Dire Distraction (2 page)

The man nodded once, still eyeing her with both suspicion and admiration. Wilston opened his mouth to speak, but Syd shook her head.

“This man is a tourist,” Syd continued still speaking in the guttural dialect. “He left my boat without permission. If he has harmed anything here, I apologize. But he is from the West and as such is unfamiliar with your ways.”

It was unlikely that Wilston had done anything to the ruined temple, and even more unlikely that the man cared, but it kept the conversation going. As Sydney inched closer, her eyes locked on the man’s face, even as her periphery vision registered the exact location of the arm holding the gun.

“You speak Laotian?” the man asked, correctly identifying the lilt in her accent. Although not her actual country of origin, she’d spent much of her childhood there, and because of that, spoke the language like a native.

“I do. I grew up there.” No need to tell him the whole truth. Better to let him believe she was, like so many others, a half-breed local. “And I’d like to take my friend back to the boat if that’s all right with you.”

The man narrowed his eyes, clearly considering his options, then shook his head. “You will both come with me. If your identity checks out, then we will let you go.”

It was the word “we” that alarmed her more than anything else. If she allowed him to take them to another location, one with allies, she lost any chance she had for escape. And it was pretty damn clear that the diplomatic route wasn’t going to work.

“Fine.” She shrugged. “We’ll go with you.”

Wilston’s, wild gaze met hers as the man with the machine gun stepped toward him. Sydney shook her head slightly and then whirled into action, spinning around, her leg slicing through the air, as she simultaneously reached for her weapon. Her foot slammed into the man’s arm, sending the machine gun flying.

“Don’t move,” she said, leveling the gun, “or I’ll shoot.”

The man eyed her with grudging respect and then lifted his hands in surrender.

Sydney motioned for Wilston to pick up the machine gun.

Once that was accomplished, she told the man to turn around. At first she thought he was going to disobey, but with a grunt of dissatisfaction he did as she asked. She lifted the gun and brought the butt down on the side of his head—hard. The man crumpled to the ground. And satisfied that she’d bought them enough time to get back to the boat, she turned to tell Wilston to go, but he was already thrashing through the jungle, running for the river and the safety of the boat.

Moving backward, gun still drawn, Syd followed, keeping an eye on the surrounding brush for signs of the man’s friends. It was tempting to take him out. But the repercussions would cost more than any satisfaction she might have. And besides, life was sacred. Even one as reprehensible as the one in the clearing.

And anyway, there’d be enough explaining to do as it was. Her job was simple. Ferry people up and down the river. Keep her eyes open. And stay out of trouble.

Now, thanks to Brian Wilston and his curiosity, she’d set herself up as a target. The man in the clearing wasn’t going to be happy to have been bested, especially by a woman. Which meant that he’d be watching—waiting for an opportunity to get even. Just exactly the kind of attention she didn’t want or need.

Stupid-ass tourists.

Y
ou don’t have to do this alone,” Hannah said, her nose crinkling beneath the bridge of her cat-eyed glasses. “We should be coming with you.”

“She’s right,” Tyler said, crossing her arms as she leaned against the windowsill in Avery’s office. Behind her the newly unfurled leaves of an oak tree shimmered in the wind. Avery leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, striving for a calm he didn’t actually feel.

“I don’t need you guys on this one. It’s much more important that you tend to business as usual. We’ve got two ops in play, and we’re still trying to figure out who killed Isaacs. I need the two of you, along with the rest of the team, to concentrate on that. My problems are just an added distraction.”

“Evangeline could be alive,” Hannah said, running a hand through her fuchsia-streaked hair. “I’d hardly call that a distraction.”

“Considering the source, I don’t think we can believe a word of it.” Tyler’s frown echoed Avery’s own sentiments. “The entire thing feels like a setup.”

“The important question being who’s pulling the strings,” Avery agreed.

“I know you’re probably right,” Hannah admitted somewhat reluctantly, “but if there’s even the slightest chance…”

“Then I have to go,” Avery finished with a sigh. “I know. That’s why I’m heading to Southeast Asia.” The pain of losing his wife wasn’t something he relished living through twice, but Hannah was right, he had to be sure.

“And you’re sure that Shrum really is in Myanmar?” Tyler asked.

“As much as anyone can be.” Hannah shrugged. “The man is so far off the grid, he barely registers. But I’ve got pretty solid intel that indicates that he’s there working as part of the drug trade.”

“So why the hell hasn’t the CIA come down on him? It isn't as if they don’t have dedicated officers monitoring ex-operatives.” Tyler frowned.

“He isn’t worth the trouble,” Hannah said. “Myanmar isn’t exactly a user-friendly country. And for the most part, Shrum is only a minor annoyance. Bottom line, there are a hell of a lot bigger fish to try to reel in. My guess is that, between his service record and his low profile, the powers that be have given him a walk.”

“Which could be a huge mistake,” Avery acknowledged. “Martin was always a wild card. Even when we worked together.”

“I assume you were close,” Hannah ventured, her concern apparent.

