Cold in the Shadows 5 (3 page)

“Have you ever seen someone die after touching one?” asked his new friend.

“Thankfully, no.” The professor’s gaze was open and sincere.

What did he expect? Skull and crossbones instead of pupils? He’d been with the Company long enough to spot an operative with one quick glance, but this woman was an enigma. Either she was an incredible actress, or he was way off base in his assessment of the facts. Hell, maybe she was just another enviro-nut trying to save the planet—or, in this case, frogs.

“Do they taste like chicken?” he joked.

Those violet-blue eyes flashed. “I don’t know,” she bit out. “Would you like to try one?”

Ouch
.

Her fiery response was hot as hell, but obviously she didn’t appreciate his sense of humor—he’d been told it was an acquired taste. He didn’t look away, instead used the opportunity to study her carefully. Her gaze was determined, but he could see fear at the edges—from the scare he gave her last night? Or did she live in constant fear, waiting for her time between the crosshairs? He didn’t figure being an assassin was particularly good for your long-term health. Someone, somewhere was always trying to tie up loose ends.

The information he had on Lockhart was solid, but facts didn’t necessarily add up to truth—something he’d learned during his time in Iraq. He needed to dig deeper, get closer. But didn’t dare tip her off. Hence his little tourist trip today. Like Lockhart with her frogs, he wanted to study her in her natural environment.

“Aren’t you scared, working with them?” His new friend asked in a voice that was as thin and high as her heels. “I mean, what if one hopped on you?”

“I’m more scared of people than I am of frogs.” Sadness touched one side of the biologist’s stern mouth.

Join the club, sister.

“I’d be terrified.” The woman shuddered beneath his palm and relaxed back into him. He removed his hand. God, he hated using people, and yet he was so fucking good at it.

“What d’you feed ’em?” He searched for questions a normal tourist would ask, rather than “do you stay and watch your targets die, or do you take off early to avoid traffic?”

“Ants, beetles, some plant material. We go out and forage in the jungle for fresh food every few days,” the professor told him.

“You go into the rainforest alone? Aren’t you scared of being kidnapped?” he asked.

K&R was a lucrative business throughout South and Central America, as well as many Middle-Eastern countries. One of his best friends was a former SAS soldier who worked full-time as a negotiator for the families of kidnap victims. This was prime territory for those who liked to extort a little extra pocket money with relatively low investment, so why was Dr. Lockhart immune? Were the local bad guys more scared of her than she was of them? Was she connected in some way? None of his sources had any information on the professor that he hadn’t already gleaned for himself.

“I don’t go into the jungle
alone
.” Lockhart’s gaze skewered him, seriously questioning his intellect—he got that a lot. “I’m extremely careful, obviously, but it’s no more dangerous here than in some parts of the States. I’ve never had any trouble in the rainforest.”

She’d experienced trouble somewhere though and not just his visit last night—he could see the echo of experience in her eyes. Men like him exploited weakness like that.

“You studied these things for long?” He sought to distract her from her memories.

She made direct eye contact this time in a way that told him she didn’t like him very much. Ignoring his question, she checked her watch and called out to the others to begin her demonstration. Four o’clock on the dot.

Killion moved closer, close enough to catch the scent of lavender on her skin and to see her gaze flick warily over him. Her complexion was pale, skin fine-grained. Lips soft and deliciously pink.

She was delicately-boned, petite, but not skinny. Even so, he’d had a hell of a time holding onto her last night and had almost got his balls twisted off. He wouldn’t underestimate her again.

He brought his attention back to the talk.

The teen asked a lot of questions. Maybe the kid was a wannabe frog geek. Or maybe he liked listening to the doc’s voice as much as Killion did. She had a wicked chuckle that seemed to affect a certain part of his anatomy that should know better. He shifted uncomfortably.

If her career in science fell through, she’d make a fortune doing phone sex.

The fact he was thinking about phone sex when she was talking earnestly about chytrid fungus and climate change being the biggest global threat to frog populations, combined with habitat loss and over-harvesting by the pet trade, suggested he was long overdue in the getting laid department. He now knew far more than he’d ever wanted about frogs and the effect of Audrey Lockhart’s voice on his libido.

