Show No Fear Page 2

  Oh, shit! It took all her training to conceal her astonishment at coming face-to-face with James again, though she really shouldn’t have been surprised, having discovered that he was HUMINT, a sector of the military specially trained to support the CIA.

  “Hello, James,” she greeted him, managing to sound indifferent as she went to push the right button and found it already lit.

  “Lucy,” he said, looking stunned, a little perplexed. His brandy-colored eyes slid from her glossy ponytail to her high heels. “How are you?” he asked, his gaze centering on the tiny scar on her forehead.

  She could tell he was picturing her as he’d last seen her, with a river of blood bisecting her face. “Good,” she insisted, irritated by his frankly protective look. Hell, she wasn’t made of porcelain.

  The elevator rose almost imperceptibly, leaving her no choice but to breach the awkward chasm between them. As with their last encounter, this grown-up James threw her off-kilter. He’d had plans to become an architect. Yet even in a gray suit and white-collared dress shirt, he looked like an advertisement for the U.S. Special Forces. It hadn’t just been the greasepaint that had made him look forbidding. Dressed as a civilian, he looked lean and powerful and downright dangerous to mess with.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get to thank you,” she began, having to clear her throat first. “I was flown off the carrier before I got the chance—”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, cutting her off. His gaze jumped to the buttons lighting up over the door, an indication that either he wasn’t interested in hearing her excuses or he didn’t require her thanks.

  Okay. Lucy squared her shoulders and looked away. This encounter had the feel of an awkward morning-after situation, only they definitely hadn’t had sex the last time they’d been together. Too bad.

  “What happened to becoming an architect?” She just had to ask him.

  The gaze that swung her way reflected a stark emptiness. “Nine-eleven,” he answered flatly. “My father died in one of the twin towers.”

  Lucy’s stomach fell to her feet. Oh, no. His father had been the lead architect working for a banking firm. He and James had been as close as father and son could be. No doubt James had fed on that bond to motivate him through the toughest military training conceivable. She’d known he was smart enough. Devotion to his father’s memory must have given him the mental toughness. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured sincerely.

  With a nod, he looked away. The elevator slowed and the doors slid open.

  With too much to think about, Lucy stepped out before him, heading down the hall toward the designated meeting room. She sensed rather than heard James following right behind her, his footfalls silent on the sturdy carpet.

  As she reached the meeting room, curiosity prompted her to glance back.

  “We must be headed to the same meeting,” he observed, coming to stand beside her.

  Concealing her surprise and studying James from the corner of her eye, she gave a swift knock on the door. Why would they be summoned to the same meeting? Was this about the warehouse incident, or would they be working together on something new?

  “Come!” boomed the familiar voice of SIS Gordon Banks, Lucy’s supervisor. “Ah, good, you’re both on time,” said the black man, glancing at his watch as they stepped inside. “Close the door, would you, Lieutenant?”

  Two men stood with Gordon, the trio backdropped by the dazzling architecture of the UN Plaza visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Gordon’s companions were middle-aged, one stocky and bald, the other slim and dark.

  “Lucy, Gus, thanks for coming. This is our Colombian branch chief, Louis Stokes,” Gordon said, introducing the balding man first. “Louis, Lucy Donovan.”

  Stokes pumped her hand enthusiastically. “I’ve heard stories about you,” he warned.

  “All lies,” she assured him, her heartbeat accelerating at the mention of Colombia, so close to Venezuela and the memories of violence that clamored within the locked box in her mind.

  Gordon turned to James. “And this is Navy SEAL Lieutenant James Augustus Atwater, otherwise known as Gus.”

  Gus? mused Lucy. Apparently, he had reverted to his middle name. It suited his transformation, she decided.

  “Gus and Lucy, I want you to meet Carlos Santos, director of human rights with the United Nations. At least, that’s his cover,” Gordon amended. “He’s with CESID, the Spanish military intelligence service.”

  “Un placer,” professed the Spaniard, bowing slightly over Lucy’s fingers. “I hear you studied in Valencia while in college, señorita,” he said, turning back to Lucy after shaking Gus’s hand.

