The Spy Who Loves Me (20 page)

He looked up, his body tense, expecting the shock waves from the explosion to vibrate through the water at any moment.

Nothing.

His lungs started to burn. Had the fuse gone out? Was it just slow? Was the cap a dud?

He didn't know, and time was running out.

He looked up, but couldn't see anything through the murky water, much less the red glow of a fuse. He tapped Amber's shoulder and shook his head, then pushed off toward the surface. He wasn't certain what he intended to do—the last few matches were in his pocket, now soggy—but he had to do something.

She grabbed his shirttail to tug him back. And as she did, the cap did its job. Above them, the world exploded in a powerful blast. Even with the several feet of water as a buffer, they were both shoved across the room, landing against the far wall.

Finn gasped and swallowed water, panic rising as the need for air built in him. He tamped down on the fear, then started to head quickly but carefully toward the surface.

Amber was at his side, and when they got there, they still had one more problem to tackle. All the air was on the other side of the grate, and only one side of the grate had been ripped free.

Finn grabbed the steel bars of the grating and pulled. At first he felt nothing except his body's urge to inhale, needing oxygen to fuel the exertion.

He fought the urge, tugging again on the grate. This time, it gave ever so slightly.

He scooted over, holding one corner and gesturing for Amber to do the same. Then he kicked up, pressing his feet against the ceiling and using the leverage to propel the rest of his body—and the grate—down with him.

It worked.

Between him and Amber they got the grate open. She entered first, the skirt of the cocktail dress swirling around her legs as she swam into the air shaft, then climbed into the intersecting perpendicular shaft.

He joined her seconds later, laying prone inside the cold metal tube, gulping in gallons of glorious, wonderful air. “Hey,” he said, the single word all he could manage.

“Hey yourself.” She drew in three long, loud breaths. “Not bad work for a civilian,” she added.

“Thanks,” he said. “You're not so bad yourself.”

She rolled toward him, still breathing hard, and brushed a kiss across his lips. And right then, Finn knew that his reality had finally caught up to his fantasies.

Agent Python, it seemed, had nothing on Phineus Teague.

B
randon located Linus in the basement. As Brandon knew Linus well, it was the first place he looked. The old man had been with the Unit since time began, and he showed no signs of slowing down. And although his lab was tucked away in a back corner of the D.C. office, Linus had insisted on having satellite facilities in all of the branch offices. Schnell's predecessor had readily complied. And now Linus spent his time in Los Angeles happily holed up in the subbasement.

The sign on the door read “janitorial services,” but Brandon knew better. He pushed the door open, then moved with ease past the stacks of buckets and bins filled with every imaginable cleaning product. A rack of coveralls stretched across the back wall, and when he reached it, he shoved the clothing aside, revealing the gray wall. A portion of the paint had faded, worn thin by repeated touch. Brandon pressed his hand against the wall, waiting as the sensor read his palm print.

One click, and then the wall slid silently open, revealing a glassed-in antechamber. Brandon stepped inside, and the wall closed behind him. He was surrounded now by three sides of crystal-clear glass, through which he could see Linus's lab. A mannequin stood in the far corner, her left arm blown to smithereens and her head missing. A table to the left was covered with firearms ranging from cap guns to Uzi's. A dozen or so navy blue suits hung from a rack just to the left of Brandon.

Lots of gadgets, but no Linus.

“Brandon, my boy.” Linus's voice filled the antechamber. “It's so good to see you.”

Brandon frowned. “I'd say the same,” he said, “except I
don't
see you.” Squinting, he peered through the glass, wondering if the old man was down on his hands and knees doing God-knows-what experiments.

“Ah, but that's the beauty of it.” Linus's voice rang out loud and strong, belying his seventy-eight years. “You see only what I want you to see.”

And then he was right there, right in front of Brandon, just on the other side of the glass. First a shimmer, then a hint of a shape, and then a full-blown, albeit skinny, man. He held his arms wide at his side, his bony frame and wiry hair making him look like an Einstein effigy tacked to a scarecrow. “How about a round of applause for a brilliant old man?” he asked.

Brandon complied. Hell, the trick deserved applause. “Not bad,” he said. “When did you become the invisible man?”

“Not invisible,” Linus said.
“Hidden.”
He tapped on the glass that separated them. “A computer monitor is embedded in the glass, and the image you see is exactly what you expect. The computer just blots me out.”

