Heart of Danger

  But perhaps it was not to be. Pity.

  He would wait for another day or two for Dr. Young to show up. If she didn’t, he would terminate the Captain and autopsy his brain and move on. The formula was close.

  China’s time was almost here.

  In a few hours he’d be watching test results of a beta version that just might be the right formula. If it worked, he was months away from his goal, a triumphant China.

  Mount Blue

  “Well, what the fuck do we know about her, besides the fact that she’s smart and enjoys really good tacos?” Nick Ross asked. His dark, hard face was as expressionless as Mac’s own.

  They were in Mac’s study, watching Catherine Young on his 3D monitors.

  “Well, we know she’s a babe,” Jon said cheerfully. “What?” He opened up his hands when Mac and Nick turned to him. “She is a babe. That hair, those eyes, those boobs . . .”

  “Jon . . .” Nick let out a long breath, an attempt at restraint.

  No one would believe that Jon Ryan could be anything but Surfer Dude. Sun-streaked blond hair, laid-back ’tude, a weakness for truly garish Hawaiian shirts and women, he was as lethal as Mac or Nick, but it didn’t show.

  Men instinctively moved out of Mac’s way and out of Nick’s way, but they always underestimated Jon and were always really really sorry afterwards. If they lived long enough to be sorry.

  “She says she’s treating the Captain,” Mac reminded them quietly, and it was like a large, dark stone dropping into a pond. “He’s alive and he’s close, according to her. He’s not sipping tropical drinks in Bali and he’s not living upriver in the Mekong and he’s not in Tajikistan.” Some of their favorite speculations because Lucius was intimately familiar with those places. Like he was intimately familiar with Colombia, Sierra Leone and the more remote islands of Indonesia. If it was tough and remote, Lucius knew it. Their speculations that he might be in Bali with a couple of women and a mansion had been tinged with bitterness because that new deluxe life would have been bought with their lives.

  “Hot or not, we’re going to have to get more intel from her. She’s lying about the Captain but she knows something and we’re going to have to find out what.” Nick’s voice was low. He looked each of them in the eye. “By whatever means possible. Though I wouldn’t advise trying to fuck it out of her. No time for it, not even for you, Jon.”

  Jon breathed out a sigh of regret. None of them was capable of hurting a woman, but Jon had seduced his share of intel out of women.

  Not Mac. Women didn’t fall for Mac. Women didn’t even like looking at him. One look at his face and they either ran screaming or decided he was good for one thing and one thing only—a fuck. After which they were gone.

  Fine by him. He’d been born ugly with big, irregular features. An opponent who’d had a boot knife and slashed his face open with it had scarred one side of his face, and then the Arka fire that had burned the other side of his face had taken care of the rest. Most people flinched when they saw him the first time. They avoided looking at him as if looking at him could cause them harm like that Greek lady with the snakes for hair who turned anyone who looked at her to stone.

  He’d had a hard life and it was reflected in his face. Mac didn’t give a shit. In the military, he did what he had to do and he did it well, and what he looked like didn’t make any difference at all to the outcome. The only time he thought about it was when he was undercover, because he was memorable. Not in a good way.

  “Mac might have better chances than I would,” Jon said, waggling his eyebrows. “With that handsome mug of his.”

  “Cut it out,” Mac growled. They didn’t have time for this.

  “No, dude. I mean it.” Jon suddenly turned serious, the expression odd on his good-looking face. Mac had watched him hosing opponents with his charm, wielding that bright and merry smile while slipping in the knife. His face wasn’t made for seriousness. Seeing him so sober and serious was strange. “The chick likes you.”

  Mac didn’t surprise easily but he felt his jaw unhinge slightly, then snapped it closed. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “The chick?” Jon insisted. “The lady doctor? The one you just spent an hour interrogating? ’Member her? The one we’re watching now?”

  “Can it, Jon.” Nick’s voice was low with menace.

  “She digs you,” Jon continued as if Nick hadn’t spoken. “Man, she looked at you like you were smokin’ hot.”

