Show No Fear (2 page)

“James Atwater,” she breathed, ignoring his concern over her ravaged face, amazed that her voice could sound so calm when
her heart was trotting. “What the hell are you doing here?” But then her knees betrayed her, going suddenly weak.

As she started to sway, he leapt forward, catching her against him. “Lucy!”

“We need to get out of here,” she warned him, grateful for the strength in the arm that kept her vertical. “The captain of
the Elite Guard gave orders to blow up the building.”

Thoughts shifted across his face, too quickly for her to gauge. “Let’s go,” he rasped. Anchoring her to his right side, he
hustled her toward the stairs. “I found her, Vinny,” he said into his mic. “Exit the building pronto. She needs medical attention.”

“I’m fine,” Lucy insisted. She could use a few stitches, but aside from that she was good to go.

He slanted her a frowning look, one that took in her battered appearance, the ponytail that hung askew, and the torn T-shirt
hanging out of her pants.
Bullshit,
said his disapproving gaze.

A deafening explosion spilled them to their knees. With her heart in her throat, Lucy expected the building to incinerate.
Only it didn’t. She shared a look of relief with James, who hauled her to her feet. Together they raced for the nearest exit.

“This one’s closer,” she insisted, yanking him toward a door tucked out of sight.

They flew out of it, setting off an alarm, the wail of which was drowned out by the clatter of the nearby fire-fight. She could
only assume the commandos had cut off the Elite Guard as they sought to escape with their cargo of weapons.

“Run!” James urged, impelling her across the expanse of sandy earth. Her legs felt strangely leaden, like she was running
in a dream. But if all this was a dream, then she’d awaken to find that James was just a figment of her imagination, a composite
of long-forgotten yearnings.

At last he pulled her to a stop, holding her fiercely to him as they caught their breath. Speaking into his mouthpiece, he
tasked one of his men to call for a helicopter extract.

Listening to his voice—familiar, certainly, but deeper and more resonant—she wondered what circumstances had compelled him
to become a Special Forces soldier. The last she’d heard from him, he was working on a master’s in engineering at MIT, yet
here he was, as hard-bodied as any action hero and, by all appearances, the officer in charge of his teammates. Who could
have imagined?

When they got a moment to talk, she would assuage her curiosity.

“We’ll be there in a sec,” he said into his mic. But then he glanced sharply up at the sky. “No, we won’t. Here come the Cobras.
Get down!”

With that scant warning, he tackled Lucy to the ground, somehow managing not to crush her. Lying with her left cheek pressed
into the sandy earth and blood pooling in her eye socket, Lucy drifted into memories of the past. She had broken things off
with James after the tragic bombing many years ago. She’d never imagined they would meet again like this.

Boom, boom, boom, boom!
The ground shook as gunships pounded the fleeing convoy. Secondary explosions followed the attack for minutes on end, frustrating
her desire to connect the dots.

“Why didn’t you answer me in the warehouse when I called for you?” he shouted, looking perplexed and frustrated.

“I think I blacked out for a minute,” she explained, recalling how the blood had rushed past her eardrums during the roof
assault.

He was astute enough not to ask any probing questions, though he could surely feel the CD cases in her pocket, gouging his
thigh.

As silence descended at last over the dusty, foul-smelling air, Lucy went to ask a question of her own—
How on earth did you become a commando
?—but James hauled her to her feet, cutting her off before the words reached her lips. “Echo Platoon, rally up at the Hummer,”
he clipped. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.”

Their aerial attack would summon the entire populist army.

“Do you have your car key, by any chance?” he asked Lucy.

“Not anymore.” It’d been seized by the Elite Guard. “But I keep a spare under the bumper,” she told him.

“Excellent.” He was all business, as was she. Obviously, this wasn’t the time or the place for small talk. They weren’t young
people anymore with the freedom to explore their options. James Atwater had a job to do, and so did she.

