Secret Soldier

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Dr. Abigail DiMatteo -
Working hard to help war orphans in Beharrain,Abigail is more than annoyed when documentary cameraman Gerald Thornton gets in her way. Before she knows it,Abigail is chased across the desert by men hell-bent on killing her, and Gerald seems to be her only hope of getting out alive…

Jack (Spike) Logan -
Member of a top secret military group (SDDU). When he is sent to Beharrain to do damage control for the CIA, under the alias of Gerald Thornton, he expects it to be a routine mission.Then he meets Dr. DiMatteo, the woman he is supposed to turn into a spy.

Colonel Wilson -
Spike’s boss. He’s the leader of the SDDU, reporting straight to the Homeland Security Secretary.

SDDU -
Special Designation Defense Unit. A top secret military team established to fight terrorism, its existence is known only by a select few. Members are recruited from the best of the best.

Suhaib
Horeb -
The youngest son of a prominent family in Beharrain. He is believed by the CIA to be El Jafar, the head of a new terrorist group that is planning a large scale attack against the United States.

Jamal
Hareb -
Suhaib’s oldest brother, the family’s patriarch. He is pro-reform, trying to change his country for the better. But can he be trusted?

Tsernyakov -
An elusive arms dealer, wanted on three continents. Although results of his work are well-known to the authorities, his identity isn’t. He is quickly working his way to the top of the international most wanted list.

Chapter One

Jack “Spike” Logan crouched behind the counter, his finger on the trigger. He couldn’t hear them, but he knew they were out there somewhere in the cold night, waiting to take him down.

They were welcome to try.

He scanned the kitchen and its three possible points of entry: living room, laundry room and back porch. Too many. He kept in the cover of the counter as he crept toward the sliding glass doors.

Something rustled the azalea bush behind the swing set outside.

Not the wind. The trees and other plants in the backyard remained still, outlined against the background by the waning moon.

Somebody behind that bush was waiting to kill him. He could have shot the man from where he stood, but the sound of gunfire would have brought the other two running. He had already neutralized the rest of the twelve who’d gotten the unfortunate assignment to take him out. Still, three assailants were plenty to set a tidy trap. The man in the bush could be a decoy. Spike lifted his finger from the trigger. He needed a plan.

Careful to keep out of the patches of moonlight that illuminated the kitchen, he moved back toward the living room and waited to make sure it was clear before he entered.

The line of narrow windows looked out onto the backyard, but dense hemlocks blocked the view. Millimeter by millimeter, he pushed up one of the panels. Cold wind slammed into his face as he stuck his head out far enough to make sure no surprises waited for him in the two-foot gap between the row of hemlocks and the house. Nobody there. He should be able to get out without touching the trees and giving himself away. But first, back to the kitchen to wait.

Five minutes crawled by before the azalea bush moved again. Good, the bastard was still there. Jack lifted his gun, nice and slow, no sudden movements that might catch the other man’s attention. The attacker had to be either in a crouch or lying on his stomach, facing the house. In his mind, Spike mapped the likely locations for all the vital organs. He squeezed off six shots in quick succession then dropped to the floor and rolled. No return fire. He didn’t get up until he was in the living room. He made it halfway to the window when one of the two remaining men popped up outside, grabbed the sill and vaulted in.

Spike shot the guy in the middle of the chest, the hit confirmed by the red patch that immediately bloomed on the man’s bodysuit. He heard a faint scraping noise but couldn’t tell from what direction it came. Since the man he’d just shot came in the back, he figured the other, one would break in through the front. Spike shoved the man out of the way and jumped through the window, landing softly on the mulched ground. And the next second felt the cold metal of a gun in the back of his head.

Rodriguez.
He didn’t have to turn to know who it was. There was only one man on that team who could hope to come close enough to touch him. And nobody but Rodriguez was cocky enough not to take a shot when he had the chance, but think he could bring in Spike alive.

He put his hands in the air as he straightened, looking for the slightest opportunity. And it came, as it always did for those who were ready. The gun wavered slightly against his skin as the man behind him shifted. Spike dropped and threw his body weight against him, and shot him twice in the heart before they hit the ground.

