Authors: Desiree Holt
Would she? Was this moving too fast?
Hell, no. she wasn’t a kid anymore and men like Rick didn’t
come along too often.
“That would be nice. Call me as soon as you’re back in the
States.”
“And you keep your bed warm for me.”
She sat there with the closed phone held to her chest for a
long time, remembering the feel of his body, the touch of his tongue and his
hands. Oh, yes, she’d be keeping her bed warm. Her body would be hot enough
just thinking about him.
When they finally settled down for the night, Xena stretched
her hundred and thirty pounds out next to Kelly, in full protective mode. Kelly
threw her arm over the huge body and tried to empty her mind. But as she
drifted off to sleep visions of a tanned Norse god with startling blue eyes
teased at her, his hand outstretched. But when she tried to grab it, he danced
tantalizingly just out of reach. And between them was Xena, sending them silent
messages of danger.
Chapter Three
“I’m going. That’s it. Finito. So everyone save your
breath.”
Rick had fumed at being forced to spend the night in the
hospital, giving new meaning to the term pain-in-the-ass patient. Only the call
from Kelly had made it bearable. He’d lain there afterwards dreaming of her
naked body, remembering the taste of her cunt in his mouth and the feel of her
pussy muscles clenching around his cock. Unfortunately it had also given him a
gigantic erection and he’d had to hide in the bathroom jacking off to get any
release. Now he was attempting to pull on the clothes he’d requested while Dan
and Mike stood grim-faced, arms crossed across their broad chests.
Dan raised one eyebrow. “You’re going to Iraq with two
busted ribs and a soft cast on one hand?”
“When I was in special ops I did more than that with a lot
worse. All of this is too much coincidence for me. Stuff missing. Someone
shooting my tires out. Everything just before this heavy load goes out. This is
my baby. I’m not about to hide behind someone else. Besides, I’ll have the
flying boy scouts with me.”
They were all focused on that shipment, scheduled to leave
in five days for Baghdad. The large and small arms and the specially outfitted
Humvees were almost ready to go. Trucks would pick them up from the company
Phoenix did business with and deliver them to the private airport where the
chartered C-130J would be ready and waiting. Ed and Mike had recently completed
their check rides to make sure their skills in the behemoth weren’t rusty. But
they were insisting the two of them could handle it.
“Listen.” Frustrated, Rick threw his jeans on the floor.
“It’s pretty obvious someone doesn’t want me to go on this trip. I want to know
why. And I’m not letting any of you take my place in the firing zone.” He
looked at Mike. “You guys will have my back. I’ll be just fine. If you really
want to help me, give me a hand getting into these clothes.”
Mike gave him a look of mixed disgust and resignation and
picked up the jeans. “I’ll bet you’d rather have Kelly Monroe pulling these on
your body.”
Rick grunted as Mike helped him pull the jeans all the way
up, then zipped and snapped them. He left his t-shirt hanging out,
finger-combed his hair and shoved his feet into his loafers, doing his best to
ignore the heat he felt at the mention of Kelly’s name.
“Got those discharge papers?” he asked Dan.“I want to go
back to the office and brainstorm about who could be behind this. And if Greg
Jordan has anything to do with it or if my radar’s just vibrating in the wrong
direction.”
Mike’s face was an expressionless mask. “If he does, I think
my own radar needs adjusting. We spent a year together when we trained with the
British SAS. There was plenty of opportunity for him to pull some funky stuff
if he was inclined that way.”
Dan held up his hand. “No blaming ourselves yet, okay? You
can live with someone and still not know them. Happens every day.”
Rick nodded in agreement. “Okay. Someone got my
get-out-of-jail-free papers? I’m ready to get out of here.”
He wasn’t quite as macho two hours later. Sitting in the
chair in the conference room hadn’t helped his ribs and a dull ache still throbbed
at the back of his head. Aspirin had barely dulled the pain but he refused the
medication the doctor had prescribed. He needed a clear head more than pain
relief.
“So what do we have?” he asked, looking at his scribbled
notes.
Mike drained his coffee mug and stood up to refill it from
the pot on the credenza. “Greg and I served together in the first Gulf War.