  “Yes, I did.” Her first experience with terror, a roadside bomb that’d killed three friends and dozens of others, had persuaded her to join the CIA after graduation.

  “I have family in the area. I myself am from Andalucía,” he added, unaware of the memories splintering her thoughts.

  “Carlos is going to be working with the two of you on a special project,” Gordon interrupted, recapturing Lucy’s attention and gesturing to the briefing table. “Let’s all take a seat. Did you want any coffee first, Lucy? Gus?”

  They both demurred, facing off across the table as the others took seats around them. Glancing at James’s—Gus’s—expression, Lucy found it shuttered, unreadable.

  “Lucy, I think I told you last year that the Navy lets us borrow Gus from time to time,” Gordon recollected, sliding an envelope marked top secret in front of her.

  “Yes, sir,” she affirmed. It was hard to get her mind around it. James, who should have been an architect, had become one of the most dangerous men on earth.

  “You and he will be working on a common assignment,” he continued, confirming her earlier guess. “I assume the names Mike Howitz and Jay Barnes ring a bell?”

  “Of course.” Howitz and Barnes had been Lucy’s colleagues, case officers like her who’d been assigned to Venezuela. In the coup last year, they’d been captured by Colombian terrorists, Las Fuerzas Armarias de Colombia, who’d come across the border at San Cristobal and abducted them.

  The FARC, who called themselves advocates for the common man, processed and sold cocaine, terrorized villagers, and ransomed hostages to fund their forty-year-old rebellion against the Colombian government.

  Lucy had assumed her colleagues were doomed.

  The U.S. did not negotiate with terrorists. America had stubbornly ignored the FARC’s demands to release Commander Gitano, one of their top political prisoners. Locked in a stalemate with the U.S. government, the FARC might hold Mike and Jay indefinitely, unless some neutral party like the Red Cross stepped in to mediate…

  “The United Nations is sponsoring a team to spearhead negotiations for their release,” Gordon announced, his words mirroring Lucy’s thoughts. He nodded at the Spaniard. “Mr. Santos is one of the UN volunteers, along with a Frenchman, an Italian, a Turk, and two more Spaniards.” He divided an enigmatic look between Lucy and Gus. “That’s going to be your cover,” he added.

  Lucy glanced at Gus and found him frowning at her boss.

  “Gus just completed Spanish-language school at the Farm. Lucy speaks fluent Spanish and is familiar with the culture,” Gordon added. “We have a liaison agreement with the CESID, who are the only folks who’ll know your true identity.”

  Lucy glanced at the dark-eyed Spaniard, who sent her an encouraging smile.

  “Here’s the cruncher,” Gordon added, recapturing her attention. “We don’t have much time to prepare. You’ll need to fly into Bogotá on Monday,” he announced.

  Monday? Then she wouldn’t have to step foot in paperwork hell ever again. She’d been hankering for an assignment for months now, so why wasn’t she experiencing a powerful victory rush? Was she picking up on Gus’s reticence to work with her? Or did she have doubts that she’d made a full recovery?

  “Furthermore,” Gordon continued, with a steady eye on Lucy, “given the humanitarian nature of your c
over, you won’t be able to carry any weapons or any overt communication devices of any kind,” he added apologetically.

  Her mind flashed back to the last time she’d had her gun taken away from her. Oh, no.

  “The FARC are going to march you deep into the jungle,” Gordon added, causing her to break into a sweat. “They’re going to strip you of everything but your underwear and boots. Any weapons or cell phones you might try to conceal would be discovered,” he explained.

  Lucy’s lips began to tingle. She could sense Gus’s growing tension as he glared down at the table, refusing to meet her gaze.

  “You don’t have to take this assignment if you’re not ready, Lucy,” her supervisor added, no doubt aware of her diagnosis. “But Barnes and Howitz are your colleagues. I thought I’d give you first bite at this since you’d worked in-country with those two.”

