Special Forces: The Operator Read online

  “There’s enough to feed three people on this plate!” she exclaimed.

  “Start eating,” he suggested. “Let’s see how much is left when you stop feeling hungry.”

  As he expected, Rebel demolished most of her meal, and he did demolish all of his. Surfers routinely burned four thousand calories in a day out on the ocean.

  As they pushed back their plates, a glance at his watch showed it was time for them to return to the real world. Or at least the world the two of them worked in. He wasn’t sure how real it was compared to what most other people would consider normal.

  Rebel was quiet as they drove back to the Olympic complex.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” he said to her as downtown Sydney rose around them.

  “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had that much fun,” she commented.

  “I’m wounded. Last night wasn’t fun?”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “That was different. That was...magic.”

  Mollified, he replied, “I can live with being magical.”

  She laughed under her breath. “Men and their egos.”

  “So here’s a question for you, Rebel. Are you happy?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t think about your answer. Just yes or no. Are you happy?”

  “Yes.”

  He exhaled a long breath of satisfaction. “Excellent. My work is done.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she challenged.

  “You said when we first met that happiness doesn’t exist. That only pleasure exists. I set out to prove to you that happiness is real, and I have accomplished my goal.”

  She was quiet as they left the restaurant and drove back to the Olympic Village. Good. Hopefully, she was reevaluating her philosophy of all work and no play.

  He pulled to a stop in front of the American security headquarters and glanced over at her. Alarmingly, she was frowning at him. And she looked anything but happy.

  She asked with ominous calm, “Is that was all of this was? An elaborate plan to prove that you’re always right?”

  It was his turn for his brows to twitch into a frown. “All of what?”

  “All the time you’ve spent with me? The meals? The dancing? The seduction? The sex?”

  “No! Not at all. I’ve loved every minute of being with you. I simply hoped you would feel the same way about spending time with me.”

  “So, it wasn’t your primary goal to prove anything to me?”

  “Well, it was at first. But then I got to know you—”

  She cut him off. “Right. Got it. I was a challenge to you. A conquest to be proved wrong.”

  “No! That’s not it at all—”

  “You win, Avi. You made me feel happy. Congratulations.”

  Without giving him a chance to say another word, she burst out of the SUV and ran up the steps into the lobby of the American security building.

  Sonofa—

  He really, really needed to go after her and sort out this stupid misunderstanding, but he was due at the Israeli team building in ten minutes to escort the archery team to the event venue.

  Swearing, he stomped on the gas pedal, spewing gravel from his tires, an act that perfectly expressed his frustration at the moment.

  * * *

  Rebel stood in the shadows just inside the lobby of the American security headquarters and watched Avi drive away. Angrily.

  Had she overreacted to him pointing out that she was happy? Her gut told her she had. Except she really did believe happiness was a myth. Avi didn’t understand. Her entire worldview was built on that one principle. Work mattered. Duty mattered. Responsibility, morality, discipline. All of those were important. But not happiness. Not joy. And certainly not love.

  Not only did such fleeting emotions not matter, they were definitely not the stuff of a substantial life. A life of importance. Of making a difference.

  Oh, she knew Avi would argue that being happy was all that really mattered in life. After all, he was a complete hedonist, devoted to experiences and sensations, physical and emotional. He was a man of feeling.

  She was a woman of thought. Of facts. Of logic. Reason.

  As much as she’d enjoyed the past day and night with him, it was merely an interlude out of her real life. An anomaly. Nothing more.

  Then why, as she turned to head for the operations center, was her heart so strangely heavy?

  This is what she got for letting Avi draw her into his ridiculous notions of living life solely for pleasure and—fine, she would call it what it was—happiness.

  She stepped into the ops center and Gia looked up from a computer monitor, calling, “Oh good. You’re here, Rebel. I need you to look at something.”

  Pushing aside her misery and her anger at Avi, Rebel hurried to join her teammate. She leaned down over Gia’s shoulder to study the screen.

  Three tall towers, built of lumber scaffolding and of differing heights, stood around a broad, dusty space, empty of anything but a few target dummies like the military would use in a live fire exercise. Partially covering one corner of the whole setup was a wadded pile of what looked like beige camo netting.

  “Where is this picture from?” Rebel asked.

  “American surveillance satellite captured the image in Iran a few hours ago. It’s from the same training facility the Israelis say Mahmoud Akhtar used to train his latest team.”

  Whoa. “What’s the weather like in Iran today?”

  Gia glanced up at her. “Big windstorm. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? The storm blew that camo netting off of this training mock-up?”

  Rebel nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking. But what is it a mock-up of?”

  “Looks to me like sniper perches,” Gia commented.

  “I concur. We should show this to Major Torsten.”

  “And to your hot Israeli,” Gia added slyly.

  “He’s not my anything.”

  “Suuure, he’s not. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’m not an intelligence analyst for nothing, Rebel. I know what that look in his eyes means. He’s totally into you. Like totally.”

  “Yeah, well, being into someone is one thing. Possession of a human being is another thing entirely. He’s not mine and I’m not his.”

