We landed about an hour ago on a remote airfield in the middle of nowhere in southern Germany, where a pair of plain sedans waited to take us to a nondescript warehouse in some nondescript town whose name I also couldn’t pronounce.
Troy always liked all of that characterless stuff. It avoids drawing attention.
Among the reception committe I found a few familiar faces, guys whom I trained with way back when, before we went our separate ways to roam the four corners of the world.
While Karen, Troy, and others gather around a table reviewing a large aerial map of Hartmann’s place, a guy my age named Lester Karsten, or Les—as I remember him from those early Agency days—has taken Rachel and me to an adjacent room to demonstrate the weapons and gadgets we will be using during our upcoming raid.
Yep. You heard me right. We’re going to raid Rolf Hartmann’s mansion by ourselves—that’s ten of us, including Troy, my two lady friends, and yours truly.
And that constitutes the essence of Troy’s impromptu plan lacking any input from Washington, which remains incommunicado since the satellites went kaput.
You have to understand that by now I’ve been up nearly forty-eight hours. Not only didn’t Karen let me sleep on the way over, but then Troy had insisted that the four of us spend the remainder of the flight reviewing the plan.
Meaning I’m a little cranky.
And here we are, in the middle of no-fucking-where as Les, who is just as big as Troy but with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and a matching beard, talks about the nanoweapons each of us will be carrying.
We’re standing by a rectangular table in the middle of a poorly lit, windowless room. Rachel, who has been a little quiet since leaving Paris, stands next to me. Les stands opposite us holding a smart gun, which he officially describes as a Heckler & Koch MP5T silenced 9mm submachine gun.
“Strange,” I say, more to myself than to my two companions.
“What’s that, Tom?” asks Les, already dressed in one of the skintight TechnoSuits that Troy has apparently selected for this operation. The black suits are going to look lovely on Rachel and Karen—and even lovelier on me. But as Les had explained earlier, the suits are waterproof and nanoproof, meaning no known nanoweapons—smart darts, diggers, or anything else—can pierce them. The suits are also bullet resistant, though not nearly as strong as a thicker Kevlar vest, but good enough to provide protection against a stray round or two.
“The MP5Ts,” I say, before also pointing at the plastic bags containing our TechnoSuits. “This stuff is all manufactured by CyberWerke. Is that on purpose?”
“That’s part of the plan,” Les replies. “Rolf Hartmann used the stolen nanoweapons from USN to kill his enemies in the Reichstag, managing to shift the origin of the attack away from him. We’re going to do just the opposite, taking out the bastard using his own nanoweapons to make it look like an inside job.”
The oversized warrior goes over the rest of the gear we will be taking with us. He covers the plan once more to make sure we are clear on our jobs. Les, Rachel, and I will approach the mansion from the south in the company of five support Orbs. Our job is to disable as many guards as possible on our side of the lawn and wait for Troy’s signal.
“What’s the signal?”
Les grins. “You’ll know when the time is right.”
“What about the other groups? What are their tasks?”
Les slowly shakes his head. “You know better than to ask that.”
I let out a heavy sigh while looking over at Rachel, who looks confused.
“What he meant,” I finally say, stretching a thumb toward Les, “is that it’s best that we only know our part of the plan. That way if we get caught we won’t be able to compromise the rest of the team, even under torture.”
Les gives us a slight nod before saying, “We head out at midnight. Change and come out to join the rest of the team.”
And just like that he does an about-face and leaves the room.
For the first time since we bumped into Troy and Karen I’m alone with Rachel.
“How are you holding up?” is all I can think of asking.
“All right, I guess,” she replies, “though I was never really cut out for this kind of paramilitary work.”
“Just stick by my side,” I tell her, “and you’ll be all right.”
“I always seem to be all right when I’m near you, Tom Grant,” she says, the comment and the accompanying Italian eyes in the half light of the room confusing me because I thought she was pissed at me for the whole Karen thing.
Before I know it, Rachel steps up to me and just kisses me, her hands clasping my face.
