Chapter 9
The coded signal came in just as Mike Callahan was about to turn the control desk over to his relief.
It was only a little past four in the afternoon, D.C. time, but it was late evening on the coast of Normandy. Mike had taken Slash’s report several hours ago. He’d figured on grabbing a few hours sleep while his field operative did the same.
His pulse kicking up a notch at the unscheduled contact, Mike nudged his relief aside and brought Slash’s digitized image up on the screen.
“Thought you were locked down for the night, buddy.”
Sliding into his seat at the console, Mike noted the rigid set to Cutter’s jaw. Someone or something had gotten to him.
“What’s up?”
“I want to read Dawes in on the op.”
“Roger that.”
Callahan didn’t question the abrupt change in plans. He trusted Cutter Smith’s instincts implicitly. He should. The two of them went back a long way. Over the years they’d shared ops, beers and the occasional night out with whatever females they happened to be involved with at the time.
Those years had forged bonds that went beyond friendship. Danger had further hardened the bonds to tempered steel. On one memorable occasion, Slash had manned a Black Hawk helicopter’s 20mm cannon to hold off more than fifty enraged rebels while Mike scrambled for the hoist cable that would extract him from the sweltering jungle. On another, Mike had jumped in a Navy jet and flown halfway across the world to accompany Slash on the agonizing medevac flight home after a certain traitorous bitch had left him bleeding, burned and unconscious.
Neither of them talked about that long, horrific flight. Or about the woman Cutter had later tracked down. Some things didn’t need discussing. Reading a target into an operational mission with such top-level interest, however, did.
“I’ll have to run this by Lightning.”
“I know.”
“He’s going to want to know the rationale.”
“Tell him … ”
Slash’s hesitation was as uncharacteristic as his scowl. Mike waited a beat, wondering what the hell had happened in the scant hours since his last report.
“Tell him I’m convinced Dawes didn’t know the disk was in her suitcase. I want to work with her, see if she can shed some light on how it got there.”
“You sure she’ll cooperate? She might not take kindly to learning that you’ve had her in your sights all this time.”
“She’s already tipped to the fact that I have more than a friendly interest in her.” He paused again, then added a gruff postscript. “Considerably more, as it happens. Things, uh, got personal tonight.”
Mike had spent too many years undercover to react to that bit of news, but he had to work to hold back a low whistle. The only other time Cutter had led with his dick instead of his head, he’d wound up in a burn ward.
“You sure you know what you’re doing, buddy?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Cutter stared straight into the camera. “Get back with me as soon you talk to Lightning.”
Mike didn’t need to check the electronic status board to know Lightning wasn’t on site. He’d departed some hours ago to participate in a charity sports event at the Army-Navy Country Club. Wearing his Presidential Envoy/millionaire restaurateur persona, Nick Jensen and his wife, OMEGA’s chief of communications, were knocking tennis balls around the court at something like a thousand dollars a whack.
So was Nick’s executive assistant, Mike remembered with a sudden kink in his gut. Gillian had called up to advise Control she’d be at the country club with Nick and Mackenzie.
“You’ve got the stick,” Mike instructed his relief. “I don’t want to catch Lightning in midswing and throw him off his game. I’ll deliver Slash’s request in person.”
Shrugging into his red windbreaker with its Military Marksmanship Association patch on the breast pocket, he dug his car keys out of the pocket of his jeans and descended to the tunnel that led to OMEGA’s specially shielded underground parking facility.
His tan Blazer sat in its usual spot. The vehicle was only two years old but had already logged over a hundred thousand miles. Mike knew it was good for another hundred-plus. Drew McDowell, code name Riever, owned and operated a chain of classic car restoration shops in his civilian life. Drew had personally replaced the rods and adjusted the timing. The Blazer could go from zero to sixty in three-point-six seconds.
The acceleration came in handy when Mike wasn’t in the field, working an op for OMEGA, and had to eat up road between his Alexandria condo and the Firearms Training Unit at Quantico, where he taught agents from a half dozen federal agencies the fine art of blowing away bad guys.