  Rebel hated the idea of seeing Avi right now. As in hated it. Aloud, she mumbled, “I don’t think we should go to the Israelis until we have more information. They’re tense enough as it is. We don’t need to encourage them anymore.”

  Gia frowned a little. “The way I was taught my history, they have cause to be tense.”

  “Yes, but this thing with Mahmoud is a personal grudge for the Israelis.” She intentionally didn’t say Avi’s name aloud. She was not going to think about him!

  “You say that as if it’s not a personal grudge for us. Mahmoud and his boys kidnapped our teammate. Our sister. Aren’t the Medusas all for one and one for all?”

  “Well, yes. Of course.” Thinking fast, she added, “Exactly my point. Mahmoud and Yousef and the other Iranians should be our kill. Not the Israelis’.”

  “I don’t care who takes them out, as long as they get taken out,” Gia declared.

  “Fair enough,” Rebel conceded. “But I still think we should figure out what we’re looking at and how it correlates to the Olympics—if it correlates to the Olympics—before we brief anyone else.”

  Gia shrugged. “Fine by me. But I still think Avi—”

  “Could we please stop talking about him?” Rebel asked under her breath.

  “Touchy, touchy. But I get the message. I’ll back off,” Gia responded.

  “I’m sorry. Just because Avi’s being a jerk doesn’t mean I should take it out on you.”

  “How’s he being a jerk?” Gia asked quickly.

  Rebel spotted their boss winding th
rough the desk toward them, and merely muttered back, “Long story.”

  “Later,” Gia mouthed.

  Not likely.

  “What have you got, ladies?” Torsten asked briskly.

  Rebel stood back and let Gia explain what they’d identified. After all, the find was Gia’s, anyway. Avi was going to be fascinated by this discovery. He was as convinced as she was that Mahmoud had a big attack planned. And, he was also frustrated at not being able to get out in front of Mahmoud’s plan. This image might be just the break Avi and the Medusas needed.

  Torsten straightened a moment later. “So we’re thinking Mahmoud’s team is going to set up a sniper attack? Are we looking at multiple shooters, or are those three towers set up so a single sniper can practice a shot from differing angles at a target?”

  “Unknown,” Rebel answered.

  “Can we get a height on those towers and then develop a list of possible shooter’s perches of similar height around the Olympics?” Torsten asked.

  “Of course,” both women answered simultaneously.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Torsten said tersely. He didn’t need to add aloud that they had to work fast. The Olympics were already underway, and Mahmoud could strike at any moment.

  The shortest tower was around fifty feet tall, and the tallest one was nearly ninety feet in height. The open space between the towers stretched for approximately a hundred yards.

  Rebel sat down at her own workstation and commenced examining maps of the Olympic Village, venues and surrounding city, looking for any wide-open spaces flanked by structures from fifty to ninety feet in height. Over the next few hours, she came up with a list of nearly a hundred locations.

  Not helpful.

  There had to be a way to narrow down the possible sites of a sniper attack.

  She looked for easy egresses from the various buildings, towers and other tall structures, and was able to narrow her list down to about thirty possible targets. Still too many to cover and protect effectively.

  She sat back, thinking hard. Would the Iranians go for an individual, high-value target, like a famous athlete, celebrity, or maybe a high-profile government official? Or would they instead go for a mass shooting of random targets to maximize the number of dead and wounded? She could see the logic in either type of target.

  She stared at the satellite image Gia had forwarded to her screen. Those half-dozen target dummies scattered around the space between the towers stared back, faceless and featureless except for the bullet holes riddling their straw-stuffed bodies.

  To the credit of whatever Iranian sniper or snipers had shot at the targets, all six dummies’ heads were shredded.

  Head shots were the most precise form of kill shot. The intent of the attack, then, would be to kill, and not cause random fear and panic. Which led her to conclude a specific target or set of targets was the goal.

  But where? And who?

  If only she wasn’t mad at Avi. She would love to call him and ask his opinion of all this. But he was working an Olympic event right now, and the fact remained that she was furious at him for treating her as a casual challenge—to seduce her and prove her wrong about pleasure and happiness.

  What she wouldn’t give right now to be able to read Avi’s mind.

  Heck, what she wouldn’t give right now to be able to read Mahmoud Akhtar’s mind.

  She picked up her cell phone and called her teammate, Piper.

  “Hey, Rebel,” Piper said in surprise. “I thought you weren’t supposed to go back to work today.”

  “You know me. The eternal workaholic.”

  “No kidding,” Piper laughed.

  Rebel blinked. Really? Her teammates truly thought she was a workaholic? That was saying something, given that all of the Medusas worked insanely hard at being the best they could be.

  “I tried surfing this morning, thank you very much.”

  “You? Surfing? Will wonders never cease!” Piper exclaimed.

  Rebel rolled her eyes. She wasn’t that hopeless at balancing work and play. Was she? Sure, she wasn’t Avi, who seemed to live to play. But she wasn’t always on the job like, say, Gunnar Torsten.

