Athena Force 12: Checkmate (15 page)

Selena tipped her head back against the wall again. “We’ve both been in this part of the world too long. I’m sorry to say I agree with you.” But she didn’t say the word
bomb
out loud; she suspected it might be one of the few English words their friendly guard actually knew. “I had Cole on the phone just long enough to tell him to warn anyone who would listen to take a closer look. I didn’t have any time to explain why.”

“Your husband.” Allori raised his brow in mild surprise. “That’s who you called.”

Selena didn’t hesitate. “He’s the only one I trust to use the information to protect us—at least as much as anyone can.” But she stopped short at the end of her words, feeling her own surprise at her deep confidence in him. It seemed some part of her had always known…had never run away at all, but only come along for the ride.

The question was whether she’d ever get a chance to convince the rest of her.

Allori said, “You don’t talk about him often. But I’m given to understand that he’s in a position to act on your information?” He’d know of Cole’s CIA status, of course—it was in her own profile.

“Like I said…as much as anyone can. He works the field.” She kept her tone light, but Allori would catch the implications—that Cole was not in the directorate hierarchy where he could better wield any influence. Without planning on it, Selena added, “I have some friends…if he thinks to hook up with them…”

Allori nodded. “Yes. I might know who you mean.”

“You read my file pretty carefully.” She grinned, a wry and painful expression. A lock of hair pulled at her skin, glued there by the blood. She ducked her head, trying to rub it free without provoking the bruises. In the next room, the conversation had died to voices low and intense, and the tone of it made the skin of her spine tighten in warning.

“I did,” Allori said. “Did you think you got the position by chance, when you applied so late into the decision process? Not that the decision itself was mine, but I kept myself apprised.” He made as if to free the hair at her face, and the guard instantly came alert.

“Back away from her,” he said, jabbing his rifle at them in punctuation. “You’ve talked enough.”

Allori understood as well as Selena, even though his grasp of the language didn’t approach fluency. He immediately raised both hands slightly in capitulation and backed away, reclaiming his chair.

“Doesn’t matter,” Selena muttered, returning to her own efforts without acknowledging the scariness of the guard. He scowled at her, terrorist pride offended. “I’ll get it.”

And she did, but when she looked up, Ashurbeyli filled the doorway.

The others shrank back. They’d seen Ashurbeyli escort two other hostages from this room, and both had died immediately thereafter.

Ashurbeyli fingered a handcuff key and he rested his hand on the grip of his holstered semiautomatic—and he looked only at Selena.

C
ole stood behind the high-backed Predator sensor operator’s chair, looking over Diego Morel’s shoulder as the Predator’s live feed satellite link fed them high-altitude images of Suwan. Morel’s impatience at the intrusion went noted, but made no difference at all. In many ways, Morel was Cole’s opposite. He had the dark, smoldering bad-boy thing going on. Cole counted more on the blond carefree wiseass thing, and he knew it—he’d cultivated it.

It wasn’t doing him much good at the moment. And even though he’d regained his equilibrium after Selena’s call—and the call from the terrorist that had followed—he had nothing to which he could apply his skills. Gathering intel. Evading detection. Being in the middle of the enemy when they didn’t even have a clue. None of that applied right now. If the SEALs couldn’t close in on that building, neither could he.

Except…

Unless…

He knew someone he could call, someone from the CIA’s Office of Technical Services. A master of disguises. It might take a while to put himself into play, but Cole would use the time as best he could…looking over Morel’s shoulder. Driving the man quietly and understandably mad as he waited for the Predator to quit the relative safety of its twenty-five-thousand foot cruising altitude and ease down for a closer look at the building about which Selena had been so concerned.

He wished he’d had the chance to tell her where he was. Who he was with. Who else was working on her side.

Soon enough.

He left the sensor station and the quick murmur of discussion that immediately took place. No question as to the subject of it—they were worried about him. Whether he’d hold up, and whether he’d get in the way. Well, he was back on his feet, now. They’d figure it out.

Soon enough.

Selena knew she was in trouble when Ashurbeyli uncuffed her. She saw it, too, in the intensity of his gaze, felt it in the stiffness of his movement. He’d let things get personal; he’d let the reaction of his men get to him. He’d let himself stray from wisdom to reaction, from professional to personal—and probably didn’t even know why.

She knew. She’d gotten the best of him. It was why he uncuffed her—to prove the point. To show both his men and the other hostages that he wasn’t worried about her. To show
himself.

She’d be elated at the freedom—at the opportunity, if she thought he’d actually give her one. But he kept one hand on her back, just below the join of her neck and shoulders. From there he could feel every tension; every telegraphed intent. She’d never take him by surprise. And meanwhile she could no longer trust him to make the most logical decision from the Kemeni point of view—or from any point of view at all. He vibrated with intent, and in the brief moment he allowed her to meet his gaze before pushing her onward, his dark eyes held warning.