“Get off me.” Rodriguez swore in Spanish. “My beeper went off.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” It had to be a trick. What was Rodriguez hoping for? The computerized grid built into the man’s training suit had already registered the fatal hit and signaled it with the red fluorescent circle.

“It’s Nicola, you idiot. I’ve gotta go.”

Spike rolled off him and squeezed between two hemlocks to get to the open yard from the narrow spot behind the trees. “I took you fair and—Nicola?”

“The baby is coming.” Rodriguez pushed through the branches, grinning like an idiot. “I’ve gotta run,” he said and hauled ass at combat speed.

Spike stared after him, stunned to speechlessness. Alejandro Jesus Rodriguez, one of the most dangerous and toughest men he knew, one of the very few he actually respected. And the woman had him on a beeper.

It couldn’t be happening. Not to a man like Rodriguez.

And yet it had.

Spike brushed off the front of his full bodysuit, free of red circles, as if what Alex had was catching.
Hell,
no. That was never going to happen to him. He shook his head and watched the rest of the team come in.

“What’s wrong with Rodriguez?” The special agent who had organized the testing on the PLT suit-Precium Laser Tectnoliogy—came around the corner.

“His wife is having a baby.”

“No kidding? Her first? What’s the rush? She’ll be at it for a while. First time around, takes forever and a day.”

“Yes, sir.” Spike looked at the ground trying to think of something to say to change the conversation, which didn’t seem fitting for an FBI training course.

“He must have had a beeper.” The man sounded nostalgic.

Did this kind of thing happen all the time? Spike stepped back, not wanting to breach this previously unknown territory. Better to stay ignorant. He didn’t want to know if men out there jumped and ran to commands beeped from their wives. He might never again be able to enjoy his freedom with the knowledge of such atrocities on fellow members of his gender.

“Let’s go inside, then, and have a quick evaluation.” Special Agent Mullock, one of a handful of men at the FBI who was aware of the SDDU’s existence, pointed toward the house now that all eleven of Alex’s team had arrived. “Please don’t reset your suits until I confirm that the computer made an accurate recording.”

Spike grunted. Nobody seemed to care that it was two o’clock in the morning. The cold front coming in all the way from Canada tried its best to freeze his balls off in the thin PLT training suit, clearly designed for fair-weather exercises. He didn’t remember the last time temperatures had been this low in September. Of course, the trainees were eager to prove they were tough enough for the SDDU, Special Designation Defense Unit, America’s secret weapon against terrorism. And Agent Mullock was probably too excited about testing PLT’s latest wonder to think of something as mundane as the comfort of Spike’s testicles.

No, that wasn’t fair. Evaluating an operation was most efficient and productive if done as soon as possible afterward, while all events were most clear in the participants’ heads. Spike took a deep breath and followed after the men who filed into the house through the sliding glass doors.

He partially unzipped the top of the training suit, pulled his cell phone from his T-shirt’s front pocket and turned it on. Message from Colonel Wilson, received half an hour ago. “Call me at the office.”

Didn’t anybody sleep anymore?

He stepped back outside, punched the numbers. The Colonel picked up on the first ring. “Where have you been?”

“FBI training course. We were testing the new PLT suits.”

“I didn’t know you did training.”

“As a favor to Rodriguez, sir. He asked me to be the target for his new team.”

A moment of silence, then, “How do you feel about doing some damage control for the CIA?”

“I can be in your office in fifteen.”

“Go straight to Andrews. We have a plane waiting to take you to Beharrain. Everything you’ll need is on board. An agent will fill you in on the details on the way over.

“Is it a joint operation?”

“You’ll be one of multiple simultaneous efforts, but working alone. They’re having trouble with a new terrorist group that’s trying to make a name by executing a large-scale attack in the U.S. A couple of dates popped up in the chatter. We’ve got about two weeks to stop them.”

“But I’ll be reporting to you?” Spike asked just to be sure.

“Correct. I will be your sole point of contact.”

Good. He preferred it that way. He was ready for some action and hoped the assignment to the Middle East was a good one. It had to be something unusual. The CIA didn’t come around to ask the SDDU for help every day. There had to be more to the story. “You said damage control?”

“They lost some woman.”

