Spy Games (7 page)

Ace and Kyle joined us. We followed War to the firing range at the far end of the building. Van walked beside me silently, casting sidelong, inquiring glances my way. I think my comment about sending bad guys to hell had tipped him off that all was not well in vacationland. I replied with what I hoped was an enigmatic smile and not a cheesy, faked grin that would give my panic away. The truth was, I was spooked. Ket coming for me meant nothing good.

Fear clung to me like the sticky remains of a cobweb I’d inadvertently walked through—unseen, but felt, even after I tried my darnedest to brush it off.

My phone rang again, playing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” for the second time in less than an hour. I jumped, pulled the phone out and set it to vibrate without answering, flashing the others an apologetic look. I barely glanced at the number that popped up on the screen. Sheila. I didn’t have to pick up to know what she was calling about. I couldn’t handle a second account of Ket on the loose with as much relative aplomb as I had the first time.

Damn him! Ket was calling everyone with dual-fold purpose—intimidate and find me.

And his diabolical plan was working well on the first front of attack—intimidation. Suddenly there was movement in every shadow. Eyes watching me from the rafters. Goose bumps on my arms. Even surrounded by three well-trained former military guys and five other healthy men, I felt defenseless and scared.

Ket could be calling from anywhere. For all I knew, he was already in Seattle. He had friends with private planes and even a commercial flight from LA took only a few hours. In fact, I was certain he was in the city somewhere, prowling my hometown for me. It was only logical.

Still I had no call from the California penal system telling me to hide, young Reilly! Run!

“Not in a chatty mood?” Van asked beside me.

When I stared at him blankly, he nodded toward my phone.

“Pesky friends,” I said. “They’re dying of curiosity about my vacation. Why would any sane woman go to spy camp?”

“Good question,” he said.

I didn’t answer.

“You’re not going to berate me for apparently questioning your sanity?” he asked.

“I’m here for the same reason as the rest of you—for the adrenaline rush.”

“Then why do you look so pale and frightened?”

“Are you calling me a scaredy-pants?” I said, trying to muster up some real indignation.

“That’s my girl. That’s more like it,” Van said, not at all perturbed. “I like spunk.” But he was still giving me the questioning look.

“A girl should know how to protect herself,” I said. I was spared from further explanation.

We’d reached the firing range. War opened a gargantuan gun safe that looked like it housed the complete arsenal of Manuel Noriega.

“War’d better not let ATF find out about that,” I whispered to Van, pointing to the safe. “We’ll have another Waco on our hands.”

“I’m guessing he has permits,” Van replied.

War began giving instructions on how to handle the weapons. He started with the M9 pistol he was about to issue us. The M9 is a lightweight Berretta. Standard Army issue. It had a longer barrel than mine, but it shot the same 9mm rounds. I didn’t anticipate any problems handling it. War referred to it as a “personal defense weapon,” which somehow sounded less scary and more politically correct than gun. In theory it could be anything—pepper spray, a loud whistle, a billy club, a karate chop, even a really good, stern look accompanied by a scream.

War issued us each a PDW, then went on to explain how to handle, operate, and clean it before moving on to the next PDW, which was so much stronger, he could have referred to it as a mega PDW. I did.

“This is the MP-five submachine gun,” War said, removing one and holding it up.

It was a real James Bond–type weapon. All the guys were lathering at the mouth over it like it was a
Playboy
centerfold. I eyed it with caution and a certain amount of fear. You could do serious damage with that thing. In the wrong hands…

I leaned over and whispered to Van. “I’d like it better if it came with Pierce Brosnan as an accessory.”

“A Bond Girl would be better.”

“You think so? I disagree. I don’t think you guys would even notice a Bond Girl right now. I could strip my shirt off and do a pole dance and not one of you would pay attention.”

“Prove it.” He flashed me a grin. “Go ahead, prove your point.”

“Pervert,” I said, grinning.

“Coward!” he said.

War kept talking. “The MP-five is designed for accuracy, fifteen to thirty rounds of nine millimeter caliber destruction.” War patted it affectionately. “Black. Sleek. Small. You can holster it for covert use.”

Assuming you wanted such a superbly deadly weapon next to your skin. Probably a rush for some people. Van would look hot with the MP-5 holstered beneath an Armani suit coat, gun carefully concealed.

Me? It wasn’t my first choice of a fashion accessory. Thoughts of Van gave me a bigger rush.

