Shoot to Thrill (10 page)

She skimmed through the considerable verbiage. First came a short, strict confidentiality agreement, treasonous if broken. The gist of the rest was that by accepting employment with Zero Unit, Kick agreed he could be called back to duty at any time for any reason, even after he quit working for them, in the interest of national security. The form was initialed, signed, and dated 1993.

While she was reading it over a second time, more thoroughly, her cell rang.

“I called Wade,” Gina told her, sounding totally unlike her usual lighthearted self. “I had to beg, but he relented and called a friend at Langley.”

Rainie’s heartbeat sped up. “And?”

“There is a Jason Forsythe working for CIA. They wouldn’t get more specific than that, other than to tell me what his signal code is for today. Ask him.”

Rainie raised her brow at Forsythe.

“Labrador,” he said.

Gina exhaled audibly. “That’s right. He’s legit.”

“Thanks, Geen. And tell Wade thanks for me.”

Gina ignored the hint. It was an old argument. “You sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. I’ll call you later, okay?” She punched the Off button and eased out a breath she’d probably been holding ever since she opened her apartment door. “So what happens now?”

“You’ve finished reading the document?”

She glanced down at it and nodded. “What does this have to do with me?”

“I wanted you to know Kyle Jackson signed this agreement of his own free will. I’m showing it to you so you’ll know we had every right to bring him in, using any means necessary, despite his protests.”

“That may be so, but
I
never signed any such agreement.”

Wordlessly, Forsythe pushed another form over to her. This time her own name and address were filled in at the top, along with her Social Security number and birth information.

A frisson of apprehension sizzled through her. She could barely voice the unnerving question circling her mind like a vulture. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“Nothing you weren’t willing to do before we showed up,” Forsythe said with an air of soothing assurance.

She wasn’t assured. “And what’s that?”

“Take care of Mr. Jackson. Help him through his withdrawal.”

“That’s it?” The print on the paper danced in front of her eyes. Why didn’t she believe him?

“Yes. We simply weren’t aware of his problem until last night, so we weren’t prepared to deal with it when we apprehended him. Luckily Doc has experience with this sort of thing, and could set things up for you. But his team has mobilized and he must join them immediately. I also happen to know you are in charge of a test program for a similar detox technique at the Bellevue ER, so don’t bother pleading ignorance. We need you to put Mr. Jackson through the full regime before he goes on his mission.”

Rainie shook her head. “No. Get someone else. I won’t be a party to what you’re forcing him to do.”

Forsythe put his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “We don’t have
time
to get anyone else.” He sat back again and steepled his fingers. “In any case, Mr. Jackson has already been put under anesthesia, and Doc has already left to join his team.”

“Without being closely monitored?” She gaped at him in outrage. “Kick could die!”

Forsythe’s mouth thinned. “That would be up to you. Unless you want his death on your hands, I’m afraid you have no option but to help.”

“Bastard,” she whispered.

He regarded her for a long moment. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Miss Martin.” He stood, unsmiling. “I trust you’ll find everything you need for the duration in Mr. Jackson’s room.”

Anger filled every cell of her body as she rose, as well. “I’ll need to contact my supervisor at the hospital and let her know I won’t be in tomorrow.”

“That’s been taken care of.”

Of course it had.

The door opened and her guard appeared. “Ma’am? If you’ll follow me?”

Fuming, she returned to the Zero Unit sick bay. Kick was right. These people were used to getting their own way. One way or another. And she had the sinking feeling she wasn’t getting the whole story. She couldn’t shake the feeling she was about to get screwed.

And
so
not in a good way.

SIX

WHEN
she got back to the room where she’d left Kick, as Forsythe had said, he was already under.

Stretched out on the bed with a white sheet pulled up to his chest, Kick looked strangely peaceful. A description she would never have used about the man before now.
Gritty. Burned out. Fiercely determined
, yes. But not even after a night of sex that had left them both exhausted and replete had the restless, hunted look disappeared from his eyes, for more than a few fleeting seconds.

