Dangerous to Hold (30 page)

Maggie didn't make the mistake of dismissing his emotions lightly. For all his seeming ineptitude, Richard was a highly intelligent man. And one whose self-restraint she had to admire. She doubted she'd exhibit the same rigid control after several glasses of potent vodka if she was locked in a room with, say…

Unbidden, Adam Ridgeway's slate blue eyes and lean, aristocratic face filled her mind. Maggie pulled her chin free of Richard's light hold, frowning at the sudden wild leaping of
her pulse. She must have been more affected by that one glass of raw alcohol than she'd thought.

“We'll talk about this tomorrow, after the vodka has worked its way through your, ah, system.”

“Megan…”

“Get some sleep, Richard. The rest of the team should arrive early in the morning. When they do, you'll want to update them on your meeting with Cherkoff and review the schedule for our first day on-site.”

He accepted her reminder of his responsibilities with good grace and stood quietly as she left.

With a silent shake of her head, Maggie made her way to her own room. Good grief. She'd better make sure Richard avoided any more ceremonial toasts. That rather spectacular display of his endocrine system would definitely rank among the more vivid memories she'd take away from this particular mission, but it wasn't one she wanted him to repeat on a frequent basis. Not when she needed to focus all her concentration on nuclear missiles and hostile, hungry wolves.

Maggie stopped just inside the threshold to her room and eyed the thick, feather-filled comforter piled atop the curved bed. Imagining how wonderful it would be to sink down into that fluffy mound, she sighed. Later, she promised herself. Later, she would strip down to her T-shirt and panties and lose herself in that cloud of softness.

Right now, however, she had a mission to conduct.

Closing the door to her room, she sat on the edge of the bed and punched Cowboy's code into her wristwatch. While she waited for him to respond, she opened the suitcase and rummaged through her possessions. By the time she'd tugged off the plaid shirt and bulky pants and pulled on a black turtleneck and slacks, Nate still hadn't returned her signal. Grinning, Maggie wondered if he was having difficulty slipping away from a potential bride who wanted to inspect his plumbing.

David Jensen, on the other hand, responded immediately.

“OMEGA Control. Go ahead, Chameleon.”

“Just wanted to confirm that I'm in place, Doc.”

“I've been tracking you. You made good time, despite the initial delays.”

Maggie's grin widened. She would've bet her last pair of clean socks David had plotted the digitized satellite signals to know exactly when she'd arrived in Balminsk's capital. With his engineer's passion for detail, he wouldn't let her and Cowboy out of his sight for a second. His precision in the control center certainly gave Maggie a sense of comfort.

In response to his comment, she dismissed the hair-raising, heart-stopping hours in Vasili's truck with a light laugh. “Our driver is in training for the first Russian Grand Prix. He made up for lost time. I couldn't raise Cowboy, Doc. Have you heard from him?”

“One brief transmission, several hours ago. He said something about losing a race to a one-armed acrobat and heading toward Balminsk.”

“He's heading here?” Maggie's heavy brows drew together.

“He was. I now show him stopped 27.3 miles from the border. He's been at that position for several hours. There are satellite reports of heavy weather in the area, which may explain why he's holding in place.”

“Well, the weather's fine here,” Maggie replied. “I'm going out to reconnoiter.”

“Roger, Chameleon. Good hunting.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

Maggie knelt on one knee, surveying the contents of her open suitcase. She didn't need to scan it with the infrared sensor concealed in the handle to know the various objects inside had been handled by someone with a different body-heat signature from hers. If the White Wolf hadn't thought to order a search, his son would have. Unless the searchers were a whole bunch more imaginative than OMEGA's special devices unit, though, they wouldn't have found anything except some plain cotton underwear, thick socks, another plaid shirt or two, some essential feminine supplies, a Sony Walkman
with a few tapes, and the geological books and equipment Maggie had considered necessary for her role.

Pursing her lips, she studied the various items, trying to decide which had the most value in a country whose economy was in such shambles that black-marketing and barter were the only means of commodity exchange.

A few moments later, she opened the door to the suite. The guard pushed his shoulders off the opposite wall, his bushy brows lowering in a suspicious scowl.

“Good evening, my friend,” Maggie said in the Russian dialect predominantly used in Balminsk. “Does your wife have a fondness for perfumed body lotion, perhaps?”

Okay, Maggie thought as the guard sniffed the small black-and-white plastic squeeze tube, so some people might not consider Chanel No. 5 Body Creme an essential feminine supply. She did. But she'd decided not to risk agitating Richard's olfactory sense any further.

 

Three hours later, Maggie and the guard wound their way back through the dark, deserted corridors of the presidential palace. Her mind whirled with the bits and pieces of information she'd managed to collect.

