Smokescreen (29 page)

Taking off, she pushed aside the phone Wexler had issued her and pulled out her own from her purse, then punched in the number for Home Base.

Nothing.

She checked the battery and tried again.

Still nothing.

Had to be in a dead zone, though there weren’t supposed to be any. Resigned, she opened the book to the first page and began reading the numbers. Fortunately, the dirt road leading from Los Casas to the Oasis was as straight and barren as it gets—no houses, no businesses, not even a road sign for over five miles. In long stretches, the trail was pitted with potholes so deep she feared the rented tan Jeep might fall in and not be able to get out of them, even with four-wheel drive. When she wasn’t rocking and rolling through potholes, she was stuck in ruts that’d keep a train on track. The potholes were a pain, but the ruts were helpful. Still, she
could read a bit. About a mile out from the Oasis, she had covered nearly thirty pages of the book.

The sun hung low in the sky, streaking it pink and gold. Grateful for that sensory respite, she hooked a right into the Oasis parking lot and saw Ben’s Jeep.

She pulled up alongside him. “I need help.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Can you keep Wexler busy for ten minutes? That’s all I need.”

“Sure.” Ben hooked his arms on her door at the window. “Why the delay?”

“Cell phone’s dead. I can’t call in my findings.”

“What’s in it?”

“I don’t know.” She stuck her thumb between the pages to hold her place. “It’s in numeric code.”

“How long is the thing?”

“About fifty pages.”

Shock stretched Ben’s eyes wide. “You’re going to remember the numeric sequences for fifty pages of code?”

“Yeah, if I can just read them once.” She sighed. “I told you, Ben. Perfect recall.”

“Yeah, but code?”

“Anything. Everything.” They were wasting time she didn’t have to waste. “Will you do it?”

“Sure.”

“Then go.” She shooed him. “Go.”

He turned toward the door. “You’re impressive, Darcy.”

“Not me, my memory. It’s not me.”

“It’s part of you,” he countered.

He had her there. “Okay.” She sighed. She couldn’t help it. “Go, before he comes out looking for me.”

She finished the book in short order, then exited the Jeep and went inside.

Dust filmed the darkened windows, but half-inch wide cracks let the weak sun slant inside across the wavy wooden floor. Red booths lined three walls and a long beautifully carved bar ran the length of the fourth. It looked totally out of place.

“Darcy.” Wexler stood up from the booth in the farthermost—and, naturally, the darkest—corner. “Over here.” He waved.

Totally predictable. She dusted the thigh of her navy uniform slacks and walked past a couple snuggling on the dance floor. At least the music was soft and low and not blaring, and there were only a handful of other people in the place.
She could do this. She really could.

Forcing herself, she smiled and slid into the booth.

Wexler sat down, then yelled across the bar. “Hey, Mick.” He twirled his fingertip. “Margaritas.”

“You got it, Wex.”

Apparently Wexler was a good customer.

Rubbing something beside his right leg, he leaned over, closer to her. “When Mick brings the drinks, tell him you like his bar.” Wexler pointed to the ornate fixture. “He got it out of a place down south and brought it back up here by mule. It’s his pride and joy.”

Darcy nodded, more than a little perplexed. If Wexler was being genuine, then he was also being thoughtful. If he wasn’t, he was softening her up. She wasn’t yet informed enough to take a bet on which would prove true, though she leaned toward the latter.

Two margaritas later, Wexler excused himself to go to the bathroom. The little brown book lay on the cracked red vinyl beside a patch job done with a strip
of silver duct tape. Darcy checked the blank book’s exact positioning—this could be a test—then switched out the books, giving Wexler back his with the codes.

Double-checking, she nudged its placement to make sure she wasn’t a centimeter off the mark. If she’d had more time, she could have had Maggie or one of the other S.A.S.S. operatives prepare a duplicate book with altered number sequences.

Risky, and truthfully it was a fanciful idea Colonel Drake would never approve. She
wanted
Darcy to follow the supply line to get them all, including the GRID thugs and, Darcy hoped, Thomas Kunz.

Wexler returned to his seat, and Ben, who’d been sitting on a stool at the bar, put his money down to cover his tab. “Might see you later, Mick.”

