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  Relief welled up in Luther only to come crashing down at Valentino’s next words.

  “For the time being we need to leave him alone. We want the man he works for, an entity who calls himself the Individual.”

  Say what? Luther swung an astonished look at Westy, whose blue eyes were blazing.

  “The Individual funnels weapons to various political groups worldwide,” Valentino added. Unlike most Italians, he spoke without using his hands. “Stolen weapons are cropping up in Nigeria, Haiti, and Yemen, in the hands of unpredictable factions. I’m sure you can appreciate how dangerous that is.”

  “Absolutely,” Luther said. To think that Lovitt was involved in an operation like that! Wouldn’t it be great if they could prove it? “I suppose you have proof of Lovitt’s involvement?” he asked, wondering what it would take to get his hands on it.

  Valentino just looked at him. “We have an intercepted e-mail that we’ve traced to Lovitt’s IP address. It makes reference to certain cargo being ready for shipment. But for the time being the evidence remains with me.”

  “Who’s the Individual?” Westy demanded. Typically forthright, he hated batting words around.

  “I’m sorry,” Valentino answered, his expression neutral. “We’ve reached a critical point in our investigation. I can’t afford a leak.” He reached for a second pile of documents and pulled it before him. “I will tell you that the Individual knows Miss Geary, which may be the reason she is still alive.”

  But . . . Luther looked at Westy. They’d assumed it was Lovitt who’d made the woman disappear.

  “One of the Individual’s buyers is a Cuban, a potential revolutionary named Pinzón. According to our intelligence, Pinzón is guarding an American woman in his compound, which is in Santiago.”

  Luther’s eyebrows rose. “Santiago . . . Cuba?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How did Geary get from Quantico to Cuba?” he asked, utterly confounded.

  “She never made it to Quantico. It took us a while to realize that,” the agent admitted, “especially when the guards at Quantico remembered waving in a red-haired woman in a green Mustang. Once we considered that woman wasn’t Miss Geary, we had more options to consider.”

  He cracked another file and read out loud, “‘At two twenty-three P.M., August 29, state police received calls from motorists reporting a high-speed chase along Interstate 95, south of D.C. Subsequent calls notified police of an accident involving a minivan and a Mustang, with at least one injury.’” He looked up. “Our guess is that Miss Geary was grabbed at that point and put into the second vehicle. Her car, which showed up at Quantico, had a patched rear tire and showed signs of a recent collision.

  “Our leads dried up until Occoquan police came forward with video footage of a man bearing a woman of Geary’s description aboard a stolen yacht. The man was Misalov Obradovitch.” He withdrew two photographs from the file and slid them across the desk for Luther’s and Westy’s inspection.

  Westy scowled down at the man’s photo. “He looks familiar.”

  “He should,” said Valentino. “Obradovitch is a Serbian assassin. He and his wife have been among our Most Wanted for years. Wearing a wig, the woman bears enough resemblance to Miss Geary to have used her ID at Quantico. We believe she left the car there to mislead us.”

  Luther memorized the features of the stone-faced criminals. Hannah Geary must have been scared out of her mind, he considered, sparing her a thought.

  “Getting back to the yacht, I was able to track its progress using commercial satellite imagery and marine radio communications. All indications point to Santiago as its final destination.”

  “Why not send your own people in if you know where she is?” Luther asked. There had to be a reason Valentino had asked for them specifically.

  “Because I’ve been here before,” he admitted, placing an elegant-looking hand over the file he’d just closed. “The Individual isn’t new to us; we’ve been aware of his activities for years, and the last time I got this close, he disappeared. If he senses that I’m closing in, he’ll clean up house before I can find the proof I need to shut him down. I require you to camouflage my investigation,” the agent summarized.

  Luther considered him for a long, thoughtful moment. “Agreed,” he said, at last, “but we need something in return. If this woman, Geary, is alive and well, we’d like to borrow her.” He summarized Jaguar’s legal situation while explaining that Geary could potentially relieve him of his charges.