She hadn't expected the few residents of Balminsk she'd encountered to open up to an outsider, and they hadn't. Exactly. But a few country-and-western tapes, a confident smile and her ease with their language had helped overcome their surly suspicion to a certain degree.

At her request, the guard had taken her to what passed for a restaurant in Balminsk. He'd explained to the proprietor of a tiny kitchen-café that the
Amerikanski
was with the UN team and wished to sample some local fare after her long trip. The ruddy-faced cook had shrugged and shown her to the only table in the room. The other customers, all two of them, had crowded to the far end of the table and shot Maggie frowning glances over their bowls of potato soup.

The soup was thin and watery and deliciously flavored. Maggie followed the other patrons' example and sopped up
every drop from the bottom of her bowl with a chunk of crusty black bread. Her first bite of a spicy, meat-filled cabbage roll had her taste buds clamoring for more, but the empty pot on the table indicated that she'd exhausted the café's supply of menu items. Luckily, the light, crispy strips of fried dough drenched in honey that the cook served for dessert satisfied the rest of her hunger. So much so that she had to force down a minuscule cup of heavily sweetened tea.

The patrons of the tiny café mumbled into their cups in answer to her casual questions. When she inquired as to their occupations, they responded with a shrug. It was only through skillful questioning and even more skillful listening that Maggie learned anything useful. Like the fact that the brawny, muscled man in blue cotton work pants and a sweatshirt proclaiming the benefits of one of the Crimea's better known health spas was a modern-day cattle rustler. It slipped out when the cook made a comment about needing more Karistani beef for the
peroshki.

The low-voiced discussion that followed gave Maggie a grim idea of how desperate Balminsk's economic situation really was. With so many other hot spots in the world demanding the West's attention, it was entirely possible the economic aid package Balminsk had been promised might arrive too late to prevent widespread starvation during the coming winter. Unless the men of this country took action of their own to prevent it. If that action resulted in a renewal of the hostilities that had ravaged Balminsk and Karistan for centuries, so be it.

From what Maggie could glean, that action would come soon.

As she followed the guard back through the palace, she knew she needed to talk to Cowboy, fast. Slipping her escort a Randy Travis cassette for his troubles, she lifted the latch on the door to the team's suite and eased inside. Richard's room was bathed in dark stillness, punctuated at regular intervals by a hiccuping snore. Smiling, Maggie opened her own door.

She'd taken only two steps inside when a hard hand slapped over her mouth. In a fraction of a heartbeat, her training kicked in, and she reacted with an instinctive sureness that would've made even the steely-eyed Jaguar proud.

Her right elbow jabbed back with every ounce of force she could muster. Her left ankle wrapped around one behind her. As her attacker went down, Maggie twisted to face him.

A single chop to the side of the neck sent him crumpling to the floor.

M
aggie made herself comfortable on the sleigh bed while she waited for Nikolas Cherkoff to recover consciousness. Holding her .22-caliber Smith and Wesson automatic in her left hand, she used the other to break off bits of the crispy dough strip she'd brought back as a late-night snack.

As she nibbled on the savory sweet, she kept a close watch on the major. She had far too much experience in the field to take her eyes off a target, even an unconscious one, which was probably what saved her life a few moments later.

Cherkoff, Sr., might be known as the White Wolf, but Cherkoff, Jr., possessed a few animal traits all his own. His lids flew up, and his black eyes focused with the speed of an eagle's. Curling his legs, he sprang to the attack like a panther loosed from a cage.

“One more step,” Maggie warned, whipping up the .22, “and the White Wolf will have to sire a new cub.”

He pulled up short. In the stark light of the overhead bulb, his scar stood out like a river of pain across his cheek.

“So, Dr. St. Clare,” he said at last. “It appears we've
reached what the military would call a countervailing force of arms.”

Maggie arched a brow. “It doesn't strike me as particularly countervailing. I'm the only one with a weapon here. Unless you have something hidden that my search failed to turn up…and I conducted a
very
thorough search.”

Thorough enough to discover that Nikolas Cherkoff's face wasn't the only portion of his anatomy that bore the scars of combat. Maggie hadn't actually seen phosphorus-grenade wounds before, but Jaguar had described them in enough detail for her to guess what had caused the horrible, puckered burns on the major's stomach. And she didn't think he'd taken that bullet through the shoulder in a hunting accident.

He jerked his chin toward her left hand. “Do you really think a weapon of that small caliber can stop a man of my size and weight before he does serious damage?”

“Well, yes…when it's loaded with long-rifle hollow-point stingers, which, as I'm sure you're aware, do as much tissue damage as a .38 special.”

His black eyes narrowed dangerously. “Do you care to tell me what a UN geologist is doing with such a weapon?”

“I might, if you tell me what you're doing in said geologist's room.”

His jaw worked at her swift, uncompromising response. “I came to speak with you.”

“Really? And you attack everyone you wish to speak with?”