I forced myself to relinquish my daydreams of Van as Bond and to pay attention to War’s instructions on how to use the weapon. The old MP-5 would be a great equalizer between Ket and me. If I could overcome my fear of it. Sadly, the odds were running against me.

I’ve been somewhat afraid of guns since I was eight and Grandpa Dutch, the very definition of the outdoor sportsman, taught me how to shoot beer cans off fence posts with a .22. Despite my gun shyness, I’d trained myself to be a pretty good shot with my Berretta. Fear of Ket had proven a great enough motivator for that accomplishment. But overcoming machine gun squeamishness was another matter altogether.

“Right hand on the pistol grip,” War demonstrated. “Left hand on the forward handgrip. Thumb of the right hand sets the selector to ‘safe.’ Cocking handle is pulled to the rear with your left hand and hooked into the retaining notch. Insert magazine and clip home. Left hand uses a chopping motion to release the cocking handle. Right thumb sets the selector to single shot or automatic.” He demonstrated each step, then stepped to the range and aimed at the target. “Aim and fire!”

The sound of automatic gunfire erupted. By the time War had dispensed his magazine, his target was thoroughly punctured in the center.

“When the magazine is empty, the working parts stay closed,” he said. “Repeat process.”

All the guys were grinning, their irritation at Huff’s disappearance momentarily forgotten. I was playing tough, but the slender webs of fear still clung to me.

“We’ll begin our shooting practice with the pistols,” War said. “The M-nine is a great weapon in close quarter combat.”

When it was my turn, I stepped up, donned the ear protection, and fired off two rounds with confidence.

“Two to the head,” War said, looking over my shoulder as I took off the earmuffs. “Impressive. The FBI hostage rescue team could use you.”

“Huh?”

“That was a compliment,” War said. “Two to the head should be their motto.”

“Whatever happened to negotiations?” I asked, feeling definitely uncomplimented.

“Nah,” War shook his head like that was sissy stuff. “That’s law enforcement. That’s why law enforcement officers don’t make good HRT men. They’re used to dealing with distraught spouses and bank robbers. You can negotiate with those; wait them out forever. HRT deals almost exclusively with terrorist situations. Two to the head to whomever you encounter. Think Jack Bauer. He who hesitates is dead.”

“Well, it’s easy with a paper outline man,” I said, self-deprecatingly. I felt a tiny stab of relief. As War had just said, Ket could, in theory, be negotiated with. Negotiation had worked last time. Sort of. “Paper man doesn’t move. You don’t see his soul in his eyes. And he’s in a permanent state of hesitation.”

“Still not easy to hit his head,” War said.

“Why not go for his torso?” Steve asked. “It’s the largest target.”

“Not always as lethal. Not as quick a kill. Gives time for the terrorist to yell out and warn his fellow terrorists of an intrusion. Two to the head.”

“Nice to know,” I said.

We fired the pistols for another half hour, then War showed us how to clean them. Next he moved on to the submachine guns, going through the handling instructions again as we practiced with him. The pistol I could handle, this PDW, not so much.

Next to me, Van seemed perfectly comfortable with his.

“Have a lot of submachine gun experience?” I asked him.

He seemed startled. “What?” He laughed. “No. But it’s a sleek instrument.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Why?”

“It’s too…too mobsterlike. Like modern-day Al Capone.” I made some machine gun noises, which drew me a scowl from the instructors.

“Mobsterlike, that’s an interesting comparison.”

“Yeah, well, someone could get carried away. You know, just start shooting up the place.”

Van held out his hand. “Give me the weapon. You obviously can’t be trusted.”

I spun it away from him. “I’m just kidding.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s like walking through the china department,” I said, returning to studying my PDW and practicing loading the magazine.

“Your logic is so easy to follow,” Van said, heavy on the sarcasm. “Maybe you could just fill me in on the meaning.”

“Haven’t you ever been walking through the fine china department and had to put your hands in your pockets to stifle the urge to run through with your arms outstretched knocking dishes and crystal glasses to the floor?”

“You’re a sick woman,” he said, but he was smiling.

“And you’re in denial. Everyone feels that way.”

“And I still don’t trust you with the weapon. Maybe I should tell War.”

“Right.” I grinned back. He was obviously teasing. “But I am worried about the kick.”

“The kick. Afraid of being knocked on your butt?”

“Afraid of an accident.”

He looked confused so I explained.