She hadn’t been forgiven.

She knew then that he intended to prove his point in a more personal way than she’d first anticipated. In the only way a man felt he could prove absolute dominance over a woman. And she’d thought she was as ready as any woman could be—and suddenly she knew, with the intense pounding of her heart and the suddenly watery nature of her knees and her nearly irresistible gut fight-or-flight punch of fear, that no one could really be ready at all.

It’s not worth dying for.

She breathed deeply. Slowly. Tried to move as though she had no idea what lay ahead.

He guided her out to the hallway, giving her no chance for so much as a glance at Allori. Instead of heading in the direction she feared—toward the doors and the death spot at the top of the stairs—he turned her to the right. Down the long hall of the function rooms. The first room still held the neatly rolled prayer rugs; not long from now, they would hold men in prayer.

Ashurbeyli wouldn’t be one of them. He took her right past the improvised prayer spot and into the smaller room beyond. A one-on-one room. Small round table, comfortable chairs, not much else. Private.

A shiver ran down Selena’s spine; the small hairs on her arms stood up. She cursed her own reaction, knowing Ashurbeyli couldn’t have missed it.

You always knew it could and probably would come to this if you were caught.

With as much cool command as he’d shown from the beginning, Ashurbeyli pushed her up against the wall just inside the door and kicked the doorstop free, nudging the door closed with the same foot. Then he stepped back—not far, but no longer close enough to brush constantly against her—and his hand fell away.

Selena didn’t move. She turned her face to the side and let her chest press against the wall, her hands away from her sides and turned against the wall. She wanted no mistakes in body language here. He wanted to be in charge? Let him. Until she had an opportunity…let him.

“Jonas and I have been in discussion,” Ashurbeyli said. She couldn’t discern anything of his mood from his conversational voice. “We both have interests outside this building, as you might imagine. Letting this situation drag out benefits no one. We think it’s time to provoke some response. And here you are…official enough so you’re not an innocent, but even in those Western clothes, woman enough to garner a response of outraged shock. I’m afraid you’re just the right person to take out to the steps this time.”

Dammit, no!
Not so soon. And even so…that’s not what this was about. He hadn’t brought her here simply to tell her he intended to kill her. She took a deep breath, faintly tainted with the smell of smoke in the old wallpaper. “Of course White wants me dead. He doesn’t want you to hear what I have to say about him.”

Calm, cool answer from the FBI legate. What about the quiet cry of dismay from somewhere deep inside, the protest from a woman who wasn’t nearly done with life? Who might even have another life slowly growing within…

Selena swallowed that more personal reaction. It wouldn’t get her anywhere with this man. He respected the warrior in her.

Ashurbeyli rustled in movement. “Perhaps he doesn’t, indeed, want me talking to you. You may be assured it’s something I’ll deal with when the time is right.”

“Assured?” She almost turned to look at him, but stopped the impulse as the side of her face left the wallpaper, settling back into place. “I don’t actually give a damn if White leads you around by the nose, as long as you’re not killing people. Oh, wait—too late. How many have already died for this failure?”

“‘Fail’ is not a term we’re interested in.” His cold tone punctuated the truth of those words.

“That’s why you want to kill me,” she said, and couldn’t believe the assertion in her voice. Surely it was someone else’s voice coming from her mouth—because as cool as she’d always been in a crisis, Selena was far from ready to die. The tension in the room made her think of Ashurbeyli’s gun, and she trusted the instinct that told her he’d raised it. Time to rise to the challenge, then. To meet his expectations of her, formed at that very moment they’d locked gazes in Razidae’s office. Slowly—almost laughably so—she turned around to face him. She put her back to the wall, kept her arms slightly raised in spite of her burning injury and again met the intensity of his gaze. “Because you especially don’t want to fail at the hands of a woman.”

He hissed something from between clenched teeth and in one swift step he was upon her, pressing up against her, his gun jammed into the soft flesh under her jaw, one knee shoved between her thighs.
“That,”
he said, “will never happen.” He couldn’t help but feel the gallop of her heart, just as she felt his. She forced herself to stay relaxed even as every wiry muscle in his body tightened, his free hand gripping her so high on her waist that it brushed the bottom of her breast. She could only pretend that he’d be too occupied to detect the excessive stiffness of her waistband caused by the thin metal panel. It might even be true.

She instantly discarded the ploy about having her period. He wouldn’t hesitate to check. Nor did she turn her face aside, not even as their noses brushed. But she kept her voice low. “You have to know I’ve been prepared for this moment since long before I walked into this building.” As if anyone truly could. “You don’t have to believe me…
I
wouldn’t. But just imagine how you’ll feel when you don’t leave me broken.”

He stared back, black gaze impenetrable, his breath on her cheek, the pistol sight jabbing into her skin along the inside edge of her jaw. “Careful,” he said, and he, too, kept his voice low. His breath whispered against her cheek. “You’ll oblige me to prove your lie.”