Darcy stomached a flush of insecurity, and then one frustration-filled. He was leaving his options open to come back because he doubted her ability to handle this. She’d have laughed at that before the fire—dangerous missions had been her forte then. Missions with survival odds so slim they would have raised the hair on Ben Kelly’s neck and scared the hell out of him.

But that was before the fire. And she was not the operative now that she had been then. She wasn’t the woman now she had been then, either.

That had more frustration building inside her. And more fear.

“Yeah, come on back.” Mick waved a once-white bar rag. “We got a DVD of the game.”

“Last week’s?” Ben asked, heading toward the door.

“Two weeks ago, man.” Mick laughed. “Where you think you are? Corpus Christi?”

“If I can spare the time.”

The minute Ben walked out the door, Wexler thumbed his book pages, saw what he wanted, and he scooted across the duct tape toward her. She tried to block out his sour scent.

He propped his elbow on the table and leaned even closer. “So, Darcy, who’s the lucky man?”

“What lucky man?”

“Come on now. I’m sure a woman as pretty as you has a man waiting for her back in Seattle.”

He’d read her trumped-up dossier. On it, her home was listed as Seattle. “There isn’t any man. Not anymore,” she said, offering him a watery smile. “He dumped me for a chef with two kids and a high-end restaurant.”

“Stupid man.” Reaching over the table, he dragged a fingertip along the shaft of her forearm. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.”

Jerk. Not so subtle in the coming-on department. His poor wife must hate him—if she knows what he’s doing. In small towns, people hesitate telling what they know when it includes infidelity.
Keep your enemies closer.
“Me, too.”

“So,” he gave her a slow blink, “how long have you been without a man?”

This was definitely a topic that should be out of bounds between a station chief and an agent. Wouldn’t he love knowing it’d been five years? “A while, Lucas.” Playing this demure, she lowered her lids.

“There’s a little cabin out back.” He dropped his voice, deep and husky, deliberately going for sexy. “We could have a little privacy.” He stroked her arm.

Her skin crawled. “That would be—” She checked her watch, rocked her arm so the light winked off it and
he didn’t miss it. “Oh, sorry.” She sighed her disappointment. “I’ve got an appointment about a rental and I’m late.” She slid out of the booth, touched his cheek. “Maybe next time.”

Wexler leaned back against the red vinyl and sighed contentedly. For the moment, pacified. “I look forward to it.”

She bet he did, the sorry jerk. “Good night, Lucas.”

“’Night.” He thumbed the little brown book.

Darcy turned and walked out of the Oasis. Passing the bar, she called out. “Good night, Mick.”

“Later, Darcy.” He waved with the bar rag.

She stepped outside into the cool, dark night. The security light mounted on a pole near the edge of the building spilled amber light on the parking lot. No shine, sheen or reflection of the light shone on the cars. Too dusty.

“Darcy.”

Startled, she spun around to see Ben. The man had no faith in her. None. She frowned. “Look, I know you’re worried about me, but I’m holding up fine. So there’s no need for you to check on me every time I move. It’s annoying as hell to fight all this and—”

“Calm down,” Ben cut in. “Why are you pissed off at me?”

“Because you came back to check on me.” She slung her purse strap on her shoulder and folded her arms. “And because you have no faith in me.”

“Let’s set the record straight.” He glared into her angry eyes. “I lack faith in Wexler, but I have faith in you—enough to put my damn life in your hands—and I’m not checking up on you.”

Right.
“Then why did you come back, Ben?”

“Because right after I got back to Los Casas, Paco Santana crossed the border. I followed
him
here.”

Darcy’s mind raced and her heart rate kicked into high gear. “It’s happening.”

“What’s happening?”

Fear rammed through Darcy’s chest, caught it in a vise. “GRID is bringing in the explosives.”

“I
can’t go back in there, Ben.” She was already edgy from the elevated level of sensory input. She needed a little peace and total silence to recuperate and regain full balance—not that she wanted Ben to know she’d been impacted. As bars went, the Oasis
was
calm. “I told Wexler I had an appointment to look at a rental.”

“You made it, you got it and you’re squared,” he said succinctly. “You can stay in the guesthouse at my place.”

