Smokescreen (28 page)

A man’s face appeared in her mind. A man gloating.
Thomas Kunz.

Fear clenched Sally’s stomach, snapped her nerves tight. That is, if this mission against GRID didn’t kill them both.

Or one of them.

That would be a hundred times worse. Being the survivor was a bitch—and no one knew that better than Sally Drake. She lived it every minute of every day.

“Colonel?” Maggie said from behind Sally.

Shaking inside, she turned. Maggie looked dog-tired. Her eyes drooped. “Yes?”

“Lucas Wexler just requested an immediate backup customs agent. We had Fred Burns call in with a family emergency. He’ll be out on paid leave until further notice.”

“That was quick.” The FBI, who’d made the overt arrangements to pull Fred Burns off duty and have Darcy inserted as his replacement, and to recall Ben from his fishing trip to help train her, was on its toes. Of course, this mission involved GRID, and the FBI knew as well as the S.A.S.S. how dangerous and ruthless GRID was; it stayed on high-alert. Butterflies swam in her stomach. “Amanda.”

“Transport for Darcy and Ben,” she said, heading back down the hallway to her office. “I’m on it, Colonel.”

“Colonel.” Kate’s voice sounded stilted, nearly as worried as she looked and Sally felt. “She’s going up against GRID.”

GRID. Thomas Kunz.
The most feared and ruthless leader of the most feared and ruthless terrorist group opposing the United States. There was nothing GRID or Thomas Kunz wouldn’t do, and both excelled at whatever they took on. Across the board, they had been sickeningly successful. Body doubles, undetected insertions into high-ranking government positions, intelligence interceptions, weapons sales, hostage-taking—the list went on and on. GRID and Kunz were the stuff of nightmares for anyone charged with the national security of the United States. “I know, Kate.” Everyone in the S.A.S.S. feared GRID and Kunz for good reason, and everyone was terrified Darcy would fail to stop the attack.

But no one feared failure more than Darcy herself.

No one except Sally Drake, who was sending an impaired operative into this situation, praying Darcy’s fears and her perfect memory would give her the edge the S.A.S.S. needed to succeed.

Sally stifled a shudder and prayed too that Dr. Vargus was right about Darcy rising to the occasion. If he was wrong, Sally would take him out on the range and shoot him in the ass. She’d told him so, and she’d meant it. He’d sworn that if he was proved wrong, he’d load Sally’s gun.

Determined to hold him to that bet, she pushed through the double doors and walked past the stacks of unused furniture to Darcy’s hub. Ben and Darcy sat with their heads together near Darcy’s computer. She was listening intently to his every word, which led Sally to expect the chat was personal. Surprisingly, it wasn’t. Ben was giving Darcy a detailed briefing on operations at Los Casas.

They saw her and stood up.

“As you were.” Neither Darcy nor Ben sat back down. They knew the awaited word had come, and Sally didn’t prolong it. “We’ve received Wexler’s critical request for a backup agent. You two need to get down to Texas to Los Casas. Amanda is arranging transportation now.”

L
os Casas wasn’t what Darcy had imagined. Three lanes of traffic were allowed in each direction, each separated by a glass and metal stall protected from car bombers by concrete barriers and a chain link fence topped with circles of razor wire. It looked a lot like the fences at Regret. To the south of the fence lay Mexico. The hot wind blowing steadily over the dry, barren land stirred up enough dust to choke a horse. The agents likely spent a lot of time at the end of their shifts coughing to clear their lungs.

They wore uniforms of white shirts and navy slacks and stood outside the stalls, checking the new electronic laser visas on permanent residents or citizens of Mexico and identification on Americans. The stall roof’s slight overhang didn’t do much to protect them from the sun other than at high noon—the glaring light slanted on through, flooding the concrete under the roof.

“You doing okay?” Ben asked from beside her.