  Thoughts ebbed and flowed in Valentino’s dark-as-night eyes. “You’re asking me to put her welfare into your hands,” he pointed out. “The Individual might well target her again.”

  “Understood,” said Luther. “I think we’re capable of watching her, sir.” He flicked a look at Westy, who nodded.

  Valentino scrutinized them through his eyelashes. “Very well,” he finally agreed. “If you can extract Geary from her current situation, then she may remain with you until my investigation is complete. But I insist that you check in with me often and keep me apprised of her situation.”

  “We will,” Luther agreed. “Where do we start?”

  Valentino conjured a map that he handed over to the SEALs to peruse. Luther recognized the shoreline of the eastern portion of Cuba and the familiar outline of Guantanamo Bay, where he’d spent extensive time participating in live-fire exercises. Near the city of Santiago at the mouth of the bay was a structure that resembled a fort. Valentino had circled it in red.

  “Let’s go over this together,” he invited smoothly.

  Chapter Two

  Santiago de Cuba

  19 September ~ 02:54 DST

  Hannah lurched from the clutches of a too familiar dream. She sat up on her cot, bathed in a clammy sweat, her heart still racing. If she closed her eyes, she would fall right back into the nightmare.

  In some ways the crash that had killed her parents three years ago seemed like yesterday. At the same time, those had been the three longest years of her life. With shaky fingers, she brushed the hair from her sticky face and looked around.

  The thumbnail moon at her window revealed that it was late. Over the muted roar of waves outside, Hannah heard a noise that pushed the unpleasant dream into the recesses of her mind and brought her more widely awake.

  There were footsteps in the hallway. She drew a breath and held it, listening as the steps grew louder. Much to her surprise, the interloper stopped outside her door.

  Someone meant to pay her a visit.

  She lay back quietly, pretending to be asleep.

  Anticipation knocked against her eardrums as the bolt grated to one side. Her door yawned open, and there stood a slight man in uniform, silhouetted by the light in the hall.

  Hannah recognized him as the leader of the soldiers that drilled in the courtyard. She’d overheard him addressed as General Pinzón. He wore a pistol in the holster at his waist and shoes so highly polished that they glinted in the darkness, but he stood half a head shorter than she did.

  He didn’t stand a chance.

  Easing the door shut behind him, the general approached her cot. The purpose for his visit became clear as he fumbled with the zipper of his pants.

  Slime bag.

  His knee hit the edge of her bed. He leaned over, groping.

  Wait.

  Now! She seized him in a headlock, gouging his eyes to blind him. As he reared back, she thrust her feet into his abdomen, giving him no time to snatch up his weapon. He hit the opposite wall with a thud, sinking toward the floor.

  Hannah flew at him. Before switching to the DIA, she’d been trained at CIA camp how to disable the enemy with the least amount of force. But in the dark, and with adrenaline coursing her bloodstream, the blow that was supposed to hit the side of his neck landed dead center.

  Crack. The cartilage in his throat snapped. His mouth gaped open. He grabbed his neck, trying in vain to gasp for air. Hannah snatched up his gun before he thought to shoot her
with it.

  She backed away, watching in horror as he opened and closed his mouth, looking like a fish out of water. The gun in her hand felt cold and heavy. At last, his movements grew more feeble and he stilled. The only sound in the room was her shallow breathing.

  I killed him, she thought. I actually just killed a man without even meaning to!

  The instinct for self-preservation roused her from paralysis. She lurched for the door. No time to consider her actions now. Easing into the empty hallway, she closed the door behind her, and slid the bolt home, sealing the general inside.

  And then she ran.

  Down a hall that split immediately in two different directions. After darting into several confusing alcoves, Hannah located the stairs. To her dismay, there were guards below her. If she shot them, it would cause a ruckus. She spared a moment to check her ammunition. The clip was empty, anyway. The gun was useless.

  She hurled it down the stairwell, prompting an immediate stir. With a shout, the guards stormed the second level, but Hannah had tucked herself into an alcove and they ran by. She dashed down the steps behind them, her bare feet making no sound at all.