  Mac made a sound of exasperation. Jon liked to razz on him but now wasn’t the time. On the monitor, the woman had finished the juice drink and was polishing off the last of the peach pie. Man, she must have an amazing metabolism to eat like that and stay so slender. Either that or she’d been starving.

  At the thought, a slight worm of unease went through him. He was hard, yeah, but he wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t a happy thought that she might have been hungry while he was interrogating her. Starving a woman . . . well that officially made him a prick.

  He was a badass but not a prick.

  “Shit, look at that chick eat,” Jon said. “Nice manners, but she’s packing the stuff away.”

  “She was hungry,” Mac said curtly.

  “Yeah.” Jon nodded. “For you.”

  “Fuck off, Jon.” Nick gave Jon’s shoulder a sharp blow. “We don’t have time for this. The fuck’s wrong with you?”

  “Hey, man, I’m serious. Wait, wait! Let me show you what I mean.” Jon reached over and touched the screen, dragging his index finger from right to left, rewinding. “Where . . . there it is! The moment Mac takes her hood off.”

  All three men turned to the monitor, though Mac didn’t know what the hell he was looking for. He’d been there and hadn’t noticed anything. All three watched as Mac held open the door and ushered a hooded Catherine in with a hand to the small of her back.

  Now that he remembered. Vividly. Sleek muscles, narrow waist, some really nice smell as she walked past him. He rarely touched women except for sex. It had felt nice and he’d squashed the thought immediately. Until she convinced him otherwise, this woman was the enemy.

  “There!” Jon shouted, and tapped the screen to freeze it. “What?” Nick asked, baffled. Mac frowned and leaned closer to the monitor, trying to figure out what Jon saw. He looked at the tableau, his frozen self with the hood in his hand, holding it high, having whipped it off the woman’s head, her hair gently raised from the friction with the hood forming a halo around her head. She was looking straight at him and the screen save caught that second in which she first had a glimpse of his face.

  Dispassionately, Mac had to recognize that the woman was truly beautiful. One of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. Gorgeous light gray eyes, high cheekbones, full mouth. It was a bone-deep beauty, the kind that could never fade. She’d be a gorgeous centenarian. Whatever makeup she might have started the day with was long gone, though it wasn’t a face that needed enhancement. It could have done with some color, though. She was white as ice.

  Other than that . . . what wasn’t he seeing?

  “What?” Mac echoed.

  “Her face, goddammit!” Jon tapped the screen, his finger making a little thud on the glass right over the image of her face. “Look at it!”

  Mac and Nick stared at the screen, then at each other. What the fuck?

  Jon gave a snort of disgust. “Jesus, observation skills zero, both of you. You know what I’m seeing? Nothing! That’s what I’m seeing.”

  Mac and Nick glanced at each other again. Mac shrugged. “Hell if I know what he’s talking about.”

  “She’s not afraid, you asshole!” Jon shouted. “I defy any human being, let alone a woman who is by all accounts a geek and is certainly not an operator, to be kidnapped, taken somewhere unknown, have the hood whipped off unexpectedly and see your face and not shit herself with fright. Come on, you know what you look like. God knows you use it often enough to intimidate. It’s not working with her. Look, goddammit!”

/>   Mac looked. The screen shot showed Mac with his war face on while Catherine Young looked straight up at him. Her face showed exhaustion, vulnerability, tiredness. But not fear. No fear at all.

  “Dude.” Jon turned to Mac. “You’re terrifying. I know you and know you’re one of the good guys. But shit—sometimes you scare me! Think about it. She’s not scared. She’s not taken by surprise by your ugly scarred mug. So—either she already knows what you look like or she falls into instant love. And I opt for Door Number One.”

  “He’s got a point, Mac,” Nick said slowly, eyes riveted to the screen. “No offense, but how can she see you suddenly and not run screaming? Particularly since basically she’s your prisoner? Can she—does she know you?”

  That one Mac could answer. “Never seen her before in my life.”