  Rebel jerked her attention back to the phone call and her teammate, asking, “Hey, Piper, is there any chance you could grab Zane and come down to the ops center? Gia and I have something to show you, and I’m hoping you two can shed a little light on how our friend Mahmoud thinks.”

  “Yeah, sure. We’ll be right down.”

  Rebel sat back in her chair, staring at the training mock-up the errant windstorm had revealed, more certain than ever that something bad was about to happen. Something very bad.

  Chapter 15

  In the afternoon, Avi glared his way through the archery elimination round—the Israeli woman won her match and would be back tomorrow in the round of sixteen. After an early, entirely tasteless supper, he scowled his way through the boxing match, which the Israeli gold medal hopeful lost to a Cuban boxer no one had ever heard of.

  The match was a lopsided rout, at any rate. The Israeli boxer wouldn’t have to live with any regrets over having almost won. And the kid was young. He would be back for the next Olympics all the wiser, and four years stronger, fitter and more mature.

  Avi loaded the Israeli boxing contingent into the athlete bus for the return trip to the Olympic Village. The big, cumbersome vehicle pulled away from the bus stop with him glowering out the window at nothing in particular.

  Why couldn’t Rebel understand he only wanted the best for her? It hadn’t been some stupid challenge in his mind to prove her wrong about happiness. He’d genuinely enjoyed being with her, watching her discover some of life’s finer pleasures, and making her happy. She was an amazing woman and he was fascinated by her!

  He could see where she got the two-week-fling vibe from him. Initially, that had been what he expected to share with her. But then he’d gotten to know her and quickly realized she was so much more than fling material. So much so that he had no idea what to do about her now.

  Should he let this misunderstanding separate them now so the parting wouldn’t be so hard in two weeks? Should he track her down and try to convince her that he had real feelings for her—

  Whoa, whoa, whoa. Real feelings?

  Well, hell.

  Sure, he had real feelings for other women he’d had relationships with. But they were friendly feelings. Companionable feelings. Comfortable feelings. Not these desperate, all-consuming, passionate feelings roiling around in his gut—

  His cell phone rang in his hip pocket, and his pulse leaped. Was it Rebel? Calling to apologize, maybe, for overreacting? Inviting him to dinner, perhaps?

  Nope. Israeli security headquarters.

  Simple security check-in? Change of schedule? Maybe a reroute around a traffic jam for the bus? Unfortunately, his gut shouted that something more serious was up.

  One of the security shift supervisors said tersely in his ear, “Avi, there has been a shooting at an open-air concert. We need you to get over there right away.”

  A lump of lead dropped into his stomach. No. Nononononono. The lead heated up, a ball of failure and fury burning through his stomach wall. What had they missed? Had there been a signal, a hint that could’ve stopped this?

  “How bad is it?” he managed to choke out.

  “Bad. Just get over there.”

  Swearing under his breath, he jumped out of his seat and headed for the bus driver. “I need you to stop the bus. I have to get off. Now.”

  “But—” the driver started.

  Avi flashed his security credentials. “Now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Over his shoulder, he told the Israeli athletes and coaches, “Don’t get off this bus until it stops in front of your dormitory.” To the driver he said, “Do not let anyone on this bus once you c
lose the door behind me. Anyone. Is that understood?”

  “What about police—”

  “No one. No matter what credentials they show you,” Avi snapped. “Got it?”

  “Umm. Yes. No one comes aboard.”

  “It’s for your security as much as the security of the athletes on board,” Avi said more kindly. “Trust me. There’s been an incident, and you need to trust nobody.”

  “You want me to take your orders and trust you—”

  Avi didn’t have time for this civilian. He cut the guy off. “Don’t let me back aboard once I get off the bus, either. I said no one, and I mean no one.”

  “All right, already. I get it.”

  Avi spun and stepped off the bus. He turned and watched the door close and nodded tersely as the driver got out of his seat to lock the door behind him. As the bus pulled away from the curb once more, he looked around, getting his bearings.

  The concert venue, about a dozen blocks from here, was a broad plaza bordered on one side by dormitories beyond a tall fence, just inside the Olympic Village, bordered on two more sides by office buildings, and on the fourth side by an expansive park. Not an ideal location for catching an active shooter.

  He sprinted a half-dozen blocks and started to meet the crowd of panicked civilians fleeing the scene of the shooting. He dodged from side to side, pressing forward grimly against the human flow of fear.

  Avi burst out at the edge of the square and ran smack into a line of policemen. After flashing his security credentials to the cops, they let him through the barricade without hassle.

  He looked around in dismay. A half-dozen bodies sprawled on the ground in pools of blood. Most of their torsos and heads were already covered by jackets, shirts, or other makeshift shrouds.

  Avi spied an American wearing a navy jacket with big white letters on the back, FBI. He sprinted over to the agent and asked, “Any idea where the shots came from? Witnesses, maybe? People who spotted the muzzle flashes or heard the direction of fire?”

  The FBI guy shook his head without looking at him. Instead, the guy was studying the tall buildings around the square. “Superloud rock concert was playing, complete with special effects and pyrotechnics. No one saw anything, let alone heard any shots.”