“Don't be foolish. Naturally, I was alarmed to find you gone. So when a figure dressed all in black…and of considerably different proportions than the one I expected…stepped into the room, I reacted accordingly.”

Maggie had to admit her knit slacks and turtleneck were a bit more slenderizing than the baggy tan pants and thick wool shirt, but she wasn't ready to buy his story of mistaken identity. She kept the .22 level.

“What did you wish to speak to me about, Major?”

He didn't respond for several seconds. “Your team goes from Balminsk to Karistan, does it not?” he said at last.

“It does.”

“I came to warn you. You travel into harm's way.”

Maggie regarded him steadily. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you warn me? What's in this for you?”

At her soft question, he went still. Like an animal retreating behind a protective screen, he seemed to withdraw inside himself, to a place she couldn't follow and wasn't sure she wanted to even if she could. Black shutters dropped over his eyes, leaving behind an emptiness that made Maggie shiver.

As the seconds ticked by, the deep, gut-level instincts that the other OMEGA agents joked about and Adam Ridgeway swore added to the silver strands at his temples, stirred in Maggie. She chewed on a corner of her lower lip for a few endless moments, then rose.

Lifting the hem of her turtleneck, she slid the .22 into the specially designed and shielded holster at her waist.

“Tell me,” she said quietly, walking toward him.

The scar twitched.

She laid a hand on an arm composed entirely of taut sinew and rock-hard muscle. “Tell me why you came to warn me.”

With infinite, agonizing slowness, Cherkoff looked down at her hand. When he raised his head, his eyes were as flat and as desolate as before, but focused on her face.

“Balminsk is a series of catastrophes waiting to happen. If not this week, then the next.”

“And?”

He spoke slowly, his voice harsh with effort. “And I've seen enough of war to know that this time, when our world explodes with guns and bullets, the wounds could be fatal. To us. To Karistan. To any caught between us.”

 

“Cowboy, this is Chameleon. Do you read me?”

Nate hunkered down on both heels and pressed the transmit button.

“I read you, Chameleon, but talk fast. I've got about a min
ute, max, before someone notices Red and I have taken a slight detour and comes looking for us.”

Maggie's voice filtered through the darkness surrounding Nate. “I'm in Balminsk's capitol. I'm convinced they don't have the decoder here. But I'm also convinced that all hell's about to break loose.”

“What kind of hell?”

“A raid on Karistan is imminent, but I can't confirm when or where. My source is convinced that it will reopen hostilities and escalate into something really nasty, really fast.”

“Is your source reliable?”

“I think so. My instincts say so.”

“That's good enough for me,” Nate muttered.

“Any progress in finding the decoder on your end?”

Nate's jaw clenched. “No.”

A little silence descended, and then the sensitive transmitter picked up Maggie's soft caution.

“Things in this corner of the world are turning out to be a lot more desperate than any of the intelligence analysts realized. Be careful, Cowboy.”

“I know. I've got my boots on.”

“What?”

Nate allowed himself a small smile. “When the corral's this full of horse manure, Wily Willie always advised pulling on a good pair of boots before going in to shovel it out. I'm wearing my Naconas. Make sure you keep those clunkers of yours on.”

He could hear an answering smile seep into Maggie's voice. “I will. I promise.”

“And keep me posted, Chameleon.”

“Will do.” She paused, then added in a little rush, “Look, I think I might be able hold them off at this end for a few days. Two, maybe three, at the most. Will that help?”

“It wouldn't hurt,” he returned. Two, possibly three, more days to work his target. To break the shell around her. To learn the desperate secret she hid behind that proud, self-contained exterior. It wouldn't take him that long, he vowed to himself. And to Alex.

“What have you got in mind?” he asked Maggie.

“The team is scheduled to go down into the first silo tomorrow. Uh…don't be alarmed if you hear reports of a low-grade nuclear fuel spill.”

The hairs on Nate's neck stood on end. “Good Lord, woman!” he shot back. “That's not something you want to fool around with!”

“Oh, for Pete's sake. I'm not going to actually
do
anything. But maybe I can make some people think I did.”

“Chameleon!” Nate caught his near shout and forced himself to lower his voice. “Listen to me! Don't mess around down in that silo. Those missiles are old and unstable. You don't know what you're dealing with there.”

“I may not, but one of the world's foremost nuclear physicists is leading this team, remember? I'm fairly sure I can convince him to cooperate.”

“Why the hell would he cooperate in something like this?”

“It has to do with endocrine systems, but I don't have time to go into that right now. Just trust me, this man knows what he's doing.”

Nate almost missed her last, faint transmission.

“I hope.”

 

When Maggie signed off, Nate remained in a low crouch, staring at the illuminated face of his watch.

She wouldn't, he told himself. Surely to God, she wouldn't. With a sinking feeling, he acknowledged that she would.