  The buzz of insects masked her dash to the outdoor kitchens, noisy with the clanging of pots and running water. She scraped her elbow on the sandstone wall as she edged along the kitchen’s periphery.

  Not so fast.

  There were more guards here, three of them, lighting cigarettes by the vine-choked fountain. Could she count on her filthy shirt to keep her hidden in the dark?

  She paused to catch her breath. It was then that a cry came from a second-story window—her window, she determined, glancing up.

  “El general está muerto!” a voice cried out—the general is dead!

  And, look, the woman is missing.

  Now the whole place would light up like the D.C. Mall at Christmas. This was nothing like the stealthy escape she’d envisioned.

  As the soldiers tossed down their cigarettes, seizing their rifles, Hannah sprinted toward a crumbled portion of the wall. Nearing a motion-detecting spotlight, she dropped to her belly and elbow-crawled through the vegetation.

  Once safely past, she sprang up again, legs wobbling beneath her. The sound she dreaded reached her ears.

  “Allí está!” The two remaining guards had spotted her.

  “Alto! Manos arriba!”

  She lengthened her stride, thighs quivering in protest to her sudden exertion. Bullets peppered the wall in her wake, inspiring her to run faster. She arrived at the crossover point within seconds, leaping up to grasp the top of the wall. To her horror, stone crumbled beneath her fingers and she fell back to her feet.

  The guards were running toward her, thankfully out of ammunition. She jumped again, grasping a sturdy vine. Her bare toes scrabbled for leverage, but it was useless. Her arms were weak with terror.

  With a sob of defeat, Hannah stilled. They were going to capture her and likely execute her for killing their leader.

  Thoop. Thoop.

  Those unexpected sounds had her peering over her shoulder. She found her pursuers flat on their backs, dead.

  In amazement, she whipped her head in the opposite direction. Someone outside the compound was aiding her escape!

  Suddenly a hand came out of the palm fronds, then an entire arm and a powerful shoulder. She made out her rescuer by the whites of his eyes and realized he was lying on the wall just feet away. “Take my hand,” he commanded brusquely.

  She groped for it, tears of joy burning her eyes.

  He was American! His grip was firm and sure. He shook the leaves off his body as he hauled her up beside him. Sitting next to him she could scarcely make him out. He was dressed in black from head to toe, his face painted.

  “Hannah Geary?” he clipped. She got the impression he was annoyed.

  “Yes, who are—”

  But he didn’t let her finish. He swung her down on the opposite side, into a pair of waiting arms. Then he jumped to the sand beside her and scooped her up into a fireman hold. Hannah squawked in protest, finding herself suddenly well above the ground.

  “Quiet!” said the commando.

  “I can walk on my own!”

  “Can you see in the dark?” He was moving fast, and she had to appreciate that fact because the estate was seething with commotion now: shouting, another burst of gunfire.

  She couldn’t see in the dark, but apparently he could. He clambered down the bluff at lightning speed, heading toward the water. The noise behind them swelled as the shouting continued. A beam of light shot out over the water. Perhaps once a beacon for ships, it was now being used to hunt her down.

  But she wasn’t afraid. The man beneath her moved with the sinuous confidence of a super athlete. She already knew he carried a weapon, and as he jogged along the surf, he covered ground fast.

  The land beneath them curved like a sickle. At last he stopped, tipping her into ankle-deep water. The other man pushed a rigid inflatable boat across the sand into the water and the big man helped Hannah climb on board.

  As he fired up the motor, Hannah clung to the center seat. The second man took his place at the prow, and they were off, slamming into the waves, away from the light that strafed the shore.

  Up and over the crests they flew, soaring and falling. Hannah had no idea the water in the bay was so rough. She would have drowned trying to swim across it.

  The noises on the shoreline faded. Eventually the only sound was the humming of the RIB’s motor. Eventually, her rescuer cut the engine and they slid across the swells to a standstill.

  They listened. All was quiet.

  Her rescuer flipped a switch on a transmitter, spouting naval code-speak to request a pickup.

