Oh God. Not him!
IT ALWAYS CAME TO THIS. Jed McNeil had no illusions about his role as Number Nine in the Covert Subversive (COS) commando unit.
Governments declared war—open and covert—and technology provided the instant highway, but no matter how precise artificial Intel had become, with its laser accuracy, its ability to be in places no human ear or eye could gather Intel, and its useful function of keeping danger away from operatives, there was always the one element not factored into the formula: Human beings were unpredictable, and sometimes, it was much easier to just send one man in after another.
His target was quick, making the first move, going for his throat. Jed leaped out of the way, at the same time swinging his knife upwards. The other man jumped back, wincing at the first slice of his flesh. Startled wariness entered his eyes before he gave a grim smile and resumed attacking.
There was a certain look in a man’s eyes when he knew his time was up.
Jack Cummings hadn’t shown any surprise when Jed appeared, knife in hand. A small nod of acknowledgment. A token, although fierce, resistance.
Cummings had some martial arts training and the hand-to-hand became a short silent dance of death, with swift punches and kicks, which Jed evaded and countered with equally lethal speed. His opponent was quick on his feet too, moving hard and fast as he jerked back and forth, looking to get Jed off-balance. He suddenly lunged forward, fist punching out forcefully.
Jed deflected the jab to his solar plexus, twisting Cummings’ wrist and locking it outward. He twirled his knife into position, intending to give the final lethal blow, but the other man immediately coiled his frame around Jed’s body, his other hand going for the throat. To avoidhaving his neck broken, Jed elbowed the ribs and rotated sideways. He rammed a fist into Cummings’ face. Another. Then silently advanced toward the man who was holding the bloodied side of his face.
From his expression, the CIA rogue appeared to know that he wouldn’t make it, even if he’d managed to scream for help, and to his credit, he hadn’t. He’d seemingly been expecting someone to come after him.
Never underestimate a desperate man gambling with his life. Jed anticipated the sudden roundhouse kick, springing into a back flip. But not before he saw the flash of steel on the tip of the shoe that had barely missed his throat. Landing on his feet, he flicked his wrist and released the knife in his hand. His steel hit the mark. And it was over.
Jed slipped his bloody knife into the sheath on the back of his belt. He tapped on the tiny unit attached near the buckle, which was equipped with a GPS and coded satellite transmitter, signaling that he’d just completed his mission. He looked down at Jack Cummings’ body for a moment.
To him, there was one simple truth about warfare. All the technology in the world couldn’t equal hand-to-hand combat. He had seen violence from every possible angle since he was sixteen—as a street thug, an IRA lookout, a CIA trainee, an Airborne Ranger in the Army, time with the Green Berets, a covert Special Forces commando, and a few undercover stints that had him working for his enemies. It was a long resume, years spent in wars created by governments, some more secret than others.
It wasn’t something he boasted or talked about, as some warriors did, comparing their adventures at one war-torn place or another, mainly because he’d seen enough in his job to learn to respect silence. Especially about death.
Mission accomplished. Not that it brought any sense of accomplishment. He had wanted to bring Jack Cummings in alive but had failed in the first attempt a few days ago. There was no other option during the second attempt. Not in the middle of the ocean, on an enemy ship.
He frowned. There was that prickle of awareness again, a feeling that someone was watching him. Years of being in his line of work had honed his senses razor-sharp; he seldom second-guessed himself.
He stepped away from Cummings’ body, totally on alert, watching for the slightest movement, listening for any kind of noise that might betray the enemy. If they were any good, they would have shot him by now and not given him a chance to escape. Unless, of course, they were just watching.
In his world, there were agents assigned to just watch and report, entities his kind called “ghosts”. Data-miners. Jed had caught up witha few of them in the past and was even friends with some of them. Objective information agents were useful and provided a valuable service.
But this wasn’tthatfeeling of being watched. Definitely different. This was even more subtle. A light brushstroke. A soft breath on a mirror.
Jed squinted in mild amusement. He was getting poetic about his job. There was nothing at all light or soft about the bloody nature of covert warfare. The feeling persisted, although for some reason, he didn’t feel threatened, just a vague nagging sensation that he wasn’t alone. He circled the small room slowly and stopped in mid-stride. His gaze darted upwards and around. Nothing, but he was sure he’d felt something. There. Again.
He frowned, trying to gauge what he was feeling. It felt like...he shook his head...a vibration, and not from the ship. He didn’t have time to stand here and analyze. Giving the dead man on the floor one last glance, he slipped into the shadows and headed back up to the deck.
He felt no compassion for the likes of Jack Cummings. Betrayal always had a price. Instead, he ran through the usual comprehensive profile of his target. Jack Cummings, early thirties. CIA TIARA Task Force Three, security clearance Level Four. One-half of the team who stole and tried to sell SEED—a miniature satellite encryption device, newly tested at Los Alamos. Eluded capture. Attempted escape to Russia. Information exchange/barter aggregated at ninety percent. Info risk at ninety-five percent.
Jed mentally closed the file. Operation status: target eliminated on international waters.
HELEN COULDN’T OPENher eyes. They felt weighted down, as if she was in the middle of a dream and was trying to wake up. A drum thundered so loudly, it sounded as if she were listening to her iPod with its volume set way up. It took her a minute before she realized it was her own heart beating.
Her whole body felt feverish. The room was too hot. She still couldn’t open her eyes. Her heartbeat grew erratic as she struggled, fighting something she couldn’t see.
Wake up, Helen, wake up!
Her own scream pierced through her consciousness and her eyes flew open. She stared up at the ceiling of her living room for a few seconds as she gulped in deep breaths of air. Her heart was still racing, although that odd echoing was gone.
What the fuck was that?
She gingerly moved her arms and legs, trying to figure out what’d happened. She felt hot, as if she’d been exerting herself, but the last thing she remembered doing was sitting in front of her laptop, playing with the virtual reality avatar program.
And...
But it was no mistaking who she’d seen before everything went cuckoo. She slowly turned to the side and got on her knees. Grasping the back of the chair for support, she started to get back on her feet.
