Dangerous Desires (3 page)

He hadn’t had a choice. It had been her life or his. But even so, he couldn’t let it go.

Not that he intended to share that fact.

He trusted his friends, but he wasn’t a share-his-guts kind of guy. So he’d rebuffed all attempts to talk and thrown himself into his work. He nodded at fellow professors and students as he walked, forcing his thoughts to the lecture he’d just given. He’d always found the past a better place than the present. It was part of why he’d chosen archaeology as a profession.

At least until the CIA had come calling.

“Professor Flynn,” a breathless coed called, her voice interrupting his thoughts. “Have you got a minute?”

He stopped, dutifully shifting his attention to the girl in front of him. “What can I do for you, Stacey?”

“I had a question about the degradation of ancient ruins,” she said, glancing up at him coyly from behind lowered lashes. God, they started young. “You were talking about how much had been lost to deforestation and greed. And I was just wondering why it mattered so much. I mean, isn’t it better to have progress? People working? Food on the table?”

“There certainly is an argument to be made for the modern world over the ancient one,” Drake responded. “But I’m not sure that stripping the land of everything it harbors—trees, animals, artifacts—is truly a step forward. There’s got to be a way for us to use our past to make a better future. And if we destroy everything that’s old, we lose a valuable tool in understanding not just where we’ve been but where we’re going. Look, Stacey, since you seem to be so interested, maybe you should consider the topic for your paper.”

“Thanks, Dr. Flynn. I’ll think about it. And you’re right”—the girl licked her lips and flicked her hair provocatively, and Drake fought to keep his expression neutral—“not everything old is bad. I mean, look at you.”

“Right. I’m positively decrepit.” He nodded, shaking his head as she walked away. Maybe he was taking it all too damn seriously. It was a job, and Cass had been a distraction. Nothing more. She’d played him. But in the end he’d managed to come out on top. And he’d learned his lesson. He’d handle it better next time, and he had no
doubt there’d be a next time. A-Tac wasn’t about sitting on your ass and doing nothing. It was a war. Pure and simple. And sometimes the bad guys got a leg up.

But, push come to shove, A-Tac usually won the day.

The American Tactical Intelligence Command was an off-the-books arm of the CIA. Operating out of Sunderland College, it was cloaked under the guise of the Aaron Thomas Academic Center, one of the country’s foremost think tanks. Members of the unit were adept at both academics and espionage, their unique abilities setting the stage for some of the CIA’s most dangerous missions.

“Fraternizing with the coeds?” Nash Brennon asked, pulling Drake from his reverie. Nash was Drake’s best friend, as well as A-Tac’s second in command. He also chaired Sunderland’s history department. An expert in covert operations, he was the go-to guy when something needed to be accomplished under the radar.

“Are you kidding me?” Drake asked, shaking his head. “She’s like nineteen.”

“If that.” Nash grinned. “You on your way to Avery?” Avery Solomon was their boss. A hard-nosed ex-military man, Avery inspired fierce loyalty among team members. He’d successfully ridden out four political administrations, and maintained contacts at the highest levels of government, including the Oval Office.

“Yeah,” Drake said, patting the beeper on his belt. “He paged.”

“Me, too.” Nash studied him for a moment, his eyes darkening with concern. “You doing all right?”

“I’m fine,” Drake answered. “Just ready to get back to work.”

“I can understand that,” his friend said with a nod, thankfully not pushing any farther.

“So, any idea what the new orders might be?”

“Not a clue.” Nash shook his head as they walked into the Center to a bank of elevators at the back of the lobby. Nash inserted a key into an elevator marked “professors only” and the doors slid open. They stepped inside, and Drake inserted a second key as Nash pushed a button behind the Otis Elevator sign.

The doors closed as the elevator started downward to the A-Tac complex hidden beneath the campus.

“Any luck convincing Annie to join the team?” Drake asked. Nash’s wife was the exception to Drake’s rule about women. She actually made his friend happy. They’d recently married, and although Avery had done everything possible to convince Annie, an ex-CIA operative, to join A-Tac, she was still holding out.

“Not yet. But I think maybe she’s weakening. Avery asked her the other day for about the millionth time if she’d be interested in being reactivated. Usually she just says no. But this time she told him she’d think about it.”

