The Spy Who Loves Me (21 page)

 

James was coming into the building just as Brandon was heading out. “Any luck?” the older man asked.

Brandon shook his head, automatically moving toward the wall and out of earshot of anyone passing by. “I've got some feelers out,” he said when they sat down. “But nothing concrete yet.”

He wanted to tell James about the mole in the Unit, but he held his tongue. He wore his hesitancy uncomfortably, and for the first time since he'd met James, he felt antsy around the man. But Brandon knew he was doing the right thing. Whoever had reclassified Bernie had to have been highly placed; someone who not only had access to Prometheus's personnel records, but also knew the key players' roles and could manipulate the computer system at the highest level.

Schnell.
Based on everything Brandon knew so far, the Unit chief was his prime suspect. In the past, Brandon had assumed that Schnell's history with Drake had given him unique insight into the man. Now he wondered if there wasn't more to the relationship.

But he kept his thoughts in check. Right now, Schnell was only a suspect, and Brandon wasn't about to sully the man's reputation with his subordinates by voicing his suspicions without confirmation.

“How can I help?” James asked. His face was newly etched with deep lines, and the dark bags under his eyes further evidenced his worry.

Brandon understood. James had been like a father to both him and Amber. Her disappearance and subsequent lack of contact had been eating at Brandon's gut. It was surely doing the same to James. “I don't know that you can,” Brandon said. “But I'll find her. Schnell's orders, remember? And I've never disobeyed a direct order yet.”

A hint of a smile touched James's lips. “Your word is good enough for me,” he said. He shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder why I got into this business. I'm retiring in less than a month and instead of going home to spend the rest of my days with the little woman at my side, my children bringing the grandkids over for cookies and milk, I'm going to spend it alone.” His eyes, sad and penetrating, turned on Brandon. “I don't want to enter retirement knowing that one of my agents faded into the void, never to return.”

Brandon nodded, hearing the unspoken message—James loved Amber like his own daughter.

And he wanted her found, no matter what the cost.

C
ome here,” Amber said, tugging on the waistband of his jeans.

“I hardly think this is the place,” Finn retorted.

She grabbed hold of the top button of his 501's and yanked, plucking the button free. She held it up in triumph. “When you don't have a screwdriver…”

Finn had to give her credit. He'd gotten himself out of a lot of tricky situations—all in his head, of course—but never once had he used a button to loosen a screw.

It worked, too, which was fortunate, as they were otherwise out of options, and in under two minutes Amber had the grate off and they were lifting it quietly into the shaft. She slipped out first, hopping silently to the ground, then giving him the all's-clear signal. He followed, dropping from the shaft to the hard concrete floor and immediately assuming a crouch, just in case. But the room was silent except for a dull electric hum.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Not sure,” she admitted. “Some sort of utility room.” Lockers lined the wall, and she opened one, revealing a pair of green coveralls. Janitor's garb.

“Drake's staff?” Finn asked.

Amber shook her head. “I'm guessing leftover. Drake said this was designed as a testing facility. I bet it was occupied for some period of time.”

“Good luck for us, though,” Finn said. His wet jeans were clinging tenaciously, constricting his movements and rubbing uncomfortably against his skin. Amber might be less constricted, but he doubted she was thrilled about escaping the island in a cocktail dress, no underwear, and bare feet.

Amber agreed, then started opening lockers. She pulled a faded green garment out, gave it a once over, then winked at Finn. “Not exactly haute couture.”

“Nonsense. Janitorial chic is all the rage in Paris.”

“Well, if you find a pair of matching strappy sandals, you just let me know.”

Finn nodded, then started checking the bottoms of the lockers for work boots that would fit her.

Beside him, Amber unzipped her cocktail dress and let it fall to the ground. Finn turned to watch—he couldn't help himself—as she stood guilelessly in absolutely nothing, then stepped into the one-piece outfit. She zipped it up, then met his eyes with a saucy grin. “Sorry, guy. Showtime's over.”

He let his gaze linger on her breasts, then traced his gaze up to her face. “I figure this might be my last cheap thrill. I want to make it good.”

“Too bad we need to get the hell out of here,” she said, something low and intimate in her voice. “If it's just a cheap thrill you want, I think I could come through for you on that.”

Finn's body tightened, and he turned away to continue his perusal of the lockers, finally finding a coverall that would fit his frame. He slipped out of his jeans and tossed his shirt, then stepped into the uniform.

