Free Fall (14 page)

“Then why do you want to go out with me?”

Something so very vulnerable in her voice reached out to him, made him wonder who had hurt her. He tossed aside all trust issues of his own and dove straight in. He wanted her. He would have her.

“I want to date you because when you use that stubborn temper to fight for your students, I am enchanted.” All in, he reminded himself. “Honestly? When you simply look at me, I am enchanted.”

She stayed silent so long he thought certainly she would say no. But then she sighed and leaned closer to him.

“Yes, Sam, I would very much like to have dinner with you. And as much as I fear you will regret it, I sincerely hope you continue to be enchanted.”

***

Stella angled sideways past a stack of pallets in the hangar, Jose’s footsteps even and reassuring behind her. When she’d seen the woman working at computer station five leave for her break, she’d almost broken out into a happy dance. Of all the stations, that one was positioned the farthest from the entrances—and was blocked from the view of Mr. Smith’s makeshift office by a pile of newly arrived pallets full of gear.

She glanced over her shoulder at Jose. “Are you sure you don’t mind keeping an eye out for Mr. Smith while I’m at the computer?”

“Like I would trust anyone else to keep you safe from that cranky dude?”

The intensity in his eyes brightened the dim and narrow space. Memories of the shooting outside the base swept through her mind, of that moment he’d wrapped his body around hers and to hell with anything else. She could still feel the imprint of his arms, carried the intoxicating scent of him on her clothes.

Of course he would protect her while she worked. Why couldn’t he have the same faith in himself that she had in him?

Regrets sucked—and wasted valuable time.

She edged around the end of the computer consoles. “Sorry. Silly question. Thank you.”

He pulled out her chair for her. “Be quick about it though.” He pushed her wheeled office chair closer to the monitor. “I don’t like pissing off Mr. Smith types.”

Had Jose kissed her on top of the head before he walked away?

The tingling roots of her hair declared hell yes, he had.

She shook off the sensation—or at least managed to dull it enough to work—and logged into the system. Her status with Interpol gave her limited access to the CIA files and the ongoing investigation. Her personal hacking skills would take her the rest of the way in. Keying through the layers of security, she… was… in.

Yes.

Images of the kanga cloth filled the screen, a dozen close-ups of the script. Clicking on each one, she scanned the translations, four in all on this. There was a message on each side, rather than just one down a long rectangular side. Standard stuff she would expect. Caution about the importance of saving money. Warning against chaos. Wisdom about love not seeing flaws.

Lastly,
Dua
la
kuku
halimpati
mwewe
. A loosely translated proverb about a chicken’s prayers meaning nothing to a hawk. The oppressor not caring about the wants of the oppressed.

Accessing her profile, she merged two programs to plug in the words, cycling through different combinations in hope of finding some rhythm or pattern. Lines and lines scrolled down the screen, and she knew Mr. Smith and all his minions had done the same. Still, she couldn’t stop from retracing their steps, hoping they’d missed something obvious. Where was the code? The real message of danger Ajaya had insisted could be found here? It was like she had a puzzle with only half of the…

Ah, damn it.

She sat back in the chair.

Where was the rest of the message? She thought back to taking the cloth from the backpack during their hideout while waiting for rescue. Smith said they’d already gone through everything in the backpack. Was there something left at the compound?

Had Ajaya realized all of that, knowing they wouldn’t find out enough to stop anything? If so, the kid couldn’t be trusted.

She stared at the list of traditional sayings, generic, standard ones that could be found in a fortune cookie.

Her mind shuffled through what little she’d learned… Could the sayings on the other piece of cloth be as standard? It was just a matter of stacking the right ones, in the right order, then pick through a sequence of letters to form a coherent message. Tedious, but doable if she had all the parts.

Made sense not to keep the cloths together. She read the interpreted phrases again, generic, nothing to draw undue attention. Most likely the other half would have much of the same.

She clicked through an Internet search for most common sayings woven into kangas. The more popular, the less likely it would draw attention. Then plugged them into the program and cranked back in the chair…She glanced at the time on the screen and—crap—she’d already been here for nearly forty-five minutes. How much longer did she have? Jose would send up a warning if there was a problem, and quite frankly, there wasn’t any reason why she shouldn’t be here. Mr. Smith could be territorial all he wanted. She had rights.