“Sounds like progress. I bet she won’t hold out much longer. Hell, she’s as much of an adrenaline junkie as the rest of us. She’s got to be itching to get back into the saddle.”

“Well, there’s Adam to think about.” Nash and Annie had almost lost their son a year ago. “I know he’s safe here, but I worry about both of us being gone.”

“So you split your time,” Drake shrugged. “It’s doable.”

“Hey, I’m not the one saying no.” He held up his hands in defense as the elevator doors slid open. They
walked into what appeared to be a reception area, and Nash slapped his hand on a bust of Aaron Thomas, the Center’s namesake. Then, palm identification completed, a panel in the far wall slid open, and Drake followed Nash into the A-Tac complex.

“I was wondering where you guys had gotten to,” Hannah Marshall said, as the panel slid shut again. Although no one would ever guess it, Hannah was the team’s intel expert. She looked more like one of her students than an expert in both political theory and ferreting out information. Her spiky hair was streaked with purple today, the glasses perched on the end of her nose a contrasting green. “Everybody’s waiting for you in the war room.”

“So what’s the mission?” Nash asked.

“No idea.” Hannah shrugged. “You know Avery doesn’t like spilling the beans until everyone’s together.”

The three of them walked into the war room. With computer banks flanking the walls and LCD screens above and behind the oblong conference table, the oversized space was the heart of A-Tac.

Hannah moved over to the far end of the table, opened a computer console and flipped up the screen. Like Jason Lawton, who was sitting to her left, she lived on her computer. Jason handled the unit’s IT needs, as well as computer forensics. A whiz with everything electronic, he was an invaluable asset to both the college and the team.

Jason lifted a hand in greeting as Nash settled in next to him. Across the way, Tyler Hanson was sitting on the edge of the table, talking with Avery, her long blond hair, as usual, pulled back into a ponytail.

Tyler was the epitome of the girl next door—with a definite twist. Drake doubted there was a bomb in
existence that she couldn’t put together or tear apart. She served as the team’s ordnance expert. And, to add to the dichotomy, she was also the chair of Sunderland’s English department.

Rounding out the team were Emmett Walsh and Lara Prescott. Emmett handled the team’s communication issues. And Lara, a noted expert in biochemical warfare, served as the team’s medical officer.

It was a diverse group. But they were all professionals. And Drake would have laid his life down for any one of them. And even though he was the newest member of the team, he knew that the sentiment was returned.

“You okay?” Lara asked as Drake dropped into the chair beside her. “I haven’t had the chance to talk to you since you got back from Hungary.” In the face of her open concern, Drake bit back his flippant retort. It wasn’t her fault he’d acted like a fool.

“I’m doing better. Thanks. Like I told Nash, I’m ready to get back to work.”

Lara nodded, her gaze speculative, clearly seeing far more than he wanted her to. But thankfully, before she had the chance to respond, Avery cleared his throat, signaling that the meeting was to begin.

“Now that everyone is here,” Avery said, “why don’t we get started. We’ve been charged with an extraction.” He pressed a button in front of him and the screen filled with the picture of a woman. “Her name is Madeline Reynard.”

“French?” Tyler asked, obviously going off the name.

“No. American,” Avery said. “Although we don’t know too much else about her. She seems to have sprung fully formed, so to speak. According to her passport, she’s
from a small town outside New Orleans. Cypress Bluff. But we couldn’t find any record of her there at all.”

“So she’s lying about her name,” Drake said, as he studied the woman’s photograph.

She was tiny, her long dark hair curling wildly around her face. Her features were sharp, her chin a little long, her nose aquiline. But even so, she was still a looker, with full lips and a body that begged a man to touch her. Tottering on heels that should be declared illegal, she stood on a corner, arm held up as she hailed a taxi.

“Or maybe she’s one of those people who just falls through the cracks.” Emmett shrugged. “It happens.”

“Either way, we’re more interested in her present than her past,” Avery said. “According to our intel, for the past three years, she’s been associated with Jorge di Silva.”

“The drug racketeer.” Jason nodded, clearly recognizing the name.

“Actually, di Silva’s gone a step beyond that,” Hannah said, typing something into her computer. “They’ve even coined a new term—narcoterrorist. Not only is he producing and dealing cocaine, he’s using the proceeds to buy and sell weapons to the highest bidders. No questions asked.”

