middle of the dirt wall, the men pushed to her right. They felt the wall shift as if it wanted to move but couldn’t.
“Is there a lock?” Raz asked.
“Say ‘Friend’ and enter.” Troy quoted from the Lord of the Rings. In elvish, Troy said, “Mellon.”
“Mellon?” Alex raised an eyebrow.
“I assure you that ‘friend’ in elvish is ‘Mellon,’” Troy said.
Matthew, Vince, and Raz clapped, and Troy bowed.
“The last time anyone was in these bunkers was during the Reagan years,” she said. “Let’s try the other direction.”
They pressed on the wall again. To the men’s surprise, the dirt wall shifted.
“One more time,” Alex said.
The wall slid to the left, hit something, and came bouncing back. Digging with her fingers, Alex removed dirt and rocks from around the door’s track.
“Try again.”
The wall slid to the left, revealing a concrete door underneath. A single padlock held the door closed. Alex lifted the padlock and then let it drop. She shook her head.
Hearing footsteps, the men raised their weapons toward the entrance of the cave. Perses, the Weasel, and two Department of Corrections guards came through the opening. Perses held a padlock key out to Alex.
The key fit the lock but wouldn’t turn.
“Let me,” Raz said.
He wiggled, jiggled, and worked the key in the lock. After a few minutes, the lock opened with a resounding click.
“Cop luck,” Raz said.
“Thief experience,” Troy said.
“That, too,” Raz laughed.
Alex pointed to Matthew, Troy, and Vince. Straining against the weight of the door, the soldiers pulled open the two-foot-thick concrete door. They peered into the dark space on the other side of the door.
Alex stepped through the door onto a wide concrete platform. Her motion caused a series of lights to flicker and then come on. The lights revealed a long concrete stairwell. Alex motioned the men into the stairwell.
“I’m not going in there,” the Weasel said.
Laughing, Troy pushed the Weasel in front of him down the stairs. In quick order, the Department of Corrections officers, Matthew, Vince, followed by Raz went down the stairwell. Alex nodded for Perses to go, but he shook his head.
“The Fey left by helicopter,” Perses said in French. “But your Jakker is waiting for his Fey.”
“What’s going on?” Alex asked in French.
“There’s a natural gas field under this entire area.”
“It’s depleted,” Alex said. “There’s only CO2 and some remnant methane. Oh.”
“Unavoidable explosion caused by a freak compression of the carbon dioxide.”
“Hit on me?”
“Two contracts from the Americas—your rodent and . . . The other contract is for the Fey. The contract specifies tattoos and . . .” Perses lips pulled tight in a grimace. “Female.”
“United States?” Alex asked.
“As far as I can tell . . . yes,” Perses said. “I’m here to assess accessibility of a contract on the Fey. But a number of people have picked up this contract.”
“How many?” Alex asked.
“A lot. It’s a rich contract. I’m sorry,” he said. “This one won’t be easily avoided.”
Alex grimaced.
“Also, you need to know. The Boy Scout is missing.”
“Dead?”
Alex’s voice lifted in joy. The Boy Scout had been assigned to the Fey Special Forces Team six months before they were killed. Incompetent, he was nothing but trouble for the team and particularly for Alex.
“Missing. He made his last check-in and caught a ride out of Afgha