Special Forces: The Operator. Cindy DeesЧитать онлайн книгу.
are up to?”
“I have no idea. But I know a guy who might be able to make an educated guess.”
“I know several guys who’ve spent the past few years making educated guesses,” he snapped. “Give me more than that.”
“I don’t have more. But I can tell you one thing. If Mahmoud Akhtar is here, he’s up to no good.”
“On that, we are agreed.” He met her gaze grimly, and this time her big blue eyes were brimming over with worry. An urge to rock his chair forward onto all four legs, gather her into his arms and comfort her shocked him into stillness. This woman was the last person he would expect to accept comfort from him. Such a prickly little thing, she was.
“Would you like to come with me to my security team’s meeting?” she said all of a sudden, surprising him mightily.
“Do I have the proper clearance to attend it?” he asked, his voice as dry as the desert.
She rolled her eyes. “I can’t guarantee my boss will let you stay, but you Israelis are an obvious possible target. It makes sense to loop you into at least some of what we know about Mahmoud.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“In the spirit of Olympic cooperation, I’m offering you an olive branch,” she said with a huff. “Take it and be grateful, already.”
“Fair enough. Thank you.” He quoted quietly, “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!”
“Should I recognize that?” she asked.
“It’s your Bible. Psalms 133.”
She frowned. “I don’t get much time for religion in my work.”
“Hmm. My work is all about religion. Or freedom of religion, at any rate.”
“Right now, a threat to your peoples’ freedom is walking around out there, no doubt planning something dastardly. Although I’d put it at about equal odds between your country and mine as to which one is the primary target,” she replied.
He asked, “When was the last time your people had contact with Akhtar? What were his targets at that time?”
“Last fall. And his target was a schoolteacher. He planned to kidnap her and blackmail her husband into filing a false report on a nuclear facility in Iran. Instead, Mahmoud accidentally kidnapped one of my teammates. She escaped with the help of an undercover man on the team. We got to the teacher’s husband—a nuclear facilities inspector in Tehran—before Mahmoud did, and the husband filed a report showing that Iran was trying to import nuclear triggers from Russia by way of Turkey.”
“I heard about that!” Avi exclaimed. “Wasn’t there some sort of shoot-out in Tehran? Several major arms dealers killed and the deal scuttled? Our...sources...report the Iranians were livid.”
She shrugged looking entirely unrepentant.
“You were involved with all of that?” he asked incredulously.
“You don’t have to sound so surprised.” She was back to being defensive. And her hackles were standing up again. Maybe she was more like a baby badger than a hedgehog.
“C’mon, then,” she said briskly. “Bring your Olympic credentials and your fancy security clearance with you. You’ll need them both to hear what my team has to say.”
Rebel jumped as Avi’s big, warm palm landed lightly in the small of her back. The power and gentleness of it sent crazy zinging sensations ricocheting in all directions through her body. She inhaled light and fast, her adrenaline levels ready for combat—or sex.
Oh, c’mon, Self. You’ve been around plenty of hot special operators in the past year. This one is no different.
Except the tingling didn’t go away. And her breathing didn’t settle down.
“This way,” he murmured, guiding her through the maze of Israeli security personnel at their desks. “There’s a rear exit where we won’t be seen.”
Now he was getting the idea. She liked—she needed—to operate under the radar and away from the prying eyes of the public as much as possible. They slipped out into the warm night and, by unspoken mutual agreement, wove around the edges of the Olympic Village, mostly avoiding the surveillance cameras whose feeds were shared with all of the security delegations.
She swiped a key card she pulled out of a zipped pocket inside her jacket and stood before a retinal scanner to gain entrance for herself and her big Israeli guest into the back entrance of the American operations center. It had its own building containing both offices and housing for the large contingent of security specialists in Sydney to protect American athletes.
Vividly aware of the big man following her and the curious glances being thrown his way, she led Bronson across a room much like the one at Israeli operations, crowded with desks and video monitors. This room, too, was half-filled with big, capable-looking men and a few serious, focused women. Ignoring them, Rebel led her guest to the conference room and ushered him inside.
Her boss, Army Major Gunnar Torsten, looked over her shoulder at the Israeli. He did a double take. “Avi?”
“Gun? Long time no see,” the Israeli exclaimed.
Rebel looked on in disgust as the two men shook hands warmly and clapped each other on the back. Of course, they knew each other. Torsten was fond of saying how small the Special Forces community really was.
The men were a study in physical contrast. Where blond Torsten’s hair was straight and buzzed short, the Israeli’s dark hair was wavy and thick enough to run her fingers through it. Torsten was fair and blue-eyed, where Avi Bronson was bronzed and brown-eyed. But that was where the contrast ended. Both men were tall, fit, and moved with confident grace. Also, they both had that particular cool look in their eyes announcing they were lethal, and furthermore, that they knew it.
“What brings you to the Land of Oz, Avi?” Torsten asked.
“Olympic security detail. You?”
“Same.”
Torsten glanced at Rebel. “You summoned me, Lieutenant McQueen?”
She winced at his dry tone, not sure whether to interpret the use of her title as formality for the guest’s benefit or a signal that she was in trouble for her presumption. Her boss was a very hard man to read.
She responded grimly, “I spotted two men tonight who looked shockingly like Mahmoud Akhtar and Yousef Kamali.”
Torsten sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re sure it was them?”
“I only saw them from a distance, but I know Mahmoud’s face. I’m pretty sure it was him.”
Torsten stared at her for a long moment as his expression passed through shock and chagrin, ending up wreathed in speculation.
She watched her boss cautiously as he placed a phone call on the speakerphone sitting on the table in front of him. He said without preamble, “Piper, how quickly can Zane join us?”
Rebel’s teammate answered briskly over the speaker, “He can be here in twenty-four hours from when I call him, sir.”
That wasn’t bad, given that the flight itself took on the order of twenty-two hours.
“Make the call,” Torsten said quietly. He disconnected the call to Piper.
Avi piped up. “Who is this Zane person?”
Torsten answered, “CIA officer. Embedded with Mahmoud and his cell in the US for several months last year. Best expert we’ve got on the bastard.”
“And