Relax. Relax. Give him nothing to react to. Nothing to fight back against. No excuses.
She had to stay cool enough to play her way through whatever happened, no matter how she felt about it. She had to buy that chance at potential escape—and yet if she made him feel any more scorned, he’d probably just as soon kill her on the spot. She made her voice as honest as she could. Damned honest. Raw. “We’ve had an interesting skirmish, you and I. I would very much prefer—I would be grateful—if you left me this much honor before you take me out to those steps.”

And there, pressed against her with his body as brutally honest as her words, he took a sudden sharp breath. He raised his hand, letting one finger just barely graze the line of her jaw. And he smiled. “It was not an honorable thing you did, phoning out when I left you your privacy.”

“No.” She cleared her throat as her voice caught. “It was a desperate thing.”

Because he’d already defeated her. He’d prevailed. He heard those unspoken words…or maybe, this close to her, he saw them in her eyes.

Quite suddenly, he stepped back. Selena sagged against the wall, caught completely unaware by the weakness in her knees. But she instantly straightened. And she said, “Just for the record…I’m not giving up.”

Again, the dark smile. “I don’t expect you to.”

Selena took a deep breath as she stepped back out into the hallway, Ashurbeyli’s hand again resting low at her neck, his gun still at her ribs. Together, they headed for the lobby, the front doors, and death.

I’m not giving up.

“Cole.” Morel’s voice came flatly, and Cole jerked his attention from the coffee he’d been trying to make palatable, abandoning it on the table to return to the ground control station tucked in the trailer against the back of the hangar. No need to duck around the Predator’s long, graceful wings, almost twice as wide as the bird was long; it was out in the air, and Josie sat in at the pilot’s station beyond the flung-wide trailer doors, headset in place and deft hands at the stick and throttle.

“Just let me get a good approach arc,” she said, attention focused on the screen. “We want to keep this in view as long as possible. I’m going down lower, Diego.”

“Too low,” Morel said, watching her.

“We’ve got plenty of cloud cover. It’s worth the risk,” Josie said shortly, and didn’t receive any argument. A glance at Morel’s screen showed the Predator’s video feed zooming, refocusing, and then hunting to reacquire target. Dizzying. Cole recognized the capitol building, though. It had been the focus of his life for—was it only just over a day, now? Amazing.
Seems like forever.
He wanted to ask “What?” but restrained himself.

Or maybe he just didn’t want to know.

Soon enough Josie put the Predator right where Morel needed it, and he went tight with the view. An excellent image, grainy as it was. Far too easy to see that the Kemenis had put someone else out on the top of those steps, still hiding behind their hostage and the thick capitol door.

Far too easy to see that the hostage in question was a woman. Paradoxically dressed in Kemeni colors, but nonetheless a woman. Tall, lean, touched by elegance, dark chestnut hair swept back from her face to make the bruises clear.

His voice came in a mere whisper of breath and sorrow. “Selena.”

No! We need more time.

They’d brought Selena out to their death steps. No doubt the Kemeni leader even now shouted out his demands and delusions; Cole could be sure of it just from the way Selena’s right eyebrow quirked. He was in her ear.

Until now he’d only hovered behind the pilot and sensor-operator stations. He’d restrained himself—and there hadn’t been that much to see, just endless circles while Josie and Diego murmured back and forth about altitude and risk and exposure, all the while trying to get good clear pictures of the roof and the building exterior in response to Selena’s words. But now he clamped a hand on the back of Josie’s substantial station chair and let the fingers dig into the high backrest. “Do something.”

Josie exchanged a quick glance with Morel. “A distraction?”

“You’ll expose the Pred,” Morel said instantly.

“You’ll reveal our activity to the Berzhaani government before we’ve resolved this crisis. We might give her an opportunity to escape, but at the expense of the rest of this operation.”

“A hellfire would do it,” Josie said, as if they were carrying on two different conversations—or maybe just two at once.

But Cole had focused in on Selena’s hands. They weren’t quite natural; not quite right. The grain of the image kept him from seeing the fine details of her striking face, from reading the undertones of the expression there. But her hands…she held them in front of her, even though she didn’t seem to be restrained. She fiddled with her olive-green shirt, a garment that hung off her straight shoulders with room to spare, and she held herself stiffly—she held herself in a way that told him more than any stranger would know. “She’s hurt,” he murmured.

“No blood,” Morel said instantly, his eyes narrowing; it wasn’t an argument, but contributing observation.

“They’ve been hitting her, no doubt about that.”

“They were probably hitting her
back,
” Cole said, no doubt in his voice. “It’s upper body somewhere. The way she’s standing—whoa, wait. Did she spot you?”

For Selena had ceased fiddling with the shirt, her head still slightly cocked in the way to let Cole know someone was shouting in her ear, and now quietly held her hands in front of her, low at her hips, fingers moving.