The familiar stink of the solvent he used to clean his weapons after a shoot permeated the Blazer. Mike kept a complete kit in the rear well—bores, brushes, rods, gun vise, wood and metal polish—all the tools of his trade. He carried his Mauser 86sr in a concealed compartment, as well. NATO snipers trained with a military version of Mauser, which featured a ventilated stock to dissipate heat and a detachable box for quick switching from high-to low-penetration rounds. Mike’s had been custom built to his specifications.
Exiting the garage, he opened the car windows and let the brisk September air blow away the stink. Fall was in full swing, he noted absently as he negotiated the pre-rush hour rush. The oak and chestnut trees had already begun to turn. Fat yellow mums nodded from pots and planters along Massachusetts Avenue. His eyes shielded from the bright sun by mirrored sunglasses, Mike cut over to the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge to avoid the usual logjam on 395 and cruised along Memorial Parkway. As always, the solid bulk of the Pentagon stirred memories of his years in uniform.
His first months had been rough. He’d arrived at boot camp with a chip the size of Rhode Island on his shoulder and a mouth to match. It hadn’t taken long for a lean, wiry DI to cut the new recruit down to size. By the time Mike graduated from boot camp, he’d found a home and the family he’d never had.
He’d started in law enforcement, a rookie cop with few skills except the ability to put every round dead center at the practice range. That skill had served him well after transferring to an ultrasecret, highly mobile Special Ops forward insertion unit.
Mike would still be in uniform if Nick Jensen hadn’t convinced him he could serve his country just as effectively in a different capacity. The transition was a wrench, but Mike had never looked back. OMEGA was every bit as tight as his Special Ops unit.
And Nick Jensen made one helluva boss, he thought as he pulled up at the gatehouse of the hallowed Army-Navy Country Club, a scant mile south of the Pentagon. Two guards manned the gate, along with a civilian-type Mike immediately identified as Secret Service. Wondering which of the President’s numerous progeny were participating in the tennis tournament, he flipped open the ID case that cleared him for access to any government installation.
With a respectful nod, the guard activated the wrought-iron gates. “Welcome to Army-Navy, sir.”
“Thanks.”
Tucking away his ID, Mike navigated the winding road that cut through the superbly manicured grounds. Founded in the early 1920s to provide recreational facilities for military and civilians assigned to the nation’s capital, the sprawling complex covered more than five hundred acres of wooded Virginia countryside. Mike played an occasional round of golf at the club, but didn’t go out of his way to rub elbows with the generals, admirals, senators and foreign ambassadors who made up the bulk of the membership.
The indoor/outdoor tennis courts were some way past the redbrick, white-pillared clubhouse. A festive crowd had gathered to watch the matches underway on all four outdoor courts. Cheers rose with every returned volley, while groans abounded after each missed shot.
Nick and Mackenzie were hard at it on court number three. Mike could see the sweat streaking his boss’s dark-gold hair. Mac had drawn her mink-brown mane back in a ponytail that whipped from side to side with every strong-armed swing. They were matched with a hook-nosed reporter from the Washington Post and his partner, an angular, gray-haired woman Mike recognized as an undersecretary of defense.
But it was the couple on court two that riveted Mike’s attention. Gillian’s blouse and thigh-skimming pleated skirt were both pristine white, but she’d topped them with a hot pink sleeveless V-neck sweater. Her sun visor was the same neon pink, trimmed with sparkling crystals. And when she stretched to return a killer serve, she flashed a glimpse of matching briefs.
Mike’s throat went dry. He knew damned well tennis stars like Venus and Serena Williams were glamming up the courts with colorful outfits and sequined shoes. He just wasn’t prepared for the sight of Gillian Ridgeway in pink panties with a crystal heart etched on the right butt cheek.
Or for her partner’s reaction when she scored the winning point. Whooping with delight, the jerk caught her up and whirled in a full circle before planting a kiss on her laughing lips.
“Game, set and match to Ridgeway and Olmstead,” the announcer intoned while Mike’s eyes narrowed to slits behind his sunglasses.
The urge to smash his fist in this guy Olmstead’s face was completely irrational. That didn’t make it any less atavistic. Jaw tight, he jammed his hands in his pockets.
They were still there, bunched into tight fists, when Gillian gathered her gear and came off the court. She accepted the congratulations of several spectators before she spotted him off to the side of the crowd.
