5:28 p.m.
Washington, D.C.
Pacing in front of her desk, arms folded over her chest, Charity stared at the floor. After making the hundredth pass by the desk, she stretched out on the sofa, and continued the staring, at the ceiling. Something’s just not adding up. She slipped two fingers under her eyeglasses and rubbed her eyes. These days last forever.
Charity scolded herself. Whatever she felt paled in comparison to what her teammates were going through. Hardy and Cruz were alone, trapped on an island with no way of communicating. Add the possibility that Cruz’s alias had been compromised and Charity’s fatigue was a cakewalk.
Island. Charity stopped the massage and gazed at the white tiles overhead, her fingers frozen in place and holding up the spectacles. Her eyes flicked left and right and back again, her brain working overtime. Island.
She scrambled to her feet and darted to the laptop on the desk. Leaning forward, she pecked keys, clicked a wireless mouse and spread her thumb and forefinger outward over the touchpad’s surface. She squinted and got closer to the screen.
Sitting, Charity brought up another window and typed as fast as a Fortune 500 executive secretary. She added new windows and worked the ‘Alt’ and ‘Tab’ keys, comparing the information on the screens. Minutes later, she grabbed the laptop, ripped out the power cord, jumped up and ran out of the office.
… … … … …
Seated behind his desk, down the hall from Charity’s office, Jameson made a face while reviewing what she had discovered. “Are you sure about this, Cherry?” He looked up at her. “We have an operation in play.”
Pacing in front of her boss’s desk, Charity slid fingers into the back pockets of her jeans. “I understand that, sir, but,” she retracted a hand and pointed, “if that’s correct…”
“Then,” Jameson went back to the laptop, “we have to scrub the mission.”
Charity nodded. “How long will it take to plan another one?”
Jameson picked up the desk phone. “That’s up to the sub commander.” He rocked backward in the chair and put a hand to his forehead before massaging temples. “This whole thing is going sideways and—” He closed his eyes. A second later, he opened them and barked into the receiver. “Get me the Minnesota.”
… … … … …
6:03 p.m.
North Atlantic Ocean
Standing in the dry deck shelter on the back of the USS Minnesota, wearing combat boots and dressed in camouflage—her face painted to match—Dahlia secured the boonie hat under her chin before making ready the suppressed HK MP5N rifle slung around her neck. Several Navy Seals prepared to launch two F470 Combat Rubber Raiding Crafts from the vessel. Chief Petty Officer Warner and his second in command stood on either side of her.
“Ma’am,” said Warner, motioning, “this is Petty Officer First Class Thomason.”
Thomason nodded. “Ma’am.”
“For the duration of this mission,” continued Warner, “you’ll be physically operating between us.”
“Thank you for your concern,” said Dahlia, “but—”
“Do not,” the Seal steamrolled over her objection, “at any point, get outside of our perimeter. Do I make myself clear?”
Dahlia studied the man’s face. The rugged good looks were still there; however, a steely deadpan glare overshadowed the handsomeness. “I can handle myself, thank you. I’ve been in many dangerous situations,” she glanced down, “and I’m still here.”
Warner turned away for a moment before squaring his shoulders with her. “With all due respect, ma’am, this has nothing to do with you.”
Dahlia glimpsed him. The streaks of green and black on his cheeks could not hide the growing redness underneath.
The Seal jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “This is about them.” His voice went deeper and louder. “This is about making sure everyone gets back,” he pointed to the floor, “to this vessel…alive. We know what we’re doing. We anticipate each other’s moves.” He turned the finger on Dahlia. “Your presence on this op is an unknown. We don’t have the time, or the luxury, to conduct a second search-and-rescue if you get separated from us.”
Dahlia eyed the men prepping the F470 Zodiacs. Having operated on her own for many years, she relied on herself for everything. She never had to care for another’s safety. Hardy, Cruz and Charity flashed across her mind. If anyone put them in harm’s way, I’d kill him myself.
“Ma’am, I’m going to tell you one more time…”
Dahlia held up a hand. “I get it, Warner. I get it. I’ll stay between the two of you and follow your orders. The last thing I want is to get one of your men—or my people—killed.”
Warner nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.” He waited a beat. “Don’t worry. If your people are alive, they’ll make it back to this sub alive. You have my—” Warner’s hand shot to his ear. “Say again.” He got the attention of the men near the Zodiacs and sliced fingers across his neck.
Seeing the Seals abandon their duties, Dahlia stood straight. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“Copy that, sir…Warner, over and out.” He glanced at his team. “The mission’s been scrubbed.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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