Darkness at Dawn (9 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Jennings

Tags: #Romance, #General, #Suspense, #Contemporary, #Fiction

BOOK: Darkness at Dawn
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“Where’d you go to school?” Lucy asked, and he turned to her gratefully.
“Yale. Majored in economics, minored in statistical analysis.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, eyes on the file on her knees. “Where did we meet?”
Mike pulled a blank. Utter and complete blank. Nothing going on up there. Just some wind and lint blowing around in a big empty room.
Lucy’s face was bland as she looked up at him. “Darling, don’t you remember? We met my last year of graduate school, right after the end of the spring semester. It was a beautiful day in late May. You were playing at Brandywine, and I accompanied my best friend from Georgetown, Carrie Martin, to the match. Her brother was playing, too. I didn’t know anything about polo, but you were very dashing on your horse. It was one of those perfect early summer evenings where the shadows grow longer and longer, you know? Carrie introduced us, and you invited me out for drinks that very evening. And dinner the next evening. And the evening after that. We dated for three years, taking turns shuttling between New York and Washington. I learned a little about polo and you learned a little about art history. I started taking riding lessons and you started a small-scale art collection. We got engaged this September.” Half that luscious mouth curved up. “Surely you remember,
darling
.”
Well,
fuck
. No one had thought to write up their background as a couple. The CIA had as many employees as a small city, supersmart every single one of them, basically undercover work was what they did, and not one had come up with their romantic history. Even though the two of them were going into a dangerous situation predicated on their being a couple.
It was really lucky that Lucy was capable of thinking on her feet. The way she’d recounted the story was absolutely convincing.
As a matter of fact, she’d almost convinced
him
. Because, well, if he were a polo-playing kind of guy, which he wasn’t, and a falling-in-love-at-first-sight kind of guy, which he wasn’t, well that scenario sounded pretty good. Because Lucy Merritt was exactly the kind of woman a polo-playing investment banker would fall for, head over heels, at once.
He could see it, could almost
feel
it. A summer evening, long shadows playing over the polo field, the distant
thwack!
of the mallet, the smell of grass . . .
“What did we have that first evening?”
Lucy had leaned over and was going through the clothes they’d brought over for him. High-end, high-maintenance clothes. Stiff cotton shirts that for sure required ironing, expensive-looking suits, cuff links.
Cuff links!
Like a spook! Gah.
Lucy was pulling out a pair of shoes, one of several. Shiny, expensive. She peered at the pristine soles in disapproval. “I’ll scuff these up for you. What did you say?”
“What did we drink that first evening?” Mike watched her, partly fascinated by her face and partly wondering what her reaction would be.
Perfect. Her face, her reaction.
“I had a Prosecco,” she responded instantly, with a reminiscent smile, as if remembering as opposed to making all this up on the spur of the moment. “And you had a beer.”
Amazing. No hesitation, no looking slightly up and to the left, nothing. Her answer was exactly as it should be, immediate and relaxed, as if they’d actually had drinks the evening they’d met on a polo field. She’d pegged him, too. He’d have definitely ordered a beer after a polo game.
“And the next evening? Where’d we go to eat?”
“To a Greek restaurant,” she answered immediately. “It was delicious. We both enjoy Greek food.”
Wow. Mike didn’t know about her, but he loved Greek food. She’d somehow tuned into that.
They’d finished cutting his hair, and now someone slapped a hot wet cloth over his face. He breathed in heavily, drawing in steam. It felt real good.
Then lather and a close shave with a very sharp razor, wielded by a man who’d obviously had instructions from Montgomery not to kill the captain.
He kept an eye on the clothes Lucy was pulling out of the packages, relieved to see that there were no jeans and nothing made of cotton. Jeans were death itself in cold weather. Cotton wicked up moisture and held it, creating a wet material that clung to skin. The last thing you needed in subzero temperatures was material that sucked up moisture and retained it. A surefire recipe for frostbite.
What they’d packed looked expensive and elegant, just what an investment banker would wear, but there was a lot of top-of-the-line winter gear there, too. And all the outer gear was Gore-Tex.
He watched as Lucy pulled out a metal canister of an expensive men’s cologne, then an expensive shaving lotion and an expensive sunscreen. Each canister had a false bottom with enough C-4 to blow through a wall. The det cord was wound around the explosive, the latest type, as thin as baling wire.
Five meters of rope were wound around the exterior of the suitcase, tucked under the metallic elements.
There were two satellite cell phones, encrypted, both of which could become stun guns at the flip of a switch.
Two of his credit cards would be extra stiff and razorsharp at one end, capable of slitting a man’s throat open with ease.
No doubt if he found he needed firepower, they could airdrop some weapons and encrypt an SMS message with the GPS coordinates.
The one thing the CIA did really well was toys.
Lucy pulled out a long-sleeved undershirt and a pair of underpants made of a thin material and looked at them.
Now we were talking. “Capilene. Thermal underwear. To be worn close to the skin in extreme cold temperatures. It’s a synthetic fiber that is hydrophobic, it repels water.
Ow!
” He glared at the girl working on his feet, aggrieved. “That
hurt
! What are you doing?”
Clearly regarding him as not to be reasoned with, the girl turned to Lucy. She held up a strip like one of those sticky things you hang in a room to catch flies. It had black hairs on it. His hairs.
“Just waxing his toes,” she said to Lucy, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Waxing
toes
? Well, fuck. He had opened his mouth to protest, when Lucy laughed at him.
“Women do that to their, um, private lady parts without complaining. Don’t be such a wuss. Honey.” She picked up a glove, idly put it on. Her small hand swam in it. She frowned when her index finger poked through a slit.
“Trigger finger,” Mike said and her brow cleared.
“Neat.” She picked up something else and Mike swallowed. Cylindrical, made of a special felt . . .
She picked it up, turned it over, trying to imagine what it was for. Mike could see the exact moment she figured it out, because she turned rosy pink.
Oh God. Just watching that slender, elegant hand turning it this way and that, full soft lips pursed . . . well, it made him think of sex. Sex right . . . now.
This was payback for all that enforced abstinence. Almost a year in combat in the ’Stan and then the training mission in Alaska. In Afghanistan, more properly known as Nosexistan, and in the wild with his men, there hadn’t been one sexual stimulus. His dick had kept itself resolutely down between his legs.
In Afghanistan, the women were covered up in blankets and would be stoned to death for a kiss. No way. And in Alaska—well let’s just say his men were strong and smart and tough, but sex was the last thing on his mind with them.
That was probably why he was so susceptible to the luscious Lucy Merritt, with her soft skin and big blue eyes. Why he had swelled erect watching her pretty fingers turn the penis cap around and around. It had been so very very easy to imagine that slender hand holding
him
, squeezing and pulling on him . . .
Down, boy
.
She looked at him and he shrugged, very glad that her father’s dressing gown was loose around the waist. “It’s an appendage, it freezes, too.
Okay!
” He stood up and clapped his hands. His little retinue gaped up at him.
Enough was enough. What was done was done. He was clean, his hair was cut, he was close-shaven, he’d had a goddamned manicure and pedicure. That was it, all he was willing to stand for. The rest was a waste of his time and Lucy’s. They’d have to be up at three the next morning to be ready for the 4 a.m. pickup, and they had a long flight and a dangerous mission at the other end.
“Thanks for your work everyone, you can report back to Mr. Montgomery that you did your best to turn me into a civilized man.” He walked to the front door and opened it. “And now good night.”
Inside of five minutes everyone had put away his or her tools and quietly walked out the door. Mike closed it behind him and leaned his back against it.
Lucy smiled at him. Again, he was struck by how melancholy her smile was. “You must be exhausted.”
He sat down on the couch and leaned his head back. It was a comfortable couch, incredibly so. Pure white, but now that he was squeaky clean he didn’t have to worry about getting it dirty.
“I’m not exhausted,” he said in protest.
Mike didn’t do exhaustion. He could go for as long as he had to. He could climb and hike and run until he passed out.
Damn, but the couch was comfortable. He could actually feel himself sinking in.
“Uh-huh.” Her voice was so soft, almost a whisper. “I’ll go get some sheets and blankets.”
“You do that.” Why did his own voice sound so far away?
He could hear her rummaging around in the hallway, and then a huge black cloud descended and he heard nothing more.
ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE NEXT MORNING
 