Desert Shield. We trained with the SAS, then spent a year together in the
Middle East. We’ve kept in touch a lot since then. If I didn’t trust him, I
wouldn’t have recommended him. And I knew he was completely familiar with the
area.”
“What was he like?” This from Dan. “What kind of person?”
“Full of piss and vinegar. We all were.”
“Do you think he made contacts over there that he’s
maintained?” Dan probed. “That he has ties to the insurgents?”
Mike looked as if he’d swallowed something unpleasant. “If I
missed that you can shoot me. Right after I skin him alive.”
Rick rubbed the stubble on his jaw. Shaving hadn’t seemed
important when he bugged out of the hospital. “This isn’t getting us very far.
That’s why I want to go over there with the shipment. I know who he’s hired,
who I’ve trained. What the routine is. If anything’s out of whack, I can spot
it.”
“Then go home, soak in a tub and take your meds,” Dan
ordered. “Otherwise I’m chaining you to your bed until this is over.”
“We have work to do before this delivery,” Rick snapped.
“And you can do it from your house,” Mike answered. “Come
on. I’m driving you home. I’ll drop you off, pick up some food and come back
for a planning session.”
Rick grumbled but he knew it was the best he was going to
get. They had all lived through much worse than this without any cosseting and
he didn’t want to start now but he knew better than to argue. At least he was still
going to baby-sit the shipment, which at the moment was his biggest concern.
This was the largest shipment yet. Everything else had been
sent via ship in locked and sealed containers. Rick had flown to Iraq when they
arrived, matched the code number he had with the one on the seal and taken
delivery.
“You know,” he told Mike, as they maneuvered through
traffic, “all the other transfers were so easy I think I just felt too secure.”
Mike honked at a car trying to cut in front of him. “How
so?”
“Greg always showed up with the trucks to convoy the stuff.
I unlocked the seal on the container, we offloaded into the trucks, checking
them off on both my copy and his off the manifest and off we went.” He shifted
uncomfortably in the seat. “When we got to the warehouse we checked them all
again. And with the guard situation, I’d have thought stealing from the
warehouse would be impossible.”
“So now you’re saying you think Greg
is
in on it?”
Rick shrugged, the slight movement tugging at his aching
muscles. “I wouldn’t like to think so. I’d rather believe some of the locals
have figured out a way to get around him.”
He was silent for a long moment.
“But?” Mike prodded. “I can tell there’s a ‘but’.”
“I just have this gut feeling. Call it uneasiness. Something
big is in the wind and it’s gonna mean trouble for us. And I can’t get a handle
on where Greg stands in all of it.”
Mike wheeled the truck around a corner and slowed down as
they came to Rick’s house. “We can’t call off the shipment. Grainger Caldwell
will hang our asses out to dry if we do.”
“That’s why I want to make sure I hand-carry it myself. And
with you and Ed along, we should be able to get a sense of what’s going on. Get
a good read on Greg Jordan.”
“Let’s hope so.” He pulled into the driveway and put the truck
in Park. “Let me help you get inside.”
“I’m fine,” Rick snapped, fumbling with his seat belt. “I
made it to the LZ in Afghanistan with a broken arm and a bullet graze on my
collarbone.”
Mike had come around to open the door. “You also were ten
years younger. Now shut up and behave.”
Rick grumbled all the way up the steps and into the house
but he sank onto the big couch in the living room with a grateful sigh.
“Don’t try anything stupid while I get us some food.”
Rick gave his head a tiny shake. It was about all the
movement the headache would allow. “I think I might just take your advice after
all and hang out on this couch while you’re gone.”
“Thank god. Just stay put until I get back. After you’ve got
some food in your stomach you should take your pain pills. Try to catch a few
winks while I’m gone.”
“We’ll see.”
But his eyes were already closing when Mike let himself out
the door.
Neither of them had paid much attention to the gardener
busily clipping the hedges at the house across the street.