“Yeah, an accident, smart aleck. They had one at the firing range in Bellevue a few years ago. A woman was shooting. The gun kicked, sending her hand up over her head and back behind her. She still had her hand on the trigger and kept firing. Fortunately, no one was hurt. Can you imagine what would happen if someone did that with a submachine gun?” That was a true story, but I was rambling to get his goat.

“Urban legend,” he said.

“Honest to God true fact,” I countered.

“Use two hands, you’ll be fine.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about me,” I said casually.

Since the unseasonably warm fall weather continued unabated, the FSC staff decided to serve lunch al fresco on the terrace. Sounds fancy, but it meant we’d be eating at metal picnic tables on a concrete slab outside the warehouse, with a scintillating view of train tracks, miscellaneous equipment, other equally architecturally uninteresting warehouses, and to the south, towering over the tops of it all, Mount Rainier. Besides a great view of the awesome mountain, the terrace’s only redeeming quality was the basketball hoop at one end and an ample supply of balls provided by FSC. For me, engaging in athletic activities has always been a fantastic way to shed stress. I shrugged off my camo jacket, snagged a ball, drove for the hoop, and dropped in a layup.

As I spun around for a repeat performance, I nearly collided with Van, who crouched in a guard position as if he’d been lying in wait for me.

“Up for a little one-on-one?” He’d lost his camo jacket, too, and looked not only game ready, but totally delectable. I liked a man with a challenge in his eye.

I made a point of sizing him up as I dribbled to the top of the key, letting my gaze linger where I liked. For as long as I liked. And I liked the strong set of his shoulders and the tight squeeze of his butt. Liked very much. Sizing up is always a good idea, especially when you like what you see. Size up the right way and you can even psych out.

Van was doing his share of size-up/psych out, only his gaze lingered in the vicinity of my double Ds, which were nicely showcased in my black 3D tank with built-in shelf bra, which had the same fine push-up, shove-together qualities as a top quality Victoria’s Secret underwire number, only with more freedom for bounce. Actually, he wasn’t so much psyching me out as budding me up. And grinning at his own power.

“Think you can take me, number boy?” I said and drove left around him toward the hoop.

“I think I’d liked to…take you,” he said, close behind me, trying to reach around and knock the ball loose.

I laughed at his innuendo. “Shameless. Catch me if you can.”

He was quick, but I was quicker. I put one up left-handed before he could check me.

“The girl’s fast,” he said as he retrieved the ball and bounced it back to me at the top of the key.

“You wish.” I flashed him a grin as I crouched into position on the balls of my feet. I had a couple of choices—shoot from where I was, or drive past him. Driving had worked once. I faked left and drove right.

But Van was smart and had court sense. He was on me, blocking my every move and reaching playfully around for the ball, tossing out flirtatious jibes as I flirted back and drove around the court looking for a shot.

“You move like a girl,” Van said.

“And you like it,” I shot back.

He grinned. He reached in for the ball. I spun away. But not before his arm brushed my breast.

“You missed,” I said.

“No I didn’t.” From the coy grin he was wearing, the breast brush was intentional.

“I meant the ball. Keep your head in the game,” I said.

“Believe me, I’m trying,” he whispered in my ear as he reached around again for the ball.

“Hey!” I slapped his hand away. “No reaching in.”

“No slapping,” he retorted as he reached around and knocked the ball loose.

“Foul!” I said, scrambling for the loose ball. “You caught my arm.”

“I caught something, but it wasn’t your arm,” he said, coming up with the ball and taking it back to the top of the key.

Yeah, my breast again. Which is what had distracted me. I scowled at him.

“Lodge a complaint with the ref.” He leaned low, dribbling slowly in place as I got into position to guard him. “You going to whine that this isn’t a fair fight?” he said with mock compassion in his voice. “That I’ve got five inches on you so I should go easy?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’ve played taller than you. My brothers are six six and six seven.” I smiled back at him. “Besides, I like it hard.” I paused to let him digest that comment. “I have two points on you. Now put up or shut up.”

He took off. I was right on him, swerving with him, tracking him, waving my hand in his face.

He laughed, spun around, dribbled back out and put up a long shot. “Swish!” He grinned, egging me on. “Two points.”

“Lucky shot.” I took the ball and dribbled back to the top of the key.

“Yeah, I’m a lucky guy.” He caught the ball I tossed him. “Only I’d like to be luckier.”

“Stop it.”

“Am I making you lose your concentration?” he asked, eyeing my bounce. “Face it, you like the thought.” Then he took off for the basket.

