Viking Bay (2 page)

2
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Bowman struck faster than a rattlesnake and his right hand darted out and grabbed Kay's sweatshirt, his big hand clutching the material between her breasts. As he jerked her off balance, she slashed downward with her right hand to break his grip, but all that did was hurt her hand; hitting Bowman's forearm was like hitting a baseball bat.

Bowman quickly shifted his grip and started to turn to his left—the move a precursor to his tossing her over his shoulder—again—and as she began to counter the move, she realized, too late, the move was a feint. Bowman's right leg snaked behind her left calf and he simply smacked his hand into her chest, knocking her down, and then he belly-flopped onto her, knocking the wind out of her. His forearm—the baseball bat—slammed across her throat and started to crush her larynx.

“Stop!” Simmons said.

Simmons was a tough little nut in his fifties, about five-foot-six, built like a pint-sized version of Superman. He was an ex–Marine master sergeant and in charge of the hand-to-hand combat course. For some reason, he'd matched Kay up with Bowman, who was six-foot-four—eight inches taller than she was—and weighed two hundred thirty pounds—almost exactly a hundred pounds more than she did. On top of that, Kay sensed that Bowman liked to knock women around—his way of demonstrating that they shouldn't be on the same playing field with the boys—and he was just beating the shit out of her. She already had a mouse developing under her left eye when he
“accidentally” hit her with his elbow, and she knew tomorrow there would be a bruise the size of Bowman's big paw in the center of her chest.

“Hamilton,” Simmons said, “how many times do I have to tell you? You can't let him get ahold of you first. You gotta be quicker than him.”

Kay just shook her head; she didn't bother to say that she wasn't
intentionally
letting Bowman maul her.

“Okay, let's try it again. This time, Hamilton, circle to his left. He's right-handed. And when he reaches for you—”

“Yeah, I got it,” Kay said, but she was thinking that this whole thing was total bullshit. It was only in movies that women beat up men who outweighed them by a hundred pounds. For that matter, that was why they had weight divisions in boxing, because, in general, big guys beat little guys. If a monster like Bowman had attacked her on the street—out in the real world—she would have pulled out a gun and shot him or hit him with anything that would dent his thick skull. Or she'd kick him in the nuts—a move not permitted in this particular course.

Bowman came toward her again, and Kay circled to his left as Simmons had told her. Then, when Bowman's back was to Simmons so Simmons couldn't see his face, Bowman made a smooching gesture with his lips.

And Kay kicked him in the nuts. As hard as she could.

Bowman fell to the mat, grasping his crotch, and Simmons started screaming at her. Well, fuck them both.

“Are you okay, Bowman?” Simmons asked.

“I think she crushed my testicle,” Bowman said. At least that's what Kay thought he said. It was hard to understand him with his teeth all clenched.

Simmons turned to one of the other students—there were only four people in the class, and Kay was the only woman—and said, “Connors, go get the medic. And Hamilton, you get your ass to my office and wait for me there.”

—

SIMMONS'S OFFICE,
just down the hall from the gymnasium, looked like a high school coach's office and not a coach who taught at one of the better schools. There was a battered metal desk, a wooden chair behind the desk that swiveled and could be tilted back, and a couple of straight-backed chairs in front of the desk. On the walls were charts showing photos of men in various judo and karate positions. In one corner was a set of weights for doing curls, which explained Simmons's hard little arms. Kay shut the door and noticed a small mirror on the back of the door.

She looked into the mirror and touched the blooming mouse under her eye. It wasn't too bad and could be covered with makeup. She was lucky her eye wasn't swollen shut. She was also lucky Bowman hadn't broken her nose. She'd had her nose broken once before and it had really hurt.

She didn't know what she was going to say to Simmons. She knew he was going to chew her out, but she also knew that's all he was going to do. They weren't going to fire her for kicking Bowman; she was more valuable than Bowman to the Group.

Bowman was muscle, pure and simple. He was good with his fists, okay with a pistol—although he wasn't any better than Kay with a pistol—but he was exceptional with a rifle. She wondered if Callahan was grooming Bowman to be his designated sniper. Bowman, however, didn't have her language skills; in fact, he had an accent like the guys who hawked the beer at Fenway and was barely understandable in English. Kay could speak Spanish like a native, and in a few months would be passable in Farsi. Bowman was also slow when it came to the technical stuff—alarms, computers, listening devices, GPS systems—anything with a microchip—and Kay outscored him in those classes.