The truth was, he wanted Amber more than he should, especially since he wasn't at all sure that he was anything more than a mission to her. She'd take sex, of that much he was certain. And so, for that matter, would he. But he wanted more. The whole package. Amber Robinson had snuck up on him, and now she was in his blood. On a certain level, he supposed he envied her. Hell, she was leading the life he wanted. But it was more than that. It was the woman underneath the steel that he'd fallen for, and hard. He thought they could be good together, and he wanted to give it a try.

Amber, he was certain, would not. She'd all but told him he'd been nothing more than Project Seduction.

But her withdrawal didn't faze him. In the grocery store, she'd told him they'd start with sex, and if they ended up in a relationship, great. It may have been a line, but Finn intended to run with it.

Assuming, of course, that he survived the day.

 

Drake sat in the dining room and surveyed the feast laid out across the table. Sea bass with an almondine sauce, pears drenched in liqueur, and potatoes twice baked with an assortment of cheeses. The presentation was excellent, of course, which pleased him.

He might be dining only on tofu and wheatgrass smoothies, but that didn't mean Diana had to suffer. She deserved the best.

All in all, his mood was exceptional. He'd resolved the little problem of Mr. Teague and Ms. Robinson. He'd proven his brilliance to the tune of several billion dollars, and in less than a week he'd be the richest man on the planet. Not that
Forbes
would ever identify him as such. No, unlike Mr. Gates, Drake's wealth was secret, divided between the Caymens and Switzerland, but certainly just as useful for acquiring the finer things in life.

He cast a glance toward Diana, and she smiled at him, holding her champagne flute up in a silent salute. She deserved the finer things. He'd build her a palace perhaps, overlooking the sea. A modern day Xanadu. Or, hell, maybe he'd just buy Xanadu.

He sipped his champagne. Altogether a truly extraordinary day.

The door burst open, and Beltzer stormed in. “They're gone, sir.”

“Gone?” Drake repeated. His euphoria fizzled away, like so many bubbles in his wine, only to be replaced by a cold, hard knot of rage.

“We drained the chamber, sir. They're not there. It looks like they managed to blow part of the ceiling away.”

Drake slammed his hand down, sending the silverware flying. “An explosion? Who the hell was the idiot who didn't strip-search them.” He held up his hand to ward of Beltzer's response. “Never mind. Just get Prado and scour this island. I want those two dead.”

“Sir, Prado's doing the supply run. He took off hours ago.”

Drake swiped his arm over the table, sending the china and stemware flying. “Do I look like I give a fuck where he is? If Prado's not available, then enlist someone else's help. Hell, enlist everyone's help. I want every inch of this island searched. I don't want any nook, cranny, or cubbyhole left uninvestigated. Do you understand me? I don't—”

The telephone buzzed, and Drake stabbed the speaker button with his finger. “Goddammit, what?”

“Prado, here, sir.” He paused, and Drake heard the roar of the engine and the rush of the wind. “I think I may have a little problem.”

 

Finn hadn't relaxed until the plane was airborne. Now, though, they'd been cruising for a while, and boredom was setting in.

Amber stood at the far side of the cabin, just outside the closed door to the cockpit. With one hand, she grasped the frame, keeping herself steady. Even from several feet away, he could see that she was hyperaware, ready to leap into action if Prado should emerge.

After they'd swiped the clothes from the utility room, they'd raced down the corridor, finally finding themselves under a grating through which sunlight streamed. They'd pushed the grating aside—this time needing neither a screwdriver nor a button—and peeked out carefully onto the airstrip. The main bunker was back over Finn's shoulder, and to his left across the tarmac was the small building topped with a huge satellite dish. A helicopter was perched at the far end of the tarmac, and a Gulfstream jet was refueling in front of them. Emerging as they were from the ground, they had to be conspicuous, and with no place to hide, they'd immediately raced for the nearest cover—a fuel truck parked next to the jet.

A squatty little man was fueling the plane and appeared entirely uninterested in the task. A lit cigarette dangled from his lips, and he leaned against the fuel truck, an old issue of
Playboy
open in front of him. Prado was walking the plane's perimeter, going over his preflight checklist.

And, best of all, the cabin door was open and the stairs were in place. A ladder was propped near the nose, and as soon as Prado climbed up, Finn gave Amber a nudge. “Go,” he said.

He half-expected her to argue, to remind him that he didn't have a clue what he was doing and she was in charge. But she said nothing. Just took off for the stairs.

They were in the plane within seconds, crouching at the very back of the cabin behind a crate topped with a stack of moving blankets.

