Twenty stories below, sun baked a pavement lined with compact cars maneuvering the Quebec rush hour like a string of worker ants, all hot-wired to serve their queen. The queen in his world was the mighty dollar. Always had been. Always would be. He was only paid, however, if he kept his suppliers happy. And he could only keep them happy if he didn’t blow his carefully nurtured cover. That cover was his first line of defense.

Because of Eva Salinas, that line was threatening to crumble. Because of Eva Salinas, he was hiding like a common criminal. The rage that indignity dealt him was eclipsed only by his determination to repair the damage before it got out of control.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he brooded about his dilemma. She had to die, of course. Both her and Brown. If Jane had fulfilled her obligation, all of this would be behind him. But she hadn’t, and they’d both paid the price. He’d been relieved when his man had delivered her, weak and in pain, but stoically bearing up, a few hours ago. She rested comfortably now. A doctor had seen her. And he had insisted she take the pain medication, unable to bear seeing her in such agony.

He was not accustomed to feeling tenderness for a woman—for another human being, for that matter. That Jane provoked not only tenderness but an unfamiliar fear of loss was not something he chose to analyze. She mattered in a way that his well-bred wife and pampered children had never mattered.

On an equally disturbing front, neither Brown nor Eva had turned up yet. Which royally pissed him off.

Jaw clenched, he walked to the bar and poured two fingers of whiskey from a $2,500 bottle of Bruichladdich Forty. He savored the first sip, then walked across the Italian marble floor and sank down onto one of a trio of white leather sofas flanking a spectacular saltwater reef aquarium that spanned the width of the room.

A spotted ray—his favorite, next to the stingray from which he’d taken his code name—floated across the panorama, blissfully unmindful of a reef shark skimming along the white sand below him. Flashes of purple, red, and yellow darted by, all fish of various sizes and shapes. The variety of colorful sea life, live rock, and luminous, undulating corals was designed to soothe and mesmerize, but the brilliant spectacle barely registered. He was looking inward. And all he saw was red.

He’d made a huge mistake. He’d attempted to handle Eva’s inquisitiveness by monitoring her activities, waiting for her to back off on her impromptu investigation. He still didn’t know what had set her off in that direction. He just knew it couldn’t be good. And that he’d let sentiment blind him to grim necessity. He’d also underestimated her determination. He would never make either mistake again.

Where the hell had she gone? Where was Brown?

Deductive reasoning pointed to one or both of them returning to the States. Probably D.C. It only made sense. And it only made sense that they were working together—whether as adversaries or allies, time would tell. Either way, they were more dangerous together. Like dynamite was dangerous.

He had to get to them, silence them, before they found out the truth. If that happened, his current problems would look about as lethal as an overdue book fine.

All of his resources were focused on finding them. While he had hoped the team he’d sent to toss her apartment would lead him to her or Brown, or at the very least turn up some clue to what had triggered her investigation into OSD and Afghanistan, they’d found nothing.

Her apartment had been clean, but in case she’d hidden something damaging there, he’d made certain it was destroyed. Because his team was competent, any possibility of determining the fire was due to arson was a solid 95 percent in his favor. An empty apartment, with a coffeepot negligently left turned on or a faulty TV or other small appliance, would be the first place an investigator would look for cause. And the only place when they had evidence that an electrical fire had, indeed, been the culprit.

Regardless, they were still at square one. The only positive note was that if Salinas and Brown had what they needed to expose him, it would have hit the papers by now. He’d have been notified that charges had been filed and an international manhunt would be underway. None of that was in the wind.

Which meant the clock ticked for all of them. If he found them first, they died and he won. He had every intention of winning.

His secure phone rang. When he saw the return number, his pulse spiked. The call was from Mark Barnes, his cyber-surveillance guru. “Tell me you have news.”

“Someone hacked into the CIA database using the Salinas woman’s user ID and passcode.”

That someone had to be Eva or someone acting on her behalf. For the first time since Jane had called to inform him of her failure, he felt some relief.

23

Mike and Eva left Dulles at 8:30 the next morning and after an eight-hour flight with a connection in Denver, landed in Spokane, Washington, around 2:30 p.m. mountain time. The black Jeep Cherokee that was waiting for them was well used and rode like a lumber wagon as Mike drove down Highway 2, heading for Squaw Valley, Idaho, and the UWD compound. If Mapquest and their calculations were correct, they were looking at another hour or so tops.

Beside him in the passenger seat, Eva consulted an area road map. He still couldn’t get used to the way she looked as Maria. They’d done their best to drab her down. Her face was free of makeup. A quick dye job had turned her hair a muddy brown that she’d pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail. And just in case her washed-out jeans, loose blue tank top, and worn tennis shoes didn’t finish the look, they’d given her a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

In theory, everything combined should have transformed her into the equivalent of a brown paper bag.

Fat chance.

They could shave her head and dress her in a gunnysack and she’d still take his breath away. She was that stunning. Add in the vulnerability factor that the loss of her apartment had triggered, and piggyback that onto a rock-solid—some might call it pigheaded—resolve to see this through to the end… and hell, he was flat-out, un-freaking-believably captivated by everything about her.

Yeah, captivated. Who was he, Lord-freaking-Byron, all of a sudden? He didn’t think in those terms. Hot. Smokin’. Sexilicious. Those were his kind of words. What the hell was wrong with him?

Concentrate, sucker. And cut yourself some slack. Spending hours on end on a plane and now in this vehicle with her didn’t help. Thinking about last night, when he’d wanted to haul his sorry self up off the sofa where he hadn’t been getting any sleep, knock on her bedroom door, and invite himself back into her bed, didn’t help.

Dipstick—party of one. Your table is ready.

He did not get why this woman messed up his head so badly. He hadn’t met a bottle of pisco that screwed him up this much.

But right now, right now, he had to get his head out of his ass, get it firmly in the game, and keep both of them alive.

A deer shot up from a ditch and he had to break hard and swerve to miss it, forcing his attention back to his driving.

“That was close.”

He glanced at Eva, then back at the four-lane highway, glad he was wearing shades so she couldn’t read his thoughts through his eyes. Close? She didn’t know the half of it.

“Been a long time since I’ve used anything but a GPS for directions.” Her businesslike tone grounded him to the task at hand.

In keeping with her living-on-a-shoestring budget and with his just-out-of-prison-with-no-work cover, they were running strictly low-tech. They had one buy-minutes-as-you-go cell phone between them, and the paper map since they had no GPS capability.

They also had two handguns tucked in the glove box—a Makarov, the commie version of a Walther PPK that Dan, recently released from the pen, would have bought on the sly and on the cheap, and hers was a Taurus PT92, a reasonably decent version of the handgun that Maria had carried in the Army before she’d separated from military service over a decade ago. They had no doubt that the cell and both guns would have to be surrendered before they stepped one foot into the compound. All fringe groups had a tendency to be a tad bit paranoid, but to come in carrying showed allegiance to the cause. Can we say trigger-happy, ladies and gents?

But without weapons they were toast if things got dicey, because once they hit that compound, they were on their own. The Squaw Valley compound was 540 acres surrounded by mountains and tall timbered forest. The moon wasn’t this remote. There would be no backup team lurking within earshot and no way to get a team anywhere close. Planning was their backup. Luck was their backup. Good acting was their backup. Stupid? Probably. Other options? None.