  “Roger. It’ll take us twenty minutes to get there. Sit tight. Out.”

  Hannah pried her stiff fingers from the side of the boat. “Th-thank you,” she said, shuddering with cold.

  He scooted closer. “Are you hurt?” He ran large but gentle hands over her wet skin.

  “I think I’m okay,” she said, teeth chattering as adrenaline gave way to icy-cold shock.

  “Westy, toss me a blanket,” the commando requested, and his partner tossed him a rolled object that he shook open and draped across her shoulders. Hannah gathered the crinkly material closer, feeling instantly warmed.

  “So what was going on back there?” the big man asked. His annoyance was unmistakable this time.

  “Er . . . I was trying to get away?”

  He kept quiet for a moment. “Another three hours and we’d have had you out without a soul seeing us,” he revealed.

  Oops. “Sorry. I didn’t know anyone was coming for me. Who are you exactly?”

  “Navy SEALs. I’m Lieutenant Lindstrom.” He stuck out a hand. “Call me Luther. My helmsman there is Chief McCaffrey. Everyone calls him Westy.”

  Luther Lindstrom’s hand was wonderfully big and warm. Hannah commanded herself to let go but couldn’t. She glanced at Westy, whose face was also painted black. The man had a beard of all things. “From Team Twelve?” she guessed.

  “Yes,” the lieutenant confirmed, tugging his hand free. “You were delivering a notebook to us when you disappeared.”

  He shouldn’t have reminded her. Hannah put her forehead to her knees and squeezed her legs so her shaking would subside. Memories of the last two weeks panned through her mind like a terrifying slide show.

  She’d been trained to cope with hardship in a mock captivity back at CIA camp, but that had been a cakewalk compared to the last two weeks. Now that she was safe, the enormity of her experience pegged her in the chest. She made a sound in her throat that sounded embarrassingly like a sob.

  Lieutenant Lindstrom put a hand on her back. “Hey, you’re okay now. I’ve got you right here. You’re absolutely safe.” His dense thigh brushed hers.

  She could feel the heat of his hand burning through her filthy blouse. To her shame, she threw herself at him and hung on tight. A man this solid had
to be real. She wasn’t dreaming.

  After a second’s surprise, the lieutenant pulled her closer, his arms like bands of steel. His diving suit did nothing to conceal the awesome proportions of his physique: broad chest, trim waist, thighs hewn out of rock. For the first time in her life, Hannah knew what it was like to feel petite.

  Her shuddering slowly subsided. “I’m okay,” she said, forcing herself to withdraw.

  But he held her fast. She sighed and went limp. Her isolation these last two weeks had left her hungering for human contact. She closed her eyes, lulled by the steady beat of his heart.

  “Patrol’s coming,” Westy said.

  Without releasing her, the lieutenant hailed the approaching craft with a special signaling device. The larger vessel loomed alongside them, its motor almost silent. He helped her climb a ladder that was lowered to them.

  There were no lights on board the bigger boat. In the darkness and all the way to Guantanamo Bay Naval Installation, Hannah clung to the SEAL, one part of her appalled by her need for reassurance, the other certain that he understood.

  U.S. Naval Station Guantanamo Bay

  19 September ~ 09:16 DST

  Luther quit knocking at Hannah’s door and put his ear to it to listen. Maybe she wasn’t in there.

  They’d secured rooms at the bachelor quarters in Guantanamo at well past four in the morning. Given the woman’s exhaustion, she could easily sleep another ten hours. But since their flight back to CONUS—Continental U.S.— was leaving in just two hours, they needed to prepare for departure now.

  The silence in the room convinced him she was already up. He hastened to the lobby, more than a little concerned. Through the double glass doors at the rear of the building he caught sight of her, seated by the outdoor pool across the table from Westy.

  The scene looked like something out of a swimsuit calendar, with the pool and the multicolored umbrella back-dropped by the Caribbean Sea. Sitting under the umbrella, Hannah could have passed for the model in the calendar, only instead of a swimsuit, she was wearing a peach sundress and sandals Westy must’ve bought her in the gift shop.