It would just be easier if she didn’t have to fight for them.

Her eyes scanned along the rapidly scrolling words jumbling and shifting, her mind racing to sort through possible patterns. She narrowed the search and typed in more parameters. She’d learned long ago this kind of work was a mix of science and intuition. That instinct was a higher level of the logical, something needed here as she was looking for a message in a pattern in another language altogether…

A hum started deep in her belly, the kind that told her she was on the trail. Words came together, chemical components, not a full plan but bigger pieces… A date, but no time. A name, but no place. But those parts she could fill in for herself. Just as the kid had said. There were plans to disrupt the vice president’s wife visit, during her first day in Somalia.

And while she didn’t have all the pieces yet, the chemical sounded a helluva lot like a tetanus bio toxin.

***

Jose found Mr. Smith in the last place he would have expected—out back rolling an unsmoked cigar between his fingers. The CIA operative was in charge of the intelligence angle here; even the military dudes reported up their own chain to him. This guy had some clout for even the base commander to stay hands-off this operation.

The agent didn’t jolt or even look around, but Jose could see the second Smith realized he wasn’t alone. He stopped playing with the cigar and just held it. Jose pulled up alongside him, the African sun baking the ground so hot it burned clear through his boots.

“Mind if I join you?” Jose pulled his unsmoked cigar from his uniform pocket, looking for an excuse to keep the guy occupied while Stella worked her magic.

Smith shrugged wordlessly, apparently taking a page from Bubbles’s silent and grumpy act.

Rolling his cigar between his palms, Jose tried again, “Find out anything new about the attack outside?”

Smith flipped the unlit stogie between his fingers. “Base security caught the truck that drove off, about a mile away. Local authorities stepped in after that.”

“Well, that’s the last we’ll hear of them… until the next time they attack us.”

“We do what we can do.” Smith shrugged again, stony and stoic as ever. “Once the VP’s wife is done here, we’ll be able to draw back on our presence. Or rather you will.”

Would Stella stay? Yeah, that thought had crossed his mind about a time or fifty while she slept. “I’m just focused on getting through this week. I’ll worry about future pirate missions after that.”

“Did you need something?”

Shit. His reason for coming out here. “Uh, yeah…” He held up his unsmoked Cuban and pulled the wrapper off. “Just to smoke.”

“You don’t strike me as a smoker. No nicotine stains under your fingers or on your teeth. No twitchy reach for a pack,” Mr. Smith detailed, reminding Jose that every damn move he made was analyzed.

“I’ve broken the habit for the most part. I hold out for one a month, reserve it for a stressful time.” He pulled out a lighter but… held back. “Having Stella captured by separatists hell-bent on torturing her qualifies as stressful.”

Smith pulled out his lighter again but didn’t light up the cigar. He just flicked the flame on and off, on and off. “I quit a year ago.”

Jose watched the dude, not quite able to get a read off him. He didn’t hold a cigar right so why did he have one? The question would have to wait because top priority now was keeping the head spook here from walking around the hangar while Stella snooped around.

“I imagine you’ve got big fat files on me and my team since we’ve stepped in to help on security.”

“Just call me Big Brother,” Smith said, but he wasn’t laughing.

“Well, since we’re playing on the same team here, I’m happy to help out with the profiles, if you need anything.”

“Oh really,” Smith said, eyeing him as if he already knew this was all a game.

Who the hell cared as long as it kept him outside, away from Stella? Jose shifted through for some benign stuff to share, things that were likely already in their files anyhow, like their call signs.

“You can tell a lot about each guy on the team from his call sign—nickname. Wade Rocha’s is ‘Brick,’ which means rock, like rock, rock head. He’s one hardheaded, driven dude. Then there’s Marcus ‘Data’ Dupre because, well, he’s just like Stella with the analytical brain. We call Gavin Novak ‘Bubbles’ because of the irony. We had a team leader named ‘Walker,’ but he’s moved up the chain. Captain Dominic Jablonski’s our new one. Jury’s still out on him.”