  Lucy angled her chin at him. “Of course I’m ready,” she scoffed, aware that Gus was finally looking straight at her. “Is that the reason Lieutenant Atwater is accompanying me?” she asked, with sudden insight. “For my protection?” If she was going to get her moxie back, she had to do this on her own without a freaking babysitter.

  Her supervisor frowned. “As it happens, Lucy, a squad of SEALs from Gus’s team has already deployed to Bogotá. They’re assigned to the Joint Intelligence Center at the American embassy, where they’ve been gathering intel. Those SEALs are going to track your progress via microchips implanted under your skin. Your job is to discover, if you can, the coordinates to the camp where Howitz and Barnes are held, keeping in mind that the FARC tend to relocate every couple of weeks. When the UN negotiations fail—which we expect to be the case—the SEALs should have enough data to drop in and wrest our boys out by force.”

  “How can I pass on data if I can’t carry a cell phone or radio?” Gus chimed in, his tone inscrutable.

  “We,” Lucy corrected him, earning a piercing glance. She cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “We’ll cover that shortly,” Gordon promised. “In addition to finding Barnes and Howitz, I want you to make a full report on the FARC’s present circumstances. The Colombian army says they’ve cut off the rebels’ supplies and killed off their leaders and it’s just a matter of time before they disintegrate completely. We want to know if that’s the case. Go ahead and open your envelopes,” he added with a nod.

  With an uncharacteristic tremor in her fingers, Lucy untied the flap and reached for the passport inside. As she cracked the cover, she assimilated her new identity with a shiver of excitement and a renewed sense of calm. This was a familiar process, the feelings of taking on a new identity, fraught with nuanced details, first internalized and then worn like a second skin.

  The name beside her photograph was Luna Delgado de Aguiler, born in Valencia, Spain. The pages of her passport, heavily stamped, indicated extensive service to the United Nations. According to her bio, she was an associate human affairs officer working and living in New York City, married to Gustavo Aguiler, a human rights officer.

  “You and Gus will be traveling as a married couple,” Gordon added, confirming her sudden stab of suspicion.

  Lucy’s heart skipped a beat. She glanced across the table and found Gus scowling in concentration at his passport. Thankfully, there was no ring on his left hand, nor any telltale sign that he had ever worn one. At least she wouldn’t be treading on another woman’s turf, not that it would matter if she were.

  They were professionals with a job to do. It wouldn’t make a lick of difference if he was married or not.

  Gordon turned and gestured to the Colombian branch chief. “Stokes, why don’t you take over here?”

  Hours later, her mind saturated with as much information as she could memorize, Lucy felt a renewed sense of certainty. The assimilation process had restored her accustomed self-confidence, reassuring her that her PTSD was a thing of the past. She could do this. The episode in Venezuela hadn’t caused any lasting damage.

  But first she and James needed to have a good heart-to-heart, which he seemed to be avoiding.

  She hurried to catch up with him, trapping him as he stood waiting for the elevator. “James—Gus,” she amended with a self-directed grimace. That was going to take a little getting used to.

  He swung around slowly, his expression both guarded and disapproving.

  “Would you like to go out for a drink?” she brazened, ignoring the invisible shield erected around him. It was obvious he wasn’t feeling social. “We have a lot of catching up to do,” she insisted. They weren’t going to be able to proceed without airing their differences—whatever they were.

  “We’re going to dinner soon,” he countered. Carlos had instructed them to meet him at a local restaurant, where they would practice their new roles as Mr. and Mrs. Gustavo de Aguiler. She sure hoped Gus’s Spanish had improved.

  Feeling rebuffed, she tried a different tactic. “Well, I can see you’re just thrilled to be working with me,” she quipped with sarcasm. “What’s the matter? Never worked with a woman before?” she demanded archly.

  He looked away, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “From what I recall, you were the one with issues about having me for a partner,” he quietly reminded her.

  Touché. Lucy’s face turned hot. “I’m not used to working with anyone else,” she explained. “I work alone. No offense intended.”