  “Then—there’s something there we’re not seeing, not understanding.”

  The three men were silent.

  “She saw a photo of you somewhere,” Nick said slowly. “That’s the only thing I can think of. That’s why she was prepared.”

  “Negative,” Mac shot back sharply. “We’re fucking ghosts.”

  No way. Lucius had ruthlessly destroyed all documentary evidence of their existence in and out of the military. And when the Captain did something, he did it thoroughly.

  “Unless . . .” Jon began, a frown of concentration between his blond eyebrows.

  “Unless?”

  “Well, crazy as it sounds, she’s saying the Captain sent her.” He held up a hand. “Wait. I’m not saying she was sent by Lucius, I’m just saying she’s saying Lucius sent her. And, well, just about the only explanation I can come up with for her reaction when she sees you for the first time is, ahm . . .”

  “Lucius described me to her.” Mac kept his voice flat. “She knew what I looked like because Lucius told her what I look like. Which would mean that she’s right. Lucius is in Palo Alto. And in trouble.” He gritted his jaw muscles, looked at his teammates. “Code Delta.”

  The meal was so good it might even be worth getting offed afterwards.

  Catherine would have sworn her stomach was so knotted up she would barely be able to choke down a few bites, but at the mere smell of the food, her stomach simply opened up like a door.

  Maybe it was the animal in her, she thought, that wanted to live. The lizard part of her brain waking up, pushing for survival.

  She’d spent her childhood and teen years suppressing the lizard brain, believing her gift came from the unconscious. She never let herself be swayed by emotion, by need, ever.

  And yet the scientist in her knew that was nonsense. Whatever it was that allowed her to read emotions, it wasn’t a thing that could be exorcised from her life. It could be suppressed for a while, sure. She should know because she was the Queen of Suppression.

  But when it came roaring back, it was so strong it was uncontrollable.

  Maybe that was why she had reacted so very strongly to Nine. To Edward Domino, alias Lucius Ward. He’d come into her life after a long period of repression. She’d immersed herself in her studies, cut herself off from most human relations—certainly from anyone who could evoke an emotional or sexual reaction—and thought she’d rid herself of her dragon.

  But the dragon had come swooping back in on black-and-gold wings, breathing fire.

  Her gift hadn’t become weaker through suppression, it had become stronger.

  The clearest reading she had ever had in her life from another human being had been from Patient Number Nine. Lucius Ward. Crystal-clear, so specific it was as if she’d been handed written instructions for use.

  All her other readings had been mostly vague and cloudy. She could pick up on the major emotions—fear, hatred, hidden love, shame, ambition—like picking up on the loud bits of a symphony. Other emotions underneath had been harder to catch or to interpret.

  This was something far from the reassuring pilasters of science holding up her world. This was—something else. The fact that she was here—had been propelled here by forces beyond her control—was a function of pure instinct.

  Instinct told her to eat and drink and she did.

  The instant she drained the last of that amazing juice, feeling a billion vitamins coursing through her system, the door whooshed open again and she turned to watch the big man in black enter the room.

  He walked over to the other chair and sat down.

  For the first time, Catherine noticed how he moved. He was huge, but moved with enormous grace, like an athlete. He obviously was an athlete, among other things. He had the body of an outsized linebacker, bulging muscles evident even under the clothes. He’d shed the tough impenetrable outerwear like an exoskeleton and was now dressed in a black sweatshirt, black jeans, black combat boots. He’d pulled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, showing strong, muscled forearms with highly raised veins. His body had increased the veins to pump more oxygen into the muscles. An automatic bodily response that couldn’t be faked and that spoke of hours and hours of working out.

  Or fighting. Because he was a warrior, not an athlete. The weapons at his hips showed her that.

  He sat down in front of her and looked at her, dark eyes unblinking.

  There was a slight abatement of the heavy waves of suspicion that had enveloped him like smoke. Though he was far from welcoming or even trusting, there wasn’t overt hostility.

  “Thank you for the food,” she said politely.