“Assassinations,” Brandon said, zeroing in on the practical applications.

Linus tapped his nose. “Bingo. We install this glass in the home of some dissident leader”—he formed a gun with his thumb and forefinger—“and
ptoowey,
no more bad guy.”

“Except for the little problem of installing the glass,” Brandon said, “that's not a bad plan at all.”

Linus opened the door from the antechamber to the lab, all the while brushing Brandon's comment away. “I only provide the tools,” he said. “It's your job to figure out how to use them.”

“That's why I'm here, actually.”

“To assassinate someone? Who?”

Brandon laughed. “To see what new tools you have in your arsenal. Tools more portable than large panes of glass.”

“Right-o.” Linus took his glasses off and began to chew thoughtfully on the earpiece. “Let's see, I've improved on this laser pointer.” He picked up a small metal pen, the kind that emitted a red light so that a presenter could help the audience follow along on a projection screen. Only this little red light zapped a hole right through the mannequin. “Sorry about that, Alice,” Linus said. He looked at Brandon. “Poor girl takes one hell of a beating.”

“Mmm.” Brandon plucked the pointer from Linus's fingers and tucked it into his breast pocket. “What else have you got?”

“Not sexy enough for you? Well, you'll like this.” He held up what looked to be a Lycra unitard.

Brandon raised an eyebrow. “I want to defeat the bad guys,” he said. “Not dance ballet over them.”

“Very funny, Agent Kline.” Linus headed for the table and plucked a SIG Sauer from the lineup of weapons. He handed it to Brandon, then spread his arms wide. “Shoot me,” he said, then tilted his head back, his eyes closed. A second later, his head bobbed back up, his eyes opening. “Only not in the head,” he said. “A good gut shot.”

Brandon just stood there, mildly amused, while Linus stood, arms akimbo, ready to be slayed.

“Well?” Linus prodded, his voice impatient.

“Not that I don't trust you,” Brandon said, “but I'm not inclined to put myself through a Unit investigation because one of your gizmos went kab-looey.”

“You should have more faith, young man.” He grabbed up the unitard and headed for Alice. “Help me dress her.”

“My experience runs more toward undressing,” he said.

“Yes,” Linus said. “I bet it does.” As soon as Alice was clad in the unitard, Linus nodded toward her. “Go ahead. One straight in the gut.”

“Sorry, dear,” Brandon said as he aimed the gun. “It's just not going to work out between us.” He got off two shots, then looked at Linus. “Well?”

“Well?” the man repeated, clearly indignant. “Look closer.”

Brandon did—and realized that the bullets hadn't penetrated the cloth. “What the hell is this stuff?”

“Marvelous, isn't it? Better than Kevlar.”

“Long underwear that doubles as body armor.” Brandon shook his head in amazement. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

“Take one,” Linus said, passing him a garment wrapped in plastic. “Give it a test run.”

Brandon eyed it dubiously. The stuff seemed to work great, true, but there was a certain bit of style-cramping that would necessarily follow from wearing stretchy Lycra. “I don't—”

“Don't be a prick, Kline.” The curse rolled off the old man's tongue. “Just take it.”

“Yes, sir.” Brandon whipped off a salute. “What else have you got I can test out?”

Plenty, it turned out. And forty-five minutes later, Brandon walked away laden down with an abundance of gadgets, any of which might help rescue Amber, but none of which, unfortunately, could help him find her.

 

“Do you think he'll drain the chamber, then look for our bodies?” Finn asked. They were pressed tight together in the confined space of the vent, their combined body heat battling the chill of the metal. Amber took refuge in the comfort. Her shoulder ached and her eyes burned, a sure sign of a fever. All in all, she felt like shit, and for once in her life she allowed herself a moment of solace in Finn's arms. Soon enough, she'd have to battle past the pain. One brief moment didn't seem like too much to ask.

“Amber?” he prodded.

“I don't know,” she said. She rolled over to face him, the movement putting unintended pressure on her shoulder. But as soon as she saw the emotion in his eyes, all thoughts of pain left her.

Amber knew well enough that a brush with death could spark an intense sexual reaction. She'd felt it herself plenty of times, her missions often ending in a frantic coupling that she could only chalk up to the afterglow of survival, a primal instinct to mate and make sure the species really
did
survive. Always hot. Sometimes tender. But never, ever personal.