  His gaze slid back in her direction. This time he let her see the concern and dread warring in his eyes. “When’s it going to end for you, Luce?” he asked her suddenly, ignoring the elevator as the door slid open. “When will you have had enough?”

  “Oh, come on.” She waved away his words with a quirk of her lips and a toss of her head. She got a sudden feeling that he knew more about her than she knew about him. Moreover, his concern was unwelcome; it undermined her self-confidence. “So I took a little beating on my last assignment, so what? I’ve taken worse and still landed on my feet,” she assured him, giving him a not-so-playful push.

  Beneath the linen-and-silk blend of his suit, he felt as solid as a tree.

  Nor did he reciprocate her smile. His lips remained locked in a horizontal line as his eyes roamed her face, taking in every tiny trophy scar that gave testament to her words. “You mean like when you were stabbed by an asset in Madrid in ’04?” he demanded quietly.

  The breath disappeared from Lucy’s lungs. He did know more than he was supposed to.

  “Or maybe you’re thinking of the car accident in Morocco that put you in traction for six months?”

  “Who told you about that?” The elevator doors slid shut, giving up on them to heed summons from a higher floor.

  “We work for the same people,” he retorted. He took a sudden step toward her, causing her nerves to leap with awareness. Maybe he wasn’t any taller, but his shoulders were certainly broader, his neck thicker, creating an illusion of immense height. His scent curled into her nostrils, so endearingly familiar that her heart clutched with remembered affection. “I want you to turn down this assignment, Lucy,” he growled, his words cancelling out her tender feelings. “Go tell Gordon you’ve changed your mind, that you’re not ready for this.”

  “The hell I’m not ready for it!” Lucy protested, her spine stiffening with affront. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Why, indeed? asked a tiny voice inside her.

  A ruddy color stained Gus’s cheekbones. “Lucy, those guards beat the hell out of you,” he grated with quiet force. “For all I know, they even raped you.”

  “They didn’t,” she retorted, tamping down memories that sought to escape. “What’s more, I didn’t need your help,” she added, heaping on false confidence to keep pressure on the lid. “I’d gotten what I came for, and I was on my way out.”

  “Congratulations,” he said with a scathing look. “Just answer me this, Lucinda.” He used her full name knowing she hated it. “When is it going to end for you? Or are you going to keep this up until you’re good and dead?”

  “I don’t kn
ow,” she answered him honestly, hating that he was feeding that tiny fear still lingering inside her. “I’ve never considered quitting. Have you?”

  “I thought maybe it was over for you,” he continued, ignoring her question. “You’ve been lying low for ten months now. Why can’t you just keep doing that?”

  “You’ve been spying on me?” she cried in disbelief.

  “I told you. We work for the same people,” he repeated. “Now, go tell Gordon you don’t want this assignment,” he repeated, crowding her with his larger body.

  “No,” she countered, giving him her most stubborn look.

  In a gesture that she recognized from their college days, he turned away, jamming his fingers through his russet-brown, neatly trimmed hair. With a muttered curse, he punched the button for the elevator again.

  His vehemence gave Lucy pause—that and the implication that he truly cared about her well-being. “Why does it matter to you so much, anyway?” she asked, remembering with a pang the tenderness he used to show her.

  He swung slowly back around. “Because now I’m your partner,” he articulated with a tremor in his voice. “And now it’s my freaking job to keep you alive.”

  “I don’t need you to keep me alive,” she retorted. The thought was ridiculous. She’d done fine on her own all these years.

  His eyelashes came together as he glared at her with flashing eyes. “Is that right?” he countered softly. “How many ops have you done in the jungle, Lucy?”

  She opened her mouth to shoot back an answer, then closed it with a snap. “None,” she admitted, self-consciousness pinching her cheeks.

  He raked her with another look, this one reflecting honest fear and concern. Then he turned and walked away.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, frustrated by her inability to get a good read on him. Why was he so against her involvement?

  Without a word, he pushed through the door marked EXIT.

  She had the answer to her spoken question, but not the unspoken one. He was taking the stairs.