Talk about torture.

She knew her stuff, but then this was her field. His was finding people who didn’t want to be found and extracting information they didn’t want to reveal. His expertise usually garnered those he captured some quality time in a US institution. The really lucky ones got to travel the world, although it was hard to be a tourist with a bag over your head.

Audrey Lockhart, Ph.D., looked squeaky clean, but she’d been in Kentucky the day Ted Burger had been murdered with batrachotoxin—a deadly alkaloid secreted in the skin of
Phyllobates terribilis
, the golden poison dart frog. Murdered by a woman pretending to be the maid, of the same general height and weight as the good professor. Eye and hair color were easily altered, but how many women knew how to handle these suckers without dropping dead on the spot? Not many.

Coincidence?

Not likely.

Problem was Audrey Lockhart wasn’t throwing off operator vibes, and that bothered him. It bothered him a lot. Whoever killed the VP had waltzed past security into his fancy house, served high tea, and then walked calmly away as the guy lay frothing at the mouth on his study floor. It took either balls or a sociopathic coolness under pressure. And he wasn’t seeing it. Not last night, not today.

Lockhart looked innocent. Actually she looked almost too innocent, all perky frog geek, which automatically raised red flags for him. How could anyone be that innocent after the last fourteen years? Or maybe he was getting soft. The current shit-storm in the Middle East had him questioning what all those years in the sandbox had been for. Bin Laden was dead, but the situation was more fucked up than ever with extremists trying to initiate Armageddon—and not figuratively. They were literally trying to instigate the end of times, as if the world wasn’t fucked up enough.

What was wrong with these assholes?

People in the US had no idea how lucky they were, and it was his job to make sure they continued to thrive in blessed ignorance. He should be out there, figuring out a way to help moderate people regain control of their countries and reduce the threat to his homeland. That’s what he should be doing.

Instead he eased to the back of the crowd, pulled out his cell phone and snapped a photo of the group. He’d seen enough, but he waited until the professor finished her spiel and he drifted away with the others. No drawing attention to himself. No standing out. He even bought a frog T-shirt from the gift store, and said a warm goodbye to his new friend from Miami and her family.

It was late afternoon and the sun went down fast in this part of the world. It was already getting dark. He started the engine of his rental, but hesitated as a small sedan pulled up in front of the ecological center. Killion took a photograph of a man getting out of the car before he headed quickly through the entrance—a definite player judging from the bulge near his left shoulder. The guy left the engine running, and if that didn’t scream “quick getaway” Killion didn’t know what did. Was this Audrey Lockhart’s ride? Maybe the guy had her new identity tucked into the pockets of his bad boy leather jacket.

Killion dialed a number he knew by heart. “Crista. I need an ID on the photograph I just sent.”

There was a pause. “Running it through facial recognition programs. How you doing, babe?”

“Been better. How’s the new boyfriend?”

“A jerk. Ex-boyfriend.”

“Give me his number; we can start a club.”

“Oh, please. You are so
not
an ex-boyfriend.”

“I seem to remember doing some very girlfriend-boyfriend activities with you a few years back.” He rubbed his chin, only half concentrating on the conversation.

“The fact you think sex is the same as dating just proves my point. Have you ever actually been intimate with a woman?”

“Don’t tell me you slept through some of the best experiences of my life?”

“
Intimate
, jackass. Not
inside
. We all know you’re an expert on what to do with a woman’s body, but do you ever dare to try and figure out their minds?”

“Hell, no. And what do you mean ‘we all know’?” He was still watching the gate. “Did you go and start your own club?”

“Not yet, but I’m thinking about it.”

He turned his mind back to the conversation. “This guy really did a number on you, huh?”

“I guess.”

“Bastard.”

“Kill him for me?”

“As soon as I get back,” Killion promised.

“Sorry I was bitchy—but I kind of meant it about your inability to do more than connect physically when you’re in a relationship.”

“I don’t do relationships.”