Surprised, she hiked her purse back up onto her shoulder. The stars were out. With a lot of sky and few lights, thousands of them winked up the night.
Pretty.
“You have a guesthouse?”

“Yes, I do,” he told her, walking to the bar’s door. Pausing just outside it, he grabbed hold of the worn knob. “Kitchen, bath, living room and bedroom. Fully furnished. Six-fifty a month. No security deposit—we work together.” He raised an eyebrow, which whitened the scar on his cheek. “Settled?”

What was left to say? Looking at the stars helped. Her insides weren’t churning anymore and her head was clear. No spots, no fog. She could do this. “Yeah. Settled. But it’s too soon for me to be back here. Open a window for me so I can listen in on the conversation.”

“Okay.” He waited for her to get to the corner then swung the door open and walked through.

Darcy moved down the side of the building and peeked inside through a window. Only three booths were occupied and Ben chose the one nearest the window. Wexler still sat where she’d left him. And a man pushing forty with black hair, dark eyes and a thick build sat across from him, facing Ben. He needed a shave and a haircut. Red shirt, emblem, yellow teeth.

The window stood cracked open two inches and sound from inside floated outside to her. She set her purse on the weedy ground. Wexler’s companion was their man.

Ben leaned toward the window and whispered. “That’s him. Paco Santana.”

Twisting the catch on her purse, she lifted what looked like a tube of lipstick but was actually a high-powered camera. While Ben went to Mick at the bar to get a drink, she snapped off a few photos of Paco Santana and Wexler.

Ben came back with a soda and sat down in the booth. “Why aren’t they talking?”

“Santana’s looking at Wexler’s brown book,” she whispered back. “Wexler’s drinking—heavily.”

“Attack of conscience, I guess.” Ben shrugged. “Womanizing aside, he’s a pretty good man, Darcy. He paints houses and mows lawns for people who can’t do them anymore, and he fixed Sarah Jacobs’s roof. She’s a widow.”

“Another conquest?”

Ben smiled. “Not that one. She’s about ninety. She taught him English in high school and she still calls to correct his grammar on his quotes published in the newspaper.”

“So why do you think he’s gotten mixed up in this?”

Ben shook his head, looked down at the table and then lifted his gaze to Darcy’s. “Greed.” He dropped his voice even more. “Lucas grew up here. His folks lost the home-place when he was in high school. He swore that one day he’d buy it back. Last year, it went up for sale, but he didn’t have the money.”

“He was bitter.” Darcy could almost feel his frustration, his hopelessness and that overwhelming sense of failure. Had Elizabeth put him down, reinforced all those negative feelings? Was that why he went after other women? Or was he just one of those men who thought monogamous relationships were good and right, but their strictures only applied to women.

Ben nodded. “He felt as if he’d lost it twice.”

She stomped down weeds scratching at her ankles. “I can see where that would be important to him, but important enough to do this?”

“He’s so self-absorbed, Darcy, he probably doesn’t even realize what
this
is. Lucas is all about Lucas. He always has been.”

Darcy chewed on that a minute, then asked, “What would he do if he did know?”

Ben’s expression, already serious, grew darker. “Nothing.”

“Really?” That didn’t seem to fit with all the other things Ben had been saying about him. He helped others. Surely he wouldn’t continue if he knew he’d be killing thousands.

Stiffening, Ben looked around to be sure no one was within earshot or paying attention to him. “He bought out the folks on his home-place a little over a week ago, Darcy. It’s taken him half his life, but he’s gotten back
his home. He’s not going to do a damn thing to jeopardize that. I told you, it’s all about him.”

Land over people. It made her sick. Her chest went tight, her stomach roiled, and a dull throb started at her temples.

“What are they doing now?”

“Still reading.” She glanced from Santana to Wexler, eased the camera back into her purse. Little white spots formed before her eyes, and she blinked hard. “Still drinking.”

“Good,” Ben said. “This is good.”

“Why?” She didn’t make the connection.

“They’re still planning or he wouldn’t need the book.”

Mick walked over and set down a napkin and then a glass filled with something dark on the scarred table. It looked like cola. “Ben, you need to talk with Darcy about keeping better company.” He nodded toward Wexler and spoke from the corner of his mouth. “Somebody needs to warn the girl to watch out for that one. He’s trouble.”