There it was.
Lucy swallowed heavily against the huge, heavy ball of bile rising up her throat. They were on the tarmac in an isolated part of the airfield, quickly approaching the lone Learjet stationed there, steps down, pilot waiting at the top of the stairs.
The plane looked sleek and brand-new, a marvel of modern technology. Designed to glide through the air, invincible.
Except when it didn’t—and plummeted through the sky to earth.
Deep tremors shook her body, but she’d long since learned to hide those. She could hide more or less all signs of stress, something she’d learned very early in life. The only giveaway would be the color of her skin. She knew she was icy white. But she’d slapped on a slightly darker foundation, used a light blush and lipstick and just hoped to God that Captain Mike Shafer—no! Michael Harrington, investment banker—was one of those macho men who didn’t really notice women until he needed them for something.
There were lots of those around.
It was still dark. They’d watch the world light up over the sky in a long dawn, traveling east.
The big black SUV slewed to a violent halt so quickly Lucy’s seat belt would have tightened painfully. But before it could, an iron arm shot out in front of her, halting her forward movement.
“CIA asshole,” Mike muttered under his breath. She would have smiled if she’d had a smile in her.
The driver got out, pulled their suitcases from the back and placed them at the bottom of the plane stairs.
Lucy was so terrified, she was having an out-of-body experience. She couldn’t feel her hands and feet and she could barely breathe. It was as if she were watching herself from above, watching as Mike opened her side door, his enormous hand waiting to help her down. Way down.
Why did these vehicles have to be as high as trucks?
Lucy took his hand—they were engaged, after all. But it wasn’t to maintain their cover that she took his hand, then the arm he proffered. It was either hold on to him or fall down. Her legs nearly gave way as she stepped down onto the tarmac, and she had to consciously stiffen them.
Oh God, this was going to be bad.
She’d flown after the crash in Nicaragua, of course, but only because she’d been forcibly bundled onto a flight she had to take. Nobody noticed and nobody cared that she shivered violently through each second of each flight. The last long-haul flight she’d taken had been the reverse of the one she was embarking on now. Nhala to Washington—an eighteen-hour nightmare. She’d been too traumatized to remember much about it, just endless hours on a cold, uncomfortable military flight with her parents’ caskets in the icy hold beneath her feet.
She never flew long distances again.
An intense smell of jet fuel puffed in her face and she stopped, frozen.
Crawling out through the smoking, twisted door of the plane, tumbling to the damp earth on her back, gasping with pain.
The fall robbed her of breath. She lay motionless, gazing up at the glimpses of bright blue sky visible through the dark green overhead canopy. She hurt everywhere, but she was alive.
Her last memory was of the pilot telling her to fasten her seat belt and lean forward, arms covering her head.

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