“Mike!”
A smile sparkled in her vivid blue eyes. A friendly smile, he lectured himself sternly, the kind she’d drop on any casual acquaintance.
“Did you see the match?”
“Only the last few minutes.” Which would, he knew, replay repeatedly in his head for nights to come. “You’re good.”
“I’m okay. My golf game is better, though.”
Dragging up one end of the towel draped around her neck, she daubed at the sweat plastering tendrils of her jet-black hair to her temples.
“I understand you’ve been known to hit the fairways,” she commented. “Maybe we should get up a foursome some weekend. You and I could take on Uncle Nick and my father. Dad is always looking for fresh blood.”
Mike couldn’t think of anything that would throw off his concentration more completely than sharing a golf cart with Gillian Ridgeway while two of OMEGA’s most lethal operatives watched their every move.
“Or I could pair up with Dayna,” she suggested with a grin, referring to an OMEGA operative who just happened to be an Olympic gold medalist. “We girls could take on you boys.”
He was still trying to adjust to being classified as a “boy” when Gillian’s partner strolled up and draped an arm across her shoulders.
“Hey, Jilly. We need to sign the score sheet.”
Mike had made a career in the profession of arms. He could bring up his weapon, fix a target in his crosshairs and squeeze off a shot in less time than it took other men to chamber a round. With the same split-second precision, he sized up Jilly’s partner as arrogant, over-confident and possessive.
“In a minute.” Looking too damned comfortable in the circle of the man’s arm, Gillian made the introductions. “Wayland, this is Mike Callahan. Mike, Wayland Olmstead.”
Mike knew the name and the rep, if not the face. Yale undergrad. Harvard law. Hotshot young attorney carving a niche for himself at the National Security Agency.
“Good to meet you, Callahan.”
The grip went with the man. Too strong and too long, as if signaling his power. Mike resisted the impulse to crunch the jerk’s knuckles.
“I see you’re a shooter,” Olmstead commented, eyeing the Military Marksmanship Association patch.
“Not just a shooter,” Gillian corrected. “A world champion. Mike instructs at the Federal Law Enforcement Academy at Quantico,” she added, supplying his civilian cover. “He’s the man my father strong-armed into teaching me to shoot.”
Adam Ridgeway was more than capable of teaching his daughter how to handle weapons. So was her mom, for that matter. Maggie Sinclair’s exploits were still the stuff of legend at OMEGA. But both parents had preferred a professional instructor, insisting that Mike could be more objective in assessing Gillian’s strengths and weaknesses. Shows what they knew.
“You did a heck of a job,” Olmstead said, squeezing her shoulders. “Jilly knocks down more sporting clays than I do every time we take out the Blassingames.”
The message was about as subtle as a rifle butt to the bridge of the nose. A used Blassingame, if you could find one, went for a cool fifty thousand.
Idiot.
“I think you should know,” Gillian warned, her eyes twinkling. “Samantha and Tank have been pestering Dad for lessons, too.”
Mike had no problem with teaching Jilly’s college-aged sister to shoot, but the prospect of putting a gun into the hands of her teenaged brother drained every ounce of blood from his face.
Gillian had to laugh at his expression. He couldn’t have looked more horrified if she’d shrugged off Wayland’s arm, gone up on tiptoe and given him a class-A liplock.
Something she’d thought about doing more and more frequently, she mused as a roar rose from the bleachers surrounding court three.
“Game, set and match to Jensen and Jensen.”
“Good for Nick and Mackenzie!” With another squeeze, Wayland steered Gillian back toward the courts. “Let’s go congratulate each other.”
“Coming, Mike?”
“I’ll wait here.” He adjusted his sunglasses and gave her one of his Uncle-Mike-to-little-Jilly smiles. “Tell Nick I need to talk to him when he gets a minute.”
One of these days, she vowed as she accompanied Wayland through the milling crowd, she’d have to convince him she was all grown up.
After consulting with Lightning, Mike waited until he was back in the Blazer to contact Cutter. Traffic was a bitch, crawling along like a snail on tranquilizers, belching diesel fumes into the slowly gathering dusk.