Darcy hunkered down under the window, surprised by the warning, but touched, too.

“Yeah,” Ben agreed. “I should’ve talked to her already, but you hate to dump that kind of stuff onto someone new, you know?”

“New or not, warn her. He’s got his eye on her, and that’s not good.” Mick walked back to the bar.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ben whispered, took a long drink from his glass. “Odd, Mick warning you about Lucas. They’ve been best friends all their lives.”

Interesting. “Maybe Mick doesn’t like something Wexler is doing.” Darcy pulled a listening device and earpiece from her gear and seated the earpiece.

“Santana?”

“My guess is Elizabeth. I watched him when I was in here earlier. Mick likes women but he respects them, too. Actually, he’s adorably protective.”

“He was in love with Elizabeth before she and Lucas hooked up. They had a spat and Lucas stepped in and married her before she could change her mind.”

“Ah, that’s it then.” Wexler was cheating on the love of Mick’s life. He wasn’t protecting Darcy, he was protecting—to the extent he could—Elizabeth. “She should have married Mick.” Darcy passed the disc-shaped listening device in through the window. “Get that to the booth next to them so I can hear.”

Ben took it, slid out of the booth and walked over, propping a hand on the back of the target booth. He let the device slide down its back to the seat. “Mind if I join you? I hate drinking alone.”

“Sorry, Ben,” Wexler said, looking rattled. “We’ve got a private discussion going on here. A family situation we need to resolve.”

“No problem.” Ben went on to the restroom, then returned to his booth. “Is it working?” he asked Darcy.

“Yes, it is.”

Santana passed Wexler the brown book.

He opened it on the table and then pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket. “Okay.”

Santana downed a healthy swallow of something pale amber, then reeled off a series of numbers.

Panic lighted in Ben’s eyes and he stiffened.

Darcy smiled. Adrenaline was gushing through her veins, she was edging on being hyperalert, but she was getting it all. “It’s okay. We’re doing fine.”

Mick turned on a big-screen TV and inserted a DVD—a football game. Dallas Cowboys, of course.

Santana dictated a full three minutes. Between it, two guys in a dart game hurrahing and booing each other, three men at the bar disputing each play on the ball game, and the jukebox playing for the sole delight of the one couple still on the dance floor, she was approaching overload. Fast.

Santana shut up.

But it was too late for Darcy. The gushing adrenaline combined with her fear of teetering on the limit, and she tumbled headlong into an attack. “Ben, the fixture is warbling. My mother said so.”

“What?” Startled, he stared at her through the window, perplexed.

“She was a heart patient. Her wind chimes were stained glass.”

Ben left the booth, hurried outside to where she clenched the windowsill. “Darcy,” he said softly. “You need to let go.” He touched her fingertips, curled on the wooden sill.

She tried to focus, tried to make sense of his words. What language was he speaking?

He peeled her fingers back, held her hand in his. “Breathe deeply. Focus on me. Just on me, Darcy. It’s just me and you, and your hand in mine.”

She darted her gaze to his fingers, watched them close around hers. “The aorta ruptured and the roof caved in.”

“Darcy, focus on me.” He spoke in a barely audible whisper. “Look at me, Darcy.”

Her heart thundered, banging against her ribs.
Look. Look at Ben.
She grabbed the thought and held on hard, struggled and finally met his gaze. He was calm. Totally calm. His hand didn’t tremble, there was no panic in his eyes. He wasn’t rattled or worried or upset.

“It’s just you and me,” he whispered. “Just you and me, Darcy.”

His tone was so gentle, so silky smooth and soft. Tender. Calming. Her heart rate slowed, then slowed again to nearly normal. The fog in her mind parted and the throbbing at her temples eased. The blood pounding in her ears faded, more and more faint until the noise totally disappeared. It seemed the worst was over, but she didn’t dare to trust it. She took in a huge shuddery breath, then let it out slowly, testing, gauging. The worst
was
over—and she was still upright!

“Are you okay to leave now?”

She nodded, still a little shaky.

Ben held out a hand to her.