The door opened and Simmons stepped into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. “Hamilton,” he said, “I don't know what I'm gonna do with you.”

Kay almost smiled. She remembered her last boss saying the same thing to her—right before she was fired.

—

THREE AND A HALF MONTHS EARLIER,
Kay had been an agent with the Drug Enforcement Administration. She'd enjoyed the work and had been a good agent; she made a name for herself in Miami after she killed a major player there named Marco Alvarez and three of his men. Marco was the one who broke her nose when he tried to beat her to death after he found out she was an undercover cop who'd penetrated his organization.

After Miami, she was transferred to San Diego, placed in a vacant supervisor's spot, and put in charge of her own team—and she immediately set her sights on the brother of Caesar Olivera. Caesar was the leader of the most powerful drug cartel in Mexico, and his little brother, a moron named Tito, ran his North American operations. Kay eventually arrested Tito for murdering another San Diego drug dealer—a murder she could have prevented had she chosen to. Unfortunately, it didn't end there.

Caesar Olivera kidnapped Kay's daughter, Jessica, and forced Kay to break his brother out of jail in return for her daughter. By the time it was all over, Tito Olivera had died in car accident, Kay had killed Caesar Olivera and one of his top guys down in Mexico, and a colonel in the Policía Federal had died assisting her. Then the United States Coast Guard virtually committed an act of war by sailing into Mexican territorial waters and killing more of Caesar's people to help Kay and Jessica escape.

Kay could have been prosecuted for breaking Tito Olivera out of jail, but the DEA wanted to keep what she had done in Mexico under wraps as much as possible and didn't want the publicity that would accompany a trial. On the other hand, the DEA at that point didn't want Kay Hamilton anymore, either.

Kay had made the mistake of not informing anyone in her chain of
command that Caesar had kidnapped her daughter, and she didn't get permission to go into Mexico on her own to save her. She'd already had a reputation for being insubordinate and playing loose with the rules before she killed Caesar, and killing Caesar the way she did was the last straw: The DEA fired her.

Ironically, the person who fired her was the best friend she had in the DEA, a woman named Barb Reynolds, who was a deputy director back in D.C. and who had been Kay's mentor. After Barb fired her, she took Kay out for a drink. While Kay was sulking, wondering what she was going to do for a living and how she was going to support her daughter, Barb told her that she might be able to get Kay into a certain organization in Washington who valued her talents.

“Do they know what I did in Mexico?” Kay had asked, and Barb had responded by smiling and saying, “As far as this particular organization is concerned, Mexico was your job interview. Believe me, they want you.”

When Kay had asked if the unnamed organization was the CIA, Barb had said, “Not exactly.”

Not exactly
turned out to be one hell of an understatement.

—

SIMMONS CHEWED HER OUT
as expected, essentially giving her a lecture on fair play and sportsmanship as if she and Bowman were a couple of five-year-olds on a T-ball team. Kay pretended to be contrite and Simmons pretended to believe her. After Simmons finished, Kay showered and had just exited the gym when her phone rang. It was Anna Mercer, Callahan's deputy.

“Drop whatever you're doing and come to my office,” Mercer said.

“I'm down at the gym in Alexandria,” Kay said. “I just finished with that stupid hand-to-hand combat course you're making me take.”

“Yeah, well, drive fast.”

3
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A week after she was fired from the DEA, Kay received a phone call.

“Kay, my name is Anna Mercer,” the caller said. “Barb Reynolds suggested we hire you, so we need to meet and talk.” Before Kay could ask who
we
was, Mercer said, “I'll be flying in from D.C. tomorrow. Meet me in the bar at the Sheraton on Harbor Island at four p.m.” Kay didn't like Mercer's dictatorial style, but as her employment prospects weren't all that promising, she agreed.

Kay arrived at the Sheraton promptly at four, dressed casually in form-fitting white slacks, a yellow tank top, and sandals. It was June, eighty-five degrees outside, and she hadn't felt like putting on anything more formal. She looked into the bar and saw only one person there, a woman sitting alone at a table with a view of San Diego Bay. The woman raised her hand when she saw Kay; she obviously knew what Kay looked like, even though they'd never met.