The first sign of interest showed in Smith’s eyes. “You don’t trust him?”

Unease made the hair on the nape of his neck stand up. That mission at NASA with a corrupt general was a fluke, damn it. It had to be. He wouldn’t be able to do this job if he always had to question if his teammates had his back.

He stared up at the sky, jets roaring past in a three-ship formation, striping contrails through the sky. He weighed his words before continuing. “I trust Jablonski in the big scheme of things as far as loyalty to his country and holding his own on the job. He hasn’t been around long enough for us to get a sense of his leadership.”

“What’s
his
call sign?”

“Saint.” An odd one they still hadn’t quite figured out yet, but he was willing to ponder on it if that gave Stella more time to nose around about translations on the cloth. “There are several rumors about how he got his call sign. His first name is Dominic, so Saint Nic, like Santa. Others say it’s because he’s holier than thou.”

“Not popular with the team.”

“I didn’t say that exactly.” But he’d been thinking it. “He’s just—how can I put this?—a really good guy.”

“What about the kid, Fang?”

Jose smiled at the tradition. “The acronym says it all.”

Fuck, Another New Guy. A new guy needed to be watched until he proved himself—or didn’t.

“There has to be more on Sergeant Zane Thomas.”

“He’s been around awhile.” Too long as the newest team member, actually. “It’s past time for a new Fang, but government cutbacks and crap… We’re making do.”

“Stretched thin. I feel you there, brother.”

And what the hell? He’d come out here to divert Smith so he didn’t walk in on Stella. The last thing he’d expected was a warm and fuzzy bonding moment. “Never thought I’d be on the side of a spook.”

“We’re all on the same side,” Smith said with such a somber air the fella could have been a hundred and ten rather than…

How old? Smith had that ageless look most CIA dudes wore like a suit of armor. Best guess? He must be in his forties. Did he have a family back home? Kids? Or was he married to the job?

“With all due respect to your secret agent awesomeness, since when did you stop marking your territory?”

“Everybody needs a smoke break once in a while.”

“Fair enough.” Jose tucked away his unused cigar. “What’s in your file about me?”

“You’re a recovering alcoholic.”

Wow, that one came out fast. Smith’s first thought about him. Nothing to do with successful missions or training. Just that big albatross hanging around more than his neck. It was chained to him for life.

Then he shrugged off the defensiveness long enough to realize a nuance to Smith’s words. “Recovering.” Rather than recovered or reformed because those words could never be assumed, not by someone walking the walk. “You know the lingo.”

Smith stared at the ground for a moment before answering. “My wife’s in the program.”

“I’m sorry.” Damn, he hadn’t wanted this kind of bonding.

“Don’t be sorry. It’s working.” He rubbed his empty ring finger. “She’s doing well.”

“Glad to hear it.”

The missing wedding band didn’t mean anything. Most agents and warriors out in the field didn’t wear one, preferring to keep their private life off the grid as much as possible. So why was Smith sharing?

Smith stared straight into his eyes. “Your file says you got your name because you nearly suffered alcohol poisoning from a bottle of Jose Cuervo the day your mother died.”

Fuck.

One look at Smith’s eyes told him he’d been played. All this sharing and bonding was just an act. Smith had played him, waiting to go for the jugular to get a real read off of him. What did the dude want from him?

How much of what Smith said had even been real? Had the story about the wife been fake, just to get him to loosen up and talk? “What is it that you really want to know?”

“Is your girlfriend through yet?” Smith asked, confirming Jose’s suspicions.

Nothing got past this guy. And while he respected the dude for doing his job well—intel kept them all from dying in this crazy-ass, mixed-up world—right now he was damn glad to be on the rescue side of things rather than living in that dark hole of secret ops.

Where Stella lived.

His stare-down with Smith lasted a good sixty seconds before the sound of someone approaching sent them both on alert. Steady footsteps echoed along the side of the hangar, not at all stealthy, which should be a good thing. Bad guys snuck up. Nonthreats just walked.