The traffic snarl matched Mike’s mood. He could have gone all month without that glimpse of Olmstead tipping a champagne glass to Gillian’s lips.
Hell, all year.
With a surly sneer for the unbroken stream of red taillights ahead, he punched a two-digit code into his phone.
“Lightning gave the green light,” he relayed when Cutter’s image appeared on the screen. “You can read Dawes into the op.”
“Roger that.”
The leap of satisfaction in Cutter’s face had Mike biting back a warning. Slash knew what he was doing. He wouldn’t fall for another female with a soul as flawed as the one who’d damned near killed him.
“When do you plan to tell her?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks, Hawk.”
Cutter woke early the next morning.
A cold wind rattled the windows, causing the château to creak and groan with the prerogative of age, but he didn’t hear a sound from the suite next door.
That was fine with him. He needed a good run to clear his head. He’d lost several hours of sleep to the image of Mallory’s angry face and stormy eyes when she jerked away from his touch. Even more to the vivid memory of her slick flesh and low, throaty moan when she’d climaxed in his arms. He’d have to talk hard and fast to recover the ground he’d lost last night. Faster still to get her into bed again.
With various strategies for how he’d break the news that she was the primary suspect in an identity theft of massive proportions kicking around in his head, Cutter pulled on the jogging suit OMEGA’s Field Dress Unit had included in his hastily assembled kit. He would have preferred his usual Nikes and well-worn gray sweats but had to admit the chocolate-brown velour designer job felt as soft as a fuzzy kitten against his skin.
He followed the scent of fresh-brewed coffee and rising yeast to a kitchen aglow with copper pots. Gilbért was seated at a peg-and-board oak table with his jacket hooked on the back of his chair and the remains of his breakfast in front of him. Madame Picard stood at a granite slab of a counter and rolled pastry dough with floured arms.
“‘Morning.”
Abashed to be caught in his shirtsleeves, Gilbért scrambled for his jacket. “Excusez-moi, monsieur. I did not hear the bell.”
“I didn’t ring. Please, sit down. I just want some coffee before I head out for a run. May I join you?”
“But of course.”
The coffee was thick and tarry black, the cream light and frothy. One cup led to another, then to a brioche fresh from the oven. Regretfully, Cutter passed on a second until after his run.
The morning mist swirled gray and thick when Gilbért disarmed the security system and Cutter exited into the cobbled courtyard. Discreetly placed cameras tracked his progress through the gate and onto the long, sweeping drive.
Instead of following the drive to the main road, he opted for a path that led along the cliffs. A mile at a slow trot loosened muscles that hadn’t been exercised in several days. With the ocean hidden by the fog but roaring loudly in his ears, Cutter gradually lengthened his stride. Salty mist dewed on his face. Damp air filled his lungs. Thoughts of Mallory Dawes looped through his head.
Six miles later, the velour was drenched with sweat and Cutter had decided on a direct approach. He wouldn’t gain anything by pussyfooting around the issue. First he’d shower and shave. Then he’d tell Mallory about the disk, inform her that he’d had her under close surveillance since Paris, and brace himself for the firestorm that would follow.
He accomplished the first two items on his agenda with minimum fuss and maximum speed.
His cheeks tingling from the rapid scrape of his razor, he tugged on slacks and a lightweight knit sweater in a peacocky blue, compliments of Field Dress, and rapped on the door to Mallory’s suite. When she didn’t answer, he tried the small dining salon, the oak-paneled library and the music room before once again making his way to the kitchen. Madame Picard was still at the counter, peeling apples for the pie shell she’d baked while he was running.
“The run?” she inquired politely. “It is good?”
“Very good. Has Mademoiselle Dawes come down?”
“Oui.” The paring knife made a small circle in the air. “She comes, she goes.”
“Goes?”
“Oui. The telephone rings, and mademoiselle, she asks Gilbért to drive her.”
“Drive her where?”
“Into town, to the train station.”
Cutter smothered a vicious oath. “How long?”
“Pardon?”
“How long have they been gone?”
Her shoulders lifted in that quintessential Gallic shrug. “Five minutes, perhaps ten.”
Cutter spun on his heel and sprinted for the stairs to retrieve his car keys, cursing all the way.