Mercer was in her forties, pretty and trim. She had short dark hair and smart brown eyes. She was also dressed very well for a person Kay assumed was a civil servant. Kay didn't know the brand name of Mercer's white linen suit, but she was pretty sure she couldn't afford it. She did know the brand of Mercer's shoes—she was a bit of a shoe freak—and she definitely couldn't afford them.

A waitress arrived as soon as Kay took a seat across from Mercer and asked if Kay wanted a drink. Mercer was drinking what appeared to be a Manhattan, the maraschino cherry bobbing in the whiskey.

Kay wondered if it would be appropriate to drink at what was
essentially a job interview and decided: Why not? It wasn't too early in the day for a cocktail. Plus they wanted her badly enough to fly someone out from Washington to meet with her. “I'll have a Stoli martini with a twist,” she told the waitress.

While waiting for her drink to arrive, Kay made an attempt at small talk, asking if Mercer had been to San Diego before—she had—and if she'd had a pleasant flight—“The usual hassle” was Mercer's response. Mercer made no attempt to be friendly or put her at ease, and Kay was glad when her drink was served so they could get down to business.

“So. You have a job for me,” Kay said.

“Maybe,” Mercer said. “There are a few things that need to be done before we finalize anything.”

“Like what?”

“We need to complete background checks on you equivalent to those required for a Top Secret Security Clearance.”

Kay knew that for a Top Secret clearance, the government looked at an individual's work history, tax returns, financial solvency, and travel abroad. They looked at every document they could get their grubby little hands on. Federal agents also interviewed people who knew the person and tried to get them to spill dirty secrets; they talked to past employers, neighbors, and ex-spouses. What Kay didn't understand was what Mercer meant when she said the background checks would be
equivalent
to those required for a Top Secret clearance. It was either a Top Secret clearance or it wasn't.

“Then a doctor here in San Diego will give you a very thorough physical.”

“I had a physical just a year ago. There's nothing wrong with me,” Kay said.

“Things can change in a year,” Mercer said. “I should know. And we can't afford to waste a lot of money training you and find out later that you have some incurable disease.”

Now, that was cold.

“Following the physical, you'll fly out to D.C. and meet with a psychiatrist we use.”

“You think I might be nuts?” Kay said. She smiled when she said this, but she was actually offended that her prospective employer questioned her mental health.

“No, we don't think you're nuts exactly, but the type of people we employ tend to have issues—we probably wouldn't hire them if they didn't—and we consider an in-depth psychological profile a prudent precaution.”

“I don't have any
issues
,” Kay said, no longer smiling.

“Sure you do. You have authority issues. Control issues. Trust issues. You're conflicted about your daughter. You like sex, but you appear to have no desire to have a normal relationship, get married, and have more kids.”

Kay wondered whom Mercer had talked to and started to protest, but Mercer held up a hand, silencing her. “Hey, we're okay with all those things. But we need to make sure you don't have some deep-seated psychosis or phobia that we're not aware of, the type that could affect your work. By the way, you may be hypnotized as part of the evaluation. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Kay said. “It all depends on the job I'll be doing and my pay grade.” Although Kay didn't have any big secrets she was hiding, she didn't like the idea of someone hypnotizing her and probing into the dark corners of her mind. But what she really didn't like was Mercer's attitude, acting as if Kay was so desperate that she'd do anything to land a job.

As if Kay hadn't spoken, Mercer said, “In addition to the psych eval and the physical, you'll also be polygraphed. That's just to make sure we haven't missed something in our background checks. The flutter testing is nothing to get alarmed about unless you're a Chinese spy.”

The polygraph testing didn't bother Kay or surprise her; Top Secret government programs often included periodic lie-detector tests.

“So what agency will I be working for?” Kay asked.

“You won't be working for an agency. You won't be employed by the federal government.”

“Whoa!” Kay said. She'd assumed that she'd be working for the feds based on what her friend, Barb Reynolds, had said—or implied—and working for the feds was important for two mundane reasons: The government had a good health insurance program—which mattered now that her daughter was living with her—and a good retirement program in which she already had ten years invested.

“You were a GS-13, weren't you, when you worked for the DEA?” Mercer said.

“Yeah. Well, a temporary 13. They fired me before they made me permanent.”

“Your starting salary will be twice as much as a GS-13 makes.”

“Really?” Kay said. That was good news.