The sooner these commandos whisked her to safety, the sooner she could deliver these CDs to headquarters.

James Atwater might have been the most promising fish she’d ever caught and released, but Lucy Donovan was way too busy to
even consider reeling him back in.

CHAPTER 1
      

Ten months later

L
ucy Donovan loathed wearing pantyhose almost as much as she detested her three-inch stiletto heels. But stilettos, paired
with a short skirt to show off her runner’s legs, gave her an advantage very few men had: the power of distraction. And since
she couldn’t wear her favorite accessory—the Ruger she liked to keep strapped to her thigh—she had to arm herself in subtler
ways.

The staccato of her heels as she headed for the clandestine CIA station in New York City helped to soothe the frisson of unease
that tingled up and down her spine.

Following her extraction from Venezuela, the CIA’s in-house psychologist had diagnosed her with post-traumatic stress disorder.
She’d been prescribed mild sedatives, which she’d flushed down the toilet, and was benched in paperwork hell until they deemed
her fully operative. Apparently she had passed her most recent evaluation with flying colors or she wouldn’t be here.

Thank God. Her imposed R & R was finally over! She couldn’t wait to get back into the game.

Swiping her CAC card by the engraving that read Department of the Treasury, Lucy shoved down a memory of the Elite Guardsman’s
fist slamming into her cheekbone. You didn’t get to play with the big boys if you couldn’t handle what they dished out. She’d
known that when she’d signed up.

Crossing the marble foyer, she surrendered her briefcase for inspection while negotiating the retina scan and then the metal
detector.

“Have a good day,” murmured a security guard, his gaze sliding helplessly down her legs as he handed back her briefcase.

Sparing him a cool smile, she turned toward the elevators and, seeing one open, hurried to catch it, leaping into the soundproof
space just as the doors began to close.

Oh, shit!
It took all her training to conceal her astonishment at coming face-to-face with James again, though she really shouldn’t
have been surprised, having discovered that he was HUMINT, a sector of the military specially trained to support the CIA.

“Hello, James,” she greeted him, managing to sound indifferent as she went to push the right button and found it already lit.

“Lucy,” he said, looking stunned, a little perplexed. His brandy-colored eyes slid from her glossy ponytail to her high heels.
“How are you?” he asked, his gaze centering on the tiny scar on her forehead.

She could tell he was picturing her as he’d last seen her, with a river of blood bisecting her face. “Good,” she insisted,
irritated by his frankly protective look. Hell, she wasn’t made of porcelain.

The elevator rose almost imperceptibly, leaving her no choice but to breach the awkward chasm between them. As with their
last encounter, this grown-up James threw her off-kilter. He’d had plans to become an architect. Yet even in a gray suit and
white-collared dress shirt, he looked like an advertisement for the U.S. Special Forces. It hadn’t just been the greasepaint
that had made him look forbidding. Dressed as a civilian, he looked lean and powerful and downright dangerous to mess with.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to thank you,” she began, having to clear her throat first. “I was flown off the carrier before I
got the chance—”

“You’re welcome,” he said, cutting her off. His gaze jumped to the buttons lighting up over the door, an indication that either
he wasn’t interested in hearing her excuses or he didn’t require her thanks.

Okay.
Lucy squared her shoulders and looked away. This encounter had the feel of an awkward morning-after situation, only they
definitely hadn’t had sex the last time they’d been together. Too bad.

“What happened to becoming an architect?” She just had to ask him.

The gaze that swung her way reflected a stark emptiness. “Nine-eleven,” he answered flatly. “My father died in one of the
twin towers.”

Lucy’s stomach fell to her feet. Oh, no. His father had been the lead architect working for a banking firm. He and James had
been as close as father and son could be. No doubt James had fed on that bond to motivate him through the toughest military
training conceivable. She’d known he was smart enough. Devotion to his father’s memory must have given him the mental toughness.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured sincerely.