Weak in the knees, she held on to him. For a second, she saw stars.
You can do this. You stayed conscious. You stayed upright. You can walk to the Jeep under your own steam.

Ben snagged her purse then circled her waist with his arm and they walked over to the parking lot together.

The cool breeze revived Darcy a little. “We need to see where Santana goes.”

“We’ll wait in my Jeep.” Ben led her to it, then seated her inside. “You need silence for a bit.”

“Yes.” She didn’t bother to deny it. It would have been futile.

Ben climbed in and let down the windows. “Give me your feet.”

“Excuse me?”

“Take off your shoes and stick your feet up here.” He patted his thigh.

She toed off her black flats—more out of curiosity about what he intended to do than anything else—
twisted, and put her feet in his lap. It was such an intimate thing, but he didn’t complicate the matter by saying a word, just clasped her foot in his hands and began massaging it.

She leaned against the seat and closed her eyes. Never before had anyone succeeded in talking her down. Never before had anyone witnessing an attack reacted so calmly. Even Maggie, Amanda and Kate went into a near panic because they didn’t know what to do. To Ben, knowing seemed to come naturally. Maybe that’s why he’d been successful. Or maybe it was because Darcy found him extremely attractive and she wanted so much to be “normal” in his eyes. Regardless of the reason, she was grateful. Grateful, delighted, surprised and definitely intrigued.

Ben Kelly was revealing himself to be an extraordinary man.

Twenty minutes passed in total silence with Ben rubbing her feet and hands.

Darcy let out a contented sigh, feeling the remnant weariness of an attack, but not the usual fallout that took about three days from which to recover. Actually, she felt nearly normal.
Amazing.

“Better?”

“Definitely.” She cranked open an eyelid. “How did you do that?”

“What?” He thumbed circles into the ball of her left foot.

She paused. She couldn’t explain this; she wasn’t sure she understood it herself. She couldn’t express how different this attack had been in a way that would do the contrast justice—he’d never before seen her during or after an attack. “Nothing.”

He didn’t push, just ran his fingers along the arch of her foot.

“Thank you, Ben.” She closed her eyes again and enjoyed the moment. Her and Ben. Her foot in his hands. Relaxed. Content.
Total peace.

Tears welled in her throat. It was the first time since the fire that she’d known peace. The very first time.

“Darcy?” He sounded pensive.

“Hmm?”

“I didn’t know what it cost you to do this until now.” His hand stilled. “I’m sorry I asked it of you. I—I—”

As the attacks went, this one hadn’t been bad. He seemed so contrite. She hated that, and yet it was impossible to explain. “You didn’t ask anything of me, Ben. You’ve only helped me do what I need to do.”

The bar door swung open, and Paco Santana walked out.

“Time to roll,” she said, reaching for her own cell phone in her purse. “I need to report to Home Base.” She frowned. “Do you sweep your Jeep for bugs?”

“Every time I get in it.”

She thought a second. “Not bugs as in critters you swipe out with a whiskbroom. Listening devices.”

“Oh.” He grinned. “Yes, Darcy. Since this started, I check. The Jeep’s secure.”

She let out a little laugh. Considering that somewhat miraculous, she dialed Home Base.

Maggie answered.

“It’s me, Maggie.”

“Darcy. It’s Darcy,” she shouted to someone in the background.

Imagining the entire S.A.S.S. unit standing around wringing their hands, worried that she was going to
blow this mission, put a frown on her face. “Santana is in the U.S. We’re following him. I need to report that coded text. I’ve gotten a look at it. Open the overflow, Maggie. There’s about fifty pages and I’d guess another four or five that got entered in tonight.”

Ben grunted in disbelief.

He got it, but he still didn’t get it. “Ready?” She motioned out the window. “Go, Ben. Santana’s on the move.”

Ben put the Jeep in Drive and followed at a distance. There was little between him and Santana, so there was no fear of losing him and he’d assume someone else had left the bar. No big deal when there was only one road to town.

“Overflow’s on, computer input is ready, direct link to Langley is engaged and operational and backup-recording is running,” Maggie said. Then she set the parameters of who was reporting and added the mission number and code, fulfilling the typical prereport matter requirements. When she’d finished, she told Darcy, “Proceed with input, Captain.”