“Hell of a guy.” Drake frowned. “So how does Madeline Reynard fit into all of this?”

“She says she’s his mistress,” Avery said. “And there’s some evidence to support the idea. According to the briefing file I was given, he had her plucked out of a Colombian prison. Place called San Mateo.”

“I’ve heard of it.” Emmett nodded. “Some kind of fortress in the Chaco region. I thought it was reserved for political prisoners.”

“And foreigners,” Avery said.

“So what landed her in San Mateo?” Nash asked.

“No idea,” Hannah said, still typing. “Most people don’t even know the prison exists. Which is exactly how the Colombian government wants it. Anyway, as such, their security is top-notch and prisoner records aren’t easy to come by.”

“When has that ever stopped you?” Jason quipped.

“I’m working on it.” Hannah frowned, her hair standing on end as she absently ran a hand through it. Drake smiled. If anyone could break into San Mateo’s data banks, Hannah would be the one.

“So when was the photograph taken?” Tyler asked, as she studied the picture.

“About six months ago,” Avery said, shifting so that he could see the photo as well. “In Bogotá. That’s di Silva behind her.” The man in the picture had his back turned, his attention on someone out of the frame.

“Here’s a better one of him,” Hannah said.

The chiseled, flat-nosed face that filled the screen was almost identical to the ones that decorated the burial mounds and ancient monuments of the pre-Columbian ruins scattered along the Cauca River. Generations of genealogy pooled into one man. His autocratic bearing, however, had no doubt descended straight from the conquistadors, Castilian arrogance at its best. Drake shook his head, pushing away his anthropological thoughts in favor of more practical details.

“Okay, so we know that the woman has a sketchy past.” Drake frowned. “And that she’s been living with a drug lord. But I’m not seeing exactly where it is that we come into this.”

“Apparently, she went to the Embassy in Bogotá and asked for help.” Avery hit a button and the photo of di Silva moved back to the one of Madeline.

“In return for?” Tyler prompted.

“Information on di Silva and his operations.” Everybody broke into conversation at once, speculation running rampant.

“So why doesn’t her contact at the Embassy handle the extraction?” Drake asked, ignoring the chatter, focusing instead on Madeline Reynard’s face.

“Because the man’s dead.” Avery’s pronouncement had the effect of silencing the room.

“Son of a bitch,” Nash said, putting voice to the prevailing sentiment. “Anyone we know?”

“I don’t think so. He was fairly new to the diplomatic corps. This was his first posting. Guy named Will Richardson.”

“So what happened?” Lara asked.

“He was murdered. Gunned down outside his apartment.”

“I take it Richardson’s death is being linked to di Silva?” Nash asked.

“There’s no hard evidence.” Avery shrugged. “The police are blaming local gang activity. But if you play connect the dots it seems likely.”

“That still doesn’t preclude the Embassy from doing their own dirty work. They have assigned CIA personnel.” Jason looked up from his computer with a frown.

“Yes, but Madeline isn’t in Bogotá anymore,” Avery said. “Shortly after Richardson’s death, she was removed to di Silva’s compound in the mountains.” He nodded at Hannah, who switched the photograph again, this one
depicting a sprawling stucco home. “This is di Silva’s hacienda. Casa de Orquídea. The area’s known for its orchids. Anyway, the house is part of a compound located about twenty miles due west of Cali. It’s officially listed as a coffee plantation. But as we know, there are other, more lucrative crops that grow well in that part of the Andes.”

“Like the coca plant,” Emmett inserted.

“Exactly.” Avery nodded.

“And that’s where Madeline is?” Tyler asked with a frown. “Not going to be an easy in and out.”

“That whole area is pretty inhospitable,” Nash agreed. “I’m assuming he’s got guards.”

“Full-meal deal.” Avery nodded again at Hannah, who switched to a map of the area. “Surveillance, perimeter rotation, and at least four men on duty in the house. He’s also got eyes on all approaching roads.”

“We can helicopter in,” Drake said, frowning up at the map. “Then hike through the jungle and catch them by surprise.”

“Makes sense,” Nash agreed. “But we’ll need to disable the cameras somehow.”

“I should be able to do that from here.” Jason shrugged.