“Oh, Kick, she murmured softly. “How on earth did you end up in a place like this?” And what was his former job with the CIA that made them want to send him, and no one else, halfway around the world to do it? Terrible visions of what a hard man like him might consider “hell” pulsed uneasily through her mind. Whatever it was, he’d called the situation exactly right. These people didn’t give a damn. They were sending him on this mission whether he wanted to go or not.

And now it was up to her to make sure he had a fighting chance at survival.

She sighed, and went to examine him. He had a catheter line inserted along his collarbone, which led to a series of computerized IV pumps that emitted a low hum. A monitor beeped rhythmically above his head. Automatically, she adjusted the alarm parameters on the pulse ox; the heart rate and BP were all normal.

She spotted a hastily scribbled note on top of the monitor.

Profolol drip running on pump one to keep him under, watch the TPN bag, you’ll need to piggyback lipids to give him enough nutrition, and the oxynovine (detox med) needs to run at 12 cc/hr for 18 hrs, then discontinue all. After waking and alert, the oxorelin flush should run at 12 cc/hr for 6 hrs. Monitor closely for forty-eight hours.

She flipped over the paper. There was nothing more. Outrage zinged through her anew.
Oh, thanks ever so much for the great instructions.
She
knew
all that stuff. What she didn’t know was how the hell she was supposed to do all of it single-handed. The procedure took twenty-four hours to complete, plus observation time. At least at Bellevue she’d had round-the-clock help.

God, did she ever hate this—having to run the experimental protocol without knowing all the variables and being able to plan for them. Especially when someone’s life was at stake.

Someone who just happened to be her lover.

Seventy-two hours.

This was insane! Hadn’t that colonel said something about being on a plane to Egypt in thirty-six? She had to talk them out of it. Kick wouldn’t even be past the critical stage.

Unfortunately, no one came for her to talk to. As the hours ticked by, her outrage at Forsythe continued, but at least her nerves calmed a bit. As well as her anger at the man lying helpless in the bed. Kick moaned, his body twitching and jerking as it rid itself of the toxic drug, especially the leg with the scars.

She sponged his brow with cool water, held the bowl when he puked, pulled the blanket up again when he kicked it off, tenderly stroked the damp tendrils of hair from his forehead. During the worst, she took his hand and held it in hers. She might still be upset with him, but there was no way she could sit and watch a man in such pain and not be touched deep inside.

But seeing him unconscious and vulnerable, fighting his addiction, and having experienced the full brunt of his former employers, she had a hard time staying angry that he had tried to use her to escape all this. Hell, she would have done the same thing. But why couldn’t he have just been honest, instead of pulling that gun on her?

The day had definitely been an emotional roller coaster. Panic attacks always left her drained, and ones involving guns or violence usually sent her straight under the covers into a long, troubled sleep. It happened at the ER every once in a while; over the years she’d learned to control and cover her reactions at work, holding the fatigue at bay until she got home. But today the threat had been all too personal. The reaction more vivid and exhausting.

All the more so because of last night with Kick. That had been personal, too. Draining in a whole different way. Especially the part in bed. Even without subsequent events, she would have been wiped out after a night like that.

But now wasn’t the time to think about the night they’d spent together.

She
definitely
wasn’t ready to face those memories yet, not even in her mind.

THAT
night Rainie was barely able to stay awake. She drank about a million cups of coffee and forced herself to keep her eyes open and on the monitor. Because Kick needed her.

A couple of hours before dawn, Forsythe finally came to see her.

Wordlessly, he handed her the early edition of the
New York Times
, folded into thirds. With a buzzing head, she glanced at it.

At the top of the page, the column headline read:

MILLION DOLLAR DRUG THEFT AT BELLEVUE
GENERAL: MISSING NURSE SUSPECTED

She was so tired that the meaning didn’t occur to her until she read the first paragraph of the story. There, her own name was prominently listed as a “person of interest” in the investigation.