I got in front of him and boxed him out. He dribbled around playfully while I stayed in front of him, facing the basket, with my back and rump toward him.

Boxing out was a whole different maneuver the way Van played. With his hand on my butt to keep me away from the ball…and distracted. Definitely distracted. I’d play this game all day if it meant Van kept his hand on my booty.

“Intentional butt grab,” I said, backing into him. “That’s an offensive foul.”

“Never heard of it.” He gave me another playful squeeze.

Our heights were such that as I stuck my butt out to keep him back, it nestled directly into his crotch. His very hard crotch. Which gave me an all-over body tingle.

“Hey! Enough of the bump and grind out there!” Steve called from the sidelines. “Some of us have cash on this game. Someone score!”

“I’m trying,” Van called back with a grin. He put up a shot, but it swirled around the rim and out.

I grabbed the rebound. Back to the top of the key and off to the basket again.

Van picked me up, hanging with me. I spun away from the basket, deciding to back him to the hoop. Only he was on me, literally. He had his hand on my butt as he checked me. I liked that, too. I liked it so much, I slowed my advance and stuck my butt out, right into his hand. Okay, it was part a distraction play. That’s how I justified it, anyway.

“You like that,” he said in my ear.

“No hands on the booty,” I said, continuing my backward assault into him.

“Fine by me.” He removed his hand, putting them both in the air so that I bumped directly into his…front booty.

I felt myself flush. “It’s warm here in the sun,” I said to cover.

“Scorching.”

I twirled to go around him and take a shot. As I went up, his hand was in my face. As I came down, my bounce was in his. Instead of moving out of the way to let me land, he grabbed me with his arms around my legs just below my booty, my chest still in his face.

“Put me down.” Only I didn’t sound as decisive as I should have. His face nestled in my breasts was way too distracting. I was getting tingly all over, especially in my female region. “Put me down,” I repeated.

“You missed.” He slid me down, slowly, so that I felt every hard inch of muscle on his body against mine.

“Faster,” I said, trying to sound commanding.

“Harder?”

“Stop it. The guys are watching,” I said.

“Let them.”

When we were eye to eye with my feet dangling several inches above the ground, he stopped. We locked gazes.

“I believe catching the shooter midair is a personal foul,” I whispered. We were both glowing with exercise. Our lips moved very close, almost with minds of their own. “Though personally, I’ve never seen it done before.”

“Personally, I don’t think I have, either.” He sounded thoughtful, and sexy. “What’s the penalty?” He was angling in for a kiss.

“Has to be a big one,” I said, eyeing his mouth. “You could be expelled from the game.”

“Sounds good to me, if you come with me.”

“Lunch is served,” Ace called out, killing the mood from where he stood in front of a puke green army surplus table.

“Looks like you get your wish,” I said to Van.

“Yeah.” He sounded sorry.

Van set me down. I was relieved that my jelly legs held my weight. Van definitely had a knee-weakening effect on me.

“Gather round and grab your MREs. You two on the court, get over here,” Ace barked. “Once everyone has a meal, I’ll demonstrate how to heat them. Lady first.”

“Excellent.” I stepped away from Van in hopes my normal breathing pattern would soon return. He had me completely off-kilter. With relief, I took first place in line, noting that Ace was not bad-looking himself. So much male eye candy at camp, but the only one who sent my pulse into orbit was behind me in line standing a little too close.

“We’ll continue the game later,” Van whispered in my ear. “I owe you a free throw.”

“Next time we’ll play horse,” I retorted, thinking it was safer…emotionally anyway. Before Van could respond, I turned to Ace and looked over the selection of packaged MREs before me. Anything to distract myself from Van. “What’s on the menu today? Are we all eating the same thing or do we have a choice?”

“We have an excellent selection for your dining pleasure, ma’am,” Ace said, waving his arm over the stack.

“Ma’am! How polite. How formal. How old it makes me feel! Call me R. Please.” I gave him my helpless, flirtatious, pleading smile. I couldn’t help myself. Van had toyed with me, turned me on, and now men looked good. Period.

“Done.” Ace was all grins.

Yes, I am an equal-opportunity flirt.

“You were saying?” I asked. “The selection?”

He made a high-class waiter-type gesture and put on the voice. “On the menu today—beefsteak with mushroom gravy—”

I made a face. “Mushrooms, ugh.”