“
Were
being the operative word.” He hadn’t spoken to Martin since Evangeline died. Hell, for all practical purposes their friendship, such that it was, had ended when Avery had married Evangeline. Although they’d continued working together for just over a year afterward.

“Look, I know there was bad blood between the two of you,” Tyler said. “And I know that you don’t want to talk about it. So I won’t press. But the very fact that you’ve got a photograph of your supposedly dead wife and Shrum only goes to Hannah’s original point. You shouldn’t be going into this on your own.”

“I’m not,” Avery assured her, grateful that she hadn’t pushed for more information. He’d known Tyler a long time, and trusted her with his life, but some things were better off left in the past. “The brass have arranged for me to have an escort, an undercover operative running an ongoing investigation into the players inside the Golden Triangle. So our man on the ground already has the infrastructure to move within the region without raising alarms. I definitely don’t want Shrum tipped off that I’m coming.”

“Well, I wouldn’t count on that.” Tyler shook her head. “If we’re right and the photo was planted for us to find, then the Consortium is up to their necks in this. And that means they’ll have a game plan, so it’s possible that Shrum will be expecting you.”

“Which could mean they’re playing you off against one another,” Hannah mused. “Unless of course, the photograph is genuine and Evangeline is still alive.”

“I assume Harrison still hasn’t been able to find a flaw in it?” Avery asked.

“Not yet. But he’s still looking and he’s called in a friend who’s even better with photography than he is. So if it’s a fake, we’ll figure it out. Maybe you should wait?” Her voice held a hopeful note, but her expression was resigned.

Avery suppressed a smile. “It’s not like I can’t handle myself on an operation. I’ve done my share of fieldwork, and for the most part, come out of it unscathed.”

“Yes, but we’ve usually got your back,” Tyler said.

“Well, I’ll have the help of the guy embedded in Laos.”

“But you don’t actually know him?”

“No.” Avery shook his head, unwilling to share his own misgivings. “But Langley seems to think highly of him. And as I said, the rest of you have more important things to do. Besides, it’s not as if I’m falling off the end of the earth.”

“Well, it’s not exactly an area known for its urbanization and modern technology.” Tyler still looked mutinous.

“I think I can help there,” Hannah said, breaking in to her first real smile. “Harrison rigged this satellite phone for you. It should be able to connect to us directly no matter where you are.” She held out the phone. “So at least you can be in touch.”

“Thanks,” Avery said. “See, even if you’re not there, you’ll still have my back.”

“I still wish we were going with you,” Tyler groused, but her expression too had changed to acceptance. “But since I’m not, I’ve got a gift too.” She reached into a bag slung over her shoulder and produced a stun grenade. “I know you’ll be armed to the teeth, but you never know when you might need a little extra fire power. Shock and awe and all that.” She paused, awkwardly shifting from one foot to another.

Avery smiled and reached out to give her a hug. “I’ll be in and out before you know it.”

“Hopefully with good news,” Hannah offered.

“Not likely. But I appreciate your optimism.” He reached out and squeezed her hand, his gaze encompassing them both. “And I’m glad to know I’ve got people like you on my side.”

Actually, it was the only thing carrying him forward. That and the idea that, by some amazing quirk of fate, his wife was still alive. Of course, even if the miracle did turn out to be true, it only created an even more difficult conundrum. If Evangeline wasn’t dead, then why the hell hadn’t she tried to contact him?

Avery stood in the doorway of the bar, rubbing the back of his neck. The flight from New York had been a long and uncomfortable one, the narrow fuselage of the air force cargo plane he’d hitched a ride on too pitched for him to stand upright and too cramped to be truly comfortable even when seated. Add to that the puddle jumper he’d been forced to take from Okinawa, followed by the boat ride from China to Laos, and he was aching, bone tired, and, to be honest, in dire need of a drink.

Truth be told, Avery hadn’t expected to find an establishment like this in an outpost like Xieng Kok. Leave it to an Aussie to set up bar in the middle of a jungle. Even if the name painted on the splintered shingle that passed as signage wasn’t a dead giveaway—Matilda’s—the frayed flag in the window with the Union Jack and the Southern Cross would have identified the proprietor’s nationality.

Not that it mattered. Had the place been owned by Martians, he’d still have been damn glad to see it. And even happier to know that his contact had arranged to meet him here. Inside, the crowd was mixed—expats, tourists, and a few locals. A man with a shock of red hair and an unruly beard worked behind the bar. And, typical of a place in the middle of nowhere, Avery’s entrance caused little interest. People in this part of the world tended to mind their own business.

Of course that didn’t mean they were unaware, just that they weren’t overt. The bartender lifted his head for a moment, his gaze assessing, and then turned back to the glass he was filling. Avery made his way through the crowd and waited for the man to hand off the beer to a patron sitting at the other end of the bar.

“What can I get you, mate?” the redhead asked, his accent confirming Avery’s assumption about the barkeep’s nationality.