But there was nothing impersonal in Finn's eyes. The man's dark gaze was meant only for her, and it sucked her in, taking her to a place she didn't want to go. Sex with Finn had been spectacular, but she'd gone into it as part of the job. She wouldn't—
couldn't—
make it personal. Couldn't make it more than the sex.

With great effort, she fought the urge to stay in the circle of his arms and let her battered body rest. But they had to move, and so she rolled over, crouching on her elbows.

“Come on,” she said. “Drake has a hell of an ego, and he wants us dead. Even if he didn't hear the explosion, I wouldn't put it past him to drain the chamber. And when he realizes we're gone, he'll come looking for us.”

Finn let her scoot past him. “If we can just get back into that control center—”

“We're getting off the island,” Amber said.

“Are you nuts? He's going to blow up the mosque in four days. We've got to stop him.”

She paused long enough to look over his shoulder. “No, really? I thought we'd just leave and go have tea. Of
course
we have to stop him. But we can't do it alone. We don't have any weapons, and there's just two of us.” She wasn't about to mention how much pain she was in.

“But—”

“We do it my way, Finn,” she said. “And my way is to get off this island and get backup.” She wasn't about to argue with a civilian over how to handle a mission. And while Amber didn't shrink from dangerous missions, she also didn't dive headfirst into foolhardy ones. And barreling into Drake's command center without weapons would be beyond foolhardy.

“Besides,” she said, “we're the only people on earth who know Drake's plan. Mujabi must be planning to blame the bombing on the Israelis, and we need to get the information out that it's a setup.” She met Finn's eyes. “You can come with me, or take your chances here.”

“I'm with you,” he said.

She nodded, then turned back to face the shaft. “Try and keep your weight evenly distributed,” she said. “These HVAC shafts are generally held in place by sheet metal straps.”

“Slide if you can,” Finn said.

She allowed herself a smile, glad to see he knew his stuff. “Right.”

“Are we going the right way?”

“Hell if I know,” she admitted.

“We should at least head south,” he said. “We were brought in through an entrance on the south side of the island.”

“True enough,” Amber said, impressed that he'd bothered to notice the location of the entrance. “Unfortunately, I'm not really in a position to navigate.” Her watch had been shattered in the parking lot. An unfortunate accident considering the watch included a global positioning system, and she really needed to know the island's location.

“I am.” He paused, and she turned to see him pulling a watch face out of his back pocket. Then he pointed behind them. “That way.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Casio,” he said. “Pathfinder.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Blasting caps and a G.P.S. watch. Anything else in your pockets you want to tell me about?”

“I used to carry Trojans,” he said, fixing her with an unwavering stare. “But I don't have any on me at the moment.”

“Pity,” she said, then smiled.

He met her smile and she mentally shook her head, amused and enamored all at the same time. “Looks like you've been elected navigator,” she said. “Lead the way. And,” she said after a brief pause, “memorize our location. We'll need to find this island again.”

She followed as he crawled through the vent, crossing over the vertical shaft through which they'd entered as they continued south. After five minutes of slithering, the shaft ended abruptly, with the only way out being back the way they came or straight down.

“Your call,” Finn said.

Amber squeezed in next to him, her body brushing against his. She could only see a few feet down before the shaft curved and was lost in darkness. But considering most ventilation shafts terminated in basements or roofs, their best bet was to travel vertically, however uncomfortable that might be. “This way,” she said.

She went first, slipping carefully into the shaft and keeping her back pressed against one side with her feet flat against the other. In that position, she inched downward—lowering one leg, then the other, then her back—until there was enough room for Finn to join her. “You okay?” she asked.

“Feeling rather like a sardine,” he said. “But otherwise fine. How's your shoulder holding out?”

“Hurts like hell,” she admitted. “But I can't do anything about it now.”

He didn't argue with that, and they traveled in silence for some seemingly interminable amount of time. Finally, the shaft opened onto another horizontal vent, and they continued in a more or less southerly direction, again sliding forward on their bellies.

After five minutes of that, they reached the end of the line. A metal grate blocked their path, through which they could see some sort of utility tunnel.

Finn stuck his fingers through the grate and tugged. Nothing happened. He tugged again. Still nothing.

“Well, hell,” he said, turning to face her. “Unless you've got some more C-4 hidden in that dress, it looks like we're stuck.”