“Not a mushroom girl?” Ace smiled. “We have a fine selection of other entrees—ravioli, BBQ pork rib, hamburger patty, chili with macaroni, veggie burger—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Van said behind me, teasing. “Just give the woman the veggie burger and be done.” He leaned in to whisper in my ear. “Some of us are starving.”

“Chauvinist.” I didn’t bother to turn around and look at him.

“Are you going to tell me you’re a big beef eater?”

I couldn’t help myself. I finally did turn to face him. “I’m going to tell you I just burned as many calories as you did.” I heaved a big, dramatic sigh and put on my Scarlett O’Hara voice. “But I’ll leave the artery-clogging beef to the big, strong men.” I fluttered my eyes, squeezed his bicep, and grabbed the veggie burger. “Enjoy.”

I turned with a flip and bounced off to take a seat at the empty picnic table next to the one where Ace served the meals. Van grabbed a meal and took a seat next to me. “You’re pretty good on the court,” he said.

“I’m pretty good everywhere,” I said, conjuring a mixture of tease and flirt.

“I believe it.” He had a twinkle in his eyes. “You played high school basketball.”

“Four-year letterman,” I said. “You?”

“Same.”

I nodded. “You know I lettered in softball. I also lettered in volleyball.”

“Seems we have a lot in common,” Van said.

“You lettered in volleyball, too?” I teased, knowing there is no guys’ volleyball in high school.

“No, but I loved to watch the girls play. I bet you looked great in your volleyball shorts.”

The others joined us at the table, cutting our conversation short. When we all had our meals, there was still one left at the serving table, a stark reminder of Huff’s absence.

Ace showed us how to use our FRH—flameless ration heater—and took his seat at the instructors’ table. Yes, we were a segregated society. You can take the man out of the military, but you can’t take the military out of the man, being the operative phrase here.

Silence fell as we waited for our FRHs to heat our meals and I was strongly aware of Van’s radiant, hot, hot heat next to me. Cliff’s gaze kept flicking to Huff’s lonely MRE. If Cliff could have sent out an AMBER Alert for Huff, I’m sure he would have. I had the feeling, given the chance, Huff’s disappearance was going to become the lunch topic of the day. In my own warped little mind, Huff’s disappearance was linked to Ket. I didn’t want to dwell on either man.

“Isn’t this a lovely setting for a meal?” I said to break the silence and keep my mind off the fact that Ket was loose in the world. I put on my announcer voice. “Here we are, nestled among the train tracks and weathered industrial structures in the beautiful warehouse district of south Seattle, just off the scenic, sluggish, and only slightly industrial, Duwamish River.”

“We look like the lunch crowd on an old
M
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rerun.” Cliff had been growing grumpier by every minute that Huff didn’t drive up in the promised limo to make a grand entrance.

A seagull squawked overhead.

“Look! Wildlife,” Van said, his eyes dancing with tease.

“Someone’s in the spirit,” I said.

“Anyone have any Alka Seltzer?” Jim was staring at his warming meal.

“Oh, naughty boy,” I said. “Gulls are nasty, dirty, annoying birds. But you don’t want to explode them with Alka Seltzer. That would be fun, but wrong. Definitely wrong. And I’d have to report you to PETA.”

“I meant for us,” Jim said.

“Of course, you did.”

“All right, CTs,” Ace yelled from the next table. “I believe our meals are ready. Chow down!”

“I guess that passes for a blessing,” I said, staring at my ostensibly warmed, not so appetizing-looking veggie burger with BBQ sauce.

“Wow! Meals-rejected-by-everyone. Materials-resembling-edibles. Meals-rejected-by-the-enemy.” I looked around the silent group staring back at me.

“Oh, come on, everyone! I’m tanking here. Don’t tell me I’m the only one who did my research before coming to camp? This is supposed to be a bonding experience. Our first MREs. Join in. Someone? Anyone?”

Van gave me a wry look. “The three lies—it’s not a meal; it’s not ready; and you can’t eat it.”

“Excellent! That’s the spirit.” I smiled at him with lust in my eyes before looking demurely down at my meal again. “This stuff is supposed to have a longer shelf life than a Twinkie. And it’s made to withstand a twelve-hundred-foot parachute drop. Now that’s a substantial meal.” I poked at it, hungry, but not certain if I was hungry enough. “Crackers, cheese, peanut butter, main course, dessert. Ohmygosh! Twelve million calories of death. I can’t eat this. I’ll be a tank if I do.”