Surprisingly, she was. “So far, yes.” She offered him a smile to thank him for asking then looked down the line of wilted people waiting in the walk-through lane. It was situated between the traffic lanes and a small cin
der block building. In front of it, about a dozen cars were parked in the dirt in a neat slanted row.

“The walkers are mostly regulars with laser visas,” Ben told her.

That explained the biometric scans and metal detection paces the people were being put through. “Mostly men,” Darcy noted.

“In a couple hours, it’ll be mostly women.” Ben glanced over from the line to Darcy. Sweat beaded at his temples. “Different work hours.”

“Ah.” They walked over toward the building. The majority of the parked vehicles were Jeeps and trucks, which seemed prudent considering the U.S. side of the crossing station was fairly isolated. A bus sat with its engine humming about 300 yards inside the U.S. border, accepting passengers who had walked over. They most probably worked in or near Devil’s Pass, the small town that had sprung up about ten miles north. There was literally nothing between the station and it but dry, cracked land, dirt and the occasional cactus that was too stubborn to die.

“Ready to meet Wexler?” Ben rounded the rear of a blue Trailblazer.

“As ready as I’m going to get.” She fell into step beside him outside the cinder block building, swearing her knees weren’t knocking out of fear; the ground was uneven.
You can do this, Darcy. You must do this.

When she walked through the door, a cold blast from the air conditioner slapped her in the face. Welcoming it, she inhaled deeply. A water fountain was near the door, white tile on the floor, whitewashed walls, directives pinned up on bulletin boards everywhere. Two small offices stood off to the right. The first had a sign
on the door that read, Private. The second door’s sign read, Station Chief. Darcy assumed the blond guy in his mid-forties sitting behind the desk was Lucas Wexler. There was nothing remarkable or memorable about his face, which seemed to be a GRID requirement in recruits.
Definitely a pattern there.

“I’ll tell him you’re here,” Ben said from beside her. “Be careful around him, Darcy. He plays the devoted husband bit, but he hits on anything female. Not sticking my nose in your business, just preparing you, though I’m sure you’ve been hit on enough times to recognize the signs.”

Protective.
She could kill a man in a dozen ways without putting herself at risk and Ben knew it. Yet he was still protective of her.
Charming.
Darcy’s heart skipped a beat, then thudded against her chest wall. “Hasn’t happened lately,” she confessed, “but I remember.” She followed Ben over to Wexler’s office and paused outside the door.

Ben stuck in his head. “Burns’s replacement is here.”

Wexler looked up from a report he was reading and saw Darcy. Surprise lighted his eyes and he slowed his gaze, giving her a leering once-over that totally ticked her off.

“Well, hi there.” Wexler stood up. “You must be Darcy.”

“Agent Darcy Clark,” she said, holding her ground outside the door.

“Come in, come in.” He sat back down. “Thanks, Ben.”

Summarily dismissed, Ben reluctantly walked away. Darcy understood that. Ben didn’t like leaving her alone with Wexler for a lot of reasons, not the least of which
was saving his own neck. She wasn’t yet steady on her feet, and Ben knew it. He had to be worried. What if she hyperstimulated and had an attack coming out of the gate?

“I’m glad you’re here,” Wexler said. “I was afraid it’d take a couple weeks to get a replacement for Burns.” Wexler grinned and seemed innocent enough until she met his eyes, saw a predator’s gleam. He launched into a briefing on his policies and procedures.

Darcy’s stomach clutched and her anxiety level spiked. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Ben through the glass wall. He’d noticed Wexler’s once-over and, gauging by his expression, was clearly irked. He grabbed a glass of water and plopped down at his desk near the window, where she supposed he caught about every third word of Wexler’s lecture on how he ran his station.

A little brown book half-stuffed into Wexler’s desk drawer snagged her attention. It wouldn’t have, but all through Wexler’s diatribe, he kept cutting his gaze to it. The repetition caught her attention. Later, she’d need to take a look at it.