With a nod, he looked away. The elevator slowed and the doors slid open.

With too much to think about, Lucy stepped out before him, heading down the hall toward the designated meeting room. She sensed
rather than heard James following right behind her, his footfalls silent on the sturdy carpet.

As she reached the meeting room, curiosity prompted her to glance back.

“We must be headed to the same meeting,” he observed, coming to stand beside her.

Concealing her surprise and studying James from the corner of her eye, she gave a swift knock on the door. Why would they
be summoned to the same meeting? Was this about the warehouse incident, or would they be working together on something new?

“Come!” boomed the familiar voice of SIS Gordon Banks, Lucy’s supervisor. “Ah, good, you’re both on time,” said the black
man, glancing at his watch as they stepped inside. “Close the door, would you, Lieutenant?”

Two men stood with Gordon, the trio backdropped by the dazzling architecture of the UN Plaza visible through the floor-to-ceiling
windows. Gordon’s companions were middle-aged, one stocky and bald, the other slim and dark.

“Lucy, Gus, thanks for coming. This is our Colombian branch chief, Louis Stokes,” Gordon said, introducing the balding man
first. “Louis, Lucy Donovan.”

Stokes pumped her hand enthusiastically. “I’ve heard stories about you,” he warned.

“All lies,” she assured him, her heartbeat accelerating at the mention of Colombia, so close to Venezuela and the memories
of violence that clamored within the locked box in her mind.

Gordon turned to James. “And this is Navy SEAL Lieutenant James Augustus Atwater, otherwise known as Gus.”

Gus?
mused Lucy. Apparently, he had reverted to his middle name. It suited his transformation, she decided.

“Gus and Lucy, I want you to meet Carlos Santos, director of human rights with the United Nations. At least, that’s his cover,”
Gordon amended. “He’s with CESID, the Spanish military intelligence service.”

“
Un placer,
” professed the Spaniard, bowing slightly over Lucy’s fingers. “I hear you studied in Valencia while in college,
señorita,
” he said, turning back to Lucy after shaking Gus’s hand.

“Yes, I did.” Her first experience with terror, a roadside bomb that’d killed three friends and dozens of others, had persuaded
her to join the CIA after graduation.

“I have family in the area. I myself am from Andalucía,” he added, unaware of the memories splintering her thoughts.

“Carlos is going to be working with the two of you on a special project,” Gordon interrupted, recapturing Lucy’s attention
and gesturing to the briefing table. “Let’s all take a seat. Did you want any coffee first, Lucy? Gus?”

They both demurred, facing off across the table as the others took seats around them. Glancing at James’s—
Gus
’
s
—expression, Lucy found it shuttered, unreadable.

“Lucy, I think I told you last year that the Navy lets us borrow Gus from time to time,” Gordon recollected, sliding an envelope
marked top secret in front of her.

“Yes, sir,” she affirmed. It was hard to get her mind around it. James, who should have been an architect, had become one
of the most dangerous men on earth.

“You and he will be working on a common assignment,” he continued, confirming her earlier guess. “I assume the names Mike
Howitz and Jay Barnes ring a bell?”

“Of course.” Howitz and Barnes had been Lucy’s colleagues, case officers like her who’d been assigned to Venezuela. In the
coup last year, they’d been captured by Colombian terrorists, Las Fuerzas Armarias de Colombia, who’d come across the border
at San Cristobal and abducted them.

The FARC, who called themselves advocates for the common man, processed and sold cocaine, terrorized villagers, and ransomed
hostages to fund their forty-year-old rebellion against the Colombian government.

Lucy had assumed her colleagues were doomed.

The U.S. did not negotiate with terrorists. America had stubbornly ignored the FARC’s demands to release Commander Gitano,
one of their top political prisoners. Locked in a stalemate with the U.S. government, the FARC might hold Mike and Jay indefinitely,
unless some neutral party like the Red Cross stepped in to mediate…