“Yes. We know the cost of living in the D.C. area is high and that you'll have to pay full price for health insurance for yourself and your daughter. But the main reason we're willing to pay so much is because of the risks you may be asked to take.”

“Like what?”

Mercer shook her head. “Sorry. Before I can tell you more you need to complete the physical, meet with the psychiatrist, and get polygraphed. Then you'll be required to sign a nondisclosure agreement that legally prevents you from ever discussing your employer and what you did for him. A really smart lawyer prepared the nondisclosure agreement, and if you violate it, we'll sue you and ruin you financially and maybe even throw you in jail. Or maybe we'll just kill you in the interest of national security.”

Mercer smiled slightly when she spoke of killing Kay, like that old
joke you always hear in the movies where the CIA agent says:
I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.
At least Kay assumed it was a joke. She also wondered what her job had to do with national security if she wouldn't be working for the government.

“Look,” Kay said. “I can't agree to any of this without having a better understanding of what I'll be doing.”

“Why not?” Mercer said. “Your last employer fired you and isn't about to give you a good recommendation, so the likelihood of you getting a decent job in law enforcement is almost zero. We, on the other hand, are impressed by what you did in both Miami and San Diego, including your little adventure down in Mexico with the Olivera cartel. We're offering you a job at twice your previous salary doing things that are compatible with your prior experience. What have you got to lose?”

Before Kay could say anything, Mercer opened her purse and pulled out a cashier's check. She noticed that Mercer's purse, like her suit and shoes, was top of the line—leather softer than a baby's bottom—and she had the unwanted image of a newborn calf being sacrificed to become a handbag. Mercer handed her the check and said, “That's to compensate you for your time while you're completing the physical and the psych eval.”

The check was for ten thousand dollars. Wow. Like Mercer had said: What did she have to lose?

She later found out that the answer to that question was: her life.

—

THE NEXT TWO WEEKS
passed quickly as Kay was cracked open like a clamshell and rudely poked at both mentally and physically.

She had no problems with the physical. She was, in fact, surprised that she didn't have high cholesterol or high blood sugar or some other biological indicator that she should change her eating habits. She really paid no attention to her diet and when her daughter wasn't around,
tended to feed primarily off junk foods. The only reason she still wore a size 6 dress was that she exercised fanatically.

Her relationship with her daughter turned out to be the thing that most interested the psychiatrist—and Kay hadn't expected that. She thought the shrink would be more concerned about affairs she'd had with a couple of married men and with Marco Alvarez, the drug lord she'd killed in Miami. She'd slept with Marco for almost a year to build a case against him, and she'd expected the doctor to explore the moral issues associated with her using sex to put a man behind bars. But he didn't, and actually passed over that phase of her life rather quickly.

What the psychiatrist was most curious about was how she and her daughter got along, if she felt guilty about her, if she resented her, if she understood her own feelings for the girl. Why the shrink cared about all this shit, Kay didn't have a clue; she didn't see how her feelings toward her daughter had anything to do with her job. In the end, the doc must have concluded that she wasn't a total psycho—or a completely unfit mother—and gave her a clean bill of health.

Anna Mercer called Kay two days later and asked how soon she could move to D.C.

“I don't know,” Kay said. “I have to sell my house in San Diego and . . .”

“We'll take care of selling your house and moving your furniture.”

“And I'll need to find a place in D.C.”

“We have a real estate agent here that will do that for you. Just give her a price range and she'll find something that will make you happy.”

“But the big thing,” Kay said, “is I have to find a good school for my daughter, and I know that's going to be a hassle.”

Kay had had a hard time getting Jessica into a decent private school in San Diego until she strong-armed a snooty Catholic school principal. She told the principal that if she didn't enroll Jessica, DEA Agent Kay Hamilton was going to make her overpriced parochial school the new front line in the war on drugs. Kay said this knowing that half the brats
who went there snorted, swallowed, or smoked some banned substance. After that, the principal had a change of heart.

“Pick any school you want in the D.C. area,” Mercer said. “We'll make sure your daughter is accepted.”

“You can actually do that?” Kay said.

“Yes.”

Now,
that
impressed Kay.

“Be at this address next Wednesday at one p.m.,” Mercer said, and rattled off a number on K Street. “You'll sign the nondisclosure agreement at that time, and then I'll introduce you to Callahan.”

“Who's Callahan?” Kay had asked.

Mercer hung up.