* * * * *
Zarife al-Dulami had spent ten years building an identity
for himself in the United States. Long before the invasion of Iraq and the fall
of Saddam Hussein he had his marching orders. Once upon a time his family had
been in power, ruling their section of Iraq with an iron hand. They had power,
wealth, stature. Control.
But the devil Saddam, who only supported his own people,
coveted what they had and stripped them of everything. Zarife’s father,
however, was smarter than them all. Slowly he began to accumulate resources
again, hiding his wealth and hoarding it until the day his family could return
to honor and glory.
He sent his son to America with very definite, explicit
orders.
“In the United States,” he told Zarife, “you will be able to
make contact with the right people. Find your sources. Gather your resources.
Listen carefully as you move among these idiots. Arms and money can be yours
for the taking when the time is right. We will have more than enough money to
pay. We only have to find someone who will sell them to us secretly.”
Zarife followed his father’s orders well, basing himself in
Washington, D.C., “the seat of America’s power”, as his father described it.
Additionally, he was an engineer who wanted to follow his trained profession.
His father agreed. In that climate Zarife would begin to make the right
contacts.
But most of the companies where he applied at first would
not hire an Iraqi national. Even one who swore he was applying for U.S.
citizenship. Then he stumbled across a small company that needed his expertise
and decided to take a chance on him. Slowly and carefully he worked his way
into the confidence of his fellow engineers. They invited him to social events.
To business functions. And one person at a time he began to build his network.
When Saddam fell, the changes in Iraq over the next few
years allowed Zarife and his family to make plans and take advantage of the new
opportunities open to them. When the bidding for reconstruction contracts
opened and Americans began flooding the country with men, equipment and
projects, their need to protect themselves opened a door wide for the al-Dulami
family.
Although he poked and prodded very much under the radar to
learn information about arms shipments, he discovered that people were very close-mouthed.
Too much had gone wrong already. No one was taking any chances. And approaching
known arms dealers would be suicide. The word would leak out and the al-Dulamis
would be dead before they were out of the gate.
Then, one day out of the blue, when he was sitting at lunch,
his cell phone rang. An American voice spoke to him.
“I understand you’re looking for something. I think you and
I could do each other a great deal of good.”
Zarife frowned. “Excuse me?”
“I think you heard me. I’ve had you checked out thoroughly,
believe me, or I wouldn’t be calling you. I think you should listen to what I
have to offer.”
“And what is that?”
“Not over the phone. Pay your check, leave the restaurant
and walk left down the block. Halfway down is the entrance to a shoe store. Go
inside and ask for the manager.
While Zarife was still trying to formulate an answer, the
call disconnected. His pulse racing, he tried to decide what to do. Was this
the connection he’d been seeking? Did he have time to call his father?
Knowing he had to make a decision quickly, he signaled for
his check, dropped enough cash on the table to cover it and walked quickly from
the restaurant. Six doors down, he found the shoe store. When he walked inside
a tall, dark man came hurrying toward him. In his hand he held a photo which he
looked at, comparing it to Zarife.
“How did you get a picture of me?” Zarife asked.
“That’s unimportant.” He glanced at the other customers and
grabbed Zarife’s arm. “Come with me, quickly.”
In seconds Zarife found himself hustled out the rear door to
an alley where a Ford Expedition with its windows blacked out was idling. The
back door opened and a hand reached out for him.
“Come in,” the voice said.
The next thing Zarife knew he was dragged into the SUV and
blindfolded before he could see who was inside. Hands helped him to a
comfortable position on the seat.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who are you? Why am I
blindfolded?”
“I can’t afford to have you see my face,” the voice told
him.
“Then how do I know I can trust you?”
The man laughed. “I don’t think you have a choice. My
research has been thorough. I have something you want. Or I will shortly. You
have the money to pay for the merchandise. We’re going to do business, Mr.
al-Dulami, because I’m your only option.”
His proposition was simple. Shortly a very large shipment of
arms and other materials would arrive in Baghdad. He planned to take possession
of it but he couldn’t unload them on the open market. There could be no hint of
his participation in this at all. According to his sources, the al-Dulami
family was seeking just such a windfall and had more than enough capital to pay
for it. And they, too, required total secrecy.