Finally, a full ten minutes later, he finished. Her nerves were fairly frayed. The noise level outside the office hadn’t knocked her off balance so much as the bull being slung inside. But she’d observed plenty in addition to the brown book. Wexler was affable, relaxed, a good old boy who kept his proverbial nose clean and spent more time chasing women than keeping up with his duties as station chief. That too made him a prime target for GRID.

“You sure you got all that, Darcy?” He searched her face. “You look a little pale.”

She felt a half step from hitting the floor. Her stomach was churning, her head foggy and she felt clammy all over. “I’m fine, Lucas. Thank you.”

“Don’t worry. I know it’s a lot to remember, and you’re not expected to nail it all down now.”

Tossing aside the extraneous material, she had two minutes of essentials. Even without total recall, it wouldn’t have been a problem. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She stood up.

Wexler dragged a hand through his hair, preening. His left hand was bare, but the telltale circle of white skin was all too apparent. The jerk had taken off his wedding ring. “If you have any questions, my door is always open.”

“Thank you, Lucas,” she said then left his office and moved to her assigned desk. Ben was sitting at it. “Um, I’m supposed to be here.”

“Take the desk behind me,” he said. “It’s less noisy.”

It would be. It sat nestled between the two offices, which acted as a decent sound barrier. “Thanks.”

Perusing a stack of reports, Ben didn’t look up. “Did I hear you call him Lucas?” A muscle in his jaw ticked.

What was he angry about? “That’s what he said to call him.”

“Wedding ring was off, right?”

“Got it in one.”

“Bastard.”

“That’d be a fair assessment in my opinion,” she said before thinking.

Ben looked up at her then. Their gazes met, and he smiled.

Wexler left his office. “I’ll be back in about an hour.”

When the door closed behind him, Darcy checked to make sure no one else was around. Mindful of the cam
era in the corner of the room, which recorded every word and action, she schooled her expression. “Ben, would you please show me one of the traffic stalls?” She lifted a sheaf of papers. They crackled. “Regional is asking questions on this monthly report I can’t answer without the nickel tour.”

“Sure.” If he was perplexed, he didn’t show it, just stood up and came around his desk.

Darcy walked to one of the booths with him, looked around, and then stepped outside. When they were in a “dead zone” for the monitoring equipment—far enough away from the stalls but not close enough to the building to be recorded—she asked, “What’s this brown book of Wexler’s?”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen it,” Ben said, “but anytime I get close to him, he stashes it.”

He’d done the same thing with her. “I need to get a look at it.”

“How? He’s got it with him all the time.”

“We’ll figure out something. It needs to be soon.” The proverbial clock was ticking.
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
The old axiom ran through her mind and she fleetingly wondered who’d first said it. Regardless, it was wise then, and it was wise now. “He’s protecting that book, Ben. The prospect of anyone discovering its contents scares him.”

“How do you know that?”

“Hypersensitive to input, remember?” She stepped closer, dragged a fingertip down Ben’s face from his temple to his jaw, following a trickle of sweat. “His body language is a dead giveaway.”

His breath caught. “Okay.” He frowned and tilted his head. “For the record, is this touch personal?”

She looked up at him. “Does it feel personal?”

He hesitated, swallowed hard and let out a huff of breath. “Yeah, it does.”

“Then it probably is.” She shrugged, stepped away and walked back inside the building.

That afternoon around three, Wexler walked out of his office and stopped between Darcy’s and Ben’s desks. “Ben,” he said. “I’m changing the schedule to take nights for a while.”

“Nights?” Ben didn’t bother to hide his surprise.

“Yeah.” His eyes shifted. “Elizabeth is nagging me to go to the opera on Thursday. I can’t get out of it unless I’m working, so I’m working.” He shrugged, and then turned to Darcy. “Here’s your cell phone. Keep your calls limited to work or I’ll get chewed by Regional.”