HE WASN’T
REAL. She had to be hallucinating. Another heatstroke. Great. Dr. Abigail DiMatteo gaped at the stranger coming out of her mud hut, forgetting about the headache she’d gotten from her mother’s nagging. She felt her forehead-sweaty, but not feverish. She pinched the skin on the back of her hand, and it snapped back as soon as she let it go, rather than smoothing out slowly as when people were severely dehydrated. Phew. No heatstroke. Excellent. She hated the puking.

The man, about the same height as her hut, walked to his Jeep, surrounded by more children than she’d thought lived in the village, and grabbed a load of bags then disappeared behind the worn length of fabric that served as her door. If he was an inch wider in the shoulders he would have had to go in sideways.

Who on earth was that?

She craned her neck as the truck she was riding in flew over the road toward the square—the largest common area around, and the starting and arrival point for the weekly shuttle to the market.

She willed her bones to keep from rattling apart as the truck bounced over the uneven ground. The rest of the passengers didn’t seem to mind. The platform of the old Russian-made Kamaz was filled to capacity with men, women and children who had gone into Rahmara for the weekly market. They looked like some ragamuffin paramilitary group, with rifle barrels glinting in the sun. No man left the village without his gun, and weapons were in abundance thanks to the recent civil war. She had seen goatherds armed better than half the soldiers who occasionally rode through the village.

The truck slowed as it reached the center of the shantytown built on the ruins of Tukatar, a once-prosperous village destroyed by six years of war. The driver brought the vehicle to a halt, gears screeching to high heaven, and Abigail lifted her large bundle onto her back, as eager to get home as the rest of the people jumping to the sand.

Home.
It was the first time she had thought of her mud hut as such since she had arrived four days ago. Amazing how a death-defying trip across the desert could make you appreciate what you had.

Home indeed. With a mysterious visitor. She walked as briskly as she could, considering the heat and the load on her back. She hadn’t expected anyone. The man couldn’t have looked more out of place if he tried. Tall, blond and well-built, the all-American poster boy. But he must have been at least somewhat familiar with the culture since he wore long pants instead of shorts, and a simple white shirt-nothing to offend. Despite the clothing usually thought excessive by westerners for hundred-plus degrees of heat, he didn’t look like he was breaking a sweat.

She, on the other hand, was baking under the long black
abayah
she’d chosen to wear out of respect for the local customs. The veil that covered her head kept the dust out of her hair, but her face had half a pound of sand stuck to it, and her body was drenched in sweat. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been more in need of a bath. And, of course, there was no chance of that whatsoever. She barely had enough water at the hut to drink.

Her bundle of wooden bowls, sacks of flour, ajar of honey and other essentials, weighed more by the minute. But they were things she needed, things unavailable in the small village. She could get milk, cheese, eggs, fruits and vegetables from her neighbors, but for anything beyond that she had to go to town. The villagers had scarcely enough to eat after two years of drought—rarely any surplus to sell.

Tired to the bone, she shifted her load to the other shoulder. She was having a really rotten day, not in the mood for visitors at all. He’d better have brought food and some articles of comfort.

She didn’t want to have to go into Rahmara for a while. Although seeing a bigger town had been interesting, the trip was murder. And she had felt compelled to call her mother as long as she was near the only phone for a hundred miles around. And her mother never missed an occasion to drive her crazy.

Abigail adjusted the bundle on her back. Next week when she went into Rahmara, she would buy a goat. She had tried to buy one from a farmer in town as soon as she’d arrived, but he refused. Probably because she was a woman. Rahmara was bigger, not as backward as Tukatar. Tukatar was strictly under the thumb of the local mullah.

The mullah.
Oh, my God!
She broke into a run. Had the village’s religious leader decided to give her hut to someone else? He hadn’t liked the idea of her project from the beginning and had let her stay only because of the money.

She slowed as she got closer to her hut, tried to catch her breath. The Jeep was still there. The children greeted her in a chorus, none with a wider smile than Zaki, a seven-year-old ragamuffin who’d lost his left leg in a land-mine accident.

The man was nowhere in sight.

“Hello,” she called out.

No response.

Well. She didn’t have to wait for acknowledgement. As far as she knew, it was still
her
home. She pulled aside the cloth that served as a door and marched right in.

“Hi.” The intruder stopped unpacking and came toward her with his right hand extended, his handsome face splitting into a wide smile that revealed movie-starquality sparkling teeth.