Holy hell! Maggie intended to fake a nuclear fuel spill! Nate shook his head. He'd just as soon not be around when she tried to explain this one to Adam Ridgeway.

Contrary to the trigger-happy Hollywood stereotype, OMEGA agents were highly skilled professionals. They employed use of deadly force only as a last, desperate resort. Most had used it at one time or another, but no one ever spoke of it outside the required debrief with the director. Eventually a sanitized version of the event would circulate so that other agents
could learn from it and, hopefully, avoid a similar lethal position.

Within that general framework, OMEGA's director gave his operatives complete discretion in the field to act as the situation warranted. Still, Nate suspected Maggie might have to do some pretty fast talking to convince Ridgeway the situation warranted what she had in mind.

Whatever the hell it was she had in mind!

Nate's stomach clenched as he considered the awesome possibilities. He rose, feeling as twisted and taut as newly strung barbed wire. Maggie's transmission had added a gut-wrenching sense of urgency to the edgy tension already generated by the hours Nate had just shared with Alex on the shallow ledge.

Instead of easing after he'd settled back against the wall and put some space between himself and his target, his desire had sharpened with every glance of her black-fringed eyes, deepened with every movement of her bare flesh under her coat. By the time the storm's violence had subsided enough to allow safe travel, Nate's physical and mental frustration had left him feeling as surly as a kicked mongrel, and twice as ugly.

The long ride hadn't improved his mood. An hour after they rejoined Dimitri and the others, a silent signal had pulsed against the back of Nate's wrist. His impatience had mounted as he waited for an opportunity to shake his companions and answer the signal. He knew he had to do it on the trail, if possible. Once he returned to camp, it would be even harder to slip away from Ivana and Anya, not to mention Katerina.

The Karistani campfires were distant pinpoints of light against the velvet blackness before he managed a few moments alone. Dimitri had halted beside a blackened, smoldering tree split lengthwise by lightning. When Alex and the others clustered around to examine the storm's damage, Nate had used the cover of the colt's restless prancing at the end of his tether to slip away.

He'd known he had only a few moments, and he'd used them. Now he had to deal with what he'd learned from Maggie.
As Nate moved toward Red, standing patiently nearby, tension gnawed at him.

Where the hell was that decoder? How would it come into play if Balminsk launched an attack? And what was he going to do with, or to, Alexandra if Maggie couldn't hold off the raiders?

Despite the cool night air, sweat dampened his palms. How could he protect Alex? Especially when the blasted woman didn't want protection. She took her responsibilities as
ataman
of this tattered host so fiercely, so personally, that Nate didn't doubt she'd be in the middle of the action. His gut twisted at the thought.

Reins in hand, he stopped and stared into the distance. The star-studded Karistani night took on a gray, hazy cast. The open steppes narrowed, closed, until they resembled a fog-shrouded street. The vast quiet seemed to carry a distant, ghostly echo of automatic rifle fire. The sound of panting desperation. A low grunt. The gush of warm, red blood…

The soft plop of hooves wrenched Nate from his private hell.

Instantly he registered the direction, the gait and the size of the horse that made the sound. The tension in him shifted focus, from a woman who'd been part of his past to a woman he damned well was going to make sure had a future.

The metallic click of a rifle bolt being drawn back sounded just before Alex's voice drifted out of the night.

“I hope that's you, Sloan. If it is, you'd better let me know in the next two seconds.”

“It's me,” he replied, in a low, dangerous snarl, “and the name's Nate.”

She didn't respond for a moment. When she did, her tone was a good ten degrees cooler than it had been.

“Before you take another step, I suggest you tell me just why you separated from the rest of us…and why you suddenly seem to have a problem with what I call you.”

Nate wasn't in the mood for threats. He took Red's reins, shoved a boot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle. Pull
ing the stallion's head around, he kneed him toward the waiting woman. Her face was a pale blur when he answered.

“It's like this,
Alexandra.
If you Karistani women insist on sneakin' up on a man while he's tryin' to commune with nature, I figure you ought to at least call him by his given name.”

Her chin lifted at his drawling sarcasm. “All right,
Nate.
I'll use your given name. And you won't disappear again. For any reason.”

She might've thought she was calling his bluff, but he smiled in savage satisfaction at her response.

“You know, Alex, Wily Willie always warned me to chew on my thoughts a bit before I spit them out. You don't want me to disappear on you again? For any reason? Fine by me. From here on out, sweetheart, you're going to think you've sprouted a second shadow. You'd better look over your shoulder before you…commune with nature, or with anyone else.”

Nate smiled grimly when he heard a familiar sound. The short whip cracked twice more against her boot top before she replied in a low, curt voice.

“You know that's not what I meant.”

“Well,
you
may not have meant it, Alexandra, but
I
sure did.”

 

It didn't take Alex long to discover Sloan did mean it.