  He dipped his head. “You’re welcome.” The deep, low voice reverberated in the room.

  “I was hungrier than I thought.”

  Maybe she could trick him, and he’d answer I noticed. She was absolutely positive there was a camera in the room, though it was invisible. Nowadays vidcams were in patches slapped on walls and doorknobs and windowsills. They’d have watched her every move; certainly she was being watched right now.

  But she underestimated him. He didn’t so much as flicker an eyelash.

  Okay. Try another tack. “I’m surprised you fed me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to starve you to death. All I want is for you to be gone.”

  “I understand that.” Catherine leaned forward on her forearms. “I also understand that I’m eventually going to end up several hundred miles from here with a headache and no memory whatsoever of the past twenty-four hours or maybe even forty-eight hours, depending on the dose of Lethe. My company invented it. In-house we call it MIB. For Men in Black. Only it’s not a light that shines in your eyes, it’s drops in a glass. So I’d like to thank you for not MIB’ing the carrot and apple juice because I have some more things to say before you do.”

  Aha! Anyone less adept than she was at reading body language would have missed it because he didn’t move a muscle except for an involuntary twitch of the sternocleidomastoid muscle in his right jaw. Not all the training in the world could stop fast twitch muscles taken by surprise. Still, he was very very good.

  She was better.

  “Patient Nine didn’t say so in so many words—” Actually he hadn’t said it in any words, just vague images of shadowy men. “But I think that there are several of you here. Two, maybe three others. Like you. Somehow friends of his?”

  Again, he didn’t move a muscle, but a coldness crept over his features.

  “Not friends of his?”

  Silence.

  “Look.” She bit her lips. “Before you knock me out, I want to know that somehow I got this message across. In the way it was given to me. I—” She hesitated. Stilled her trembling hands under the table. Tried to calm her fast-beating heart. “I came here at some personal risk. Because a patient of mine, a man who is deathly ill, could find no rest until I promised him I would make every effort to find—” You, she thought. Find you. “To find this man, this Tom McEnroe. Mac. To give him that object I gave you, the tiny metal hawk, and to tell him Code Delta. You can believe me or not believe me. But I am telling the truth. And I think your friend—at least he considers himself
your friend—is in danger. I have no idea if any of this means anything to you, Mr. McEnroe. Because that’s who you are. I hope all of this makes sense, because otherwise I have just made a huge mistake.”

  Calmer now, having done all she could do, she placed her hands on the table, as if laying cards down. And she had. She’d laid it all out for him, for this tall, deadly-looking man. She’d done her best and possibly risked her life.

  The rest was up to him.

  “Tell her the truth, Mac,” Jon’s voice said in his ear. “I think the time for games is over.”

  “Yeah,” Nick echoed, ever laconic.

  Mac sat, eyes narrowed, looking at the woman carefully. She sat completely still under his gaze. He got no read off her, none at all. She could be telling the truth, she could have been sent by their traitorous former commander, Lucius Ward, to trap him. She could have been sent by goddamned Martians for all he could tell.

  Shit. He’d been trained in interrogation techniques. They all had. He didn’t like torture, not for intel. If he had to off someone, he just did it without drawing it out. Pain wasn’t always useful if you wanted the truth. Most everyone would say anything, anything at all, certainly what the interrogator wanted to hear, just to make pain stop, go away. But he’d interrogated his share of shitheads and had made them talk and pain had been involved.

  Men like Mac or Jon or Nick wouldn’t talk at all, under any conditions. They’d been trained to resist torture, but beyond the resistance training, they were unbreakable. They’d been selected and tested for that trait, then hardened, like hardening steel. And most of the time they had a discreet suicide method on them.

  Just check out. Try pumping a corpse for intel, asshole.

  So he knew all about breaking people down and—

  Shit.

  He couldn’t do it with this woman. Just couldn’t.

  What the fuck was the matter with him? She’d found him. Nobody could find him.

  “Take it from the top,” he said. “Beginning to end. And make me believe you or I’ll MIB your medical degree out of you.”