“I’ll have a beer,” he replied, turning slightly so that he could better see the bar’s patrons. It was crowded, people clustered around tables or standing in groups. The sound of laughter and conversation had the comforting ring of like establishments everywhere. And despite the tension of the past few days, Avery felt himself relax, at least a little.

“You’re American?” The bartender was back with Avery’s beer.

“Yeah. New York.” He’d already decided to use his cover as part of Sunderland’s faculty, his purported purpose for being in Laos academic research. “I’m here to study the temples.”

The man gave him another assessing look and then smiled. “Hell, that’s what half the buggers in this country claim to be here for. Funny thing is, I doubt any of them have actually seen one of the damn things. I’m Angus.” He held out a beefy hand and Avery shook it, immediately liking the man and his forthright manner.

“Avery.” He said, not bothering to lie about his first name but not sharing more than that. His cover would hold if anyone were to check into it, but in a place like this, too much information would only make people suspicious.

“You just in, then?” Angus asked.

“That obvious?”

“Yeah, well, I recognize the signs of someone who’s been too long on the river. The Mekong may be beautiful, but she isn’t easy.” Angus turned away as another patron called for a refill, and Avery took a sip of his beer, the bitter brew cold as it slid down his throat. Movement at the edge of his periphery vision caught his attention, his heart stuttering to a stop as the image of dark curls and liquid brown eyes filled his memory. Evangeline.

He turned, his breath catching in his throat, but then the woman tilted back her head, laughing at something a man at her table had said, the light hitting the smooth blue-black swirl of her long hair and the sun-kissed gold of her skin. Still smiling, she pushed away from the table and, after a final exchange with the man, headed for the back of the bar, disappearing into the crowd.

His stomach clenched as disappointment warred with relief.

“You see someone you know?” Angus asked, appearing again at Avery’s elbow, his tone holding nothing more than casual interest.

“No.” Avery shook his head, turning his attention back to the barkeep. There was nothing to be gained in letting his imagination get the best of him. “But I am supposed to meeting someone here. A guide. Guy by the name of Sydney Price?”

Angus’s craggy face broke into a grin. “Syd’s here all right, mate.” He shot a look out at the assembled company. “In back at the pool tables.” He nodded toward the far corner of the bar. “Just through that archway.”

Avery nodded his thanks, then grabbed his beer and made his way through the crowd. The man was still sitting at the table where the woman had been. He’d tipped his chair back so that he could lean against the wall, his eyes on the other patrons in the bar. Watching. Avery recognized the façade even though the man was clearly doing his best to blend in.

Smart move.

In the Golden Triangle, it was probably the safest mode of operation. This was, for all practical purposes, still a frontier. People living life balanced on the edge of a sword. One wrong move and each would be faced with certain disaster. Staying alert in this part of the world was the key to staying alive.

Avery stepped through the archway, his eyes moving again to the woman with the raven hair. She was bending over a table, shifting the pool cue to line up her shot. With one swift move, she drew back the cue and sent the balls flying, three of them spinning into adjacent pockets. Shifting slightly, she lined the cue up again and took a second shot. And then a third and a fourth, effortlessly clearing the table.

The men gathered around her cheered, several letting their gazes linger too long on the curve of her behind as she straightened and shrugged in the direction of a man wearing a faded flak jacket.

“Better luck next time, Edward.” The woman’s voice was deeper than he’d expected, slightly raspy, and, even more surprising, American.

“Hell,” the man said, his accent marking him as British, “You’re a Yank. I should have known you’d be a ringer.”

The woman laughed and then turned, her emerald gaze both assessing and admiring, the combination disconcerting. It wasn’t often that someone caught him off guard. But for one moment, Avery felt as if everyone else in the bar had disappeared. As if it were just the two of them—an electric current stretching tight between them.

Then with a slight twist of her lips, she turned away, taking the shot of whiskey the Brit was offering, downing it with a single swallow.

Avery forced himself to look away, instead concentrating on the rest of the crowd, trying to figure out which of them was the guide the CIA had arranged for him.

“You look lost.” It was the woman again, this time her eyes teasing him.

“No,” Avery shook his head, answering her smile with his own. “I’m just looking for someone. Sydney Price?”

Her smile widened. “Well, you’re in luck, then. Although slightly confused.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Sydney Price. Who the hell are you?”

Syd’s stomach did a double flip as she looked up at the big man standing in front of her. As his hand enveloped hers, she had to remind herself to breathe. When her boss had called to tell her to expect some bigwig from the States, she’d pictured some tight-ass pencil pusher. An overprivileged asshole with too much money and all the right connections.

The image was a far cry from the man standing in front of her. This man—this very
big
man—was clearly not a politico. Every inch of him screamed warrior. The closely cropped hair, the predatory stance, the way he held his head, even the way he shook her hand. This was a man who took prisoners and asked questions later.

His sheer physical presence would make most men cower. But there was also something else, something unexpected. It was there in his eyes. A wisdom at odds with his strength. And an intensity that hinted at some deeper emotion. Some inner power that was far more dangerous than anything he might be capable of physically.