Damn, she’s got soft lips, and the taste of her reminds me of the night we spent in that stakeout outside Morotski’s hideout.
“What was that for?”
Instead of answering, Rachel just kisses me again.
“Rachel,” I say, my eyes darting toward the door to make sure it was still closed. I don’t feel like providing someone like Troy with more ammunition, just as I don’t want Karen seeing me sharing an intimate moment with this woman—though I’m not sure why I should care after the conversation we had on the plane. “This may not be a good idea at the—”
“What’s the matter, big boy?” she whispers while nibbling on my left ear in a way that makes me want to take her right here on this table. “You don’t find me attractive?”
“Are you kidding me?” I say. “I just . . . well, with Karen here I wasn’t sure how you would—”
“The way I see it,” Rachel cuts in, “she had her chance and she decided to pass. You two broke it off over a year ago, right?”
I nod.
“And you haven’t seen each other since, right?”
Another nod.
“And now that you have seen her, do you have any plans with her?”
I slowly shake my head and say, “We talked it over during the flight from Paris and decided to keep it friendly. She wants to do what she wants to do and the same goes for me.”
“And what is it that you want to do, Tom Grant?”
“Find me another little piece of paradise and live the rest of my days in peace, but hopefully not alone.”
“Then,” she says, crossing her arms, “in my book you’re fair game.”
Fair game? Did she just suggest I’m some sort of trophy?
“And,” she continues, “I’d like to think I’ve got first dibs. Is that a good representation of where things stand?”
“I . . . I would say so.”
She smiles, winks, says, “That’s what I thought,” and then proceeds to raise her T-shirt.
I’m standing there feeling pretty fucking weird, trying not to look at her cream-colored bra, at her tiny waist, at her slim and firm arms. I try not to think about the lord of the jungle shifting in its lair.
“See something you like, Tom?” she asks teasingly while kicking off her sneakers and lowering her jeans, leaving me staring at the same figure I saw on the beach in El Salvador what seems like a lifetime ago.
Feeling color coming to my cheeks when I notice her tiny mound of pubic hair pressed against cream underwear that matches her bra, I say, “Damn, you’re beautiful.”
And she embraces me, then kisses me, letting me hug her just like that, nearly naked, my hands following the smooth contours of her back, a couple of fingers playing with the elastic of her little panties.
As blood drains from one head to the other, I forget where I am, my right hand venturing beneath her panties, caressing her smooth butt, pressing her against me.
And just as I’m about to yield all control to the one-eyed wonder, Rachel smiles, slaps me on my butt, and says, “That will come later. And only if you’re a good boy.”
“Oh, I promise to be really good,” I reply, still holding her tight.
“We’ll see,” she says, gently pushing away.
I release her and she kisses the tip of my nose before reaching for her TechnoSuit on the table and saying, “Come, big boy. You dress me and I’ll dress you.”
I help her into this Spandex-like suit and she helps me into mine, though not without giggling at the growing lump in my underwear.
“Did I do that?” she says, smiling. “Well, you just hang in there, big fellow. Right now we have a job to do.”
Breathing deeply, trying to think of my mother, I zip up the front of my TechnoSuit, which Rachel says looks great on me, and then we both don our gear vests and weaponry.
A few minutes later, as I’m finally calming down and we’re fixing to leave, the door swings open.
Troy, looking larger than life, stands in the doorway already dressed for action.
“You two lovebirds ready?”
Rachel nods. I give him the finger.
Karen and Les stand behind him, both also in battle gear. Karen looks like a million bucks dressed this way and for a moment I forget all about Rachel Muratani as our eyes lock.
“Let’s do it then,” he adds at my silence. “The world will be a better place without Hartmann and Deppe.”
“Tell me something, Troy,” I say. “How are you planning to assassinate Hartmann and his top cronies without making it look like we did it? I think it’s going to take more than just the CyberWerke gear to pull this off.”
He grins and says, “Always keep them guessing, Tommy. Always keep them guessing.”