“Exactly. Hey, before I forget, Maclean was looking for you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing.”

The last thing he needed was his boss suddenly poking his nose into his business while working this particular mission. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, darlin’. Okay, I have a name for you. Hector Sanchez. Listed as a known associate of
El cartel de
Mano de Dios.
”

Killion’s eyes widened. He’d heard of good old Hector. The guy was an aficionado of the art of tying the Colombian necktie. Audrey Lockhart sure had friends in low places. She’d fooled the hell out of him.

It wasn’t the first time, but he didn’t like being conned by a pretty face.

“Thanks, Crista. Gotta go.”

“Be careful,” she told him.

“Always am.”

“Liar.”

He grinned as he hung up, then stared thoughtfully at the entrance to the park. What was taking Lockhart and Sanchez so long?

*     *     *

A
UDREY WALKED BACK
to the lab wishing she could shake the low-grade anxiety that had plagued her since the attack last night. All she wanted was sleep, but the idea of going home to bed filled her with dread. Her PTSD had reduced over the years, but being assaulted last night had brought back the symptoms in huge crashing waves and she knew she had weeks of flashbacks and nightmares to look forward to.

She hated living in fear.

The detectives who’d come to take the report last night had been more interested in her body than in the threats her assailant had made. They’d taken her statement, but made no effort to look for evidence and hadn’t even bagged the plastic ties that had cuffed her wrists and ankles. She hadn’t been raped, robbed or beaten and they didn’t seem to know why she’d called them. When she had the energy she’d get in touch with the embassy in Bogota, but right now there was nothing to do except jump at shadows and scream like a weenie whenever something moved in her peripheral vision.

The Gateway Project. What the hell was the Gateway Project? She’d googled it and got nothing but computers.

Her phone rang. She checked the caller ID—Devon Brightman. If he were just her ex or her sister’s new boyfriend she’d blow him off. But he was also Rebecca’s younger brother and because of the grief they’d shared, no matter how she was feeling on any particular day, she would always pick up.

“Hi.”

“Hey, how’s my favorite nerd?”

“Said the techno-geek.”

“Techno-geeks are way cooler than nerds.”

“Only they and their toys think so.” She laughed. When Devon wasn’t being over-demanding and possessive, he was actually a good guy.

“You back in Colombia?” he asked.

“Yep.” She removed glassware from an autoclave and stored it on a rack.

“You cool with me dating your sister?”

“Sure.” She stopped for a moment and realized she was cool with it. Devon and Sienna were closer in age, both being a few years younger than she was, and had a lot more in common. “Just don’t screw it up.”

He laughed. “Everything going okay down there?”

She opened her mouth to tell him about her attack last night, but stopped. He might tell Sienna and her sister would definitely rat. The thought of giving her mother something real to worry about was enough for a vow of silence. “Everything’s great, but I have work to do. Gotta go.” Not wanting to linger, she hung up.

Pleased with how maturely she’d handled that transition, she got down to work. Shakira played loudly on her music system and her hips were swaying as she measured out Ringer solution. Her work revolved around examining how high levels of batrachotoxin in the indigenous frog’s skin affected the fungus that was wiping out their brethren worldwide. It might give the wild poison dart frogs an advantage in an ever more challenging environment. Or not. She tried to be optimistic, but it was hard to protect the environment in the face of big business. She often argued with Rebecca and Devon’s father, Gabriel Brightman, about how he ran his massive pharmaceutical company. He occasionally listened to her, but he listened harder to his shareholders.

Even though the fungus was naturally present in the environment, she didn’t keep it on site. She wouldn’t risk it escaping into the wild and being responsible for more deaths. Instead she used a level three laboratory in the city and at her home university in Louisville, Kentucky to conduct the exposure experiments under controlled conditions. Here she collected eggs and samples of the toxin.

The public displays and guided talks at the Amazon Research Institute were a way of educating and inspiring locals and tourists to engage with their environment and support conservation efforts. It was also a way of giving back to the community. She usually enjoyed sharing her knowledge and enthusiasm with people, but not today. After last night she just wanted to fade into the background.