They stayed that way for a good twenty minutes, and the muscles in Finn's thighs were screaming in protest when they finally heard Prado's footsteps on the stairs. He entered the plane and headed straight for the cockpit without even a second glance in their direction.

They stayed behind the crate until they were airborne, still on high alert. Finn lowered his defenses somewhat, moving from a crouch to a kneel, but Amber stayed put, ready to spring in a moment's notice.

Only when the plane leveled off did Finn see her allow herself one deep breath of relief.

“That had to have been the easiest escape from island captivity I've ever been through,” he'd said.

“Don't knock it,” she'd answered, ignoring his irony. “Besides, we're not home free yet.”

She'd stationed herself by the cockpit door, and Finn had followed, parking himself next to her. “There,” she'd said, pointing across the cabin. “I really don't have the energy to nail Prado and keep you out of trouble.”

“I can keep myself out of trouble.” But he'd complied anyway. In the end, it wasn't worth picking a fight. Better to tend to his wounded pride once they were safely on the ground, not at several thousand feet.

Now Finn stood at alert at the far end of the cabin. Useless, really, since Prado was the only other human on board, but at least it gave Finn the illusion that he wasn't totally extraneous. If the design of the plane was any indication, Prado was en route on a regular supply run. The entire passenger space had been gutted. Instead of hardwood and leather, they were traveling in the midst of cold steel and canvas webbing. Judging from the hollow sound under his feet, a false floor had been put in as well. For smuggling, perhaps?

The visible space was lined with storage compartments built from what looked like chain-link fence, each individual cage secured by a web of slightly elastic netting. At the moment, the compartments were empty, the webbing hanging limp. Finn imagined that when the plane returned the compartments would be full of a wild conglomeration of food stuffs, electronic equipment, and biological weaponry. He didn't know the latter for a fact, but considering what he'd learned about Drake Mackenzie, he wouldn't put it past the man.

In the compartment under the false floor, Finn imagined Drake stored the necessary evils of his trade—pilfered electronic equipment, magnetic tape carrying secret codes, state of the art weapons and, quite possibly, a dead body or two.

A clatter sounded from behind the cockpit door, and Finn tensed. Prado might stay in the cockpit until they landed. Or he might decide to come back into the main cabin, if for no other reason than to hit the lavatory.

Amber's position shifted as well, and he knew she had the same thought. “Stay alert,” she whispered, her words carrying little sound, only the exaggerated movement of her lips.

He nodded. “Don't worry. I w—”

An arm around his neck silenced him, and in that split second of time, Finn realized the one characteristic he'd overlooked about the compartment below the floor—as handy as it would be for smuggling goods, it could also hide the pilot and crew. And considering the choke hold around his neck, the crawl space extended from the cockpit all the way to the rear of the plane.

Not that he had time to ponder the plane's layout. Instead, he reacted instinctively, twisting so that his neck was in the crook of Prado's arm. At the same time, Finn leaned his head forward, then slammed it back, and was rewarded with the satisfying crunch of Prado's nose against Finn's skull. With the crunch still echoing in his ear, he lifted his foot and stomped down. Prado howled, and Finn twisted, freeing himself from the choke hold.

Breathless, he stumbled backward toward the interior of the cargo hold.

“Don't let him get back in the crawl space,” Amber shouted. She'd raced to his side during the tussle, and now she stood next to Finn.

“You two are going down,” Prado said.

“Don't count on it,” Amber retorted.

But then Prado pulled a gun. Finn met Amber's steady gaze. “Chalk one up for the bad guys,” he said.

“He won't use it in the cabin,” she said, and Finn wasn't sure whether or not she was bluffing.

“The hell I won't,” he said.

He stepped sideways, his hand clutching the cargo netting. Finn frowned, not sure what the other man was up to.

But then the plane shifted left, and Prado's plan became absolutely clear. Finn and Amber stumbled sideways as Prado struggled to the opposite side of the cabin toward the door.

He pulled the emergency lever, and the door blew free even as the plane leveled out. “Thought you two might enjoy some preprogrammed aerobatics,” he said.

“I like to save my rides for Disneyland,” Finn retorted.

“Well, this ride is definitely an e-ticket,” he said. “Courtesy of Drake. He said I should be sure and entertain my guests.”

The gun was still aimed at them, and Finn watched as Amber's eyes narrowed, her tongue wetting her lips. Finn glanced at the cockpit door, then back to Amber. She nodded, then rushed forward toward Prado as Finn raced to the cockpit.