He didn’t say it, but his expression warned her that if he got chewed, so would she. “No problem.”

Nodding, he started to walk away, stopped and turned back to her. “Darcy, what are you doing after work?”

“Nothing.” Her nerves stretched tight. He was going to move on her.

“Why don’t you meet me after work at the Oasis? It’s a local bar, just on the edge of town.” He smiled. “I’d like to buy you a margarita to say thanks for helping us out in a pinch.”

Right. Sure you would, you jerk.
“Love to, Lucas.” She smiled at the slime, pitying his poor wife, Elizabeth. How did she handle his flirtations?

“Great.” Wexler strutted out of the station and climbed into his dusty red truck. When he backed out of the parking slot and took off down the road to town,
Ben stood up. “Darcy, would you come out to the stall with me? I forgot to show you how to reload the observation camera.”

“Sure.” She stepped around the desk and snagged her leg on a bent piece of metal stripping. It dug into her flesh. “Damn it.” She tore the sliced fabric away from metal.

“Are you bleeding?”

“It’s nothing.” It wasn’t. So why was her heart beating ninety beats per second? Why did she have that clammy-all-over feeling again? And why did she have chills racing up and down her backbone as if someone had just walked on her grave?

You’re fine, Darcy.
She walked outside.

Inside the stall, Ben reached up and opened a control panel on the observation camera. “You have to disengage the camera to change the tapes. So the first thing you do, is to get a new tape ready—so you minimize the length of time the camera is down.” He did that and then continued. “Next, you push this button right here to shut down the system to make the switch.” He pushed the button.

The stall system shut down.

“Listen to me.” Though speaking freely, he still dropped his voice and spoke rapidly. “I put Wexler’s brown book in your car under the front seat. I snatched it while he was in the john.”

“He left without it?”

“Not exactly,” Ben said. “He left with a blank one I bought that looks just like it.”

Darcy frowned. “If he notices the difference—”

“If he opens it, we’re screwed.” Ben nodded. “I know. But I had the chance, so I took it. You need to look it over, get to the Oasis and switch them back.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

He nodded. “And keep that cheat at arm’s length. He comes across cool and laid-back, but he’s got fangs and claws and he loves to use them.”

“I can handle myself, Ben.”

“Can you?”

There was no accusation in his tone, but there was uncertainty. She didn’t like it. Yet under the circumstances, she couldn’t complain. Hell, she felt more uncertainty than he possibly could. “Now, we’ve got to get back online.” He reached for the button to reactivate the system. “The new tape is in, the old one you label and file in media storage and we’re done.”

“Where’s media storage?” she asked.

“The office inside with the Private sign on the door.”

“Okay. Great.” She walked back to the building, grabbed her purse and rounded a corner to the front door. Beside it, someone had hung a poster for the July 4th Independence Festival being held in Town Square from 7:00 p.m. until midnight.

Darcy’s stomach flipped. Everyone for miles around would be at the Independence Festival, making it an easy mark for a GRID attack—no doubt aided by Paco Santana and Wexler, though currently she had no hard proof of it, only Ben’s word.

What was his word worth?

She watched Ben walk back into the building, take a seat at his desk. Instinct told her he was honest. And his gaze was clear. The truth hit her like a physical blow. She trusted him.

When had that happened?
How
had it happened? She, who had been taught since raw-recruit training as an S.A.S.S. operative, never to trust anyone; she, who
had avoided personal attachments—hell, even interaction—with any man since the fire, trusted Ben Kelly implicitly.

Her head swam, her stomach revolted. Lights flashed colorful spots before her eyes and she broke out in a cold sweat.

In a near run, she slammed against the restroom door and barely made it into a stall before throwing up.

A mile from the station, Darcy pulled over and looked through the brown book. Every page was filled with numbers. Just numbers.

She thumbed through. Fifty pages, maybe more. She’d have to call it in to Maggie at Home Base on the way or she’d be late meeting Wexler.