That’s when it hit her.

She gasped in indignation. “
Me
? I had nothing to do with any theft! I was
here
all last night! You have to tell them!”

Forsythe met her with a level look.

Then it dawned on her. “Oh, my God!
You
did this!”

His gaze chilled. “Just a little insurance. So you understand the stakes.”

“What do you mean by that?” she demanded.

“Mr. Jackson’s detox is nearly complete,” he said. “This evening he’ll be taken to New Jersey and put on a military transport to Egypt. And you along with him.”

Rainie’s pulse went into hyperspace. “
What
? You promised I could go home after this is over!”

“And you will. The doc said it’ll be seventy-two hours before he’s completely out of danger. It’s only been eighteen.”

She shook her head emphatically. “I can’t go to Egypt.”

Forsythe crossed his arms. “You’ll never have to leave the plane. I promise.”

Oh, God.
“No, you don’t understand. I’d be useless. I have severe panic attacks in any kind of vehicle. Ask your men. I freaked out completely in the SUV coming here. I can’t even imagine how I’d react to being confined in an airplane over the ocean for hours on end. I’m hyperventilating just thinking about it.”

“Here are your options, Miss Martin,” Forsythe said evenly as he handed her the form she wouldn’t sign the day before. “You can show your patriotism and see Mr. Jackson through his whole treatment as you promised. Or . . . you
could
go home to your apartment and never see us again.”

She glanced back at the newspaper article.
And be arrested for stealing drugs and never work again
, was the clear subtext.

“You’ll be generously compensated for your time,” he told her. “And the police will be provided with evidence of your innocence in the drug robbery, of course.”

“Of course,” she said,
really
feeling like she was about to faint.

“I’m sorry about the emotional trauma, Miss Martin. But the plain truth is, you really have no choice. You
will
be accompanying Mr. Jackson to Egypt.”

SHE
could do this.

Rainie’s best friend, Gina Cappozi, reached for the phone and picked it up determinedly. Hadn’t she just spoken to Special Agent Wade Montana yesterday? Yes. She had. And it had gone very well, thankyouverymuch. They’d both been cordial, polite, and to the point. The fact that she’d been totally distracted over her friend’s überstrange request to confirm the name of a freaking
CIA officer
, and had not exchanged a single personal word with Wade, was completely irrelevant. She’d begged for his help, and he’d given it. End of story.

No wounded silences. No angry recriminations. No heartfelt pleas. Just business.

See?
They could be friends.

Why should today be any different?

Maybe because she’d spent the entire night agonizing alternately over Rainie’s terrible choice in going off with that burnt-out druggie loser she’d met at the speed dating, and Gina’s own choice last year of not quitting her job, marrying FBI super-agent Wade Montana, and following him to Washington, D.C., to live happily ever after in comfortable obscurity.

Was Wade still pissed off about that?

Courage failing her, she hung up the phone for the twentieth time.

He hadn’t
sounded
pissed off. But voices could be deceiving. How well she knew. The whole time they’d gone out together
she’d
sounded perfectly normal, like a woman who wasn’t completely terrified of falling in love and losing her whole identity because some man decided he didn’t approve of his wife or girlfriend being smarter than he was.

She’d taken a chance on handsome, sociable Wade, and he’d proven to be everything she’d always feared and more. So she’d told him where to stuff his two-carat diamond ring, and went back to dating younger men who couldn’t care less about her career, because they were brainless studs only interested in one thing. It was an arrangement that worked well all around.

Though the ring had been really fine.

Ah, well. She could afford to buy herself a
four
-carat diamond now if she wanted to—thanks to a small but increasingly lucrative patent she owned—and not have the downside of being tied for life to a conservative, old-fashioned, opinionated, dictatorial, if handsome and sociable . . . Neanderthal.

She glanced at the clock. A Neanderthal who’d be leaving the office for lunch if she didn’t stop being such a wimp. She picked up the phone and dialed.